Gospel Story Finder

When we had five young children, our family struggled to follow this prophetic counsel. It took us about 18 months to finally finish reading the Book of Mormon. Most days we read a page. Each of us read a verse and we helped our youngest daughter, aged four, repeat a verse after one of us read for her. To celebrate, we all went out to eat, and at the table I asked my family what their favourite Book of Mormon story is. The stories included Alma among the Zoramites, the journey to the promised land by Lehi’s family, Helaman and the stripling warriors, Mormon and Moroni, the missionary labors of Ammon, and the conversion of Alma the Younger. Finally, our four-year old daughter added her voice. She said, “Just Jesus!” She taught us a powerful lesson of childlike faith that day.

I myself was blessed with an exemplary father. I recall that when I was a boy of about 12, my father became a candidate for the city council in our rather small community. He did not mount an extensive election campaign—all I remember was that Dad had my brothers and me distribute copies of a flyer door to door, urging people to vote for Paul Christofferson. There were a number of adults that I handed a flyer to who remarked that Paul was a good and honest man and that they would have no problem voting for him. My young boy heart swelled with pride in my father. It gave me confidence and a desire to follow in his footsteps. He was not perfect—no one is—but he was upright and good and an aspirational example for a son.

My paper was due Monday. Todd had really loused it up. I had to trash the whole thing, all seven pages of it. Luckily, I stumbled across something about Jesse and Frank James, so I chose them for my new analysis. I typed my paper in a hurry on Monday morning, just before my class. It was pretty much a rough draft.

I thought my paper would be a “piece o’ cake.” Todd’s the reason I only got a C on the paper. Thanks a lot, Todd. But I guess sometimes it’s not such a bad thing to be wrong.

“It sure will be neat to have a holiday,” Stephanie mumbled, swallowing a bite of cupcake. “Thanksgiving’s almost my favorite holiday—after Christmas, of course, and may be Halloween. What could be better than no school and having all that good stuff to eat?”
Brushing a stray crumb of peanut butter sandwich from her cheek and crunching on a carrot stick, Winona declared, “This’ll be our first Thanksgiving here in Loganport.”
“Well, I’m sure glad you moved here, Winnie. Lunchtime is more fun with somebody like you to talk to. You should see our turkey,” she sighed blissfully, thinking of food again. “Mom says it weighs almost twenty pounds! How big is your family’s turkey?”
“We’re not getting one this year,” Winnie replied.
“Oh, sorry,” Stephanie said softly. “C’mon. There’s the bell. Just two and a half more hours and we’ll be free from school for four days!”
The crisp November air seemed to push Winnie along the sidewalk as she headed home after school. “Hi, Mom,” Winnie called as she closed the door to their apartment.
“I’m in the kitchen, dear,” Mother replied. “How was school? Glad to have vacation for a few days?”
“Uh-huh,” Winnie answered, coming into the kitchen. “Mom, what are we having for Thanksgiving dinner? Stephanie’s family has a twenty-pound turkey.”
“Well, dear, you know we can’t afford to buy a turkey this year. Moving to Loganport took a lot of money. But it’ll be worth it if your father’s work here holds out. It’s a shame the old hotel in Greensburg closed, but we should be glad that Dad likes his new job and that we have a nice place to live.”
“Nice place? This apartment is so plain, Mom. It’s awful! I’d be ashamed to bring anybody here.”
“Your friend Stephanie doesn’t seem to mind.”
“Stephanie understands, I guess. But the other girls at school wouldn’t.”
“Sure they would. Now, how about stirring the soup and setting the table while I put the corn bread into the oven. Dad will be home soon.”
Fifteen minutes later Dad came through the door. “Whew! What a busy day,” he said, hugging his wife. “That kitchen was really hopping today so that everything for the big Thanksgiving buffet tomorrow will be just right. I stuffed so many turkeys I’m going to dream about those birds all night.”
“I wish we were having turkey,” said Winnie.
“We are,” said Mother. “I have a can of turkey noodle soup that I’m going to make into the best turkey corn chowder you ever tasted.”
On Thanksgiving Day Winnie had to admit that the chowder tasted very good. Mom had even splurged and made a pumpkin pie.
Thanksgiving wasn’t bad after all, Winnie thought as she helped her mother with the dishes.
Dad came up behind them and gave them both a squeeze. “Happy Thanksgiving to my two lovely ladies,” he said with a smile. “You know, Mother, our Winona is really turning into quite a good-looking young lady.”
“She’s going to be a teenager before we know it!” Mother declared. She turned and smiled at her daughter. “In less than two weeks you’ll be thirteen years old, Winnie. I can’t believe it.”
“I’d say that calls for a party,” said Dad. “How would you like that, Winnie? You could invite some friends over.”
“A party,” Winnie gasped. “Oh, Dad, that would be super! But—I mean, can we afford it?”
“You and Mother work things out. You’re both pretty good budget balancers.”
The next afternoon Winnie and Stephanie sat at the kitchen table making invitations from colored paper. “Stephanie,” Winnie said after a long silence, “I’m worried. I want to ask the other girls to the party and at the same time I don’t want to. I wish we had a fancier home.”
“Hey, don’t be silly! Anybody dumb enough to worry about what your house looks like doesn’t deserve to be your friend. Besides, everybody likes parties.”
That evening Winnie heard her dad calling as soon as he entered the apartment.
“Where’s Winnie? I have a surprise for her.”
Winnie sprang up and ran to meet him.
“I don’t do this for just any lady friend,” Dad teased, “only good-looking women turning thirteen years old.” He held out a lump of aluminum foil.
Winnie carefully opened the foil. Inside lay ten wishbones.
“From the turkeys at the hotel kitchen,” Dad explained. “You can clean them up and use them for your party.”
“Neat, Dad!” Winnie exclaimed. She soaked the bones and pulled off any traces of meat. Then she put them on a sunny windowsill to dry.
The following week seemed like a blur to Winnie. “They sure have been piling on the homework since we got back,” she remarked to Stephanie at lunch.
“I’ll say! I’m stopping at the library on the way home. Want to come?”
Winnie shook her head. “I have to finish my book report before supper so I can help clean the house for the party. I still can’t believe everybody’s really coming.”
That night, tired but happy, Winnie snuggled under her patchwork quilt. It seemed like only minutes until she heard her mother’s voice. “Time to get up, teenager.”
Winnie scrambled out of bed and got dressed. Today was the big day. Almost before she knew it, she heard giggles on the stairs below. The girls were arriving for the party. Does everything look all right? she wondered. She whirled around and checked out the room: a plate of sandwiches, a bowl of chips, and a lovely cake with pink frosting. Mom’s old tablecloth looked elegant with paper flowers pinned to it. A knock sent her skipping to the door.
The girls bustled inside the apartment and began taking off their coats. “Well, what’s this?” asked Janice Jones, just about the classiest girl in the whole school. She sauntered over to the table. There, suspended on tiny threads above the birthday cake, hung ten wishbones, each tied with a slim pink bow.
“Wishbones,” said Winnie, thinking it was the dumbest thing she’d ever said. Her heart sank. She should have known Janice would think …
“That is absolutely the neatest thing I ever saw,” Janice announced. She made a quick count. “There’s one for each of us.”
“So nobody gets stuck with the short end,” explained Winnie.
“Everyone gets a wish come true today,” Stephanie chimed in.
Winnie knew Stephanie was right. Wishing for a turkey, wishing for a fancy house, wishing for friends—a girl could waste her whole life just wishing. A person thirteen years old ought to get out and do something and be happy about who she is. Reaching up with her scissors, she snipped off a wishbone and handed it to Janice. “Make a wish,” she said with a smile.

