Gospel Story Finder

This time, as I opened my mouth, I felt a peace that I hadn’t felt since I was a kid. “At church once, some old guy told a story,” I began. “It’s about a kid who’s 18 and goes to work on a fishing boat out of St. John’s. And sometime in the summer of his first year on the boat it hits a sandbar and sinks. Most of the crew climbs aboard the lifeboat, but this guy and the captain get caught by a current and pulled away.
“They don’t have life jackets or anything, and for a long time they just tread water—hoping for someone to find ’em.”
“Wow,” from Lanny, who had been on enough fishing boats to know how big the ocean was, and how impossible it would be to find anyone swimming in it.
“Anyway, finally the captain realizes that the water’s too cold for them to last much longer, so he swims over to the kid and says ‘We’re not gonna make it.’ And he asks the kid if he’s religious. Well, the kid is just like me. He’s a Mormon, but he’s been kind of goofing off and it’s been a while since he’s been active. But he says he’ll say a prayer for ’em.”
“And what happened?”
“He and the captain close their eyes, and the kid says a prayer out loud … And when they open their eyes they see the light of a buoy. They swim over and hang on, and a few hours later they are found.”
Lanny smiled. “And the guy telling the story turns out to be the 18-year-old kid, right?”
“Uh, no. The guy telling the story was the captain. He joined the Church.”

Several years ago, our daughter Jennifer was up very early and saw her little brother Bryan sitting outside our bedroom door. We were not up yet given the early hour and he was in some distress with swollen eyes and a quivering lip. Jennifer said to him, “Bryan, they can’t help you if you don’t knock; they would want you to knock.”

We all need to knock. We do this through childlike prayer offered with deep gratitude, love, and trust in our Heavenly Father. Perfunctory prayers have little power.

When I started my first semester of college in the United States, I was so excited. I was attending a school with a lot of Church members, and I had never been surrounded by so many people my age who believed the same things I did! I expected we would all share the same standards and help each other grow spiritually and intellectually.
However, I was surprised when my expectations fell a little short.
Back in my home city in Taiwan, Church members always seemed to take the gospel seriously. They never missed a chance to connect with Jesus Christ, and neither did I. There, I would go to the temple every month with my younger sister (who always motivated me to go), I never missed church meetings (because of my parents), and I always tried to make decisions that kept me connected to the Spirit, just like the people around me did.
But at school, while nobody was intentionally breaking commandments, for some people, the gospel seemed to be lower on their to-do lists. Some of them made choices that just teetered on the edge between the world and the gospel. Being on my own for the first time, I got busy and caught up in what everyone else around me was doing. I soon saw how easy it is to be influenced by the world around you when you’re not prioritizing the gospel.
When friends around me were making decisions that didn’t always align with gospel standards, I started to wonder if I was living in a way that was too spiritual. I wondered if I was the odd one out—if I was taking the gospel too seriously. I started to feel lonely, especially at church. I felt tempted to change my standards to fit in with the people around me.
However, around that time, President Russell M. Nelson shared a powerful message in general conference:
“We have never needed positive spiritual momentum more than we do now. … Spiritual momentum can help us withstand the relentless, wicked attacks of the adversary and thwart his efforts to erode our personal spiritual foundation.
“… I urge you to get on the covenant path and stay there. Experience the joy of repenting daily. Learn about God and how He works. Seek and expect miracles. …
“As you act on these pursuits, I promise you the ability to move forward on the covenant path with increased momentum, despite whatever obstacles you face.”
That’s when it hit me.
I had been more interested in what others were doing than my own personal relationship with the Savior. I even realized that my school was right next to a temple and I hadn’t been there yet! It also became clear how much I had relied on others to influence my spirituality back in Taiwan too.
I needed to do the work to reignite my spiritual momentum and focus on Christ—who should be my top motivator to live His gospel.
I started making some changes.
Even if I didn’t feel motivated to go to church or attend the temple or do anything spiritual some days, I chose to do so anyway and focus on my Savior. It didn’t matter what everyone else was doing.
The world makes it easy to take the blessings of the gospel for granted, but when I focus on Him, I remember what matters most.
Instead of wallowing in loneliness and focusing on the differences in how we are living our lives, I now reach out to others. I strive to make friends and note all the positive interactions I have with them, like a simple smile or a kind conversation.
I no longer compare my discipleship to others’. Instead, I focus on keeping my spiritual habits consistent and strengthening my relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. When I prioritize my relationship with Them, I remember how much They love each of us perfectly, and it reminds me to offer grace to others just like They offer grace to me.
President Nelson also invited us “to take charge of your own testimony of Jesus Christ and His gospel. Work for it. Nurture it so that it will grow. Feed it truth. … As you make the continual strengthening of your testimony of Jesus Christ your highest priority, watch for miracles to happen in your life.”
The world makes being casual about your discipleship easy, especially when you’re on your own for the first time as a young adult. However, I encourage you to accept our prophet’s invitation to strengthen your foundation of faith in Jesus Christ.
Making Him a priority keeps me moving forward on the covenant path.

