Gospel Story Finder

The Prophet left Palmyra during the printing? Who would he choose to leave in charge? In answer, I have two thoughts: the prophet had business elsewhere—so, delegation. Hyrum held the manuscript. “Oliver acted as companion and bodyguard to Hyrum in delivering to the printer a daily supply of copy. Peter Whitmer Jr. was stationed on guard at Hyrum’s home to protect the manuscript.”13 The second, E.B. Grandin allowed others to use his shop to print their newspapers. On one Sunday in January of 1830, Hyrum Smith became very uneasy about the situation and requested that Oliver Cowdery go with him to see. Hyrum says:

They went to Grandin’s shop and found Abner Cole ‘lifting’ text from the Book of Mormon project and putting it in his newspaper, The Reflector. He was trying to print the gist of it so his readers would not need to buy a copy of the book. Joseph Smith Sr. went and retrieved Joseph Smith Jr. from Harmony, Pennsylvania, a distance of some 278 miles, to help resolve the dispute. Mr. Cole was willing to fist-fight Joseph over it, but Joseph refused.16

I remember one day there came into my business place a man and he said, “You know, I’ve got to have a hundred dollars. I’ll give you ten dollars for the use of a hundred dollars for one week.” And I thought, “Have you gone crazy? What’s the matter? Ten dollars on one hundred dollars would be ten percent for a year, it would be about 500 percent for a week. What are you thinking about? Have you lost your reason? Why don’t you plan? Why don’t you anticipate your needs and then provide for them?”

When I was in the bank I found a little extra time and needed a little extra money, and I kept books for some of the stores in town, especially one little department store. And one of the shocking things of my life was to find on the books the accounts of many of the people in the community that I knew. I knew them. I knew approximately what their income was, and then I saw them wear it away. In other words, I saw they were buying their clothes, their shoes, everything they had “on time.”

And I found that it was my duty to make the bills at the end of the month for them. And many of them couldn’t pay at the end of the month. They couldn’t pay even the installments that were arranged for them. And having been reared in a home that took care of its funds, I couldn’t understand it. I could understand how a person could buy a home on time or perhaps could even buy an automobile on time. But I never could quite understand how anybody would wear clothes they didn’t own. Or eat food that they had to buy “on time.” I had a good deal to do with the merchants in the town and found that their books were cluttered with accounts for food, for cheese, for bread, for milk, for other things.

One day I remember I met in the grocery store some old friends of mine, and this woman had just paid eighty dollars for a small supply of food that she was carrying out of the grocery store. And I came in and bought one or two small things, and she said to me, “How can you do it? How can you do it?” And I said, “Well, I have a wife who is careful and she doesn’t waste anything. She doesn’t throw anything away. She just makes it over, uses it again. And we buy only what we need. And instead of buying the prepared things we can buy as many potatoes probably for a dollar that it would take many, many dollars to put into chips and in other preparations.”

I have heard my mother-in-law, who was a very careful cook in her home, say many times, “That woman throws more waste from the kitchen than I would use in a month.” And I have seen that in many homes. And so I think that we need to be very, very careful.

I agree with all that Brother Ashton has said this day with regard to the financing of the family in the home. Every family should have a budget. Why, we wouldn’t think of going one day without a budget in this Church or in our businesses. We have to know approximately what we may receive and we certainly must know what we are going to spend. And one of the successes of the Church would have to be that the Brethren watch these things very carefully, and we do not spend that which we do not have.

I remember a case in my life a few years ago. I was in my office on the second floor. A young man came in. He was bedraggled, he looked pretty bad. His clothes were hanging loose, and I was afraid he was going to jump out my window. He was desperate. He told me he had just lost his wife. She had left him and taken his two sons with her. She did not leave anything to pay the numerous bills that they had. And life looked pretty desperate. He had even gone to drinking a little bit.

I finally said to him, “Well, now, I am going to help you if you would like me to. I will get you a job. It won’t be a very good job. It won’t be maybe the thing you have been used to doing. It won’t bring in the amount of money you have been used to spending, but if you need a job I will get you one and I will help you with the problems that come to you.” I got him a job at the hospital for eighty dollars a month.

“Oh,” he said, “I can’t live on that.”

And I said, “eighty dollars will be better than what you are getting now.” He agreed and finally he went to work. It was temporary, but it took care of the situation.

And I said to him, “Now, why don’t you, Bill, take your car and put it on blocks and walk to work because that will be good for your health as well as you will finally get caught up on your indebtedness. Why don’t you go to the music store and tell them you will pay out the cornet for your boy at two dollars a month and go to this other store and pay this much on your gas, you will pay this much on something else.”

He said, “Oh, they would laugh at me. They wouldn’t take that.”

And I said, “You try them.”

And when he came back after the first week, he said, “Well, they surprised me. Those people said, ‘That’s wonderful, I appreciate what you are paying. We will assist you.’”

And so when he came back the first week, he gave me a list of the things that he had been spending for, and I said, “What is this newspaper here? Costs ten cents a day, doesn’t it? That is seventy cents a week. You pay that on your obligations instead of buying the paper. There are several of them at the hospital. You can read them. And what is this shoe shine every day.”

“Oh,” he said, “I have to have my shoes shined.”

And I said, “Yes, you do, but you can shine your own shoes. Why don’t you use a few cents and get a can of polish and shine your own shoes?”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” he said. “I never have done it. My father didn’t do it.”

But here and there we finally got him to be willing to do this. And it was only a matter of a few months until he had a better job, paying twice as much with prospects of even doubling, and doubling again. And he was getting along fine. He had a little cheap room, he had a little hot plate. He cooked his own egg every morning, and he ate bread and milk at night, and he ate at the hospital at noon for free. And it was amazing how quickly he was out of debt, though it had run into thousands of dollars.

If an obnoxious weed tucked deep in a flower bed seems to heave a smug sigh of relief when the local teenager shows up to mow the grass—because, hey, a teenager coming to do a quick job is no big threat to its existence, right?—then that moment of satisfaction is going to be short-lived if 13-year-old Nathan D. is the one behind the mower.
Nathan started mowing lawns for his neighbors in 2012. He knows how to keep customers happy, in part because he believes in not merely doing the job right but also in doing a bit more than is required.
Once he turns off the mower at a job, he double-checks the lawn. “Make sure everything is done right and that you haven’t missed any spots,” he advises to others interested in lawn care.
After that, it’s time for the little something extra. “Before leaving the job you’ve done,” Nathan says, “look for some extra things that wouldn’t take much time to do.” Pulling stray weeds is one of his favorites.
As a result of his income, Nathan has also learned great budgeting skills. Now in his second year of mowing lawns, Nathan has been able to buy school clothes and save for a mission.

The story of a young man’s wrestle 30 years ago with whether to be honest helps to illustrate the point further. Brother Warren Johnson related this poignant experience in a June 1989 Ensign article:

My friend Bob had to do a lot of persuading in order to get another Marine to loan him his new camera to take to a servicemen’s conference in Japan. But Bob assured him that he would take good care of it, and the Marine consented.

We were stationed in Vietnam at the height of the war. For months the Latter-day Saints in our battalion had looked forward to this conference, and Bob wanted to take the camera along.

Our departure from Vietnam was hectic, with lots of red tape and much confusion. Two of the men in our small group could travel only if space was available, and we were all grateful for the two extra seats on the huge jet bound for Japan. The Spirit was mindful of us! At last we were on our way.

For three days we attended meetings, talent shows, dances, and other social activities at the conference, held at beautiful Mount Fuji. After months of exposure to the ugliness of war, we enjoyed the kindness of the members and appreciated the spiritual uplift of hearing a General Authority speak. Battle-hardened men shed tears in some of the meetings because of the great joy they felt in the fellowship of other Saints.

As we neared the end of one of our last meetings, Bob quietly excused himself to return to the hotel and get the camera, which he had left in the room we had shared.

When he returned, we could tell by his expression that something was very wrong. He said that he couldn’t find the camera. I reassured him that it had to be in our room and told him to look again.

