Gospel Story Finder

I blame this all on Mr. Barnes, our social studies teacher. He’s the one who paired Joe and me up to work on—now get this—a team project on Finland. Can you believe it? What I know about Finland can be written on the back of a postage stamp.
Why Joe McCabe? Up until this point, I probably had as much meaning in his life, as say, cauliflower. Now it’s me and Joe Cool, no escape. After class, Joe comes up to me and says, “Hey, Ben.”
And I, not knowing how to speak cool, mumble something like, “Glrrrrk.”
“We’ll ace this report. Let’s get together on it right away. I can stop by your house on Thursday. Don’t you live on Oakway Street?”
Again, I utter a sensitive, insightful comment, “Uh-hur.”
“About eight o’clock okay? My mom has a business dinner at our place that night. Next time we get together it can be at our house.”
I nod my head meekly, wisely having given up trying to speak.
“See ya’ then, bud,” says Joe before he saunters away.
* * *
Now it’s dinner time on Thursday, less than two hours from Joe time. Everything is more or less normal at the Grundys. We are at the kitchen table, finishing off the main course—Mom’s almost-famous cheesy noodles.
“Anyone doing something special tonight?” Dad says, shoving a bite of cheesy noodles around his plate. “You up to anything, Ben?”
“Not much. Someone is coming over for a little social studies project.”
“A girl?” asks Mom, with great hope in her voice. Mom is aware of the fact that I’m socially awkward, and she drops these subtle hints about how she wishes I’d date more often. “Is it that cute little Margaret Gromo? I think she’s darling.”
“No, Mom. It’s not Margaret. It’s a guy. His name is Joe McCabe.”
Suddenly, life in the Grundy household comes to a grinding halt. My sister April almost chokes on a bite of noodles. My twin brothers, Philip and Andy, stop chewing in mid-bite. Mom ponders, “Where do I know that name from?”
“Joe McCabe?” Dad asks. “Isn’t he the football player I keep reading about?”
“Yeah.”
“Joe McCabe is coming here? Tonight?” mumbles April, suddenly taking off her thick glasses and running her fingers through her hair. “He is so conceited.”
“Do you think he’ll throw the football to us?” asks Andy, with hope.
“No. It’s dark out. Now look, Joe and I are, like, assigned to do a social studies project together and he’s coming over and we’re going to talk about some ideas. That’s all. Joe is very popular, so please …”
What I want to say is “don’t embarrass me,” but instead I say, “just leave us alone so we can get some work done.”
“Well sure, son. We can do that. You won’t even know we’re here.”
Exactly on time, the doorbell rings. Andy and Philip almost kill each other trying to get to the door first. Joe is dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt, running shoes, and a leather jacket. Andy and Philip are fighting over who can hang up Joe’s jacket.
Dad, who can usually be counted on to act fairly normal, stands up and says to Joe, “So you’re the famous Joe McCabe. BYU could sure use someone like you on its football team. Are they trying to recruit you?”
Joe smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, I think they are.”
Mom walks into the room. “I just have to ask, Are you the one dating Margaret Gromo? She’s this nice girl on the track team who lives down the street.”
“No, I’m sorry, Mrs. Grundy. It must be someone else,” Joe says, as I look for something to crawl under.
This is not the way I hoped the evening would start.
I usher Joe into the living room, hoping to get working before any other social blunders are committed. We start talking about what we know of Finland, which basically is nothing. At least April is keeping her word and not doing anything to embarrass the Grundy name.
Just then I hear a thump from near the doorway. It’s April, now in a dress, without her glasses, which is unusual because her range of clear vision without them is about three inches. April, the one who was so determined not to impress Joe, has just accidentally walked into one of our living room chairs.
“Oh, Benjamin! I didn’t know you had company!” she says, straightening up and speaking in what I think is a slight English accent. “How gauche of me! And what might be your guest’s name?”
“This is Joe McCabe. Joe, this is my sister, April.”
“Hi, April. I’ve seen you at school. Are you a tenth-grade cheerleader?”
She almost falls over at his question. “Uh, no, but I’ve thought about trying out,” she stammers, suddenly forgetting the phony accent.
“Well, you should give it a try. I bet you’d be good.”
“Oh.” April leans against the wall for support. “Well, I … I must be going. I have to … to, like do … my hair. Yeah, my hair.”
With that, she walks out of the room, although on somewhat wobbly legs.
We finally get down to the task at hand, although I notice Andy and Philip peeking in at Joe every once in a while. Just after nine we finish. We still don’t know much about Finland, although we dug up a few facts from the encyclopedia. “It’s a start, Grundy. We’ll hit it again next week.”
“Okay, Joe.”
I close the door and then slump into a big chair in our front room. There must be no doubt in Joe’s mind where I got my geekiness from. It runs in the family.
April comes around the corner, her glasses back on, dressed in baggy sweatpants and a sweatshirt. She has a thoughtful expression on her face, as though she is about to say something profound.
She clears her throat. “You know what, Ben? Joe McCabe isn’t as conceited as I thought.”

