Gospel Story Finder

My great-grandma’s candy dish doesn’t hold a lot of candy these days. Instead, it sparkles under the display lights in my grandpa’s cabinet, and the lights reflect off the grooves of the crystal in the dish. Most people save things to remind them of happy memories, but my grandpa has saved this candy dish to remind him of an important lesson.
When my grandpa was 10, his family had a rule against playing ball in the house. But he loved basketball, so one day when it was raining outside, you can guess what he decided to do. Instead of following the rules, he went into the living room to play basketball, and it quickly got him into trouble.
He threw a pass, and the basketball hit the bracket of an antique mirror, causing the mirror to fall onto a grand piano where his mom displayed her crystal collection. The mirror shattered onto the piano and broke all the crystal dishes except one single candy dish.
When his mom came to see what had happened, she sent him to his room. He felt awful; he knew she loved those dishes. His dad came to his room and they discussed a punishment. Then, his mom entered the room with a wrapped box. Inside was the surviving candy dish. His mom said, “I’m giving you this dish to remind you that I love you more than any of the dishes you broke.”
One day that candy dish will be passed down to my mom and then to me, but we could never sell it. In our family, the candy dish represents how much love a mother has for her children. Even though Great-Grandma lost nearly her entire crystal collection, she gained something even more important—a stronger relationship with her son.
Material possessions can be replaced, but families are worth a lot more than crystal. Family members are the most important people. My family, including my mom, dad, and brothers, mean more to me than anything else. I’d give up a million crystal dishes to be with my family forever.

My 13-year-old mind whirled as the nurse pushed the electronic button to raise the head of my hospital bed. The induced stupor of pain-killing drugs numbed my awareness. Flickers of pain shot through the right side of my body. I closed my eyes, grimacing to endure the discomfort.
As the nurse adjusted the pillows and bedcoverings to make me more comfortable, I relaxed my facial muscles and opened my eyes. Looking down, I realized that the nurse had pulled back the yellow blanket and sheets that had covered my lower body.
“No!” I screamed. I yanked the bedcoverings back down and yelled again, “No!” Dropping my head into my hands, sobs shook my body as I realized what I had seen: my right leg had been amputated.
Continuing to cry, I reviewed in my mind the promise I had been given in my patriarchal blessing just two weeks before. “You will have the faith to be healed,” Patriarch Kimball had said. When this blessing was given, I felt an overwhelming sense of joy. My parents and I interpreted this statement to mean that the malignant bone tumor in my knee would be healed and my leg would not be removed.
Patriarch Kimball’s remarkable words were a testimony to all of my family and friends that a miracle would occur. As my doctors prepared me for the amputation surgery, they assured my parents that they would check one last time to see if the tumor was there. If it was gone, they wouldn’t perform the surgery; I would awaken with two intact legs. However, if the tumor was still there, an immediate amputation was necessary to prevent the spread of the cancer cells to the rest of my body.
My mother looked in the door to my hospital room. I could see she was crying and guessed she had heard my outburst. I couldn’t control the anger I was feeling, so I closed my eyes and lowered the head of my bed. I didn’t want to see the nurse, my mom, or anyone else. I felt betrayed. Lying there on the bed, alone and miserable, I cried bitterly in anger at everyone I had trusted.
For several days, I refused to look down where my leg used to be. When a physical therapist came in to help me take my first steps with an artificial leg, I refused to cooperate. I fell into a depression. I just couldn’t believe that life could continue without my leg.
About a week after the surgery, my father insisted that I take a wheelchair ride outside the hospital. I sat in the chair, slumped over, gritting my teeth in pain as my father pushed me outside for the first time. Dad took me into a rose garden that spread out in front of the hospital. I looked over at the lovely rose bushes growing around me, and I felt so ugly, so deformed.
As I sat there feeling miserable, the desire grew within me to reach out for the roses, to smell the individual flowers. I expressed this to my dad, and he tried to move the wheelchair close enough for me to do so. But the chair was too awkward over the grass and dirt around the bushes. I started to cry again in frustration that I couldn’t accomplish one simple task. Dad knelt down at the side of my wheelchair and stroked my hair. When I stopped sobbing, he took my hands in his and looked straight into my eyes.
“You can do it, you know,” he said. “It won’t be easy. Everything—even smelling roses—will be harder from now on. But I know, and you know, that you can do it.” We were both silent for a long time as I looked into his eyes. In that moment I realized that I had no choice about the loss of my leg. It was gone, and I needed to accept it. I also understood that I would need all of my strength and determination to do the things I would want to do. I will do it, I thought to myself.
I spent many hours learning to manipulate my artificial leg. It was awkward and painful, and I often fell down. At the same time, I still had chemotherapy treatments every two weeks. Because of the treatments I was bald, weak, and severely underweight. At one point about six months after my surgery, I was so discouraged that I told my oncologist (the doctor who was treating my cancer) that I wouldn’t continue my treatments. She explained to me that if I didn’t finish the prescribed course of treatment, the cancer had a high chance of returning, and she urged me to continue. I was emotionally and physically exhausted, but in the back of my mind I remembered my father’s words and I felt renewed strength to continue with my treatments.
Six months later, the chemotherapy treatments were over. I still felt discouraged about losing a leg, and I was overwhelmed with fear about facing the future as a one-legged person. My mind turned again to the promise given in my patriarchal blessing. I wasn’t healed, I thought to myself. Why wasn’t I healed? I wondered if it was a lack of faith on my part. Maybe I hadn’t prayed hard enough or believed that Heavenly Father could heal me as was promised in my blessing.
As these thoughts ran through my mind, I started to cry. I curled myself up into a fetal position and sobbed for a long time. As I did so, I remembered all I had accomplished in the year since my surgery. I had adjusted to my disability and learned to walk again. I had completed my full course of chemotherapy treatments and was gaining weight and strength again. My hair was even beginning to grow back. Then it came to my mind, with a small and simple whisper, that I had been healed. I was healed of the overwhelming pain and anguish that came when I realized my leg was gone. I was given the physical and emotional strength to tackle the challenges of life following the surgery. Most importantly, I was in remission from the cancer.
With that realization, I bowed my head in prayer. I thanked my Heavenly Father for the fulfillment of the blessing of healing. I thanked Him for my father’s wise counsel and for the support of my family and friends who had helped me through the most difficult months of my life. Most of all, I thanked Him that I was still alive—for I realized that with or without my right leg, my life was worth living.

