Gospel Story Finder

He was taught well by his parents, but as a teenage farm boy he desired his own personal witness of the reality of God and his work.
“One day in my youth I was hunting cattle. While climbing a steep hill, I stopped to let my horse rest, and there, once again, an intense desire came over me to receive a manifestation of the truth of the Restored Gospel. I dismounted, threw my reins over my horse’s head, and there under a serviceberry bush I prayed that God would declare to me the truth of his revelation to Joseph Smith. I am sure that I prayed fervently and sincerely and with as much faith as a young boy could muster.
“At the conclusion of the prayer, I arose from my knees, threw the reins over my faithful pony’s head, and got into the saddle. As I started along the trail again, I remember saying to myself: ‘No spiritual manifestation has come to me. If I am true to myself, I must say I am just the same “old boy” that I was before I prayed.’”
He had learned a great lesson. A young Latter-day Saint does not get conviction merely by asking the Lord, but by combining that asking with work, service, sacrifice, and obedience to God’s commandments.

“My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment” (D&C 121:7).
This verse also helped me make a difficult decision. My friend and I had been inseparable for five years. We played sports together, went on trips together, and hung out every weekend. But she began hanging out with an older group of friends who I didn’t want to be around. In the end she made me choose between having her as a friend or sticking to my beliefs regarding the Word of Wisdom and the law of chastity. I was devastated. I never knew that standing up for what I believed could be so hard. But I chose to make new friends, always keeping in mind Heavenly Father’s promise to Joseph Smith that everything would work out all right.

Today is the first day of camp, and we did the swimming merit badge. A leader threw a brick into the pool, and we each had a turn to jump in and get it. I wasn’t sure how Bryant would do, but I tried my best to help him know where to go. I shouted directions to him from the side of the pool. He probably couldn’t hear underwater, but he didn’t give up. He kept feeling around until he found the brick. He finished on time and earned his badge. It was awesome!

Last year Chantal auditioned for a prestigious “gala” concert where the press attends and reports on the best new talent in Montreal. Chantal passed the audition and was scheduled to perform. But when she found out that it was to be held on a Sunday, she withdrew from the concert.
“I fasted about it,” recalls Chantal. “Even though I really wanted to sing at the gala, if the Spirit says don’t go, you don’t go. So I didn’t. The important thing is to always follow what Heavenly Father wants us to do. But I know because I listened to the Spirit, other opportunities have come my way.”
One of these opportunities was to sing for a seminary film produced by the Church last year. Both sisters were asked to help with French translations for the film. Chantal told the producer she liked to sing, and was asked to record several songs for the project. She went to the studio, put on the earphones, and surprised everybody by doing an outstanding job in record time. A technician told her she had professional talent, which was encouraging.
“If I sing professionally, my commitment to God will always take first priority,” she says. “I look at my singing as missionary work.”

I chose to arrange the next two family home evenings, focusing on faith. I started off by preparing the lessons and trying to learn the chords on the guitar for the songs we would sing.
The first lesson was on faith. I asked what we as a family could change to grow our faith. They replied, “Praying, studying scriptures, fasting, going to church,” and so on. We agreed that there are many things you can do to grow your faith, but the most important thing is to actually do them. It’s important that you act in order to strengthen your faith.
The second lesson was on spiritual gifts. We talked about what faith and spiritual gifts had to do with each other.
Our faith-themed family home evenings went really well. We improved some things in our family; we had fun and tried not to just get it over with. We felt the Spirit together as a family.
Riza S., age 16, Roskilde, Denmark

When Stephen and Richard were born in 1985, twins were exciting, triplets happened occasionally, and quadruplets were rare. That septuplets were even possible was a relatively new idea.
Being in the first set of septuplets born in the United States brought a lot of attention to their family. Sadly, only Stephen, Richard, and their sister, Patti, survived the first few weeks, and the brothers were left battling cerebral palsy. Soon all the attention diminished, and the brothers would learn that being different isn’t easy.
“They’ve had to deal with a lot of teasing growing up because they couldn’t do some of the things other kids were doing,” says their father, Sam.
When their friends or family members play sports, Stephen’s and Richard’s participation is limited. But the two boys don’t see themselves as handicapped. They always give everything their best shot.
For example, when Richard (whose reflexes are better than Stephen’s) got a skateboard, Stephen wanted to ride it too. He didn’t give up until he had learned to balance and roll slowly down the street.
“He’s got real stick-to-itiveness,” Brother Frustaci says. “Neither of them gives up.”
Every Young Man
The Frustaci brothers’ challenges haven’t kept them from enjoying life. Stephen loves to play with the dogs, read, and run. He recently made his school track team. Richard loves music, skateboarding, and playing water polo.
Their challenges also won’t keep them from earning the Duty to God Award.
“There are some requirements Stephen won’t be able to do,” stepmom Toni says, “and some might have to be modified. But I think kids with challenges would be able to accomplish most of these requirements.”
Among the Duty to God goals for priests are to get a part-time job (something Stephen hasn’t been able to find yet), get a driver’s license (something he probably won’t ever be able to do—much to his dismay), and hike 15 miles with a pack in two days or less (the 15 miles is fine, but the pack is out).
Even so, with a little help the brothers are capable of completing enough requirements in each category to earn the award—which is only fitting, since like every young man, these brothers have a duty to fulfill and a desire to fulfill it.

