Gospel Story Finder

I could almost feel the jar of the wagon wheels as they crunched the rocks and churned the dust in the deeply rutted trail. It was an evening like many others during my teenage years in Paris, but on this particular night I was absorbed in a French television documentary about the Mormon pioneers. I had never seen anything like it before, and I marveled at the similarities between the Mormon trek and the exodus of ancient Israel from Egypt. The courage and suffering of the Mormon pioneers touched something deep within me.
I had never heard of the Mormons before, and I became interested in learning about them. But I soon became distracted by my busy life as a student and forgot the soft stirrings within me. Besides, I was only intellectually curious, or so I told myself. Little did I know then how the turning of those pioneer wagon wheels would change my life.
My mother worked in a fashion boutique in Paris and liked the Americans she met there. She grew to love the English language and encouraged me to study English even as a young child. During the summers, she sent me to England or Scotland to stay with English-speaking families. One year she encouraged me to get involved in an American summer camp exchange program. Through this program I became a camp counselor in Sharon, Vermont—the birthplace of Joseph Smith. Perhaps the Lord, even then, was trying to turn the wheels once more. Unfortunately, I heard nothing of Joseph Smith or the Mormons while I was there.
Several years later, however, the wheels turned again, with great power. I was studying English, with a specific focus on American culture, at Paris’s Sorbonne University. As I began thinking about a master’s thesis topic, I remembered the documentary about the Mormon pioneers. I asked my adviser if I could do something on them. No one at the Sorbonne had written a thesis about the Mormons, and so my adviser thought the subject might prove interesting. But he insisted that I pick an aspect of Mormonism that was unique.
After doing some preliminary research, I discovered that there was not enough information about the Mormons in the university library. I concluded I would have to talk to them. By then I had learned that the official name of the Mormon Church was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. With that information, I located the headquarters of the Paris Mission and boldly knocked on the front door. I asked the missionary who answered, “Is there someone here who can tell me about the Mormons?”
The surprised young man managed to stutter, “Yes, yes, come in!”
As my research at the mission home progressed, I learned that Latter-day Saints believe in ordinances performed for dead ancestors. The more I read about temple work for the dead, the more I wanted to use that topic. The title I finally chose for my thesis was enough to make even long-time members of the Church pause: “Genealogy and the Mormon Church.” That’s how I became known in the Paris Mission as the “Genealogy Girl.”

President Hinckley’s counsel about being true impressed one young man from Arizona.

“I have always thought about this,” wrote Scott Moore. “I have pondered about my past and about how loyal and true I have been to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I can remember that there have been many times when I could have spoken up and declared that I am a Latter-day Saint. After President Hinckley’s talk, I thought about my loyalty to the Church and how I could change myself to be better in this particular aspect of my life. The answer that came to my mind is that there should be no hiding myself and who I am when the opportunity arises.”

Scott went on to describe a time soon after President Hinckley’s talk when he was able to share his beliefs with some friends even though he was nervous they might not accept him after he did. But Scott’s friends were impressed with his beliefs, and he experienced the joy that comes with being true.

Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be buried alive? I have to admit it was never exactly on my top ten list of things to think about, until it actually happened.
And if it weren’t for a troop of LDS Boy Scouts and Hoover the Wonder Dog, I’d probably still be buried six feet under snow today.
Of course, if it weren’t for the Scouts, I wouldn’t have been buried in the first place. On one of the coldest, snowiest days Salt Lakers can remember, Scouts from Parleys First Ward and members of Utah area search and rescue units helped each other stage an avalanche rescue drill. I volunteered to be one of the victims. (Okay, so I didn’t actually volunteer. I got talked into it.)
We all met in the church parking lot early one Saturday morning, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the dark skies, subzero temperatures, impassable roads, and snow flurries would postpone our little exercise. No way. These Scouts were Wasatch Mountain born and bred. They live for snow. They ski, snowshoe, and snowboard on it all winter long. The things they were about to learn would be extremely useful to them. And they knew how important it was that the search and rescue dogs get some practice.
“We’re always in the mountains in the winter,” said Dan Kaelberer, 15. “It’s important to learn about the threat of avalanches and what to do if one happens.”
Tyler Olsen was especially unaffected by the bad weather. This would be the culmination of his Eagle Scout service project. He’d already been to sporting goods stores in the valley, distributing free backcountry safety literature for their customers. He’d helped at a special prep seminar for the Scouts, where they watched an avalanche video and received special instruction from Dan Davis, their Young Men secretary and owner of Hoover, a search and rescue dog.
So about 25 of us, including Scouts, their leaders, and a few news people, piled into four-wheel drive vehicles and headed for the hills—make that mountains. We’re talking Rockies.
Once we got up out of the Salt Lake Valley and up to Guardsman Pass where the drill was to be held, the weather wasn’t half as bad, and the scenery was incredible. Snow was everywhere, generously frosting the trees and covering the ground in a great, thick blanket. It looked soft and inviting—harmless, even. That’s probably what a lot of people think just before they put themselves in avalanche danger.
“A lot of people don’t realize that avalanches can happen so easily,” said Clark Whisenant, 13. “This project made me want to do a special research project on them for school. Avalanches are really dangerous.”
The search and rescue people had already arrived at the site. They’d brought dogs, snowmobiles, and an intimidating snow cat that moved like a tank, made strange noises, and seemed to be able to transport a number of people just about anywhere.
Before I could pull on my gloves, the Scouts were out running around with the dogs, leaping into huge snow piles and throwing snowballs at each other. “Maybe this won’t be so bad after all,” I thought, as I took a big juicy snowball right in the back of the head.
It was about a half-mile hike from the area where we left our cars into the site where the search and rescue people decided to stage the drill. Some of the Scouts walked, carrying the shovels and other equipment they’d brought along. Some went ahead on snowmobiles to prepare the site. As for me, I decided to ride the snow cat in. The dogs were riding in on it, and I wanted them to get acquainted with my scent so it wouldn’t take them long to find me when it came time for the rescue.
Once we got to the site, everyone went to work. The area was large and flat, with snow piled deep. They had been careful to select an area that really would be free of avalanche danger. The first order of the day was testing the snow, cutting a big, vertical block of it and looking at the layers for instability. If the boys were just out for a normal day of cross-country skiing, this would have determined where or if they would go in that area.
Next, they had to make the area look as if an avalanche had just occurred. That meant smearing injury makeup all over some faces, partially burying some people, and digging snow caves in which to bury others.
“It’s kind of fun to have injury makeup on your face and then be buried in the snow up to your shoulders,” said Andy Brinton. Now that’s an attitude for you! Since I was one of the lucky others who would be buried completely, I’d have to see if I could start thinking like Andy.
I’ll say this for the Scouts. All that snow camping they do every winter pays off. They dug me a snow cave about six-feet deep that was actually rather comfortable—just big enough for me to lie in. I crawled in, and then they handed me a walkie-talkie “just in case.” “Just in case of WHAT?” I wanted to ask. But they had already started filling in the entrance with snow blocks, followed by loose snow.
Now, it’s really not that bad in a snow cave. The natural insulation keeps you pretty warm. And since the snow usually has a density of 40–60 percent, there’s plenty of air. Still, I was depending on Dan to keep his promise that Hoover would have me out of there in 20 minutes at the most.
Dan O’Conner of American Search Dogs, Inc., whose dog Anderl would sniff out some of the other boys, explained to us that a dog could pick up a scent after a person has been buried only a few minutes. “The dog thinks, ‘I can smell the person, but I can’t see him, so I’d better go find him.’ That’s the name of the game.”
It wasn’t long before I heard feet crunching in the snow above me, and muffled voices talking in an excited tone. Soon I could hear frenzied digging, and then I saw the welcome sight of a pair of brown paws, then a black nose, breaking through the ceiling of my snow cave. In no time Hoover was all over me, licking my face and playing tug-of-war with my glove. He was just as happy to see me as I was to see him. He’d won the game. He scooted back up to the surface where the others were waiting, my glove in his mouth, proving that he’d found me. The others congratulated him, then helped me up and out.
What I saw when I got to the surface fascinated me. With remarkable precision, the Scouts and rescue people had organized themselves so that almost every inch of the avalanche area was being covered. The scenario was that a group of Scouts had been in the area when an avalanche occurred.
In one area, the avalanche “witnesses” were being interviewed, and the “injured” victims were being treated nearby. Another part of the area was being swept by people bearing electronic devices that would pick up signals from the transceivers that the Scouts might have been wearing at the a time of the disaster. In still another area, they’d organized a probe pole line, in which the members sank long, thin metal poles into the deep snow every foot or so, waiting for someone to sound the ominous cry, “I’ve got a hit,” if they struck something.
“I’d never been in a probe line, or anything like that, and it was really interesting,” said Joseph Mecham. “If there really was an avalanche, like at a ski resort, and you were a bystander, chances are they’d recruit you to help in the probe line if you knew what you were doing.”
When all the “victims” had been found, we gathered back at the snow cat to go over what we’d learned that day. The Scouts had been shown how to avoid avalanche-prone areas, how to be safer in winter sports, and how to assist search and rescue units if they need help when an avalanche occurs. The dogs had learned a lot too—it always helps them to sharpen their tracking skills and to be around groups of people in a rescue situation.
I’d learned all of the above, plus I’d gained a little confidence, knowing that I could handle some rather severe winter conditions.
But even with our newfound knowledge and skill, we agreed with Hoover when Dan asked him what it’s like to be caught in an avalanche.
“Rough!” Hoover responded. Or maybe that was “Ruff.”

