Gospel Story Finder

Jason C. Jones climbed out of the hatchway and stepped on the deck of the ship. Full daylight spread across the ocean. He looked up at the enormous square sails spread overhead. Usually the rising sun tinged them gold, but this morning the clouds were heavy. No sunlight came through.
Jason walked around boxes and barrels lashed on deck that belonged to the emigrants. He was looking for his friend William Baxter, first mate of the ship.
William had told Jason shortly after they embarked from Liverpool, England, that he was glad to sail on a ship with Latter-day Saints on board.
“Sailors know,” William had said, winking at Jason, “that ships carrying your people aren’t apt to be lost at sea.”
During the long days of the voyage, William had talked with Jason, explaining many things about the ship. He pointed out how the sails worked and even let Jason raise and lower the small, triangular canvas sheets he called jibs and staysails.
He also told Jason what the captain was doing when he used a sextant. “He’s finding our way across the water,” William explained. “There are no roads on the sea. Our landmarks can’t rightly be called that. We must steer by sun and stars.”
Walking to the rail on this morning, Jason looked down at the water. He clung to the rail, frightened. Never had he seen such high waves. They looked like vast green hills, rolling forward, with deep valleys between. The waves caused the ship to pitch up and down, heavily. It was hard for Jason to stand. He was afraid.
The great square sails fastened crosswise on the ship’s mast billowed outward as the wind blew even harder. People who were beginning to come on deck for air after a night spent between decks felt its force. Jason saw Mrs. Perkins grab for her skirts as they swirled about. Mr. Wilson’s long white beard blew straight out. In spite of his fear, the sight made Jason laugh.
Then he saw his father going toward Captain Brown. Jason followed. He heard the captain shout, “Best get your folks below again, Elder Jones. She’s comin’ on to blow hard!”
Jason’s father, holding his black hat with both hands, began to direct the people back down the hatchway. Jason saw William swinging along the deck.
“Can I help?” he called, running beside the sailor.
He thought about how much William had taught him. Once they had even gone into the wheelhouse where he had let Jason take the wheel, alone. Holding the big wooden spokes, feeling the great square-rigger ship move under his hands, had made Jason feel like a king.
Now that ship was in danger, and so were the people on it! Jason worried about the old folks, the young couples with their children—even a baby born the day before—who had left their homes in England to go to new homes in the Salt Lake Valley.
Jason heard William shout, “Grab a line there, boy! Help reef the sail!”
He ran along the tilting deck. Pulling hard on a rope end, Jason helped the sailors shorten sails. Wild wind whipped his clothes. Pelting rain blew sideways and slashed at his body as he shivered with excitement and cold.
Captain Brown, standing on the forward deck with his legs sprawled wide, pointed upward. Jason heard him bellow, “Aloft, men!”
He could hardly believe that sailors were to be sent along those high ropes and into the rigging in such a storm. Jason saw the huge sails billow, felt the ship under him leap like a runaway horse. Then he knew the sailors must obey their captain; the safety of the ship depended on it.
Captain Brown took Jason’s shoulder and shouted, “Go tell your father we could use a special prayer!”
Jason scrambled down the hatchway into the darkness—no candles could burn in such a storm. Even though he knew there were more than four hundred people gathered below decks, he heard no sound except roaring wind and pounding water.
Then he saw his father. He and several other men were kneeling in a circle. Jason knew they were already saying the prayer for which Captain Brown had asked.
Jason returned to the deck. Tilting his head back, he saw sailors hanging, high above, to wooden booms that were anchored crossways on the tall mast. The sailors struggled to anchor sails to the booms. How could they keep from being blown off the swaying booms while they fastened flapping canvas? Finally the sails were secured. One by one the sailors lowered themselves on the ropes and jumped to the deck.
Suddenly Jason felt his feet slip under him. The ship was sliding sideways. Down, down it went, until Jason was sure it would never again float upright. An enormous wave crashed on deck, smothering him with green water. He gasped, fighting for air, as the ship slowly returned to an even keel.
Wiping water out of his eyes, Jason looked around. Captain Brown stood still. So did the sailors, their faces tight with fear. But the wild waves were beginning to smooth out. The screaming wind died. Gradually the calm sound of the creaking mast and of a baby crying below deck could be heard.
William Baxter spoke with awe. “The storm’s blown out.”
Jason’s father and two other men came on deck. Captain Brown went to them. He held out his hand.
“In my thirty years at sea,” he declared, “I have never seen a terrible storm end so quickly.” Then he added solemnly, “The Lord be praised!”

The talent concert gave them the perfect opportunity to prove that. Take Amy Ravsten, a 17-year-old from Garland Third Ward, for example. When she heard that the young women in her stake would be performing, she offered to teach the girls in her ward a jazz routine she’d learned at cheerleading camp. A real sense of camaraderie developed as six girls of varying aptitudes worked together to perfect the dance.

For gymnast Kim McCauley, a 14-year-old from the Rockwall Ward, “someday” began when she was a toddler. She was walking at six months, running at eight months, and by the time she hit three, her parents decided they’d better find a way to channel her energy, or they’d be exhausted in the chase. They enrolled her in gymnastics classes, and today, she not only is a top competitor on her high school team, but she also uses her talent in her spare time to teach gymnastics classes for small children.

