Gospel Story Finder

Juan’s parents taught him as a child to follow standards that bless his life. These helped him grow and develop his talents. “Since I was little, I set goals in Primary and Young Men to learn instruments,” he explains. “I play the violin, flute, piano, and now the guitar. I like the guitar most of all.”
Juan also set personal fitness goals based on Fulfilling My Duty to God. Over the years he has studied tae kwon do, swimming, and gymnastics, and he was even on his school’s running team.
“I love to learn. That’s why I always took the challenge to learn a new instrument or sport, to learn something more,” he says.
These goals also supported a larger objective. “Everything I’ve done, all that I have studied, all the physical preparation, all the goals I’ve set—everything has been with the object of going on a mission,” he explains. “And going on a mission is just part of another goal: to be sealed in the temple and become a good husband.”

This story happened in the USA.
“Are we there yet?” Aliya itched her leg where a mosquito had bitten her. They had been hiking over lava rock for so long! Aliya was getting tired.
“Almost,” said her teacher, Auntie Nikki. “And trust me. It will be worth it.”
Aliya wasn’t so sure. They were on a school trip to K?holo, a nature preserve on the Big Island of Hawaii. Aliya was excited to learn about the animals and plants on their island, but she felt nervous. She was new to the island, and she didn’t know very many people yet. All the other kids were older, and they laughed together the whole hike. Aliya walked quietly next to them. She wanted to make a friend, but she didn’t know how.
Finally they reached the cove. As they walked over a sandy hill, the fishponds came into view.
“Welcome to K?holo,” said Auntie Nikki.
Aliya looked around. It was beautiful here! Her teacher was right—the hike had been worth it.
For the next few hours, Aliya and her classmates learned all about the preserve. Aliya loved watching the fish swim through the water.
“The fishponds were made so that some fish can be caught and taken from the pond while others stay and grow big and strong. This way, everything stays in balance, and there are always enough fish,” explained Auntie Nikki.
After lunch, Auntie Nikki called the kids to one of the bigger ponds. “OK, everyone, put on a pair of gloves. We are here to help clean up the ponds.”
“Do we have to?” asked one of Aliya’s classmates.
“Yes! Part of visiting K?holo is working together to help keep it clean. It’s about what we can give,” said Auntie Nikki.
Aliya was excited to help. She put on some gloves and started picking up trash and tree branches from around the pond.
One of her classmates walked up next to her. Aliya had never talked to her before. She was wearing a bright pink shirt.
Aliya felt her heart beating fast. She wanted to say hi, but she was scared. What if the girl thought she was weird?
Then Aliya thought about what Auntie Nikki had said. It’s about what we can give. Aliya took a deep breath and smiled. “Hi,” she said. “I like your shirt.”
The girl smiled. “Thank you! I’m Zoe.”
“My name is Aliya.”
The girls spent the rest of the day talking and laughing as they gathered up pieces of plastic and paper that had been left behind in the ponds. The more Aliya got to know Zoe, the happier she felt. Zoe was so nice.
At the end of the day, the teacher made a fire for the kids to sit around. Aliya’s muscles were sore from cleaning up the ponds.
“Aliya, come here. You have to see this!” Zoe ran toward her, waving her arms for Aliya to follow. Aliya followed Zoe to a bridge that crossed over the ponds.
Under the bridge, a huge turtle sat in the clear water. Smaller turtles swam past.
Aliya smiled. It was beautiful! She and Zoe stood on the bridge, side by side, and Aliya felt peaceful. Cleaning the ponds had been hard, but now these animals could keep living safely in their home.
Aliya looked at Zoe. She had a new friend now too, all because she’d been brave enough to say hello. Aliya said a little prayer in her heart. Thank Thee, Heavenly Father, for this beautiful world and for my new friend. Thank Thee for helping me focus on what I could give.
Illustration by Melissa Manwill Kashiwagi

