Gospel Story Finder

One Saturday, all of our family, except Dad, hurried into the car to attend the wedding of a friend who is not a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Because we were in such a hurry, I had forgotten to take the directions to the church where the wedding would be held. By the time I realized this, we were very far from home, and it was almost time for the wedding.
The first thing we tried to do was phone Dad. But there was no answer. Next, we drove around the area to try to find the church, but there were so many that it seemed impossible to find the right one in time.
Michael said, “Why don’t we ask Heavenly Father to help us?”
I was a bit embarrassed because I had not thought of praying. I asked him to pray, and he asked Heavenly Father to help us find the church where the wedding was.
In just a few moments, we found it—in time, too. We were very happy that Michael reminded us that Heavenly Father answers prayers and that no prayer is too small for Him to hear. He showed us his great faith in the power of prayer.

It begins as a big, fleecy bundle. Ruth Kandler, 14, and her sisters, Helga, 17, and Petra, 11, are often waiting at the door when their father brings the wool home. He has traveled high into the Austrian Alps to purchase it from the shepherds, who have already sheared it from the backs of their flocks, washed it, and carded it to remove burrs and align fibers. Straightening the fibers allows the wool to be spun into yarn.
This time, there is a surprise. Along with the usual white and gray wool from the milk sheep, Brother Kandler has brought back a smaller bale of dark brown wool, the wool of the mountain sheep. The young ladies are excited, because even though the short black fibers are more difficult to spin, they add variety and color when the homespun yarn is knitted into clothing for school and work.
One of the most prized possessions in the Kandler household is an antique spinning wheel more than 100 years old. There are several other spinning wheels of varying ages to accompany it, enough so that everyone in the family can spin at the same time and still invite one friend to join in.
The spinning itself, once learned well, is not a difficult art. “I learned to do it in three days,” Petra says. Brother Kandler, watching his wife teach his daughters, learned the technique in just one day and seems to enjoy spinning as much as the rest of the family.
“It’s relaxing just to sit and spin,” Ruth says. “You can talk or just think and still be making something at the same time.” It’s also obvious the daughters enjoy spending a little time occasionally practicing the craft with their parents. They smile, laugh, and tell jokes. When Petra’s yarn doesn’t seem to wind quite right, her older sisters help her remedy the problem as Sister Kandler nods her head approvingly.
Electricity is expensive in the small town of Eugendorf where the Kandlers live, so the work is done by the sunlight that filters through the windows and reflects from the walls, setting the room aglow. Helga strums her guitar as the others pump foot pedals up and down and carefully twist the wool through their fingers, guiding it onto spools. Her chord patterns and clear voice seem infinitely more appropriate than a blaring radio or a chatty television set. “We share the real experience of doing things together,” Brother Kandler says, “We don’t have a T.V.” Sometimes friends, like 11-year-old Michele Make who lives nearby, come over to join in the fun.
Today, because it’s a special occasion (a photographer has come to take their picture), the entire family has put on costumes typical of their region. Like most Austrians, they wear the traditional clothing from time to time during the year as part of their regular wardrobe. But it is fairly rare to find all of them in costume on the same day. Helga says that having the costumes is practical, “It’s handy, because they never go out of fashion,” she adds. “Teenagers, children, parents—everyone wears them. But we wear other things, too, like dresses and jeans.”
The wool is for making sweaters, gloves, mittens, and stockings. Helga says it’s enjoyable to be able to wear homemade clothing to school, “Most of the other children are enchanted by it,” she says. “They go home and try to make theirs in the same way.” Sister Kandler, who began spinning just a few years ago (she learned how from friends), says hand-knit clothing is popular throughout Austria, but buying it in the stores is much too expensive. (It costs about 2,000 shillings, or $150, to buy a handmade sweater in a store. Brother Kandler buys an entire kilo of wool in the mountains for 500 shillings.) The Kandler’s make their yarn from pure, natural wool (it’s not dyed, so the lanolin, which waterproofs the fiber and makes it a good insulator, is preserved). Add to that the fact that the clothing they make serves as a constant reminder of hearth and home, and it becomes nearly priceless.
Helga says the Kandlers have found that their talent has helped them make friends and fellowship Church members in the Salzburg (Austria) Ward, Germany Munich Stake, where they attend church, and elsewhere. During the winter, which is the season when most of the spinning is done, a group of Church families from Germany and Austria (Eugendorf, near Salzburg, is about 30 kilometers from the German border) gathers for instruction and for the pleasure of working together. “Many people return home with a new skill and with a more valuable way to spend their spare time,” Helga says. Sister Kandler also features spinning instruction as part of her Relief Society homemaking lessons, and her daughters help her demonstrate.