Sister Quashigah was the first member of the family to be introduced to the Church by young elders who stopped by her sewing shop and gave her a Book of Mormon. She took the book home and showed it to Brother Quashigah, who after becoming disillusioned with churches in general, expressed his lack of interest.
Esinam set the book aside, not wanting to push the matter further. She and the children had been attending a Christian church, but Vincent was not attending. He had visited many congregations over several years but was dissatisfied with the teachings and atmosphere he found there, so he made the decision to quit going to church. He was especially discouraged with the lack of scripture-supported doctrine in the sermons he heard. The Spirit was absent, and he felt nothing when he attended other churches. Esinam faithfully took the children to the church that she had chosen to attend, but she prayed for the day when the family could “get in the truck and go to church together”. She didn’t care which church it was, as long as they all went together. She decided to be patient and keep praying.
Through her temple experience, Sister Quashigah has found a new boldness in sharing the gospel with friends and family. She feels the promptings of the Spirit and hears the still, small voice testify to her of the doctrines of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She recalls that before the Church came into their lives, she would weep often because of her desire for a united family. The day after President Quashigah was baptized was one of the happiest days of her life, as they all got into the truck and went to church together.

Let me illustrate. I am very concerned about the tendency of members to disregard the counsel of the bishop or, at the other extreme, to become overdependent upon him.
I decided to speak in general conference about the bishop.
I prayerfully prepared, and there came to mind a conversation from 50 years past. It served my need as a teacher—served it perfectly. I quote now that conversation just as I did in general conference:
“Years ago I served on a stake high council with Emery Wight. For 10 years Emery had served as bishop of rural Harper Ward. His wife, Lucille, became our stake Relief Society president.
“Lucille told me that one spring morning a neighbor called at her door and asked for Emery. She told him that he was out plowing. The neighbor then spoke with great concern. Earlier that morning he had passed the field and noticed Emery’s team of horses standing in a half-finished furrow with the reins draped over the plow. Emery was nowhere in sight. The neighbor thought nothing of it until much later when he passed the field again, and the team had not moved. He climbed the fence and crossed the field to the horses. Emery was nowhere to be found. He hurried to the house to check with Lucille.
“Lucille calmly replied, ‘Oh, don’t be alarmed. No doubt someone is in trouble and came to get the bishop.’
“The image of that team of horses standing for hours in the field symbolizes the dedication of the bishops in the Church and of the counselors who stand by their side. Every bishop and every counselor, figuratively speaking, leaves his team standing in an unfinished furrow when someone needs help.”3

Illustration by Emanuele Nicoletti Serra
As a child, I paid tithing faithfully without ever thinking of holding back the money for myself. But at 17, I faced a defining moment when I had to decide if being a full-tithe payer was really what I wanted.
As a senior in high school, I’d been working part-time at a fast-food restaurant for a year and a half. At the beginning of the school year, I’d convinced myself that I needed more time for homework, school choir activities, and the rehearsals and performances for a musical in which I’d received a small part at a local theater. So I quit my job.
I had always set aside my tithing as soon as I cashed a paycheck, but a few months before quitting the job, I stopped paying tithing. Instead, I unwisely used the money for other things, putting what was left in my savings account.
In late December, I had an appointment for tithing settlement with my bishop. It turned out to be a very uncomfortable experience. He asked if I was a full-tithe payer. I told him the truth—I was not. I think I owed about $65. I had twice that much in the bank, but I didn’t want to use any of it, because without a job, I needed money for gas, dates, and other “important” expenses.
I thought my bishop would simply encourage me to do better next year and make a note that I was a part-tithe payer. But no. He invited me to make a commitment to pay the Lord what I owed. I wasn’t expecting that, and I would not commit. I told him I’d think about it, but I had no intention of paying.
Over the next few days, strange things happened. Until now, the bishop and I had rarely seen each other except on Sundays. But that week, I saw him every day—at the store, at youth activites, and more. Each time he’d greet me with the same question: “Have you made a decision?” And my response was always the same: “No.”
After several days of these unusual meetings, I finally realized that the Lord was using my bishop as a reminder for me to do the right thing. In my heart I always knew what I should do, and finally, wanting to be obedient, I withdrew the tithing money from my savings account and paid all that I owed that next Sunday.
Even though I knew I’d done the right thing, I was still worried about having very little money in the bank for the rest of the school year—and no job.
Then came the phone call. Two days after I paid my tithing, the manager of the fast-food restaurant I’d worked at called me. She was desperate. Several employees had recently quit, and she pleaded with me to come back to work—immediately.
For a moment I didn’t know what to say. While I welcomed the job offer and the income it would provide, I hesitated to accept because the one negative aspect of the job during the year-and-a-half that I had previously worked there was the requirement that I work on the Sabbath. As a result, I had missed many Church meetings and activities.
Suddenly, as if reading my thoughts, my manager said, “And if you come back, this time you won’t be required to work on Sundays.”
Some might say this was just a coincidence, but I knew better. I accepted the job offer with the firm belief that the Lord was now blessing me for being obedient to His law of tithing.
I know the Lord used my bishop, who showed up day after day and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Ever since then, I’ve come to understand, in a very personal way, these words of King Benjamin: “He doth require that ye should do as he hath commanded you; for which if ye do, he doth immediately bless you” (Mosiah 2:24; italics added).
The author lives in Arizona, USA.