One night in late May, three enemy shells exploded near Neal’s mortar position. Up until then, the Japanese had not been able to find the location of his squad. But now it seemed the artillerymen had triangulated his position and were closing in. When another shell exploded just a few feet away, Neal feared the next one would find its target.

Leaping from the foxhole, he took cover against a knoll. Then, realizing he was still in danger, he scurried back to the hole to await whatever came next.

Illustration by Greg Newbold

In the mud and darkness, Neal got on his knees and began to pray. He knew he did not deserve any special favors from God and that many righteous men had died after offering fervent prayers during battle. Still, he pleaded with the Lord to spare his life, promising to dedicate himself to God’s service if he survived. He had a smudged copy of his patriarchal blessing in his pocket, and he thought of a promise it contained.

“I seal you up against the power of the destroyer that your life may not be shortened,” his blessing read, “and that you may not be deprived of fulfilling every assignment that was given unto you in the preexistent state.”

Neal finished his prayer and looked up into the night sky. The shattering explosions had ceased, and all was quiet. When the shelling did not resume, he felt in his soul that the Lord had preserved his life.3

Not long after, Neal wrote a few letters to his family back home. “I’m so lonely for you, sometimes I feel like crying,” he said. “All I have to do is be worthy of my patriarchal blessing, your prayers, and my religion. But time and so much action hang heavy on a man’s soul.”

“I can say only God prevented my death at times,” he wrote. “I have a testimony no one can crumble.”4

In Act One by Moss Hart, the author tells of a particularly difficult experience he had one Christmas. His father was working several jobs, his mother had taken in renters, and still they were barely making it.

“Obviously Christmas was out of the question—we were barely staying alive. On Christmas Eve my father was very silent during the evening meal. Then he surprised and startled me by turning to me and saying, ‘Let’s take a walk.’ He had never suggested such a thing before, and moreover it was a very cold winter’s night. I was even more surprised when he said as we left the house, ‘Let’s go down to a Hundred Forty-ninth Street and Westchester Avenue.’ My heart leapt within me. That was the section where all the big stores were, where at Christmastime open pushcarts full of toys stood packed end-to-end for blocks at a stretch. On other Christmas Eves I had often gone there with my aunt, and from our tour of the carts she had gathered what I wanted the most. My father had known of this, of course, and I joyously concluded that this walk could mean only one thing—he was going to buy me a Christmas present.