Joel wheeled his new red bicycle expertly into the driveway, lowered its kickstand with his heel, and bounded into the kitchen. “Is Willie hungry yet, Mom?” he asked. “Do you think it’s time to feed him again?”
His mother, who was scraping carrots, nodded. “Yes, he’s been calling for his supper,” she answered.
Joel reached gently for the small box on top of the water heater in the laundry room. It was faintly warm to the touch, just about the right temperature for a baby bird. He lifted the top off the box. Willie, still quite featherless, crouched in one corner of his paper-napkin nest. But when the lid was lifted, the young bird craned his thin neck and was suddenly all mouth.
“You look like you’re hungry enough to eat a whole sack full of worms!” Joel said with a smile. Willie was important to Joel, because the boy lived with his parents at Crest View, a new apartment complex where the tenants were not permitted to keep a dog or a cat for a pet. But there was no restriction about keeping birds, and when Joel had rescued Willie from the front lawn several days ago, his first thought was, Now I have a pet!
“You know, Mom,” Joel confided as he spread newspapers on the kitchen floor, “I think I love Willie just about more than anything in the world.”
“More than your new bike?” Mom asked in amazement.
Joel frowned. “Well … that’s different. Everybody’s got a bike. But nobody else in Crest View has a baby sparrow that he rescued all by himself!” Willie had tumbled from his mother’s nest high on the corner light pole, and Joel had carried him home to the apartment in his hands.
From a cardboard carton, Joel took some grubs and worms and put them on the newspapers. Then, with a pair of tweezers, he carefully dropped these morsels into Willie’s gaping mouth. “I think Willie’s forgotten he’s an orphan, Mom. And when he gets bigger, we can buy a birdcage for him and I can keep him forever.”
“Forever is an awfully long time, Joel,” his mother replied quietly.
Joel glanced at her, puzzled by her thoughtful tone. “Do you mean I can’t keep Willie?” Joel asked.
“Willie is a wild creature, son,” Mom explained. “In a little while, he’ll want to be out-of-doors, to be free.”
But Joel lowered his eyes and set his jaw. No, he vowed silently, Willie is my pet, and I’m going to keep him forever!
As the summer days passed, Willie quickly acquired tail feathers and some soft gray down on his naked breast. It soon became obvious that his cardboard home was too cramped for him to live in much longer.
“We’ve just got to buy Willie a cage Mom,” Joel declared at last.
The supper dishes clinked in the sink, and his mother turned toward her son with a little smile. “I think Willie really wants to be free, Joel,” she reminded him softly.
“But, Mom, Willie doesn’t even know how to fly!” Joel protested. “Something might happen to him, something terrible!” The thought of it made Joel’s eyes sting.
He looked fondly at Willie. But something had changed, he had to admit. Willie’s eyes seemed dull. His feathers were droopy. He refused to chirp anymore. His appetite had waned. “Are you sure it would be all right if we let him go?” Joel asked at last.
It would really be easier if Mom would just order me to turn Willieloose, Joel thought. Then I wouldn’t have to decide what to do myself.
But Mom only smiled again and looked out the kitchen window at Joel’s bicycle. “Do you remember how you learned to ride your bike?” she asked.
Joel pondered a moment. What a silly question! “Well … I just tried!” he exclaimed indignantly. How well he could remember the first time he rode alone down Butler’s Hill—the wind tore at his hair, pressed the breath back in his throat. The thrill of that day rushed back to him. It was just like having wings, he realized. It was just like flying!
Without another word, Joel lifted the sparrow’s box down from its familiar place on the water heater and carried it out in front of the apartment. With tender fingers he lifted Willie from his napkin nest. The young bird hopped curiously across Joel’s open palm.
Joel held Willie a few inches above the grass. The bird tottered, spread his wings in vain, and plopped awkwardly onto the lawn. “You have to try,” Joel encouraged him. “You have to try, Willie.”
The next time, Willie spread his wings and landed gracefully several feet away. Then Joel picked Willie up again, lifted him high, and gave him a gentle boost into the evening air. The little bird sailed away, over the vacant lot across the street and out to the golden haze of wild clover at the edge of the road. “Good-bye, Willie,” Joel called softly. “Good-bye!”
Joel closed up the empty nest and returned to the kitchen where Mom was waiting. From the open window they could both hear Willie’s chirp grow fainter and fainter in the distance. Joel smiled to himself as he remembered that first ride down Butler’s Hill.
Suddenly he felt happy.
“Now Willie has wings, too,” he murmured.

Pornography also inflicts mortal wounds on our most precious personal relationships. In his talk to men of the priesthood last October, President Hinckley quoted the letter of a woman who asked him to warn Church members that pornography “has the effect of damaging hearts and souls to their very depths, strangling the life out of relationships” (Liahona and Ensign, Nov. 2004, 60).

At a recent stake conference a woman handed me a similar letter. Her husband had also served in important Church callings for many years while addicted to pornography. She told of great difficulty in getting priesthood leaders to take this problem of pornography seriously: “I got all kinds of responses—like I was overreacting or it was my fault. The bishop we have now has been great. And now after 15 years my husband is trying to deal with his addiction, but now it is 15 years harder to quit for him and the loss has been incalculable.”

