Gospel Story Finder

When I was a young boy, we had no running water in our homes and no electricity. I can remember clearly when electricity first came to Bunkerville. I also remember my father and me taking horses and a big water wagon up to a spring in the mountains and bringing back drinking water to fill our man-made cistern. We would have to clean out the cistern before putting the fresh water into it. When we needed drinking water, we pumped it out by hand and carried it into the house in buckets.

I was very excited when I found out that my friend Hilary was going to stay with our family for eight days while her parents were on a trip. We always have lots of fun playing with dolls, riding bikes, and playing together in the backyard.
One morning when Hilary was staying with us, my mom read us the words of King Benjamin for scripture study. He said that we should “love one another, and … serve one another” (Mosiah 4:15). That afternoon after school, Hilary and I made a plan. We decided to surprise my family by showing them love and service.
We got up early the next morning and set the table for breakfast. Before we jumped back into bed, we laid out our clothes to wear that day and the clothes for my two younger brothers.
When it was Sunday, we emptied the dishwasher, cleared and washed off all the breakfast dishes, and swept the kitchen floor. Then we went straight to my room and got into our Sunday clothes. My mom was afraid that we’d be late for church with an extra person to get ready, but we helped her so much that our family arrived at sacrament meeting ten minutes early!
The last day of Hilary’s stay, she did all my kitchen jobs for me and helped my mom with my little brother, Grant. I secretly packed up her suitcase and gathered together all the things she needed to take home. Then I set the table for dinner, put clean towels in the bathroom, set out everyone’s toothbrushes, and straightened up the family room. I didn’t want to stop! My mom was really happy about everything we had done, and we felt very, very good inside.
Hilary and I decided that showing love and giving service to each other and to our families is just as much fun as riding bikes and playing with dolls.

Following an impression once saved my life. It was dark, I was alone, and I was high in the mountains several miles from the nearest road. Though I had never been on this particular mountainside, I was not lost. I knew the general location, and I knew that all I had to do was keep walking down and eventually this would lead me to a familiar road. The problem was the pitch darkness of the moonless night.
I chose a gully and started to feel my way down through the brush and deadfall. It was slow going, so I was relieved when the gully flattened out to a sandy bottom beneath my feet. I picked up my pace for about 10 steps and suddenly had a strong impression to stop. I did. Reaching down, I took a rock and tossed it out into the darkness ahead of me. I heard no sound for a few seconds, and then there was a clatter on the rocks a long distance away. I knew immediately that I was standing on the lip of a sheer drop-off.
I retraced my steps and eventually got down the mountain by another gully. I phoned my worried family close to midnight, just before they called for a search party. The next day I revisited that spot in daylight and saw my tracks, which stopped just two or three feet from a drop-off of at least 50 feet. I was glad I had heard and heeded a warning. Where did that lead? It saved my life.