In 1895, Joseph Alma Ott, my great-uncle, became the first missionary called from the small southern Utah town of Tropic. He was the third son of David Benton Ott and Hannah Normington, sturdy pioneers who helped transform the southern Utah deserts into farms and cattle ranges.
The mission call to Germany came just a few weeks after twenty-four-year-old Joseph was married to Elizabeth Jolley in the St. George (Utah) Temple. Like many others of his generation, Joseph left behind everything he knew and loved and set off on his long journey to Europe.
Unfortunately, tragedy was Elder Ott’s first and only missionary companion. While disembarking from the ship in Germany, he slipped and fell into the cold water. He became ill from exposure to the water and frigid winter weather. His condition worsened, and, within a month of his arrival in the mission field, Joseph died. He was buried at Dresden, a beautiful city now located in the German Democratic Republic. His only possession of value sent home by the local authorities was a gold watch that later was carried by my grandfather and then my father on their missions.
The news of Elder Ott’s death devastated the family. Joseph was dead, his life wasted, his body buried in a distant land. Elizabeth, who weeks before had danced gaily as a new bride, was a grief-stricken young widow. Joseph’s father mourned even as Jacob of old mourned when his Joseph was presumed dead at the hands of savage beasts.
Although time and their faith eventually softened the blow, the story of his ill-fated mission was passed from generation to generation.

As Sister Johnson and I were raising our children, we encouraged each of them to learn to play a musical instrument. But we would allow our children to take music lessons only if they did their part and practiced their instrument each day. One Saturday, our daughter Jalynn was excited to go play with friends, but she had not yet practiced the piano. Knowing she had committed to practice for 30 minutes, she intended to set a timer because she did not want to practice even one minute longer than was required.

As she walked by the microwave oven on her way to the piano, she paused and pushed some buttons. But instead of setting the timer, she set the microwave to cook for 30 minutes and pushed start. After about 20 minutes of practice, she walked back to the kitchen to check how much time was remaining and found the microwave oven on fire.

She then ran into the backyard where I was doing yard work, yelling that the house was on fire. I quickly ran into the house, and indeed, I found the microwave oven in flames.

In an effort to save our home from burning, I reached behind the microwave, unplugged it, and used the power cord to lift the burning microwave off of the counter. Hoping to be the hero and to save the day as well as our home, I swung the flaming microwave in circles with the power cord to keep it away from my body, got to the backyard, and with another swinging motion flung the microwave out onto the lawn. There we were able to extinguish the fiery flames with a hose.

What had gone wrong? A microwave oven needs something to absorb its energy, and when nothing is on the inside to absorb the energy, the oven itself absorbs the energy, becomes hot, and may catch on fire, destroying itself in a pile of flames and ashes. Our entire microwave went up in flames and burned because there was nothing on the inside.

Before the curtains opened, I stood nervously backstage in the dark silence. Many precious hours were sacrificed in preparation for this moment. The curtains opened to reveal a high school choir poised and ready to sing. Our conductor stood in the wing across from me. She caught my eye and smiled before entering the stage.
I was the accompanist for the high school concert choir. Our conductor chose a series of songs that meant a great deal to her. The music was difficult, especially for a high school choir. I had labored long and hard over these songs, attempting to perfect each note. At this moment, however, I wondered if I had done enough to prepare. I worried that I might not live up to my conductor’s expectations.
I cautiously stepped onto the stage, sensing a thousand pairs of eyes on me as I sat down at the piano. Although shaking, I positioned my hands for the first chord and waited for my conductor’s cue. She looked into my eyes, and together we began the piece. Immediately, I felt a change come over me. The notes came easily and comfortably to my trembling fingers. It seemed that I was not playing the piano alone—something else inside of me was. I believe that the Spirit was there, guiding my fingers and calming my heart. Each song was better than the last. The choir sang with surety and deep emotion. I had never felt the Spirit so strongly in my young life.
My eyes brimmed with tears as the last notes lingered on the piano. The audience was struck silent for a moment before they applauded and gave us a standing ovation. They had also felt that overwhelming influence of the Spirit. After taking our bows, my conductor and I left the stage. She fell into my arms and we both cried because the Spirit had touched us so deeply. I received many compliments, but in my heart, I knew that I did not play those beautiful pieces alone that night. Something much more powerful than I had delivered those songs with such divine beauty.
Just as I did my part to practice the music, I know that when I do what the Lord asks me to do, He will bless me and guide me. My efforts were blessed that night on the stage and are continually blessed in my daily life as I strive to do my best to obey His commandments. I may fall short, but He can make up the difference. I gained a testimony one night on a bright stage while sitting at a piano.