If you are fortunate enough to have grandparents who are still living, you can ask them these sorts of questions. And if your grandparents haven’t written their personal history, you can help them write it. It’s a big job, but if you ask January Winterton, 18, of St. George, Utah, she will tell you it’s worth the work.
January’s grandma, Karen Vlam, is a woman of great faith and courage. Confined to a wheelchair now, she has battled multiple sclerosis for more than 30 years. Despite her daily challenges, she is still smiling. Her dedication to the gospel and to her large family is a wonderful example to January.
“I want her to be more than just my kids’ great-grandma that they see in an old picture,” says January. “I want her to be a person that they know a lot about.”
That’s why January spent two-and-a-half weeks last summer living with her grandparents. Each day January asked her grandma questions about her life and typed the answers on a laptop computer. Once her notes are edited and compiled, January expects to have more than 50 pages of facts, stories, and pictures about her grandma’s life.
Along with funny stories, January’s grandma also shared her testimony and expressed her love for the Savior. January says, “I was impressed how throughout her life she turned to the Lord in her trials. She isn’t resentful about her disease, but instead she has learned to have a good attitude and move forward.
“Talking to my grandma made me realize that my trials are so small,” continues January. “If she can stay strong with all that she has been through, I can too. It may take a little faith on my part, but I just have to follow her example, her example of faith.”
After writing her grandma’s personal history, January feels she knows her grandma a lot better than before. “I know where she is coming from. I know her life experiences,” she says. January also knows that writing a personal history is hard work. It isn’t easy to summarize a life on paper. Because of this January suggests you help your grandparents or older relatives write their personal history, especially if they have health challenges that may prevent them from doing it themselves. She says the best thing to do is to get them thinking about their life by asking questions and just talking with them. Before you start, however, make sure you are ready to record their answers on tape, on video, on a laptop computer, or on paper.

During World War II, President James E. Faust, then a young enlisted man in the United States Army, applied for officer candidate school. He appeared before a board of inquiry composed of what he described as “hard-bitten career soldier[s].” After a while their questions turned to matters of religion. The final questions were these:
“In times of war should not the moral code be relaxed? Does not the stress of battle justify men in doing things that they would not do when at home under normal situations?”
President Faust relates:
“I recognized that here was a chance perhaps to make some points and look broad-minded. I knew perfectly well that the men who were asking me this question did not live by the standards that I had been taught. The thought flashed through my mind that perhaps I could say that I had my own beliefs but did not wish to impose them on others. But there seemed to flash before my mind the faces of the many people to whom I had taught the law of chastity as a missionary. In the end I simply said, ‘I do not believe there is a double standard of morality.’
“I left the hearing resigned to the fact that [they] would not like the answers I had given … and would surely score me very low. A few days later when the scores were posted, to my astonishment I had passed. I was in the first group taken for officer’s candidate school! …
“This was one of the critical crossroads of my life.”1

Do you want to do better in school? How would you like to ace your college entrance exams? Well, then work on your sense of humor and on having fun. That’s what Michael Haycock, a priest in the Lima Ward, Toledo Ohio Stake, says. And Michael knows something about taking tests and doing well in school. As a sophomore in 2004, Michael aced both standardized college entrance exams; he scored a perfect 36 on the ACT and a 1570 on the SAT (just 30 points away from a perfect 1600). He ranks at the top of his class with a 4.17 grade point average. He also says to “Learn to love to learn.”
“With a zany sense of humor, you can have fun with everything from verbs to imaginary numbers,” says Michael. That’s easy for him to say. Maybe it’s just because he’s so smart that things come so easily. After all, he is one of only two sophomores in the entire nation to get a 36 on the ACT out of about 218,000 students. He is the final winner of the Ohio University–sponsored U.S. history contest, in which he competed with 7,400 other entrants for a full-tuition, four-year scholarship. He is the star on the high school quiz bowl team. And he still makes it to early-morning seminary every day.
That’s why it’s so surprising to hear this bit of advice from Michael: “Don’t feel you’re a failure due to others’ successes. I feel this quite a bit. It’s a weakness of mine.” Michael explains that when he hears about the latest 12-year-old neurosurgeon, or the college-attending 13-year-old Nobel Peace Prize nominee, he thinks he should have done just a little more or a little better. “Everyone can do at least one thing another cannot,” Michael adds. “Every child of God is truly unique.”
So what makes Michael Haycock unique? There are lots of things. He certainly doesn’t fit the standard mold of the “brainiac.” When asked if others ever bother him for being a good student, Michael says that has happened on occasion, “but that’s only been at the beginning. When they get to know me they stop.” He plays the trombone in the marching band and the symphonic band. He sings in the school choir and even auditioned for and made it into the all-state choir. He runs cross-country. “My best time for the 5K is 20 minutes, 10 seconds,” Michael says, “which is not spectacular, but it’s not bad either.” This year he improved his time; it’s now 19 minutes, 32 seconds. But what really makes Michael stand out among his peers is that he’s a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
“We have more LDS students in our school than in any other school in the county.” That number translates into nine members of the Church in his high school. Michael says he doesn’t get a chance to interact with them much outside of early-morning seminary, because they don’t have classes together. In fact, even at church, Michael is in a quorum of only four boys, and each of them lives in a different school district. “I can’t say if it’s hard or easy, because I don’t have anything to compare it to,” Michael says.
So Michael’s group of friends is quite diverse. “We have a Baptist, a Lutheran, a Methodist, and Catholics,” he says. What brings them together is years of friendship and similar interests. They all like learning and science fiction and fantasy. Having many friends of other faiths gives Michael a chance to let them know about his beliefs. “We sometimes have religious discussions—pretty much compare beliefs. I’ve gone to my friend’s church recently for Palm Sunday, and she came to general conference with me.”
When he has the chance, Michael likes to get together with other LDS youth. Like when he sang in the choir for the dedication of Church history sites in historic Kirtland. He talks warmly about the three- to four-hour drives to Kirtland for practices. But he remembers most the wonderful experience of the dedication and the fireside the night before where he saw President Gordon B. Hinckley and other General Authorities speak.
“We see these people in general conference. But this was live. And at the end of the dedication everyone got up and spontaneously sang ‘We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet,’” Michael remembers (Hymns, no. 19). “It was surreal almost. It was an amazing feeling throughout the whole dedication. It was neat.”
Living close to some of the Church history sites has helped Michael’s testimony grow stronger. He’s gained respect and admiration for what the early Saints accomplished. He’s had the chance to attend four temple dedications. And he’s come to feel a connection with the Prophet Joseph Smith. “One thing I know is that the Book of Mormon is true,” says Michael. “I’m reading it through my second time. There’s just no way one person could have put down all the wisdom on paper that is in those pages. There’s no way.”
What does the future hold for Michael Haycock? Service. “I’m preparing for college the best I can by taking AP [advanced placement] classes,” says Michael. “After that I’m going to head off to college for a year and then go on a mission. I’ll come back and finish up school.” He says he’s pretty sure he’ll pursue more degrees than just a bachelor’s. Michael has thought about becoming a Spanish professor, but right now he is planning on going into political science, with the hopes of getting into politics. He wants to make a difference in the world.
Michael doesn’t see himself as smarter than everyone else. But sometimes that’s how others look at him. “They see the stereotype of the smart kid, but I try to break that stereotype,” says Michael. And he’s done it. Michael Haycock is not just another smart kid; he’s a smart kid with a strong testimony of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.
Here are 10 tips Michael says he uses to do his best when studying, preparing for, and taking a test.
Attend class every day and pay attention.
Have a good sense of humor so you can have fun learning.
Develop a good relationship with your teachers.
Do all your assignments, and do them on time.
Ask questions about things you don’t understand.
Review your study material with friends.
Do all review assignments.
Define your own academic identity: don’t let yourself be labeled.
Check your answers on quizzes and tests at least once—twice if you have time.
Learn to love to learn.