It was on Monday, 10 August 2020—around 8 p.m.—I was in a hurry to leave the office and rush home before the 9 p.m. curfew, which was set by the government as a safety measure to reduce the spread of the coronavirus.
I changed into my riding gear: beginning at my feet, then my knee guards, my jacket, and then reflector straps. I grabbed my helmet and headed out of the office. My motorbike was all alone in the dimly lit parking lot. Everyone else had already gone home, I thought, “maybe they are having dinner with their families right now”. I put on my helmet and the gloves, sat astride my motorbike, and turn on the ignition—Oh, I loved the sound of that Suzuki engine. Off I went as I waved goodbye to the security guard.
Over the years I have been riding the same road to work—I have ridden it so long that I have memorized the entire route, the bumps, a corner, even where the potholes are. That night, time was not on my side so I figured I should rush to the supermarket next to my house before it closed so that I could grab something to eat. Down the hill I descended—I think I was doing 70 kph—when suddenly I saw a monkey in the middle of my lane. I wanted to swerve but there was an oncoming vehicle in the other lane, also in a hurry to get home before curfew. I stepped on the rear brakes and gently tried to slow the bike, but I lost control, went airborne, and landed on the tarmac—flat on my stomach. The bike made several rolls and slid off the road.
For a moment I couldn’t hear anything but a buzzing sound. I could not feel my body. I tried to raise my head, but it was too heavy. I thought to myself, “I am either dead or paralyzed.” A few moments later, I heard someone ask if I was okay, and another surprised voice declared, “It’s a lady rider!” I tried again to raise my head and managed to look up. But all I could see were pieces of my beautiful motorbike scattered over the tarmac.
These good Samaritans helped me up and took me on the side of the road. They asked me to sit, relax, and to confirm if I was feeling pain anywhere in my body. They picked up my motorbike and moved it off the road, and I could hear one of them saying, “From the look of the bike, the lady must be badly injured.”
I stood up and noticed I was not in pain. I could walk, I could talk, I could also move my hands without feeling any pain. I was perfectly fine.
It dawned on me that I miraculously had escaped any injuries—even worse, death. I sat back and asked myself “If I were to die today, am I prepared to meet my maker?” Well, the honest answer was, “No. I wasn’t.” That part scared me the most, not the idea of dying but the fact that I was not prepared.
As a Latter-day Saint, I remembered how many times I have been counseled by leaders of the Church to be ready at all times just like the five virgins described in Matthew 25:1–13. I realized I had put more focus on worldly things than on things eternal. “It was time to change all this,” I reckoned. “So, what do I need to do, Lord?” I asked.
Elder Kim B. Clark of the Seventy once said, “‘Look unto Jesus Christ in every thought. Doubt not. Fear not’. This is a call to trust the Lord completely, to surrender our will and to yield our hearts to Him and through His redeeming power to become like Him.”1
I determined that what I need to do is to offer a sincere prayer to the Lord, to repent of my sins every day, to feast on His word, to keep His commandments, to partake of the sacrament, to keep His Sabbath holy, and to worship in His holy temple as often as I can.
Since that day of the crash, I strive to do these simple acts of faith—following Elder Clark’s advice: “Look unto Jesus Christ in every thought. Doubt not. Fear not.” I testify I have felt the love of my Heavenly Father drawing me closer and closer to Him and I have felt the sanctifying influence of the Holy Ghost as the days go by.

On October 17, 1989, while driving home after work, I was approaching a stoplight at the intersection of Market and Beale Streets in San Francisco, California. At that moment I felt the car shake and thought, “I must have a flat tire.” As the car continued to shake, I noticed a bus quite close to me and thought, “That bus just hit me!” Then the car shook more and more, and I thought, “I must have four flat tires!” But it wasn’t flat tires or the bus—it was a powerful earthquake! As I stopped at the red light, there were ripples in the pavement like waves of the sea rolling down Market Street. In front of me a tall office building was swaying from side to side, and bricks began falling from an older building to my left as the earth continued to shake.
The Loma Prieta earthquake impacted many lives, including my own. Pondering the events of that day reaffirms in my mind and heart that in order to successfully withstand the tempests, earthquakes, and calamities of life, we must build upon a sure foundation.

This project led me to search for other rescue stories. The press at that time carried an account of the rescue of a woman who had been swept downstream by a strong river current. Three teenagers riding their bicycles on a path near the river spotted the woman. While one of them went for help, the other two tried to catch up with the woman, who was helpless in the river. After about a mile they waded into the river and pulled the exhausted woman onto the bank. It was only then that one of the boys discovered that he had saved his own mother’s life. This story should remind us that we never know who might need help.

This summer I went to Denmark, and I actually began to miss my family (except for the 6:00 A.M. Saturday morning “Smurf’s are on” call). When I returned and stepped off the airplane, there they were—13 people screaming, “Shannon’s back!”

As I wandered through the house in the middle of the night suffering from jet lag, I saw the ten-pound bucket of butter in the refrigerator, stumbled over the assorted pairs of mismatched shoes in the front entry, and opened my lipstick tubes to find that they had all been bitten off or smashed down, and I smiled and said to myself, “I’m home.”