Instead of waiting for “someday” to take time to really get to know and enjoy the rest of her family, 12-year-old Stephanie Smith of the Dallas Fourth Ward learned a family talent that would send them touring the state and the country. The family took up clogging, a misleading term for a high-energy form of tap dance. Through it, she learned all about keeping in step with the rest of the family. “It’s really helped us with our unity,” she says. “Although it’s sometimes hard to get everyone together to practice, we feel a real closeness when we perform.”

“Someday I’ll be a great piano player … when I have time to practice,” is a foreign phrase to Susanna Olsen, who proved that she already has mastered the instrument. She dashed off a Rachmaninoff opus as if she’d written it herself. Members of the Richardson First Ward know that they can come to Susanna whenever they need an accompanist. She’s more than willing to oblige them.

Sherry Blanpied, a 13-year-old from the Richardson Second Ward, had no intention of waiting for “someday, when I’m good enough,” to display her dramatic talents. She performed a monologue right after winning first place with the same piece in a school competition held earlier that day.

These girls and many more were able to shower the stake with their talents. And for those who had talents that were not easily displayed on stage, such as soccer finesse or computer programming, their “someday” in the limelight came when they performed in one of three song and dance routines choreographed to include every girl who wanted to join in.

The conference theme came to life as the girls prepared for the concert. The price they paid to realize their dream of a successful show was a lot of time and effort. They passed up parties and various other school activities to meet a grueling rehearsal schedule, and some even missed going to their high school football games. That’s practically unheard of in Texas, where school spirit is as high as a lone star in the sky.

The girls in Dallas are just like most young women everywhere. In their spare time, they like to get together to talk and watch video movies, they like to go to dances, eat Mexican food, and go horseback riding. They’re especially proud of their new temple, and they go to the visitors’ center frequently. But in preparation for the conference, they put most of their other activities on the back burner and concentrated on “paying the price” to make it a dream come true.

Michelle DeMarco, 13, of the Richardson First Ward, even gave up a part in a school play to participate in the conference. Michelle, who lives and breathes theater, insisted “it was worth missing the school play to come to this. I’ve really enjoyed being together with everyone here.”

Michelle’s mother was right there supporting her from the rehearsals through to the actual production. “My mom has helped me with everything,” said Michelle. “She’s always making me feel good about what I’m doing, and she’s always there to lift me up.” That’s the way it is with many of the mothers in the Richardson Stake.

“We just can’t stand by on the side of the river and watch these young women try to maneuver the rapids by themselves,” said Linda McCauley, who spearheaded the conference. Sister McCauley had three daughters involved in the day and feels that she needs to “jump on the raft with them … to share their experiences so they don’t float so far away and become strangers.”

Some mothers and daughters in the stake are so close it’s even hard to tell them apart. They share jokes, clothes, and friendships. They were more than willing to help with the other parts of the conference by spending long hours decorating for the elaborate luncheon and pulling together the programs, speakers, and handouts for the educational part of the day.

The informative portion’s purpose, according to Sister McCauley, was to “provide the girls with a positive, uplifting experience where they learned about their responsibilities to Heavenly Father, to themselves, and to others.”

These responsibilities were brought home to the girls during a multimedia presentation starring many familiar faces. Advisers had taken the time to interview some of the girls and discuss how they could pump the most from their talents.

A video clip was shown of Rebecca Duehring, a 15-year-old from the Rockwall Ward, gliding across the ice during one of her many intense ice skating competitions. Rebecca’s struggle to be a competitive skater hasn’t been easy. She was born with brain damage that limited her coordination and space perception. She could barely walk, was constantly falling, and had broken nearly every bone in her body. Then she took up ice skating, which, for some reason she can’t explain, helped her gain her coordination.

Although it takes more time and concentration for Rebecca to perfect her routines, she’s right up there with the best in town and dreams of one day going to the Olympics. “Sometimes I can feel that Heavenly Father is behind me, and I go for the top,” says Rebecca.

The girls were also treated to talks, workshops, and presentations by people who had paid the price to reach excellence. “Commitment is more than desire,” stake president Larry Gibbons told them in his speech. “Commitment implies action.” And in other workshops, the girls learned just what kind of actions they’d have to take to be successful in different aspects of their lives.

They were shown the literal prices they’ll have to pay when the time comes to support themselves. They shuddered as they saw just how far an average, 40-hour a week job paying $5 an hour would take them. After paying tithing, taxes, rent, food, gas, transportation, insurance, and utility bills, they’d be in the hole about $2,000 per year.

“This has really started me thinking about what I want to do,” said Ruth Vigil, 16, of the Richardson Third Ward. “I hadn’t really set any goals for my future occupation, but now I realize that I’ll have to.” Ruth is musically talented. She sings and plays the piano and is now thinking about ways to incorporate those talents in a future occupation.

“We wanted to help the girls change their lives and get moving into some sort of direction,” said Connie Riska, stake Young Women president. “They need to make some of their decisions now and not wait until they graduate from high school.”

The girls realize that not all of them will go on to become working women. “My ambition is to have ten kids. six cats, and five gerbils,” jokes 16-year-old Tami McCauley of the Rockwall Ward. Just in case her dream comes true, the conference helped her to realize that the experience she’s gaining now by helping her mother take care of her nine brothers and sisters is invaluable.