He was even more visibly upset when he returned the second time. He knew where he had left the camera in the room, and he knew that it was gone. Locks to hotel room doors were not common then, and both of us realized the possibility of someone entering our room and taking the camera. We knew what a burden it would be to try to replace it on his corporal’s pay, especially with a wife and two small children to provide for. Our elation of the three previous days was gone, and our good feelings were replaced with regret and misgivings.

Bob said that he would pray about the matter and ask the kindly hotel manager if he had noticed anyone carrying that particular kind of camera.

The meeting was over when Bob returned again, this time smiling, with the camera in his hand. He related what the hotel manager, in his halting English, had told him he had seen: an American had come downstairs into the lobby carrying the camera. He had then sat down and looked at it for a long time, as if he were contemplating something or wrestling with himself. Suddenly he had stood up, placed the camera where the manager could retrieve it, and departed.

Since the only Americans in the hotel at the time were those attending the conference, the manager assumed the man was one of our group.

The servicemen’s conference had uplifted all who had attended it—including, quite possibly, a young man who, though tempted to steal a camera, had ultimately obeyed his conscience. [Warren Johnson, “The Camera and the Conscience,” Ensign, June 1989, pp. 69–70]

At my first school dance, I felt awkward and out of place until I joined a group of friends on the dance floor and started having fun. Then I noticed a boy I knew standing by himself in a corner. He was shy and a little different, so people avoided him. I felt prompted to invite him to dance with us, but I was shy too. Then I remembered how I’d felt at the beginning of the dance.

I asked one of my friends to come with me, and we went to ask the boy to dance with our group. He seemed unsure and said, “I don’t know if I can really keep a beat.” We replied with a laugh that we couldn’t either. He slowly nodded and followed us.

For a few minutes, we were dancing while the boy just stood there. I was starting to doubt whether I’d done the right thing. But then a new song came on, and he smiled. “This is a good one,” he said, starting to dance. He was really good! Other people began to notice. Then the boy started break dancing! It was amazing! Soon a whole circle of people stood around him, clapping and smiling. My friend leaned over to me and said, “Look what you started.” I grinned and knew we did the right thing. Like Alma 37:6 says, “By small and simple things are great things brought to pass.” I am grateful that I had the Holy Ghost as my companion that night.

I testify that I know victims of serious abuse who have successfully made the difficult journey to full healing through the power of the Atonement. After her own concerns were resolved by her faith in the healing power of the Atonement, one young woman who had been severely abused by her father requested another interview with me. She returned with an older couple. I could sense that she loved the two very deeply. Her face radiated happiness. She began, “Elder Scott, this is my father. I love him. He’s concerned about some things that happened in my early childhood. They are no longer a problem for me. Could you help him?” What a powerful confirmation of the Savior’s capacity to heal! She no longer suffered from the consequences of abuse, because she had adequate understanding of His Atonement, sufficient faith, and was obedient to His law. As you conscientiously study the Atonement and exercise your faith that Jesus Christ has the power to heal, you can receive the same blessed relief. During your journey of recovery, accept His invitation to let Him share your burden until you have sufficient time and strength to be healed.

When I started having babies, I struggled hard being a working mother. Our financial situation at the time did not allow me to be a stay-at-home mom. I was angry and upset. I wondered why I couldn’t be like the other moms. I felt an overwhelming guilt that I was choosing money and career over raising my children. It didn’t help that the church encouraged women to stay home and rear their children. I mentally and emotionally struggled leaving my children each day, feeling like I was letting them down and that people would think that I was a bad mother for going to work. There were many times when I told my husband, “I’m going to quit and just be a mom!” He never discouraged me and always left it up to me, which I resented even more. I wanted someone to tell me what to do, but no one would. I turned to my patriarchal blessing for help and was upset that when I read it, it did not give me the answers that I wanted - on the contrary it told me that this was something I could do it. I became jealous of those who could stay home and I felt inferior as a mother. I would see pictures of people on social media at the beach, doing craft projects and so much more cool, fun stuff. While my time with my children was spent forcing them to do their homework, making them chores and putting them to bed. I became more concerned with what others thought of me and what I thought about myself, than what the Lord thought of me. Granted, I tried all I could to get out of working, but it never panned out that way.

I kept telling myself ok, “If this happens, I’m going to quit and stay home,” or “Once this happens then I’m out.” Those things never happened; the Lord always met my ultimatums with an answer of His own. The Lord had and has a different plan for me. He has answered my pleas at every step, maybe not the way that I want Him to, but He does. He provides ways in which I can still be a mother and have a career. It has not been easy and I continue to struggle with not being able to be there for every second of my keiki’s childhood. But I have come to realize that we are all not intended to live the same life, and that we all have different responsibilities to fulfill; comparing ourselves to others does not help. Our success and failure should not be based on what others think, but on what the Lord thinks. If you give your all in all that you do, the Lord will bless you for your efforts.

As a side note, I mentioned that I must have read my patriarchal blessing like a million times over the years and I swear it specifically said that I could work, go to school, and be a mother. Now as I have come to accept my role as a working mother, when I read my patriarchal blessing it doesn’t exactly say that, it says something different. As our situation changes, the Lord continues to bless your efforts and continues to send us assistance depending on our circumstances.

But on those days when my legs felt up to it, I would take a shorter but more difficult run up to the Iwo Jima Memorial, high atop a hill overlooking the Potomac and adjacent to Arlington National Cemetery. As I am sure all of you know, this large bronze and granite sculpture captures one of the most famous battle photographs ever taken, the raising of the American flag on Mount Suribachi on Iwo Jima. Five Marines and one navy corpsman took part in that flag raising. Three of the six did not survive the battle, but the navy corpsman did. His name was Pharmacist Mate 2nd Class John Bradley.

I would like to tell you a little of his story. He rarely spoke to his family about his experiences on Iwo Jima. When pressed, he would gloss over and downplay how he had won the nation’s second highest award for bravery—the Navy Cross.

He earned that decoration by rushing to the aid of two wounded Marines and then shielding them with his body from enemy fire while he tended to their wounds. When Bradley hurried to their aid, he didn’t exactly rush, he crawled. He crawled because he had been shot through both legs just a few minutes before.

I encourage you to visit the Iwo Jima War Memorial one day. When you do, step back and read the engraved words: “Where Uncommon Valor Was a Common Virtue.” Then study the faces of those men, all young men, captured with great detail in bronze. You will have to go around to the south side and look toward the Potomac River. There you will find John Bradley. You will recognize him. He’s the one with the empty canteen pouch. You see, prior to climbing Mount Suribachi, he gave the last of his water to a dying Marine. And on that hot bubbling sulfur island, John Bradley would go the next 24 hours without water.

There is something in what Corpsman Bradley did that goes beyond bravery—it goes beyond sacrifice. I think it is selflessness. The scriptures call it charity. John Bradley was certainly brave, and his sacrifices have surely secured a great reward for him in the next life, but most of all he was selfless. His brave acts were not done for any reward, nor were they intended to be captured by CBS or the News at 10. There was no public glory in what he did. In fact, men under fire rarely speak of glory. Instead, they speak of those who can be counted on and those who cannot. Above all, they speak about and remember individual acts of selflessness.

When Felix de Weldon, the sculptor of the Marine Corps War Memorial, asked John Bradley what happened to his canteen, Corpsman Bradley couldn’t even remember. In the heat of the battle he had forgotten. But the surviving Marines of Bradley’s unit knew, and they remembered. They told de Weldon the story of his sharing his water. Selflessness, you see, is unforgettable—even small acts of selflessness are unforgettable.

John Bradley gave the last of his water to a wounded Marine on February 23, 1945. That afternoon he was struggling to climb the fire-swept heights of Mount Suribachi. The next day he braved enemy fire to aid two wounded Marines. And just a few days later, though wounded himself, he again braved enemy fire to aid two more Marines and shielded them with his own body as he tended to their wounds. It was not for sense of self that he performed those brave acts of courage. It was for others, for those he knew and for those he had never even met. Deep within his soul, John Bradley instinctually understood that “non sibi sed patriae” (not for self but for country) is contagious.

