Gospel Story Finder

My grandparents have had a great influence on my life. Even though they have been dead for many years, I still feel their love. One grandfather, James Akerley Faust, died before I was born. I knew him only through the stories my grandmother and my parents told about him. However, I feel a strong kinship with him because I am in part what he was. Among other things, he was a cowboy, a rancher, and a postmaster in a small town in central Utah. On one occasion Grandfather took a trip in the winter to Idaho, where he met an acquaintance who had fallen on hard times. It was cold, and Grandfather’s friend had no coat. Grandfather took off his coat and gave it to him.

Mother sighed. “It’s a picture of my cousin Kenny and me. Kenny was my best friend too. We both loved the early spring, when buds began to form on brown branches, green grass peeked out from patches of melting snow, and the river roared through the farm with spring runoff. Kenny was deaf and couldn’t hear it, but he could feel the spring sun warm his back as he played with Bridget, his huge pet sheep who was about to have baby lambs.
“We were both five. We talked to each other with our own made-up sign language. I loved playing with his large collection of farm toys, and he was always willing to share them.
“On that beautiful spring afternoon, the snow had been totally replaced by a carpet of green grass, and the creek had calmed from a roar to a strong, pleasant chuckle. Our mothers decided to let us go fishing.
“I was eager to try out my new bamboo fishing pole. A real fishing pole. Always before I had used a thick stick, like the one Kenny was still using.
“We sat side by side on our little perch, not moving so that we wouldn’t scare the fish. I threw my line into the creek, just the way my mother had shown me, being careful not to get it tangled. Kenny just sat there with his stick-pole, a sad expression on his face. Oh no! I thought. He wants a new pole too.
“Soon he motioned to me in our own private language that he wanted to use my new fishing pole. I shrugged him away, pretending not to understand. He tried again, more insistent this time. I looked away, pointedly ignoring him. Frustrated, he tried to pull the pole out of my hands.
“I pried his fingers off my pole and pushed him away. I wanted to tell him, ‘Just let me use it first for a little while. I’ll let you try it if you’ll only wait until I’m ready.’ But I didn’t know how.
“He was hurt and turned away. I reached over to pinch him, angry because he wouldn’t let me enjoy my new pole even for a moment.
“I looked up to see my mother taking our picture. My face burned with shame. I felt small and little and mean. I didn’t feel like fishing anymore.
“Handing my precious new pole to Kenny, I left to go play with Bridget. I loved to put my fingers deep into her soft wool. I looked back to see that Kenny was offering me his thick stick and motioning for me to come back and sit by him, but I ignored him.
“We had a picnic that day on the vast green lawn, with fancy little sandwiches cut in the shape of hearts, pink lemonade, and Aunt Dorothy’s angel food cake. We laughed when Bridget tried to steal a nibble.
“That was the last time I ever got to play with Kenny. Our mothers had planned this special day for us because Kenny was going into the hospital to have surgery, which the doctors hoped would help his ears.
“But something went wrong. Kenny died. My mother said that Kenny went to live with Jesus. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t stay right here with us.
“I missed him terribly. His mother put away all his farm toys and never got them out again. I wanted to play with them because then I could pretend that he was playing with me.
“Mom’s pictures came back from being developed, and the pinch was in that picture! Mom had the picture made big and ordered several copies so that Grandma and all my aunts and uncles could have a picture of Kenny.
“I have always felt sad about that mean pinch. Every time I see that picture of Kenny and me fishing, it makes me feel bad.”