Friends come in a variety of sizes, shapes, and ages. I learned that as a young boy. I knew that after my daily chores were done, I had a friend next door ready to play—not to run in the fields, ride horses, or swim in the pond, but to sit and have a good game of checkers. For many of the boys my age in our community, Elmer Sessions didn’t seem like a very good prospect as a friend. He was old, especially in the eyes of a 10-year-old boy. He was crippled and could be a little disagreeable at times. But Elmer liked me and I liked him.
Elmer was a good checkers player, and I would patiently watch him plan and execute his moves. He taught me by example how to play checkers. I don’t know who was more excited, Elmer or me, the first time I beat him at his own game.
There was a determination about Elmer that I came to admire. He had an appreciation for nature and beauty and loved to see things grow. Every morning you could see him heading out to work in his garden. With the aid of an old walking stick, Elmer would drag his crippled leg behind him. The walk itself was difficult, and keeping the weeds out of his large garden seemed to me to be a monumental task. It wasn’t easy, but he took pride in the beautiful produce that grew there. I would help him when I could. I enjoyed our conversations. He was full of interesting facts that he was willing to share with a listening boy.
He liked to grow unusual things in his garden, and one spring day I remember asking him what he was planting. He replied, “Goober peas.” When I told him I had never heard of goober peas, he gave me some and told me to go home and plant them in our garden. I did, and I watched them carefully as they grew. When I expressed my concern that I couldn’t see any fruit on the vine, he told me to be patient. The day came when it was time to harvest the goober peas. Elmer showed me how to dig around the plants, and was I surprised and delighted to find that under the ground were mounds of peanuts just waiting to be roasted—Elmer’s goober peas.
Over the years I learned many things from Elmer Sessions—lessons about patience, determination, endurance, and long-suffering. I learned that friends can come in a variety of sizes, shapes, and ages. That an old man and a young boy can be friends. Friendships can easily span years when two people are willing to listen and care and reach out to each other.

One day at camp we all had the chance to take on the confidence course, a high ropes challenge. For this activity, each participant was strapped into a climber’s harness and had to climb halfway up a steep, notched telephone pole and then up a climbing wall featuring handholds placed randomly across its face. The whole time an instructor watched and waited on a platform high above the climber holding a safety rope attached to the climber’s harness.
For most participants, the course’s height and degree of difficulty made for an imposing obstacle. Still, most of my friends were determined to meet the challenge. In spite of my physical shortcomings, I try to do all I can to match the abilities of average-sized people, and so I decided to attempt the climb.
Before I knew it, I was suited up with climbing helmet and harness, standing at the base of the notched pole. As I began to climb, I heard encouragement from my friends below and from my instructor above. I soon discovered that no matter how hard I tried, my reach was insufficient for the spacing of the notches, which were designed for people with “normal wingspans.”
The instructor at the top watched as I struggled and, when he saw that I had stretched just as far as I was able, he pulled up on the rope a few extra inches allowing me to reach the next handhold. He then relaxed his tension, allowing me to do all of the work that I could.
After much effort I would try for the next handhold. Again I was just inches short of reaching. But because of a caring person at the top who wanted me to succeed, I was again lifted those few extra inches needed to reach the next level. It continued this way, with few exceptions, until I was at last at the top.
The instructor congratulated me, and I felt such appreciation, not only for the help he gave me but also for the fact that he let me do all that I could for myself. It was our success, not his or mine alone.

President Kasue immediately obtained a copy of the registration document and took it to the assistant chief of Chyulu Village to assure the rights of the Church to operate legally. The Saints could now meet without fear, and their membership soon increased to about 40. They needed a place to meet, but a mission had not yet been established and no meetinghouse was provided. The members built a small bower on President Kasue’s land.
In July 1991 the Kenya Nairobi Mission was organized with Larry Brown as president. Soon he and Sister Brown made a visit to Chyulu. “Although the trip was grueling, it was worth it!” says President Brown. “I remember that the sacrament meeting was held in the bower, but it was raining and the ground inside was wet. Before the priesthood holders knelt down to bless the sacrament, they threw an old sack on the mud. The next time we went, I happened to look in the sacrament trays, and there were only two small pieces of crackers. … They broke those crackers up. There were 63 people there, and I didn’t think those crackers would ever go around, but they did. It was like feeding the 5,000.”7

