Gospel Story Finder

I was grateful for that school year to end. The summer was a welcome escape from my old friends who didn’t understand why they saw less and less of me. I knew that the less I saw of them the easier it would be to begin repenting. Some of them didn’t care. Some hated me and my new religion. Some were very hurt and just didn’t understand. But I understood, and I knew that I would always be different.
I caught hold of the gospel and hung on tight. I worked furiously to catch up in knowledge with my friends who had been raised in the Church.
I tried to be perfect because I was convinced that I could never escape my sins. I thought that by knowing all of the answers in church and receiving awards in seminary I could somehow make up for all that I had done. I remember thinking at the time that I could never be free from my haunting past. I accepted that fact and resolved to be perfect in order to compensate.
One of the hardest steps of repentance (at least for me) was to forgive myself. Like the scripture that asks how we can love God whom we have not seen when we hate our brother whom we have seen (see 1 Jn. 4:20), how can we grow closer to Him when we hate and refuse to forgive ourselves?
For four long years I struggled. To everyone around me I seemed spiritual and well versed in the scriptures. Others told me how far I had come and how well I was doing, but only I knew the black that lined my heart. I had forsaken my past sins, and I was sure that God was pleased with my new life. But I felt that he was holding my past over my head, waiting for me to fall again.
Finally, in despair and confusion, I asked for a blessing. Words cannot express the peace that entered my heart as I received this personal revelation: I would receive the comfortings of the Holy Ghost and know that I was in good standing with Heavenly Father.
How could that be? My mind didn’t understand it, but my heart accepted it. So I believed it.

The next day we visited St. Catwg’s church and we were met by Father Powell and his lay reader Carolynn Corbin, who showed us around this very impressive 2,000-year-old building. While chatting, my brother Richard discovered miracle number nine that Carolynn was a Parry and quite likely a very close cousin of ours. We exchanged emails and discovered that we did indeed have a common ancestor. This led to a wonderful afternoon tea and the uniting of another branch of Welsh and American lines. After just a few minutes with this family we knew we had met before.