I became friends with Kerstin when I was 14 years old. We went to the same school. I had known who she was for a long time, but I had not known her personally before because she was 12.
We got to know each other better when we both tried out for the school play. We soon became good friends, even though there was a two-year age difference. It wasn’t long before we met together in the afternoons to go on walks and talk. One spring afternoon, on one of our walks, she asked something that would change her life for forever.
Kerstin wondered why my brother and I didn’t participate in the school’s religion class like most of the students in Austria. I told her about the gospel of Jesus Christ and about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Then I bore my testimony and invited her to come to a youth activity. Later I gave her a copy of the Book of Mormon and the Liahona.
Since then Kerstin has participated in every Church activity and attends Church meetings every Sunday. She has even attended youth conference. Whenever we can, we walk to a little river that is close by to read our scriptures and work on Young Women Personal Progress.
Unfortunately, Kerstin cannot be baptized until she is 18. Her parents don’t want to cause any arguments with her extended family members. Despite this obstacle, Kerstin has already managed to get her mother to attend church.
Kerstin also works with the missionaries. She speaks about the Church with everyone she meets and has helped get her father excited about the family history program, even though he has no interest in religion.
Kerstin is an example to me of how easy it is to speak with others about the gospel and how our Father in Heaven prepares people to hear His word. We need only open our mouths and have faith. The rest will take care of itself.

Just last week the First Presidency and the Council of the Twelve were provided the opportunity to view the new Church history exhibit situated in the museum just west of Temple Square. I loved the replica of the entry to the Fourth Ward—one of the original wards in the valley. I noted with keen interest the lighted map which plotted the pioneer trek from Nauvoo. However, my heart was truly touched when I gazed at an actual handcart displayed in a place of honor. The handcart communicated to me a silent yet eloquent account of its long and momentous journey.
Let us for a moment join Captain Edward Martin and the handcart company he led. While we will not feel the pangs of hunger which they felt or experience the bitter cold that penetrated their weary bodies, we will emerge from our visit with a better appreciation of hardship borne, courage demonstrated, and faith fulfilled. We will witness with tear-filled eyes a dramatic answer to the question “Am I my brother’s keeper?”
“The handcarts moved on November 3 and reached the river, filled with floating ice. To cross would require more courage and fortitude, it seemed, than human nature could muster. Women shrank back and men wept. Some pushed through, but others were unequal to the ordeal.
“Three eighteen-year-old boys belonging to the relief party came to the rescue; and to the astonishment of all who saw, carried nearly every member of that ill-fated handcart company across the snow-bound stream. The strain was so terrible, the exposure so great, that in later years all the boys died from the effects of it. When President Brigham Young heard of this heroic act, he wept like a child, and later declared publicly, ‘That act alone will ensure C. Allen Huntington, George W. Grant, and David P. Kimball an everlasting salvation in the Celestial Kingdom of God, worlds without end’” (LeRoy R. Hafen and Ann W. Hafen, Handcarts to Zion [Glendale, California: The Arthur H. Clark Company, 1960], pp. 132–33).