Since 2008, a team of local volunteers have coordinated a Christmas Day luncheon and festivities to ensure no one spends the day alone. This event enjoys fellowship from many different people including new migrant families, international students, those who have left unsafe homes, people experiencing financial challenges, empty nesters and those separated from family due to COVID border closures and other reasons.
Sister Anouck Van Dyck has been the chairperson for the last three years and said this event is a collaboration between local volunteers, the City of Joondalup Council and various businesses to ensure everyone knows they are loved and appreciated on this very special day. The Perth Australia Mission helps with this by providing a setup and pack down service and are now part of the official entertainment program singing carols to invite the Spirit of Christ into everyone’s hearts.
Of their involvement, Perth Mission President Michael J. Stone commented: “What a great delight to be involved in such a deserving community project during this special Christmas season.
“Our missionaries were thrilled to be of service and truly felt the spirit of Christmas as they worked and sang on Christmas Day to those in the community that might otherwise have had a lonely Christmas.
“We are grateful for the opportunity our missionaries have had to give to the community through work and song on Christmas Day. In serving others, their spirits were lifted towards the Saviour—a wonderful day and blessing for all.”

When our daughter Aris submitted her recommendation form to serve a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, my wife and I prayed fervently that she would be called to serve in a safe place. Every parent desires the safety of his or her children, even as we strive to trust in the Lord’s will. We never imagined the series of tender mercies that would soon be manifested.
Over the years, our family has been blessed through temple covenants, and our children have been raised in the light of the gospel. As my oldest daughter prepared to serve a mission, my wife and I were nervous and excited, wondering where she might serve.
The long-awaited day came for my daughter to open her mission call.
“Dear Sister Ledesma,” she read, “you are called to serve as a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Your assignment is to work in the Hawaii Laie Mission. It is anticipated that you will serve for 18 months. …”
At first, we wondered: Hawaii? We had never heard of someone from the Dominican Republic going to serve on a mission in Hawaii. But then a wave of excitement and relief came over us. Our prayers had been answered. Hawaii seemed like a safe and quiet place for our daughter to serve, especially given the turmoil in various parts of the world. We were immensely grateful. However, as we took in the news, we began to realize this calling involved more than just physical safety: It was a deep, personal testimony of the Lord’s hand in our lives.
Whether by coincidence or divine design, the missionary who shared the gospel with me many years ago is from Hawaii and resides in the Laie Mission. The missionary who taught my wife the gospel was also from Hawaii and still lives there. Either way, it was a blessing for us.
I contacted Brother Underwood, the missionary who taught me, and told him about what had happened. Days later, we talked on the phone. He said, “I have been thinking about this more over the last two weeks and thinking what a blessing it will be to meet her and have her bring the gospel to my home island as I brought it to your island. What a blessing. She’ll be like a little girl of mine as long as she’s here.”
Last September, my daughter was serving in the Laie Third Ward, where Brother Underwood was baptized and grew up. He was very happy to visit his old ward and see my daughter, Sister Ledesma. When he saw her, Brother Underwood was filled with joy, realizing that the opportunity to share the gospel with me over 25 years ago had paid off—generations had been changed.
What were the possibilities? It became clear that this was no ordinary mission call. The Lord had prepared our daughter to serve in a place that had special meaning for our family—where missionaries who had changed her parents’ lives lived. It was a tender mercy, a beautiful manifestation that the Lord was aware of our family and His involvement in our lives.

