Gospel Story Finder

I stood on the station platform with tears streaming down my face. I was leaving my Welsh home and heading for a strange country and a new life-style at Brigham Young University. My cases had been loaded onto the train, and all that remained was to say farewell to my father. We held each other tightly for a few seconds. He bent his head and whispered in my ear, “You’ll be just fine. I have faith in you.” He then gave me a gentle push toward the waiting carriage, and I boarded.
As his waving arm and tall figure slowly shrank from sight, an emptiness filled me. I felt desolate and alone. I stared out the window at the familiar green fields, hedgerows, and gray stone cottages fading from view. The hubbub of chatting ladies and the rustle of newspapers were blotted from my senses. I was lost in childhood memories of special times that I had spent with my father …
In the distant recesses of my conscious mind I heard the rhythmic sound of the train, but my thoughts remained far away. I realized, with an increasing sense of wonder, that as I had been growing up, an eternal bond had been cultivating between me and my father. My childhood fears and faith in his omnipotence had developed into a loving, trusting relationship that was reciprocated more and more as I matured and gained knowledge and experience.
This idea seemed hauntingly familiar. Could this be how my relationship with my Heavenly Father was built? Like my mortal childhood, perhaps my premortal life was a time when I developed faith and trust in my Father. I learned all that I could while we were together, then left my heavenly home with the knowledge that Heavenly Father had faith in me and in my potential for good in this new phase of my life.
As I pondered these thoughts, a glowing warmth filled me. It slowly encompassed the hollow ache I felt inside. I knew that however far from my earthly parents I might travel I would one day return and still feel the closeness and trust that we shared. But even more important, I realized that this very same bond exists between me and my heavenly parents. As my faith and trust in Heavenly Father increases, so will his faith and trust in me. He will always be there to help me if I will only call on him, and one day, if my faith remains strong enough, I can return to live with Him and feel that unity eternally …
My reverie was broken by a cough at my side. I looked up startled. The train guardsman stood beside my seat. “Tickets, please, Miss,” he said. I smiled at him and reached for my purse. “You’re a long way from home,” he said as he glanced at the gray slip of paper. I thought of my distant destination and my family getting farther and farther away. Then all at once I felt that burning inner warmth once more, and an echo of my father’s words resounded in my heart, “You’ll be just fine. I have faith in you.” I knew Heavenly Father was with me, too, and with faith in him I could meet any challenge. Comforted, I smiled again and said, “Yes, sir, but I’ll be okay because I’m not alone.”

Some years ago, President Gordon B. Hinckley told “something of a parable” about “a one room school house in the mountains of Virginia where the boys were so rough no teacher had been able to handle them.
“Then one day an inexperienced young teacher applied. He was told that every teacher had received an awful beating, but the teacher accepted the risk. The first day of school the teacher asked the boys to establish their own rules and the penalty for breaking the rules. The class came up with 10 rules, which were written on the blackboard. Then the teacher asked, ‘What shall we do with one who breaks the rules?’
“‘Beat him across the back ten times without his coat on,’ came the response.
“A day or so later, … the lunch of a big student, named Tom, was stolen. ‘The thief was located—a little hungry fellow, about ten years old.’
“As Little Jim came up to take his licking, he pleaded to keep his coat on. ‘Take your coat off,’ the teacher said. ‘You helped make the rules!’
“The boy took off the coat. He had no shirt and revealed a bony little crippled body. As the teacher hesitated with the rod, Big Tom jumped to his feet and volunteered to take the boy’s licking.
“‘Very well, there is a certain law that one can become a substitute for another. Are you all agreed?’ the teacher asked.
“After five strokes across Tom’s back, the rod broke. The class was sobbing. ‘Little Jim had reached up and caught Tom with both arms around his neck. “Tom, I’m sorry that I stole your lunch, but I was awful hungry. Tom, I will love you till I die for taking my licking for me! Yes, I will love you forever!”’”
President Hinckley then quoted Isaiah:
“Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows. …
“… He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.”