I was a little annoyed with daddy’s suggestion. For years it had been family tradition to go caroling on Christmas Eve. We had done that ever since there had been enough people in the family for at least two to sing one part, and it was our way of extending greetings to our neighbors. But this Christmas Eve, daddy didn’t really feel like caroling. Instead he suggested a visit to the cemetery.
That year we were living in beautiful Bavaria, a southern state of Germany tucked away in the Alps. Our family had tried to learn the language and enjoy the area’s culture and traditions. We often visited little villages, Bavarian families, and places of interest away from traditional tourist routes. So a suggestion to visit the cemetery was unusual only because it came on Christmas Eve.
Bundled in our heavy coats and warm scarves, we walked up the narrow, winding road to the village churchyard. Although we had often passed chalets connected to living quarters for animals, tonight these homes seemed very much in keeping with the tradition of the season—reminiscent of that first Christmas when travelers shared quarters with the cattle.
When we reached the top of the hill, we could hear soft music coming from the steepled church. We passed the church and went on to the little cemetery tucked behind it. Although there were other families there, all was reverent and quiet. We gazed wonderingly at the scene around us.
On every grave was some Christmas remembrance: beautiful wreaths, burning candles, fresh flowers, miniature evergreens with lighted ornaments, even carvings of the nativity. We learned that these villagers wanted to celebrate Christmas with those of their loved ones who had preceded them in death. Their hearts ached for these family members, and so they had brought Christmas to the cemetery.
With only the noise of crunching snow, we silently left, almost feeling like intruders on a sacred family occasion.

The wide-bodied airliner began its takeoff roll, returning us to the United States after a four-year business assignment in Switzerland. As we accelerated past the B Concourse at the Zürich International Airport, I strained to see if the faithful farewell wishers from our Zürich Second Ward were there. Sure enough, there standing on the upper spectator deck waving to us were Sister Gräub and Sister Kappes. By bus, tram, and train they had made this extraordinary effort to say good-bye to the Hancock family. Pent-up emotions erupted as tears unashamedly poured down my cheeks. One of our four children returning with us inquired of her mother, “Why is Daddy crying?” Connie responded, “Because he loves the people here so much.”

I telephoned a man last week. He is retired. He has served as a mission president, and he and his wife are now serving as missionaries. I asked him if they would be willing to go to preside over a new temple. He broke down with emotion. He was overcome. He could not talk. He and his wife will leave their children and grandchildren for another long period to serve the Lord in another capacity. Will they miss their grandchildren? Of course they will. But they will go, and they will serve faithfully.

Elder Kelly R. Johnson remembers well the day he was called as a bishop at age 31. That same day he was diagnosed with Bell’s palsy—a condition in which the muscles on one side of the face become paralyzed or weakened.
It was a challenging time, not only because of the discomfort and embarrassment caused by the condition but also because of his many new responsibilities. But that difficult time became a blessing.
“Not knowing what the long-term situation would be, I developed a compassion for individuals that has been with me through the rest of my life,” he said. “I really learned that people go through tough and sad things they can’t control that impact their abilities, feelings, and confidence.”