Allow me to share this afternoon with you one of the most precious things to me—the story of how I myself was found.
Just before I turned 15, I was invited by my uncle Manuel Bustos to spend some time with him and his family here in the United States. This would be a great opportunity for me to learn some English. My uncle had converted to the Church many years before, and he had a great missionary spirit. That is probably why my mother, without my knowing, spoke with him and said she would agree to the invitation on one condition: that he did not try to convince me to become a member of his Church. We were Catholics, and we had been for generations, and there was no reason to change. My uncle was in complete agreement and kept his word to the point that he didn’t want to answer even simple questions about the Church.
Of course, what my uncle and his sweet wife, Marjorie, could not avoid was being who they were.3
I was assigned a room that contained a large library of books. I could see that in this library there were roughly 200 copies of the Book of Mormon in different languages, 20 of them in Spanish.
One day, out of curiosity, I took down a copy of the Book of Mormon in Spanish.
It was one of those copies with a sky-blue soft cover, with the figure of the angel Moroni on the front. When I opened it, on the first page there was written the following promise: “And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.”
And then it added: “And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.”4
It is difficult to explain the impact that these scriptures had on my mind and heart. To be honest, I was not looking for “the truth.” I was just a teenager, happy with his life, enjoying this new culture.
Nevertheless, with that promise in mind, I secretly began reading the book. As I read more, I understood that if I really wanted to get anything from this, I had better start to pray. And we all know what happens when you decide not only to read but also to pray about the Book of Mormon. Well, that is just what happened to me. It was something so special and so unique—yes, just the same as what has happened to millions of others around the world. I came to know by the power of the Holy Ghost that the Book of Mormon was true.
I then went to my uncle to explain to him what had happened and that I was ready to be baptized. My uncle could not contain his astonishment. He got into his car, drove to the airport, and returned back with my plane ticket to fly back home, with a note addressed to my mother that simply stated, “I had nothing to do with this!”
In a way he was right. I had been found directly by the power of the Book of Mormon.

When I returned to Buenos Aires, my mother realized that I truly wanted to be baptized. Since I had a somewhat rebellious spirit, instead of opposing me, she very wisely took my side. And without even knowing it, she did my baptismal interview herself. Indeed, I believe that her interview was even more in-depth than those that our missionaries conduct. She told me, “If you want to be baptized, I will support you. But first I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want you to think very hard and answer me honestly. Do you commit to attend church absolutely every Sunday?”
I told her, “Yes, of course I’m going to do that.”
“Do you have any idea how long church is?”
“Yes, I know,” I said.
She replied, “Well, if you get baptized, I am going to make sure that you attend.” Then she asked me if I was truly willing to never drink alcohol or smoke.
I answered, “Yes, of course I am going to comply with that as well.”
To which she added, “If you get baptized, I am going to make sure that that is the case.” And she proceeded on in that way with almost every commandment.
My uncle had called my mother to tell her not to worry, that I would get over this soon. Four years later, when I received my call to serve in the Uruguay Montevideo Mission, my mother called my uncle to ask him exactly when I was going to get over all this. The truth is that from the time I was baptized, my mother was a happier mother.

I received the other day a very interesting letter. It was written by a woman who joined the Church a year ago. She writes:
“My journey into the Church was unique and quite challenging. This past year has been the hardest year that I have ever lived in my life. It has also been the most rewarding. As a new member, I continue to be challenged every day.”
She goes on to say that when she joined the Church she did not feel support from the leadership in her ward. Her bishop seemed indifferent to her as a new member. Rebuffed, as she felt, she turned back to her mission president, who opened opportunities for her.
She states that “Church members don’t know what it is like to be a new member of the Church. Therefore, it’s almost impossible for them to know how to support us.”
I challenge you, my brothers and sisters, that if you do not know what it is like, you try to imagine what it is like. It can be terribly lonely. It can be disappointing. It can be frightening. We of this Church are far more different from the world than we are prone to think we are. This woman goes on: “When we as investigators become members of the Church, we are surprised to discover that we have entered into a completely foreign world, a world that has its own traditions, culture, and language. We discover that there is no one person or no one place of reference that we can turn to for guidance in our trip into this new world. At first the trip is exciting, our mistakes even amusing, then it becomes frustrating and eventually, the frustration turns into anger. And it’s at these stages of frustration and anger that we leave. We go back to the world from which we came, where we knew who we were, where we contributed, and where we could speak the language.”