My family wanted to focus on the Christmas spirit during the Christmas season, so we decided to do a secret “12 Days of Christmas.” We chose a family in our stake who were good friends of ours and had been going through a rough time. On each night of the 12 days leading up to Christmas, my four younger siblings and I prepared a gift with that day’s theme. For example, on the second day we used turtle chocolates for “two turtle doves,” and on the seventh day for “seven swans-a-swimming,” we used goldfish crackers and bubbles. We dropped off the nightly treats on the family’s doorstep, rang the doorbell, and ran and hid so they couldn’t find us.
On Christmas Eve, the 12th day of Christmas with “12 drummers drumming,” we brought the family a box of Drumstick ice-cream-cone treats and let them know who we were. They were so happy and thanked us for helping them feel love during the Christmas season.
Because that family felt loved they decided that they also wanted to show love to other families. My family also had such a positive experience spreading the Christmas spirit that we still continue this tradition. I’m grateful my family could focus on the true spirit of Christmas and help others feel it as well. Those nightly treat drop-offs have become some of my favorite Christmas memories.
Sydney J., Alabama, USA

It’d be nice to get the chance to do things over again, wouldn’t it? Well, some things. You might like to relive your happiest birthday or avoid your most embarrassing moment, but would you jump at the chance to repeat a project that involved around 100 hours of hard work?
Chanelle Cann of West Jordan, Utah, did. After finishing years of work to earn her Young Womanhood Award, she turned around and did it all over again. The revised Personal Progress book and new medallion were her inspiration.
The General Young Women presidency encouraged young women already working on the old program to transfer their hours and finish up with the new program. They didn’t expect young women to earn both awards. After doing all the work once, what was Chanelle thinking?
Actually, she was thinking ahead. She wanted the chance to grow with the right attitude, so she’d be more prepared for her future.
“When I was younger I worked on the Personal Progress program because it was there. When I got to be a Laurel, I did it because I wanted to,” she said. “I wanted to do the new program because I knew I would be doing it for the right reasons.”
Chanelle was proud of her first award, but she understood that personal progress isn’t something you need a book to do.
When her stake president introduced the changes to the Young Women program, Chanelle picked up a copy of the new Personal Progress book and headed straight home to plan.
Her mom, Evelyn, said Chanelle stayed up well past midnight that night mapping out how she could earn the new award and how many hours per week she could work on it, starting the next day.
“I told her you could just pay and get the other necklace instead,” Chanelle’s mom said, “but she said, ‘No, I want to really earn it.’”
Chanelle didn’t want another necklace, she wanted a chance for growth. She would be graduating from high school soon and wanted to be prepared for the future. But she didn’t need a book to get what she wanted.
“All the things I did were things I needed to learn for the future anyway. I used the new program because I knew something that came from the prophet could give me good direction,” she said.
Her projects included attending the temple several times a week to do baptisms for the dead, volunteering at an elementary school, writing poetry about the Savior, recording songs with her guitar, hand stitching a temple quilt, serving at a rest home, making family home evening files for her future family, and learning to cook.
Chanelle said the cooking project didn’t turn out so well. She made some pies that were more of a learning experience than a gourmet dessert. She’s going to keep trying anyway.
As it turns out, Chanelle makes a better writer than a chef. Her favorite project was writing poetry. She also loved writing about her experiences in her journal because it helped her realize how much she actually learned from doing the projects with the right attitude.
“Putting my feelings down on paper helps me recognize what I believe in and makes me more grateful,” she said.
To earn the second award, Chanelle did 70 hours of projects and completed 42 other value experiences, on top of school and work.
“It took a lot of time, but it was worth it,” she said.
It isn’t her two medallions hanging around her neck on the same gold chain that light up her face, though. Her glittering smile reveals how much she’s grown. She said doing both programs strengthened her testimony, helped her recognize her potential, made her aware of all her blessings, and prepared her for the future.
“I think I try harder now to keep the Spirit with me and recognize what I do in my life really does affect me,” she said.
Chanelle has a lot of goals for the future, including an education, a mission, and getting married in the Salt Lake Temple. She said she’s grateful for the chance she had to earn the Young Womanhood Award—twice, because it prepared her to accomplish those goals.
Perhaps one of Chanelle’s poems said it best:
“The simple things you do
Determine what the future will bring to you.”
Now, Chanelle is always looking for new ways to grow. Earning both awards helped set a pattern of personal progress that will last her a lifetime.

On July 21, 1847, Orson Pratt and Erastus Snow went down Emigration Canyon ahead of the others to scout out the area. Having only one horse, they took turns walking and riding. A few miles from the mouth of the canyon, Erastus realized that his coat had fallen off the horse’s saddle. He took the horse and turned back to find it. Orson walked on alone and became the first of the pioneers to set foot in the Salt Lake Valley. He and Erastus returned to camp, and the next day the advance company entered the Salt Lake Valley and headed north.