Daniel burrowed deeper into his jacket and wished he were somewhere else—anywhere else. He hated parent-teacher conferences. For some children they were a quick pat on the back, but for Daniel they were a time of dread. They were where Mom learned all about his shortcomings as a student. They were where he heard the sadness in her voice and saw the disappointment in her eyes.
“Now about English.” Mr. Harding’s long finger tapped a fat C- on the grade sheet, then ran slowly down a row of numbers. “These are the scores that added up to Daniel’s grade.”
Daniel cringed and stared at the dark grain of the tabletop.
Mom studied the numbers. “Well,” she said with a sigh, “at least you don’t have any zeros this time.”
Mr. Harding pointed out several low quiz scores. “The problem here is that Daniel didn’t read the assignment. On every quiz I ask the students if they’ve read the story. If they haven’t, I take away half their points even if they get all the answers right.” He glanced at Daniel. “Reading the assignment is just as important as knowing the answers.”
The talk went on, but Daniel stopped listening. Would the conference never end?
At last they were on their way home. Mom didn’t say anything for a long time. Daniel knew that she was disappointed, perhaps even angry. When they stopped at a light, Mom turned to him. “I’m proud of you,” she said.
Daniel stared at her, too astonished to speak. Had he heard right?
“I’m not saying I’m proud of your grade,” she explained. “We both know you should have read those stories.”
He looked away and nodded.
“But you showed me something that’s more important than a grade.”
“I did?” He felt completely confused.
The light turned green, and they drove on. “You could easily have marked that you read the stories,” Mom continued. “Your grade would have been higher, and no one would have known for sure whether you answered truthfully.”
Daniel shifted in his seat to get a better look at Mom. She was smiling, and for once there was no disappointment in her eyes. “You told the truth knowing that it would hurt your score and that I might be really angry about your grade. Sweetie, that’s called integrity.”
Integrity. Daniel had heard the word, but wasn’t sure he knew what it meant. Even so, he felt a warm spot growing inside as they drove on home.
When they pulled into their driveway, Mom turned off the engine and took Daniel’s hands in hers. “Integrity is doing the right thing at the right time even when it’s hard,” she said. “You got a C- in English today, and that has to change. But you earned an A in integrity. I hope that never changes.”

As a single mother working for a law firm in Phoenix, Arizona, USA, Evelyn Jeffries struggled to find the time and the space necessary for home storage. Although she attended activities and meetings about food storage and tried to be obedient to prophetic counsel, like many Church members, she found it difficult to imagine what she could ever do with the hundreds of pounds of wheat she was told she needed to have for her and her daughter.
When a sister in her ward suggested a different approach, Sister Jeffries discovered the key to successful home storage: consistently and gradually increasing her food supply.
Setting aside a particular amount in her budget for home storage, she purchased a few extra items from the grocery store each week. She also purchased one basic food item like grains and beans from the Church home storage center each month.
Many years later, in October 2002, Sister Jeffries was impressed when President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) suggested that Church members adopt a simpler approach to home storage.
“We can begin ever so modestly,” President Hinckley explained. “We can begin with a one week’s food supply and gradually build it to a month, and then to three months.”1
Sister Jeffries notes that “the beauty of this system is its appropriateness for families just starting their storage programs, as well as for those living in small homes and apartments, where space is at a premium. President Hinckley clearly recognized that change and adaptation are needed so that all of us might benefit from the Lord’s inspired program.”

I really enjoy listening to the talks given during general conference. Last April, one of my favorites was Elder Gary E. Stevenson’s talk. He talked about the Holy Ghost and how He comforts us.
Elder Stevenson’s talk reminded me of when my little sister was diagnosed with Guillain-Barré syndrome. Her muscles got really weak, and she was in a lot of pain. She was in the hospital for a week for treatments. During those terrible days, I remembered being comforted by the Holy Ghost. When I would pray, I would hear Him say that she would be OK.
My sister had to learn how to walk again, but after a few months of physical therapy, she could walk and play like she used to. I was so glad to see her happy again. I am thankful to have the Holy Ghost always with me. Listening to general conference helps me understand more about the gospel and grow my testimony.