It’s 8:30 on a brisk Monday morning at the Harvard Business School. A wind that blows in off the Charles River hustles red, orange, and yellow leaves as they chase each other around the ivy-laden brick buildings. Students of all colors and sizes hurry to their classes, the difficulty of the material they studied the night before imprinted on their faces.
Once inside the classroom they place their name cards in front of them, arrange their notes, and chatter nervously. Who will be called on to open class, they wonder, hoping against hope that it won’t be them.
“Mr. Fullmer,” barks the teacher. “I believe it is your lucky day. You will open, please.”
Greg Fullmer leans forward, fingers his notes and begins. He is prepared. He should be. He was up until 2:00 A.M. poring over the text. Greg has to stay up studying a little later than most students because he has so many additional responsibilities. Last year he was elected to serve as the Harvard Business School’s student body president—the first Latter-day Saint to hold that position. School officials and students alike say he is one of the best they’ve ever had—that he did more in the first two months he was in office than most presidents ever do in an entire year. The six-foot-two, broad-shouldered former BYU student body president finishes his statement, and a number of hands shoot up. The discussion has begun.
Fifteen years ago, if you had told that 12-year-old farm boy from Rexburg, Idaho, that he would someday be a student body president of one of the most prestigious schools in the country, he probably would have smiled. Not laughed, mind you, because he always did believe that if your desires are righteous and if you’re willing to pay the price, you can accomplish what you want to. No, he would have smiled because you had just given him a new goal to work toward.
But then again, at that point in Greg’s life, you probably would have laughed right out loud when you tried to picture him as the handsome Harvard student who has a number of major corporations trying to recruit him. Greg was short, overweight, asthmatic, and not exactly what you’d call an academic standout. And although he was good-natured and had a positive disposition, he was no angel either.
“He was always teasing his sister and doing something to get you aggravated,” his grandmother, Loah Anderson will tell you. “I laugh with him now about it though, and tell him that if I had ever caught him, he wouldn’t be where he is today.”
His grade school bus driver would agree. Not long ago, he stopped Greg in church and said “You know, Greg, you’ve restored my faith in the youth of today.”
“How’s that?” asked Greg, flattered but slightly puzzled.
“You used to be the rottenest kid I knew,” the bus driver replied. “I just hated to see you get on that bus. But now I know that if you can make it, anyone can.”
Greg really wasn’t a troublemaker. He just liked to interact with people, and he was naturally curious. “We’d take him to a cafe,” his grandmother says, “and the kid would be up and out in a second. He wouldn’t sit at the table. He’d be over with the hostess, talking to the waitresses; then he’d go back into the kitchen to see what was cooking.”
Through most of Greg’s teenage years, he was six to eight inches shorter than his sister—his younger sister. She is 14 months his junior. In junior high school, he got along well with the other kids, but no one took him that seriously. “I ran for student body president in junior high and suffered a miserable defeat,” he said. “I didn’t even make it into the primaries, and that really hurt.”
So what motivated Greg to keep trying? How did he finally end up in the top student leadership position at Harvard Business School?
Well, you could say it was faith. Faith in the Lord, faith in himself, and the faith that his family showed in him.
Greg didn’t come from what most people would call the ideal, stereotypical family background. But he’ll tell you it was ideal for him. His parents were divorced before he was two, and he, along with his mother and his sister, moved in with his grandparents. Instead of lamenting the fact that he comes from a “broken home,” Greg makes the best of it. “I always felt like I had to excel to make up for not having a dad, so actually, it was kind of good for me,” he says. Besides, “it was like having the love and support of three parents, not just two.” His mother had to work during the day but made sure that when she came home she spent plenty of quality time with her children.
From his mother, Greg learned to listen to people, to understand their needs, and to try to help them. This became one of his greatest assets as he served in various student-government positions. From his grandmother he learned that you can achieve almost anything you want in life if you’re willing to work hard. He attributes his greatest achievements to that conviction, including funding his mission with the money he earned by opening a number of weight control centers in various parts of the country. From his grandfather, Greg learned patience and wisdom. “He didn’t have a formal education, so he’d get up early every morning and read books,” Greg relates. “He’s one of the most intelligent people I know.” Under that inspiration, Greg went from being an average student in junior high to being class valedictorian at BYU.
When Greg was 12, his family went through another change. After much deliberation, his mother decided to remarry, and although there was occasional strain, Greg adapted quite well to his new father, brothers, and sisters.
While other boys were out playing little league baseball, Greg spent a lot of time working on the family farm, milking and feeding cows, cleaning out the milk tank, you name it. He doesn’t regret the time spent—it taught him to work hard. But he won’t tell you he loved it either, although he did have a number of ways to make the long, tedious hours go by faster. He took great pride in trying to do the best job he possibly could. If he was working with others, he would talk to them, laugh with them, joke with them, and get to know them better. And then, when he had a spare second, he would dream about what he would try to accomplish in the future.
“I wasn’t the most athletic kid in the school, I wasn’t the most intelligent, and I certainly wasn’t the best looking, so I decided I’d try to be the friendliest,” he said. “One way to feel good about yourself is to make other people feel good about themselves.”
Included in his dreams was a desire to be a student body president. He got over his miserable junior high defeat and decided that he would run when he got to high school. But just a short time before he was to announce his candidacy, his best friend told him he’d decided to run and asked Greg to be his campaign manager. Greg complied and helped him win, deciding that he could run for the office when he got to Ricks College.
But when Greg got to Ricks, he decided to sacrifice his political ambitions in favor of serving a mission in Indonesia. “I had a lot of misconceptions about the mission field,” he admits. “When you hear missionaries come back and say those were the best two years of their lives, you think it’s going to be all roses, but it’s not. It’s the hardest thing you could possibly do, and that’s what makes it great. I really learned to appreciate things I had to work for and sacrifice for. I learned to accept, appreciate, and love people who were different from me.”
When Greg returned from his mission, he finished up at Ricks, then went on to BYU. He never had satisfied his dream of becoming a student body president, but the thought of presiding over BYU’s 27,000 students seemed overly ambitious to him. His sister Kristie was convinced he could do it though. She helped him find a running mate, served as his campaign manager, and after a lot of hard work, Greg was elected by one of the biggest margins in BYU history.
“That really helped prepare me for where I am now,” Greg says. And actually, he is quite surprised to be in this position at Harvard. He’d already satisfied his goal of serving as a student body president, and knowing how many hours he’d put into the position at BYU, he didn’t think he could handle it at graduate school. After much prayer and a lot of requests from fellow students, however, Greg decided to give it a try. A lot of hard work went into that election too, and it paid off.
Even though Greg has won a multitude of other awards and titles, he feels that some of his greatest satisfaction comes when his accomplishments put him in a position to answer questions about the Church. “I’m constantly being questioned about our beliefs,” he says with a smile. “And I’m always happy to talk with anyone.”
And they’re usually happy to listen. Fellow students scrutinize Greg a little closer than they do other classmates. Not only is he their president, but he’s also one of a handful of LDS people they might know.
Tomorrow he’ll probably be walking Wall Street, but today, on the brisk Monday afternoon, his class discussions are finished and he walks over to one of the numerous meetings he has each week. Many students call out to him, greeting him by name. Some glance at him with a mischievous look in their eyes and call out, “Hi, LARRY!” That’s Greg’s first name, but he hates to be called that and they know it. On the first day of class this year, the student body gave him a standing ovation and shouted out, “Larry! Larry! Larry!” It’s impossible to take yourself too seriously with classmates like that.
Still, many of them ask him how he’s accomplished what he has. “My theory of success,” he tells them, “requires two things—that you work hard, and that you pray hard.” Greg slides into his seat at the head of a large conference table, and the other student body officers begin to file in. He is prepared. He should be. He was up until 2 A.M. making use of his theory of success.

Luke groaned. Everything was so noisy. His brothers, Tadd and John, were arguing again. Even from down the hall, he could hear their shouts through the door of their room. And his sister, Lizzie, had her music turned up loud again. Thump. Thump. Thump. He could always hear the steady beat of the low notes.
Luke tried asking his brothers to stop. “Go away,” Tadd told him. Then Luke asked Lizzie to turn her music down. She just turned the music up louder.
Luke wanted to go outside where he could think. But it was raining.
There was one quiet place where Luke could go, though. Yesterday his parents gave him a room of his own—one he didn’t have to share with Tadd and John. It was in the basement. It was just big enough for a bed and a table. But in his room Luke could close the door and escape from the noise.
Luke went downstairs to his new room. He looked around at the boxes he had brought down earlier. He saw a picture of Jesus sticking out of a box. Luke had gotten that picture on the day he was baptized. Looking at it always made him feel peaceful.
Luke took the picture out of the box. He set it on the table. Then he knelt down to pray. “Heavenly Father,” Luke said, “sometimes it’s so noisy here. Please help me find some peace.”
Luke lay down on his bed. He thought about Jesus. He’d learned in Primary that Jesus could always be close to him. And the Holy Ghost could always bring peace.
Soon Mom and Dad would be home from work. They would talk to Tadd and John. The fighting would stop. For a while. They would talk to Lizzie. Lizzie would turn her music down. For a while. Until Mom and Dad were gone again.
But for now, Luke lay in bed. He looked at the picture of Jesus. “Please, Heavenly Father,” Luke whispered. “Please help me to feel peace no matter what’s going on in the rest of the house.”
Later, there was a knock on his bedroom door. “May I come in?” Mom asked. “How are you doing?”
“Tadd and John were fighting again,” Luke said. “And Lizzie plays her music really loud.”
“I know. It’s hard, isn’t it?” Mom said. “Dad’s talking to your brothers right now. And I’ll talk to Lizzie tonight. But first, I wanted to see how you are.”
“I’m OK. I’m glad I have this room,” Luke said.
“Me too,” Mom said. “I see you put a picture of Jesus on the table.”
Luke smiled. “I did. And He’s going to help me make my room a place of peace.”