It is not just by enticing us to engage in clearly addictive behavior that Satan tries to limit our ability to act according to our desires. He is able to limit this core component of agency by confusing us in other ways. Let me illustrate with a simple example from my own life. For a time, I practiced law in Arizona. The morning commute from our home in Tempe to my office in downtown Phoenix was a daily adventure that took anywhere from 20 minutes, on a good day, to close to an hour, on a bad day. After a few months, I began to notice that my mood for the day was determined largely by how long the commute took and how aggravated I was with the drivers who I thought were causing the problems. The longer the commute, and the more annoying the drivers, the more irritable I was with everyone I met during the day. When I first noticed this trend (probably long after my co-workers had discovered it), I became even more annoyed at the other drivers. How dare they ruin my day by making me angry and frustrated? Then one day I read, not for the first time, but with new eyes, three verses from Lehi's teachings in Second Nephi chapter 2. The first is verse 14: "God ... hath created .. all things that [are in the heavens and earth], both things to act and things to be acted upon." "That's it," I thought, "my problem is that those other drivers are acting upon me. It's all their fault." Then I came to verses 26 and 27: "And the Messiah cometh in the fullness of time that he may redeem the children of men ... And because that they are redeemed from the fall, they have become free forever ... to act for themselves and not to be acted upon. ... Wherefore men are free ... to choose liberty and eternal life ... or to choose captivity and death, according to the captivity and power of the devil; for he seeketh that all men might be miserable like unto himself." It hit me like a thunderbolt. The problem was not with the other drivers; the problem was with me. Because of the atonement, I was free to choose my attitude, to act for myself, but I was surrendering that freedom by succumbing to Satan's temptation to become angry. And - just as Satan desired - I was becoming miserable. He had me thinking I had no choice about what mood I was in, when in reality, because of the atonement, it was entirely my choice. I could choose to act, but I too often chose to be acted upon, to be led captive by the actions of others, thereby surrendering my agency to them.

Karoly Takacs, a Hungarian, was recognized as the best pistol shot in the world. More than anything he wanted to win in the Olympics. But one day driving home, Takacs was in a car crash, and doctors had to amputate his right arm—his shooting arm.
Takacs’ recovery was slow. It wasn’t a physical challenge, but an emotional one. He had reached the lowest feeling of despair. People wanted to help but there was little they could do. Takacs began to avoid his friends; even his family didn’t know where he spent his time. But Karoly Takacs was preparing. In solitude he had trained his left arm and his aiming eye, a training that’s far more of an intellectual mastery than most people realize. By the next Olympics, Takacs was ready.
When the pistol event was over, this one-armed Hungarian stood, the cheers rising about him, on the topmost step of the winner’s platform with a gold medal around his neck.
Takacs showed us something more than his ability to shoot. He proved that human beings have a largely untapped recovery capacity. He discovered for himself the exciting fact that experiencing the deepest feeling of despair does not mean defeat, but that it just signals the end of downward movement. As one friend told me, “The bottom can be something to bounce on.”

Brethren, during my Aaronic Priesthood years I was a swineherd! Way back then, by means of a 4-H Club project involving purebred Duroc pigs, I became familiar with work! As proof that what follows is not merely swollen memory, may I, with Elder Nelson’s help, display very briefly this blanket of nearly 100 ribbons won by my prize pigs at various fairs over several years.
Up near Elder Nelson’s hand is a pink ribbon, won 60 years ago. It was the very first ribbon I ever won. I think the judge had a tender eye, and the pig wasn’t really so choice, but he knew I needed encouragement and hence the fourth prize. The purple ribbons were for champions that were exhibited later on!
Thank you, Elder Nelson.
Brethren, I learned the hard way about the need to watch shifting pork prices at the local meat-packing plant. Careful records of profits and losses were kept with the help of my bookkeeper father. As in all things, my parents, so supportive, even ended up doing some of the perspiring themselves, including a special mother born 95 years ago today. She showed me how to work, and she loved me enough to correct me.
In order to obtain low-cost pig feed, I regularly bought dozens and dozens of three-day-old loaves of bread at a bakery for a mere penny a loaf. Additionally, if present at the right time at a local dairy, I could get about 70 gallons of skim milk free! Now I pay $2.50 a gallon—an amusing irony. By saving in these ways, I could buy the needed grain for the pigs with the little hard cash that I had.

My father told me about an experience he had when he was roughly the age of most of you. As a young adult he was, in a sense, in the desert of criticism and found himself questioning his faith and the Church. One day he took out a pad of paper and made a list of his criticisms and doubts. He put the list in a drawer and forgot about it. Years later he found it again, and he was surprised that nearly every concern had been answered in his mind and in his heart. He reflected upon how different his life, and the lives of his posterity, would have been if he had followed his questions and concerns out of the Church.