Tracy Rico, 17, of the Garland Third Ward, had her feeling reaffirmed that if she’s going to meet her goal of entering into the medical profession, it can’t hurt to start learning now. That’s why she’s working as a “sports medicine trainer” at her high school.

The girls were encouraged to think about their future goals in preparation for a very special fashion show that was also part of the conference. Each young woman either made or coordinated an outfit to wear, and as they were escorted down the runway, their achievements and dreams were capsulized by the emcee.

Amanda Wilson, 15, of the Richardson First Ward, was right in her element during this part of the day. Her mother began teaching her to sew when she was seven years old, and now you might wonder who is teaching whom. Not only did Amanda sew several outfits for the fashion show, but she designed them as well, making her own patterns.

Amanda is refining her talents now so that one day she can major in fashion merchandising and hopefully have her own designing business. But in the meantime, she uses her abilities by sewing for ward members.

Short-term goals were also met via the fashion show. “It was great because my mom and I worked together on my outfit,” said Jennifer Beckham, 15, of the Rockwall Ward. “We took a whole day to go pick out the material, and as we cut it out and worked on it, we just talked about all sorts of things. It was really nice.”

That feeling of unity and understanding seemed to characterize the day. Most people were a bit surprised when Melissa Lane, 13, modeled her outfit as it was announced that one of her major goals was to become a member of the Church.

Melissa later explained, “My aunt is a member of the Church and I live with her now. She lets me go to church, and it really makes me feel good. I’m starting to read the Book of Mormon, and my aunt is letting me subscribe to the New Era. My special friends here have helped me with my testimony, and this conference has too.”

Most of the girls agreed that the friendship they cultivated by sharing their talents with each other was one of the best parts of the conference. Many of the girls go to different schools and don’t have the opportunity to get together often. “I’ve grown so close to the people here,” said Tova Carter, 14, of the Garland Fourth Ward. “We learned that if we put our minds to something, we really can accomplish it.”

An elaborate luncheon, a fashion show presented by a local designer, and minimusical concerts performed by local professionals and local Suzuki violin students all added to the day as the young women struck it rich in Dallas.

The girls might not be able to buy expensive sports cars and luxurious wardrobes with the wealth they gained by tapping the well at their conference, but deep in the hearts of the young women in Texas, they know they struck something far more valuable.

Another sister wrote:
“It’s all over now! What? The area conference! I wish they could stay longer here,” she said. “Believe it or not it has been raining cats and dogs, but the sun shone brightly just before the prophet’s plane landed at the airport. There was a typhoon forecast, but it didn’t come until after the Brethren had left the country. I walked with Sister Kimball. I told her I could hardly believe I was walking with her. Know what she said? Well, she told me she is no different than I am. That she washed clothes, washed the dishes, and cooks food, plants vegetables, and does all the same things that I do.”

My ward had been planning a temple day for a long time. So, early on a Saturday morning, my sister and I woke up, groggily drove to the church, met the youth of our ward, and then drove to the temple. When we arrived, we noticed a large group ahead of us that was also waiting to perform baptisms for the dead. Our leaders had made the appointment for us to be at the temple that morning, and they had been told that at 8:00 we would be able to go and perform baptisms.
Well, 8:00 came and went, and the group ahead of us was still there. Soon it was 9:00, and no one in our group had been baptized yet. A few people started to grow impatient. I’ll admit, I did, too.
I looked around. The leaders’ faces were showing a bit of concern. Some teens had to be home by 10:00. The temple workers let them go ahead of everyone else and be baptized. Since I didn’t have to be home by a certain time, I waited.
Around 10:15, the temple workers let me and the rest of the girls in my ward go to the font. But we still had to wait, because they were letting others come in before us to be baptized. I grew a little bit impatient. We were so close to being baptized, but we still had to wait. I watched the minutes creep by slowly on the clock. When would it be my turn?
I watched a deacon walk down the steps into the font. It must have been his first time, because he climbed down the steps very slowly and looked rather nervous. That was when it hit me. I had been waiting for two and a half hours, but the people we were being baptized for had been waiting for much longer than that, some for hundreds of years! Who was I to grow impatient because I was giving up a Saturday, while many people who had passed on were waiting for someone to find their names and submit them to the temple? I said a silent prayer to Heavenly Father asking for forgiveness.
Soon it was my turn to enter the font. As I walked down the steps, I thought of the people who had been waiting for this day. How did they feel knowing that finally they had the opportunity to accept the gospel of Jesus Christ? How would I feel if I were one of them? I read the name on the screen of the first woman I was being baptized for. She had died in 1752. She had been waiting for more than 250 years! My mind couldn’t even start to comprehend that.
After I was baptized, I stepped out of the font, feeling gratitude toward my Heavenly Father for letting me be born into a family that had the gospel so that I didn’t have to wait my turn after I passed on. I was so grateful that I had made good choices and was able to come to the temple. In the dressing room, I distinctly heard a voice whisper, “Thank you.” Tears filled my eyes as I toweled off my wet hair.
After we left the temple, one of my Young Women leaders remarked, “You girls have been here for a long time, but what better place to spend a few hours than in the temple?” For the feeling I had right then, I would gladly give up Saturday morning just to come to the temple.