I’ve never told anyone this (except my wife—she knows everything about me), but I once harbored a secret, passionate desire to be a shot-putter on the U.S. Olympic team. It started in high school. I was a fairly good shot-putter then, and even though I attended BYU on a football scholarship, I still dreamed of someday being an Olympic team member.
Because spring football practice conflicted with track season, it was impossible for me to try out for BYU’s track squad. Besides, I wasn’t a good enough football player to miss spring drills for some other sport.
Nevertheless, I still had my hopes, so one winter afternoon I purchased a 16-pound shot. I spent a few spring and summer days throwing the shot, but my shot spent most of its time gathering dust and rust in the bottom of my locker in the Smith Fieldhouse.
But I enjoyed throwing the shot, and I figured that once my football career was over, I’d focus my efforts on becoming a world-class shot-putter.
Eventually my football eligibility was used up, I graduated, and moved with my wife to Ogden, where I began my first job teaching English and coaching track. My Olympic dream hibernated for a while.
That spring, when track season began, I decided I would have time to train seriously for the shot put. I spent some time in practice throwing the shot with the kids I was coaching, but before long other coaching duties took me away from the throwing area and my shot went back to getting rusty and dusty.
After that school year, we moved to Arizona to take a different teaching position. My dream didn’t die; it just slipped into a coma. Every track season I revived my Olympic aspirations, but by the end of the season, the dream became dormant again. My old shot, by then very rusty and very dusty, was used less and less.
Before I realized it, I was too old, too married, and too out of shape to even fantasize about the Olympics. Now my shot sits in a dark cobwebbed corner of my garage. I doubt if I could even pick it up anymore.
I never realized my Olympic goal, and I’m a little disappointed.

My mind was focused on the Savior as the congregation finished singing the sacrament hymn, but as I started to close the hymnbook, the music continued. A large congregation that day made it necessary for the organist to play two more verses while the priests finished breaking the bread. I was grateful for the extra time. It allowed me an additional moment of reverent meditation before the sacramental prayers.
During the prayers, I followed carefully the words the priests spoke as they blessed the emblems of Christ’s sacrifice for us. Just as the final prayer concluded and at the moment when the congregation voiced their assent, a four-year-old boy’s voice from two rows behind me sprang from the midst of the “amens.”
“Hooray!” he exclaimed.
His spontaneous expression was loud enough to cause several children nearby to giggle. I confess that it brought a quizzical smile to my lips.
“Hooray?” I thought. That’s an odd response to the sacrament prayers. It was certainly a response I’d never heard before and likely will never hear again. After all, we end our prayers with “amen.”
Perhaps that young child had sensed more of the truth than I had.
Hooray communicates excitement. It is an exclamation of joy, usually for a victory. Sometimes it’s shouted to show approval for someone who has finished a difficult task well.1
Instantly, my mind caught hold of the idea. Yes, I thought, hooray that Jesus Christ overcame death so we can all be resurrected! Hooray that because of His Atonement, He can forgive our sins! More to the point, He can forgive me of my sins! Hooray that through His grace I may return to my Heavenly Father and enjoy the hope of eternal life! Yes! Hooray!
As I silently shouted these praises of thanks to my Heavenly Father, the Holy Ghost flooded my heart with a joy that nearly brought me to tears. I had been led that day by a little child (see Isaiah 11:6), and I rejoiced with fresh vision for the blessings of the Savior’s Atonement in my life.