After graduating from BYU in accounting, I applied to work for the Church. I didn’t get selected and began working for another firm in Utah. After a few months working for this new firm, they began laying off workers as the economy had softened a bit. My wife and I were thinking about purchasing a home, so before we took that step, I talked to my boss. I asked if he thought we should be prudent and wait a while to purchase a home since the company had been laying off workers. He said I didn’t need to worry since they weren’t expecting to have any more layoffs. We proceeded and purchased the home. The week the first payment was due, my boss called me into his office and indicated that he was sorry, but they had to lay me off of work. It was a Monday morning; I called my wife Sharon and told her I had good news and bad news. The good news, I would be home early. The bad news, I just lost my job. That same day, Sharon and I updated my resume and printed up some copies (no email at that time) and started to drop some off at nearby businesses. We were out most of the day, and when we got back to our home that evening, Sharon’s mother called. We had discussed that we wouldn’t tell her parents of our circumstance until we had a new job. Her mom had an ulcer at the time, and we didn’t want them to worry. Her mom asked where we had been that day; she had tried calling several times throughout the day and hadn’t been able to reach us (no cell phones at that time). Sharon replied, “Uh, uh, oh just out and about.” Her mom said that the Church had called to see if we were still interested in that job we had applied for earlier that year. Sharon, in tears, asked her mom, “Mom, do you know?” Her mom’s response: “Know what?” Sharon told her I had lost my job. Her mom’s classic response: “Oh, I guess you will want this phone number.” What a blessing! What makes this blessing even more of a tender mercy is this: I liked the job I had, and I think I was so full of pride that had the call come while I still had the job, I might not have been willing to change our script. What an incredible blessing it was for us to work for the Church for over 30 years in four countries. He writes a better script than we do.