Imagine living in a city planned by a dictator. The dictator imports thousands of people from throughout the country to create a worker city, filled with row after row of gray apartment buildings and enormous factories spewing black clouds from tall smokestacks. Freedom of any kind, but especially freedom of religion, is practically nonexistent.
Until just a few years ago, Dunaújváros, Hungary, a small city on the Danube River, was such a place. But now, after a generation without religion, young people are learning about the plan of salvation.
What began as a small branch in 1989, has now grown to two branches, 230 members strong. Many of these new converts are youth, and like the Saints in the days of Joseph Smith, these members are discovering the newness and beauty of the gospel—and telling others about it.
Twenty-year-old Csapó András was one of the earliest converts. (Hungarian surnames are used first, followed by the given name.) Baptized in 1989 at age 15, he is now the seminary teacher in his branch and is preparing to serve a full-time mission.
As he welcomes his class members to seminary this evening, 13 students arrange their chairs around a table covered with their well-used copies of the Book of Mormon. They sing “I Am a Child of God.” A young woman offers the opening prayer.
Since the Church is so new here, everyone is a recent convert. Seven of these students have been members for two years, five for only a year. Three are the only members of the Church in their families. Four have brought parents into the Church.
Two young women in this seminary class, both 16, are named Brigitta. “From my classmate Seres Brigitta I heard about the Church for the first time,” says Bozó Brigitta. “I began attending sacrament meeting and made a lot of friends here. So when youth conference came, I naturally thought I needed to go. At the conference, I felt for the first time that I needed to belong to this church. I was baptized a week later.”
Two months after Brigitta’s own baptism, her mother and her 15-year-old brother, László, were baptized. (Her father had died six years earlier.) “Now the three of us—our whole family—are members of the Church. It’s wonderful!”
“At first I thought just my friend would be baptized,” says her classmate Seres Brigitta. “I was amazed that her family also joined the Church.”
When an LDS classmate invited Horváth Attila, 16, to sacrament meeting, Attila liked what he saw.
“Then, when my friend told me the Church was very family-centered, I became even more interested.”
Within weeks, Attila was baptized.
Three months later, his father asked to hear the discussions. “I knew enough about the Church by that time,” says Attila, “that I could help my father learn about it. The knowledge I had received in seminary helped me explain the scriptures to him. But since he smoked and drank coffee a lot, I didn’t have the faith that he would be baptized. I was amazed when I saw how—with the help of our Heavenly Father—he was able to rid those things from his life. Two months later, I baptized my father!
“Then when my mother saw how happy my father and I were in the Church, she also started to be interested. I baptized her three months after baptizing my father! The next day, my whole family came to church and bore their testimonies. It’s not possible to describe what kind of feeling it was for me.”
As these young people are converted to the gospel, they help one another remain strong. Last summer, Klein Kinga, 19, and another young member of the Church found employment away from home. “There weren’t any other Church members around—just the two of us and the world,” she says. “We had a lot of adversity. When we came home in the evenings, we always prayed together, read together from the Book of Mormon, and waited for the letters we received from our Church friends here in Dunaújváros. These things helped us endure that difficult time.”
Balatoni Gábor and Borsos Péter, both 18, had a similar experience while working away from home. “All around us, others smoked, drank, used vulgar language, and had other unworthy habits. At first, it was difficult for us,” says Gábor. “Then we found a place where we could pray together each day. It helped a lot.”
One afternoon, Vereckei Krisztina, 16, was home alone. “I love to feel the Holy Ghost, to feel that this church is true,” she says. “But that day, I wasn’t feeling it, and I missed it a lot.” She tried listening to Church music, reading the Book of Mormon, and praying. But for some reason, she still wasn’t feeling the Spirit.
“I went to visit my friend Seres Brigitta,” she says. “I asked her to come and walk with me. As we walked, we talked about Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father. Without thinking about it, I told her my testimony, and she told me hers. We sat on a city bench for two or three hours, sharing our testimonies with each other. I felt the Holy Ghost and felt that my testimony had been strengthened. I was very happy after that.”
Seminary provides regular opportunities for these testimony-building and unifying experiences. “There are two important reasons why I think seminary is an important program,” says Borsos Éva, 16. “First, if you prepare for seminary, you have to read from the Book of Mormon regularly. And this is a good thing. Second, seminary gives us opportunities to be together. The youth in this branch are strong and are close to one another—and we can thank the seminary program for this. When we share testimonies with each other—and we do this a lot—it’s very worthwhile. About a week ago in our seminary class, we had a testimony meeting, and the Spirit was very strong. This gives me a lot of strength.”
Other milestones were trips to the Freiberg Germany Temple in April and August 1994 to be baptized for the dead. Latter-day Saint youth from all over Hungary crowded onto buses to make the 22-hour journey. Then they returned home with a mission: to tell others about it so everyone could share in the power and beauty of the experience.
“I didn’t know the people I was being baptized for,” says Somodi Zsuzsanna, 18. “But about halfway through I suddenly felt the Spirit. I felt that perhaps that person had accepted the gospel in the spirit world and had been waiting for somebody to be baptized in her name.”
Where there was once only gray industry, seminary students in Dunaújváros are now finding the beauty in their city. They are learning to rejoice in their newfound gift. They are striving to share it with others.
“There’s no feeling more wonderful,” says Vereckei Krisztina, 16, “than knowing that our Heavenly Father loves us.”
These Hungarian seminary students—singing a new song in their city on the Danube—have that assurance.