An example of this concept comes from F. Enzio Busche. He was working with a young man in the Young Men's program in post World-War II Europe. This seventeen-year-old boy was working in a foundry where hot iron was poured into molds. One of the older workers regularly picked on the boy, stealing his tools, teasing him, and occasionally beating him up. One day, he again stole his tools. The boy went to the restroom, knelt down, and prayed. He suddenly felt a great peace come into his soul. Calmly he went back to the man and apologized to him, saying, "I have accused you of things, for which I am sorry. I do not want to accuse you. I have so many reasons to be grateful that I am permitted to work with you. You are a good man, and I look up to you as an example, because I need to have an example in my life." These words were sincere, because the Lord had shown him the goodness hidden in that man.

The man broke down in tears. "I am not a good man. I am not a good example." He admitted to stealing the boy's tools and then said, "I am not worthy to be an example to you, but from now on, I will try." That was the beginning of a solid friendship.

Seven of the East German Mission’s eight districts lay within the Russian zone. President Stover launched a series of district conferences into this zone, gathering together the remnants of the Saints. Many branches had almost disappeared. Some had only women and children. The men were dead or in prison camps. The people were reduced to eating weeds to supplement their meager ration of black bread. The members thronged to the conferences, as hungry for spiritual nourishment as they were for food. Time after time President Stover crossed into the Russian zone in his green Pontiac, taking both spiritual and temporal aid, a shepherd to a scattered and ravaged flock.
There was some danger in these travels. He was arrested several times, and once he was taken at gun point to be tried by a Russian military court as an American spy. He was released unhurt. He had been promised by President George Albert Smith that the adversary would have no power over him as long as he was doing his duty, and this promise was honored many times.

Heavy rains triggered flooding across the midwestern United States, Oregon, and Washington. Volunteers came with supplies from the bishops’ storehouse to provide help to those in need.

When Church representatives in Findlay, Ohio, presented a donation to the local Red Cross chapter, a passerby spotted them in their yellow Mormon Helping Hands T-shirts. She walked in and held up her camera phone with a picture of four Helping Hands and exclaimed, “They just saved my home!” Then she hugged everyone in sight.

David recalls his father’s willingness to sacrifice for his children. Once Jeffrey Holland took several days out of his BYU schedule for a one-on-one trip to southern Utah with his younger son. Later, when the family prepared to move after Elder Holland was called as a General Authority, he drove an hour out of his way each day for nearly two months to take David to football practices at his new high school.

A story illustrating the magic of writing is told in connection with two explorers who were working several hundred miles apart in the then-dark continent of Africa. One of the explorers wanted to send a message to the other; and having a native who knew the way and who agreed to carry whatever he wanted to send, the explorer made some marks on a piece of paper with his pen, folded the paper up, put it in an envelope, and gave it to the native. After some weeks in the jungle the native arrived at the camp of the other explorer and delivered the envelope. The explorer unfolded the message and looked at the marks on the paper; and without one single word having been spoken, the man to whom the message was delivered knew where his explorer friend was and what his problems and needs were. He knew about his health and several other personal things just by looking at the mysterious marks on the paper, which meant nothing at all to the native. This miracle so astounded the native that he fell down on his face and worshiped the writing.

The article “Be Not Ashamed: Facing the Issues” in the November New Era states: “If you have had similar experiences with important current issues in your schools, share them with us.” In response to this request I am writing to tell you of my experience.
As an undergraduate university student, I became more and more irritated at being taught evolution as if it were a fact, not a theory. So for my required essay in Zoology II, I decided to attack the accidental creation aspect of the theory of evolution. Thus began a search through many books in the library. I read each book until a specific term was mentioned. I then looked up the term in a chemistry book to find out the conditions under which the substance or process could be produced. Time and again, the chemical conditions necessary for the reactions to occur did not exist. I explained these problems in my paper and turned it in.
When I received my essay back, I was overjoyed to see a 7/10 mark on the front cover. I was afraid I might get a 0/10. The lecturer had typed two full pages in reply to my essay. He disagreed with my conclusions, but praised me for “being brave enough to contradict the topic after reading a number of pertinent references.”
Later I had a talk with him about both science and religion. He couldn’t understand why I had written the essay because I hadn’t mentioned religion. He said, “If you had religious grounds for your views, I could understand, but the whole text of your essay shows clearly that this is not the case.” Of course, I explained that I had been trying to answer science with science and took the opportunity to explain the gospel to him. We had several conversations and parted amicably, each respecting the other’s views.
About this same time I had several conversations with my physiology teacher. One day he began defending the spontaneous beginning of life, and he led me step by step through my own argument! As he made each point, I had a scientifically valid counterattack ready. When we reached the point at which I had the last word, he changed the subject. I then used this opportunity to tell him about the gospel.
I’m glad I wrote the essay. I’m prepared to admit that parts of it were scientifically flimsy. After all, I had studied very little genetics, and I’m sure it was easy to see the superficiality of my knowledge. The experience did the most good inside me, however, because I stood up for what I believed when it would have been easier to let everyone assume I believed what was being taught. It was also good for me to tell my lecturers about the gospel, and it was good for them to hear it.
This experience will go into my life history as a time when I was willing to speak out. Hopefully, the next time I speak out, I’ll be better armed.
Janice TurnerPenrith, New South Wales, Australia

I was impressed with the remarks of a stake president at a recent stake conference as he was released from his assignment. His remarks were of thankfulness for the opportunity to serve his stake and for the way the people served each other. He said:

My service has been out . . . for all to see. But think of the many auxiliary and other leaders and individual members of the Church who have at the same time quietly done their duty and been faithful to the Lord. Some of the greatest service rendered while I have been your president has been done silently out of great sacrifice by individual members. Theirs is the widow’s mite. Theirs is the blessing of true service.