My journey into family history began with a sense of curiosity and amazement. I first encountered FamilySearch during a class in the Tema Ghana Stake Gathering Place led by the inspiring Sister Betsy Thornton. In that class, I took a leap of faith and began to explore my family tree. The moment I added my family name, Mentee, into the FamilySearch.org/Africa platform and searched for it in my home country, Liberia, I was amazed by what I discovered. It felt like a door to the past had opened, giving me a glimpse into the incredible journey of my ancestors.
The following week, Sister Thornton approached me and asked if I would be willing to share a little about my family history with the class. I was deeply honored and excited to have been chosen for this task. It gave me a sense of pride and responsibility to represent my family’s story.
When the time came, I shared some of my history and what I had learned: I was born in Monrovia, Liberia, in 1996, during the civil war. My father was a soldier, steadfast and determined, navigating a world torn by the Monrovian conflict. He was deeply cherished as the only son of his mother. Tragically, both of my parents passed away two weeks after my birth; they were victims of the brutal conflict that engulfed our country. With their loss, I was taken back to my mother’s roots in Guinea, where I spent my childhood alternating between Guinea and Ivory Coast. I grew up hearing stories about our family’s origins and the incredible legacy left by our ancestors. I learned that our great-grandparents began their journey in Sudan over 200 years ago.
One of the most remarkable stories is about my great-grandfather, who was Liberia’s first doctor. His mission was to bring healing and hope to those in need. He was later transferred to the deep forests of what is now the Nimba region, where he was granted vast lands to establish his medical mission.
This land became the foundation for a legacy of service and family. My great-grandfather had 24 wives and many children, and from generation to generation, his family grew. My grandfather, Samuel J. Mentee, was among them, and he continued the family legacy. By the time of his passing, he left behind an incredible record of 170 grandchildren, of which I am one.
Beyond my family story, I want to share my testimony of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. A pivotal moment in my spiritual journey came when I received the Book of Mormon in French from a friend while working as a hotel security supervisor. Reading its pages filled me with hope and a sense of belonging I had never known. Its introduction, which humbly acknowledges human imperfections, inspired a profound exploration of its truths. Life’s trials have tested my faith and resilience. Loneliness, loss, and the struggle to find a place to call home have been persistent challenges. Yet these very hardships have refined me, teaching me to lean on the Lord and trust His timing. Quiet moments of reflection have brought clarity and strength, allowing me to feel the guiding influence of the Holy Ghost. Each trial reminds me that God’s hand is always at work, shaping me for a greater purpose.
Following those promptings, I eventually found my way to Tema, Ghana. It was here that I began committed lessons with the missionaries. I owe a heartfelt thank you to them, especially Elder Young, whose dedication and spirit inspired me to grow closer to the Savior.
On a beautiful Sunday morning, December 22, 2024, I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. From the moment I joined, I have felt the love and care among the members. The Church has brought light and joy into my life, and I am forever grateful for the blessings it has provided.
I want to express my deepest gratitude to my best friend, Sister Betsy Thornton, who has been a pillar of support and encouragement in my journey. Her kindness, wisdom, and love have left a lasting impact on my heart.
Each step of this journey has deepened my appreciation for family history and the Church. Family history has shown me the power of connection, the importance of understanding where we come from, and the joy of sharing these stories with others.
Wherever you are, if you are reading this, consider this as your personal invitation. Embrace FamilySearch and begin preserving your legacy for generations to come. How will your descendants learn about you 100 years from now?
I, Alias, am calling. And the Lord is also calling for the betterment of our shared tomorrow. Do not let history fade away with us—let it be recorded in FamilySearch. Wherever you are from, but especially to my beloved brothers and sisters from Africa, hear this call.
I am grateful for the opportunity to tell this story and to inspire others to embark on their own family history journeys. The past is not just history: it is the foundation upon which we build our present and future.

On a cold November day, a question from an American missionary asking for directions to the local postal office caught Takashi Wada off guard.
The 15-year-old had been warned by his father to avoid Mormons, who had been visiting with people on the streets of Nagano, Japan, just three minutes from their home. But Takashi was impressed with the American elder’s Japanese.
A few days later, another missionary stopped Takashi. He had not been in Japan long. In broken Japanese, he tried to share the story of Joseph Smith.
Takashi did not understand everything, “but I felt that I should listen,” he recalled.
The missionaries taught him the steps to prayer and the lessons. He attended Church meetings and was touched by the testimonies of local members. Feeling constrained by the expectations of his Buddhist family, Takashi kept telling the missionaries, “I can’t join the Church, but I would like to learn more.”
Two years later, before Takashi left to study in the United States at age 17, his parents consented, and he joined the Church.