My great-grandmother, Ursula Wise Derrick, was an unusual woman. According to our family record, she was born about 1779 at Keynsham, Somerset, England, a town just 12 kilometers from Bristol. She gave birth to 11 children. The last two were twins, Elizabeth and Zachariah. Elizabeth apparently died soon after birth.
When Zach was 14 years of age, he began to serve his apprenticeship as a mechanic at the Bristol Iron Works. He completed this apprenticeship as a man who casts metal.
This year was an important one for him. In addition to beginning his second apprenticeship, he married Mary Shephard. Soon after his marriage, his mother became seriously ill. Fearing death was near, she called Zach to her bedside and told him not to join himself seriously to any of the church organizations with which he was then familiar because none of them was the true church of Christ. She told him that when he heard of missionaries coming two by two, preaching in the halls and on street corners, teaching of a new prophet who had received revelation from God, he should join them, for their church would be the true church of God.
That same year of 1836, Ursula Wise Derrick died, one year before Heber C. Kimball and his missionary companions landed 320 kilometers north at Liverpool to bring the message of the Restoration to the British Isles. It was several years before the restored gospel was taught in Bristol.
She must have been a very spiritual woman to have received that information from a divine source. She died not having been baptized by one with the authority of God to do so. But the Savior said, “Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the Kingdom of God” (John 3:5). I’ve been searching the scriptures to find out what happened to my great-grandmother.

We sat huddled on the wet lawn in front of the Joseph Smith Monument in Sharon, Vermont, draped in ponchos and plastic garbage bags in a vain attempt to keep dry. We strained to hear the speaker over the sound of the rain, as he explained to us the final activity of the wilderness youth conference we were taking part in.
In a few minutes, we would be sent off to be alone in the woods. We were given a list of things to do, including self-evaluation and scripture reading. The last thing we were to do, however, was what really excited me. Alone in the woods, we were to kneel and pray aloud to our Heavenly Father and ask if the Church was true.
Earlier, the speaker had related to us a story about David O. McKay receiving his patriarchal blessing. President McKay was, at the time, a champion marble player, an activity which, the speaker pointed out, required quite a bit of skill. After the blessing, however, the patriarch told 13-year-old David that he had more important things to do than play marbles. The speaker now gave to us that same wise counsel. “Brothers and sisters,” he pleaded, “please, put away your marbles, and take advantage of this opportunity to find out for yourself if the Church is true.”
It was almost silent as we entered the woods and began to break up into smaller and smaller groups. I think everyone could sense, as I did, the importance of what was about to happen. I pulled my poncho over me and took out the worksheet and program we had been given to write on. To begin my solo experience, I sang all of the songs on the program. After completing the other activities, I came to the prayer.
I was excited to pray, but I was also nervous because I had always thought that I would find out whether or not the Church was true when I was older; I had always put it off. I had felt the Spirit before in fast and testimony meetings and when I received a testimony of the Book of Mormon, but I couldn’t honestly say that I knew the Church was true. What if I prayed and there was just nothing? What if, out here in the woods, kneeling and praying aloud got me nothing but wet?
I decided that I’d never know unless I tried, so I knelt on the soggy leaves and bowed my head in prayer. I spoke in a whisper, fearful that someone might eavesdrop, and I asked very simply to know if I really belonged to God’s true church. I finished my prayer and remained kneeling to await an answer.
At first, I received an impression that I already knew the truth of those things. But I figured that must have been my own thoughts, so I prayed again.
“You already know,” came my answer, along with the warm and calm feeling of the Spirit that enveloped me with peace and joy.
My heart quickened, and I couldn’t hold back the smile that soon covered my face. I realized that through my seminary and personal study, I had built my testimony step by step, precept upon precept, so slowly that I didn’t even realize I had it until I put it to the test.
Now I knew that the Church was true and I could put away, or at least put aside, the less important things in my life and get on with my spiritual growth. I felt so relieved, so content, and so grateful that the Lord had taken the time to let me know personally that the Church was true. Already kneeling, I bowed my head again and gave a prayer of thanks to the Lord for his witness to me that, although I hadn’t recognized it before, I already knew.