The July sun felt hot to Randy Taylor as he stepped onto the pitching mound. He shook the tension from his shoulders and paused as a slight breeze blew in from left field, gently ruffling the pennants surrounding the ball diamond.
Randy carefully toed the pitching rubber and, rocking smoothly through his windup, fired his last warm-up to the plate.
“Play ball!” the umpire bellowed.
“OK, Randy, be a pitcher!” “You’ve got ’em!” “Strike ’em out!” Randy heard his Bluejay teammates call out as they whipped the ball around the infield.
They sure want to win, Randy thought, and he knew why. Today was the Fourth of July, and the city park was as alive as a disturbed anthill. He heard music and laughter coming from the concession booths that had been temporarily installed just south of the ball diamond for the weekend activities. The whump of air guns and the clanging bells at the shooting gallery added to the noise, while the smell of popcorn, candied apples, and other foods filled the air. The stands had a boisterous overflow crowd, and it was for them that the Bluejays wanted to win.
It was still too early in the year for his team’s standing to be affected much by the outcome of a single game, but Randy knew how important it was to perform well in front of such a large crowd. Well, I’ll do my part, he thought confidently as he walked toward Billy Halls, the Bluejay catcher, who was jogging out to meet him halfway.
“Boy, Randy,” Billy sighed as he dropped the baseball into Randy’s open glove. “I wish you’d taken the coach’s advice to practice more often. Who’d have thought that our two starting pitchers would get sick on the same day.”
Randy laughed and said, “Relax, Billy. I’m not third string for nothing. I’ll put ’em across—you just catch ’em.”
Billy slapped Randy on the back, muttered, “Good luck,” and trotted back to his position behind the plate.
Besides, thought Randy, I’ve got my secret weapon. It’ll never let me down.
Randy felt loose and confident as he took his place on the mound. He remembered the family home evening lesson his brother Doug had given the week before on prayer and on the blessings Heavenly Father has in store for those who live righteously. Doug had made several important points. One of them—“And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive” (Matt. 21:22)—had become Randy’s secret weapon!
What a super blessing! Randy reflected. Every time he thought about the importance of that scripture, his love for Heavenly Father seemed to increase.
With confidence and determination, Randy gripped the ball and stepped onto the rubber.
In one smooth motion Randy pivoted and fired a strike to the plate.
“Atta boy, Randy!” his teammates yelled. “He’s no batter. He’s a looker!”
Randy felt good and stretched through his windup. The next pitch barely missed the corner of the plate.
The count was one and one. Randy shook off Billy’s sign for a curve and nodded when the fastball sign was flashed. Randy riveted his eyes on Billy’s glove, reared back, and delivered. The ball swooped in fast but began to dip. Billy was forced to dive to keep the ball from scooting through to the backstop.
Two balls and one strike.
Two pitches later the Giant batter was safely on first base. Randy had walked him!
Billy hurried out and urged Randy to calm down. “You’ve got seven guys behind you. Let the Giants hit and see what the Bluejays can do.”
Randy nodded and gulped. Heavenly Father, he silently prayed, I’m asking, and I believe. Please help me out of this. Help me throw strikes.
Randy faced the next batter and eyed the target offered by Billy. Four straight balls later Giant players were on first and second bases.
Randy couldn’t believe it. He’d walked two Giants in a row!
Regardless of how hard he tried and how hard he prayed, the ball just would not go where he wanted it to go.
It became hard for Randy to see the catcher’s glove clearly because of his tears of frustration. Does Heavenly Father really love me? he wondered. Aren’t those words in Matthew true?
The coach walked out to the mound two batters later. Four Giants had walked, and the score was Giants 1, Bluejays 0. It should really read Giants 1, Randy the Slob 0, Randy thought miserably as he trudged to the bench.
He sat in the corner of the dugout, wanting to be alone. But soon he felt the presence of somebody sitting beside him. Randy looked up to see his brother Doug smiling.
“Have a piece of gum, Randy,” Doug offered.
“I’ve just embarrassed the whole Taylor family!” Randy blurted out. “I’ll never be able to show my face again. And it’s all because of your lesson on prayer the other night!”
“What do you mean, ‘my lesson’?” Doug asked, surprised. “What’s my lesson got to do with your game?”
“The scripture said, ‘And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive.’ Well, I asked, and I believed, but I didn’t receive!”
Doug nodded. “So that’s it.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” muttered Randy, tears filling his eyes again. “Heavenly Father must not love me.”
“That’s not true, Randy,” Doug said. “Heavenly Father does love you. But you were so excited by that scripture that you didn’t hear the rest of the lesson. Other scriptures tell us that we will be helped by our Father in Heaven after we’ve worked and prepared. ‘Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you’ (Matt. 7:7). The words seek and knock mean doing something, right?”
Randy nodded.
“Well, I seem to recall times when you should have been practicing pitching,” Doug reminded Randy. “That’s what you didn’t do. We need to work as though everything depends on us, and pray as though everything depends on Heavenly Father.”
“I guess you’re right,” Randy admitted. “I remember that other part now.”
“Give Heavenly Father another chance to help you, Randy, only this time help Him out. Don’t ask Him to do all the work, and maybe you’ll become a good pitcher yet.”
Randy smiled determinedly. “Thanks, Doug,” he said. “I’ll be a great pitcher someday, just you watch!” But this time, he added to himself, there’ll be no secret weapon—only good, hard work and a lot of prayer.

This legacy was passed to me by my father, Merrill M. Oveson, the youngest in the family of 13 children. He and my mother, Mal Berg Oveson, also from a faithful lineage, were sealed in the Salt Lake Temple, boarded a train, and went to Oregon to further my father’s education. They remained for more than 40 years, during many of which they lived in a very small farming community where we were the only members of the Church.
I have often thought how easy it would have been for my parents simply to change their faith and join their many friends in the community’s Christian church. This action would have simplified life for them, especially during the World War II years, when rationing of gasoline and tires made it impossible for them to travel the 40 miles to the nearest organized branch of the LDS Church. Instead, they received authorization to have a home Sunday School, which they faithfully held weekly during all those years. There we shared the sacrament as a family. There my brother and sisters and I learned the principles of the gospel and listened to Bible and Book of Mormon stories literally at the feet of our parents.