“On the walk down I was beside myself with delight and an inner relief. It had been a bad year for me, that year of my aunt’s going, and I wanted a Christmas present terribly—not a present merely, but a symbol, a token of some sort. I needed some sign from my father or mother that they knew what I was going through and cared for me as much as my aunt and my grandfather did. I am sure they were giving me what mute signs they could, but I did not see them. The idea that my father had managed a Christmas present for me in spite of everything filled me with a sudden peace and lightness of heart I had not known in months.

“We hurried on, our heads bent against the wind, to the cluster of lights ahead that was 149th Street and Westchester Avenue, and those lights seemed to me the brightest lights I had ever seen. Tugging at my father’s coat, I started down the line of pushcarts. There were all kinds of things that I wanted, but since nothing had been said by my father about buying a present, I would merely pause before a pushcart to say, with as much control as I could muster, ‘Look at that chemistry set!’ or, ‘There’s a stamp album!’ or, ‘Look at the printing press!’ Each time my father would pause and ask the pushcart man the price. Then without a word we would move on to the next pushcart. Once or twice he would pick up a toy of some kind and look at it and then at me, as if to suggest this might be something I might like, but I was ten years old and a good deal beyond just a toy; my heart was set on a chemistry set or a printing press. There they were on every pushcart we stopped at, but the price was always the same and soon I looked up and saw we were nearing the end of the line. Only two or three more pushcarts remained. My father looked up, too, and I heard him jingle some coins in his pocket. In a flash I knew it all. He’d gotten together about seventy-five cents to buy me a Christmas present, and he hadn’t dared say so in case there was nothing to be had for so small a sum.

“As I looked up at him I saw a look of despair and disappointment in his eyes that brought me closer to him than I had ever been in my life. I wanted to throw my arms around him and say, ‘It doesn’t matter … I understand … this is better than a chemistry set or a printing press … I love you.’ But instead we stood shivering beside each other for a moment—then turned away from the last two pushcarts and started silently back home. I don’t know why the words remained choked up within me. I didn’t even take his hand on the way home nor did he take mine. We were not on that basis. Nor did I ever tell him how close to him I felt that night—that for a little while the concrete wall between father and son had crumbled away and I knew that we were two lonely people struggling to reach each other.

“I came close to telling him many years later, but again the moment passed.” (From ACT ONE, by Moss Hart. Copyright 1959 by Catherine Carlisle Hart and Joseph M. Hyman, Trustees. Reprinted by permission of Random House, Inc.)

Resting on the stone steps of the ancient ruins of Dzibilchaltún in Mexico, Sandra Hernández and Meily Tolosa quietly consider the scattered ruins of a city nearly 1,500 years old. The silence around them is almost as heavy as the humid tropical air. But the peaceful moment doesn’t last long.
The silence shatters as Samuel Hernández comes hooting and hollering out of the thick jungle, which grows right up to the edge of the small pyramid. His friends Jorge Tolosa and Wilbert Agosta follow right behind him.
“Oh, I thought I was going to die,” he laughs as he throws himself down onto the steps and tries to catch his breath. Picking their way through the jungle, Samuel and his friends had been making their way toward a partially overgrown structure when they startled a flock of hidden birds. The birds weren’t the only ones startled. “Oh, my heart,” Samuel says, laughing.
Samuel, Meily, and other youth from the Canek Ward, Mérida México Centro Stake, are spending the day exploring some of Mexico’s ancient ruins. Dzibilchaltún is just one of the thousands of crumbling settlements left throughout the Americas by ancient inhabitants.
The land from central Mexico to Honduras (also called Mesoamerica) has been home to many thriving civilizations. On this trip to Dzibilchaltún, the youth are grateful that ruins of some of their ancestors’ cities have been preserved so they can explore where their ancestors lived. “It’s interesting to learn what my ancestors did and what happened to them,” says Jorge, a deacon.
In the same way, these youth are thankful that the record of the family of Lehi has been preserved so they can learn from its teachings and experiences. “I’m grateful the Lord preserved the Book of Mormon for us to learn from,” Jorge says.
Many Nephite prophets, such as Nephi, Enos, and Mormon, prayed that the Lord would preserve their testimonies of Jesus Christ to help their descendants (see 2 Ne. 25:21; Enos 1:16–18; W of M 1:8).
As He promised, the Lord preserved their records and brought them to light again through the Prophet Joseph Smith. Now the Book of Mormon is bringing the descendants of Book of Mormon peoples—and other people from all around the world—to Jesus Christ.
“I’m so grateful for the Book of Mormon,” says Carmen Hernández, a Mia Maid who hopes to thank the Book of Mormon prophets someday. “When I meet them,” she says, “I will say, ‘Thank you for helping so many people find answers and come to Christ.’” (See 2 Ne. 33:11; Jacob 6:13; Ether 12:38.)