I was going to Arkansas to do one particular story. Period. But the flight schedules left me just enough time to do an additional story. So I asked Monty, my local contact, if he had any suggestions.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “since you asked—how about Rochelle Abram up in Bentonville?”
I had never worked with Monty before. Did he really know what kind of story I was looking for? I wasn’t completely sure myself.
What I didn’t want was to put some super-gifted super-achiever on a pedestal and make everybody else feel inadequate. Maybe I was just looking for an ordinary kid who has some qualities worth writing about.
I grabbed pencil and paper. “So tell me about Rochelle, Monty.”
He began, and mentally I responded to each point. “… multi-talented …” (The Church has lots of multi-talented kids.) “… state championships in gymnastics …” (We’ve done gymnast stories.) “… has done very well scholastically …” (That’s better, but—) “… a fine influence among the youth here …” (Okay. Now I’m listening.)
On the map, the road between Ft. Smith, Arkansas, and Bentonville looks fairly straight. In reality, it has more twists and turns than a soap opera plot, more bad grades than my fifth-grade report card. But since it winds among beautiful green hills, past some delightful little towns and villages, you don’t mind too much.
With Monty as guide, we found the Abram home, nestled among tall trees on Trail’s End Road, the driveway full of cars. This was Rochelle’s graduation night. Family and friends had started to gather, and it promised to be a little hectic.
Jerry Abram, Rochelle’s dad, greeted us warmly, pulled us into the house with a car salesman’s handshake, and introduced me to some of the family as we moved through the living room. A young woman approached from a hallway and he announced, “This is Rochelle.”
I doubted that boys had to be bribed to take her to the prom. Light blue-green eyes, warm smile and perfect white teeth, reddish-blond hair framing an oval face and fair complexion—Jed, my photographer, was going to have an easy time of it. But my anxiety about trying to do a story on a too-perfect girl had increased.
We discussed a few details, like what she would wear for the photographer and how much time we had before she had to go to commencement exercises. Then we went out onto the deck at the back of the house and sat down at a wrought iron table. It was after 5:00 P.M., and the tall trees that surround the house cast lacy shadows over us. I turned on my tape recorder, and we began to talk while Jed circled about, taking picture after picture.
First, just to break the ice, we talked about school and friends. I learned that Rochelle’s circle of friends includes LDS youth in the larger town of Fayetteville, 30 minutes away. “We just get together on weekends and do stuff and have a lot of fun.” Like what? “Just about everything. We like to hike and camp and fish and do all the tomboyish things,” she laughs. “We’ve also had dinner parties with the guys.” Pretty normal so far.
Before coming to Arkansas, I had talked some more to Monty and others about Rochelle, and everybody mentioned gymnastics. So I asked, and learned that she started in the sixth grade and began competing in seventh grade. “And you took state honors—first place,” I prompted.
“Yes, I got first place in uneven bars in the state high school competitions last year and this year.” She paused. “And I got first place in floor exercises in the USGF (U.S. Gymnastics Federation) competition this year.” Another slight pause. “I enjoy it; it’s a lot of fun.”
Fun? The closest I’ve come to a back flip was on an icy morning a few winters ago. But I know that even for the talented, gymnastics training is punishingly difficult. “What has it done for you?”
“It’s taken up a lot of my time, and it’s a lot of hard work, but it teaches you patience and endurance. It’s kind of hard sometimes because you want to learn a trick and be good, but you have to work at it. And it’s really discouraging sometimes. But it’s given me more confidence in myself because when you do well you feel better about yourself.”
As Rochelle talked, I studied her face and listened to the inflections in her voice. No hint of false modesty. Others confirmed that she doesn’t talk freely about her accomplishments, even to her parents. You get the impression that she does things for the joy of doing—not for the trophies and certificates, but for the satisfaction of tackling something tough and doing it as well as she possibly can.
She treats school the same way, taking the challenging advanced placement courses instead of going for the easy A. I commented on the fact that she would be attending BYU on a four-year academic scholarship instead of going to some college on a gymnastics scholarship. She just laughed. Gymnastics may be fun and challenging, but it isn’t her life. Rochelle will be studying things like biology and chemistry. “I want to pursue a career in a health-related field, probably in some area of research,” she said.
What does she see herself doing ten years down the road? “Hopefully a mission, marriage, and a family.”
We took a break for a few minutes. Jed needed photos in a different setting, and I wanted to talk to Rochelle’s parents.
Jerry Abram came out and sat down. “Rochelle is not a spectator; she is a participant,” he said when I asked him to sum up his daughter. “I don’t know what she’ll contribute to the Church—whether she’ll ever be a Relief Society or Young Women president—but I know what she’ll contribute to other people. She always has time for others.”
For example? “In our stake there was a young man, a ninth grader, who was not participating. So Rochelle went to his house every morning, woke him up if necessary, and took him to early-morning seminary. It wasn’t an assignment; she just did it. I asked her about it, and she said, ‘It’s there to do.’”
When Jerry Abram talks about his daughter, there is both pride and some wonder in his voice as he discusses her skills and accomplishments. But it was when we talked about her qualities that his eyes became moist, his voice slightly husky. Asked about Rochelle’s spiritual gifts, he said, “She excels in the same way. She craves spiritual knowledge.”
I asked Rochelle’s mother, Mary, what her daughter’s best quality is. Her first thought was, “She is a true, sincere friend.” Then, as she continued to speak about Rochelle’s relationships with others: “It’s her commitment to Christ and to gospel standards.”
Commitment to Christ. I thought back on something that everyone but Rochelle had talked about so far—the death of Rochelle’s fraternal twin sister, Rhonda, in an auto accident just 11 months earlier.
When Rhonda was killed, two other girls also died in the one-car rollover. Both of them, Kathryn and Michele, were also LDS and close friends of both of the Abram sisters. The tragedy shook the town. Yet the Christ-centered faith of Rochelle and her family not only carried them through, but became a blessing to many others.
Hundreds of townspeople attended the joint funeral for Rhonda and Kathryn that was held in the LDS chapel. Michele’s funeral was two days later. Many commented afterward that they had always been taught that Mormons are not Christians. Now they knew otherwise. And a dozen or so have since come into the Church after being fellowshipped by Rochelle and her family.
A little later in the evening Rochelle and I talked again. The shadows had lengthened further and a light breeze toyed idly with the leaves. Through the closed glass doors you could faintly hear the growing crowd of friends talking and laughing. But out where we were it was quiet enough to hear the calls of insects and birds.
“Do you mind if we talk about Rhonda for a minute?”
Her gaze was direct and open as she said that was fine.
I asked her how her sister’s death had affected her.
“It makes me want to be a better person. She was such a great example—almost perfect.”
Like many of her answers it was short and to the point. I guess I could have followed up, tried to draw her out. But her parents had commented on how deeply she has felt the loss of her sister and how private she is about her grief. What would be the point in prying further? Instead, after a short silence, for some reason I changed the subject and asked, “What do you fear most?”
This time she paused. Her soft voice took on a slightly different quality as she answered. “Not being accepted, I guess.”
The surprise must have registered on my face. She laughed at herself and at her answer, as though she realized how silly it might sound to someone else, someone aware of her accomplishments.
I sat back and looked at this young woman from a small town in the northwest corner of Arkansas. Rochelle Abram—who wins titles in gymnastics. Loves to swim in the creek with family and friends. Is graduating with high honors. Recently shot a hole in her brother’s bedroom window with a BB gun while trying to hit a slow-flying bug. Eats peanut butter and jelly for Thanksgiving dinner because she doesn’t like meat and vegetables. Needed two full days to clean her room before company came.
It was time for Rochelle to go into the house and finish getting ready for her graduation. I looked down at my tape recorder and notebook and thought about the story contained on tape, on paper, and in my memory. Monty was right. She is worth writing about. Hooray for anybody who has gifts, develops them as well as possible, and is modest about them. Three cheers for those who accomplish things for the sheer joy of doing.
But far more importantly, I decided Rochelle was worth writing about because she excels in some ways that everyone can excel in: commitment to Jesus Christ and his gospel, putting aside our own fears and tragedies and reaching out to others. Even a Rochelle Abram sometimes worries about acceptance. It’s a natural fear most of us have. But instead of holding back, afraid to stand out, she goes ahead and does when “it’s there to be done.”
Next time Monty recommends a story, I’m ready to listen.