As long as I can remember, I have had a football at my side and a dream to be a professional player. My parents supported me as I pursued this dream. They also encouraged me to go to church. But as I got older I was at church only when I didn’t have a game. I knew that the gospel, Church activities, and my friends would help me a lot in life, but what I was really looking for was to fulfill my dream of playing football.
As I trained I began to have important friends inside the great football clubs. I had opportunities to play and even train with some of these clubs. I traveled throughout various countries to participate in tournaments, and I was very excited and happy with the possibility of living the life of a professional football player. On one of these trips to Asia, my dream was about to come true. A large club liked what they saw when they watched me play and wanted me to join the team. But my agent found some obstacles during the negotiation, and we ultimately didn’t close the contract.
At home my friends were filling out mission papers; others were returning from missions and telling with enthusiasm what it was like to be a missionary. Their eyes shone with emotion each time they spoke, and the Spirit was very strong. I felt the desire to serve a mission too; I wanted to have these same experiences. But I worried that if I chose to serve a mission, my football dream wouldn’t come true because I would lose physical fitness and agility. My desire to become a professional player was enormous; I had put off college and worked and lived only to fulfill this dream.
On my football trips I always brought a copy of the Book of Mormon. I loved the words of the prophets, their way of life, their determination to obey the commandments, and their good example for their people. I felt ashamed of not being an example for the other players and not putting the things of God first. Sometimes I tried to share my beliefs, but what I always heard was “Let’s enjoy the trip. Forget about this nonsense. Let’s go have fun!” I started to get irritated with the gossip, dishonesty, and other aspects of football life. Many times I felt alone and sad, and I knew there was a place where I always felt happy and had friends who cared about me—friends who were together at activities and dances, in seminary and institute classes—celestial friends. I missed these things very much.
One Sunday when I wasn’t traveling, I went to church in my home ward in Brazil. At the end of the meetings, the bishop called me into his office to talk. I knew that we were going to talk about a mission because everyone my age was returning home. The bishop challenged me to serve a mission, and I tried to change the subject, saying that I wasn’t prepared. I tried to put off the bishop in every possible way, but he persevered and convinced me of the value of a mission. We ended the conversation with a goal for my preparation.
Some months later I turned in my papers, and I also continued with my training. For the moment, I had managed to reconcile football and the Church in my mind. But little did I know that it couldn’t last for long. I would have to choose.
When my call arrived, my family gathered at home. We were all very excited. Then the telephone rang.
On the other end of the line, my football agent told me that he had obtained a good contract with a European club. My imagination soared! I could see the stadium full of people coming to watch the games. I thought of the beautiful house and car and salary I could have. My dream was about to be fulfilled. It was within my grasp—and then I looked at the envelope with the call sitting beside the phone.
My eyes began to fill with tears. For a moment my life passed as if it were a movie. On the phone, my agent asked me what I thought of the news. I was silent. I couldn’t talk, and my legs were shaking. I didn’t want this moment to be real, but it was! I had to make a decision, the most difficult of any decision in my life.
With my voice shaking, I finally told him that I had already obtained a better contract. I would be a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for two years. I thanked the agent for the opportunity and for his work and effort on my behalf. Then I hung up the phone and went to my room, where I cried for a long time. I knew that the opportunity wouldn’t wait for two years, and my football dream would not be realized.
I knelt and prayed to Heavenly Father, asking for comfort. I felt a quiet and sweet voice respond, comforting my heart by saying, “My son, you are already part of the best team in the world.” I reflected on these words and still reflect on them today.
Today, home from serving in the Brazil Fortaleza Mission, I don’t regret my choice in any way. The true Church of Jesus Christ is available to anyone who wants to be happy. And on my mission I learned that the best way to be happy is doing what Heavenly Father wants us to do. My mission was the best choice I have ever made in my life. It taught me that all who seek first the kingdom of God will have a place on the Lord’s team (see Matthew 6:33).