“Our next thrilling adventure was one pleasant afternoon as we were slowly jogging along. All at once our whole train was flying in every direction with lightning speed over the plains. I don’t think the fastest horses could have kept up with our cows. Father sat in the front of the wagon talking to and whipping his staid, old oxen to keep them going right along. He was afraid the cows might get mixed up with other teams that were running, or might whirl around and tip the wagon over with us all in it. We went over hump and bump. Sometimes our heads would be thrown up to the top of the wagon bows, there we would alight anywhere it happened inside the wagon. Nobody can appreciate the situation without the experience. Again death was staring me in the face and again I covered my head. If I had to be killed I didn’t want to see the process. Mother soon snatched the covering off my head, and when we came to a stop she gave me a sound lecture to always be on the lookout and watch the best chance for escape.
“Well, after the cattle had run as long as they could they stopped. There were several accidents, and a woman was killed. She was knocked down and trampled to death. She left a family of children. How we all dreaded stampedes—there is something dreadful in a lot of panic-stricken cattle. Even human beings are not responsible when fright overcomes reason.”

In the early days of launching a company, my business partner and I would pray earnestly before important meetings, asking for Heavenly Father’s help. Time after time, God answered our prayers, and our meetings went well. After one meeting, my business partner pointed out that we had been quick to ask for help but slow to give thanks. From then on, we made it a habit to offer sincere prayers of gratitude, recognizing the Lord’s hand in our successes. We show our love for God with “an attitude of gratitude.”

President Wilford Woodruff recorded more about that incident. He wrote: “On Sunday night the Prophet called on all who held the Priesthood to gather into the little log school house they had there. It was a small house, perhaps 14 feet square. But it held the whole of the priesthood of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints who were then in the town of Kirtland. … When we got together the Prophet called upon the Elders of Israel with him to bear testimony of this work. … When they got through the Prophet said, ‘Brethren I have been very much edified and instructed in your testimonies here tonight. But I want to say to you before the Lord, that you know no more concerning the destinies of this Church and kingdom than a babe upon its mother’s lap. You don’t comprehend it. … [It] will fill North and South America—it will fill the world.’” (In Conference Report, 6 April 1898, page 57.)

My brother, Bruce, was just a year ahead of me in school. He was everything a high school boy might want to be: football star, class president, good looking, popular. I was known as “Bruce’s little sister,” and I thought he was way too cool to associate with me. Sometimes I even felt sorry for him—that people knew he was related to me. Most of the time I felt sorry for myself. I avoided him in the hallways so I wouldn’t feel bad if he didn’t say hi.
All that changed one night. After Mutual, while waiting for rides, a boy my age grabbed my sweater from me. As I was trying to get it back, he threw it on the ground and started to run away—right smack into my big brother. Bruce demanded he pick up the sweater, and growled to him, “That’s my sister! Don’t you ever treat her like that again!” In that one moment I realized he was protective and proud of me.
By the next year I had gained enough confidence to run for class president myself! Bruce helped with my campaign and cheered at my speech. Since he was Senior Class President, he helped count ballots. After the count, he pulled me aside to tell me I had lost by a small margin. “I cheered every time a vote came in for you,” he said. I realized my brother had always loved me. It was my own insecurities that made me think he didn’t. Even though I lost the election, I felt like a winner.
Denalee C., Nevada, USA