With a start, I awoke and listened. It was still dark so I knew it wasn’t the breakfast call that had awakened me. I nudged my older brother. “Ben, wake up. Something strange is happening.”
Ben pushed a sleep-fogged head out of the covers and listened. “I don’t hear anything, Shrimp. Go back to sleep.”
“That’s just it,” I insisted. “There aren’t any sounds!”
Ben listened again and then he smiled. “It’s probably snowing. It’s sure cold enough for it.” His blond head disappeared under the comforter.
The first real snow this year, I thought. Maybe there’s enough for sledding on the hill. As soon as I heard Mama lighting the kitchen stove, I threw on my clothes to keep the bed warmth in and ran downstairs to the heat below.
“What brings you down without a third call and a few threats thrown in?” asked Mama.
“It snowed!” I almost shouted the news.
“It certainly did—almost two feet,” Mama said. Then Ben and the little ones came clattering in, and the kitchen became a cheery waking-up place with the smell of bacon frying and everyone talking about what to do in the snow.
“Whoa,” said Mama, moving Wyn by the shoulders to his seat at the table. “This is a school day. You’d better eat and get out of here. It will take you longer to get to the bus stop in these drifts.”
“Oh, please, let us stay home,” we chorused.
“Sorry, fellows. Only Libby stays, since she has a cold.”
Outdoors I flopped on my back in the glistening snow. “Look, I’m an angel,” I called, flapping my arms and legs to leave an angel print.
“That’s about as close as you’ll ever come to being an angel,” yelled Ben, as he pelted me with snowballs. Seeing me down, Wyn and Jon joined in. I was laughing and trying to get up when the school bus horn blared. “We’ll be skinned for sure if we miss it. Run!” cried Ben.
All day at school the class was noisy. At two o’clock our teacher announced that school would be dismissed early. She laughed as we all plunged for the coatroom.
“Let’s not wait for the bus, Ben,” I suggested. “We’re out a whole hour early so let’s walk.”
“Can’t. We’d be late and then we’d catch it.”
“Not if we cut cross-country.” Turning to Jon and Wyn I called, “Last one over the fence is a scrungy turtle.” Over they climbed and then Ben followed, just like I knew he would.
“Good thing Libby’s not with us,” Jon said, knee-deep in the snow. “She couldn’t keep up in these drifts.”
“That gives me an idea. Poor Libby’s been in all day with her cold. Why don’t we roll a couple of balls and surprise her with a gigantic snowman?” I suggested. Ben thought it would take too long, but Wyn and Jon wanted to.
It was fun racing two and two, pushing the snowballs. But soon Ben and Jon got ahead as our snowballs grew bigger and harder to push. “It must be getting late,” said Ben, looking at the lowering sky.
“Maybe it’s just darker because it’s started to snow again,” I ventured.
“Either way, we’d better leave one ball. We’ll make good time with the four of us on one.”
It was really dark when we reached our lane. Ahead we could see headlights and from the sound we guessed it was Papa’s truck. Around the corner it came and caught the four of us and our giant snowball full in the headlights. The truck skidded to a stop. Papa came flying out of the cab. “Your mother has called half the county, trying to locate you!” he shouted. “As a last resort I was on my way to town to round up a search party. We figured you’d freeze if you stayed out in this all night. Now here I find you, playing with a snowball!” He waved an arm at the back of the truck and we piled in, leaving the giant snowball behind.
When we reached home, Papa said, “You get into the house fast and think of something nice to say to your mother, to make up for all the worry you’ve caused. If you’re lucky, she may heat up some supper for you.”
When we went into the kitchen, she seemed more glad to see us than anything else. After supper Papa ordered us up to bed. I was thinking we were getting off easy when he boomed, “All except Ben.” As usual, the ideas from my shrimpy-red head got us into trouble, but it was Ben who got the blame. He’s the oldest and Papa always says he’s responsible.
I went straight to bed, but I meant to stay awake until Ben came up. Next thing I knew Mama was calling, “Breakfast!”
Ben stirred. “Gosh, Ben. I’m sorry,” I began. “What happened after we came to bed?”
“It wasn’t too bad, Shrimp. Wait and see.”
Nothing was said at breakfast. Then we all piled into the truck to ride to the bus stop. Libby was going, too, and Papa said he didn’t want her starting the day all wet.
Before we reached the end of the lane the truck stopped. From the cab we could hear Libby squealing and Papa’s deep laugh. We all hung out the back to see. By the side of the road stood the gigantic snowman we had planned for Libby!
I looked at Ben. He grinned and then explained. “When I told Papa why we were late, he said it had been a dumb thing to do. He left me squirming for a few minutes and then said, ‘Well, get some warm clothes on. If we’re going to finish that snowman, we’d better get started now that it’s stopped snowing.’”
By the truck lights they had finished him off to be a giant, taller even than Papa. He was a proper snowman, too, with rock eyes, a carrot nose, and a hat borrowed from our old horse.
“The snowman won’t mind that his hat has slits for ears,” said Libby, her eyes shining with pleasure.
“I’m sure he won’t,” Papa said. And we looked at each other and winked.

One of the great blessings of my childhood was that my mother spent significant time reading to me and my younger brother Howard. She had a great sense of the importance of good books, and she used them to teach and entertain us. This all served to expand our limited young lives to matters far beyond our daily experience. The reading had begun when I was a runabout preschooler and Howard, who had been born with severe physical disabilities and could not run about, needed special attention. The blessing for me was that I got special attention too.
The books were wide-ranging and grew in sophistication as we grew. I remember nursery rhymes, poetry, folktales from Russia, the adventure in Thunder Cave—and the scriptures. Together we read parables, incidents such as the woman at the well, even the great abstractions.
One day Mother read: “Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up. …
“Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.
“Charity never faileth” (1 Cor. 13:4, 7–8; see also Moro. 7:45–46).
Howard interrupted the reading, as he often did, with a question: “What is charity?” He wanted to know the meaning of what we had just heard; I was still caught up in the way it sounded. I only wanted to go on with the reading, but I could tell Mother was pleased with his inquisitiveness. She taught us then, and later, that good questions can be important if we are truly searching to understand and that sometimes good answers that are good enough may take a lifetime of looking. Then she put down the New Testament and read from the Book of Mormon:
“But charity is the pure love of Christ, and it endureth forever; and whoso is found possessed of it at the last day, it shall be well with him [or her]” (Moro. 7:47).
There it was in one verse—the concentrated essence of a much larger whole, a definition given for a profound yet available truth. What I heard that day was clearly beyond my childhood comprehension, but the spirit of love was there and was as real as any of the other details of my young life.

When Ane was in high school, she looked forward to the day that she would attend a university. There were so many subjects she could study and so many careers she could choose from! “I had many, many interests and could do so many different things,” she says.

Although Ane lived in a small town in Norway, she attended a very good high school. Her school encouraged its students to work hard for good grades and to attend a university. Many students at Ane’s school began university studies immediately after graduating. From a young age, Ane had planned to do the same. Going to school, however, was only one of the goals Ane had set for herself.

“I have been well taught in Young Women through lessons and Personal Progress,” Ane says. “My goal has always been to marry in the temple.”

One evening at the local institute, Ane met a recently returned missionary named Benjamin. “From the first moment I saw him, he impressed me in so many ways,” says Ane. “It was so easy and nice to talk with him. We could easily talk about the gospel.”