I bought the first one several years ago in a drugstore in Alexandria, Virginia. At 77¢, it was the least pretentious bound notebook I could find. At the time, I didn’t know I was starting a journal. I only knew I needed a place to organize my thoughts.
Before then, I had written ideas on any convenient scrap of paper—on the backs of tithing slips, on church programs, in small spaces on calendars. As I lost those bits of paper, I lost my only record of my best insights. The time had come to make them more lasting.
From grade school through high school I had kept diaries, but the small, hand-size pages didn’t allow for long entries. And the word diary on the front seemed too lofty, like the record an explorer would keep of an Antarctic exploration. I wrote only the activities of my life in them, never my thoughts. (A typical entry: “Today I did horrible on my history test, but tonight Mike in my French class called me.”)
There was little emotional substance to those entries, but at least they were entries. Regrettably, as l attended college, I became “too busy” to keep a diary.
Therefore, when I bought the 77¢ notebook, I wasn’t thinking “diary” or “journal.” I was just tired of losing those insights that would make good Sunday School talks. As I wrote in that first notebook, I was fascinated by how easily words came. I began looking forward to writing in my notebook at night. Sometimes during the day I would write myself a note about ideas to record that night. Some mornings I awoke before dawn and wrote fervently for five minutes or even an hour, undisturbed by the need to get up and get dressed. Some nights I wrote several entries; some nights I wrote none.
I liked the inexpensive notebooks because I wasn’t afraid to make mistakes in them, or to write about the mistakes I made in living. I began setting aside time to write. I wrote in the same place—curled up on the sofa, by the lamp. I recorded in the margins events that were significant, such as a new car or the date of my cat’s vaccinations. The actual writing space was used to record my reactions to the day, my observations and conclusions.
It was only when I went back to the drugstore several months later to buy another notebook that I realized I was keeping a journal. I decided to give the series of notebooks a name: Janet. The first volume, Janet 1, hadn’t exactly assumed journal form, since I had dated few entries, and none mentioned daily activities and impressions. As I realized I was keeping a journal, I modified the format so that I would at least know what day each entry was written.
It became interesting, too, to note where I was each day I wrote. No matter where I went—on trips or to stay with nearby friends—I found that I was the same person, with the same personality.
When I was visiting a friend once, I realized the journal’s potential for encouraging spiritual and emotional growth. After hours of bantering with a philosophy student who wanted to argue about the gospel, I wrote a long entry about my beliefs. Putting it on paper was like testifying. That night, as I wrote with a purple felt-tipped pen, I realized how open and honest I was with my journal—probably more candid than I was with any friend. Because of my frustration with my ability to think and express myself I wrote: “My brain has been like a vacuum cleaner, sucking in all sorts of garbage and dirt. And gold dust. So I must empty the bag and sort out the particles one by one until only the gold dust is left.”
Writing out my ideas gave me a chance to analyze them. Sometimes, in writing, I realized that my attitudes were based on selfishness or faulty judgment. Other times I was glad to realize that my ideas were sound.
Sometimes I found myself laughing out loud at my reactions to the traumas of each day. Once on a bad day I wrote “PHOOEY” in letters 15 spaces high. It helped.
I started titling each entry. One of my favorite titles—and favorite entries—came when I was trying to develop greater faith. That title was “Doubt Creeps in and Janet Strikes Back.” Some titles reflect a calmer attitude. One in Janet 3, “On Days and Nights and Things I Love,” leads into a paragraph I love to reread:
“I love nights that are chilly and clear, when I can see the stars and talk aloud under them. And I love early mornings, being up, being alive, and being outside on a day that is only starting. I love new beginnings that are just getting organized. And clean sheets, clean nightgown, clean body, clean hair, and a reason to be happy. I love the world when my soul brims with hope.”
My soul doesn’t always brim with hope. Sometimes it brims with frustration. When that’s the case, I can look back to the rejuvenating entry I wrote that September night. I can find encouragement from another entry, written soon after that one: “When I can understand what I’m going through, I find that endurance becomes easier.”
Not every entry is profound or even interesting. But each, in its own way, traces my daily conversion to the gospel, my struggles with myself, and my delight with each line-upon-line discovery of living. Each helps the others assume clearer perspective. Not only does each entry reflect my life, but it affects and becomes part of my life.
It was during Janet 4, when my best friend moved, that I wrote: “I hurt too much to write.” And it was during Janet 5, after I had written a thoughtless letter that hurt a friend, that I wrote in my journal: “Through the many confusing voices that ring through my mind, one calming voice pervades and tells me the whole matter will be of no consequence.” After writing about that “calming voice,” I listened to it more carefully. The “voice” was right; when I later asked the friend to forgive me, he said he already had.
One day, when I felt that life was picking on me, I started what has become a tradition. I wrote an entry titled “Things I Am Thankful For.” It amazed me that day, as it still does, how varied and plentiful are my blessings, and how obscure and sometimes even humorous are my trials.
Through moves from one side of the United States to the other, through vacations, through each peak and plateau, the volumes of my journal have been a constant, a friend, tucked on a bookshelf or into a suitcase along with my copies of the scriptures. They have become a vehicle for working out personal answers for the curious challenges of each day.
I thought, at the beginning of the journal keeping, that I would neatly record my most profound thoughts, making them more accessible when I had to give sacrament meeting talks. Once or twice I have used a journal for that, but it’s far from the full benefit. The journal isn’t a reference book about my life, nor does it map my life. It isn’t a status chart; it’s a dynamic, if rough, artwork.
The Janet series is steaming ahead in its 15th volume. Some volumes span a year, and others a few months. I am the only person who has read all of them, and I may keep it that way—for a few decades, at least. The volumes have graduated from inexpensive notebooks to actual hardback books with blank pages. I have to confess—I bought a leather-bound journal last time (but it was on sale). And I did make quite a concession on the journal before that; it actually says “Journal” on the cover!