Actually, my wife and I visited Paradise earlier this year—Paradise, California, that is. As it happened, our scheduled visit there came less than 40 hours after our daughter departed from this world. We, along with Elder Kevin W. Pearson and his wife, June, were bolstered by the Saints of the Chico California Stake. We learned of their great faith, their ministering, and the miracles that occurred even amidst their devastating losses from the most destructive wildfire in the history of California.
While there, we spoke at length with a young police officer, John, who was one of many brave first responders. He recalled the thick darkness that descended upon Paradise on November 8, 2018, as flames and embers raced through the town, devouring property and possessions like a scourge and leaving nothing but piles of ash and stark brick chimneys.
For 15 hours, John drove through an impenetrable darkness that was streaked with javelins of threatening embers as he helped person after person, family after family escape to safety—all at the peril of his own life. Yet during that strenuous ordeal, what terrified John most was his all-consuming question: “Where is my family?” After many long, terrifying hours of anguish, he finally learned of their safe evacuation.
The account of John’s concern for his family has prompted me to speak today with those of you who may ask when approaching the end of your mortal life, “Where is my family?” In that coming day when you will complete your mortal probation and enter the spirit world, you will be brought face-to-face with that heart-wrenching question: “Where is my family?”
Jesus Christ teaches the way back to our eternal home. He understands our Heavenly Father’s plan of eternal progression better than any of us. After all, He is the keystone of it all. He is our Redeemer, our Healer, and our Savior.
Ever since Adam and Eve were expelled from the Garden of Eden, Jesus the Christ has offered His mighty arm to help all who choose to follow Him. Repeatedly, scriptures record that despite all kinds of sins from all kinds of people, His arms are outstretched still.2
The spirit in each of us naturally yearns for family love to last forever. Love songs perpetuate a false hope that love is all you need if you want to be together forever. And some erroneously believe that the Resurrection of Jesus Christ provides a promise that all people will be with their loved ones after death.
In truth, the Savior Himself has made it abundantly clear that while His Resurrection assures that every person who ever lived will indeed be resurrected and live forever,3 much more is required if we want to have the high privilege of exaltation. Salvation is an individual matter, but exaltation is a family matter.
Listen to these words spoken by the Lord Jesus Christ to His prophet: “All covenants, contracts, bonds, obligations, oaths, vows, performances, connections, associations, or expectations, that are not made and entered into and sealed by the Holy Spirit of promise … are of no efficacy, virtue, or force in and after the resurrection from the dead; for all contracts that are not made unto this end have an end when men are dead.”4
So, what is required for a family to be exalted forever? We qualify for that privilege by making covenants with God, keeping those covenants, and receiving essential ordinances.
This has been true since the beginning of time. Adam and Eve, Noah and his wife, Abraham and Sarah, Lehi and Sariah, and all other devoted disciples of Jesus Christ—since the world was created—have made the same covenants with God. They have received the same ordinances that we as members of the Lord’s restored Church today have made: those covenants that we receive at baptism and in the temple.
The Savior invites all to follow Him into the waters of baptism and, in time, to make additional covenants with God in the temple and receive and be faithful to those further essential ordinances. All these are required if we want to be exalted with our families and with God forever.
The anguish of my heart is that many people whom I love, whom I admire, and whom I respect decline His invitation. They ignore the pleadings of Jesus Christ when He beckons, “Come, follow me.”5
I understand why God weeps.6 I also weep for such friends and relatives. They are wonderful men and women, devoted to their family and civic responsibilities. They give generously of their time, energy, and resources. And the world is better for their efforts. But they have chosen not to make covenants with God. They have not received the ordinances that will exalt them with their families and bind them together forever.7
How I wish I could visit with them and invite them to consider seriously the enabling laws of the Lord. I’ve wondered what I could possibly say so they would feel how much the Savior loves them and know how much I love them and come to recognize how covenant-keeping women and men can receive a “fulness of joy.”8
They need to understand that while there is a place for them hereafter—with wonderful men and women who also chose not to make covenants with God—that is not the place where families will be reunited and be given the privilege to live and progress forever. That is not the kingdom where they will experience the fulness of joy—of never-ending progression and happiness.9 Those consummate blessings can come only by living in an exalted celestial realm with God, our Eternal Father; His Son, Jesus Christ; and our wonderful, worthy, and qualified family members.
I feel to say to my reticent friends:
“In this life, you have never settled for second best in anything. Yet, as you resist fully embracing the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, you are choosing to settle for second best.
“The Savior said, ‘In my Father’s house are many mansions.’10 However, as you choose not to make covenants with God, you are settling for a most meager roof over your head throughout all eternity.”
I would further entreat my reticent friends by saying:
“Pour out your heart to God. Ask Him if these things are true. Make time to study His words. Really study! If you truly love your family and if you desire to be exalted with them throughout eternity, pay the price now—through serious study and fervent prayer—to know these eternal truths and then to abide by them.
“If you are not sure you even believe in God, start there. Understand that in the absence of experiences with God, one can doubt the existence of God. So, put yourself in a position to begin having experiences with Him. Humble yourself. Pray to have eyes to see God’s hand in your life and in the world around you. Ask Him to tell you if He is really there—if He knows you. Ask Him how He feels about you. And then listen.”
One such dear friend of mine had limited experiences with God. But he longed to be with his departed wife. So he asked me to help him. I encouraged him to meet with our missionaries in order to understand the doctrine of Christ and learn of gospel covenants, ordinances, and blessings.
That he did. But he felt the course they advised would require him to make too many changes in his life. He said, “Those commandments and covenants are just too difficult for me. Also, I can’t possibly pay tithing, and I don’t have time to serve in the Church.” Then he asked me, “Once I die, please do the necessary temple work for my wife and me so that we can be together again.”
Thankfully, I am not this man’s judge. But I do question the efficacy of proxy temple work for a man who had the opportunity to be baptized in this life—to be ordained to the priesthood and receive temple blessings while here in mortality—but who made the conscious decision to reject that course.
My dear brothers and sisters, Jesus Christ invites us to take the covenant path back home to our Heavenly Parents and be with those we love. He invites us to “come, follow me.”
Now, as President of His Church, I plead with you who have distanced yourselves from the Church and with you who have not yet really sought to know that the Savior’s Church has been restored. Do the spiritual work to find out for yourselves, and please do it now. Time is running out.
I testify that God lives! Jesus is the Christ. His Church and the fulness of His gospel have been restored to bless our lives with joy, here and hereafter. I so testify in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Like Jared Carter and Stephen Burnett (see Doctrine and Covenants 79 and 80), modern missionaries also need a witness that they are called of the Lord.
Thousands of missionaries had their mission calls changed because of the coronavirus. For example, Curtis and Ramona Miller were reassigned to a different mission because of the virus. They testified: “We have a strong testimony that it does not matter where we serve but that we are willing to serve. As we allow the Savior’s hand to guide our life, He qualifies us for this work.”
Jared Carter (1801–49)
Baptized by Hyrum Smith in 1831 in Colesville, New York.
Preached in Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York, and Vermont in 1831 and 1832.
Went to Hiram, Ohio, to ask Joseph Smith what the will of the Lord was for him.
Joseph Smith received a revelation directing him to preach again in the eastern United States (see Doctrine and Covenants 79).
Stephen Burnett (1813–85)
Baptized by John Murdock in 1830 in Warrensville, Ohio.
Ordained a high priest at age 17.
Appointed to preach with Eden Smith (see Doctrine and Covenants 80:2), but Eden became ill.
Began his mission instead with Eden’s father, John Smith.
Curtis and Ramona Miller
Looking at options on the Church’s senior missionary website, the Millers selected eight possible locations—most of which were in Polynesia and Europe.
Their call came to serve in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
They would need to learn French.
After three and a half months in Africa, the Millers were reassigned to serve in Georgia, USA, because of COVID-19.