I learned from my wife the importance of exchanging notes. Early in our marriage I would open my scriptures to give a message and I would see an affectionate, supportive note slipped into the pages. Sometimes they were so tender that I could hardly talk. Those precious notes from a loving wife were and are a priceless treasure of comfort.

I began to do the same thing with her, not realizing how much they truly meant to her. When she passed away, I found in her private things how much she appreciated the simple messages we shared with each other. I found that she not only kept the notes, but she protected them with plastic coverings as if they were a valuable treasure. There is only one that she didn’t put with the others. It is still behind the glass of our kitchen clock. It reads, “Jeanene, it is time to tell you I love you.” It remains there to remind me constantly of that exceptional daughter of Father in Heaven.

In her final days of illness, I tried to find supporting scriptures that would help her. I put printed copies of them around the house. I found each one of those messages carefully protected as if they were very valuable. In like manner, I have kept the precious notes she has given me.

“What are you doing, Mommy?” Madolyn asked as she sat down in the kitchen.
Mom rummaged through a box and placed a pile of books on the table. “I’m going through all of these books so we can put them on the new bookshelves.”
Madolyn grabbed a book with a bright orange cover. “I remember this story,” she said. She thumbed through the pages of the picture book.
“I need to organize all of these magazines too,” Mom said as she set some magazines next to the books.
“Wow, look at all of these!” Madolyn picked up a pile of some Friend magazines. She held up one with a picture of Jesus and some children on the cover. “Can I read this one?” she asked.
Mom looked at the magazine. “This is from before you were even born.”
“Can I have it?” Madolyn asked.
“Sure!”
A few days later while Mom was making dinner, Madolyn said, “Mommy, I read a great story in this Friend.”* She held up the old magazine. “It’s about an experiment.”
“What kind of experiment?”
Madolyn opened the magazine and pointed to a picture. “This boy decided to try hard to be nice and not get angry easily. I think Logan, Savannah, and I should try something like that.” She tapped her finger on her forehead. “We’ll try hard to be like Jesus this week. We’ll try not to argue when we play together, and we’ll try to be better examples for each other. We won’t tell the older kids or Dad and see if they can guess what we’re doing.” Madolyn’s smile stretched across her face.
Mom gave Madolyn a squeeze, and said, “That’s a great idea!”
The next night at family scripture study, Clayton, the oldest brother, said, “Savannah, I noticed you’re being extra reverent tonight.” Savannah just smiled and looked over at Madolyn.
One evening after family prayer, Angela, the oldest sister, said, “You all listened to the prayer really well tonight.” Logan, Savannah, and Madolyn all grinned.
Saturday at dinner, Dad said to the younger children, “I’m glad that you all shared your toys today, and played together nicely.” The three children giggled.
When family home evening came, their sister, Rachel, asked, “What’s going on with the little ones?”
“What do you mean?” Mom asked.
“They’ve all been extra reverent and nice for the last few days,” Rachel said.
“I’ve noticed that too,” Dad said.
Madolyn covered her mouth but her big smile peeked out from behind her hand.
“Why don’t you tell the rest of the family, Madolyn,” Mom said.
“We decided to try to be like Jesus for a week, like a boy in a story I read in an old Friend magazine,” Madolyn said.
“We tried to not fight too much,” Logan said.
“And tried to be reverent during prayer and scripture study,” Savannah said.
“I think our experiment turned out very well!” declared Madolyn with a great big smile. And everyone agreed.

In Bolivia, a young mother with four small children expressed her testimony, saying:
“I am so grateful for the privilege of having the missionaries come into our home. It is a pleasure to feed them, even though I fear that sometimes we do not have enough for them. (I need to add here that members everywhere in the world have the same fear.) She continues: “However, I am so thankful for this opportunity, for, you see, my four little ones wait anxiously for the day to come when the missionaries eat with us. When it is our turn, two handsome young men dressed in white shirts, wearing ties, their hair cut neatly, come into our home. They are full of the gospel light. They play with the children. They tell us about their wonderful missionary experiences. They are gentlemen, courteous and kind. After about an hour with us, they leave to do the work of the Lord.”