The president remembered his ancestry, his parents, his children, his business partner, his professional secretaries, members of his high council, stake clerks, and secretaries. And then he stated: “I would not have been able to serve a single week without the help, love, and support of my dear wife.”

In tribute to the bishops, branch presidents, and other leaders, he said, “They serve where the tire hits the road. They have been faithful and loyal to me, as well as to the Lord.”

The president expressed appreciation for his counselors, and for one in particular who declared to him, “You may not wear the hair shirt”—meaning the stake president was never to feel guilty. He had been called by the Lord and was not to feel guilty for difficult decisions that only he could make.

He told of looking in the mirror the day after October general conference and seeing in his mind’s eye the hands of God, kneading the bread dough of his kingdom, and folding him (the stake president) back into the general loaf of the kingdom of God. “Mine,” he said, “was a time to rise for a moment, but now I would become part of the general membership again, as a brother in the gospel of Jesus Christ. And so other lives will now be blessed and raised, for the good of the loaf of God.”

What a wonderful attitude!—a stake president demonstrating and teaching how we believe and pray and study the scriptures, earn our livelihood, and serve our God with love. His life’s stream is right on course.

Let me share a story of love being manifested through the kindness, forgiveness and helping hands of others. Many years ago, a friend of mine was on a stake presidency. It was at a time when the stake presidency needed to be reorganized and when only the first presidency or one of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles could perform that sacred duty.
Elder James E. Faust was the presiding authority for that stake conference. It was and still is I believe, a normal practice to interview Melchizedek priesthood holders to get a feel of who the next stake president should be. After interviewing many, it was my friends turn for an interview. As he sat down, Elder Faust looked him in the eye and said: “Everyone loves you. Everyone wants you to be the next stake president. But this isn’t a popularity contest, The Lord doesn’t work that way—and the Lord doesn’t want you, why?”
At that moment my friend said he realized two things: that The Church really was true and that the Lord really did speak to his Apostles. My friend finally came clean with his life. He had not been living worthy of his priesthood. He was excommunicated and left to the buffetings of Satan.
Many hearts were broken and many hearts were unforgiving, but the Lord loved him and did not forget him. Years later, a sweet sister missionary loved him first. She and her companion persistently visited him every week. When it was time for her transfer, a missionary couple, with warm, friendly hands reaching out to him, withholding judgment, loving him despite of his shortcomings, loved him back into the fold. He rejoiced in the atonement of our Savior, Jesus Christ. He was re-baptized, and attended his meetings, patiently accepting and doing whatever the bishop required of him. Through patience and long-suffering and through the love of many, his long awaited temple blessings were finally restored; families were united once more, and my friend rejoiced in the few temple sessions he was able to attend before he passed away.

My knees shook a little and my stomach fluttered as I stood with Mom in the office of my new school. I straightened my shirt and tried to see my reflection in the glass door. My family had just moved from another state, and now here I was on my first day of fourth grade. Would I make friends here? I wondered. Would they like me? Was anyone going to sit by me at lunch?
A lady walked out from behind the counter and gave me a big smile. “Hi, Christina, I’m Mrs. Collins. I’ll take you to your class.”
I nodded. Mom bent down and gave me a hug. “You’ll be fine,” she whispered in my ear. “I’ll see you after school, OK?”
I nodded again, afraid that if I said anything, I would start to cry. Mom left the office and walked down the front steps of the school. I felt like running after her, but Mrs. Collins put her hand on my shoulder and led me down a long hallway. I glanced into classrooms and saw a few kids looking out the door at us as we walked by. Would any of them be my friends? We finally came to my classroom, and Mrs. Collins introduced me to the teacher. Mrs. Murphy smiled. “We’re glad to have you in our class, Christina,” she said. “You can sit next to Melissa.”
She pointed out a girl and I made my way to the empty desk next to her. I slid into my seat and smiled a little at Melissa. “Hi,” I said softly.
She smiled a little too. “Hi.”
I took a deep breath and tried to slow down my racing heart. Some of the kids turned around to look at me. I heard whispering and a few giggles, and I felt my face turning red. Did they not like me already?
A little while later, the class visited the school library. I tried to stay close to Melissa, but she went with a different reading group. Most of the girls quickly sat down at the round tables with their friends and favorite books. There wasn’t anywhere for me to sit, so I pretended to look at different books as I walked up and down through the rows of shelves. When I came to the end of one row, I was right in front of a table of girls. I recognized one of them from my new Primary class. I swallowed hard and smiled. Maybe they could be my friends.
Suddenly, the girl closest to me leaned back in her chair, as if she were trying to get away from me. “Why is your skin dark?” she asked.
“Um. …” I didn’t know what to say.
“Why do you look different?” another girl asked.
“What are you?”
I tried to smile at their questions, but the girls weren’t smiling at me. They looked like they were smelling rotten food. Just then Mrs. Murphy walked in. “OK, class, it’s time to go back to the room.”
I didn’t look at anyone as we walked back to the classroom. For the rest of the day, I peeked at kids around me and tried to see why those girls thought I was different. None of my old friends thought I was different. No one at my old school had ever asked me what I was, and I didn’t know how to answer. I was me, that’s what I was.
I looked at my arm, and then at Melissa’s arm resting on her desk. My arm was a lot browner than hers. I scooted close to my desk and hid my arms underneath it.
“How was your day?” Mom asked when I got home from school.
“Mom, why is my skin dark?”
“Why do you ask?”
“A girl in my class asked me why. These girls wanted to know why I look … different.” I started to cry.
Mom pulled me into her arms and wiped the tears off my cheeks. “Oh, honey, everybody’s different. It’s not a bad thing.”
“Those girls aren’t different,” I said. “They all look the same. They all have blonde hair and blue eyes.”
“All of them?”
I thought about the girls in my class. “Well, no. But why is my skin darker than theirs? I didn’t think I was different. Those girls think there’s something wrong with me.”
“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you,” Mom said, hugging me tight. “Do you remember the stories about my ancestors?” she asked.
I sniffed and shrugged.
“Grandma and Grandpa Ruiz are from Texas, but their parents’ families came from Mexico. They had beautiful skin like yours. When we put my ancestors and Dad’s ancestors together, you come from all over! Mexico, Scotland, Spain, England, and probably other places we haven’t found in our family history yet. You are the best combination you could be!”
“I don’t want to be different than kids here,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because I want to have friends.”
Mom frowned. “Do you want to have friends who hurt your feelings like those girls did?”
I thought about it, and then shook my head. “I’ll try to find friends who like me for me.”
The next morning at school, Melissa looked up at me as I put my backpack next to my desk. I looked at her, afraid of what she might say. Was she going to ask me why I looked different?
“Hi, Christina,” she said. “Do you want to play with me and Sarah at recess?”
I grinned and nodded. Melissa’s blue eyes shined as she tucked her blonde hair behind her ears, but I noticed her wide smile the most.