The October dawn was frosty as I helped load our belongings into the covered wagon. The weight I carried in my ten-year-old heart was heavier than the bundles of clothes and food under which I struggled. It just isn’t fair, I thought. I don’t want to leave our home and my friends and travel three hundred miles to an unknown place.
It was 1877, and our home near St. George, Utah Territory, was already one of the farthest away from Salt Lake City.
My mother called. “Mary Agnes, please make sure everything is cleared from the back porch before we leave.”
As I made my way around the house, I thought back to the day six months ago when my father had returned from the dedication of the St. George Temple. Mother and I had stayed home because my baby brother was very ill. One look at Father told me that something serious had happened.
Mother spoke first. “William, what is the matter?”
My strong father took her in his arms with tears streaming down his face. “We must leave our beautiful home.” He could say no more.
Leave? How could we leave? After years of saving and doing without, we had finally been able to buy 260 acres of farmland and build a comfortable brick home where the ten of us could live. We had many horses, cattle, and other farm animals. We lived near my grandmother and my cousins. I was able to attend the school in town. Who would ask us to sacrifice all this?
Later, I heard my parents discussing what was happening. Families were needed to extend Church settlements and influence farther south. Brigham Young had called my father to move with his family. He counseled my father to sell all that we had so that we would not be tempted to return to Utah. We were needed in Arizona.
Arizona. A place where there was very little water. Where there were great distances with nothing to see. Men had been called there by the prophet last year. Many had returned to Utah because they could not endure the hardships. Father said no greater sacrifice could be asked of him.
Mother’s voice brought me back to the present. “It is hard to leave, is it not, Mary Agnes? Do you know the real reason we are moving?”
I shook my head.
“We are going to Arizona because the prophet gave that call to us. Remember what I told you about when I was your age and my family lived in Nauvoo? After the Prophet Joseph Smith was killed, there were contentions with nonmember neighbors. The Brethren told us to leave our homes and move west. There our lives would be spared, and we could worship as we pleased in peace.
“Terrible as it was to leave our home, there was nothing else to do unless we turned away from God, the Brethren, and the Church. We made the long, hard journey to the valley of the Great Salt Lake. We sacrificed again when we followed President Young’s direction to leave there and settle here.
“Now we have been asked to go to Arizona. We do not have to go to the unsettled desert. No one is forcing us. We are not fleeing for our lives. We could make excuses to not go. This time the struggle to obey comes from within.”
Mother hugged me to her as she continued. “In the Doctrine and Covenants, the Lord said that when we receive a commandment ‘whether by mine own voice or by the voice of my servants, it is the same.’*
“Our prophet has spoken to us. I know he speaks for God. Your father and I decided long ago that we would follow the counsel of the prophet, no matter what the sacrifice.”
The Spirit warmed me as I listened to Mother’s testimony. I gained strength to face the uncertainties ahead.
As I climbed in the loaded wagon, I took one last look at our home, then turned to face the trail to Arizona. I realized that I, too, had a testimony of God’s representative on earth. Like my parents, I would follow the prophet, even to the last frontier.