“You both know Elder Kempter, don’t you?” I asked. “I received a letter from him awhile back, and among other things he said, ‘Boy, have I got a story for you.’ It went something like this:
“‘Last night after holding a family home evening, we were getting ready to leave when this one girl came out to the truck and asked me if I wanted a goat. I told her it was probably too small to eat and I didn’t have any place to keep it. Now, I don’t know if you are aware of what that means, but afterwards I found out. It is a way of proposing marriage! I about fell over when I found that out—but not to worry, President, there is no attraction on this end!’
“Do you see what I mean about high adventure? Be careful about accepting goats!

I met Bill Forrest and Debbie Hutchings when we were students at Brigham Young University. Bill had returned from his mission. He and Debbie fell in love and were married in the Oakland California Temple. They established their home in Mesa, Arizona, and were blessed with five sons and two daughters. Bill and Debbie taught their children to love the Lord Jesus Christ as they loved Him. Their son, Elder Daniel Forrest, currently serving in the Mexico Oaxaca Mission, said, “Every morning without fail we were there at the table before school reading and discussing the scriptures.”

Their daughter Kara, now married with two children of her own, still vividly remembers her father driving her to early morning activities in high school. She said, “My dad enjoyed committing quotes, scriptures, and poems to memory, [and during those early morning drives] we would practice reciting them.” One of his favorite scriptures was “Remember, remember that it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ, the Son of God, that ye must build your foundation; that when the devil shall send forth his mighty winds, … [he] shall have no power over you to drag you down … because of the rock upon which ye are built.”40

On the Friday before Easter Sunday in the year 2000, exactly 10 years ago, Bill Forrest was serving as bishop of the Estate Groves Ward in Arizona. On his drive to work, only a mile (1.6 km) from home, his car was struck by a large gravel truck. Debbie and the children left home shortly after Bill and unexpectedly came upon the tragic scene. Bill had not survived the accident. The immortal spirit of this beloved husband and father had suddenly been taken home to Him who overcame death, the Son of God, whose glorious Resurrection they were to have celebrated together that Easter Sunday.

How did Debbie and her seven children (the youngest only 5) find the strength they needed? Kara, 15 at the time of her father’s accident, recently told me: “I am grateful to my [mother and father] for the ways that they taught me [about the Savior]. They opened the scriptures with me, prayed with me, and were examples of [the Savior’s] charity, love, and patience. … Easter [is] a tender time in my life each year as I reflect on the life, mission, and Resurrection of our Savior and am reminded of the life of my earthly father.”

Elder Daniel Forrest said: “I was 10 years old when my father passed away. It was a tough time. … My mother has always been an example of the Savior’s teachings. I carry with me my father’s name badge from his mission to Spain. [Two] of my favorite quotes from my father [are]: ‘Two men can do anything as long as one of them is the Lord’ and ‘The Savior must be our foundation. Without that we flounder.’”

Faith in Jesus Christ has filled the hearts of the Forrest children. On this Easter weekend, 10 years since their father’s passing, they miss him deeply, but the sting of his death is “swallowed up in Christ.”41 They know, because of the incalculable gift of the Savior, they can be with their earthly father and their Heavenly Father again.