When I was 14, I played football on my ninth grade team – yes I once played football. In those days I was very skinny, actually the lightest member of the team, but I could play wide-receiver and my size mattered less than getting open. My 119 pounds was actually under the limit to qualify for the team but they listed me on the roster 10 pounds heavier. At the beginning of the season in my nearly all white junior high school of middle class homogeneity, a boy named Perry Taufaasau enrolled and came out for the football team. The coaches were interested because one, Perry was large for our age, 6’3 and 250 pounds. His pedigree was also promising; his father was African American and a former professional boxer who had actually lasted 15 rounds with Cassias Clay, you know him as Muhammad Ali. And his mother was Samoan. At that time he lived with his older brother who had just finished an illustrious career as the nose tackle for the Boise State Broncos football team – even in those days they were a team to be reckoned with. Perry had been sent to Boise from Los Angeles, California by his mother to extricate him from gang life. His arrival at our white-bread school caused quite a stir, not only was he racially different, but he dressed and moved different, like a gangster from the hood. While I am sure he longed for camaraderie, he seemed to revel in his cool, stand-offish demeanor. He just looked mean, and knew all these timid teenagers were terrified of him. The only time he really spoke with any one was during football practice when he would taunt opposing linemen with diminutives and insults.

One day during the lunch hour he strutted into the gym where most of the students were hanging out and then sat alone looking mean (again) on one of the benches. I thought, “Enough of this;” I really felt that as a follower of Jesus I should make some kind of gesture for inclusion. So I went up and sat next to him, and said, trying to sound confident with no fear, “Hey man, what’s going on?” Not a very deep opening line, but it seemed cool at the time. I gave him the hand shake of the seventies (there have been numerous variations since) and he said, “Not much.” Wow, we are getting somewhere with this. And then we just talked. I joked with him about how he had embarrassed one of our teammates when he laid him out flat during practice. He smiled just ever so slightly. He joked with me about how skinny I was. Perhaps because I made fun of myself too, he started to smile even more. So we talked through the lunch period. It was probably nothing I really said, but that I said something, anything to him, and from then on I was his “Little Mac” (My name is McArthur). We hung out together often, and everyone came to see us as an odd couple; the dark, giant, scowling, sarcastic gangster football player with the miniature white boy almost-too-skinny-to-be-seen Mormon. One thing was for sure, through all the years he remained in school no one ever hassled me! Ultimately, after a couple years of playing football and trying to make the grade Perry was kicked off the football team for just too many fights with other teams, his teammates, and even with fans who came to heckle him. But we remained friends. As I sought ever more to honor my priesthood and keep myself in good company, he continued to spiral out of control with an indulgent, sometimes violent, and often illegal lifestyle. When he needed someone to talk to we still got together and enjoyed a laugh. I even encouraged him to come to Church with me. He didn’t. But increasingly I would only see him after trouble with the law. One morning he called me from the hospital. I rushed to see him; he was recuperating from a serious injury after he wrapped a stolen car around a tree traveling 100 miles an hour while being pursued by police officers.

We kept sporadic contact after his juvenile detention sentence, and then I went away to college. Then during my second year of college as I was preparing for a mission he called me when I had come home during the Christmas break. He told me how he had a steady job; he was working as a bouncer at a local bar. He asked if we could meet. So I invited him to attend a Young Single Adult Christmas dance (a risk yea?). He accepted. I told him how he needed to be in standards and that under no circumstances could he be inebriated. So I picked him up and we went to the dance. We had a great time. He was masterful at the robot (ever heard of that dance style?). I took him home afterward. He said he had not had such good fun in years, if ever. I invited him to the YSA New Years Eve dance for the next week. He readily accepted. The following week I returned to the house he was staying where a bunch of other big Polynesian former football players lived, none of them members. “Hey Little Mac,” they greeted me, “Perry is not here. Not sure where he went. But hey, you are the one friend we can trust that will do him good.” When I arrived they had already begun their own New Years Eve libations so I departed quickly. I headed to the dance the whole evening hoping he would make a sudden appearance. He never came.

The next day, New Years Day, I received a phone call that he was in jail for a burglary the evening before. Instead of being with me and enjoying the company of great YSA members, he had gotten drunk, and then broke into a closed restaurant with really no purpose than to use the restroom. I had to return back to school before his trial, but by the time I returned home that summer he was incarcerated at the state penitentiary to serve a 3-5 year prison term. During that summer I received my mission call to serve in the Micronesia Guam Mission and I dutifully prepared myself for this honor. Each week, I traveled to the penitentiary to visit him. I was intimidated by all the security and pat downs to enter the room for the one-hour-only visit. I was the only one who ever came to see him. We had great conversations, he told me more than I wanted to know about prison life and I told him about the gospel. I told him that despite the bad hand dealt in this life, he really did matter, and that freedom only comes through obedience to the will of the Lord. He was jealous that I was headed to the islands. All his life he wanted to reconnect to the islander roots of his mother’s family. Just a few days before I would depart for the MTC I visited him one last time. I told him I loved him and that Jesus loved him too. This giant man (he was now much bigger than in high school) gave me the same handshake we used all those years ago as boys (he couldn’t hug me, it was against the rules), and told me, “I love you man, you’re my Little Mac.” And so tearfully we parted. He called out as I left, “Give `em the gospel brother.” Yes, I was his brother, and as I left I recalled the Lord’s statement, “…I was in prison, and ye came unto me” (Matthew 25:36).