Developing the habit of scripture study is a struggle with many roadblocks. I remember one roadblock that came during my second semester of ninth grade.
My family moved to Omaha, Nebraska, from Dubuque, Iowa.
Omaha schools were far ahead of our small Iowa township, and dreams of staying on the honor roll soon turned to prayers for passing and getting a good grade in seminary.
Just a few days after I had started school, my English teacher announced a new reading-for-credit program. Needing the extra points to make a decent grade, I needed to read a book, but my schedule was already loaded with make-up work and I wasn’t a fast reader.
After asking the Lord for help, an idea came to me.
I approached my English teacher and said, “May I read the Bible instead of a novel for extra-credit points?”
Leaning forward, peering over his half glasses, he asked, “Is this a trick question?”
“No,” I answered, “but it isn’t on your list, and I wasn’t sure how you would feel.”
He then told me that the Bible was one of the greatest literary works ever written. As far as he was concerned, it should be in a class by itself. “Of course you can read it,” he added.
It was the perfect solution to my school and seminary problem, and best of all, I started a steady habit of scripture study that touches my life at every turn.

Roy D. Atkin shared the following story:
“After a number of students dropped out following [my] freshman year, my dental school classes became even more competitive. Everyone worked hard to be at the top of the class. As the competition increased, some students decided that the way to succeed was by cheating. This troubled me greatly. …
“… I knew I couldn’t cheat. I wanted to be right with God even more than I wanted to become a dentist.
“[During] my junior year, I was offered a copy of an upcoming test in a crucial class. Obviously that meant some of my classmates would have the test questions ahead of time. I declined the offer. When the corrected test papers were returned, the class average was extremely high, making my score low in comparison. The professor asked to speak to me.
“‘Roy,’ he said, ‘you usually do well on tests. What happened?’
“‘Sir,’ I told my professor, ‘on the next exam, if you give a test that you have never given before, I believe you will find that I do very well.’ There was no reply.
“We had another test in the same class. As the test was handed out, there were audible groans. It was a test the teacher had never given before. When our graded tests were handed back, I had received one of the highest grades in the class. From then on, all the tests were new.”2

I will never forget that morning. I was the first customer in the restaurant when it opened at 5:00 A.M. As I sat down at a booth I noticed my reflection in the window. I looked like something that had just crawled out from under a rock. It was my last semester in college, and I had stayed up all night working on a midterm project. I was tired and in a terrible mood. All I wanted was my breakfast and some peace and quiet. I decided to pamper myself, so I ordered a huge breakfast of eggs, pancakes, juice, and toast. I knew it was extravagant on my student budget, but I was too exhausted to care. As soon as I had ordered, I noticed a recreational van pull into the parking lot. It was one of those 30-foot monsters, the type you always get stuck behind when going up a long hill. Out jumped an older couple, probably in their sixties. As they walked into the restaurant I could just feel their energy. At a time when I wasn’t even sure my heart was pumping blood, the last thing I needed was to be exposed to the type of optimism they seemed to exert. I shuddered to think that my morning privacy was about to be violated.
There were six booths along the east wall and I had taken the most remote one. I could not understand why the couple chose the booth right next to mine. Irritated, I began a cold, critical analysis of these people in my mind.
The man’s hair was cut short in a crew cut. I was sure he was president of an Elks or Eagles Club somewhere in America’s heartland. He wore nondescript black oxfords with white dress socks, green polyester slacks, and a J. C. Penney’s sport shirt buttoned to the top button. As one would expect, he wore a leather string tie with a gaudy turquoise center piece. I guessed that he had been up since 4:00 A.M., run six miles, sung in the shower, and just couldn’t wait to hit the road. I secretly vowed that I would never, even if my life depended on it, be like that man.
I looked at the Mrs. in amazement as she sat with a road map fastidiously calculating the mileage for the day’s trip. She was a bundle of energy with makeup that didn’t cover the wrinkles, a yellow ‘smiley patch’ on her windbreaker, and an endless stream of conversation.
When they had finished their breakfast and were getting ready to leave, I made my final assessment. Who were they? I imagined he was a retired independent businessman, probably had his own tool-and-die shop in an Indianapolis industrial park. He was no doubt a good Republican, a retired colonel in the National Guard, and had the best-trimmed lawn on the cul-de-sac. She must have served on a thousand PTAs and would consistently have the Christmas shopping done by mid-July. Together, they were a tribute to the virtue of hard work, reaping their rewards as they discovered America in their Winnebago II, I thought sarcastically. They epitomized the kind of smug, self-satisfied materialism that takes good care of itself but ignores the poverty, pain, and sorrow of the rest of the world. Oh, they might give to the United Way or help organize a cancer drive, but I was willing to bet the price of my meal (considerable by my standards) that they wouldn’t recognize a real human need if it walked up and punched them in their middle-class noses.
As they paid their bill, I noticed the lady speak to her husband and then to the waitress. Then, looking a little flustered, the waitress left the register, hurried over to my booth, picked up my check, and returned to the couple. I had no idea what was going on. I felt myself getting angry. What right did these people have to ruin my breakfast? Why didn’t they just quietly leave and let me be?
Finally, they left and I calmed down. A minute later, the waitress returned to my booth and set my check on the table. I didn’t bother to ask what the commotion had been about. I finished my breakfast, picked up the check, and headed for the cash register. Just as I reached the waitress I noticed that my check had “Paid” written across the top. As I began to question the waitress, the Mrs. walked through the door and headed for her booth to get something she had left behind. The waitress then explained to me that the couple had paid my bill. Completely chagrined, I turned and tried to mutter some sort of thank-you to the lady as she passed by me on her way out the door.
“Oh, you’re more than welcome,” she said. “We have a grandson in college, and we know how hard it is. We love ya, study hard!” A second later she was out the door and into the waiting van.
As I watched that long van signal and turn onto the dark highway, I again made a secret vow. I pledged that I would never, even if my life depended on it, forget those two people and the lesson I had just learned about judging others.