One time we were talking about the Savior’s Atonement, and I raised my hand. I just told how thanks to His Atonement, Jesus Christ not only frees us but can also help us become closer to Himself and to God. I talked about my relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and how it has been strengthened as my understanding of the Atonement has grown. After class, a man came up to me and thanked me for my comments. He told me he had never thought about things the way I had said them and really appreciated my insight.

From Ed Kamauoha and Faleoo Itopi and other leaders like them, the young people of Sauniatu learned that despite being poor and often scorned by other men, they are important to the Lord, and he will help them be “Number 1.” Wherever they have gone as they have left Sauniatu, they have established the reputation of working hard and being the best.
Most of the young men who worked on Sauniatu went on missions. Elder Pouono Lameko is now serving a mission in Western Samoa. He spent three years at Sauniatu. He worked on the farm and the waterfall besides going to school. When he talks about his experiences at Sauniatu, his eyes shine and his face looks happy.
“I expanded at Sauniatu,” he said. “Brother Kamauoha encouraged me in school so that I improved and graduated from high school. He was my teacher—now he is my friend.”

The war over, Alexandria planned to return to her parents. But she became ill, spent two weeks in a hospital, and missed her train. That was a blessing, she now realizes; returning Russians faced great struggles, and living conditions were much better in Germany than in Russia. While living in a displaced-persons camp in 1945, Alexandria met a handsome American soldier on a blind date. After months of courtship, they were married, and two years later Sergeant Ronnie Graybeal brought his young bride to the United States.