“Blast that girl!” said Arnie to himself. “Blast me, too! And blast everything that has to do with that stupid art show.”
He glanced upward towards heaven. “Why?” he asked. “Why on the day before the biggest art show of my life does she have to come to my school? What did I do wrong? What did I do to deserve this?”
Not receiving any answer, Arnie looked down at the pad he held in his hand. The beginnings of a little boy playing in the sand were sketched lightly in blue. Oh, yes, the picture would be a good one, one of his best. It would make a nice finale to his entry in the contest. But it was nothing compared to Jana Lee Smithy’s paintings in oil!
Arnie grimaced. If only she had arrived two days later! Then the judging would have been over and the art student-of-the-year award would have been his. After that Miss Jana Lee could have been the best art student in the school; it wouldn’t have mattered. But no. There she was. And she was brilliant.
Arnie threw down his pencil and groaned audibly. He glanced around the small park where he drew many of his sketches and collected ideas. What a waste of a beautiful day! But how could he be content to turn in just four drawings? Jana Lee Smithy was going to show four completed oil paintings, each a vision of color and light. When her paintings were unveiled in the morning and the school compared hers to his slight “sketches,” Arnie knew how his classmates would react. “Well,” they would say, “Arnie’s not quite as good as he makes out to be, is he?” And people would nod in assent and then never stop talking about what a genius Jana Lee was.
Arnie looked at the small boy who was unknowingly modeling for his sketch. Hurriedly and quietly the boy was building himself a castle. Tiny hands moved quickly and knowingly through the granules of yellow dirt. Wary of sand too dry or sand too wet, the boy’s small fingers gathered piles of sand together and molded them into turrets and walls. Broken twigs served as posts and pillars and flags for the castle.
Arnie wasn’t sure what everything the boy made was, but it was certainly immense. When Arnie began his drawing, the little fellow had just begun the main building. Now stables, dogs’ houses, an armory, and finally a great wall had been formed. The child was amazing. Or, thought Arnie, he would be until something better came along. Then the castle would be merely a trifle, something to be forgotten—like Arnie would be after tomorrow.
Arnie frowned and looked at his drawing. Despite its unfinished quality, he felt tempted to just leave it as it was. Nothing could help him now. Numbers of drawings couldn’t change the quality of Jana Lee’s work. Finally, discipline got the better of him. He picked up the blue pencil and finished the final details of the picture.
After another 45 minutes the picture was finished. Arnie smiled at the little figure in the drawing. The contentment on the child’s face was contagious, and Arnie grinned. It was a futile effort, he knew, like the sand castle whose immortality would lie in the little boy’s heart rather than in the park. But, like the child, Arnie felt a glow at having done a good job. The glow wasn’t big enough to fill the emptiness he felt at being a failure, but it was nice nonetheless. He gathered up his pencils and put them in their case. Carefully, he stood and, with a nod to the little boy, headed for home.
By the time Arnie reached his street, the slight high that finishing the drawing had given him was gone. Even the coziness of the familiar, flower-lined path that led to his front door had no effect. There’s not much that can make a failure happy, he reflected. The sounds of family that echoed in the air didn’t help, either. In fact, the thought of seeing his hopeful mother, proud father, and admiring sister made him want to hide. They’d all had such high hopes for him. And now he was letting them down. Arnie stood on the doorstep for a second trying to decide whether or not to tell them that he’d seen the winning entries, halfway hidden behind Mr. Olsen’s desk, and they weren’t his. Arnie shook his head. He didn’t want their sympathy. He opened the door.
“I’m home,” he called.
Sheryll, his sister, bounded past him on her way to the kitchen. “You don’t say?” she laughed over her shoulder. “I never would have guessed.”
Arnie grimaced at her. Sisters. Freshmen. Two deadly ingredients when combined. He put his supplies down on the floor and headed for the stairs. His mother’s voice caught him two steps up.
“You’re not going to leave your things here in the hall, are you?” He turned around and looked into his mother’s warning brown eyes. Arnie grinned sheepishly.
“Me?”
She nodded. “My visiting teachers are coming over tonight.” Arnie looked knowingly at her. “Not,” she said, raising her voice as well as her eyebrows, “that that should make any difference.”
“Of course not, Mom,” Arnie replied. He gathered his things up and took them with him to his room. Carefully, he put the drawing on his desk and his kit on the floor. Shutting his door carefully behind him, he made his way to the bathroom where he washed his hands. As he did so, he tried to smile in the mirror. It didn’t do any good. His brown hair looked unruly, his eyes dim, and his face ruddy. What a depressing sight! If my eyes looked any redder … He shrugged off the thought. What had he to complain about? He wasn’t hoping to make a living with his face, just his hands.
“Which,” he said to the face in the mirror, “are proving to be betraying assets.” Arnie went down to dinner.
As the family took their places after the prayer, Arnie’s father looked over the mashed potatoes at his son.
“So, are you ready for tomorrow, Arnie?” he asked. Arnie choked on a pea.
When his coughing had subsided he replied, “About as ready as I’m going to get, Dad.”
“Then you should be plenty ready,” said his mother.
“What were you doing this afternoon?” asked Sheryll.
“I was drawing at the park.” Arnie looked down at his plate. “I thought one more piece might help me in the contest.”
“That smacks of overkill,” said his father.
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Arnie.
“Besides,” said Sheryll, “everybody in school knows how good he is. All my friends like his stuff. One more drawing will be …”
“One more drawing,” interrupted Arnie. “Enough. Isn’t there anything else to talk about?”
His mother looked at him with concern. “Are you feeling all right, Arnie?”
“Just nerves, dear,” said his father. But still, even as he spoke, Mr. Wells looked at his son with a searching look.
Arnie ducked his father’s gaze and stuck his fork into his mouth. Oops, he thought as his father’s look changed to one of amazement. I should have put something on the fork first.
“Arnie, if there’s anything …”
Frustrated, Arnie stood up. “May I be excused? I’m finished. And I’ve got to mount this last drawing.”
He could see by the surprised looks on the faces of his family that they were amazed by the sudden outburst. He continued, “I’ll be in my room.” Arnie backed out of the room and fled up the stairs.
“Well, at least they only doubted my sanity,” Arnie said to himself as he shut and locked the door behind him. “They don’t have to doubt my abilities until tomorrow.”
He looked forlornly at the drawing on his desk. “Ah, friend, if you only knew what humiliation you will face tomorrow, you wouldn’t smile so much.”
The little boy grinned at him happily. The scripture in 2 Nephi flashed into Arnie’s mind. “And men are, that they might have joy” (2 Ne. 2:25). Arnie frowned. Well, he thought, joy certainly hasn’t been my cellmate these last few hours! What’s there to be joyful about? Instead of a talent made out of silk, I get one made of a sow’s ear. And I’m supposed to be happy! He shrugged and set about making the results of his poor talent presentable.
When he finished, Arnie put his five entries on his bed and looked at them one at a time. Each of them was pleasant to look at. The laughter and light in them was enough to make any viewer smile. Each drawing represented a lot of effort. It was a pity that they would go to waste. Arnie shook his head and readied himself for bed.
After placing the five drawings and his books near the door, Arnie knelt to say his nightly prayer. “Heavenly Father,” he began. But his mind went numb. Arnie had always trusted his Father in Heaven, but this night he found it difficult to bare his soul. Before, he’d always known of his worth as a child of God. He’d never had any reason to doubt. But now, Arnie wasn’t everything that he thought he was. It was a little difficult to explain to Heavenly Father that things were different and that Arnie wasn’t quite the person he thought he had been.
Finally, after many minutes of silence, only one thing came to his mind. “I don’t understand,” he said softly, “why I am what I am. But I must be of some importance, despite my faults. Help me be happy.”
Arnie paused, then closed his prayer. He climbed slowly into bed, and after tossing and turning for a long while, drifted into sleep.
The next morning dawned much too early for Arnie’s likes. I’m not any happier, he thought, than I was last night. But he did feel a little more distanced from the despair than he had felt the night before. His drawings, as he looked at them one more time before leaving the house, didn’t look quite as inelegant as they had seemed. Still, they weren’t going to win any awards. Arnie still wasn’t quite good enough to be what was expected.
Despite Sheryll’s chatter in the car, Arnie maintained a stony silence on the way to school. Luckily, his lively sister was so excited about the competition, the weather, and her best friend’s new boyfriend, that it would have been impossible for him to have said anything had he wanted to. Finally, the ride was over. He said good-bye to his father and sister and escaped down the hall to the art department.
Voices could be heard behind the wood door as Arnie approached. He really didn’t want to see anybody just yet and was about to turn away when the door opened.
“Ah, Arnie,” said Mr. Olsen. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Arnie smiled weakly.
Mr. Olsen beamed at him. “I was just going to take Jana Lee down to where she’ll be hanging her paintings. But maybe you can show her.”
Great, thought Arnie, now I’m a glorified hall monitor.
Mr. Olsen continued. “Since you and Jana will be hanging your works next to each other, that should I make things easier for all of us. That’ll be all right, won’t it?”
Arnie nodded.
“Good.”
Arnie sighed and turned around. He heard the sound of Jana Lee’s feet behind him.
“Wait a second, Arnie,” she said as she reached his side. Arnie turned to give her one of his pained looks. But when he saw her he stopped.
Jana Lee smiled and adjusted the paintings which had started to slip. But that wasn’t what stopped him. It wasn’t the paintings either, though they were as magnificent as ever. It was something that he saw in her eye, something that he recognized. Her eyes were as red-rimmed as his own.
Why? he thought. What had she to worry about? When she was ready, they headed towards the library. Neither said another word, though Arnie saw her looking at him once as he glanced at her.
As Arnie thought about what he had seen and what it meant, something occurred to him that he had never thought of before. In the parable of the talents, different talents were given to the servants: five talents, two talents, and one talent. Arnie had always just assumed that some people were five-talent people and some people were two-talent people. But what he knew when the image of Jana Lee’s overworked eyes sank deep into his heart was that most people started out with both talents and potential for talents. Just because you didn’t have five talents the first day didn’t mean you couldn’t have them—if you worked. Didn’t the Lord say, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant” to the man who began with two talents? He had started with two and had come away with four. He had done good work.
Arnie was also a worker. Perhaps, today, Arnie had two talents. But, as he thought back, he’d only begun with one. Perhaps next time, at the next competition, Arnie would have a five-talent art like Jana Lee. She, as he saw in her eyes, had worked for hers. He, as he knew in his heart, could work for his. And with that revelation, being pleased with his own work, Arnie was, for the first time in a long time, content.
He and Jana Lee reached the wall where they would hang up their works. After he helped her with the paintings, Jana Lee helped him with his drawings. When they reached the last one, that of the boy in the sand, Jana Lee smiled.
“This one’s really good,” she said. “Who was the model? He’s got such a knowing look on his face.”
“I don’t know who he was,” replied Arnie. “But he was a smart kid. And he built a great sand castle.”