But the story does not end there. And there really is no happy ending though I am sure you are hoping for one. Into the last half of my mission I received word that he had been released from prison on parole, and then one winter day, when my mother had gone out in the garage to get in her car, she was startled to find Perry sleeping in the back seat to get out of the cold. After gathering herself she told him to come in the house to get warm and prepared him some hot food for breakfast. Then she sent him on his way. A short time later he was wandering the streets one evening in the inclement weather and called my parents in his distress. My father went to bring him home and out of the cold. They prepared him another hot meal and sat at our table. After he had eaten he suddenly, in an abrupt shift, slammed his hand down upon the table, stood up, and ordered my parents in a gruff voice to stand. They were greatly alarmed by this sudden aggressive and seemingly hostile behavior. Frightened beyond reason, they stood up. And then, this giant outlaw that even put fear into the meanest of street fighters, wrapped his arms around my parents, hugged them tightly but tenderly, and kindly told them, “You and your son are the only people who have ever been nice to me. This is family.” Relieved and also moved, my parents returned a kind word. Then my father took him and dropped him off where he wanted to go. I wish there was more to tell you. Perry exited our lives. He was eventually ordered out of the state, and should he return he would find himself back in prison for a very long time. All we heard is that he returned to California. But I can testify, that this son of God taught me more about becoming a true follower of Christ than about any other. Strangely, he also prepared me well for my mission. He served as one of my missionary prep. teachers, because you see, he was my Samoan precursor to my much loved companions Nelson Leausa, Fatu Stevenson, and Tiitii Tuiletefuga, they too much larger than me, men of great girth and stature. Because there were only four of us missionaries in the Marshall Islands I even remained with one of them for nearly a year, 24/7, opening areas to mission work and learning to serve and love each other as we served the Lord. But often, during my mission while I diligently worked with my companions, I would reflect on Perry and quietly thank God, and hope in some way he would feel this gratitude. As I taught with these noble Polynesian companions I would remember Perry’s encouraging words from prison, “Give `em the gospel brother.”

Wednesday’s 26-kilometer walk to Chinaman’s Bay and back was tougher than the hike up Bishop and Clerk. Everyone brought their bathers (swimming trunks) and a towel, plus lunch. It took several hours slogging along the soft sandy road that followed the shoreline to reach the white beaches of Chinaman’s Bay. The boys showed amazing stamina as they not only kept up but often overtook their leaders.
As four young Scouts passed him, Brother Pash described the feelings of many of the adults when he said, “It’s disgusting, it is, to see little blokes catching us up that way.”
After some very icy swimming (the Tasman Sea carries too much of the Antarctic chill for the less hardy souls), everyone began the long walk back to camp in time to hike down to the ferry dock, meet the afternoon boat, and buy a fizzy (soda pop).

And things with my friends weren’t the same as they were before my mission. I had always invited my nonmember friends to church, but when I got home and started inviting them again, they acted totally different. They didn’t want anything to do with the Church. I wasn’t sure what had changed, but I still prayed for them and shared spiritual messages with them. But I truly felt alone and as though I didn’t have any friends.
So many things changed while I was gone, and adjusting to those changes after I came home was hard.
During my mission, whenever I felt discouraged or thought I couldn’t go on, I prayed for help. So I knew I could rely on Heavenly Father again to help me adjust to this new life transition.
I got the impression that I needed to serve. Service had always helped me feel like I had a purpose. I went to see my bishop and told him about my desire to serve. He called me to be the Young Women secretary.
A few months later, I told Heavenly Father I wanted to progress and learn more in my life, and I asked for His help. The very next day, I was called as second counselor in the stake Primary presidency.
Being able to serve the young women and the children in Primary really helped me adapt to life after my mission. I was able to focus on helping them turn toward the Savior instead of focusing on my challenges. Over time, adjusting became easier as I strived to serve.
Something else that helped me adjust to post-mission life was sharing my testimony whenever I got the chance. Sometimes I even had the opportunity to share my beliefs during presentations in my university classes.
After my philosophy professor assigned me to do a presentation on justice and freedom, I showed a Church video called “Be Still, My Soul.” The video is about a woman who is arrested for drug abuse. While she’s in jail, she misses her children. After she goes through rehabilitation, she returns home a new person.
I ended my presentation with my testimony. I said we all have our God-given agency, but that He has given us commandments to help us understand how to not harm ourselves or others. I also testified that He lives.
My professor and classmates didn’t protest against anything I said. And my testimony left them feeling thoughtful. I’ve learned that you never know when someone might need your insight in order to believe that God and Jesus Christ really do exist.
Overall, just continuing to draw closer to Christ and helping others come to Him helped me adapt to life after my mission. I’m no longer a full-time missionary, but I can still pray, serve, and testify of the truthfulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I can still help others and do what I did on my mission—just in a different way.
Adjusting to life after a mission can be hard, but we can still find joy and purpose as we remember what we learned as missionaries and as we continue to be disciples of Jesus Christ. Heavenly Father will help us succeed as we strive to follow Him.
Milka Gajardo Flores loves to smile. She lives in Chile and is currently in her last semester at St. Thomas University, studying special education. She was recently sealed to her husband in the Santiago Chile Temple and serves in Primary with him. She knows that she isn’t perfect, but the love of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ is, and she testifies that They are always with us.