This past summer at the Nauvoo Aaronic Priesthood Encampment, special missionary preparation workshops were held. Bishops conducted these sessions with their Aaronic Priesthood. Every young man was given his own missionary preparation book. Two thousand young men participated in this activity.
A bishop reported that one young man would not get involved. He lazed on the grass a few feet from the group. He would occasionally laugh or seem to make fun. He would not participate, as he had no intention of serving a mission. Around a campfire that night, during a testimony meeting, this young man stood up and began to talk. He said, “This morning I did not participate in the missionary preparation workshops, but I was listening, I was listening. I have been thinking, thinking a lot.” Then, with great emotion he said, “I have made a decision to go on a mission.”

Steve Bennion, the president of Ricks College, told of a student there who contributed to an environment of trust as a leader on that campus. This young student spent her first semester at Ricks feeling a bit lonely and left out. She went home at Christmastime and talked to her parents about her feelings and even considered not returning to school for the next semester. Her parents encouraged her to continue her schooling, and her mother made a suggestion. She told her daughter to do something for someone each day that she was not required to do. This young woman followed her mother’s advice and eventually became an outstanding leader on campus and served as president of the Associated Women Students. President Bennion stated that it would be difficult to believe that this strong and accomplished young woman had ever felt discouraged and lonely. The transformation in that school environment for her began with simple acts of service.

Last fall Sister Rasband and I were on our way to Goshen, Utah, for a worldwide Face to Face event being broadcast to over 600,000 people in 16 different languages. The program was to focus on the events of the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ, with questions submitted by young adults from around the world. Sister Rasband and I had personally reviewed the questions; they gave us the opportunity to testify of Joseph Smith as a prophet of God, the power of revelation in our lives, the ongoing Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ, and the truths and commandments that we treasure. Many listening today were part of that miraculous event.
Initially the broadcast was to originate in the Sacred Grove in upstate New York, where, as Joseph Smith testified: “I saw two Personages, whose brightness and glory defy all description, standing above me in the air. One of them spake unto me, calling me by name and said, pointing to the other—This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him!” That, brothers and sisters, was a miracle.
The worldwide pandemic forced us to relocate the broadcast to Goshen, Utah, where The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has re-created, for filming, a section of old Jerusalem. Sister Rasband and I were within a few miles of Goshen that Sunday evening when we saw thick smoke coming from the direction of our destination. Wildfires were blazing in the area, and we worried the broadcast might be at risk. Sure enough, at 20 minutes to 6:00, our broadcast time, the power in the entire complex went out. No power! No broadcast. There was one generator that some thought we might be able to power up, but there was no assurance it could sustain the sophisticated equipment at hand.
All of us on the program, including narrators, musicians, and technicians—even 20 young adults from our own extended family—were fully invested in what was to take place. I stepped away from their tears and confusion and pleaded with the Lord for a miracle. “Heavenly Father,” I prayed, “I have rarely asked for a miracle, but I am asking for one now. This meeting must happen for all our young adults around the world. We need the power to go on if it be Thy will.”
Seven minutes after 6:00, as quickly as the power had gone out, it came back on. Everything started working, from the music and microphones to the videos and all the transmission equipment. We were off and running. We had experienced a miracle.
As Sister Rasband and I were in the car returning home later that evening, President and Sister Nelson texted us with this message: “Ron, we want you to know that as soon as we heard the power was out, we prayed for a miracle.”
In latter-day scripture it is written, “For I, the Lord, have put forth my hand to exert the powers of heaven; ye cannot see it now, yet a little while and ye shall see it, and know that I am, and that I will come and reign with my people.”
That is exactly what happened. The Lord had put forth His hand, and the power came on.