The story is similar with Shannon M., 16, who has earned her Young Womanhood Recognition, and Lucy W., 14. Lucy was halfway through her Personal Progress as a Beehive. She stumbled across the third value experience for Faith and hit a wall.
“I was supposed to look in the Bible Dictionary or True to the Faith,” says Lucy. “I didn’t know where to start. I didn’t know exactly what to look for or how I could use it toward my experience.”
Shannon mentored Lucy, and the two went through the reading materials and set goals. Lucy was able to complete the value experience and carry out a family home evening, completing her goal. This experience strengthened Lucy’s testimony and helped her stick with Personal Progress.
“When you finish something and you have to pray about it and write about it in your journal, it strengthens your relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.”
Shannon says that working on Personal Progress helped confirm the testimony she knew she had. “I was born into the Church, and I never really had that experience where I thought, ‘I know this Church is true’—until Personal Progress,” says Shannon. “It has backed my testimony up. That was the turning point.”

It was in the late 1960s when I first heard about Relief Society, and I was not yet a member of the Church.
I was excited to hear about this women’s organisation, and the missionaries had arranged for one of the sisters to pick me up for the evening homemaking meeting. It seemed like a beautiful thing to go to.
I was conscious that this was the first time to meet these women. So, with an emphasis on it being a Church meeting, my apparel was important. I was brought up in Ireland, but with the Anglican tradition that you don’t go to church without a hat. I had a hat I thought would be suitable. It happened to be quite flamboyant, with its navy and pink petals—rather like a bouquet on top of your head, but pretty. I had a matching navy coat and dress. So, well-manicured, with make-up on, and in my hat and outfit (including gloves), I was ready.
At the last minute, I thought I’d better take some food, because of the charity aspect of the organisation. So, I gathered some tins and placed them in a wicker picnic basket.
When the lovely lady arrived to pick me up, she was casually dressed in jeans and a nice sweater. I can’t remember if she had a look of shock on her face when she saw me, but it still didn’t dawn on me that I was way overdressed. Only when I went into the room did I realise they were all casually dressed — and there I was looking like the Queen Mother! I never did ask them what they thought, but they were wonderful sisters, wonderfully warm.
I’ve learned to be good at laughing at myself, but it was a serious moment for me—it was perhaps my first spiritual moment. I felt their genuine warmth, and I wanted to be connected with these sisters. I truly felt the sisterhood of which we talk and read.
I am grateful for the stability of the gospel that has helped me to ride many waves in my life. And since that first meeting I have always had an affinity with my sisters in the Church.

I want to share an example of someone who did find joy in the journey – even while living through great challenges. My father, Steve Elmer Johanson, was a hard worker. He put everything he had into providing for my mother and their seven children. Many didn’t realize how much he did enjoy the journey until after his passing a few years ago.

At a viewing prior to his funeral service, his best friend from high school, Brad Parker, came to us and shared some of the funniest, most off-the-wall things that we never knew about Dad. My dad loved cars. His first car was an Opal Cadet, and he told us stories of the fun he had in that car. He later had a Ford Pinto, and he took out the emergency brake between the front seats and put a pillow there so he could sit closer to his dates. (That’s a great idea – I wish I had thought of it! But if any boy tries that with my daughters… well, it all of a sudden doesn’t seem like such a great idea.)

Brad told us a story about another car they got their hands on. They proceeded to trash this car – I can only assume it was already in pretty bad shape. When they had done their duty on this car, they weren’t sure what to do with it. Well, it turns out that on my grandpa’s property in Ontario, Oregon, the two of them took an earthmover, dug a hole behind the house, and buried the car. We’re pretty sure it’s still there!