Bobby and Abigail Moreno of Baguio, Philippines, know something about faith. They also know something about Moroni’s declaration that “God has not ceased to be a God of miracles” (Morm. 9:15). Their son, Kinjiro, was born with a cyst that prevented the left side of his brain from developing. He was near death, and the doctors didn’t give his parents much hope.
Abigail comes from a strong Latter-day Saint home—her father is Elder Edison M. Cabrito, an Area Authority Seventy—but her nonmember relatives were reproachful rather than reassuring in this time of trial. “It’s because you belong to another church,” they chided her. “You’d better come back to us. He will get well.”
But she stayed strong in her faith. She told them her son had been blessed by the priesthood and that members had prayed for him in the temple. “I won’t lose hope,” she said. “He’s going to live.”
And he did live. Kinjiro is now three years old, and even though the road to recovery has not been easy, he is a happy, loving little boy. When his parents first brought him home, the doctors didn’t think he would live long. But his latest examination showed that his brain has developed, and the prognosis is now much more optimistic.
“He has lived for three years,” his mother says, “and I know he will live longer, for I know he has a duty to serve our Heavenly Father.”

Rebecca Swain Williams heard several Book of Mormon witnesses in Ohio beginning in 1830. She bore her testimony to her father and brothers: “I have heard the same story from several of the [Smith] family and from the three witnesses themselves. I heard them declare in public meeting that they saw a Holy Angel come down from heaven and brought the plates and laid them before their eyes.”

When her family members rejected her testimony, Rebecca did not cower. She continued to love them, pray for them, and value her father’s good counsel. She also continued to testify to him that the Book of Mormon witnesses told the truth: “They are men of good character and their word is believed. … They have seen an angel of God and conversed with him.”2

In the late 1830s, a period of widespread dissent in the Church, Rebecca remained faithful, choosing to abide by the precepts of the Book of Mormon.3

Kiyoko awoke with a start. It’s Hinamatsuri (Girl’s Day)! she thought. She felt like jumping up but decided that it would be more polite to wait. Her whole family slept in the same room, so she had to be very quiet.
Rolling over on her futon (a thick mat placed on the floor), the young Japanese girl gazed dreamily at the red cloth-covered shelves, with their special contents, set up in the corner. Her father had put the shelves up the day before especially for Hinamatsuri.
Special guests were coming that day—aunts, uncles, and friends. She would get to be their hostess and would show them the beautiful dolls. She and her mother had even planned special refreshments together.
At last Kiyoko’s brothers, grandmother, and parents began to wake up. Kiyoko jumped up and carefully rolled up her futon and put it away. Then she put on her very best kimono (traditional Japanese long dress), which she had set out the night before.
She glanced again at the red shelves. This year, for the first time, Kiyoko had been allowed to unwrap the very special dolls and display them on the shelves. The dolls were stored all year and were only taken out for this holiday. Some of the dolls had been her mother’s, some were her grandmother’s, and some were even older.
No one ever played with these dolls, and since Kiyoko saw them only once a year, she’d nearly forgotten what they looked like. It had been exciting to unwrap each one.
The first one she had unwrapped was the empress doll. She was the loveliest of them all. She was also the oldest. The empress had smooth black hair, a porcelain face and hands, and a bright kimono with fancy trim. The empress always went on the top shelf. Kiyoko had put the emperor up there, too—these two dolls ruled over all the others.
Next she had unwrapped servant dolls, guard dolls, musician dolls, and courtier dolls. She also unwrapped miniature furniture and musical instruments. These went on the bottom shelves.
Now, as she looked lovingly at the beautiful dolls, she longed to touch the smooth black hair of the empress. Carefully she reached up to the top shelf and patted it.
As she pulled her arms back and lowered her heels to the floor, one sleeve of her kimono caught on the empress doll. It tumbled to the floor. Kiyoko felt very sick. She bent over to pick up the empress, hoping that since the doll had landed on the tatami (straw mats that cover the floors) it would not be broken. Carefully she turned the empress over in her hands. It was still all in one piece, but there was a crack on the side of its face.
Kiyoko quickly glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone else had seen it happen. Most of the family were in the village, visiting other girls’ displays. Her mother was in the kitchen, beginning preparations for that night’s holiday food.
Tears welled up in Kiyoko’s eyes. She felt ashamed. She decided to put one of the servant doll’s hats on the empress’s head and hope that no one would notice.
That evening guests began to arrive. Kiyoko served them diamond-shaped rice cakes, and candies shaped like fruits. She was no longer excited, though. Every time someone asked to see her display, she felt awful. However, no one seemed to remember that the empress had not worn that hat before.
Soon all the guests sat on floor cushions around the table, and Kiyoko helped her mother serve the food. They had miso soup (made with soybeans), and hisimochi (a special type of rice). Kiyoko particularly liked hisimochi, which was served only on Hinamatsuri, but that night she didn’t feel like eating anything. When her mother asked her if she was feeling well, Kiyoko couldn’t look at her mother when she mumbled that she was fine.
She felt relieved when the guests began to leave. They bowed and thanked her and her family for the special evening.
While the final guests were still changing from house slippers to their shoes, Kiyoko slipped back into the main room. She thought that if she put the dolls away right then, no one would notice the damaged doll. To further avoid mishaps—though she dearly wanted to start with the empress—she carefully started to wrap the miniature furniture first.
When her family came back into the room, her mother looked surprised to see Kiyoko was packing the dolls so soon, but said nothing. Then her father called the family together for prayer. As soon as they were all kneeling in a circle, he asked Kiyoko if she would say the prayer, since it was her special day.
Kiyoko folded her arms and bowed her head. But the words just wouldn’t come. All she could think of was the empress doll and the crack she was trying to hide. Tears came again to her eyes, and she looked up at her family. All of them had their heads bowed and were waiting for her to pray.
She knew what she should do. Her family had taught her to be honest. She stood up and went to the red shelves to get the empress doll. By then the rest of her family were looking at her. It was almost more than she could bear. She nearly decided to put the doll back and tell a lie to hide her actions.
But she didn’t. She lifted the hat off the empress’s head, then blurted out the whole story. With tears streaming down her face, she said that she was sorry. She also offered to use the money she had saved to have a craftsman repair the doll.
Kiyoko’s parents and grandmother went to her side, and each gave her a hug. They assured her that telling the truth was always the honorable thing to do.
As her family again knelt on the tatami, Kiyoko felt ready to pray. And this time the words did come.