My great-great-aunt Laura Clark Phelps was the first member of the Clark family who joined the Church. She was a woman who uniquely demonstrated a faith in the Lord that stands fast, nothing wavering.
Laura’s legacy teaches much about the doctrine of faith as “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” She received her patriarchal blessing from Joseph Smith Sr. In it she was counseled to be faithful and she would have an inheritance in Zion. She was further told to “call upon God in faith, and if thou wilt thou shall have all of the desires of thine heart.”
Laura and her husband knew the Prophet Joseph Smith. On one occasion, the Prophet and his brother Hyrum came running to their farm outside Far West, Missouri, where Laura hid them behind the clothes curtain. She calmly faced the mob leaders who rushed in shortly afterwards in search of the Prophet.
Laura experienced the joys and privations of the early Church members in this dispensation. Her faith deepened as she was driven from her homes and separated from her husband on various occasions. As an efficient midwife, she worked and traveled day and night in all kinds of weather to help provide for her family. This overexertion and exposure took their toll. She died at the young age of 34, leaving behind her husband and five children. She did not live to see her children, her grandchildren, or her great-grandchildren following her in faith. She did not experience the blessings of receiving her own temple endowment in this earth life, blessings I believe she would have cherished.
Laura’s faithful life bears witness of this verse from Hebrews: “These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off, and were persuaded of them, and embraced them, and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth.” Faith lived in Laura, and Laura lived her faith.