Benjamin asked her on a date, and it went well. Over the coming months, Benjamin and Ane dated more. They played soccer and volleyball, went on hikes, and watched movies. Gradually they came to know each other better, and their friendship grew into romance.

As their courtship continued, their thoughts and plans turned to marriage. Ane and Benjamin were happy to have found the person they wanted to be with for eternity. However, this relationship became serious sooner than either of them had expected. What would happen to all the plans they had made when they were young? Would they still be able to seek an education? Would the decision to marry mean that their other goals would be postponed?

Some of their friends and family thought that this would be the case.

“Many people around me—at home, at school, and at work—were very concerned about how this relationship would affect my education,” Ane says. “They would question whether I even knew this relationship was going to last.

“Friends my age thought that getting married would prevent me from attending university,” she said. “To them, it seemed like I would be wasting my talents and opportunities.”

Some of Benjamin’s acquaintances felt the same way. “People wanted me to believe that we were too young, that my soon-to-be wife should complete an education first, and that if we got married, it would mean that we would have children, which we were also too young for,” he says.

Although Ane and Benjamin believed in the gospel’s emphasis on family and marriage, others not of their faith did not generally share this priority—at least not for young adults. “People in my town are strongly focused on education and work,” Ane explains. “This is good, but it does not leave much room for family—or religion.”

Both Benjamin and Ane were concerned about the advice and opinions given by their friends. For a whole year they struggled to decide on the right time to get married. They knew that ultimately the most important guidance would come from the Lord, so they spent much time searching the scriptures and words of the prophets for talks about family, marriage, and education.

“All these sources talk about how important both marriage and education are,” Ane says. As she continued in her search for direction, clarity finally came in a conversation with an institute leader. “She told me, ‘When you have the right person and the right place (the temple), it’s the right time!’” Ane remembers. “This really eased my mind. I received many promptings from the Spirit confirming that this was the path I should take. I came to know that Benjamin and I would get married and that it was the right thing for me to do at this time.”

Ane knew that she would still work toward getting an education, because that was also something that the Lord’s prophets encourage. But for now she knew that marriage would be her first priority.

Ane felt sad because she knew that few people would consider her marriage at that age something to be happy about. But she chose to focus on learning to recognize the promptings of the Spirit and on what the Lord thought instead of what her peers thought. “This was what I would need to stand strong and upright with the choice I had made,” she says.

Ane and Benjamin were married on July 16, 2009, in the Stockholm Sweden Temple. “When the day of our temple sealing arrived, I felt such peace,” Ane says. “It was all very simple. Beautiful. No worldly trappings. It felt so good to be with my parents and siblings in the temple—and with Benjamin. It was a time filled with true love.”

Although the months leading up to their marriage were hard, Ane is grateful for the trials she went through. “It forced me to take a stand,” she says. “God helped and strengthened me through scriptures, prayers, and priesthood blessings. Many of the people who were originally negative have come to acknowledge that what I chose was good and right. They see that I truly have found happiness. They have thanked me for trusting myself and the Lord.”

After their marriage, Ane and Benjamin moved to a new town where they both began their university studies. Soon they welcomed their daughter, Olea, and Ane temporarily put her studies on hold. Ane will continue her education part-time and online, allowing her both to get an education and to stay at home to nurture their daughter. Although she knows that such an arrangement will be hard work, Ane will still be able to get the education she desires.

“Some people may have thought that I had to sacrifice many things to get married and start a family,” she says, “and it could have looked that way. But in reality I have gained everything. I know that when I choose to put the Lord first, everything else will be given me. I am very excited and thankful to get my degree. But most of all I am thankful that we have the opportunity to be an eternal family!”

The Poole England Stake had the opportunity to host an event during National Interfaith Week in November 2023.
Stake members have been building a friendship with a Dorset-based charity named Unity in Vision, by hosting English Connect classes with refugees, and having international lunches monthly at Bournemouth chapel. Since the event was celebrating the charity’s chairperson, Rita El Gazi, it was the ideal venue.
Unity in Vision first launched through a female migrant group in Bournemouth in 2020. Now a social enterprise, and in partnership with Westbourne Rotary Club, the group helped feed people during the COVID-19 pandemic. One of their current projects is training people seeking asylum or refuge to prepare and serve meals, orchestrated through the vehicle of the international lunches, and named Unity International Catering.
Five days into a weeklong visit to Sudan in April 2023 to visit her ailing father, Rita found herself suddenly caught up in the armed conflict. The evening’s speakers revealed the depth of their friendship with Rita, heralded her achievements and reflected on her strength and faith. They also shared how their own faith gave them hope and guidance as they tried to do what they could, despite the distance, to get Rita and her family back to the UK. Rita showed photos and footage of her experiences, discussing the journey that she and a small group of family took to safety, and the miracles that they encountered along the way.
The mayor of Bournemouth, Councillor Anne Filer, ended the evening. Each of the three Abrahamic religions was represented at the event alongside multiple other friends. The Unity International Catering Project afterwards provided the refreshments.

In September 1995 I moved from Washington to Missouri. I had to leave all my friends and family behind. I really missed them and the members of my former ward. It was then I decided I didn’t like my new ward very much, and that I never would. But I read “The High Way to Happiness” in the June 1996 issue and it got my attention because I felt like the girl in that story. I realized in order for me to be happy I have to put forth some effort. Ever since I read that, I have been trying to be a happier person. And I now really enjoy my ward and the members here.
Erin HancockO’Fallon, Missouri

“My older brother, Ron, has always been an inspiration to me. I recall one evening when he came home from a Church youth meeting and announced to the family that his teacher had told him that he had to gain his own testimony and receive his own witness and to not rely on that of others. He said—almost prophetically—‘I’m going to gain that personal witness and testimony, no matter how long it takes or what the cost.’
“Ron began reading and studying the scriptures and fasting and praying. One morning a short time later, he was suddenly stricken by a paralysis. He could not move his body and his right side was in terrible pain. He was barely able to whisper to Dad that he wanted a blessing. No sooner had Dad finished blessing his son than Ron was miraculously cured! My brother uncoiled his tense body, straightened up, and was free of pain.
“When he was later examined by a doctor, the diagnosis was that he had had what appeared to be a ruptured appendix but that no trace of damaged tissue was found in his body. Later, my brother told me that during this experience he received his special witness that the Book of Mormon and the gospel were true. He wanted me to know, however, that he had received this knowledge before Dad had blessed him before his healing. He truly had shown faith before the miracle.