At a critical moment in the battle of Waterloo, when everything depended on the steadiness of the soldiery, an anxious courier dashed into the presence of the Duke of Wellington, announcing that unless the troops were immediately relieved or withdrawn, they must yield before the impending assault of the French army. The Duke replied, “Stand firm!”
“But we shall perish!” remonstrated the officer.
“Stand firm!” again was the answer of the ironhearted Duke.
“You’ll find us there!” rejoined the courier, as he galloped away.
And, of course, the British were victorious that day as a result of such loyalty and determination (see Walter Baxendale, ed., Dictionary of Anecdote, Incident, Illustrative Fact, New York: Thomas Whittaker, 1889, p. 225).

It was in that vision that the Father, pointing to Jesus Christ, told the teenage Joseph, “This is my beloved Son. Hear him!” As a young boy, our ohana had the opportunity to visit the birthplace of the restoration: Palmyra, New York. There we visited the Sacred Grove, where the 1st vision took place as well as Hill Cumorah where Joseph Smith received the Gold Plates.
However, sisters and brothers, it was not there that I received MY testimony of the first vision and the Book of Mormon. My “Sacred Grove” experience came on a cold winter night while walking back to my dorm at Helaman Halls during my Freshman year at BYU in Provo. I had prayed to know if the Book of Mormon was true as invited by the Prophet Moroni in Moroni 10:3-5. That night, I felt not Utah winter cold, but a Hawaii burning in my bosom. I knew it was TRUE. Have you experienced your sacred grove moment?

“When I started the challenge to focus on the joy in my life for a month, I honestly wasn’t expecting much to change. However, when I actually studied the talk by President Nelson and tried doing as he instructed, I noticed something: focusing on the joy and good things in my life (even ‘worldly’ things) really helped put it in perspective.

“One Saturday I was stuck inside working on a big chemistry lab report that was due on Monday. I was annoyed that I had to do homework at all on the weekends, and I felt like I was wasting my Saturday. Then my mom came into my room and told me that we would be going to visit my older brother and sister at their college. I could have stayed upset at the chemistry report and let it overshadow the good thing that had just come into my life. But instead, because I had decided to focus on joy, the frustration I felt from my chemistry report seemed instantly insignificant next to the happiness I felt thinking about hugging my older siblings again.

“When I focused on joy, I started to notice the things that I have and should be grateful for. When I don’t focus on the bad, and I see all the good in my life, the bad things pale in comparison.”