Peni and Jieni Naivaluvou doubled the size of their family when they took in four girls from Vanuatu who were attending the Fiji LDS Church College. But the Naivaluvous do not see this as a sacrifice. They feel they have been amply blessed for doing it. One of those blessings, they believe, is the addition to their family of baby Hagoth, born in January 2009.
In early 2008 Bishop and Sister Naivaluvou of the Tamavua Ward, Suva Fiji North Stake, heard that two young students from Vanuatu needed a place to board, so the Naivaluvous took stock of their own situation. Their sons, Soane, 18, and Ross, 16, were away from home attending a Church school in Tonga, the land of their father’s ancestry. The two girls from Vanuatu were boarding, at high cost to their parents, with a non-LDS family in Suva. The two girls would be good company for then 13-year-old Andrea Naivaluvou; Andrea also attends the Church College and was arriving home in the afternoon before her parents were off work. So Brother and Sister Naivaluvou decided they would invite the two girls from Vanuatu to live in their home at no charge.
The girls insisted on helping with costs, but still their expenses were less than half of what they had been paying earlier—a blessing for their families.
In April two other Vanuatuan girls came for a visit and enjoyed the atmosphere of the Naivaluvou home. A short time later these two girls asked if they too might come there to live. The Naivaluvous gladly took them in.
How did it work to have four extra young people in the home? “We’ve built up such a bond it’s more like they are our daughters,” Bishop Naivaluvou says. The Naivaluvous made it clear from the beginning that the girls were to be considered part of the family. The four girls from Vanuatu actually are related to each other, but in the Naivaluvou home they treated each other like sisters born of the same parents. Andrea Naivaluvou also came to accept them “like my sisters,” she says; the older girls watched out for her and even helped her with homework when there was a need. The four girls began to call Bishop and Sister Naivaluvou Ta and Na—“Dad” and “Mom” in Fijian.
This may be the first time, Sister Naivaluvou says, that girls from Vanuatu who are attending the Church College have been able to board with member families. The father of one of the girls, when he came to visit, expressed his deep gratitude to the Naivaluvous for the love they have shown his daughter.
Sister Naivaluvou points out that one of the girls, the daughter of a district president on Vanuatu, was a great example to their family through her faith; Bishop Naivaluvou says her example helped his family be more consistent about scripture study and family prayer.
Both of the Naivaluvous say they have been blessed temporally because they have shared with others. Their resources have gone farther. And Sister Naivaluvou believes the blessing of being able to become pregnant again after 13 years is connected with their willingness to share love with others.
When the Naivaluvous’ two sons returned home at the end of their school year in Tonga, they too accepted the young women as part of the family. But perhaps Soane can be excused for not seeing the girls exactly as sisters. He found himself drafted as a prom date for one of the young women. He played his role like a gentleman.
When the four girls finished their school year and returned home to Vanuatu late in 2008, the farewells were heart tugging, Bishop Naivaluvou recalls. It was as though he and his wife were saying good-bye to four daughters. And when a new school year began in 2009, the Naivaluvous were glad to welcome their four “daughters” back—plus two more.
With only four sleeping rooms in their home, some would wonder how they could make room for six young women in addition to their own daughter and new baby. But the Naivaluvou family quickly worked it out without difficulty.
After all, it was not a matter of personal space. It was simply a matter of expanding their circle of love.