You see, after aiding those final two wounded Marines, Corpsman John Bradley, badly wounded, lost consciousness. He awoke 36 hours later aboard a hospital ship. How he arrived there is unknown. The names of those Marines or sailors who carried him off the field of battle, who placed him on the small boat, who carried him to the ship, have been lost to history. But their selfless deeds remain unforgettable in the life of John Bradley.

We, too, can choose whether to forgive those who have hurt or offended us, or to remain angry with them. Eight-year-old Nils Evensen from South Jordan, Utah, has learned to follow Nephi’s example of being forgiving. When Nils turned eight, he saved all his birthday money and bought a toy that he really wanted. He was always very careful to put it away after playing with it so that it would not get broken. One day, a friend accidentally sat on the toy and broke it. Nils’ eleven-year-old sister, Linnea, said that instead of getting angry with his friend, Nils told him, “It’s OK—we can glue the pieces back on.” Because Nils chose to be forgiving, he was able to keep a friendship that might have been badly hurt if he had chosen to get angry.

With the trusting nature of a child, four-year-old Kennedy from Lusaka, Zambia, ran into the open arms of Jesus! The moment was later captured on canvas by Latter-day Saint artist Liz Lemon Swindle in a heartwarming painting titled Worth of a Soul.
Since 2008 this painting has found a place in our hearts. We see the Savior draw this young, trusting child into Him. As we look into this young child’s eyes it may really be ourselves that we see. If we allow the Spirit in, it will testify that it is really each one of us that is cradled in His arms.
Kennedy was orphaned when both parents passed away just a couple of months apart from an undiagnosed disease. They left behind eight cherished children, the youngest just three weeks old. Kennedy’s life and the lives of his brothers and sisters were forever changed. The emptiness and loss robbed him of hope. That feeling would follow him for many years. His spirit craved acceptance, love, and belonging.
Kennedy and some of his siblings were cared for at the Mothers Without Borders Children’s Center in West Lusaka, Zambia. Two years after his parents’ passing, on a sunny day, a man portraying the Savior arrived with Sister Swindle and a photographer. They sought to photograph African children with the man so that a much-needed painting could be created.
Kennedy was now four years old. With the innocence of a child, and fully believing this man to be the Savior, he broke loose from the grip of his sister Bridget’s hand and ran toward him. He jumped into his outstretched arms. Throughout the day, Kennedy rarely left his side. Was the Spirit whispering to him that something here was familiar?
As a young orphan, Kennedy depended on others for survival. Prior to being brought to the children’s center, he and his siblings were scattered among relatives. As with most experiences in life, some of the times were good, some desperate. Throughout it all, and despite separation from each other, the siblings remain bonded together. His older brother Bwalya was ever present in his life and took on the role of father and protector even though he was only two years older than Kennedy.
Kennedy was introduced to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when he was 9 and became a baptized member at the age of 11. Five siblings were also baptized.
As a young teenager, life became difficult for Kennedy when no funds were available for his continued housing, food, and much desired education. It was at this time that BJ Warnick, Sandra Peters, and Anthony Mulenga—who had all known Kennedy since he was four—were able to take him into their care. Through their Heart to Hands Foundation, he and Bwalya were immediately adopted into their flock.
While it was obvious that Kennedy needed the basics required for daily survival, what he really needed was hope and love, and they had plenty of that to offer. Kennedy said while he was “not officially adopted”, it was “even better”. He now had two moms. With his new family’s help, he was able to complete grade 12, obtain a driver’s license, and complete auto mechanic school. Again, he was wrapped in the arms of his Savior, but it was through the acts of others. Kennedy remarked, “I don’t know who I would have become without the continual love of my enlarged family and friends who have dedicated so much time to me.”
A year ago Kennedy decided to serve a mission and become those arms of the Savior for others. His “better than adopted family”, his brother Bwalya, and his determined Bishop Simbeya in the Libala Ward helped him prepare.
For many African missionaries, their first opportunity to attend the temple is when they come to the missionary training center in Ghana. It is also their first and often only opportunity to do ordinance work for their deceased parents, siblings, or grandparents until they return home and are able to have sufficient resources to travel to the nearest temple.
Elder and Sister Meredith serve as temple and family history missionaries in the Africa West Area and spend time at the MTC each Sunday helping interested missionaries prepare their ancestors’ names so they can do temple work for them in the short time they are there. Their most joyous efforts occur in opportunities to help missionaries who want to do work for their own parents. Such was the case with Kennedy Chitalu.
While he was at the Ghana MTC, before departing to the Kenya Nairobi Mission, he was able to attend the house of the Lord and take part in not just his father’s ordinance work but also the sealing of his parents and finally his sealing to them for time and all eternity. He was so excited he didn’t want forget even a moment of his experience and stayed in the temple to savor the spirit he felt as long as he was able.
Now, as Elder Chitalu, in the mission office he met Sister Stacie Sturt, mission leader for the Kenya Nairobi Mission. She captured a beautiful photo of Elder Chitalu standing in front of the painting of his much younger self, cradled in the arms of his Savior. Now he wears a name tag as a representative of Jesus Christ. It is his turn to wrap his arms around others and help bring them to Christ. He testifies: “I know and stand as a solemn witness that Jesus Christ is our Savior, and I know that His Atonement has healing power for all kinds of afflictions”.

During my service as a bishop I had the opportunity of conducting tithing settlement. It was always a highlight to visit with the members of the ward during the Christmas season. With permission, I share one such experience.
One Sunday afternoon a faithful family came to the office to make their declarations. A sidenote to this story is that the father, an honorable and well-educated man, had lost his employment months earlier due to no fault of his own. Severance pay and savings eventually wore thin, and the family was doing its best to make ends meet. Earlier in the day my counselors had invited both the Relief Society sisters and priesthood brethren to consider contributing to a Christmas fund we had established to help some of our ward members. After returning home from church, the good mother, undoubtedly influenced by the Spirit, told her children about our request and encouraged them to contribute.
The parents had a few dollars remaining in their modest budget and decided to donate them to the fund. The oldest daughter—a devout and sensitive 17-year-old who had previously helped make a monthly payment for her brother’s mission—brought what money she had available from her part-time job. The youngest daughter, a sweet and conscientious 13-year-old, brought her babysitting money. With emotion in his eyes and obvious love and appreciation for his family, the father handed over their collective contribution. Then all family members declared themselves fulltithe payers.
In retrospect, I was witness to an act of holiness. This family is an example of what it means to be sensitive to—and then to comply with—the promptings of the Holy Ghost. The spirit I felt in that office was nearly overwhelming. Is there anything more desirable than the spirit we feel at those moments in life when we act in accordance with the Lord’s will? For this reason alone we should be in perpetual motion toward holiness.