Years ago, following a mission tour, my wife, Jeanene, told me about an elder she had met. Jeanene had asked him about his family. She was surprised as he responded that he had no family. He further explained that at his birth, his mother had given him to the government to raise. He spent his childhood going from one foster home to another. He was blessed as a teenager to find the gospel. A loving ward family had helped him to have the opportunity to serve a mission.

Later Jeanene asked the mission president’s wife about this fine elder. She learned that a few months earlier this elder had been in the mission home for a few days due to an illness. During that time he had joined them for a family home evening. Before he left to go back into the field, he asked the mission president if he could spend two or three days at the end of his mission in the mission home again. He wanted to observe how a Christ-centered family functions. He wanted to be able to pattern his family after theirs.

We establish the Church in the hearts of our brothers and sisters when we minister properly. One day, while serving as the Lubumbashi Stake president, the Spirit of the Lord prompted me to give a ring to a friend from the Lubumbashi Second Ward. I had these promptings all day long, and I finally resolved to call him as I arrived at work. Here is what happened: “He shouted, ‘President, I am surprised that you call me at this very moment! I have just had a discussion with a Protestant pastor who appeared to be convincing me! Your phone call has fortified me. This is a proof that we are in the true Church of the Lord.’ I answered him: ‘My brother, we are members of the Church of the Lord; it is his Church, we need to stand fast in spite of all hardships we may be experiencing in life. We are from the Church of the Lord, no one can separate us from His love, and no one can change that’.”
This phone call helped my brother to stand firm with an increasing faith in the Lord, since he had only been a member of the Church for two years.

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.

I spent Christmas 2012 together with my family in Samoa and experienced my first ever tropical cyclone. The power went out throughout our whole village in Afega on Christmas Eve night, so our family of four used torches and candles to see each other around our kitchen table. We spent the night talking and laughing and crying together. It was the least glamorous Christmas I can remember—we had no presents and no parties, but it is one of my favourite memories because all we could give each other was time.

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

Claire’s friends were here. She grabbed her in-line skates from the shelf in the hallway.
“Bye, Mom!” she called to her mother, who was sewing in the other room.
“Bye, Claire! I know you’ll be good and have a good time, too!”
Mom always said that same thing whenever Claire went off with her friends. She was eleven, about to turn twelve. A few weeks back, Claire, Jessica, Amanda, and Whitney had decided to skate once a week at the Recreation Center downtown. After school on Fridays was Claire’s favorite time of the whole week. And today she even had a cute new outfit on—a red plaid button shirt over a cream tank top.
At the Center, Claire sat by Jessica as they put on their skates. “Let’s try the jump today,” she said.
“And let’s work on our turns,” Jessica said. “Everybody ready?”
The girls hopped off the wooden bench and sailed onto the floor. Claire threw out her arms and caught her balance, teetering around like a listing sailboat. Halfway around the room, she felt suddenly at ease, her feet relaxing inside her skates, her body gliding effortlessly along the glistening sea of wooden floor as if pushed by a wind.
“Hey, Claire, that’s a cute shirt,” said Jessica. “Is it new?”
“Do you really like it? My mom found it on sale.”
It wasn’t long before the girls were ready for the jump. A wooden ramp was set up in the middle of the skating rink, reminding Claire of an ocean wave. The four girls lined up behind her and sped around the rink, building up speed for the jump. Claire hit the ramp and for a split second floated on air a few inches above the floor. “Whee!” The others followed with squeals of delight.
After several jumps, Claire wiped her forehead. “I’m hot. Let’s work on our turns, Jessica.”
The two friends went over to a quiet corner of the rink. Full 360° turns required patience and a lot of slow practice.
“I did it!” Jessica exulted. “Now you.”
Claire took one glide forward and twisted her body, her skates making a half circle. Around she went in a shaky, slow-motion twirl. “I did it, too! But it needs work.”
“You get better every time,” Jessica called over her shoulder, in the middle of another turn. “Is that a tank top you’re wearing underneath your new shirt? Is it new, too?”
“Yes, I got it just to wear under my shirts. I think the layers look cool.”
“They look cool, but it’s hot skating and you’re wearing two shirts,” Jessica pointed out, skating around Claire. “Why don’t you take off your shirt and skate in your tank top?”
Claire finished a turn and looked straight at Jessica. “I promised my mom—” She stopped when she noticed that Jessica had taken off her sweater and was skating in a thin-strapped tank top herself. Her bare arms and shoulders looked cool. Still, she remembered her mother’s words as she left the house. “I know you’ll be good and have a good time, too.” Claire also remembered what her mother was sewing—a prom dress for Claire’s big sister because there weren’t any modest ones in the stores.
“Come on, Claire,” said Jessica. “Look at Whitney and Amanda. They’re wearing tank tops, too.”
Claire braked and stood up straight. “I promised my mom I would only wear the tank top if I wore it under other shirts. Besides I like my outfit just like this. Let’s do some more jumps.”
Jessica shrugged. Claire led the way, sailing around the rink, building up speed for the jump. She hit the wave and flew, her new red plaid shirttails flapping in the breeze.
Be Clean.How truly beautiful is a well-groomed young woman who is clean in body and mind. She is a daughter of God in whom her Eternal Father can take pride.President Gordon B. Hinckley(Friend, Feb. 2001, page 25.)