I clenched my fists, bit my lip, and kicked the ball that was rolling toward me. Then I frowned as I watched it soar out of bounds instead of going into the goal.
A girl named Nan had been standing by the fence watching our game. She ran to pick up the ball, tripping in her excitement. Everyone laughed. No one thanked her as she threw the ball back to us.
I felt guilty. I knew Nan wanted to play, but I didn’t want to be the one to invite her.
Nan was quiet, with messy brown hair, thick glasses, and a squeaky voice. She didn’t have one friend in our whole class. It wasn’t that I didn’t like her. I had just never talked to her.
That afternoon our teacher announced that she was going to move our desks around. She would make a new seating chart.
The room buzzed with excitement. My best friend, LeAnna, and I smiled at each other.
Just then Caroline leaned toward me. “I heard Nan tell Mrs. Martin she wants to sit by you. Gross!”
I sat in shock. “Why me?” I wondered. I had never been mean to Nan, but I had never been nice to her either.
“Tell the teacher you don’t want to sit by her,” Caroline whispered. “Otherwise no one will want to sit by you.”
I looked at Nan. Her head was lowered. She must have known what everyone in the room was thinking.
Mrs. Martin called me up to her desk. I knew Nan was a child of God and that Jesus said to love everyone. But if I became friends with Nan, everyone would think I was weird.
“Who do you want to sit by?” Mrs. Martin asked me.
“LeAnna,” I said. That was easy.
Mrs. Martin smiled. “Would you be willing to sit by Nan too?”
I looked down at the floor and whispered, “I’d rather not.”
Mrs. Martin looked surprised. “Are you sure, Angie?”
“Yes,” I muttered.
The next day our desks were rearranged. I sat by LeAnna. Nan was across the room. The two girls sitting by her pushed their desks away from hers so it looked like she was sitting alone. She looked like she was going to cry.
A few weeks later Nan changed schools. A girl in my ward went to that school, and I asked her if she had met a new girl named Nan.
“I think so. What does she look like?” she asked.
“Well, she’s really quiet. Her hair is messy, and she wears thick glasses. No one in my class liked her.”
“Really? It must not be the same girl,” she said. “The new girl I know is really fun. Everyone likes her. She’s a great football player.”
I thought about the day Nan had watched us playing football. She only needed a chance and a friend. And I could have given her both.
That day I made a promise to myself to always be nice to everyone and never let a girl like Nan slip by me without trying to be her friend.

I last felt this way in August 1966, when I was taking prelim exams in economics at the University of Chicago. The purpose of the exams was to ascertain whether or not one could continue on in the doctoral program and whether or not there would be a fellowship for the next year. It was well known that about half of the class failed the exam each time. Fortunately you could take these two four-hour exams over again in six months if you failed, but the exams were a terrifying experience. The stench of fear of failure and feelings of inadequacy were all about me as I took those exams. So, try to recall how you felt when taking the exam for which you were the least prepared. That is the feeling I have here at this podium when I think of the wonderful messages and ideas that have been expressed here.

“There’s a bad one you’ll have to do with the brush, Mom,” said Freddie, pointing to a long smudge near the floor.
Mom raised her eyebrows. “I’m the one who made that. It was the time I had a really bad day at work. I came home so upset that I got careless and banged the wall with the vacuum cleaner while I was cleaning.”
“You were still upset after dinner, so Dad and I gave you a sandwich hug that night. Dad and I were the slices of bread and you were the peanut butter in the middle, remember?”
Mom nodded, and her eyes sparkled. “I sure do! It was the best thing that happened to me all that day.” With a few brush strokes, Mom covered the ugly mark.

After years of working and serving, the Lord prompted me to do two major things: (1) to write reading materials to help my autistic sons learn to read (public schools did not accept them due to their challenges), and (2) to open a private school to help autistic children.
The idea was overwhelming, but I knew it needed to happen. I applied everything I learned in school to the Lord’s direction. It was a lot of work, but hard work was no stranger to us. Foundation Readers, books for individuals with autism, was created. It was an enormous success and has helped many individuals with reading disabilities.
What started as a project for my sons became a tool to help others with their learning challenges. It first began with my neighbors, and then the word spread. Other parents began asking me to help their children full-time instead of teaching in the public school system. I quit my job, and, as a family, we opened a school. Through this experience, our family has grown in compassion and stronger in faith. We feel more peace and embrace challenges with the scriptures rather than panic.
Of course, our sons are direct recipients of our service along with their peers. There are so many nonverbal children who are now growing in a learning environment of love and kindness.

My brother David (3) had a little bicycle. One day he left the bike out in the way of my dad’s car. His bike got run over, and the little axle was bent. David was sad. His bike was too broken to ride.
A couple of weeks later, I said, “David, let’s try to fix your bike.” We brought the bike out onto the driveway and tried hammering the axle to straighten it. It didn’t work. My little sister Heidi (5) came out. She had a bike like David’s, and that day her wheel had broken off. She told David that he could have the axle and the other wheel from her broken bike.
Then David scraped his knee and had to go inside. I took the axle off Heidi’s bike, and then I went and asked Dad to help us. I helped Dad get the tools to put one of Heidi’s wheels on David’s bike. Soon the bike was fixed.
I went inside to tell David. He came out, and he was really excited about his bike getting fixed. He did not care that his old wheel was black and the new wheel from Heidi’s bike was purple. He got on the bike and rode around the driveway really fast. Mom and Dad watched him ride, too.
I was happy that David’s bike was fixed. I felt glad that Heidi and I could help our little brother.