Ellie loved hugs. Hugs from Dad. Hugs from Grandma and Grandpa. Hugs from Mom. Hugs made her feel warm. And safe. And happy.
That’s why Ellie hugged Mom during church. She loved sitting on Mom’s lap. Mom always held her close.
Then sacrament meeting ended. It was time for Primary. Ellie loved Primary. She was a big girl now. Three years old! She even had her own scriptures!
But today Ellie just wanted to keep hugging Mom forever.
Mom carried Ellie down the hall. In the Primary room, Mom sat Ellie down on a chair.
“Can I go with you?” Ellie said.
“No,” Mom said. Her voice was kind. “You need to be in your class,” she said. “And I need to be in my class.”
Mom kissed Ellie’s cheek. Then she walked out the door.
Ellie felt tears rolling down her cheeks.
She thought about Mom holding her. Mom always held her when they read the Book of Mormon. They usually read with the family. But sometimes Ellie and Mom read by themselves.
Ellie picked up her Book of Mormon. Inside was a picture of Jesus.
Ellie closed the book and hugged it. She felt like she was hugging Jesus. She felt warm. And safe. And happy. It was the best hug ever!

“I joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints at the age of 26. Even though I had a soothing feeling in my heart as I followed the desire to be blessed by God by making a covenant with Him, I know that my understanding of that covenant was just like a small seed at that time.
“As the years have passed by and as I have been making an effort to keep that baptismal covenant and other covenants I have made with Heavenly Father, I feel that He has blessed me with a deeper understanding about Him, about my Savior, and about my role as a covenant daughter of Heavenly Parents.”
—Sister Reyna I. Aburto, Second Counselor in the Relief Society General Presidency

I think possibly I have told this experience that I had myself. I saw a young man when I was stake president; he was a very able young man; he had been trained in agriculture, and we needed an agricultural adviser in our welfare committee. He wasn’t active in the Church. I knew that he wasn’t keeping the Word of Wisdom, but I called and asked him to go to lunch with me one day; and as we sat and talked, I told him what I wanted of him. I said, “You are the best prepared, able young man to do this job. We need you, and you need activity.”
We talked for some time, and he said, “Well, President Tanner, you know that I don’t keep the Word of Wisdom.”
I said, “Well, you can, can’t you?” Probably that wasn’t fair.
And he said, “President, that is a different approach. My bishop came to me last month and asked me if I would take a job in the ward. I told him that I wasn’t keeping the Word of Wisdom. And he said, ‘Well, we will get somebody else.’”
So I talked with him for a little while longer, and I said, “Listen, brother, you need activity in the Church, but we need you, we really need you.”
After we had talked a little while, he said, “Do you mean that if I took a position like this I couldn’t even have a cup of coffee?”
I said, “Yes, that is exactly what I mean. Any leader must be a leader, and you must be an example. If you were taken into a stake committee, we would expect you to live the gospel the way a man should live it.”
He said, “Well, then, I shall have to think it over.”
I said, “You think it over. But remember, you need activity, and we need you.”
He said, “Well, I will let you know.”
He didn’t call me the next day. He didn’t call me the next day, and he didn’t call me the next day, and he didn’t call me the next day—and he didn’t call me the sixth day. And I thought, well, he doesn’t want to admit that he can’t keep the Word of Wisdom.
On the eighth day he called me. He said, “President Tanner, do you still want me to do that job?”
I said, “Yes, that is the reason I called you and talked to you about it the other day.”
He said, “Then I will do it, and on your terms.”
And he did it, and he did it on my terms. He was a single man, but he was thirty-some years of age. He came into activity, and there was a young woman who was stake president of the Mutual, a very fine young woman, and he met her and became very well acquainted with her and fell in love with her and married her.
And then he became a bishop and then he became a high councilor and then he became a member of the stake presidency. You know, it has given me a great deal of satisfaction to know that that young man became active, and his family is active. He has children now that are active.

While reading through the May 2007 issue of the Liahona, I was deeply moved by Elder Jay E. Jensen’s talk, “The Nourishing Power of Hymns.” I too have a strong testimony of the power of hymns. In February 2000, while listening to a local radio show, I heard a song I had never heard before. I not only enjoyed the flow of the music, but I also enjoyed the manner in which the group sang and the message the song carried. I later learned that this song was by a group called Latter-day Saints. I wanted to get the full text of this song. I decided I must visit this church. The first Sunday I attended, my first task was to get a hymnbook. There it was—hymn number 30, “Come, Come, Ye Saints.” I was baptized a few months later.
Richard S. Scotland, Liberia