Now, that’s just a silly story of a couple of teenagers having fun, but as my father went through life, he continued to enjoy each day. He worked for 30 years for a corporate farm as an accountant and what most organizations would call their Chief Technology Officer. One of the partners at the farm, Brent Schultheis, shared with me that he and my dad on many occasions would sit in his office and laugh about life and the comical nuances that often come with it. This was a side of Dad that many didn’t publicly see.

When he realized that his life was probably going to be shortened by cancer, the happiness and joy he found each day was raised to a higher spiritual plane. His conversations were more Christ-centered, and his actions focused on others. When he was called home, I believe he was prepared to greet the Savior to begin the next phase of his eternal happiness… and he probably had some explaining to do to his mom and dad about that car.

Dad lived while he was alive. He found joy in the journey. He was happy, and now, I know he IS happy beyond what any of us can even imagine. How we live, the work we put into Being Happy today will make our tomorrows so much more memorable. “There is no tomorrow to remember if we don’t do something today.”

As a child living in the suburbs of Taipei, Taiwan, I never knew about the missionaries. So the first time I came in contact with them, I was curious about their message. It didn’t take long before I was eager to follow their teachings and put the gospel into practice in my life. I felt that this was a way for me to find out if there really is a God.
Within a month, I had been taught the gospel and the commandments that are taught before baptism. Peace came to me through prayer, I received personal revelation from studying the scriptures, and I never missed a Church meeting. I decided that I should be baptized.
The biggest challenge I faced at that time were problems that had emerged in my relationships with some of my friends because they opposed my involvement with the Church. I prayed a great deal about these problems, but our relationships seemed to only get worse.
I invited my friends to my baptism, but they completely disregarded my invitation. I really did not know what to do. Before my baptism, I sat alone on the sofa in the foyer of the chapel, praying that my friends would miraculously appear so I could tell them about the positive changes I had made in my life and prove to them that I was making the right decision by being baptized.
My friends never showed up, but while I poured my heart out to God, I felt an impression. At that point, I felt great love from my Heavenly Father. I knew that He was there and had truly listened to my prayer.
I originally wanted to be baptized simply because of all the wonderful things happening in my life, but at that moment, I came to understand the purpose of my baptism.
The impression I received was like the voice of the Lord speaking tenderly and directly to me, saying, “You don’t need to prove anything to anyone. You just need to prove to me that you are willing to come unto me and stay true to my gospel for the rest of your life.”

In the summer of 1979, I was surprised to learn that some of my mother’s books and papers were stored in a backyard shed of ward members in my hometown of London, Ontario. In salvaging what I could from several moldering cardboard boxes, I discovered partially completed pedigree charts on my family, some family group records, and a few research notes. The real treasure was a four-page personal history written by my mother, who died when I was 11. This wonderful handwritten history describes her childhood in England during the 1930s and her life through World War II. Finding these records stimulated my initial interest in family history and turned my heart to my ancestors.