During my life I have had many experiences of being guided in what I should do and in being protected from injury and also from evil. The Lord’s protecting care has shielded me from the evil acts of others and has also protected me from surrendering to my own worst impulses. I enjoyed that protection one warm summer night on the streets of Chicago. I have never shared this experience in public. I do so now because it is a persuasive illustration of my subject.
My wife, June, had attended a ward officers’ meeting. When I came to drive her home, she was accompanied by a sister we would take home on our way. She lived in the nearby Woodlawn area, which was the territory of a gang called the Blackstone Rangers.
I parked at the curb outside this sister’s apartment house and accompanied her into the lobby and up the stairs to her door. June remained in the car on 61st Street. She locked all of the doors, and I left the keys in the ignition in case she needed to drive away. We had lived on the south side of Chicago for quite a few years and were accustomed to such precautions.
Back in the lobby, and before stepping out into the street, I looked carefully in each direction. By the light of a nearby streetlight, I could see that the street was deserted except for three young men walking by. I waited until they were out of sight and then walked quickly toward our car.
As I came to the driver’s side and paused for June to unlock the door, I saw one of these young men running back toward me. He had something in his right hand, and I knew what it would be. There was no time to get into the car and drive away before he came within range.
Fortunately, as June leaned across to open the door, she glanced through the back window and saw this fellow coming around the end of the car with a gun in his hand. Wisely, she did not unlock the door. For the next two or three minutes, which seemed like an eternity, she was a horrified spectator to an event happening at her eye level, just outside the driver’s window.
The young man pushed the gun against my stomach and said, “Give me your money.” I took the wallet out of my pocket and showed him it was empty. I wasn’t even wearing a watch I could offer him because my watchband had broken earlier that day. I offered him some coins I had in my pocket, but he growled a rejection.
“Give me your car keys,” he demanded. “They are in the car,” I told him. “Tell her to open the car,” he replied. For a moment I considered the new possibilities that would present, and then refused. He was furious. He jabbed me in the stomach with his gun and said, “Do it, or I’ll kill you.”
Although this event happened twenty-two years ago, I remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday. I read somewhere that nothing concentrates the mind as wonderfully as having someone stand in front of you with a deadly weapon and tell you he intends to kill you.
When I refused, the young robber repeated his demands, this time emphasizing them with an angrier tone and more motion with his gun. I remember thinking that he probably wouldn’t shoot me on purpose, but if he wasn’t careful in the way he kept jabbing that gun into my stomach, he might shoot me by mistake. His gun looked like a cheap one, and I was nervous about its firing mechanism.
“Give me your money.” “I don’t have any.” “Give me your car keys.” “They’re in the car.” “Tell her to open the car.” “I won’t do it.” “I’ll kill you if you don’t.” “I won’t do it.”
Inside the car June couldn’t hear the conversation, but she could see the action with the gun. She agonized over what she should do. Should she unlock the door? Should she honk the horn? Should she drive away? Everything she considered seemed to have the possibility of making matters worse, so she just waited and prayed. Then a peaceful feeling came over her. She felt it would be all right.
Then, for the first time, I saw the possibility of help. From behind the robber, a city bus approached. It stopped about twenty feet away. A passenger stepped off and scurried away. The driver looked directly at me, but I could see that he was not going to offer any assistance.
While this was happening behind the young robber, out of his view, he became nervous and distracted. His gun wavered from my stomach until its barrel pointed slightly to my left. My arm was already partly raised, and with a quick motion I could seize the gun and struggle with him without the likelihood of being shot. I was taller and heavier than this young man and at that time of my life was somewhat athletic. I had no doubt that I could prevail in a quick wrestling match if I could get his gun out of the contest.
Just as I was about to make my move, I had a unique experience. I did not see anything or hear anything, but I knew something. I knew what would happen if I grabbed that gun. We would struggle, and I would turn the gun into that young man’s chest. It would fire, and he would die. I also understood that I must not have the blood of that young man on my conscience for the rest of my life.
I relaxed, and as the bus pulled away I followed an impulse to put my right hand on his shoulder and give him a lecture. June and I had some teenage children at that time, and giving lectures came naturally.
“Look here,” I said. “This isn’t right. What you’re doing just isn’t right. The next car might be a policeman, and you could get killed or sent to jail for this.”
With the gun back in my stomach, the young robber replied to my lecture by going through his demands for the third time. But this time his voice was subdued. When he offered the final threat to kill me, he didn’t sound persuasive. When I refused again, he hesitated for a moment and then stuck the gun in his pocket and ran away. June unlocked the door, and we drove off, uttering a prayer of thanks. We had experienced the kind of miraculous protection illustrated in the Bible stories I had read as a boy.
I have often pondered the significance of that event in relation to the responsibilities that came later in my life. Less than a year after that August night, I was chosen as president of Brigham Young University. Almost fourteen years after that experience, I received my present calling.