The children of the Calderón family started a great transition for their family. Jared, age 15, was the first to join the Church, followed a year later by his sister, Angie, 13. Their parents joined the Church three years after Angie’s baptism.
At first this family from Costa Rica had no idea how much the gospel of Jesus Christ would change their lives. They were introduced to the Church by a family member in 2002, and for many months afterward the Calderóns regularly invited the missionaries to their home so they could learn more. As they did so, the family experienced a transformation—a true conversion.
Before the family joined the Church, the Calderóns were concerned that Jared and Angie were having a hard time getting a moral and spiritual education in a world that downplays religion.
The gospel, the Calderóns found, had answers to the problems they were facing. “When we came to understand the gospel and started applying its teachings, that knowledge changed the way we lived,” says Brother Calderón. “We learned who we are and how we can return to our Heavenly Father. Because of what we found, we have lived a richer spiritual life.”
It wasn’t always easy to accept readily what they were learning from the missionaries, but as they tested gospel principles, they gained a testimony of them. “As we learned about gospel standards,” says Sister Calderón, “we tried to stay within the boundaries of worthiness. I gave up drinking coffee. (And I drank plenty of coffee before then!) We made goals as a family to not swear, to speak kindly to each other, and to keep other good principles.
“The main sacrifice we made was our pride,” she continues. “We had to learn to be humble, but as we’ve tried to learn and live with humility, we’ve received many blessings and experienced great progress as individuals, as a couple, and as a family.”
Jared Calderón was the first of his family to join the Church; he was baptized in June 2003. Angie followed in July 2004. Their parents were baptized in April 2007. And finally, shortly after the youngest member of the Calderón family, James, turned eight in 2007, he was baptized.

Not long after that, things began to go terribly wrong. One night I was awakened by noises coming from another room. I got up to check and found Mum pacing the living room floor, her face a mask of pain. Tears coursed down her cheeks, and her hands were clenched so tightly at her sides that the nails bit into her flesh. When she found that she had been discovered, she sat down and buried her face in her hands, sobbing like an abandoned child.
I ran to her side, and held her to me. “Mum, what’s wrong?” I asked anxiously. I hated to see her like this. It seemed as though her sobs came from the deepest parts of her soul.
“Please, Brad, don’t tell your father you saw me like this,” she pleaded through her tears.
“What’s wrong?” I persisted.
Mum shook her head. “I wish I knew,” she said. “I’m aching all over. I can hardly stand it, Brad.”
I groped vainly for something comforting to say. Instead, I said, “How long has this been going on?”
“Three or four days,” she answered, sinking back into the couch. “The pain starts in my head and works its way down into my arms. It feels like it’s inside the bone.”
We sat in silence for a few moments, and Mum began to relax a bit. The agony was beginning to ease.
After that, I would lie awake at night, straining my ears for sounds of movement in the darkness. Sometimes I would hear the door creak as my mother crept outside to suffer in the privacy of the backyard. She had insisted that I say nothing to my father, so I let it bottle up inside me until it almost drove me crazy.
But it wasn’t long before Dad found out the truth for himself. Mum would become exhausted for no reason, and she would fly off the handle at any little thing. Explosive anger was foreign to Mum’s personality. Dad worried about this strange behaviour, but when he questioned it, Mum shrugged it off. Finally, when she quit eating and started losing weight, Dad practically had to drag her to the doctor.
That first visit to the hospital became a prison sentence for my mother. Nurses took a series of blood tests, which finally led to several minutes of sheer torture—a bone marrow biopsy. Soon a diagnosis was reached.
Dad sat with Mum, whispering words of encouragement as she lay hurt and weak on the sterile white of the hospital bed. A doctor entered the room. One look at his face told my parents that the news wasn’t good.
“We have the results of the tests,” he began. Dad couldn’t stop the question from coming out. “Is she going to be all right, doctor?” he asked.
The doctor cleared his throat. “Mr. Davis, your wife is suffering from acute myelocytic leukemia.”
Mum caught her breath. “What exactly is that?” she interrupted.
The doctor explained as best he could, using a lot of big words that we didn’t understand. But one thing was very clear—Mum’s condition was serious.
After that things really changed in the Davis household. Mum couldn’t do much in the way of housework, so we all had to pitch in and do our bit. Jason and I weren’t very skilled at washing and ironing, but worse than that was the constant worry and anxiety that we felt for our mother. She really suffered—more than anyone I had ever known. A series of drugs were prescribed for her to take at home, and every week she faced a trip to the haematology clinic for more tests and injections. The results were brutal, but she bore these things well.
The doctors really did do their best. But their best wasn’t good enough. They just couldn’t get the cancer to go into remission. Finally, a lung infection put Mum into the hospital for round-the-clock medical attention. Dad, who couldn’t bear to see her suffer alone, had a bunk set up so that he could be constantly by her side.
Now, we all sat in a little waiting room on a scorching November afternoon, waiting for the doctor’s verdict. When would the surgery end? Would our mother be all right? I guess we must have sat there for an hour or so before the surgeon finally made an appearance. He was a small man with a balding head and a grey moustache. Entering the room, he paused, studying the floor. My father stood up. “Doctor Wilson?” he said tensely. For a while, nobody made a sound. Then doctor Wilson spoke.
“We tried,” he began. I could see that this was a hard speech for him to make. “We couldn’t save her.”
There was stunned silence for a moment. Then Bronwyn burst into a flood of grief. My whole world had just fallen apart. I felt a bitter anger welling up from the deepest recesses of my soul. I had prayed desperately that my mother would be cured, but God had done nothing. Why? A gentle breeze danced in through the open window, played briefly in the corners of the room, then left the way it had come, carrying with it my faith in God.
The funeral was held on Tuesday morning. I didn’t go. I couldn’t stand to see them put her into the cold earth. Besides, I had been to LDS funerals before. Always they were so cheerful and positive, telling us to have faith in God and that things would be fine with the departed loved one. I wasn’t sure I even believed in God anymore. I went fishing in an effort to forget the pain I was feeling.
I arrived home as the sun was sinking in the evening sky. My fishing expedition had been a failure, and I badly wanted to speak to my father. Jason and Bronwyn were solemnly seated in the living room, but Dad was nowhere to be found. I went to look for him in the yard.
When I was a little boy, I had a pet dog called Bunyip. He was my best friend. We were inseparable. But one day Bunyip was bitten by a snake and died. I was shattered, and there was nothing my parents could do to console me. So my father went into one of the fields and painted a huge smiling face on a large granite boulder. He called it the Happy Rock. After that, whenever I felt sad, I would go to the Happy Rock, and my sorrows seemed to magically vanish.
It was here that I found my father, perched atop the boulder, its great, smiling face showing the strains of time. He looked pathetically vulnerable as he sat, gazing sadly at the retreating sunset. I quietly announced my presence. For a moment, he didn’t respond. Then a wistful smile briefly crossed his sun-browned face.
“I guess the old rock has lost its magic,” he said. Then, for the first time in my life, I saw my father cry. Again I felt bitterness within. How could the Lord give us a Christmas gift like this?
Weeks passed and I quit going to church. There was nothing there for me. A few people visited, encouraging me to go back, but I wouldn’t listen. How could I ever feel comfortable in church again?
One day I got a call from Sister Robinson, the Relief Society president. “Oh Brad, I’m so glad you’re home,” she said. I immediately felt my defences go up. If this was something to do with church, she could forget it.
“Yes, Sister Robinson, what can I do for you?”
“Well, it’s like this,” she began. “I’m supposed to be at the hospital tomorrow to read to some of the children, but I won’t be able to make it. I was wondering if maybe you could go in my place.”
“Gee, I don’t know,” I started to object.
Sister Robinson cut in: “Brad, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I don’t know who else to ask.”
I finally agreed to go because I didn’t know how to refuse her. Putting down the phone, I wandered into the living room. With four days left before Christmas, it looked as if the Christmas spirit had passed right over our place. There were no decorations, no trees, no Christmas cards. Instead we had sympathy cards lined up along the mantelpiece. If my Christmas was to be miserable, at least I could try to take some of the Yuletide cheer to some little kids in hospital.
At the hospital the next day, I was assigned to a frail little girl named Marcie. They told me she was nine years old. She looked about four. She was hooked up to some kind of machine which kept her alive, yet she smiled as if she hadn’t a care in the world. I felt awkward, dressed in my robes of self-pity, while she lay upon her deathbed as cheerful as spring sunshine. We visited for a while. As we talked, I marvelled at her wisdom and perspective. I didn’t know what was wrong with her—I didn’t have the heart to ask. She knew that she probably wouldn’t see her tenth birthday, yet she wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t bitter.
I surveyed the pile of books at her bedside. There were many to choose from. “What would you like me to read to you?” I asked.
She pointed to a worn copy of the Easter story. “That one,” she said.
I picked it up. “Honey, you don’t want to hear this. It’s Christmas,” I told her.
“No,” she repeated, “I want to hear that one. It’s my favorite.”
So, during the hot Christmas season, I read of the sufferings of Christ to a little girl who loved God. When I finished, she was staring into my eyes with a look that pierced my soul. Placing her tiny hand into mine, she said, “I have lots of pain, but never as much as Jesus had. When I’m really hurting and I’m all alone, I speak to the Lord because he knows how I feel. He loves me.”
I hurried home that afternoon because there was someone I wanted to speak to. When I got back to the farm, the first place I headed for was the Happy Rock. It was out of sight of the house and was an ideal spot for what I was about to do. Dropping to my knees, I opened my mouth to pray, but nothing came out. My heart was thumping. Finally, in desperation, I cried out, “Oh God, where are you?”
From a million miles away, deep within my own mind, I heard the glorious tones of an orchestra. The music grew louder, until it crashed over my being like a wave from the ocean. Then, as clearly as any spoken voice, I heard the words of a favorite carol: “Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: ‘God is not dead, nor doth he sleep . …’”