“Have a soda, Marco,” Mike said.
I looked up, surprised. I was pretty sure he said my name funny on purpose, but it was nice of him to give me a soda. My family had just moved to the United States from Italy, and it was my first day at my new school. It had been OK, but I was glad to be on the bus going home.
“Shake it first,” Mike said. “It makes it taste better.” The boys sitting next to him giggled.
I wasn’t sure what was so funny about opening a can of soda. In Italy I had always drunk soda from a bottle. But things were different here. So I shook the can.
“Harder!” the boys yelled. I shook the can harder.
Then I lifted the tab.
Pffssssst!
Orange soda squirted all over! Everyone screamed as the soda shot into the air, hit the ceiling, and rained down on the seats around me. The bus driver slammed on the brakes. I couldn’t understand what he said as he marched toward me, but his face said I was in trouble. All I could do was hold up my dripping can of soda and point to the boys laughing at me. The driver yelled at them instead. Mike glared at me, and I sunk even lower in my seat.
Finally the driver sat back down and started driving. At last we reached my stop. I hurried off the bus, embarrassed and sticky. Soda trickled down my forehead as I ran up to our apartment. This had been a rotten first day.
“Why do kids have to be so mean?” I asked my mom as I wiped sticky orange soda off my bag. Mamma helped me dry off my wet books on the balcony.
“Usually it’s because they’ve been hurt.”
“But I didn’t do anything to them,” I said.
“When someone is mean to you, it’s easy to feel like being mean to others,” Mamma said. “It’s called a vicious cycle.”
“But I wasn’t the one being mean.”
“Maybe other people have been mean to those boys, and they decided to be mean too. But you can choose the right even if someone does something mean to you. You can start a good cycle.”
A few weeks later, my brother Tony had a birthday party with cake, ice cream, and soda. When my brother reached for his can of soda, I knew just the funny trick to play on him. “Shake it!” I said.
Tony shook his soda. “Now what?” he asked.
I was just about to tell him to open it. But then I pictured Tony and his birthday cake both covered in sticky soda. The trick didn’t seem so funny anymore. It hadn’t even been funny the first time.
“Don’t open it!” I said. “It will spray all over you.” I handed him a new can. I didn’t want to ruin his day.
Tony smiled as he opened the new can of soda. Then he cut a piece of cake and handed it to me.
This is a better cycle to start, I thought as I ate my cake.

In 1968 a marathon runner by the name of John Stephen Akhwari represented Tanzania in an international competition. “A little over an hour after [the winner] had crossed the finish line, John Stephen Akhwari … approached the stadium, the last man to complete the journey. [Though suffering from fatigue, leg cramps, dehydration, and disorientation,] a voice called from within to go on, and so he went on. Afterwards, it was written, ‘Today we have seen a young African runner who symbolizes the finest in human spirit, a performance that gives meaning to the word courage.’ For some, the only reward is a personal one. [There are no medals, only] the knowledge that they finished what they set out to do.” When asked why he would complete a race he could never win, Akhwari replied, “My country did not send me 5,000 miles to start the race; my country sent me to finish the race.” (The Last African Runner, Olympiad Series, written, directed, and produced by Bud Greenspan, Cappy Productions [videocassette, 1976].)

And years later when I was back in Argentina, I was dating Joaquin, and he was not a member of the Church, I had long talks and support from my bishop that gave me the strength to always put the gospel first and stick to my eternal goals. He was always there to listen and help me figure things out, or to give me a blessing and the encouragement I needed. Thanks to all that, I had the strength to say no when Joaquin proposed, because I had made the decision to marry in the temple.

The first temple in Argentina was dedicated when I was 21. And even then, it was pretty far from my house. But I did think of the temple, and I learned about the temple. I saw families selling their homes to be sealed in the closest temple, which was in Mesa, Arizona. The value of temples was of great impact, because we didn’t have a temple. We longed for one. I had wonderful bishops and leaders that helped me set goals, that taught me the importance of temple covenants, and the temple was my highest and first priority.

I am not sure I understood this at the time, but just like in Bible times when people attended a temple, they brought a sacrifice to the Lord; I, too, was going to have to bring a huge sacrifice to the Lord.

Buenos Aires in the ‘80s was not like Rexburg today; the list of eligible bachelors was pretty short! Imagine then how hard it was when this amazing young man that melted my heart asked me to marry him and I had to say no. It was painful and heartbreaking. It was a sacrifice, an act of faith. When he spoke of marriage, I told him about my goals, about how important temple marriage was for me. I knew he probably thought I was crazy; and, there was a pretty good chance I would never see him again!

We all have to make sacrifices to bring to the Lord to the temple. What are you going to sacrifice? Say no to something you really like and go to the temple. Leave your Netflix show for another day and go to the temple! Say no to video games for one day and go to the temple! Wish you had a date and you don’t? Go to the temple! Temple covenants are part of the plan of salvation; and, temple worship is part of our earthly education. Bring to the temple your greatest joys, your biggest sorrows, and your deepest questions. I had to make a sacrifice and say no to a wonderful boy, no matter how handsome, kind, or how good of a catch he was!