When I was in high school, my mom would place the New Era so that when I came home from school, I would be sure to see it. I usually glanced at the cover and that was it. My freshman year of college my mom started sending me the New Era every month. At first I would just put it on the coffee table hoping to impress someone. Now in my sophomore year, I anxiously await the arrival of the New Era. I really appreciate the uplifting articles and the inspirational musical numbers. Now I don’t have to use the New Era to impress anyone but myself.
Heidi SmithEllensburg, Washington

Returning to where we began, please remember that as Latter-day Saints you are gifted. Picture this familiar fast Sunday scene, recently described to me. A young child, standing on a stool, was barely visible over the pulpit. Her father stood next to her, offering encouragement and assisting with soft whispers to her ear as she proudly shared, “I am a child of God.”

The next testimony that followed came from a young adult who began with a nervous quip: “I wish I had someone whispering in my ear like that.” Then she had a flash of inspiration and testified, “I do have someone whispering in my ear like that—the Holy Ghost!”

There was something strange about mom and dad both coming to my room to say good-night. It seemed like they had something on their minds. Mom said, “We received a great blessing in the mail today, Jan.” Then dad added, “I have been called to be a mission president. Here is a letter from President Kimball. You will want to read it.”

My heart dropped. Where? When? Do I have to go, too? My eyes began to sting. I didn’t even attempt to hold back the tears. I wanted mom and dad to know that what they were saying was destroying my world. It wasn’t fair. Imagine asking a young, involved, excited sophomore in high school to pack away all her dreams and go out into the mission field without her friends or her older brothers or sisters for three years!

“Sweetheart, this is such a special opportunity and calling,” mom said soothingly. Then dad said, “If you want me to say no, I will. We can’t accept this call without the support of all our family.”

“No way, daddy,” I said through my tears. “We will have to think of something else. Can I live with someone here and finish school? Maybe one of my brothers or sisters wouldn’t mind.” Then the thought struck me: How could I function without mom and dad there to help me along the way? How could I stand it? We had always been so close.

Mom was the Young Women president in the stake and dad the stake patriarch. No wonder the Lord called them to preside over a mission, but why couldn’t He have waited until I was finished with high school and out of the nest? Why was I the only one left to go with them? Why was I born five years after the rest?

Then I noticed the tears in dad’s eyes and saw mom’s face full of hurt. I realized then that leaving home for them would be anything but easy. They would have to leave children and grandchildren, their friends, and home. I knew they were willing, so I took a deep breath and decided I could give it my best shot, at least for the summer.

Where would we be? It could be any place in this wide world. We talked a lot about different places in the world where we would like to live. But somehow, home in Bountiful, Utah, still seemed the very best place for me. I started hoping we would be assigned to the Salt Lake City North Mission.

The assignment came on April 1, 1979. Only missionaries know the feeling of anticipation that letter can bring. As we opened the envelope, the first thing I saw were three familiar signatures at the bottom, and then slowly I raised my eyes to the body of the letter. There it was. We were called to the Mississippi Jackson Mission.

Mississippi … where was Mississippi? I had no idea which state it was except that it was down south. Dad got out the map and the World Book. Excitement began to grow, even in me. This could be kind of fun, seeing new country and meeting all those missionaries. I have to admit I had no intention of breaking school ties and staying down there beyond summer, to go to a school where I might be the only Mormon in my class.

To my utter amazement, my older brothers and sisters envied me. My oldest brother, Craig, really encouraged me. “Jan,” he said, “this is a chance of a lifetime.” I was glad they were excited for me, but still I figured those words were easy enough for them to say, easier than for me to do.