The stage was aflame with the swirl of red and orange skirts, flared pant legs, and silky, shimmery blouses. Twelve feet stomped rapidly on the stage floor to the beat of the Bolivian folk music, and out in the Utah high school auditorium there were happy whistles, claps, and shouts of “ah-ree-va,” which the young Bolivians insisted on as audience participation. There were six performers: four young men and two young women. They had come to Utah as part of a “partner’s program” between Bolivia and Utah—they came as a cultural exchange group after winning the National Folk Music Contest from among thousands of Bolivian entries.
It didn’t just happen that they were all Mormons; it was because of the Church that they met and organized their group. They were all members of the La Paz Ninth Branch, La Paz Second District in the Bolivia La Paz Mission. As branch members they began singing and dancing together at youth activity night. As they began to stir interest in their performances, they called themselves Rama Nueve—Branch Nine.
It was in February of 1976 that they came to Salt Lake City to be the guests of Dave and Chris Boyd. The Boyds did not speak Spanish nor did the Bolivians speak English when they first arrived in Utah. Chris said, “It’s close to a miracle how we have been able to communicate. We’ve been able to work with the time schedules, solve medical problems, and enjoy each other’s company.
They learned English quickly and after only a few months could understand much of what was being said around them. When they played for school children throughout the Salt Lake Valley, they would ask them in English to clap or answer their musical questions in certain parts of the songs. They learned easily to say “Thank you,” “I’m very happy to be here,” and “My name is _____. What is yours?” They also learned to say “I’m hungry!”
They were most homesick for Bolivian food. Chris said that they would graciously eat anything she cooked for them. But they are used to food that has no chemical additives in it, and when they began eating American food, they had a hard time adjusting to it. In Bolivia they eat a lot of vegetables but insist on cooking them. Many Americans eat raw vegetables; Rama Nueve calls it rabbit food.
They make most of their own instruments. The flutist makes his flutes from cane stock. The bell tones he can make are pure and clear and seem even richer than those from flutes of silver. One of the instruments they use is the charango. It is made from an armadillo-type animal, a tatú. The shell is used as the back or sound part of the instrument.
All of the young Bolivians are exciting, accomplished musicians, but not one of them can read printed music. They began playing instruments by ear at a young age. “Many of the youth have a great desire to learn to read music but don’t have access to teachers who know the skills,” Chris said.
They brought seven different costumes with them from South America. They explained that there are 40 or 50 regional costumes in Bolivia. These costumes grew out of early uniforms worn by the Bolivians when they were required by European occupants to wear certain clothes as marks of identification.
When asked what it is like to have six Bolivian youths move in, Chris said: “It is like having brothers and sisters move into your home for a few months. I will really miss them when they’re gone. Their tempo of life has affected my way of living. I’ve had to learn to relax. But on the other hand, their tempo has changed too. They are so busy right now that they hardly have time to watch the sunset.”
During the time they weren’t singing at concerts or benefits of some kind, they were catching up on their sleep or writing letters home. One of the favorite things they learned while they were in Utah was how to roller skate. “It’s a sport we don’t have in La Paz.” It may well be introduced upon their return. They have also learned to swim and dive. Chris said that anything they enter into they do with their whole soul. They have taught others the Bolivian folk dances and want very much to learn how to dance in the American fashion.
From the first week they arrived in Utah they wanted to be involved in a family home evening at least once a week. So, on Monday nights they were invited into homes all over the Salt Lake Valley and enjoyed American family home evenings. But on Sunday nights they decided to get together and take turns giving the lesson to their own group. They made popcorn and usually ended the evening singing LDS hymns in Spanish.
They like Utah and its people. The thing they noticed most was the layout of the Utah communities where most of the streets run directly east and west or north and south. “In Bolivia,” Luis said, “the telephone books are full of street names—no numbers. A taxi driver knows how to get to any address. Some streets wind up into the mountains, and it’s really easy for a stranger to get lost. Here, you just figure out the numbering system, and you can find your way around. It’s so organized. I like that.”
On May 26, 1976, Rodolfo Villalba left Salt Lake City to return home to Bolivia as a full-time missionary for the Church. “My heart is full of beautiful things I want to share with my people,” he said. After his mission he wants to come back to Utah and Brigham Young University; then he will return again to Bolivia to become a productive member of his community.
Rodolfo Murilla also returned to Bolivia at the end of May—there was a rumor that he had someone special waiting for him. The other four, Raul, Luis, Elizabeth, and Lidia, stayed in the U.S. to attend Brigham Young University. They are serious about becoming good representatives of Bolivia. After their education, they all say they want to go back to help their homeland. Lidia wants to study sociology. Luis wants to go into some technical field. Raul feels that it is a great opportunity, “one in a lifetime, to study in another country. And to do it in the Church university is really something!” His father is not a member but wants the best opportunities for his son. Raul is the oldest of the children in his family, and his father wants him to set a good example for his younger brothers and sisters.
When asked what was the greatest experience they had while they were traveling, they immediately replied, “Meeting President Kimball.” On April 26 in the Church Office Building, the group was introduced to President Kimball. They spent time speaking with him through an interpreter. “It was the highlight of my life,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll remember that over everything else. It was a privilege and a humbling honor.”
Each of the youth has a vibrant testimony of the gospel and is aware every moment of the need to be a good example of Church membership. Every concert they gave while in Utah was closed by singing the simple song “I Am a Child of God.” They sang it first in Spanish and then in English. They said it was how they could bear their testimony so that everyone could understand.

Now to more serious matters. When I was a young boy, 13 years old, I was about to enter junior high school in Grand Junction, Colorado. I am the oldest of five boys and thus felt some pressure to accomplish great things and be a good example for my four younger brothers. I expected that junior high would be difficult. I wouldn’t know all the kids, since in junior high we came from several different elementary schools. The thought of going from classroom to classroom made me wonder if I would get lost and look like a fool. I wondered: What if some of the teachers are mean? And I was most worried about how skinny I was at the time and about my new crop of pimples. (When you think about it, how does anyone survive junior high school?)
Most of all I worried that I would not compete well academically with the other students, as being a scholar was my goal. So I was a bundle of nerves that summer of 1962.
Fortunately I was blessed with a great mom who always seemed to be able to calm me down. Let me show you a photo of me making homemade fudge with my mother in 1953. The Salt Lake Tribune took the picture and published my mom’s great no-cook fudge recipe. This is where I got my sweet tooth! As I was worrying about starting junior high, my mom calmed me down with one of the wisest, most caring, and rational statements a mom could make to her worrywart son.
She said, “Jeff, we don’t care what your grades are. All we expect is that you do your best. If you do your best, we will be proud of you regardless of your grades.”
With that statement my anxiety was cut in half, and I started looking forward to junior high. After all, I could not control my final GPA, but I could control how hard I tried. I couldn’t control my intelligence, which was average—okay, maybe a little above average—how mean the teachers would be, how smart the other students would be, or even my final grade in any particular class. But control my levels of dedication and effort? I could do that!
Mom taught me the value of setting realistic expectations in life that day. She taught me that process or effort is more important and manageable than the final outcome. So for over a half century of living I have used her wise counsel in my life to accomplish much, get over my failures, keep perspective in all I do, and not beat myself up when I don’t succeed the first time.

First, promptings sometimes open unanticipated opportunities to help others.
With us here today is a wonderful woman who shared this experience. She arrived at her local supermarket and felt prompted to enter through a different door than the one she normally used. She found herself in a less familiar section of the store.
There she couldn’t help overhearing a conversation. It went something like this.
“Can’t we get jam? I like jam with peanut butter. Besides, you chose last time.”
”Maybe so, but we need more protein. Cold cuts have more protein than jam.”
Two young men wearing white shirts and name tags and holding a small calculator were confronting a tight missionary food budget. While cold cuts or jam may not constitute a classic quintessential existential dilemma, the dilemma of choosing cold cuts or jam was real.
The generous woman said, “Elders, please put both the cold cuts and jam in your basket. I would be so happy if you would let me pay for your food this week.”
She told me, “I was glad Heavenly Father prompted me to go through a different door and allowed me to help those faithful elders in a small way.”