I loved your article on the Idaho School for the Deaf and Blind (Jan. 1995). When I was in middle school, a class of mine learned some sign language and then we visited ISDB. It was a great experience to communicate with the deaf kids there and try to understand one another. I learned they are just like us, despite their disability. Thanks for your great, inspiring stories.
Merissa WilsonAlta, Wyoming

Another story of a different kind of courage is told of Ruth Campkin Randall, a tiny mother who had spent enough time on the frontier to become accustomed to its risks. As a safeguard from marauding enemies around Pine, Arizona, where she lived, a stockade was built. When an Indian or other raid was reported, all the residents were to get into this enclosure for protection. This occurred frequently enough that Ruth got tired of it. Finally, when a call came for all to go to the fort, Ruth said, “No, I have been dragged from pillar to post and from the post to hell, and I am not going to the fort. I’m staying right here.”11 Others soon decided she was right; there was no longer any point in running to the fort every time some Indians were headed in their direction.

“Christian Villadsen! Are you one of us or one of them?” demanded Hans. His clenched fists hit against his pockets, bulging with stones. The other boys crouched beside Hans, glaring at Christian.
A cold shiver ran up Christian’s back. What’s happening? he wondered. What has become of our peaceful and friendly village? Now there seems to be only hatred and fear!
He hadn’t listened like Grandmother, but that didn’t make it right to hide like this, waiting to throw stones at two men whose only crime was preaching a new religion.
“Well?” His friends waited for an answer.
They were his only friends since Peter Sorensen had joined the Mormon church. Now, no one dared to be Peter’s friend.
Hans shoved a stone into Christian’s hand. “Stay and help drive away the devils or crawl home. But decide now.”
Christian dropped the stone as if it were fresh from the hearth fire. “I have chores to do,” he said, pushing through the bushes they were hiding behind.
“Beware, Christian, or you may suffer Peter Sorensen’s fate,” Hans called after him.
Christian hurried down the road so fast that he didn’t even stop to warn the two men he passed about the danger ahead. But he couldn’t hurry fast enough to shut out the sound of thudding stones or pained cries. And he couldn’t outrun his feelings of fear and shame.
As he passed the Sorensen farm, Christian turned his head so he couldn’t see the house’s broken windows, the burned barn, or the blackened fields that had been nearly ready for harvest. If the villagers discovered that Grandmother was listening to the Mormon preachers, this could happen to them also.
“Christian!” Peter Sorensen called.
Christian’s stomach churned with fear. What if someone sees me talking to Peter? he worried.
Peter’s face was swollen and dark with bruises, a warning from the villagers to anyone else who thought of listening to the Mormon preachers.
“I wanted you to know that we leave for America tomorrow,” Peter said, and his smile was warm and friendly as ever.
Christian was embarrassed. He couldn’t think of anything to say to Peter, who had always been his best friend.
“May you also find the happiness we have found, Christian.”
“Happiness?” Christian gasped in surprise. “Is it happiness to have your farm destroyed, to be mobbed by your neighbors, and to be driven from your homeland?”
Peter smiled. “It’s happiness to have found the true church of God. That’s worth giving up everything for.”
Christian shook his head. “Nothing is worth that,” he disagreed.
“You say that only because the truth hasn’t touched your heart yet. When it does, you’ll know what to do and you won’t be afraid. May the Lord bless you, Christian. I’ll always be your friend. Perhaps we’ll meet again soon.” Then Peter turned and limped slowly into the house.