I still can’t believe this.
It’s a fine morning in June—the sun is shining, the birds are singing, the bees are buzzing—and I’m standing around in the stake center parking lot with about 200 other people, waiting for rides to girls’ camp. One of the 200 other people is my own mother. She’s going to girls’ camp too. With me.
Please!
Mom’s idea of roughing it is staying at a hotel without room service. Now don’t get me wrong. Mom’s great. It’s just sometimes hard for me to believe we’re actually related.
She likes skirts and heels. I like jeans and tennies. She likes her hair sleek and chin-length. I like mine wild and long. She keeps the house (or most of it, anyway) perfectly straight. I keep my room, well, comfortable. She’s interested in art, literature, and the theater. I’m interested in basketball. She wants to teach English at the community college again someday. I want to be a forest ranger. She prefers the great indoors, and I think you know what I prefer.
Which is why I was completely shocked when she made her announcement over Sunday dinner last January.
“Guess what, everybody,” she said brightly as she helped herself to some steamed cauliflower. “I’ve been called to the stake Young Women camp committee. Sister Kaye (she’ll be the camp director) wants me and Sheila Taylor to be her assistants.”
I felt like one of those cartoon characters whose jaw drops and bangs against the dining room table. Sister Kaye, the original outdoors woman and one of my personal heroes, wanted Mom to be her assistant?
My two little brothers started to hoot. “You?”
“Excuse me,” Mom pretended to be very offended. “Do you two have a problem with that?”
Dad laughed, and Mom cracked a sideways grin at him.
My big brother Jared, who’s waiting for his mission call, got up, walked over to her seat, and wrapped one of his big old bear arms around her shoulders.
“Whatever you do, you’ll do better than anybody else,” he said. “You’ll be terrific.”
Me, I cringed inside.
Later that night as I lay in bed, watching the shadow of falling snow through my drapes, I heard my parents talking in the hall.
“I just don’t know if I’m up to it, Glen,” Mom said.
“Of course you are,” Dad answered.
Pause.
“Did you notice Wendy’s reaction?” Mom dropped her voice. “She didn’t say a word.”
“Look, Joyce,” Dad said, “I’m sure the two of you will manage to have a good time together.”
Mom didn’t answer right away. “She doesn’t even want to be seen in public with me. I have to walk ten paces behind her whenever we go to the mall.”
Dad burst out laughing. “She’s just going through a stage right now. You watch, sweetheart. You’ll win her over. You’ll win everybody over.”
I turned over in bed, my face totally flaming.
For the record, I do not make my own mother walk ten paces behind me whenever we go to the mall. And another thing: I hate the way adults dismiss the way you feel by dishing up that tired old line about going through a stage.
I buried my face in my pillow and talked to Heavenly Father in my head the way I sometimes do when I’m upset or scared.
I love my mother just fine. I promise I do. It’s just that camp is my thing, not hers.
So here it is. I’m going. Mom’s going. Right now she’s rotating among the groups of leaders and girls standing in tight little clusters around the parking lot. She’s smiling, cheerfully asking everybody questions about themselves.
After standing around for about 30 minutes, we begin loading up. Finally. My best friends (Melissa and Amy) and I crawl into Sister Kaye’s big orange van. There’s already a group of girls inside, rocking back and forth singing old Beatles’ songs at the top of their lungs. Sister Kaye sits behind the steering wheel while Sister Taylor sits by her in the passenger’s seat.
The only thing I can think is how glad I am there’s still room in Sister Kaye’s van for me.
“Hey there,” Sister Kaye greets us with a smile as warm as an old quilt. “Make yourselves comfortable, okay?”
Sister Kaye is probably about 50. She has short wavy hair, and she has a perpetually tan face (cross-country skiing in the winter, tennis in the summer) full of friendly creases.
Sister Taylor’s okay, too, I guess. It’s just that sometimes I wish she weren’t quite so nice. I think I’d actually like her better if I ever saw her really lose her cool.
“I’ll bet you’re just so thrilled to have your sweet mom going to camp with you, aren’t you, Wendy?” Sister Taylor asks in her whispery voice.
I smile at her politely as I watch Mom crawling into a waiting minivan.
Sister Taylor pokes her blonde head out the window. “Joyce. Wait a minute. Trade me places right this very second. I want you to ride with your cute little Wendy.”
I practically choke on the piece of licorice Melissa has just given me.
Mom blinks. “Really, Sheila. I’m fine.”
“I insist,” says Sister Taylor, who leaps out of the van, then sprints across the parking lot toward the waiting minivan. “I’ll just grab my things out of the van when we get there,” she calls back to us.
Mom hesitates for a second, then joins us.
“It’s lovely to have you with us, Joyce,” Sister Kaye says in a low, friendly voice.
Then we’re off. The drive to Camp Hunt takes about two-and-a-half hours. At first everybody sings and talks and shouts, but the van grows quiet after a while and I realize people are piping down so they can listen to the stories Mom is telling Sister Kaye. She’s talking about the year she lived in Europe when she was 19. Right now she’s telling a story that even I haven’t heard before.
Everyone is fascinated.
“I didn’t know your mom lived in Europe,” Amy whispers in my ear. “That’s so exciting.”
“Welcome! Welcome!” Sister Kaye says after everyone has dribbled into camp. “I’d like to take a few minutes for orientation.”
Sister Kaye breezes through the camp rules quickly, then reminds us of our candlelight values hike later that night. “There will be ward skits tomorrow night, and testimony meeting the next night.”
I cringe a little. To tell you the truth, I don’t really like the testimony part of camp. It’s not that I don’t have a testimony. It’s just that when there are 200 people in a group and they all stand up, there’s just a little bit of pressure on you to do the same thing no matter how you’re feeling inside.
“And now,” Sister Kaye continues, “it gives me great pleasure to introduce my two assistants—Sister Sheila Taylor and Sister Joyce Evans.”
Sister Kaye pulls down a big quilt hanging like a curtain from a tree limb to reveal my mother wearing my dad’s shirt, sitting at a card table covered with cosmetics. Sister Taylor is crouched and hidden behind Mom with her arms stuffed through Dad’s huge sleeves.
“Time to get ready for camp!” Mom trills in her best stage voice. “Maybe I’ll start by taking a look in the mirror.”
Sister Taylor’s hands fumble around the table, sending bottles of perfume and tubes of lipstick flying. Well, it goes on like this for a while, but here’s a newsflash on what happens. Mom hams! Girls go wild! I fake a smile.
That’s the way things have been ever since we got here. Every time I turn around, Mom’s right there, being funny and chummy—everybody’s best pal.
I don’t know what’s gotten into her.
At home she’s always nice to my friends, but she doesn’t sit down for heart-to-heart chats with them. She doesn’t run around home playing practical jokes on Dad and my brothers, either. Up here, however, she’s turned into a regular maniac. Now and then I can tell she’s trying to catch my eye to see if everything’s okay with me. So what am I supposed to do? Lie?
I don’t want to feel this way, but things are definitely not okay with me. I can’t explain it, but I just wish she weren’t here. Do you think that makes me a terrible person?