A book could be written about the many experiences of those coming to pageant this year. One lad walked 100 miles to be in it. Robert and Danielle Baird participated in the pageant for their honeymoon, having been married one week before. And Jane Whitesides of the San Leandro Second Ward in California had incurred a bad case of poison oak as a counselor at girls camp just a few days before pageant. It was the first such case in ten years. Aided by the prayers of all the girls in the camp and the blessing of two elders, Jane was healed in what a doctor termed “a miraculous time.” To Jane, it was an encouragement to put her all into pageant, since she knew that was what the Lord wanted her to do.

My memories of childhood in a small farm town in northwest Florida are recollections of difficult times. When I was six years old, my father was blinded in an accident. Already motherless, I had to take over the responsibility for cooking and housekeeping in our home. It was not easy, but we got by. Although I attended the church we belonged to, I was never really much of a joiner, so I was often left out.
A few years went by and my brother—just seventeen years old—went to Vietnam as a soldier. The next year my father was killed in another accident. I was the one who found his body crushed under a car, and I thought I was going to lose my mind. Soon my sister and I had to appear before the county judge and were told that no foster home had been found for us. That meant we would have to go to an orphanage. But before that could happen my sister married, and shortly afterward I married Ben. Opportunities for a young married couple in our area were limited, so when Ben’s uncle came down from the north to persuade us to move to Indiana, we went. We were very unhappy for a long time. There we were, all alone, a thousand miles away from home and everything we knew.
In this state of mind, I was dismayed when I received a letter from my sister and learned that they were expecting a child. I had already made up my mind that I would never have a baby. I was very bitter about life, and I didn’t want to bring a child into the world to grow up like I had.
Soon, though, I began to feel an ache inside that I did not understand. I needed something—something of my own to have and to hold onto. So eventually I changed my mind and decided to venture into motherhood—still unsure and scared, but a little excited too.
I was very sick the whole time, and I wondered at times about my decision; but when the nurse laid my baby in my arms for the very first time, there was no more doubt. We named him Bill. He was so beautiful, and I loved him so much I nearly burst. He became my whole life—not just a part but the sum total, all I lived for. I had Ben too, but I suppose my experiences up to that point had led me to a vague (and in this case, unfounded) uneasiness about the permanency of anything in this life. But Bill I was sure of. He was mine.
Our circumstances improved, and at last we were able to buy a mobile home. And it was our good fortune to move into a mobile home park next door to a Latter-day Saint family. They were very friendly and often urged us to go to church with them. I felt that I needed God for my child, so I was glad they kept asking until we gave in.
It happened that our first meeting was a fast and testimony meeting. I was a little bewildered by this new experience, but not Ben; he was converted on the spot. We received two missionary discussions in the next two weeks. Then on Saturday, 28 February 1970, we had three more discussions and were interviewed and baptized that same night.
Six days later, on 6 March 1970, my whole world came apart. My child was lying in a coma in a hospital and no one could help him. He was dying.
I’ll never forget that awful day as long as I live. March 5 had been a beautiful day. The sun shone and it seemed as though the whole world was ours. We had everything I had never had as a child—security, health, love, and now the Church. Little Bill was just nineteen months old, and that evening he had so much fun at the birthday party we held for his grandma. He was so happy, he ran and played and had a good time. Then in the wee hours of the sixth I awoke to the sound of Bill choking and crying. I ran to his room and there he lay, a tiny bundle of tears. He had turned nearly black, and foam was pouring out of his mouth. He was so hot to the touch that I had to wrap him in a blanket to even hold his little body.
We rushed him to the emergency room at the hospital, where we could do nothing but wait while the doctors ran tests and worked frantically to save his life. Finally our doctor came and told us that Bill’s temperature was 108 degrees. He said they could not find any cause for our baby’s frightful condition. He sent for the best baby specialist in the state. He, too, was baffled. Later in the morning we were taken into his office where he told us there was nothing he could do, that the fever would not break. My whole world was dying. I can’t recall those last hours too clearly, but I do know that I felt alone again as I had when I was a child
Ben was called away to talk to someone, and I was all by myself. I phoned my friend and told her Bill had only a few hours to live. Then I went to his room. He was so little, so very beautiful, and so still.
I sat down next to his bed, feeling numb at heart. And as I did, a feeling came over me that I cannot describe—a feeling of complete peace, the like of which I have felt only one other time, in the temple of the Lord the day our family was sealed for time and all eternity. It fell on me with such force that I was stunned and shaken. Then I looked up, and there standing at the door was a man I recognized as one of the high priests from our ward. I didn’t know his name, but I knew why he was there. I reached over and picked up Bill from the bed. He awoke when I touched his body. He looked at me for one short second, and smiled.
The man at the door said, “I am Brother Walters. The Lord has sent me to administer to this child.” Because Bill had been placed in isolation, the nurses wouldn’t let more than one visitor at a time into the room; so Brother Walters had to leave his companion in the hallway. He anointed Bill with oil and then laid his hands on his head and blessed him with health and strength—and that he would be made whole that very day.
Shortly afterward the doctor returned with a paper for me to sign. It was an autopsy consent. I refused, and he said he would be back. Ten minutes later I looked up to see my child sitting up, completely well! He climbed out of bed as if nothing had ever been wrong and padded out into the hall as fast as his little legs would carry him—his usual speed. He ran up to the doctor and grabbed him around the legs. The doctor, who was always composed and cool, looked down in astonishment. Then he picked Bill up and came running down the hall to me, laughing and crying at the same time. He shouted, “It’s a miracle!”
I agreed.
I don’t know who called Brother Walters to administer to Bill. I only know he was sent by God.