Jonathon grumbled as he climbed into the car next to his brother, Mike. He wanted to stay home and play the new game he had been given for his birthday last week. But his mother insisted they all go to the meetinghouse and help with the ward’s cleanup day.
“Why do we have to go?” Jonathon had asked his mother as he helped her load their vacuum into the car.
“It will be fun,” she said, smiling. “Besides, all of us use the meetinghouse. It’s only right that we help clean it from time to time.”
Jonathon stared out the window and watched the houses and trees pass by as they drove to the church. As his mother pulled the car into the church’s parking lot, Jonathon was surprised to see Brother Lawson park his car next to theirs.
“What is Brother Lawson doing here?” Jonathon wondered.
Brother Lawson had been very sick lately with a type of cancer called leukemia. He had been in the hospital for a long time. Jonathon remembered his parents encouraging Mike and him to pray for Brother Lawson during their personal and family prayers. Brother Lawson hadn’t been home from the hospital for very long.
Jonathon had always liked Brother Lawson. He was older than Jonathon’s grandfathers, but he went out of his way to talk to Jonathon and ask him about school and his sports team. One time he even came to one of Jonathon’s games.
As Jonathon climbed out of the car, Brother Lawson waved and said, “Hi, Jonathon.” Brother Lawson walked around to the back of his car and took a vacuum out of the trunk. Walking slowly, he pushed the vacuum into the church.
“Jonathon,” his mother called, “can you give me a hand with this?” She was struggling to pull their vacuum from the back of the car.
“Sure, Mom,” Jonathon said. He helped her pull the vacuum out and quickly pushed it across the parking lot.
All that evening Jonathon and Mike worked beside Brother Lawson. Several times Jonathon became tired and stopped to rest, but he noticed that Brother Lawson continued to work. And he was smiling! “It’s nice to be able to help, isn’t it?” Brother Lawson asked.
Jonathon felt something change inside him. “If Brother Lawson can be happy while he’s helping, so can I,” he thought. He started working even harder.
“Thank you for coming with me,” his mother said later as they were heading home.
“You’re welcome,” Jonathon said. “I’m sorry I complained about coming. I didn’t know you could learn so much from vacuuming.”

I will always remember one time when I performed the sealing for an ancestor. She had lived a difficult life, including the death of her first husband, the death of a toddler, and bankruptcy. During the sealing, the veil was thin, and the joy she felt while receiving her covenants was palpable. The Spirit filled my heart and the hearts of everyone in the room. It drew me closer to my Savior and gave me a surer witness of Heavenly Father’s plan of salvation and the eternal nature of families.

Some months ago Sister Faust and I were privileged to hear the testimony of Sister Fay Richardson, the wife of Bishop Richard Richardson of the Nottingham England Stake. Sister Richardson said, and with her permission I quote:
“I learned not to be passive about my testimony quite a long time ago during a religious-knowledge lesson in a schoolroom. I was fourteen years old, and after asking us all our religions, the teacher asked the question of us, ‘How many of you know God lives?’
“I felt myself go hot, and my face turn red, and I thought, “Oh, no, time to stand and be counted.” I instinctively knew that no one else would raise their hand, for they were far too sophisticated to believe in God, but I slowly raised mine. Then, feeling rather embarrassed and aware that all eyes were upon me, I said, ‘Well, I suppose so.’
“How I wished I hadn’t said that! I had added doubt to what could have been a firm testimony. In the years that followed I often dreamed of being able to stand boldly in front of that same class and bear firm testimony of the living God. I wished over and over again that I could relive the experience and be able to tell them just how much I loved my Heavenly Father. Fortunately, I learned from the experience, and I never since have said, ‘I suppose so,’ where the gospel is concerned.”

My road to BYU–Hawaii began with my conversion to the gospel. After reading the Book of Mormon and attending church regularly with my mom, I experienced a profound conversion to the gospel of Jesus Christ at the age of 16. Although my mom was quite active in the church, my parents were divorced when I was young, and I mostly stayed at my dad’s house.

I grew up in a Hawaiian community outside of Hilo on the Big Island, called Keaukaha. I was raised by the ocean there. In my youth, the water and waves served as a kind of pu‘uhonua or sanctuary for me, a buffer from life’s stresses on land.

So, I surfed a lot. And I got pretty good at it. By the time I was 15, I was ranked as a top amateur in Hawaii and the United States. But right about that same time, I found myself turning to my mom with some serious life and death kinds of questions. She, in turn, gave me a copy of the Book of Mormon, and I started attending church. Through my experiences reading the Book of Mormon and praying, my belief and confidence in God and myself began to rise.

I'll never forget the first time I read the Book of Mormon. It was a cool, sunny, and very green Saturday in Keaukaha. I was in my room, it was quiet, and I had just finished the first 30 pages of the book of Mormon. Although I had already been accustomed to prayer, I remember feeling closer to Heavenly Father after praying that day.

After completing the book of Mormon and investigating the church rather thoroughly, I was baptized in the ocean by my Bishop, Alley Auna. It was a cold early misty morning. The service was held at James Kealoha or 4-miles Beach Park near my home. Sanford Okura confirmed me a member of the church just afterward. In that blessing, he said that I would do great things for the Lord. As the blessing progressed, I noticed that it had a familiar ring to it. You see, a couple of years earlier, my grandfather, Mal Helekunihi Duke, gave me a similar blessing: saying that I would go on a mission, and eventually be an influential leader. At that time, however, all that was going through my mind was, "Yeah right grandpa, I am not going to join your church." Years later, as I sat, wet, in a white jumper getting confirmed a member of the church, my grandfather's voice returned to me, and I realized that I had received this blessing before. But this time, I believed it.