Mom tries to get my attention as we all file into the outdoor amphitheater for tonight’s skits.
“Wendy,” she calls and waves.
I give her a little wave back, then sit on the front row between Melissa and Amy.
Our skit, which Amy and I wrote, goes pretty well, I think. I’m just glad we go first so I can sit back and relax while the other wards perform. Everything’s great until it’s the stake leaders’ turn. Sister Kaye, Sister Taylor, and Mom wander out onto the stage dressed like that old singing trio, the Supremes, and start singing this truly stupid song about peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in breathy voices.
Everybody else seems to think it’s funny, but I feel the back of my neck go hot.
Singing’s bad enough, I say to her in my head. Please just please don’t dance in front of all my friends.
Before I know it, Mom’s flipping her feather boa all over the place.
I can’t stand this. Not another minute of it.
“Pea-nut,” Mom gushes, “Pea-nut buttuh!”
Sister Kaye and Sister Taylor back her up. “And jelly! And jelly!”
Before I can stop myself, I’m on my feet. I look straight at Mom. And then I run, stumbling over startled girls as I go.
I head for the road leading out of camp, and by the time I get there, I already start to feel dumb. You know how it is when you’re mad—you feel completely justified. And then once you start to calm down, you realize what a complete idiot you’ve just made of yourself.
A single hot tear slides slowly down my cheek.
I don’t know how long I’ve been gone—it feels like forever. Amy and Melissa are in our tent when I get back. They grow quiet when I crawl inside. And they don’t look at me either.
“Hey there,” I say.
“Hi, Wendy,” Melissa says in a flat voice.
Amy nods.
I plop down on my sleeping bag. “How’d the rest of the show go?”
“Okay.”
Silence.
“Did, did my mom come looking for me?” My voice quivers a little.
“No,” says Melissa, “she didn’t.”
More silence, then Amy finally speaks up. “You really shouldn’t have done it, Wendy.”
I start crying all over again. Amy and Melissa look at each other, then slide next to me and drape their arms over my shoulders.
“It’s going to be okay,” Melissa soothes.
“Honest,” says Amy.
I take a deep breath, give them both one last squeeze, then draw back.
“I’ll go find her in the morning,” I tell them. Crying gives me a headache, but I manage to go to sleep.
As it turns out, the first person I find in the morning is not Mom but Sister Kaye. She’s walking from the mess tent toward the stake leaders’ tent. I’d give anything if I didn’t have to face Sister Kaye right now.
“Wendy?” At least her voice is friendly.
“Hi, Sister Kaye.”
She steps toward me and gives me a big hug. “I don’t know what I’d do without you or your mother. You’re both terrific in your own ways, you know? You, you’re so supportive of everything I do, so helpful and eager to learn. And your mother, she can rally a group around her like nobody else. I needed her so much for that. She’s a real star.”
I know, I want to say. That’s part of the problem.
“Do you know where my mom is now?” I ask.
“I just left her alone in the mess tent.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Mom greets me with chilly eyes when I join her there. She’s sitting at an empty table.
“Here you are!” I say in a cheerful, fake voice.
“Yes,” she agrees crisply. “Here I am.”
I take the seat next to her and notice that she doesn’t even look up. I search for the right words and the right way to say them. But before I can open my mouth, Mom stares straight at me.
“Sometimes,” she says in a high clear voice, “you can be a perfect little brat.”
Then she gets up and walks out.
Remember how I told you Mom isn’t like me—that she doesn’t get mad?
Well, guess what. She’s plenty mad right now. At me. Even after a good night’s rest.
All day long she’s gone out of her way not to look at me. And if by chance we’ve happened to make eye contact, she’s given me the kind of brief, polite smile strangers give one another.
My stomach is rolling, and I don’t know how I’m going to make it through testimony meeting. I’m supposed to be helping build the bonfire, but I can’t go. Not until I’ve fixed things with Mom. Not until I’ve apologized.
I left a note in her tent. “Mom, please meet me at 8:00 in the clearing near the camp entrance. Wendy.”
Right now I’m sitting on a log, waiting and wondering if she’ll even come.
“Wendy?”
I practically leap out of my hiking boots. It’s Mom, coming up behind me.
“Mind if I sit down next to you?” she asks.
I scoot over, making room for her, and she joins me on the log. Neither of us says anything for a minute. We just sit there, listening to the wind sing through the tops of the trees.
“I’m so sorry about last night,” I blurt out, tears jumping to my eyes.
“Oh, honey,” she sighs. “We need to talk, don’t we?”
Mom slips an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close. I don’t resist at all. “It’s just that last night when you stood up and stared at me, then ran off in front of everybody, I felt so hurt. You embarrassed me, Wendy.”
“You embarrassed me too,” I say in a tiny voice.
Mom looks truly surprised. “How?”
I shrug. How can I explain it to her without hurting her feelings. How can I tell her it’s tough being the daughter of the camp star, especially when the camp star doesn’t even like to camp?
“I embarrass you because I’m your mother?”
Miserably, I nod.
She sits still for a moment, then laughs softly. “You know, when I was your age, everybody always used to tell me how much I looked like your grandmother. Well, she was an enormously good-looking woman, and if I’d had a fifth of her looks, I should have turned cartwheels of joy on our front lawn. But instead I practically died whenever somebody said we looked alike. I wanted …” She cast about for the right word.
“Space,” I fill in the blank for her. I think I understand now. I think I know why I’ve been acting the way I have.
Mom blinks at me, then smiles like I have given an unexpectedly brilliant answer.
“Yes, space. Space to be just you. I’d forgotten all about that,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.
It’s starting to get dark, and any minute now the testimony meeting will begin.
“To tell you the truth, Wendy, I really didn’t want to come here at all. I didn’t want to leave Dad. I didn’t want to sleep in a tent with a bunch of women. I didn’t want to hear Sister Taylor say the word special.”
I burst out laughing, and this time Mom gives me a full-court grin.
“And quite frankly,” she lets out a long, deep sigh, “I didn’t want to feel pressured into bearing my testimony in front of a group of people I don’t know.”
Mom doesn’t want to bear her testimony either? Imagine the two of us having a thing like that in common.
“You’ve done pretty well for someone who doesn’t want to be here,” I point out, not even feeling resentful.
“Well,” she shrugs, “I figured since I was here, I might as well get into the spirit of the thing. Besides, it’s been fun.”
The moon is just beginning to crest. It’s huge and gold, and it begins to rise like some great bird.
“Look at that,” Mom breathes. “Have you ever seen a more gorgeous moon in your entire life?”
I shake my head. Together we sit and watch it climb the sky.
“Maybe we ought to join the others,” Mom says finally, her voice laced with regret. She stands and stretches. “Come on, kid.”
I get up and shake the stiffness out of my knees.
“Fine,” I say, “but you have to walk ten feet behind me.”
She throws back her head and roars out a laugh.
The sound of it plays like music through the evening air.