Twenty years ago, 60 years after that brave woman left her home, my brother Nelson and I travelled back to Lithuania together. We were on a journey to discover our long-lost family connection. We found more than we expected.
I believe we were moved by the spirit of Elijah to begin that search. We hoped, at least, to find the records of our ancestors so that we could give them the opportunity of receiving the covenants of God in the Lord’s House.
We only had scraps and pieces of clues to help us begin the search. We had a picture of a cousin named Marcelle who was a child when my grandmother left the country. We also had two postcards sent by Marcelle to our family in Brazil. They had been sent without a return address, but they had a post-office stamp naming the city from which it had been mailed. One postcard was mailed in 1935, and the other in 1945. They had been mailed from two different cities.
We would only be able to look for our family in Lithuania for four days before having to return home. Time was short. On our first day, we asked our guide to take us to the city the more recent postcard had been mailed from. We figured we should start there. We hoped the people in the most recent place she had lived might remember her.
After a two-hour drive, we noticed a mistake. Our guide had not followed our instructions. He had taken us to the city where the first postcard had come from. Disappointed, we asked the guide to take us to a Catholic Church, hoping we could find some information about the whereabouts of our cousin Marcelle or her family.
I can still picture in my mind the small Catholic Church we were taken to. As we arrived, I saw a priest locking the gate leading to the entrance of the church. He appeared to just be leaving.
We parked our car quickly and hurried to stop the priest to ask him if he had ever heard of a Marcelle Aidukaitis. To our surprise, he told us that he had known a woman by that name. She was a nun who had passed away 10 years earlier. He did not know if this was the Marcelle we were looking for, but he said he knew where her family’s home was and would be willing to take us there.
The family we met was indeed the family we were looking for. We had found our family in Lithuania. We had found a needle in the haystack on our very first try. A real miracle.
I still think of how God guided us that day. First, contrary to our instructions, our guide took us to a different city than the one we were expecting to go to. Next, we arrived at the Catholic Church at the precise moment the priest who remembered Marcelle was leaving the premises. If we had been delayed by only 30 seconds on that two-hour drive, we would have missed the priest. If the priest had not needed to take the time to lock up, we would have missed him. If anything had gone differently, I have no idea if we would have been able to find our family during that trip—if ever.
But God knew our intent, and He guided us exactly to where we needed to be.
Three days later, we had a family reunion with the relatives we found in Lithuania. There were over 60 family members present. An incredible thing.

President Kimball recites the following story about a goal he made when he was still a young boy: “When I heard a Church leader from Salt Lake City tell us at conference that we should read the scriptures, and I recognized that I had never read the Bible, that very night at the conclusion of that very sermon I walked to my home a block away and climbed up in my little attic room in the top of the house and lighted a little coal-oil lamp that was on the little table, and I read the first chapters of Genesis. A year later I closed the Bible, having read every chapter in that big and glorious book.
“I found that this Bible that I was reading had in it 66 books, and then I was nearly dissuaded when I found that it had in it 1,189 chapters, and then I also found that it had 1,519 pages. It was formidable, but I knew if others did it that I could do it.
“I found that there were certain parts that were hard for a 14-year-old boy to understand. There were some pages that were not especially interesting to me, but when I had read the 66 books and 1,189 chapters and 1,519 pages, I had a glowing satisfaction that I had made a goal and that I had achieved it.
And he continues: “I am not telling you this story to boast; I am merely using this as an example to say that if I could do it by coal-oil light, you can do it by electric light. I have always been glad I read the Bible from cover to cover.” (Ensign, May 1974, p. 88.)

Joseph Smith was a valiant servant of the Lord Jesus Christ. He was brave and courageous in standing for right. One time, the Prophet Joseph and several other brethren were taken from their families and put in jail. They were chained together and had to sleep on the cold prison floor.

During one of the long, cold nights of their imprisonment, Joseph and his friends were unable to sleep. For hours the guards had been boasting loudly about the horrible things they had done to Latter-day Saints. They bragged about robbing, shooting, and killing men, women, and even little children.

Suddenly Joseph, unarmed and in chains, stood up and spoke in a voice like thunder: “SILENCE, ye fiends [devils] of the infernal pit. In the name of Jesus Christ I rebuke you, and command you to be still; I will not live another minute and bear such language. Cease [stop] such talk, or you or I die THIS INSTANT!” (Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt [1938], 180).

The guards shook, and some dropped their weapons. Some of the guards begged Joseph’s pardon. All of them remained quiet until a change of guards.

Elder Pratt’s two former companions traveled on to Tahiti, where their teaching met with far less success. After a few months, Elder Rogers traveled west to the leeward islands and Elder Grouard sailed to the island of Anaa in the Tuamotus. Elder Rogers again met with little success and much opposition. When rumors finally reached him of the death of the Prophet Joseph Smith, he began to fear for the safety of his family in Nauvoo, and he returned to America. He died during the exodus from Nauvoo.
The people of Anaa, on the other hand, came to greatly love Elder Grouard. He was the first white missionary of any kind to come to their island, and many of them accepted the truth he taught. He baptized over six hundred natives, organized five branches, and called local officers to serve. He wrote to Elder Pratt and asked him to come to Anaa, as there was too much work for him to do alone.
Elder Pratt responded to his companion’s invitation, and a conference of the Church was held on Anaa with over eight hundred in attendance. At this time Addison Pratt decided to travel back to Church headquarters to request more missionaries to help in the work in the South Pacific. Leaving Elder Grouard behind, he traveled first to California, then to the Salt Lake Valley, arriving in September 1848, one week after his wife and four daughters had arrived from Winter Quarters.