Illustration by Brad Teare
“Oh no! Here comes Pedro!”
Everyone at school knew that Pedro was a bully. He was big, and he was mean! He called other kids names, took their lunches, and chased them around the school yard. No one wanted to be around him.
Pedro walked by Lucas and his friend Arthur. He called them “losers” and pushed Arthur.
Lucas was tired of Pedro being so mean. Without even thinking, he shouted, “Stop it, Pedro!”
Lucas couldn’t believe it. He’d just stood up to the biggest bully in school!
Pedro stormed up to Lucas and grabbed his shirt. “What did you say?” Lucas’s heart beat so fast it felt like it would jump out of his chest! “I’ll give you one warning,” Pedro said. “But you’d better watch out!” He shoved Lucas and walked away.
After that, Lucas did his best to avoid Pedro, but Pedro always found him. He kept Lucas off the swings, pushed him during dodgeball, tripped him in the cafeteria, and always said mean things.
One day Lucas and Arthur were playing with Arthur’s soccer ball. Pedro jumped out from behind a tree and grabbed it.
“Please give it back,” said Arthur.
“Who’s going to make me?” Pedro pushed Lucas and laughed.
Lucas could feel his stomach twist in knots. He was so angry! “You know what, Pedro?” Lucas said. “You’re the meanest kid I know! Nobody likes you. Everyone wishes you’d go away!”
Pedro stopped laughing. Lucas felt great about what he said … until he saw the look on Pedro’s face. Was he about to cry? Pedro quickly looked down and walked away.
Lucas instantly felt terrible. For the rest of the day, no matter how hard he tried, Lucas couldn’t get rid of the terrible feeling. That night, he tossed and turned in bed. He kept thinking about how sad Pedro had looked.
How could Pedro feel bad? Lucas thought. He doesn’t care if he’s mean to other kids. I had to say something, right? The more Lucas thought about it, the more he realized he was right to stand up for himself and his friend. But he was wrong to say those mean things.
Lucas knelt by his bed and asked Heavenly Father to forgive him. He told Heavenly Father that he never wanted to hurt anyone like that ever again. He wanted to be kind. When Lucas said “amen,” he knew what he had to do.
After lunch the next day, Lucas found Pedro standing against a wall by himself. Lucas was nervous. What would Pedro do? Lucas took a deep breath and walked over.
“Um, I’m sorry about yesterday.”
Pedro looked surprised. “You’re sorry?”
“Yes. I said some really mean things to you, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”
Pedro stared down at his shoes. “It’s OK.”
The bell rang. Lucas started walking back to class. He felt so much better. But there was one more thing he wanted to say. He turned back around. “We could play soccer at recess tomorrow if you want.”
A small smile crossed Pedro’s face. “That sounds good.”
After that, things got better with Pedro. He was still a bully sometimes, but he wasn’t as mean. He even played with Lucas a few times at recess. And it was actually fun! At the end of the school year, Pedro told Lucas that he was moving away. Then he said something that really surprised Lucas.
“Thanks for being my friend,” Pedro said. “Even when I wasn’t nice.”
The warm feeling in Lucas’s heart let him know that being kind is always the right choice.