It had been only a few months since Peter’s father, Dr. Mattias Koteles, a professor at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, had attended an important scientific conference in Austria. On his return, he had told his family an exciting story that had nothing to do with the conference but that he had heard from one of the American doctors. It was about a young boy named Joseph Smith who had been visited by God the Father and His Son Jesus Christ. And it was claimed that the Church that Joseph Smith had organized was God’s true Church.
What if it’s true? Peter had hoped, excitedly. Only a few weeks before, his teacher at school had told the class that there was no God and that the worth of religion was just something that people imagined. While he was listening to his teacher, it had seemed to Peter that a voice in his mind was telling him that his teacher was wrong. That night he had knelt beside his bed and prayed that he would know for sure. Afterward, he had been filled with a warm and happy feeling, and he knew that God lives.
Dr. Koteles had brought back a pamphlet that explained about Joseph Smith, and Peter had read it over and over with growing excitement. He wanted with all his heart to find out more about Joseph Smith and this church. The pamphlet said that an angel had given Joseph some ancient records and that the translation he had made of them with the help of God was published in a book of scriptures called the Book of Mormon. If he could get a copy of this book to read, he would be able to find out if Joseph Smith’s story was true. He thought of the promise that he had read in the pamphlet: “And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost” (Moro. 10:4).
Peter’s mother had listened to Papa with tight lips, and Peter could tell that she was angry. He heard his parents talking that night when they thought that he was asleep. Peter felt ashamed to be listening, but he was anxious to hear more about the Church …
“Mattias, how could you do this, filling Peter’s head with this nonsense? He’s only ten years old. It’s not only useless, but it could be dangerous for him as well as for us. The government is being very understanding right now, but things could change any moment. Remember that we are Hungarians. Such things are discouraged. Have you forgotten the revolution and the foreign tanks in the streets? You must know that this American church would never be approved by the State Office of Church Affairs.”
“Mama, I am a patriotic Hungarian. My father gave his life for Hungary. But above every man’s duty to his country is his duty to God.”
“But, Mattias,” protested Mama, “an American church? Everyone would think the same. How could you favor an American church and be a loyal Hungarian? It could only mean trouble.”
“There are members of this church all over the world. It is not an American church. I listened to Dr. Jensen talk about its teachings far into the night. I asked many questions. What he told me is just what the Bible teaches. If the story is true, and I feel in my heart that it is, then this is God’s church. Would you have me turn away from God?”
“Mattias, it is only an impossible dream, this idea of yours about a true church. I refuse to hear any more about it. When the State Office of Church Affairs recognizes this church of yours, then I will discuss it. Until then I want you to promise that you will say no more about it to me or to Peter.”
“All right, Mama,” replied Peter’s father, but his voice was filled with sadness.
Neither of his parents mentioned the matter the next day. Peter knew that his mother had not read the pamphlet and that she did not intend to read it. After supper, when he was helping his mother put away the dishes, he asked, “Do you believe that there is a God, Mama?”
“When I was a little girl, my mother taught me about God. I felt that He was very near. As I grew older, I saw much that was wrong in the churches, but this feeling of God’s closeness was something apart from going to any church. Nothing has changed for me since then. But even if this church that your father has found is God’s church, it would be better for us not to know. We could never be a part of it. It would take a miracle. We are Hungarians, and it is no use.”
Perhaps she’s right, Peter thought, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He decided that if there was a true church, God would want him to find it, and only God could help him. He began to pray every night to know if the church described in the pamphlet was true and, if it was, to be able to become a member of it.
Then the miracle happened! It was the end of June, and the streets of Budapest were filled with people enjoying the warm summer sunshine. After school Peter lingered on the bank of the Danube River for a long time. The river seemed especially beautiful that day, and he had been late getting home from school. His mother said nothing about it, though, and all through supper she was strangely silent, her cheeks glowing pink with excitement.
Papa watched her curiously and finally asked, “Mama, what is it? Tell us.”
Silently she left the table, returning with the strudel for dessert and a page of the government’s daily newspaper. She handed the paper to her husband, and he read silently, then passed it to Peter.
Mama had circled a small article in the middle of the page that said: “The State Office of Church Affairs has concluded its investigation and announces full recognition of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints as a legal institution and authorizes citizens of the Hungarian People’s Republic to be members and attend meetings of this religious organization.” The article went on to say that the Church was holding a meeting that night and another on Sunday and that representatives of the First Presidency of the Church would be there.
“I checked your pamphlet,” Mama said, “and it is the same church. I thought that I would never see it happen. Even now I do not understand how such a thing came to be. Surely God must be with this church.”
“What does it mean, Papa?”
“It means that the State Office of Church Affairs has said that it will allow this church to have meetings in Hungary. It is allowed to teach people about Joseph Smith and the gospel and to baptize people who wish to be members.”
“The miracle,” breathed Peter, staring at his mother.
“Yes, the miracle,” she said.
“Now we will talk of this!” exclaimed Dr. Koteles, and his eyes shone with excitement.
“Yes,” said Mama simply. She took the pamphlet out of her apron pocket and began to read it aloud. As she read, Peter felt as if he would burst.
They went to the meeting on Sunday and were surprised at how many attended—almost sixty people. Peter listened to all that was said, but it was hard for him to understand everything. After the meeting, Dr. Koteles and Peter shook hands with some of the Church officials, and one of them wrote down the Koteles’s name and address. He said that he would send some elders to visit them and bring them a copy of the Book of Mormon.
A couple of days later Peter heard their doorbell ring and ran to answer it. How he hoped that the Latter-day Saint elders had come so that he could know for sure that they represented God’s true church!
Peter’s heart was pounding as he opened the door and saw two men in dark suits. They introduced themselves, and as they smiled and shook hands with Peter, he suddenly realized that he already knew the truth: These elders were members of the true Church; they had been sent by a prophet of God, and he, Peter, was going to be a member too.

Lucy saw the dress in the window of Carlstrum’s General Store. It was the color of lilacs with sprigs of lace at the neck and sleeves. Lucy hadn’t seen lilacs since her family moved from Salt Lake City. Mother had planted a lilac start, but so far it hadn’t developed enough to produce any blossoms.
She tugged at her mother’s arm. “Oh, Mama, look at that dress.”