—The desk clerk at the hotel had been studying with the missionaries for months, but few of those at the conference knew it. He thought he would watch and find out if Saints really practice the principles of the gospel.
“What I’ve seen here with these kids has really made me think,” he said, noting that he was particularly impressed when a young lady turned in a $20 bill she found in the hall.” A lot of people would have just kept it,” he said. “It’s nice to see honesty for a change.”

Not long ago, as I sat waiting for the opening exercises of priesthood meeting, my home teaching companion mentioned that my scriptures were in the ward lost and found.
When I looked to my side, however, I saw that I still had my new set of scriptures, which my wife had given me. As for my old set, they were sitting in a basket next to a chair in our front room. I was puzzled.
“What’s your middle initial?” my companion asked.
“R,” I said.
“That’s what the name said,” he replied. “I’ll go get them for you.”
He returned a moment later and handed me a Bible with my name in faded gold letters on the front. I recognized it immediately. I struggled to unzip the old black cover. The book fell open to the first page, which bore a note in my father’s handwriting. I was holding the Bible that my parents had given me for my 12th birthday.
I was now living in Arizona, and the last time I had seen this Bible, I was living in Utah, preparing for a mission. I took my seminary set of scriptures with me to the mission field and left this Bible home. I found the odds staggering that my old Bible could have somehow made its way, over the course of 30 years, from my parents’ home in Utah to my ward building in Arizona.
My father, a student of the scriptures, instilled in me at an early age a desire to read and study the word of God. A portion of the note he wrote in my Bible gave me counsel as a preface to my receiving the Aaronic Priesthood:
“David, on this, your 12th birthday, you will receive the priesthood of Aaron as a deacon and become a servant of the Lord, even as your namesake, David the king. As he behaved himself wisely, the Lord blessed him.
“So shall it be with you. If you will behave yourself wisely and follow the Lord, He will bless you and call you to serve Him.
“Be strong and faithful, Son. Study this book diligently, and it will give you strength.”
My father’s words are as meaningful to me now as they were 30 years ago, perhaps even more so. How grateful I am to have again received the gift of my first Bible with the timeless counsel of my father.

Two days before Christmas I was in Miller’s Department Store buying my mom’s Christmas present. I saw The Embalmer over in the sporting goods department, but I pretended not to see him and went on. When I got to the cashier to pay for Mom’s scarf, I reached into my pocket for the money. But as I pulled my hand out of my pocket, out fell the new Cub Scout knife that I had bought for my brother Jimmy the day before.

On the way home from buying it the day before I had dropped the bag in a puddle, so I had taken the knife out of the bag and put it in my pocket and forgotten all about it. It still had the red price tag on it and, of course, the sales slip had gone into the trash with the bag. Boy, did I feel dumb for a minute, and then I felt scared because I realized what the cashier was going to think and there was no way I could prove what had really happened.

The cashier called the manager and, of course, he didn’t think much of my story. I didn’t know the clerk who had waited on me the day before, and with the Christmas rush there wasn’t much chance she’d remember me. Besides, she didn’t seem to be working that day.

The manager was just calling the police when Mr. Palmer came up to the counter. Great, I thought. With him as a character witness, they’ll put me away for life.