I am grateful for bishops that taught me the importance of temples, for goals that raised my vision, for the faith to say no to someone I really loved, and, above all, I am grateful that he stuck around to find out for himself and did marry me in the temple!

Her dad is the bishop of the Arue Ward in the Pirae Tahiti Stake, is a sealer in the Papeete Tahiti Temple, and is a trusted employee of the Bank of Tahiti, so he is a very busy man. Yet he remembers twenty-six years ago, when he was a young father and the sister missionaries came to teach him the gospel. He refused to take the missionary discussions but agreed to let the sisters come and hold family home evenings. They came, and along with the prayers, the songs, the fun, and the refreshments, they taught him the gospel. Family home evening has held a special place in his heart ever since. He has not let a single week pass without holding a family home evening since he was baptized in 1968.

“Even though I forgot to read a few times, overall it was a success. I realized that before I started Elder Stevenson’s invitation, I was really only reading about 3 minutes each night, and by increasing my reading to 10 minutes each night, I saw a difference in my life. When I read, I feel more in tune with the Spirit and I can feel the blessings of spiritual protection every day. The same way that it can be hard to start reading after not reading the scriptures for a while, once I started the habit of reading, I couldn’t stop.
“I noticed that for me, when I read the scriptures right before bed, I normally fell asleep or didn’t get as much out of my reading. It worked best to read either in the morning or after school.
“I had a blast doing this and would challenge everyone to try it.”
Rachel A., age 15, Colorado, USA

I remember once a seven- or eight-year-old son of ours jumping on his bed hard enough that I thought it might break. I felt a flash of frustration, and I moved quickly to set my house in order. I grabbed my son by his little shoulders and lifted him up to where our eyes met.
The Spirit put words into my mind. It seemed a quiet voice, but it pierced to my heart: “You are holding a great person.” I gently set him back on the bed and apologized.
Now he has become the great man the Holy Ghost let me see 40 years ago. I am eternally grateful that the Lord rescued me from my unkind feelings by sending the Holy Ghost to let me see a child of God as He saw him.

Consider the choice made by one faithful couple. After recently purchasing a farm for their retirement, they felt prompted to accept a mission call. They were called to serve in a village far from other Church units. They built their own housing, dug their own water well, attended to all their personal needs, and proselytized by bicycle. While the living conditions were extremely difficult, they enjoyed wonderful success in teaching, training members, and bringing converts to the gospel.
In the course of their mission this couple received a letter from a family member reporting that thieves had broken into their farm and stolen all their farm implements and machinery. They were urged to return home and seek to reclaim their much-needed property. The mission president gave them the option to do so. This couple considered their choice and decided to stay. They were not held captive by their worldly goods. They were free to choose the Lord’s service, and they so chose.

In 1967 Norman elected to join a religious service fraternity, and I worried that this would be one more barrier to his conversion. Strenuously, I told my objections, telling him it would lead to further prejudice against the Church. When he said he was not prejudiced, I asked, “Are you tolerant enough to go to church with me?” He didn’t answer, but later that day he said that if I really wanted him to attend, he would. So he began attending the investigators’ class in Sunday School, and within a year he was also attending sacrament meeting. Of course, the boys and I were delighted, and we will be forever grateful to the ward members for the way they welcomed him and made him a part of the ward. But through that year I could sense a great struggle going on inside him. He questioned many doctrines. (Later, when we asked him what was most instrumental in his conversion, he said that his family meant more to him than anything else, and this church’s family orientation was a strong appeal. Second, he was unable to prove the gospel wrong, so decided it must be right.) I was also gratified that we were invited to many social activities in the homes of ward members, and Norman found that we could enjoy ourselves without the need for alcoholic drinks. He also supported both boys on missions and gave brief talks in sacrament meeting prior to their leaving.

This is certainly true for the women of the Church, many of whom desire female role models in addition to the often more talked about male figures of scripture and history. Although I grew up in a family of strong, talented, capable, and faithful women, I did not realize this was a need until I had a heartrending experience with my only daughter, Rachel, when she was eleven or twelve. She was our only child for six years; she was our baby girl and my princess. When she was in middle school, I used to drive her to the bus stop each morning. Often, as we waited, we would do our scripture reading together.