Mama checked the list she held for what she would need in the general store. They had already been to the feed and seed store, and Lucy’s brother Thomas was still in the blacksmith’s shop. Her mother always went to the general store last, because it was the most enjoyable.
She glanced up at the dress. “It’s very pretty, dear.”
Lucy liked pretty things, but had to control her desires because her family was struggling with the new farm. Since President Brigham Young had sent her family and several others to settle in the New Harmony area, life had been difficult. It was dry and hot in the rugged, red-soiled desert country. The families were trying to raise cotton to sell to people in Salt Lake City, who often referred to Southern Utah as “Dixie.”
But Dixie was not yet producing abundant cotton as had been hoped. Water was precious and had to be used sparingly even for irrigation. Lucy’s father was the bishop of the town, and he was raising cattle as well as cotton to supply meat for the townspeople. It was the sale of beef that kept his family going.
Lucy gazed longingly at the dress. How it would set off her shiny brown hair and make her gray eyes glow! She could imagine herself wearing the dress to church, where all the other girls would see and envy her.
She flushed a little, feeling guilty, since Mama often told her that church was a place to worship, not to show off. All her dresses were plain gray flannel ones that had been remodeled from hand-me-downs. But this dress was beautiful!
Mama went into the general store to look at some bolts of cloth. “Look at this, Lucy,” she called. “We could make a pretty dress for you with this material.”
With a touch of excitement Lucy hurried to her mother’s side, but the material was just a plain yellow, brown, and black calico print. She had already seen several dresses around town made of it. “Oh, Mama, I need a special dress, not just an old faded calico,” she exclaimed, holding up the limp skirt she had on. “And just like everything else in Dixie—it’s the dusty colors of earth. Isn’t there any pretty material? Some blue or pink or lovely lilac?”
Her mother looked down at Lucy with an understanding smile. Her daughter really did need a new dress.
Lucy’s mother asked the storekeeper, who was standing behind the counter, “Have you any poplin, Mr. Carlstrum? Anything besides this calico here?”
“I had some rust-colored poplin, but Mrs. Newbitt bought it all to make curtains,” he replied.
Lucy was not consoled with Mr. Carlstrum’s offer of a peppermint stick. Her mother walked out of the store carrying the purchases she had made, a thoughtful look on her face. Lucy followed with her arms full of bundles. Silently she helped load the wagon. Thomas came from the blacksmith’s with the newly shod horse, hitched it to the wagon, and they started for home.
At the dinner table that night Lucy’s father announced that he would be taking a wagonful of men to Salt Lake for conference. “Thomas, you’ll be in charge while I’m gone.” Thomas sat up proudly in his seat as Bishop Peterson went on. “All of you children do what Thomas tells you. I hope everything will be green and growing when I come back.”
Thomas, Lucy, George, Charles, and little Carrie nodded their heads in assent.
Then their father turned to Mama and asked, “Emily, do you have a written list for me?”
“Yes,” she replied and added, “Lucy needs a new dress and there isn’t any material she likes in town. See if you can get some lavender lilac poplin or even sky blue or rose pink.”
“Lavender lilac, sky blue, or rose pink,” Lucy’s father repeated, considering the possibilities. “That’s a tall order, but I’ll try.”
Lucy jumped up, hugged her father, and smiled gratefully at her mother.
Lucy anxiously watched for the wagon’s return. She often climbed up into the barn loft to gaze off into the distance, until Thomas called to her to stop wasting time and come down and help with the chores.
“Papa’s wagon will come before you know it, if you spend your time working,” he told her. But even as she worked Lucy dreamed about a new dress.
When Papa finally came, it was George who caught sight of the wagon first, from the field where he was digging a ditch. Clouds of dust billowed above the road as George put his shovel over his shoulder and ran to meet the wagon. He jumped onto the tailgate, shouting across the fields to his brothers and sisters that their father was home.
Lucy was waiting at the house, breathless after running from the calf shed. “Papa! Papa! Where’s my dress yardage?” she cried as he swung her off the ground in a tight squeeze.
“You haven’t seen me for days and all you think about is yardage!” he teased. “It’s at the bottom of the pile, wrapped in brown paper. You’ll have to help me unload before you find it.”
The family greeted their father and quickly unloaded the wagon. Lucy happened to be alone when she came to the brown paper package. With trembling fingers she untied the string. She could imagine the smooth feel of poplin, the wonderful smell of new fabric, the color of lilacs or the sky or a rose …
Tears came to Lucy’s eyes when she saw that the material she had waited for was the color of muddy green ditchwater. It was poplin all right, and it smelled nice and new, but, oh, the color! She buried her head in the brown paper and tried to keep from crying out loud.
Mama came out of the house where she had been sorting supplies. She saw Lucy’s face buried in the material. “What is it, Lucy?” she asked gently.
“Oh, Mama!” Lucy turned to her mother and held her tightly. “The material is … oh, Mama, it looks terrible! We might as well have bought that calico, or made a dress out of a flour sack!”
Mama smiled and said, “I used to wear flour-sack dresses all the time, Lucy, and you did, too, when you were little. But don’t cry now. Papa will be back in a moment, and we can’t let him see tears.”
“All right, Mama,” Lucy promised, so when Papa came back to the wagon, she smiled as she held up the yardage. “Thank you.” Her throat choked. “It’s … it’s … thank you for the material, Papa.”
Her father looked at Mama and then at his daughter. “I know it’s not lavender lilac, Lucy, but it’s the best I could find. I think it will make you a fine dress.”
“I’m sure it will,” Mama said. “We’ll borrow a pattern. There are only three patterns in town, and I think Mrs. Taylor down the road has one near your size.”
Lucy tried to think of the muddy green poplin transformed into a dress. “The color’s not really so bad, Papa, if we put a little ribbon on it or maybe some lace.” She looked up to see her father smiling down at her.
Lucy wanted to sew the whole dress herself. Mama showed her how to alter the pattern and to save all the scraps of material. Then Lucy hand stitched the pieces with small even seams. When she tried on the half-made dress in front of Mama’s mirror, she cried out, “Mama, come look! The waist is way down below my middle! What shall I do?”
Mama tried to keep from laughing, because the dress did look a little strange. “Perhaps we could take up the shoulders. Mrs. Taylor is taller than I thought.”
Lucy made some alterations and tried the dress on again. This time the waist was too high, and the hem was just below her knees. “Mama! Look at it now!” she wailed.
“We’ll put in a wide waistband,” Mama suggested. “That’s the fashion this year.”
Shortly after the dress was finished, Papa invited a photographer to his home to take a picture of the entire family. Lucy, of course, wanted to wear her new dress. “I wish I had some pantalets to wear,” she told her mother. “A little bit of lace showing below the hem would look so fashionable.”
Again Mama had the answer. One beautiful thing she had brought from Salt Lake was a short jacket with ruffles all along the sleeves. “Put your feet through the sleeves, dear,” she instructed, “and nobody will be the wiser.”
In that picture, handed down as one of the precious heirlooms of her family, a smiling Lucy is wearing a beautiful dress with a fashionable wide waistband and with stylish ruffles showing just beneath its hem!