This story about the Aaronic Priesthood begins with a young woman, 16-year-old Lauren DellAquila of the Cary Second Ward, Apex North Carolina Stake. Lauren hadn’t come to Church for years. She had never been baptized and confirmed, “but I just knew in my heart that the Church was true.”
She also knew David Christison, 16, and Andrew Hill, 15, who attend the same school, are Latter-day Saints. “I’m in marching band with David and had a couple of classes with Andrew last year,” she says. And she knew they stood by their beliefs. “It meant a lot to see their example, because most teens at our school don’t have values like they do,” Lauren explains.
Then one day after band, some other classmates were making unkind comments about the Church. Lauren told them if they really wanted to know the truth, they shouldn’t repeat rumors; they should find out for themselves. Afterward, David thanked her and asked how she knew so much about the Church. “She said that when she was really young she went to Church, but then her parents divorced and she stopped coming,” David says. “So I invited her to come again.”
“People had tried to get me to come back before, but for one reason or another it had never happened,” Lauren explains. “But when I told David and Andrew that I did want to try again, they were excited. I started coming to meetings, and they introduced me to the bishop, the missionaries, and the young women in the ward. They helped me feel at home.”
Soon Lauren was baptized and confirmed, and today she’s a happy, confident Laurel who recently gave a sacrament meeting talk about the importance of the priesthood. “If the gospel had not been restored,” she says, “I wouldn’t have seen two young men honoring their priesthood. And I wouldn’t have had the opportunities I have had to make covenants and to draw close to the Savior.”

While the decisions we make determine our course, we can revise that course by choosing to repent of our sins. As we change our path and seek forgiveness, the Savior’s infinite Atonement makes it possible for us to ultimately feel peace. One reader shares her feelings about finding the Lord’s peace:
“I am a young woman, 17 years old. I was baptized when I was 11. When I turned 14, I started dating a boy who was not a member of the Church and I became less-active. I did things that were wrong, and I felt dirty. I could not forgive myself, and I thought the Lord would not forgive me either.
“One day I saw two missionaries. For some reason, I felt the desire to pray again. I went home and offered a prayer to Heavenly Father. Then I got out my Book of Mormon and began to read. That Sunday I went to church and heard one of the missionaries bear his testimony. His words filled me with a desire to obtain a true testimony.
“As I prayed, read the scriptures, and fasted, I came to know the gospel is true, and I was filled with sorrow for what I had done. I told my branch president everything. I was so ashamed I felt my heart had shattered. He called a disciplinary council, and I was placed on probation.
“One night I read about Alma’s conversion in Alma 36:15–21. Tears filled my eyes. I knelt down and said: ‘Lord, free me from my sins as You did Alma. I know You can forgive my sins by the power of the atoning blood of Jesus Christ.’ At that moment, I felt a great power in my body. Among the tears on my face was a smile of joy. I felt, as did Alma, an exquisite joy.
“When my probation ended, my branch president called me to serve as secretary of the Young Women, branch music director, and a Primary teacher. I know Jesus Christ atoned for our sins and wants us to repent and return to Him.”

Mary Nash, another student from the past, who married classmate Clive North after his mission, comments, “I have rich memories of rising early to catch the 7:25 A.M. train from Birmingham to Leicester to be present for the 8:30 A.M. devotional at Wakerley Road Chapel one Saturday each month. There were a handful of us from all over the stake, but our teacher, John M. Madsen (Church Educational System Regional Coordinator), made those classes so much fun. I still recall his saying, ‘Welcome to cemetery,’ as tired, bleary-eyed youngsters sat yawning through his opening remarks. I remember the struggle I had at first with homework and daily scripture study, but through practice and Heavenly Father’s help, I coped with both and succeeded.”

As our youngest son, Clark, was approaching his 12th birthday, he and I were leaving the Church Administration Building when President Harold B. Lee approached and greeted us. I mentioned that Clark would soon be 12, whereupon President Lee turned to him and asked, “What happens to you when you turn 12?”
This was one of those times when a father prays that a son will be inspired to give a proper response. Clark, without hesitation, said to President Lee, “I will be ordained a deacon!”
The answer was the one President Lee had sought. He then counseled our son, “Remember, it is a great blessing to hold the priesthood.”

I am the oldest daughter of a gung-ho Scoutmaster. My fond memories include being awakened at 3:00 in the morning by some 20 Scouts “quietly” getting ready for camp. Their soft, gentle sounds included trucks being loaded, backpacks getting a shakedown, the phone ringing off the wall (moms were already worried), and the bugle boy frantically practicing taps while a nonbugler echoed his attempts. These memories stretch on to include the scene a week later when the same troop was sprawled across the front lawn, exhausted, dirty, smelly, and somehow magically changed to men.