I guess I was feeling a little sorry for myself. My world was changing, and I didn’t want it to. As a teenager I was struggling to find security by developing my talents, getting involved in many things, and in making lots of friends. I belonged and felt comfortable. Drill team tryouts were just over, and I had made it. I was a Vykette!

How could I ever give up that dream? I had so many other dreams. The one I had yet to achieve, and the most important of all, was to be in the madrigals chorus. Being in that singing group would be the highlight of my senior year if I were lucky enough to make it. However, summer was still before me, and I decided to spend it down south regardless of all my school anticipations.

That first summer, dad and mom and I traveled a lot getting acquainted with the wards and branches. I found that I did have a family after all with about 80 big brothers.

Our big family decision that summer was still what to do with Jan. Building a foundation for a new mission meant dad had to travel much of the time and mom needed to be with him to get to know the missionaries, their needs, and the areas. We all prayed about it, and the decision was made. I could go back to Viewmont High School in Utah and live with my brother David, his wife Pamela, and Kimi.

My junior year at Viewmont was wonderful, packed with lots of drill team memories, book learning, work with the junior class committee, special dances, fun with family, and spiritual and fun times with my Laurel class. Only my journal and my Heavenly Father knew of all my lonely times without my parents. The phone bills also gave unmistakable evidence.

In the spring after an especially exciting day, I just had to call “home” to tell mom and dad the big news. The voice on the other end of the line said, “Honey, we’re glad you called. We were just going to call you. Dad and I have talked to the headmaster at Jackson Preparatory School, and they have room for you this next year. We know this is where you should be. We really want you to plan to come here for school next year.” Silence. I felt my world slipping again.

“But, mom, I just can’t. I tried out for madrigals just yesterday, and I feel so good about it. My big dream, remember?” I cried, and mom cried. How could I leave everything and everyone? All my dreams of being a senior at Viewmont—I had waited so long. But when parents like mine say they both have a strong feeling that I should do something, I know that I should. When I said, “Okay, mom and dad, I will come,” a sweet, peaceful feeling came over me, and I knew it would be all right.

The second summer was filled with zone conferences and youth conferences. It was great fun seeing the missionaries again. The number had grown from 80 to 160, so there were many new ones to get acquainted with.

I was enrolled in a college preparatory school, Jackson Prep, which seemed to be number one in everything—academics, sports, drama, music. I was scared to death to start there. Aside from a couple of girls in the neighborhood, I didn’t know a soul.

My classes were tough and were taught like college courses. Everyone bought their own books and we were to take notes on lectures every day. Exams were held often. To add to my potpourri of confusion, I was told that I was being watched because I was a Mormon—the only one in the entire school. I felt that I was stuck in a spot, although not necessarily a bad one. I could make it good or bad depending on one thing—my attitude.

I had all kinds of good advice from the missionaries and others on just what I should say and do, but when that first dreaded day of school arrived, I forgot it all and barely made it home and through the front door before I broke down and wailed as if my heart were broken. There sat mom hurting too, but at least she was there for me. We cried together as I explained, “Mom, the kids are so different. I can’t understand the teachers.” The teachers spoke with a strong southern accent, and I found myself writing notes from their lectures that weren’t anything near what they actually said. I hadn’t quite mastered the language yet.

“Oh,” I sobbed, “besides that, today I was one minute late for my English class. When I finally found the room, my teacher made me stand up in front of everyone and explain why I was late.” At first mom looked at me, attempting to give me some motherly consolation, but then we both started to laugh. Mom and usually dad were always there to listen as I unfolded the happenings of the day, and we found that laughing was a lot more fun than crying. Things did get better.

As I started the school year, I made some promises to my Heavenly Father. The memory of a special blessing given to us by President Ezra Taft Benson just before we came into the mission field helped me to set my goals. I knew if I did all I could to be a good example and symbol of the Church for Him that He would send special opportunities to me.

I found myself, miraculously, a member of a new madrigal singing group, a member of the chamber singers, and of the acappella choir at school. I also found great friends in my choir director and drama director. I gained many new friends as I participated in two dramatic productions that year. Getting into these activities wasn’t all my idea. I had a little mother behind me all the way, encouraging me to get involved.

Slowly but surely, I gained respect from my friends and teachers, and I almost welcomed all the teasing about being a Mormon. It wasn’t unusual at all to have someone come into my first period class waving an article they had found on the Mormon Tabernacle Choir or on the Church’s stand on abortion.

Everyone seemed interested in the Mormons, and even though they would kid me a lot, I think they were impressed that a group of people could stick to their guns and pass up liquor and tea and coffee, not just once in a while, but all the time. Defending the Church wasn’t hard anymore. It was kind of fun. Who would be up to bat next, and whose hits could I catch?

The best opportunity I had defending the Church was when I became involved with the Junior Miss Pageant as a contestant for Capitol City’s Junior Miss. Many of the senior girls were trying out, and I decided to go for it, too.

Once I was picked as one of the 20 contestants, there were dances to learn, a short course on modeling, a talent number to prepare, and studying to do for a personal interview with the judges. It was great. Twenty girls from different schools learning together and having fun and not a Mormon except me in the bunch. Excitement began to mount as the pageant drew near. Our interviews were scheduled the afternoon of the pageant.

Finally, it was my turn, and I nervously walked up the long flight of stairs to the room where the five judges awaited. At first they just visited with me. Then an older, quiet man began asking questions about my religion—tough questions. It took me back for a moment. Then I got hold of myself and answered the best way I knew how. The words flowed freely, and I felt as if my eyes were relaying the message as well as my words. I knew I received lots of extra help from above that day. What I said must have satisfied the judges because that night number 10 was crowned Capitol City’s Junior Miss—I was number 10!