Let me speak of another experience where the heart of the widow was in full view. In Samoa, we labor with village councils to gain access for missionaries to preach the gospel. A few years ago, I had a conversation with a chief from a village where the missionaries had been prohibited for many, many years. My conversation occurred not too long after the paramount chief had opened the village to the Church, permitting our missionaries to teach those interested in learning about the gospel and its doctrines.

After so many years, to have this miraculous turn of events, I was curious to learn about what had happened to cause the paramount chief to take this action. I asked about this, and the chief with whom I was conversing replied, “A man can live in the dark for a period, but there will come a time when he will long to come into the light.”

The paramount chief, in opening the village, demonstrated the heart of the widow—a heart that softens when the warmth and light of the truth is revealed. This leader was willing to relinquish years of tradition, confront much opposition, and stand firm so that others might be blessed. This was a leader whose heart was focused on the welfare and happiness of his people rather than on considerations of tradition, culture, and personal power. He gave away those concerns in favor of what President Thomas S. Monson has taught us: “As we follow the example of the Savior, ours will be the opportunity to be a light in the lives of others.”3

Sarah sank back against the dusty seat and peered anxiously out the streaked window ot the bus. She managed a shaky smile at three figures peering up at her. Tears came unbidden, and Sarah drew back quickly, dashing them away. Then the bus began to snort and cough as the motor turned over in protest. Sarah felt her heart jump to her throat as she watched the faces search the windows for a last glimpse of their daughter. She waved frantically as the bus shook itself a final time and lumbered out into the street that ran by the Placertown meetinghouse. The bus, with it’s chattering load, swung laboriously around the corner, and the farewells were over.
Sarah settled back against the seat and fastened her hands around the small suitcase resting on her lap. She smiled down at the brown case that held the “reminders” her foster mother had chosen for this trip home. Each year for seven years Sister Allen had tucked a small package under her daughter’s arm and placed a warm kiss on her cheek as the bus drove up. Every year the long, anxious ride back to the reservation had been made bearable as Sarah examined each article and note enclosed. This trip, however, the case was not opened. Sarah was 17 now and anxious to test her newly discovered maturity. She would wait to open the package after she had returned to her home and blood family. Later, perhaps, in the privacy atop some wind-cooled mesa with only the rustling sagebrush to interrupt her thoughts, Sarah would examine her treasures.
Sarah stirred sleepily in her seat and glanced wearily out the window. With a start she realized that she had been asleep for several hours as the red rock mesas of the Navajo reservation came into sight. Her heart leapt as she saw the old trading post that signaled Keyah Tso and home lay only miles up the long, barren highway. Sarah shook out the folds of her dress and smoothed back the straight black hair that had tumbled into her eyes. She was excited as she thought of the reunion with her family.
Suddenly Sarah realized her lap was empty. The case was gone. Frantically she looked about and discovered it laying in the aisle beside her seat. Snatching it up, she clutched it protectively.
As the bus ground to a stop before the red-roofed building, Sarah caught sight of a small group of velveteen and dungaree-clad Navajos. One anxious figure stood shyly apart from the others. Sarah saw that her mother had donned her favorite red velveteen blouse and green cotton skirt for the occasion. The woman’s wrists and fingers were covered with silver and turquoise, and around her neck hung the beautiful turquoise necklace Sarah’s father had made just before his death. Her long, gray-streaked hair had been tied back in the traditional bitsi yaal knot. Her mother waited patiently as Sarah climbed down from the bus and ran to meet her. The two stood looking at each other for a long, silent moment. The older woman put her shoulder against her daughter’s in a shy gesture of welcome. Sarah placed her hand on the velveteen-covered arm and gently squeezed. A smile, a sigh, and the encounter was over. The girl turned back to the bus, waved a cheery goodbye to her friends, picked up her suitcase, and turned to her mother. Sarah cleared her throat, a little embarrassed, and spoke to her mother. The sharp glottal sounds of Navajo felt strange and unaccustomed on her tongue. Soon she found herself chattering comfortably to the small group of Navajo women and children riding with her in the back of a ’56 pickup. As the clay-smeared vehicle bounced its way down the road to the Yazzie home, Sarah became the center of attention as the women and children listened avidly to the description of her way of life away from the reservation.
Suddenly the air seemed heavy with the odor of sagebrush, and Sarah knew she was home once again. Overhead an eagle winged across the sky before soaring behind the face of a red rock mesa. Then she saw the smoke curling from the mud chimney of the Yazzie hogan. The pickup stopped with a loud screech of brakes; children jumped over the sides. The wooden door of the home flew open, and Sarah saw the excited faces of her two brothers peering out. They showed no embarrassment as they greeted her and drew her impatiently to the sheep corral to meet the shaggy newborn lambs.
It wasn’t until the sun had gone down and the family had gone to bed that Sarah remembered her case. Already the memory of her other world had begun to dim. The familiar odors of the one-room dwelling and the sounds of a desert summer night had replaced the buzz of city life. The mutton stew and fry bread at dinner had seemed more than delicious to Sarah. She would have it again and again, but it would never seem as good as it had this first night home. She turned over on the skeepskin bed, burrowing herself into its warmth, when a gentle tug of memory brought forth the image of the brown case. “Tomorrow,” she thought. “Tomorrow.”
Sarah woke abruptly, gazing into a mischievous face. The face was attached to a small, wiggling body that was firmly planted on her stomach. She guiltily realized that she had slept in. Daylight was already beginning to fill the hogan, and she knew her mother had been up for several hours. Sarah put her squirming brother on the dirt floor of the room and scrambled into her faded jeans and calico shirt. She dashed cold water from a large metal bucket on the heavy wooden table into her face and ran a wire brush through her thick, tousled hair. On the table she found some cold potatoes and fry bread that tasted good with the chilling-cold well water. Outside in the distance Sarah could hear the bleating of the sheep. As she stepped out of the hogan into the bright sun, she saw the kneeling body of her mother. Sarah leaned over her and watched her work-roughened hands push the shuttle back and forth rapidly, marveling again at the beautiful and intricate designs appearing on the loom. Sarah felt proud as she realized that this rug would bring a very good price at the reservation trading post. Almost unnoticeable to the inexperienced observer was the tiny flaw in the colorful design. Sarah’s mother had left one thread unbound so that her soul would not be caught up and forever imprisoned in the rug—an old Navajo custom.
She felt a flash of fear as she realized how different her two worlds were. A hand reached out and tugged her to the loom. Sarah crouched beside her mother and took up the shuttle. Her fingers were clumsy as she worked to place the bright threads in their proper order. Soon she was engrossed in the project and didn’t notice her mother rise slowly to her feet. The old woman shook out the folds of her full yellow skirt and disappeared into the hogan.
An hour had passed before the young girl’s legs began to ache from the unaccustomed position. Her fingertips were sore from the pressure on the strings of the loom. Sarah tossed her hair from her eyes and, groaning a bit, rose to her feet. As she shook her legs, her mother appeared in the doorway. In her hands was a parcel wrapped in cloth, a remnant of an old skirt Sarah had worn years ago.
“Take this to John, my daughter,” the woman said. “He will be hungry.” Sarah took the package, waved to her mother, and started off across the sage-covered ground at a trot. She knew every bush, hole, and rock on this part of the reservation. Her brother would be with the sheep some miles away to the west. The fodder was good there this time of year; it was also their share of the reservation land. Good manners decreed that each family honor his neighbor’s grazing rights.
Sarah could hear the sheep not far ahead. She approached quietly. Her brother was perched on a rock, chewing a weed, his eyes half-closed against the sun. Sarah dropped down beside him.
“Mom sent your lunch,” she said, a bit out of breath from the walk. “Why don’t you let me keep it, and you go on home. I’ll watch the sheep the rest of the day.”
“Sure you remember how?” teased her brother.
“Go on,” grinned Sarah, “get out of here,” and she aimed a playful kick as he jumped out of the way. He set out across the desert at a rabbit’s pace.
Sarah leaned contentedly against the rock and closed her eyes, basking in the warmth. As the complacent animals grazed, Sarah dreamed girlish thoughts. A pesky fly buzzed about her ears and lit on her face. Lazily she batted at it, but it clung persistently to her nose, and she opened her eyes in exasperation. A darkly handsome face grinned familiarly down into her startled eyes. Sarah gasped in fright and jumped to her feet, her heart pounding wildly.
“I’m sorry, Sarah!” The boy choked with laughter. “It was too good a chance to pass up.” He waved a long slender twig in front of her nose. “You looked too peaceful lying there.”
“Oh, Benny!” Sarah’s voice shook. “You scared me to death. Where did you come from? I never even heard you come up.”
“Oh,” he returned flippantly, “you know how Indians can sneak through the grass.” He eyed her for a silent moment, then added, “You’ve grown some.”