Returning to college to begin my sophomore year, I found myself the only active member of the Church at my school. In my freshman year of college, there were two of us who were. The summer after my freshman year, the other LDS student left on a mission, and that fall no new LDS students showed up in the incoming freshman class. I was alone.
With no other LDS students near me and my family thousands of miles away, feelings of loneliness and uncertainty crept into my life. I began to doubt and question the Church and myself. I still knew that the Church was true, but I was full of questions. If Heavenly Father really loved His children, why was I the only one out of so many to have the gift of the Book of Mormon? Why did only one person out of an entire college believe in the restored gospel?
I still went to church every week. I read the Book of Mormon every night and prayed every morning and night. That’s what made it so hard. I was trying to do everything right, yet I still felt like Heavenly Father was not answering my prayers, and I still felt fear and doubt. All I needed was a spiritual boost. I wasn’t looking for a huge sign or miracle. I just wanted to feel the Spirit in the same strong way that I had previously felt it.
So many times in my past I had answers to prayers, experiences in the temple, or moments reading the scriptures when I had felt the Spirit so strongly—moments when my testimony of the Church was confirmed. All I needed was to feel that same Spirit again. I prayed frequently, pleading with my Heavenly Father to let me know again, let me feel again, let me have a reason to throw away all my doubts.
I never did have an “aha!” moment. I was not brought to tears with convincing feelings of the Spirit. There wasn’t just one clear answer to my prayers. It took time, but over the next weeks and months, as I continued to try to do what was right, I found small answers. A verse in the scriptures, a speaker at a singles conference, and President Hinckley’s words at general conference all helped me to slowly shove out my doubts.
Throughout that semester I learned that I did not always feel the Spirit in the same way. Sometimes I had a strong, warm feeling; sometimes I felt overwhelming joy; but sometimes I just felt okay. I realized that there is strength in remembering previous spiritual experiences. I did not need to have another strong spiritual confirmation of the truthfulness of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I just had to trust in the feelings I had previously.
Hebrews 10:32 says, “Call to remembrance the former days, in which, after ye were illuminated, ye endured a great fight of afflictions.”
I had been “illuminated” by the Spirit before, and with the help of the Spirit I had endured trials before. I had to remember those previous experiences. Satan would like me to forget my earlier testimony-building feelings and experiences, but I can fight his efforts by having faith in myself, in the Church, and in the Spirit that I had felt before.
“Let us hold fast the profession of our faith without wavering” (Heb. 10:23). I now know that even when we do have doubts and fears and it seems like Heavenly Father isn’t answering our prayers, we have to just keep praying. He is always there and always listening.