When my husband, Mick, died suddenly, I was devastated. He had been a constant source of inspiration, goodness, and patience. I wondered how I could raise our five children without him.
Shauna was one of my visiting teachers at the time. Occasionally she and her husband, Jim, who was also my home teacher, would take me out to a movie or to the temple.
Fall came, and as the weather turned cold I pulled my coat out of the closet. It was about 15 years old and looked very worn. I was embarrassed to wear it on my outings with Shauna and Jim; the lining was torn, and each time Jim helped me put on the coat, my hand got caught in the lining.
As Christmas drew near, I began to feel lonely. This would be my first Christmas without Mick, and I missed him very much. I tried to act happy for the children’s sake, but it was difficult.
Just a few days before Christmas, Jim, Shauna, and their oldest daughter came to visit me. They handed me a beautifully wrapped package with a card attached. The card read: “To Cheryl. Love, Mick.” Tears began to stream down my face. Inside the box was the most beautiful coat I had ever seen. It fit perfectly. “We knew that if Mick were here, he would have bought it for you,” they said.
Whenever I wear my coat, someone always compliments me on how beautiful I look. I know it is because I am glowing—remembering the love of my home teacher, my visiting teacher, and my husband each time I put it on.

When the class came back after lunch, the money jar was gone. The small fruit jar with a slit in the lid had been sitting on Ms. Adams’s desk for the past week. Her students had been dropping in pennies, nickels, dimes, and even a few quarters to be used to help a family in town pay its medical bills.
“I’ll bet Steve took the money,” Mike muttered just loudly enough for the rest of the class to hear him.
“Yeah, he probably did,” Ted agreed.
The class turned to look at Steve sitting near the back of the room. They waited for him to say something, but he just glared at them.
“Stop that right now!” Ms. Adams reprimanded them. “We don’t know who took the jar, and it’s wrong to accuse anyone.”
But everyone thinks I’m the thief, Steve thought.
On the bus ride home, a lot of students were looking at Steve and whispering. As he walked down the aisle to get off at his stop, Mike jeered, “What are you going to do with the money, Steve—spend it on candy and soda pop?”
The other kids all snickered. Steve began to answer Mike but instead quickly got off the bus and ran home.
“What’s wrong, son?” his mother asked as he slammed the door and threw his books in a chair.
Steve told her about the money jar. “Mom, I’m not happy at this school. I wish we’d never moved here. No one likes me. I’ve tried to make friends, but I just don’t fit in.”
“I know it can be hard when you have to leave old friends and make new ones.” Mom put her arm around him. “But you have to keep trying. Remember that most people are really good. You just have to give them a chance. You’ll see.”
“But how can I prove that I didn’t take the money jar?” He slumped into a chair.
“Maybe you can’t prove it,” Mom told him. “But you know that you didn’t steal the money, and that’s what’s really important.”
“I guess so,” Steve sighed, “but no one will ever want to be my friend if I can’t prove I’m not the thief.”
“All I can say now is to just hang in there. I have a hunch something good will happen.” Mom stood up and got her purse. “I haven’t forgotten that I owe you this for doing your chores.” She handed him a dollar bill. “Remember, it will have to last a long time.”
During school the next day, all Steve’s classmates shunned him—or worse. At times the taunting was almost more than he could bear. Still, his teacher did what she could to ease his load, and he thought a few of the kids were at least suspending judgment.
Just before lunch, as Ms. Adams was asking the class to start again with a new jar, Mr. Jones, the principal, walked in. He held out the missing money jar. “A friend stopped by yesterday, and I borrowed your money jar to show him what a good job this class is doing. Then I got busy after he left, and I forgot to bring the jar back. I’m sorry if the delay has caused any problems.”
“We are very glad to get it back,” Ms. Adams said, smiling at Steve. “We thought it had been stolen. I think that we’re learning a valuable lesson in why we believe that people should be considered innocent until they’re proven guilty.” She glanced at Mike, who looked very ashamed of himself.
Mr. Jones left, and Mike immediately raised his hand and apologized to Steve. And at lunchtime the others who had taunted him told him they were sorry for what they’d thought and said. Almost all of them suddenly wanted sincerely to be his friend.
When the class came back after lunch, they had another surprise—there was a dollar bill in the money jar!
“Well, what do you know,” Ms. Adams laughed. “This class is full of surprises. I wonder if we’ll ever find out who put in the dollar bill.”
“I’ll bet it was Mr. Jones,” someone said.
“Yes, you’re probably right,” others agreed out loud.
Steve just smiled. I know who put the dollar bill in the jar. And like Mom said, that’s what’s really important.

Our Heavenly Father also helps us in other ways. Jesus said: “And these signs shall follow them that believe; In my name shall they … lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.” (Mark 16:17–18.) Healings are a very real part of the restored church, and are often borne witness to in fast and testimony meetings.
An older man said: “I used to have emphysema so bad that I couldn’t walk half a block without being totally out of breath. Then a few months ago they called me to be a sealer in the temple. I was very concerned, because I knew I would have to climb stairs there, and I just couldn’t do it. But when they set me apart for that responsibility they also blessed me that I would have the health I needed to do the task. Brothers and sisters, that blessing has come to pass. And I’m not just blessed in the temple; yesterday I played four rounds of tennis and didn’t even feel winded at the end. And I won them!”

My parents are remarkable people. My father, a BYU graduate, is not only an accomplished professional known for his leadership and compassion but also a passionate student of history and Swedish culture. His curiosity and enthusiasm evoked in me a passion for history and family history and for Sweden and its people. Wherever we lived as I was growing up—in Missouri, Sweden, New Jersey, and Boston—he helped us seek out what made those places unique, and he served the people with all his heart and mind.