The reality of the virus hit me even more when my little family came down with flu-like symptoms. I thought to myself, “Maybe it’s just the seasonal flu that usually goes around,” but we ended up getting tested as a precautionary measure. Our results came back positive: my husband, my 18-month-old daughter, and I all had COVID-19.
The news of our positive results affected us mentally, especially for my husband and me. It felt like our symptoms grew worse and that our recovery took longer the more we dwelled on the fact that we were infected with coronavirus. Focusing on our sickness built up more fear, which crippled us mentally, emotionally and spiritually—we had no room for faith. After two weeks of being down with the virus, we realized that we weren’t showing faith in Jesus Christ because we let fear in the way by focusing on being sick. So, to counteract that, we started shifting our focus to the Saviour and the power that comes from acting on our faith in Him.
The minute we chose to have faith in Jesus Christ and to act on it, our mentality and attitude began to change, and our actions started to align with our faith. We prayed with real intent and kept expressing in our prayers that we have faith in Jesus Christ and in His ability to heal us physically. We started reading more of the scriptures and quoting scripture around the house and to each other.
We started to be a lot more optimistic, and we continued to build on hope. We didn’t feel any more fear or worry. We were happier around the house and enjoyed each other’s company. When we really started to show our faith in Jesus Christ by doing these things, we noticed that our recovery started to pick up and we were able to fully recover shortly after.

Academic conferences provide an important setting for contributing to religious freedom. Let me describe a few incidents that have grown out of this type of activity. Each fall for the past several years we have held an international conference at BYU dealing with religious freedom. The minister of justice from Peru attended one of these two or three years ago. At the time the Church had just learned that it had exhausted missionary quotas for the year in Peru. A Church official working with visas mentioned this to the minister of justice during a break at the conference. He was quite surprised that such a quota existed at all and indicated he would check into the matter when he returned home. Within a few weeks there were no more missionary quotas in Peru.

These words have special meaning to me. I grew up in a small Mormon community. I was raised in a fine Latter-day Saint home. I was taught to love the Lord, to reverence His name, and to communicate with Him in prayer. I was very young when I learned that the Father and the Son had appeared to Joseph Smith. I believed as a boy and I have never doubted as a man.

However, until I enlisted in the navy, I had not experienced the shock of meeting so many people who had never seen a Mormon or who had never heard of Mormonism. I soon realized how limited was my knowledge of the gospel. I was asked some pretty tough questions about the Church that I had difficulty answering. I was the only Mormon in our outfit and so there was no one with whom I could counsel. The only scripture I had was a small military copy of the Book of Mormon. I am ashamed to confess that I left Lehi and his family somewhere in the wilderness on a number of occasions.

While I had grown up as an active member of the Church, I had felt no special need or urgency to study the scriptures and the writings of the prophets. When asked a question or when strong ridicule was directed at me and the Church, I could only state the personal beliefs I had learned from my family and teachers. I tried to compensate for my knowledge deficiency by being a good example of the principles I professed.

After leaving the navy, I received a mission call. I still had not developed a real appetite for gospel knowledge. I had not equated understanding the holy scriptures with being a good Latter-day Saint. Following some brief training in the old mission home in Salt Lake, my companions and I were exposed to a few weeks of tracting in Texas while waiting for the ship that would take us to South Africa. That exposure expanded my vision of what I was going to be doing for the next two years. I gained a lot of humility in a hurry.

An unusual quirk of fate changed my whole life as we sailed toward Cape Town. It was to be a twenty-eight-day voyage, but our ship developed boiler problems crossing the equator. Limping into the port of Recife, Brazil, we hit the rocks, gashing the ship’s hull. A tugboat rescued us; but before we finally arrived in Cape Town, we had spent eighty-four days on board ship. I was fortunate enough to share quarters with a fine companion, Roy Stevens, who was a dedicated student of the gospel. His father had also been a missionary and had sent a large box of Church books with his son. It was during this confinement that a whole new world of gospel knowledge opened up to me.

It was a time to study, to ponder, to pray. I read all the standard works from cover to cover, as well as Jesus the Christ and several other Church books. On this voyage I received my witness from the Lord that the Book of Mormon is the word of God. It was here that I came to know that Jesus is the Christ. It was here I developed an insatiable appetite to know the eternal truths. What a pity I had waited so long. I had wasted so much time during military service. What a priceless treasure I had ignored! I am persuaded that we will be held accountable for how we use our discretionary time.