As friends and mom and dad crowded around and hugged me, my mind reflected back to the hateful feelings I had felt at first after reading “the call.” Now in my heart I thanked Heavenly Father for giving me the chance. I felt so happy—happy for wonderful friends who accepted me with all kinds of southern hospitality and for friends at home who kept reassuring and encouraging me with their love. I was happy for a wonderful family like my sisters who received calls from a bawling baby sister and always ended up making her laugh. Most of all I was happy for a dad and mom who stood by through it all and guided me with all their love.

What happened to that year I was so afraid of? I shudder to think of missing my year at Prep. There was, however, a constant concern in my heart. What more can I do to let everyone know that the Church is true? A Book of Mormon with my personal testimony written in the front to each of my teachers helped satisfy that unrest. Each one promised to read that precious book.

I am now so thankful that I listened to my wonderful family and accepted the challenge of the mission field. It means so much to me to have become a part of my dad’s special calling. I grew up a lot and learned many important lessons through my experiences in Mississippi. Things that make us grow never are easy, and now when I look back, I can’t really remember the rough times. I only remember the great ones.

All the friendships I made in Mississippi continue to grow sweeter as time passes, and maybe someday some of the seeds planted there will flourish. I guess most of all I learned how to totally rely on my Heavenly Father. This lesson will stay with me not only for today but forever.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Do. Not. Cry.
This was the pep talk I recently gave myself the day before my 30th birthday. (It was a melodramatic day, to say the least.) But crying about my birthday is not out of the ordinary for me. I’ve never been a fan of growing up.
(And, in case you’re wondering, my pep talk didn’t work.)
Shocking, really.
I would turn 30, and the world would keep spinning.
So why did I feel like it was about to end?
Well for one, I struggle with anxiety. So there’s that. But I always felt like turning 30 would seal the door to my youth forever. I felt like I hadn’t accomplished enough during my 20s. And after facing challenges during that decade, I was scared of the new responsibilities and trials heading my way (possibly motherhood, a worsening chronic illness, and who knows what else).
As my anxious thoughts spiraled, I said a prayer asking God for comfort, and I started to ponder my past decade of life as a young adult.
What had I accomplished? What had I learned? How had I changed?
And that’s when I focused in on the most important thought that came to mind:
“How did I deepen my relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ during this time?”
This changed my perspective.
Being a 20-something-year-old can be a very confusing, heartbreaking, and just plain hard time. Many seem to be thinking the same thing: “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
My early 20s consisted of an ebb and flow of feelings of aimlessness, fear, loneliness, and sometimes even a sense of abandonment from Heavenly Father when my life wasn’t going the way I thought it would.
When I was 24, I felt like I was in the darkest season of my life. But words from Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf struck my soul and triggered the start of a deep change in me.
At a worldwide devotional for young adults, he said:
“When I was your age, I had no idea where my life would take me. I definitely didn’t see any dots connecting in front of me.
“But I did trust God. I listened to the advice of loving family and wise friends, and I took small steps of faith, believing that if I did the best I could in the moment, God would take care of the big picture.
“He did. …
“In Proverbs, we find this great promise: ‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths’ [Proverbs 3:5–6].
“I don’t believe there is a question mark at the end of that verse. No, I think there should be an exclamation point!”1
After hearing Elder Uchtdorf’s words at 24, I committed to using this time of life to trust in the Lord.
And, six years later, on the day before I turned 30, I was hit with the profound truth that, despite the melodrama (and the actual, difficult drama) this is what young adulthood has been for me:
Sacred.

I remember the Sunday when I first learned about President Hinckley’s challenge to read the Book of Mormon by the end of the year. Two weeks before, as part of a challenge from my Young Women president, I had finished reading the Book of Mormon in 65 days—the approximate time it took Joseph Smith to translate it. It averaged out to be about nine pages per day, and I had struggled to finish it in time. Now here I was sitting in sacrament meeting, listening to a letter asking me to read it again.
I started to think: “I’m going to be so busy this year in school; I’m not going to have time to read more than one page a day. President Hinckley just wanted us to read it this year, and I already did that. I’m sure he would understand.” By the time the sacrament was over, I had rationalized my way out of the challenge.
It was fast and testimony meeting that Sunday, and many people talked about the blessings that come from scripture reading. “I’ll still read my scriptures regularly,” I thought to myself.
The next person to get up was a friend of mine. I listened complacently until he mentioned the Book of Mormon challenge.
“It’s going to be hard,” he said. “But the prophet asked us to do it, and whatever the prophet says, goes.”
Whatever the prophet says, goes. That statement hit me hard. What had I been thinking? It wasn’t just anyone who had asked us to read the Book of Mormon; it was a prophet, the Lord’s messenger. If an angel appeared to me, I would listen. This wasn’t any different. I was going to obey President Hinckley, no matter what it took.
I finished reading the Book of Mormon, and I know I made the right decision. I don’t have any spectacular stories to tell about reading it, but I know that the experience as a whole strengthened my testimony. I was really busy that year, and having a goal motivated me to read my scriptures every day.
“Whatever the prophet says, goes” has sort of become a motto for me. When I am tempted with things such as immodesty or inappropriate movies, I think back to that memorable fast and testimony meeting.
I’m glad I was paying attention that day. I’m also glad that my friend got up and bore his testimony and that the Spirit carried his words into my heart.