My mother took a less conventional route to a university degree but never delayed her education. She is a voracious reader with an envious intellectual curiosity. She started at BYU studying graphic design but put her plans on hold when, after marrying my father, a job offer took them to St. Louis. My older sister’s arrival and the demands of my father’s burgeoning career delayed my mother’s ability to return to school, but she did not forget the admonition in her patriarchal blessing that she should finish a college degree. I came along two years later, and then two years after that came another sister.

Then, when my mother was twenty-six years old, with three children under the age of five and a fourth on the way, she and my father were called as mission leaders for a newly created mission in Göteborg, Sweden. (You didn’t know they called kids on missions, did you? And these kids had kids!) While my father, just twenty-nine, had not had time to forget Swedish after serving a proselyting mission to Sweden a few years before, my mother spoke no Swedish at all. During the following three years, however, she not only had a fifth child but also learned the language so that she could understand and communicate with the people she loved whom she had been called to serve. While she ministered to others, she and my father had outsized responsibilities to minister to a young family in the home.

Their willingness to serve and sacrifice left an unmistakable impression on me and my siblings. Indeed, I can say, like the sons of Helaman, that I learned from the service and example of my parents—and in the things of the Spirit, I cannot doubt that my mother (and father) “knew it”32 because of how they lived.

They returned from Sweden, had two more children (that is seven in total for anyone keeping score), and continued a full and rich life of service in the Church and in our home. Still, my mother’s patriarchal blessing haunted her. While she was the paragon of a lifelong learner—among other things, teaching early-morning seminary for years in St. Louis and Houston—why was it so important for her to finish her degree? As my younger siblings grew older and more independent, she made the bold decision to return to her studies and finish what she had started at BYU several decades, seven children, and at least eight interstate and international moves before.

But there were obstacles. The classes she had taken for her graphic design degree in the 1960s—hand lettering and drafting—had long since been replaced by new technologies. Instead, the degree in English literature stood out to her as something that might play to her superpower: boundless reading. She took the plunge, and class by class she clawed her way toward a degree.

But there were more obstacles. One of them was the Languages of Learning GE requirement. Calculus was not an obvious option, and she did not have the requisite number of French classes. Here the Lord intervened. Because of an initiative in the College of Humanities, I was approached to teach a summer Swedish literature class for returned missionaries that would fulfill the requirement and be open to returning students like my mother. I have only ever been asked to do this once, but it came at just the moment she happened to need it. That is right, my mother took a class from me (entirely in Swedish) more than twenty-five years after returning home from Sweden. (Just for the record, no, I did not call her “Mom” in class.) While federal law prohibits me from telling you the grade she received, let’s just say that she was impressive.

She finally finished her degree and graduated in 2009, more than forty years after having started at BYU. That in and of itself is an inspiring story, but what happened afterward serves to illustrate the important point we learned from section 88 in the Doctrine and Covenants. We rarely know how and where the Lord will use the character, habits, experiences, and education with which He has blessed us.

Within just a couple of years after my mother had taken that class, she and my father were called to serve in Sweden again, this time as temple president and matron of the Stockholm Sweden Temple. An important part of their responsibilities was to instruct those entering the temple for the first time as well as to speak in wards and branches throughout the temple district. Because of her education, my mother was ready to meet these challenges on day one of their mission. Writing papers in Swedish on Selma Lagerlöf and Ingmar Bergman paid off as she found herself writing sacrament meeting and fireside talks to give to the members in Sweden in their native language.

Shortly after returning home, she and my father were quite unexpectedly called into the office of the First Presidency, and my mother, Bonnie Lee Oscarson, was called as the fourteenth Young Women general president of the Church. There is little to prepare one for such a calling and responsibility, but my mother has said on numerous occasions that her experience reading, analyzing, and writing about American, British, and Scandinavian literature for classes was ideal training for the innumerable articles and talks she needed to write during her years in that calling. Her education prepared her to understand others; deal with change; analyze messy, unorganized information; make clear decisions; and receive inspiration. While she is quick to point out the myriad ways that her own abilities were clearly enhanced and enriched by the Spirit working through her, she would not have felt confidence in asking for that divine help had she not done her part.

At a recent Eagle Scout recognition dinner, I heard an outstanding Eagle Scout talk about his relationship with his devoted father who was also his Scoutmaster:

“On those trips our Scoutmaster talked of things other than merit badges. He talked about Paul when we were hiking, Nephi when we were sitting around the fire, Abraham when we were looking at the stars, and Jesus of Nazareth just before we said our prayers and went to sleep. And at one time or another, he sent us each out alone to pray as Joseph Smith had prayed.

“I listened very closely to our Scoutmaster and tried to do what he said. My Scoutmaster is my father, and I want to be like him.

“If I can remember what I learned on those hikes up and over and down and into the mountains, I believe I can make it through the journey of life.”

I am honored to speak to you today. However, I am somewhat humbled by this opportunity. This reminds me of an instance about 20 years ago, when I responded to an editorial that I heard on WGN-Radio in Chicago. Shortly after sending a written response to the station, I received a call indicating that they would like me to come in and tape my response for broadcast. Luckily I wore a suit to the station, because when I arrived, I was informed that the taping would take place on the set for the evening news program, with a teleprompter. It hadn’t crossed my mind that WGN was both a radio and a TV station and that my editorial response was to be televised. Needless to say, I was a little nervous.