One day we were reading one of those “problem” passages written by Paul—either 1 Corinthians 14:34–35 or maybe 1 Timothy 2:11–12—when she looked at me and asked, “Daddy, why doesn’t Heavenly Father like girls as much as boys?”

I do not even know why I was reading Paul with a seventh grader—perhaps it is an occupational hazard of having a religion professor as a dad!

I could have tried a complicated exegesis, speaking of textual history or dislocation or trying to explain the time-and-culture specific problem of elite women in Corinth or Ephesus. But at that time all I could do was tearfully testify to my daughter that I knew that Heavenly Father and Jesus loved her as much as they loved me.

In the years since, I have striven to give my daughter and my students—male and female—models of powerful women of faith and ­testimony: Old Testament prophetesses such as Miriam, Deborah, Hannah, and Huldah; New Testament disciples such as Mary, the mother of our Lord, the other Marys, and Martha; and latter-day women of Christ such as Emma Smith, Eliza R. Snow, and my own mother. In such an environment of testimony, Rachel has grown into a woman of Christ. She is a senior at BYU, a student of the scriptures, an ordinance worker in the Provo Temple, and one who is important as an individual—not just as our daughter, a sister, or a future wife and mother. I am still learning that in addition to my own testimony, I must find and share faithful witnesses of all sexes, tongues, peoples, and life experiences.

The missionaries taught us about the Book of Mormon and left a copy for us to read. This was during the summer, and I was on vacation for a couple of months after finishing my first year at the university. So I took the book that afternoon after the discussion and started to read it.
Page after page I read and read and read, and I couldn’t stop. There was this magic that came from the book. I love reading and had read many books, but this was different. I was captured by the book, and after I had read for several hours, my mother said, “Juan, turn off the light! Your brothers want to sleep.” And I said, “Yeah, just a moment, just a moment,” and I continued reading. Even after many hours of reading, I had no hunger, no thirst, and no desire for sleep.
Illustration by Brian Call
Before I finished the book, I knew that something special was in it. I had a testimony because of three things that I experienced as I was reading the book for the first time.
The first thing that happened to me during those hours was a profound feeling of peace that was different from anything I had experienced before. This feeling of peace was with me for several hours.
The second thing I experienced as I was reading was a feeling of joy. It was not the happiness I was used to having when I was with my friends or when I bought something I really liked. It was not a feeling of happiness; it was a feeling of joy. As I was reading, I began to cry and I realized, “Wow, I like this!”
And the third thing that I experienced was enlightenment. When I first started to read, it was difficult to understand because there were words like Nephi and Atonement that were unfamiliar to me. But after a few hours of reading, my mind was opened, and it was like there was light in my mind and I could comprehend more and more as I continued reading the book.
I learned later that those three experiences are some of the ways in which the Spirit manifests to us.

Training for the mile swim had taken place daily. The four swimmers attempting the distance were accompanied by an adult in a canoe. A lagoon at the end of the lake had been measured as 225 yards wide. Someone said it would take 16 laps to make a mile. It was only after swimming ten lengths that someone else figured out that there are only 1,760 yards in a mile, and the mile swimmers had already paddled along for more than 2,000 yards!

In addition to the merit badge activities, visits were made to Hole-in-the-Rock, a narrow gorge through which Utah pioneers lowered their wagons, and to Rainbow Bridge, the largest natural arch in the world. And of course, there were the usual campfire chats, tall tales, songs, and games.
A full moon shone over the water the last night in camp. Even though sunburned and parched at the lips, nobody was eager to leave.
But families were waiting. In the morning there would be just enough time to tour the Glen Canyon Dam visitors’ center, pack each other into the cars, and head back to Mesa.
The Scouts felt a sense of accomplishment that night. They had had a great time, it’s true. That’s easy at Lake Powell. But they’d also learned to organize themselves and work hard together, and they had memories and merit badges to prove it.