Mr. Palmer asked the manager if he could talk to him for a few minutes first, and they went off together to the manager’s office. I must have lost five pounds in sweat while I waited. There was a stool by the counter, and I sat down on it to wait. My knees were shaking so hard I couldn’t have stood up. I thought about how Mom would cry and how Dad wouldn’t say much, but would get that funny pinched look around his mouth. I thought what kind of example this would make for Jimmy, the Cub Scout. I wondered if I would be expelled from school and if any college would accept me now. I had just resigned myself to scrubbing floors for the Foreign Legion when Mr. Palmer and the manager came out of the office, smiling. Oh, sure, I thought, you can smile. It’s not your life that’s being ruined.

The manager just looked at me and said, “You can go home now, son. After what your teacher has just told me about you, I think we can forget about this, but I hope that we won’t have any reason to regret this decision in the future.”

Well, you could have knocked me over with one of Mr. Palmer’s chemistry exams. I don’t quite remember what happened next, but I guess I paid for Mom’s gift and walked home. I was sort of in a trance all the next day. In fact, I didn’t come out of it until Christmas morning when I was watching my family enjoy Christmas and thought about what it could have been like that morning if Mr. Palmer hadn’t taken my side at the store.

I realized then that I hadn’t even thanked him for what he’d done. I just had to call Mr. Palmer to thank him and to apologize for being so late with my thanks. But there was no answer at his house. I tried all day and all the next week with the same results. I found out later that he had gone out of town for Christmas.

I didn’t see him until third period on the day school started again. He didn’t seem any different, but I couldn’t forget what he’d done for me and I kept wondering why. After school I stopped in at the chemistry room to thank him.

He was in the back of the room cleaning out the caustic chemical cupboard and didn’t see me come in. Seeing him there when he didn’t know anyone was around, I thought he didn’t look like such a bad guy. He was humming “Clementine” off key and a lock of his blond hair had fallen down over his forehead. I realized suddenly that he had freckles. You know it’s funny, but I had never noticed those freckles before. I guess I’d been too busy hating him to think of him as a real person.

“Mr. Palmer, I came to thank you.” I could hear a tremble my own voice. “I don’t know what you told that man at Miller’s, or why you would do that for me, but I wanted to thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t sooner. I guess I was kind of shook up, and then when I remembered you were gone.”

“Why, David, I didn’t hear you come in. Sit down.” I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. Mr. Palmer’s eyes were wet.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I just told Ernie what kind of student you are and that I had never known you to be dishonest in any way. I told him about that time when you had been absent for the chemistry exam and I forgot to have you leave when I started to hand back the papers. Remember? You reminded me so that you wouldn’t hear the answers. I know that some of your friends have tried to get you to help them cheat by leaving your answers uncovered during the exams, but you won’t do it.”

I swear, I don’t know how he knew about that, but he did. Suddenly I felt a little braver. “Mr. Palmer,” I asked, “Why did you do it? I mean, I never thought you cared …” That wasn’t the right thing to say. I stopped, embarrassed.

“Oh, David.” There were those wet eyes again. “You’ll never know how much I care about all of you. It’s hard for me to show it, but I do. I really want what’s best for you. That’s why I’m so hard on you sometimes. I don’t mean to hurt anyone. I guess I do, but please believe me, most of the time I don’t even know what I’ve done unless someone tells me.”

When I left Mr. Palmer’s room that afternoon the sun was going down and the halls were deserted. I had learned a lot in that time. I found out that when he was a kid Mr. Palmer stuttered because he was so scared of everything. I found out that one of the ways people hide their feelings is to act like they know everything. I found out that Palmer the Embalmer had gone to Danny Lewis and apologized last September, because he hadn’t known until he saw him walk across the room to his desk that Danny had a problem. Danny doesn’t talk about his triumphs any more than he does about his problems.

Mr. Palmer is still called The Embalmer by the kids at Central High. And I guess a lot of them still hate him. I know better now. I’m in the honors chemistry class at the university and doing well, thanks to Mr. Palmer’s chemistry class.