“Well, one does that after a year’s time you know. And what,” she demanded, “have you been doing for a year, Benjamin Johnson?”
“Well, now,” he drawled, “I’ve been here and there, doing a bit of rodeoing, a bit of dancing, and so on. And what,” he returned, “have you been doing with yourself this year?”
“Oh,” Sarah faltered in embarrassment, “the same I do every year.”
“Do I detect a white lining inside—sort of like an … apple,” he mocked.
“Honestly, Benny!” she snapped. “You act so, so …” Sarah cast wildly about for the proper word, “Indian!” she finished lamely.
Benny grinned at her confusion. “Truce!” she cried holding up her arms in mock surrender. The uncomfortable moment passed, and soon Sarah found herself up to date on the happenings of her reservation friends. Ben had a quick wit and sense of humor. Several hours passed and shadows began to stretch across the prairie. The air carried a hint of the coolness of the oncoming desert night. Soon they began the walk back to the corral. Ahead of them moved the animals. In the still, nippy air Sarah shivered, and Benny draped his green sweater over her shoulders, laughing as the arms swallowed up her small hands. After several moments of silence, broken only by the calling of lamb to ewe, Benny glanced down at her.
“Sarah,” he began a little shyly. Sarah looked up in surprise at the serious note in his voice. Benny kicked at a clod of red clay with a boot, then, casting a rock high into the air, announced quickly, “My folks are throwing a squaw dance tomorrow night at our place.” He glanced down at the girl and asked, “Will you come?”
Sarah hesitated, caught between ready assent and nagging doubt. Some of Benny’s friends were not her friends. Sarah had watched with regret over the past few years as Benny began to fall in with some rough company. Word had come to her this year at school of some trouble that had concerned Benny and his friends. Word was they had been involved in drugs. Sarah had seen students in the city school with glassy eyes and slack mouths. Indoctrination from both sides of the drug question was intense, and Sarah had felt the pressure at times. Now as she eyed him, Sarah felt a pang of uncertainty. Benny’s friends would be at the dance and her friends were back in the city.
“I’ll try to be there,” Sarah offered in a low voice. The boy released a pent-up breath and kicked a rock in embarrassed delight. The flock bleated in alarm and moved as if to break ranks. Sarah could see the smoke from the Yazzie hogan rising against the darkening sky. She turned to Benny.
“I can take them on in from here,” she said softly. A silent moment, and then he said hurriedly, “I’d come for you tomorrow night, Sarah, but I’ll have to help with things. You will come, won’t you?”
The sheep were moving on toward the corral, and Sarah went after them. She called back over her shoulder, “I’ll try.”
The hogan was warm. On the black, pot-bellied stove a pan of beans bubbled. A kerosene lamp threw shadows on the walls as Sarah sank down on a rickety chair and surveyed her family. Her brothers were engrossed in a game of marbles on the hard-packed dirt floor. Her mother sat vigorously carding the dirt and burrs from a pile of sheep’s wool at her feet. The dislodged dirt fell on the apron of her skirt. After a moment, she arose and began serving the evening meal of fry bread and beans. Sarah spoke softly to her mother as she, too, moved about the room, helping to dish the steaming beans into bowls. She spoke shyly of her visitor at the grazing grounds, and the mother listened with quiet interest. As Sarah talked of the invitation to the dance, a frown of concern crossed the older woman’s face. Sarah changed the subject quickly, wishing that she had not told Benny she would try to be there.
After the dishes were washed and stacked away in the small wooden cupboard, Sarah moved to a corner of the room, Placing the brown case on her lap she drew back the lid. There was a deep crimson scarf. Inside the scarf she found a note scribbled in childish letters. Her eyes watered as she read the short love note from her foster sister. In the bottom of the case lay another card. On the front of the card was the picture of a single white rosebud against a background of royal blue. Sarah turned it over, and written on the back in the neat printing of her foster mother were the words “To Thine Own Self Be True.” That was all; but to Sarah it spoke volumes. She could remember the night she had received this card. How proud she had been of her mother that evening. They had been invited to a mother-daughter dinner, and Sister Allen had been the featured speaker. Her stories of chastity, honesty, and loyalty had touched hearts, and at the end of the program, each girl received a single rosebud and the accompanying card.
Sarah pressed the card to her lips and felt a warmth within her. To Thine Own Self Be True. It had not been an easy doctrine to follow, but she had had friends with the same goals, and they had helped each other. The girl sat lost in her thoughts until the friendly squabbling of her brothers disturbed her.
Too soon the evening of the dance came, and Sarah could not still her doubts. Yet she found herself dressed and standing at the door of the hogan. Already the fires could be seen flickering in the distance, and the rhythmic beat of the drums and the sing-song of the chants floated across the summer air. She clutched her jacket and stepped out into the cool desert evening. She half-turned toward the lantern-lit hogan and, seeing her mother at the loom, forced a cheery wave, hurrying off toward the Johnson camp.
As Sarah neared the huge fire, she paused in sudden shyness. She searched the faces and found many familiar ones. A strong hand came from out of the darkness and grabbed her wrist. She jumped nervously and swung around to find Benny grinning down at her. Her heart beat rapidly, half in alarm and half in wonder at the expression in his eyes. Ben drew her closer to the circle of his friends who greeted her. The dancing started, and Sarah found herself caught up in the beauty of the Navajo chants. Young and old alike joined in the round dances, and the rhythm of shuffling feet began to weave a spell around her.
Sarah and Ben danced silently together for a moment, then Ben said in a serious tone, “You’re the prettiest girl here tonight, Sarah—and the nicest.”
“You’re pretty nice yourself, Ben.” Sarah returned with a smile. “If only … ,” she stopped in confusion. The boy stopped dancing abruptly, causing Sarah to stumble against him.
“If only, what?” he demanded.
Sarah glanced over at the small group of his friends huddled together in the darkness outside the circle of the fire. She was saved from answering the question when one of the boys in the group called to Benny, “Hey, lover boy, come on over and bring your girl.”
Ben hesitated for a moment, then took Sarah by the hand and pulled her over to the group. The circle moved apart, and Ben dropped to the ground, pulling Sarah down with him. She glanced around apprehensively. Several of her old girlfriends were there, and they had always been nice girls from good families. She relaxed a bit and took their teasing in good humor. They began their own chants, and the feeling of companionship grew. But Sarah realized that she had grown out of touch with many of her Indian friends, and she was surprised to see that they were maturing too. The girls were clean and dressed in style; the boys had lost their adolescent shyness. Leaning against Ben and listening to the group, Sarah wondered why she had felt such a reluctance to come. Maybe she had been too quick in labeling Benny’s new friends as roughs. She felt a quick flash of pride that they had accepted her so fast. She knew now that it was important to her that she remain their friend.
“Having a good time?” Benny asked softly, breaking into her thoughts.
“Oh, yes.” Sarah sighed. “It’s been such fun.” She leaned her head shyly on his shoulder and breathed deeply of the freshness of the night air.
Slowly Sarah became aware that Ben was nudging her with an elbow. “Here.” he whispered softly, thrusting a small, long object into her hand. The girl glanced down in surprise and saw that he held a cigarette in his hand. She looked up questioningly at Benny, but his attention was on the others in the group. Sarah became aware that each one in turn was lighting a cigarette, passing the match around until it sputtered out in someone’s fingers. She could smell the smoke from the lit cigarettes, and it carried a peculiarly sweet odor with it. Her new friends smiled encouragingly across the circle. Suddenly she realized that every eye was on her.
The match became a torch, telling her to catch hold of its fire. The odor was stronger now, overwhelming her with its sweetness. She reached for the match, wanting to be a part of this group, wanting desperately not to lose Ben’s friendship. It would be so easy, she reasoned. No one need ever know about this one time.
Sarah became dimly aware that a voice, quietly but clearly, was sounding in her head. The words took focus, and Sarah gasped as the match burnt her fingers. The voice whispered, “To Thine Own Self Be True.” She looked around in confusion and saw that her new friends were all watching her.
“No! I can’t!” she blurted, jumping to her feet. Sarah stood a moment, then turned and left the circle, stumbling in her haste. She realized she had probably forfeited her friendship with them all. She was sick that Benny had been a part of it.
Her hot cheeks began to cool as she said a silent prayer of thanks for her escape. She straightened her shoulders as a sense of returning strength came to her.
“If only Ben had not …” she began to herself but could not finish as she felt a sharp pain in the region of her heart.
“Sarah! Sarah!” The words came sharply over her shoulder, making her jump in alarm. She whirled to stare unbelievingly at Benny who stood grinning at her, panting a little from his run.
“I won’t go back, Ben,” she announced firmly.
“Who wants you to?” Ben returned tartly. “I’m coming with you,” he added in a gentler voice.
“But your friends?”
“You’re my friend, Sarah.” Then he added in a serious voice, “I’d very much like to be your friend, Sarah.” He waited quietly, ready to accept her answer, knowing it might be a refusal.
Sarah’s eyes began to shine, and she gave Ben a playful push. “I’ll be dull company,” she said teasingly.
Ben grinned as he recognized and accepted her answer. He reached over and gave her long hair a gentle tug. “I’ll get used to it.”
“C’mon,” Sarah laughed. “I’ll race you home.”