After my baptism, my focus in life shifted from a religious-like devotion to competitive surfing to a deep desire to understand God and his will for me. This quest led me to a pursuit of knowledge: first through spiritual education in the form of personal study and seminary classes, to a desire to pursue higher education.

As I was nearing the end of my initial enlistment contract with the US Army, I decided that I wanted to go to college. So, in the fall of 2005, I was admitted to BYU–Hawaii.

Transitioning from active duty in the military to attending college at a church-owned school was a welcoming experience for me. I was impressed by the goodness I felt from other students the same age as me. Their goodness inspired me to be good.

My roommate was my cousin, who was also a returned missionary. I saw him often on his knees in prayer, and he was very consistent in his daily studies of the Book of Mormon. We often talked about life, church, God, and girls. I could sense that he had a personal relationship with God, which I yearned for. I wanted to be like him. Even the friends he associated with were great people. They all aspired to be the best versions of themselves. I knew I was at a good place being here at BYU–Hawaii.

However, as much as I felt good about the direction my life was going, I was again reacquainted with a similar question that I had during my time in the military, "Will I always have this desire to do good and be good?"

My cousin attended the BYU–Hawaii devotional consistently. Although I found these devotional meetings boring at the time, I tagged along with my cousin because I had nothing better to do.

On January 26, 2006, I attended the devotional address by President Alan Jr. Walker. He was, at the time, the sales director for the Polynesian Cultural Center and the stake president for the Waipahu Hawaii Stake. President Walker spoke about the importance of developing a testimony in Jesus Christ to help us withstand the adversary's powers. He recounted the story of the people of King Benjamin in the Book of Mormon. They were the people that experienced a mighty change of heart after receiving a spiritual witness that the words of Christ that King Benjamin taught them were true.

President Walker then continued, "The conclusion of that verse of scripture used to bother me. Why? Because I had experienced a change of heart, I still found myself susceptible to temptation and even occasionally succumbing to it. No major sin, but sin nonetheless.
I would think to myself, What is wrong with me? How come I do not have a disposition to do good continually?"

Those two questions grabbed my attention. What was wrong with me? Unlike the people of King Benjamin, how come I do not have a disposition to do good continually?

President Walker knows the feeling. I was ready to soak in everything he had to say. President Walker then cited Brother Robinson's reflections about the people of King Benjamin and their change of heart:

"At that moment, filled with the Spirit and clearly seeing the two paths before them, the people of Benjamin lost all desire to follow the path of evil. I feel the same way when I feel the Spirit, but I do not always feel the Spirit...Therefore, we must recharge our spiritual batteries regularly".

Everything stood still at that moment. The noise around me seemed to fade as I began an internal dialogue with myself.

"That's it, Spencer! Your Spirit is like a rechargeable battery. The reason why you don't have that desire to do good continually is because you need to recharge that desire."

I knew a thing or two about rechargeable batteries from my time in the military. This analogy made so much sense.

Our desire to do good and be good has a shelf-life. If we want to do continually like the people of King Benjamin, we need to recharge our spiritual batteries. During my time in the military, going to church was when I recharged spiritually for the week. In contrast, being a student at BYUH and feeling the goodness and wholesomeness of people around me felt like I was charging my spiritual batteries on the go every day.

I walked out of that devotional message with a firm determination to do things that would help me maintain a desire to do good and be good.

Marine preserves—areas where purple sea anemone, baby crabs, and starfish live undisturbed by human collectors—are scattered along the California coastline. Here people wandering among the rocks may observe, but not touch, the sea life moving in the rising and falling tide.
On other beaches, though, people mingle more freely with the sea life. Here, sea creatures cast ashore by storms are fair game for beachcombers who stuff them into brightly colored pails of seawater and transport them inland and away from their natural element.
Naturalist Loren Eiseley had an experience on one of these beaches that has become a well-known parable on the preservation of life. Very early one morning, Eiseley encountered a solitary man searching the shoreline after a storm.
“Do you collect?” asked Eiseley. “Only like this,” replied the man, casting a struggling starfish far out to sea, “and only for the living.”
“The stars … throw well,” he observed. “One can help them.” (The Star Thrower, New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, p. 172.)
This man, whom Eiseley called the “star thrower”, was no ordinary collector. His sole interest was to save the starfish from anxious tourists, to protect their right to swim again in the ocean.