When my wife, Kathy, and I were in Africa a few weeks ago, we visited Mbuji-Mayi, Democratic Republic of the Congo. Because the chapel was not large enough for the 2,000 members, we met out of doors under large plastic coverings supported by bamboo poles. As the meeting began, we could see dozens of children watching us, clinging to the bars on the outside of the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the property. Kathy quietly whispered, “Neil, do you think that you might want to invite the children to come in?” I approached District President Kalonji at the podium and asked him if he would welcome the children outside the fence to come join us inside.
To my surprise, with President Kalonji’s invitation, the children not only came but came running—more than 50, perhaps 100—some with tattered clothes and bare feet but all with beautiful smiles and excited faces.
I was deeply moved by this experience and saw it as symbolic of our need to reach out to the youth who feel alone, left behind, or outside the fence. Let us think about them, welcome them, embrace them, and do everything we can to strengthen their love for the Savior. Jesus said, “Whoso shall receive one such … child in my name receiveth me.”14 In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I recall a district, hours by jet from the nearest temple, where maintaining a current recommend was a high priority, despite the fact that it would likely never be used. The first Sunday of each month, leaders used their counting tools to account for their endowed members. If they found that a recommend was soon to expire, the executive secretary would schedule a renewal interview. People with expired recommends were counseled over, then sought out to assist them in returning to the covenant path. I asked how many of their endowed members had a current recommend. The answer was an astounding 98.6 percent. When asked about the six whose recommends had expired, the leaders were able to identify them by name and described to me the efforts being made to get them back!

I almost talked myself out of going that evening. I knew that a night of remembrance might help me cope with the loss of my mother, but I also knew that the evening would bring tears as I continued to grieve and mourn her passing.
As the hour for the night of remembrance drew near, I found myself getting ready to go despite my earlier hesitations. I had decided that being there would be good for me.
The night of remembrance, which honored several people who had recently passed away, was held by the funeral home that handled my mother’s burial arrangements. Other than the funeral home director and his family, I knew none of the people in the room. During the evening, each deceased person’s name was read, and a family representative lit a small candle in memory of that person.
After the service, I stood up to make my way to the refreshments. Those who had sat behind me had all left except for a frail lady attached to a breathing apparatus sitting beside her walker. I felt her sadness and pain. I also felt that I needed to give her a hug.
I did not know how she would feel about a stranger giving her a hug, but I followed this simple prompting. I came up to her with my arms outstretched. She reached both her arms toward me and pulled me down to her. She kissed my cheek and said, “Thank you for knowing I needed a hug. You are an angel.” We then visited for a few moments.
This experience cemented in my mind and soul the reason I needed to be there. Would someone else have given this woman a hug that evening if I had not gone? I will never know, but I do know that I was prompted to hug her, and because I did so, we were both richly blessed.

Two of my good friends were Walt and Liz. They had the greatest influence on me during high school.
I wasn’t a member of the Church then, but I was a serious athlete. And because I took sports seriously, I didn’t drink, smoke, or use drugs. Neither did any of my friends, until our second year in high school. Suddenly, the guys I used to play basketball with were spending their weekends getting drunk at parties. I went to a few of the parties, but I didn’t like what I saw, so I stopped associating with my old friends.
That’s when I really got to know my Mormon friend, Walt. When everybody else was partying, he and I would find something better to do. Walt made it easy for me to be good because I knew he didn’t drink or smoke, so I never felt any pressure to either.
Walt didn’t swear, and he was always correcting me when I did. He was polite and well mannered (most of the time), and when I was around him, I felt I should try to act a little better myself. He was a serious athlete, as I was, but he also took his studies just as seriously. He studies hard and got good grades (something I did only occasionally). Being friends with Walt didn’t make me perfect, but it showed me how I could improve.
Of course, Walt also put a little friendly peer pressure on me about his church. “Hey, Chris,” he’d say, “you might as well be a Mormon—you don’t drink, smoke, or use drugs. You’re practically a Mormon anyway.” As we became better friends, we talked about his church a lot, and I started to meet other Latter-day Saint youth.
One of them was Walt’s girlfriend, Liz. She was an attractive, cheerful Mormon girl whom I used to tease unmercifully. Liz was the perfect lady, and as we got to know each other better, her good influence began to change me. I stopped swearing. And, most important of all, I became interested in the Church.
It wasn’t easy for me, a Catholic, to consider changing my religion, but good friends like Walt and Liz made it easier for me to investigate the Church. Liz encouraged me to seek out the truth and to do what was right. And when I had gained a testimony, she and Walt gave me the strength and courage I needed to go through with my decision to get baptized.
I know much has been said about how bad peer pressure can be, and it can be very bad. But when I look back on the friends I’ve enjoyed associating with, I’d say that peer pressure can be very good too. My friends have helped me to become a better person than I would have been without them.