In high school, Todd Sylvester had two goals: to be great at basketball and to be known as the biggest partier in the school.
At the age of 14, Todd started drinking and using drugs. He was not a member of the Church, and his parents did not teach him, as he describes it, “one way or another” regarding his behavior. Over the years, his drug addiction and alcoholism ruined his once-promising basketball career and sent him down a path that left him contemplating suicide.
Unfortunately, elements of Todd’s story can be seen in the lives of many young men today, even among members of the Church. However, Todd didn’t have something young men of the Church have: righteous role models. Adult Church leaders can be a great blessing to teens during one of the most critical stages of their lives. Because of his background, Todd, who joined the Church at age 22, now tries to be a positive role model to youth in his ward.
Brother Sylvester’s turnaround came when, during his darkest hour, he uttered a simple prayer: “God, I need help.” A month and a half later, a longtime friend, who is a member of the Church, called him up and said, “Todd, I felt prompted to tell you that we need you on our side. … You’re going to help a lot of people, especially the youth and kids.”
A few years later, after his baptism and temple marriage, Brother Sylvester was called to serve in the Young Men program—a calling that would lead him to 14 years of serving the young men.
Using his past as motivation to help the young men he was called to serve, Brother Sylvester found a way to relate to the struggles he saw the boys go through. “I think most kids are afraid to talk about when they are struggling,” he says. “But I shared my story with these kids every year. I think because of that, they felt comfortable coming to me saying, ‘Hey, I’m struggling with pornography or drinking or suicidal thoughts.’” Brother Sylvester could support them as they worked on repenting, which included visits with the bishop.
Leaders who listen and provide loving feedback to youth during critical times can create powerful connections that help shape a young person’s identity. Mat Duerden, an assistant professor at Brigham Young University who received his PhD in youth development, says, “Adolescence is [when individuals] develop a sense of personal identity: values, beliefs, roles, etc. That is an exploratory process. Part of that process is getting feedback from peers or parents or other adults, and it can be really powerful if it is a respected and valued adult.”
Brother Duerden continues, “The most effective mentoring roles are built on common respect for each other and the youth’s feeling that there is someone who really cares about him no matter how he dresses or speaks.”
“Most boys long to have a relationship with their dads,” says Brother Sylvester. “If they don’t have that, the next best thing is to be able to have a male adult figure they can talk to, bounce ideas off, and not be judged, ridiculed, or criticized because of their problems. I wasn’t there to replace their dads, but I wanted to be there so they could talk to me in a way that is healthy.”
While adult Church leaders can play a critical role in helping mentor a teen, prophets and apostles have said that the primary role models for youth are their parents. For example, Elder M. Russell Ballard of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has said: “Fathers, you are the primary model of manhood for your sons. You are their most meaningful mentor, and believe it or not, you are their hero in countless ways. Your words and your example are a great influence on them” (“Fathers and Sons: A Remarkable Relationship,” Liahona and Ensign, Nov. 2009, 47).
None of the strong relationships that Brother Sylvester created with the young men were immediate; he had to cultivate those relationships through years of service. Of the 20 young men he taught, 17 went on to serve missions. At least 5 of these had no intention of serving before interacting with Brother Sylvester.
“The reason why I had such success with these boys is that they knew I absolutely loved them,” Brother Sylvester says. “They knew it—not because I said it but because I acted it. I really focused on their having a relationship with their Savior. I just felt that was the key for them to get through everything and to move forward in life and be successful.”
By helping young men develop a relationship with the Savior, Brother Sylvester hoped that their testimonies would lead them toward serving missions, being married in the temple, and raising a righteous family. “That is the plan of happiness,” he says. “That is why [helping the youth] is important.”

One Saturday evening in April, my fellow teachers and I attended a fireside that the branch had organized to celebrate the Prophet Joseph Smith’s birthday and the restoration of the Church. Members shared messages about the Prophet’s life and bore their testimonies and expressed their love for him. I would have felt the strength of their testimonies even without the help of the missionaries who sat behind us to translate.
As I listened, I reflected on how hard it must be to accept the story of a young American boy who knelt in a grove of trees so far across the world and spoke to God. And yet these faithful members felt the power of this message and embraced it.
I had been practicing with the branch choir, and I joined with them as they sang “Faith in Every Footstep” in Russian. There in front of me as I sang was proof of this marvelous work coming forth among all the children of men. With tears in my eyes, I added my testimony to theirs through music in their native language.
After the meeting, Evgeni Kharin, a member of our branch presidency, came bounding towards us American teachers and exclaimed with joy in his Russian accent, “Sisters, rejoice! The Church is restored!” It was as if I had heard the news for the first time.
The Church is still very young in Russia, and these members, who did not always have access to the gospel, understood what a privilege it was to know that Heavenly Father restored the gospel to the earth through the Prophet Joseph Smith. I realized then how much I had taken that knowledge for granted. I had a testimony of the gospel, but I had not felt like jumping for joy because of it—until now.
Since then, in times of spiritual weakness I think of the love of the Russian people and the light in Evgeni’s eyes as he told me to rejoice, for the gospel truly has been restored.

At that time the nearest temple was in Mesa, Arizona, in the United States. It was difficult to make such an expensive trip. Later, when my father was called as district president, the mission president asked him, “Well, what are you planning to do?”
“We are going to the temple,” my father answered. He organized a group of about 100 people who traveled together to the Mesa Arizona Temple. Our family was sealed, and we all felt my mother’s presence. We knew she had accepted the gospel.

When our children were very small, I started to write down a few things about what happened every day. I never missed a day no matter how tired I was or how early I would have to start the next day. Before I would write, I would ponder this question: “Have I seen the hand of God reaching out to touch us or our children or our family today?” As I would cast my mind over the day, I would see evidence of what God had done for one of us that I had not recognized in the busy moments of the day. I realized that trying to remember had allowed God to show me what He had done.