If Grandmother doesn’t stop going to those Mormon meetings, the villagers will drive us away, too, thought Christian. Fear twisted his stomach again. “Certainly nothing is worth that!” he declared. And what if the missionaries are speaking lies, like hr. Dam, the priest, keeps saying? Christian wondered. And how can he be so sure?
As Christian approached his house, he was nearly knocked to the ground by hr. Dam, who came charging through the door like an angry bull. “Take care, fru Villadsen! Such talk is dangerous,” he shouted over his shoulder.
When he saw Christian, hr. Dam wagged a finger in his face. “If your grandmother doesn’t stop listening to those devil preachers, you, too, may awake to find your farm burning.”
“If you’ll tell me what lies these missionaries speak, perhaps I can convince Grandmother. Lies aren’t worth being persecuted for.”
“Smart boy,” said hr. Dam, nodding. “But do you really think I’d listen to their lies myself?”
“You’ve never heard them speak?”
“Of course not!”
“Then how do you know,” pursued Christian, “whether they speak lies or the truth?”
Hr. Dam’s face turned red with anger. “What a fool you are!” he shouted at Christian.
“Hr. Dam will tell the mob, and we’ll lose everything,” Christian told his grandmother later. “Certainly nothing is worth that.”
Grandmother smiled. “Finding the true church is worth that and much more. Tonight, at the fjord, I am going to be baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” she said.
“No! If the mob finds you …”
“We will pray,” Grandmother said calmly, “that they don’t.”
She wouldn’t listen to Christian’s pleadings to stay away from the Mormon meeting. In the end, he went with her, to help her escape if necessary. In the meantime, he decided, it won’t hurt me to listen to the missionaries, just enough to see if the words they speak are worth all the persecutions.
The night was clear, and a crisp breeze rippled the waters of the fjord as Christian and his grandmother crept quietly through the darkness to the meeting place. There, everyone lovingly greeted each other. Christian listened carefully to the missionaries, trying to find the lies that caused such hatred in the village. He could find none. When the baptisms began, Christian pushed forward for a better view.
Grandmother stepped into the waters to be baptized, and Christian felt a hand on his arm. Peter Sorensen was standing at his side. “I hoped we would meet again soon,” he said simply.
Then Grandmother was standing with others, while the fjord waters dripped from their clothing to form puddles on the ground. Her face was radiant with joy. “It is worth everything,” she said. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Christian felt so choked with emotion that he almost didn’t hear the angry voices and tramping feet moving up the road toward them. The beautiful, joyous feeling in his heart was shattered suddenly by fear. “Hurry, into the fields!” came the warning.
The group on the bank disappeared as quickly as it had gathered. Christian and Peter grabbed Grandmother and plunged into the fields, crouching to stay out of sight. Behind them, the enraged mob began its search. Closer and closer they came to where Christian, Grandmother, and Peter hid.
The mob was now so close that Christian could see their angry faces. The friends and neighbors they had known all their lives were now trying to destroy them. “Burn the fields,” cried hr. Dam, his face twisted with hatred. “That will drive them out.”
“We should have brought the dogs to hunt them down.” That was Hans speaking—their friend Hans—and his face was distorted with rage.
Christian looked at his grandmother and Peter beside him. They were afraid. He knew that. But their faces were beautifully peaceful and calm. There was no twisting, darkening hatred here, even though there was reason enough. Instead, the words of the missionaries had given them something that left no room for such feelings, something that even fear could not drive out.
And in his heart, though Christian was not quite ready to fully accept all that the missionaries said, he knew that he, too, had found something priceless. The truth is worth persecution, he decided.