Luke G., 17, Arizona, USA

Nine-year-old Annie peered through the chain-link fence. Where is he? she wondered. The shrill bell had announced the end of the school day. Children ran across the playground, clinging to a backpack, a spelling list, or a work of art. But Carl was nowhere to be seen. He was always the last one to leave school. A few more children trickled out.
Finally the gray door of his special-education classroom opened, and Carl plodded across the black pavement. When he saw Annie, he started waving excitedly. He smiled so big that it made his face look lopsided.
“Hi, Carl,” Annie said, walking over to meet him. Ignoring his excitement, she grabbed his elbow and started for home, gently pulling him along. “Hurry up—we’re late.”
Carl’s large feet turned in, and he limped as he walked. Annie was careful where she walked so that she wouldn’t bump him and throw him off balance.
As they made their way up the hill, Annie thought of the cold grape juice bar in the freezer at home. She was eager to get home and relax on the couch. But at the rate Carl was going, she’d probably miss her favorite television show. If only Carl could walk faster! His large shoes stumbled along the sidewalk. He was just so clumsy.
“How are you doing, Carl?” she asked. Carl smiled. “Good, then let’s keep going.” Annie marveled at his twisted hands. On Monday she had tried to open a clenched fist and hold his hand, but she couldn’t unfold his fingers. Today she just guided him by an elbow. When he grunted and rubbed his face with his fist, Annie leaned away, afraid that he might fling his arm at her as he had yesterday. Finally they neared the top of the hill and Carl’s house.
“Here’s a step, Carl. Step up,” Annie said as they reached his front porch. He just stood there. “Come on, Carl, you’re almost home.” She stepped up and tried to pull his large body after her. He resisted. “Come on, Carl.” He didn’t budge. “Oh, Carl!” Annie whispered in despair, throwing her hands up.
Carl turned and headed for the grass. He sat down clumsily and began rubbing his fists over the green spears. The grass tickled his hands, and he began giggling.
Annie set her backpack on the porch and walked over to him. “Get up, Carl, it’s time to go inside,” Annie said. She tugged at his arm, but he was much too big for her to lift. “Oh please, Carl!”
Now what do I do? she wondered as she looked down at the chunky boy gleefully stroking the grass. She felt totally helpless.
The door opened, and Mrs. Rich walked outside. “Oh dear. I hope Carl hasn’t been too much trouble today,” she said. “The people at school are still strangers to him. When he gets to know them better, he’ll be as good as he is at home.” She took Carl’s face in her hands. “Carl, you need to stand up.”
Carl slowly pushed himself to his feet, almost falling over as he stood. Mrs. Rich took his arm and led him up the stairs to the door.
“Thank you, Annie dear,” she called over her shoulder. “You’re a tremendous help!”
Annie managed a smile, grabbed her backpack, and said good-bye. When she entered her house next door, she didn’t even bother to turn the television on. She knew that her favorite show was over. “Mom,” she called. “Mo-o-o-om!”
“I’m out here!”
Annie opened the back door and went over to the greenhouse. Her mother was on her knees, packing black soil into a pot. The greenhouse was warm and smelled of fertilizer and plants.
“Oh, Mom, I’m through!” Annie exclaimed. She paced the greenhouse as she let off steam. “I don’t think I can do it one more day! He’s so big and clumsy, and his hands are all twisted. It was horrible today!”
“Whoa, Annie. Settle down,” Mom said. “I suppose you’re talking about Carl.”
“Yes! This is only the third day I’ve walked home with him, and I’m going crazy! He’s just so … so strange!”
Mom turned over a wooden crate and motioned for Annie to sit down. “Honey, you’re just not used to him yet. It’s only the third day. Carl is mentally disabled, and in that respect, he is very different than we are, but he is cheerful and kind. He just takes some getting used to.”
“Mom, if I keep walking Carl home, I’ll always be the last kid to leave the playground, I’ll never get to go to a friend’s house after school, and I’ll miss cartoons every day!”
“You’re right—it is a bit of sacrifice. But if you think of Mrs. Rich taking care of Carl every day and night, maybe a fifteen-minute walk home will seem bearable.”
“Oh, Mom, it’s a three minute walk that ends up taking fifteen minutes!” Annie said, shaking her head. “I want to help Mrs. Rich, but I just don’t understand Carl. He doesn’t talk, he slobbers, and sometimes he suddenly makes strange noises. He scares me.”
“Annie, Carl is different, but. …” Mom stopped and looked around the greenhouse. Her eyes stopped on an old tin pot. She smiled and picked it up. The silver tin was rusted and dull, but inside was a brilliant fuchsia-colored begonia plant. “Annie, what do you think of this?”
Annie smiled at the beautiful flowers. Of all the plants in the greenhouse, this one always caught her eye because of its beautiful color. “I love your begonias, Mom!”
“But do you think it’s beautiful even in this old pot?”
“You don’t even notice the pot because of the flowers.”
“Exactly! That is why I put this flower in this pot. It’s the same with Carl. His spirit is so beautiful that it shines brightly even in an imperfect body.”
Annie stared at the flower.
Mom held up the clay pot she had just filled with soil. “We were given bodies that are whole and nice-looking—like this one,” she said, running her gardening glove over the soil. “There is a flower buried deep inside, but you can’t see it yet. With a little light, water, and tending, it will be beautiful too. It’s the flower that counts, not the pot.”
“Do I have a flower in my pot?”
Mom smiled and reached over to give Annie a hug. “Of course! You have a beautiful spirit too. I just think that you and I may need to work a little to make our spirits as loving and kind as Carl’s.”
“Give ourselves some water and light?”
“Exactly.”
“Mom, do you think that walking home with Carl will give some water and light to the flower in my pot?”
“Definitely! Whenever we do the right thing or help others, our spirits become more beautiful.”
Annie picked up the tin pot. “Well, it was nice when he was so happy to see me. … I think I’ll keep walking with Carl.”
Mom smiled. “I thought you might.”
“But Mom, Carl will still act crazy and stumble up the hill. He’ll still make strange noises. Will I ever be able to see the beauty inside him?”
“I think you already see it at least faintly—and you’ll see it more and more clearly as you help him each day.”