Loren Eiseley walked along a stormy beach late one afternoon “with the wind roaring at his back and the seagulls screaming” overhead. Tourists who came to the beach would collect shellfish and sea life tossed up each night, boil them in large kettles, and take the shells home as souvenirs. Eiseley walked far down the beach around a point away from the collectors and saw “a gigantic rainbow of incredible perfection.” Toward its foot he “discerned a human figure … gazing … at something in the sand.”

“In a pool of sand … a starfish had thrust its arms up stiffly and was holding its body away from the stifling mud. … [“Is it still alive?” Eiseley asked.]

“‘Yes,’” [said the man standing in the rainbow] and with a quick … gentle movement he picked up the star and spun it … far out into the sea.

“It may live,” he said, “if the offshore pull is strong enough. …”

At first Eiseley felt only the futility of the man’s efforts, “throwing one starfish at a time back into the sea when it nightly tosses out hundreds.” He walked away, looking sadly “at the shell collectors … [and] the steaming kettles in which … voiceless things were being boiled alive.”

The next morning Eiseley again went to the beach. Again the star thrower was there. “Silently [Eiseley] … picked up a still-living star, spinning it far out into the waves. … ‘I understand,’ [he] said. ‘Call [me a star] thrower [also].’”

Of throwing the starfish back he wrote, “It was like a sowing—the sowing of life on an infinitely gigantic scale. …” He saw the star thrower stoop and throw once more. Eiseley joined with him. They “flung and flung again while all about [them] roared the insatiable waters.”

They, “alone and small in that immensity, hurled back the living stars.” They set their shoulders and “cast, … slowly, deliberately, and well. The task was not to be assumed lightly.” (Loren Eiseley, The Star Thrower [New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, 1978], pp. 171–73, 184.) Each moment counted if they were to rescue the starfish that they sought to save.

Last night our home teachers came for a visit. They shook hands with all my family, even me.
After everyone sat down, Brother Sorensen blew up a red balloon and handed it to me.
He counted, “One, two, three,” and said, “let go!” The air rushed out of the balloon, and it flipped and flopped all over the room.
I laughed when it landed on my brother’s head.
“Some of us are like the red balloon,” Brother Sorensen said. “We get excited about something and just flip and flop around, not knowing where we will end up.”
Then he handed one end of a piece of string to my sister. He pulled the string tight and threaded his end through a straw.
Next he told Brother Brown to blow up his blue balloon. Then Brother Sorensen carefully put a piece of tape over the straw and fastened it to the balloon.
Brother Brown let go of the blue balloon. Swoosh! It went straight down the string to my sister’s hand.
“When we prepare and know where we want to go, we can be like the blue balloon and go straight to our goal,” Brother Sorensen said. Then he asked, “Do you have any goals?”
My brother said, “I want to go on a mission.” My sister said, “I want to earn my Gospel in Action award.” And I said, “I want to be baptized when I’m eight years old.” We all said that we would rather be like the blue balloon and prepare for our goals now.

I am reminded of the well-worn and often-told story of

a little crippled boy who ran a small newsstand in a crowded railroad ­station. He must have been about twelve years old. Every day he would sell papers, candy, gum, and magazines to the thousands of commuters passing through the terminal.

One night two men were rushing through the crowded station to catch a train. One was fifteen or twenty yards in front of the other. It was Christmas Eve. Their train was scheduled to depart in a matter of minutes.

The first man turned a corner and in his haste . . . plowed right into the little crippled boy. He knocked him off his stool, and candy, newspapers, and gum were scattered everywhere. Without so much as stopping, he cursed the little fellow for being there and rushed on to catch the train. . . .

It was only a matter of seconds before the second commuter arrived on the scene. He stopped, knelt, and gently picked up the boy. After making sure the child was unhurt, the man gathered up the scattered newspapers, sweets, and magazines. Then he took out his wallet and gave the boy a five-dollar bill. “Son,” he said, “I think this will take care of what was lost or soiled. Merry Christmas!”

Without waiting for a reply the commuter now picked up his briefcase and started to hurry away. As he did, the little crippled boy cupped his hands together and called out: “Mister, Mister!”

The man stopped as the boy asked, “Are you Jesus Christ?”

By the look on his face, it was obvious the commuter was embarrassed by the question. But he smiled and said, “No, son, I am not Jesus Christ, but I am trying hard to do what He would do if He were here.”12