I know exactly how you feel. A few months ago, my boyfriend and I did something wrong. After that, it seemed as if in every fireside the speaker was talking just to me. I felt terrible. I knew I needed to tell my bishop, but I just couldn’t.

I tried to tell myself that if I just forgot about it and never did it again, the Lord would forget too. Last week I had an interview with my bishop to get my patriarchal blessing. I knew I had to tell him. I prayed before I went in. Then with a prayer in my heart, I took a deep breath and told him. Now I feel so much better! It was so hard to do. But I thank the Lord for giving me the courage to confess. Now I can complete my repentance, and I won’t have to carry that burden for the rest of my life.

Name withheld

I was recently going through a really hard time, and I didn’t know what to do, so I prayed for help and guidance. I went to my Young Women class that Sunday, and the lesson that our Young Women president gave was the answer to my prayer. She gave us a piece of paper that read, “Who Am I?” at the top. We had to see how many words we could come up with to describe ourselves. We came up with a few, and then we watched a talk by Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, and we had to write down more things about ourselves that we’d heard in the talk.
I liked that so much that I came home and wrote this on a poster and hung it on my wall: “Who am I? I am a daughter of God. I am a friend. I am a leader. I am known and loved by my Savior. I am strong. I stand for truth. I am Camryn.” I also wrote that on a piece of paper and hung it in my locker. Whenever I was feeling frustrated about my situation, I just thought about what I had written. I am so grateful for getting an answer to my prayer from that lesson.
Camryn T., Utah, USA

Last summer Scott and 17 other members of his stake went on a three-day handcart trek. The first day they pushed their carts 26 miles. The second day turkeys were turned loose. The members of the companies were blindfolded and told to catch them. Scott caught the turkey for his group.
On the last day of his trip each one went out by himself.
“That gave me a chance to think,” Scott said. “I had a lot to think about—about reaching goals, about what kind of member of the Church I was. I needed to take everything further. I needed to take what I was further. I realized the only thing stopping me was myself.”

Alone in my home and on my knees in tearful prayer, I asked Heavenly Father why things were not working out for me. Personal challenges during the previous two years had convinced me that I needed to move from the small town where I lived and find a different job. Despite many efforts, however, I had not yet been able to find an appropriate position.
As I sobbed and prayed to know why I did not seem to be receiving the help I needed, a peaceful, warm feeling came over me. I stopped speaking and just knelt there quietly. I knew that Heavenly Father was comforting me through the Spirit. To my mind came the passages of scripture that I had read many times during the previous two years and that had been a source of great comfort.
One passage was 2 Nephi 4:16–35, particularly verse 28, where Nephi says, “Rejoice, O my heart, and give place no more for the enemy of my soul.” The other passage was Doctrine and Covenants 98:3, which reassured me that my prayers were heard and that “all things wherewith you have been afflicted shall work together for your good, and to my name’s glory, saith the Lord.”
So now, even though I still felt that I wanted to move from that town, I knew with all my heart that I would be OK. Heavenly Father was there, and I felt fine about staying if He wanted me to.
Just three months later I learned that my 24-year-old son, who was attending medical school in a neighboring state, had cancer. I spent the next three weeks with him at the hospital. Had I gotten a new job, I would have had no vacation time, no release time, no sick leave. I would have had to quit the new job in order to be with my son, thereby adding unemployment to my challenges.
I couldn’t help but think that the Lord knew what was ahead and so for the moment had said no to my prayer.
My son underwent chemotherapy, and during the first few months we had no assurance he would live. I felt I needed to move to the neighboring state where he was; I could not stand to be so far away when he was sick and still making the effort to attend classes at medical school. Thankfully, through a chain of events that indicated to me the Lord was helping me, I was able to get a job in the area where my son lived.
I lived in that area long enough to see my son marry his childhood sweetheart, regain his health, graduate with honors, and present me with my first grandchild. Soon I was blessed to marry a wonderful man who was a longtime and respected friend.
“Rejoice, O my heart, and give place no more for the enemy of my soul.” “All things wherewith you have been afflicted shall work together for your good, and to my name’s glory, saith the Lord.” When the time was right, the Lord opened the windows of heaven and blessed me. I continue to remember those blessings and the comforting words of the scriptures, and I pray never to forget.