On November 20, 1999, another important event happened. The Attridges were the first family sealed together in the newly dedicated Halifax Nova Scotia Temple. “I felt very happy and warm inside after I was sealed to my parents,” Ali said. “Now I know I can be with my mom and dad forever.”
“Looking in the mirrors in the sealing room, we saw our family going on forever,” Mother added. “Since Ali is adopted, this was the most wonderful day in our lives because we will be a family forever.”

My mother and father served as mission leaders for the New Zealand Auckland Mission. Prior to their serving, they met with President Thomas S. Monson, who gave them specific instructions “to lift the people up.” While serving as mission president, my father started to experience significant headaches and occasional dizziness which warranted a medical examination. After being examined by the doctors, an early diagnosis of a brain tumor was relayed. The doctor immediately cautioned my father to move gently, slowly, and quietly, and to always keep his head very still until the results were more conclusive. When my father heard the instructions, he immediately started to shake his head furiously back and forth while saying simultaneously that “President Monson promised me protection while I am serving.”

When my father’s faith inventory occurred, he was not found wanting—his symptoms dissipated, his diagnosis changed, and he served vigorously and faithfully to the end of his assignment.

Open Anna Sterligova’s copy of the Book of Mormon, and you’re in for a surprise. It is filled with brightly colored illustrations—illustrations she created herself.
Anna is a 15-year-old art student in Moscow, Russia. She wanted to record some of her own feelings and emotions about the Book of Mormon as she studied it. So in addition to underlining, cross-referencing, and putting notes in the margins when she read about a scriptural event that had particular meaning to her, she illustrated it.
“It made the stories come to life for me,” she explains.
The stories, of course, were already alive for her, powerfully so. Anna loves the Book of Mormon. She studies it on her own and at family home evening, reads it at meetings of the Pokrovsky Branch, and masters its verses for seminary. She particularly likes to share her testimony of it with friends.
And that’s where Zenaida Akimova comes in. An older woman in the neighborhood, Zenaida was a friend of Anna’s mother, Alla, and was quickly becoming a friend of the entire family (which also includes Anna’s father, Konstantin, and her brother, Aleksander, also known as Sasha). Zenaida knew they were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but she wasn’t sure exactly what they meant by that.
“Keep learning more about it,” Anna invited, “and you’ll see what we mean.”
Zenaida thought about what she already knew. For example, this family treated each other well.
“They were always kind and courteous to each other,” she says. “But most of all they genuinely cared about each other.”
She knew—and had personally witnessed—how important the Church is in their lives. She knew about family history, since Alla had told her about the hundreds of names she has researched. She knew the Sterligovs went on trips to a sacred place called a temple. She knew about Konstantin’s commitment to service as president of the Moscow Russia East District.
Soon Zenaida was meeting with the missionaries, praying, coming to church. She was asking more and more questions, getting more and more answers. Thanks in part to Anna’s constant comments about the Book of Mormon, Zenaida longed to read and understand that holy scripture.
But there was a problem. Zenaida is legally blind. She can’t see well enough to read. She doesn’t know Braille, and even if she did, there is no Braille edition of the Book of Mormon in Russian.
So Anna and Alla developed a plan. Each evening they would read aloud and record several chapters from the Book of Mormon. The following morning, they would deliver the audiocassette to Zenaida. She was thrilled as she learned about Lehi, Nephi, and other prophets. Tape by tape, week by week, her testimony became firmer and clearer. Like the colorful pictures in Anna’s copy of the Book of Mormon, the stories came alive in Zenaida’s mind.
When Anna was busy, Alla recorded. When Alla was busy, Anna recorded. Sometimes Sasha or President Sterligov read into the tape recorder. But every day, verse by verse, chapter by chapter, the tapes were prepared.
“I wanted Sister Akimova to have the same experience with the Book of Mormon that I had,” Anna explains. “The first time the elders showed me the book, I knew it was true. I had no trouble believing it, no doubts. So it was easy for me to tell her how I felt about it and easy to record it for her, since I read it every night anyway.”
Now it is one week before Zenaida’s baptism. She has come to meet with the missionaries once again in the Sterligovs’ apartment. There is a feeling of happiness and hope in the air.
“I am ready to be baptized,” Zenaida says. “I am looking forward to the day. This family has been so great to me. I have my Book of Mormon tapes because of them, and I can listen whenever I want to. I have their example and their love, and with that, I’m ready to begin a new life. I may not be able to see clearly enough to read, but thanks to Anna and Sasha and President and Sister Sterligov, I am starting to see exactly what the gospel means.”
And Anna? She’s still sharing the Book of Mormon with friends. Of her more than 60 pen pals, four have an interest in the gospel. She has sent them copies of the book.
“One young woman lives in a little town in Siberia,” Anna says. “There are no missionaries there, and she is far from the closest branch of the Church. I write to her about the things we learn in the missionary discussions, and she likes that. She knows about the Bible, and I told her we study the Bible, too. But I told her the Book of Mormon, Another Testament of Jesus Christ, makes the Bible more complete. She said to send her a copy so she could see what we mean.”

Photographs by Christina Smith
Caroline M. from Tennessee, USA, loves to spread joy. “I like it when people are happy,” she says. “My purpose in life is to help people know how much Jesus loves them. My purpose here on earth is to spread hope, happiness, and love.”
“My purpose in life is to help people know how much Jesus loves them. My purpose here on earth is to spread hope, happiness, and love.”
Caroline enjoys learning the gospel of Jesus Christ, living what she learns, and sharing the gospel with others. She knows the gospel brings great joy because she has experienced it for herself.
Caroline finds joy in the gospel of Jesus Christ because “it brings so much love to everyone.” She says: “I follow Jesus Christ by being obedient. He is the source of peace and happiness and love—that is who Jesus Christ is to me. He died for us and paid for our sins so that we can be like Him.”
Seminary is one way Caroline has been able to learn the gospel, and it’s been a good experience for her. “I love early morning seminary. I’m a morning person.” The students come to her house since her mom is the seminary teacher. “Not a lot of people are members of the Church where I live. But a few members go to my high school and come to seminary with me.”
“I love early morning seminary. I’m a morning person.”
She’s enjoyed studying the Old Testament in seminary this year. One of her favorite stories is the account of the Creation in the book of Genesis. “I love reading about the Creation because it shows Jesus created this world for me. It makes me really happy to think that He did that for me.”
Living the gospel also brings Caroline great joy. She loves Jesus Christ and wants to follow Him, which helped her to understand the importance of being baptized. “I knew I needed to obey God’s commandments, that I needed to make covenants with Him and follow the right path.”
By being baptized, she knew she’d be following the right path—the path Jesus showed us. For her, being baptized “felt so amazing.” Through her desire to make and keep covenants and her desire to serve others and bring them joy, she shows she wants to follow Jesus Christ.
Another way that Caroline experiences the joy of the gospel often is through Church activities. She loves going to Young Women classes and activities because of the happiness she finds there. “The Young Women make me smile and laugh.”
She also enjoys going to Young Women camp. “When I’m at Young Women camp, everyone is around me and I can feel the Spirit. It reminds me of when I was baptized.”
Caroline also experiences the joy of the gospel in her everyday life. “Every time I play the piano or the guitar, every time I ask God to help someone, whenever I’m lonely, whenever I’m listening to uplifting music—that all shows me that the Savior loves me because I can hear Him.”
When Caroline was at Young Women camp, she bore testimony of the fact that she is a daughter of God, that He has a purpose for her in this life, and that her purpose is to bring joy and love to others. “A lot of people told me how much they loved my testimony.”
One special thing about this particular testimony was that everyone could clearly hear her and understand what she was saying. This made Caroline happy since that is not always the case. Caroline has Down syndrome, and she says it’s common for people to have a hard time understanding everything a person with Down syndrome says.
The Spirit was strong as she bore her testimony, and afterward many people said that hearing Caroline’s testimony was one of the most sacred experiences of their lives. She knew the Spirit clearly confirmed the truth of what she was saying.
Caroline has learned for herself that serving others brings joy! The Holy Ghost has helped her to feel the joy of the gospel and the joy of following Jesus Christ, and she wants others to experience that same feeling. By spreading happiness and love to others, she brings the Spirit into their lives. And by sharing what brings her joy, she invites them to come unto Christ.

Mommy stopped at Austin’s bedroom door. She looked around the messy room. There were books, trucks, puzzles, blocks, and stuffed animals scattered all over. Mommy stepped over the clutter and into the room. “Austin, did you make this mess?”
Austin looked up from his stack of blocks. “Not me, Mommy.”
“Then who made this mess?” Mommy asked. She knelt down next to a large dump truck. “Dump truck, did you make this mess?”
“Mommy!” Austin giggled. “Dump trucks can’t make a mess. Trucks can’t even talk. But I can.” He snatched up his truck. “Brrrm. Brrrm.” Austin drove the truck into the toy box.
“Who made this mess?” Mommy asked. She scooped up a handful of puzzle pieces. “Puzzle, did you make this mess?”
Austin said, “Puzzles can’t make a mess. Puzzles don’t have fingers to use. But I do. I can pick the pieces up like this.” Austin dumped all the puzzle pieces into their box on the shelf.
“Who made this mess?” Mommy asked. She stood up and leaned over the bookcase. “Books, did you make this mess?”
Austin rolled his eyes. “Books can’t make a mess. Books can’t even jump from high places. But I can.” Austin climbed onto a chair and jumped into Mommy’s arms. She put him down. Austin bent over and picked up some books. He climbed back onto the chair and set the books on the shelf.
“Who made this mess?” Mommy asked. She gathered together three teddy bears. “Teddy bears, did you make this mess?”
“Teddy bears can’t make a mess,” Austin said. “Teddy bears can’t even turn somersaults. But I can.” Austin crouched low, tucked his head under, and flipped over. He stood up, gathered the bears in his arms, and laid them on the windowsill.
“Who made this mess?” Mommy asked. She picked up a stuffed lion. “Lion, did you make this mess?”
Austin said, “The lion can’t make a mess. The lion can’t even give hugs. But I can.” Austin gave Mommy a hug. He took the lion and gently placed it on the bed.
“Know what, Mommy?” Austin said. “Toys can’t make a mess, but I can. I made this mess.”
Mommy leaned over and gave Austin another hug. “Austin, you made this mess. But you cleaned it up, too. You are my big helper.”
Mommy’s face grew serious. “You did something besides making a mess, Austin. You told Mommy a lie. But you cleaned that up, too, by telling the truth. Toys can’t tell the truth. But you can.”
Austin smiled. Being a big helper felt good. Being a truth-teller felt even better.