My beloved wife, Ethel, and I enjoyed 37 years of a wonderfully happy marriage. At least that’s how I saw it. I hope she did too! Even her previous survival of cancer on two occasions and her significantly declining health over three years did not prepare me for what seemed an awful, sudden separation upon her death in 2021.
After her passing, the feelings of grief were intense and devastating. I was very fortunate. I had married an exceptional woman. We had many great shared memories. We had three daughters who lived nearby. I had a supportive Church community. One or two trusted friends were willing listeners, with whom I could share my innermost thoughts – though I felt awkward doing so. Even then, none of these, not even the sum of them, seemed to ease the immeasurable sorrow I felt.
Initially, the grief came in what seemed like never-ending torrents and, as time passed, later became waves (just as painful) that would crash onto me without warning. Bumping into someone, seeing a dress in a shop, hearing a piece of music, watching a grandchild that Ethel had never lived to see – all of these and more would bring on the tears. Nearly four years after Ethel’s departure, the frequency of intense grief has decreased, but the unpredictable onset of weeping for her continues with similar intensity. I wouldn’t have it any other way, though. Love does that to you.

Cole Negebauer, a priest in the Shiloh Ward, knows all about being nervous to perform such a sacred ordinance. When he was asked to baptize his younger sister, Corie, he had been a member for only three years. His own baptism and the baptism of his parents and younger brother were still fresh in his mind, and he remembered how important it was to him.

So when it came time to baptize his sister, he was more than a little nervous about doing it right. The baptismal prayer isn’t a long prayer, but like the sacrament prayer, it must be said word for word. “I prayed about it a lot. I prayed that I’d not be nervous and that I’d be able to remember the words.”

It helped. But like Dan, Cole was in for a surprise when his family arrived at the church the day of the baptism. “It was packed,” he says. “We had to move into the chapel.”

When the important moment came, though, as Cole recited the words “having been commissioned of Jesus Christ,” he learned that when you’re acting worthily in the name of the Lord, you’re not alone. “I felt calm. I could feel the Holy Ghost there with me. It felt right. I knew I was doing something Heavenly Father wanted me to do.”

To Cole, blessing the sacrament and baptizing are important, but there’s more to holding the priesthood than that. Holding the priesthood means living right and being an example so he can perform those ordinances worthily.

“Some of my friends at school don’t understand why I don’t do some of the things they do, like watching R-rated movies or drinking and stuff like that. It’s hard to explain the priesthood. But they know I won’t do those things. Some think it’s cool. Some think it’s weird. But everybody knows.”

Honoring the priesthood has helped Cole prepare for his mission. Through Cole’s example and friendship, one friend and his two brothers were baptized. Another friend is playing basketball every week with some of the young men in the ward.

“I’m glad I have the priesthood and can use it more than just every Sunday,” he says. “It has strengthened my testimony. It’s given me confidence to do what’s right.”

Let me illustrate this with a story from the Church News:
“A group of religion instructors [were] taking a summer course on the life of the Savior and focusing particularly on the parables.
“When the final exam time came, … the students arrived at the classroom to find a note that the exam would be given in another building across campus. Moreover, the note said, it must be finished within the two-hour time period that was starting almost at that moment.
“The students hurried across campus. On the way they passed a little girl crying over a flat tire on her new bike. An old man hobbled painfully toward the library with a cane in one hand, spilling books from a stack he was trying to manage with the other. On a bench by the union building sat a shabbily dressed, bearded man [in obvious distress].
“Rushing into the other classroom, the students were met by the professor, who announced they had all flunked the final exam.
“The only true test of whether they understood the Savior’s life and teaching, he said, was how they treated people in need.
“Their weeks of study at the feet of a capable professor had taught them a great deal of what Christ had said and done.” They learned the letter but not the spirit. Their neglect of the little girl and the two men showed that the message of the course had not entered into their inward parts.

Before I got my patriarchal blessing, I prayed to know if it was the right time for me to receive my blessing. Then I prepared myself by becoming more spiritually in tune. When the day came I was so excited! While my patriarchal blessing was being pronounced upon me, I imagined that my Heavenly Father was there with his hands on my head saying the words himself. In that way my patriarchal blessing was much more personal to me.
Colleen Peterson, 15Salem, Oregon