I have been a member of the Church for two years and have never before been so spiritually uplifted as I was this last weekend. Our Liverpool England Stake organized a youth conference. It was regional, and therefore youth from Preston and Manchester came. The activities were organized by the BYU dance team, that had just won the world formation dancing title. It was fantastic! There were about 200 youth present.
The New Era talked about youth conferences in the May FYI department and really captured what they are all about—good, clean, healthy fun, with an important spiritual message. During the conference the BYU group taught us some important gospel principles and some dance routines. I would especially like to thank a girl from Colorado named Martha, who displayed fantastic patience while teaching me to cha-cha.

In Germany, football is the most popular sport. My dad signed me up for a football club when I was five. We practiced three or four times a week. Games were mostly on Saturdays and Sundays. When I wasn’t playing football for the club team, I played football with my friends. We played football almost every day until the sun went down.
When I was 15, I started playing for a team in a bigger city. Football became more serious. We practiced more often. We traveled to more places. We played against more teams. Football was my life.
Then, when I was almost 18, I was at a concert. I saw a boy about my age. He stuck out. He wasn’t drinking, smoking, or swearing. I wanted to know why. I found out he was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. His example made me want to learn more. Later I joined the Church.
After I was baptized, I learned two things. First, I shouldn’t be playing football on the Sabbath. I should go to church. Second, Heavenly Father expected me to serve a mission. But I was pretty good at football. I had a friend I had played football with when we were younger. We each got an offer to play on a professional team. My friend took the offer. I chose to leave football behind and go on a mission instead. It was not a hard choice because I knew the Church was true.
But my choice was difficult for my family and friends. They didn’t understand what I was doing. My parents sent me newspaper clippings of my friend playing football. That was not easy for me. But I never ever regretted serving a mission.
Heavenly Father has blessed me every day because I chose to serve a mission. He has blessed me with peace. I felt the good feeling that comes from making the right choice.

Let me introduce you to two of your fellow students Kathy and Daniela from El Salvador. Kathy was among the first 20 students from her country to enroll in BYU-Pathway Worldwide, while Daniela’s mother inspired her to enroll. "Thanks to BYU-Pathway," Daniela said, "my English improved, I was given a leadership role, and my pay doubled." Both earned BYU-Idaho degrees and traveled here for graduation.
Elder Deiter F. Uchtdorf has said, “For members of the Church, education is not merely a good idea—it’s a commandment.” [1]
Kathy and Daniela are powerful examples of this truth. They show us that pursuing an education isn’t just a personal goal—it’s a spiritual act. Let’s talk about why that matters.

In the spring of 1975 my family and I were living among beautiful green farmland in the Rheinland-Pfalz area of West Germany. Driving home from church one rainy Sunday, we stopped to have a look at an automobile that had rolled onto its side in the wet roadbed at the edge of a forest. Inside the forest it was already dark because of the thick canopy created by the trees and the oncoming night.
After looking at the wrecked vehicle, we returned to our car and discovered it was stuck in the mud. I couldn’t back up, but I could drive forward—into the forest. We had previously driven through the forest and found that many forest roads were interconnected and would eventually lead back out, so I decided to move forward into the blackness.
I quickly realized that I had made the wrong decision. The narrow, wet road was filled with deep ruts of mud and kept leading farther and farther into the dark forest. I tried to keep up speed, fearing that if we stopped, we would become mired. I saw a high spot just ahead that looked firm enough to sustain the weight of the car. My plan was to get the car out of the mud to give myself time to think. The car lunged up and out of the mud.
I turned off the car and climbed out. With the headlights off, I couldn’t see a thing. I turned the headlights back on, grabbed our flashlight, and after looking the car over, decided that my best bet was to back into the forest and then make a mad dash out the way we came.
I backed as far into the forest as possible, revved the engine a little, lunged back onto the road, and sank deep into the mud. Now we were really in trouble. Outside the car it was total darkness and silence. Inside the car my wife and I sat with three terrified children.
I asked my wife for any ideas. After a moment she said, “Maybe we should pray.” The children calmed down almost immediately. I offered a humble but desperate prayer for help. As I prayed, a thought came clearly into my mind: “Put on the tire chains.”
Standing in 10 inches (25 cm) of mud in her Sunday dress, my sweet wife held the flashlight while I cleaned the rear tires with my bare hands and put the chains on. With faith and confidence, we prayed again and started the engine. Slowly we drove through the mud and eventually back onto the pavement.
In the excitement of being freed from the mud and the darkness, I almost forgot who had helped us out of the forest. Our five-year-old daughter reminded me when she said, “Daddy, Heavenly Father really does answer prayers, doesn’t He?”

Francisco spoke frankly of a sad journey and a sweet homecoming. “I was away from the Church for some time,” he said, “and I thought I was happy, but it wasn’t as it seemed. Within myself, I was asking questions over and over: ‘Why do you smoke? Why do you drink? Why do you do these things if you know they are harming you?’ I didn’t know why. I wasn’t spiritually happy. I wasn’t free. I was, as it were, sick. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to go about finding again the happiness that I had had previously. I wanted to go back to church, but shame kept me away for a time.
“One day I finally just got on my bicycle and started out for the church without further delay. I was determined to start going back no matter what. When I got there, it seemed as if everyone was waiting for me. As soon as they saw me, they became very happy and received me with open arms. It was as if I was in my own home. I found that this was truly where I belonged. I found again the happiness that I had been looking for. It was better than ever. Since then I have felt so joyful that right now I can still feel the Spirit I felt then, a very deep happiness. I was away from the Church for six months, six months without happiness.”

With the encouragement of Sharon Hintze, FamilySearch specialist in London, Midland Ancestors invited volunteer missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to give a presentation to their staff about FamilySearch. Midland Ancestors is a three-county genealogical organisation in Birmingham.
Phil Lamb, chairman of Midland Ancestors, wanted staff to be knowledgeable about the different features of FamilySearch so they could better help their patrons.
Elder Dan Hull and Sister Martha Hull volunteered their time teaching two-hour classes on Saturdays in February and completed an additional six hours of instruction in March. The classes were so well-received that several requests were made to present to the subchapters of Midland Ancestors. The Hulls recently gave a presentation on FamilySearch in Wolverhampton.
Phil Lamb expressed his gratitude for the classes. He said, “Our library volunteers will now be so much more confident when they have visitors to our facility in Birmingham. We will now be able to all make better use of the website which adds so much to what we offer in our family history centre.”