Incidentally, he has consistently fulfilled his home teaching assignments each month over the years. When I was the high priests group leader in his ward, I held a home teaching report interview with him each month. I would schedule appointments on Sunday at twenty-minute intervals. One Sunday I scheduled an appointment at four o’clock with one of the high priests. He didn’t show and later explained that his family had dropped in and he couldn’t get away. At twenty after four, Dr. Eyring arrived to keep his scheduled appointment. We knelt in prayer before the report and then discussed each family without any extraneous conversation. We completed the report in fifteen minutes, and Dr. Eyring promptly said, “Will you please excuse me? I have four renowned scientists from Paris, France, waiting in my front room. They have come from France to visit with me, and I really shouldn’t keep them waiting any longer than is necessary.” That is the kind of man he is—great in the sight of man and great in the sight of God.

Godson Adjetey couldn’t have known the impact a change of location would have on his life when he moved to the small community of Penyi in the far southeast corner of Ghana. His interest was in finishing his education at a good school. But it was because of that move that Godson became acquainted with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and on October 30, 2025, Godson will become the first missionary to serve from the Penyi Branch.
Godson was born in Accra, Ghana, in September 2004. Along with his family, he moved to the Volta Region and spent the next 18 years there. He attended Wisdom Junior High School at Aqbozme, where he was a good student. After completing his schooling there, he wanted to finish senior high school and study business at a good school, so he came to Penyi to stay with his uncle and go to school there. Godson recognizes now that the Lord’s hand was clearly guiding this move.
His uncle, a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, owns the building where he was staying, and it was also the building where the full-time missionaries, Elder Wood and Elder Layton, were living. It was only natural for his uncle to introduce Godson to the missionaries, and they began to teach him about the scriptures and the Restoration of the gospel. Godson, who had always been religious after growing up attending a Pentecostal church with his parents, felt his spirit was ready for the fullness of the gospel. He gladly accepted their invitation to come to church and began attending the small and recently organized Penyi Branch.
Godson related that as he listened to the missionaries, the message resonated deeply with him. “I felt the Holy Ghost’s love as I learned we are God’s children. I realized Jesus loves us and gave His life for us,” he said. He felt at home in the branch of about 160 members—many of them youth or young adults who are the only Church members in their families. Godson fit right in and enjoyed coming to church.
His proximity to the full-time missionaries was instrumental in his conversion. As he felt the Spirit testify of the truths of the gospel, he was motivated to associate more with them. That association began with simply helping them find food and navigate the streets of their community, but soon he was not only showing the missionaries where members and friends were located but also staying with them and assisting as they taught others the gospel—all before he himself was baptized.
He attended Church meetings for about one month before being baptized at age 17 on August 23, 2021. He was excited to become a member of Jesus Christ’s Church. The members of the branch showed great love toward him, and he found a special sense of belonging. He particularly liked partaking of the sacrament each week because he understood it was essential for renewing his baptismal covenants. He understood that the path to salvation is a covenant path, and he had a true desire to make sacred covenants.
As he faithfully attended his meetings, served in callings, and participated in various Church activities, his desire to serve the Lord continued to grow. The experience he had had assisting the full-time missionaries before he became a member provided invaluable training and ignited his own desire to serve. “Living by and assisting the full-time missionaries who have served in my village inspired me to be a missionary too,” Godson said.
But the application process to serve a mission seemed a bit intimidating to Godson. As though an answer to a prayer, in July 2024, Elder and Sister Campbell, senior member and leader support missionaries who had recently arrived in the Dzodze Ghana District, met Godson at the Penyi Branch. When these good missionaries learned of Godson’s desire to serve, they enthusiastically began helping him prepare his application and worked diligently to help him complete all the required steps to serve.
They learned a lot together as they helped him obtain his birth certificate, passport, police report, medical documents, and vaccinations. “Preparing to serve a full-time mission was more complicated than I expected,” Godson acknowledged. “But the effort was worth completing the months-long process.”
A pivotal spiritual step in his preparation was the opportunity to receive his own endowment at the Accra Ghana Temple on September 2, 2025. He felt a powerful spirit confirming that the temple was the house of the Lord, a special place for sacred ordinances. “That experience solidified my faith in Jesus Christ, and I felt Christ’s love there,” he said, noting that the temple workers showed great love to him from the moment he arrived.
Godson received a call to serve in the Nigeria Benin City Mission starting on October 30, 2025. Godson wanted to serve a mission so that he could share the restored gospel with others. He looked forward to experiencing life in Nigeria, learning about the people’s beliefs, and sharing his powerful testimony with the people of that land.
Just as importantly, Godson Adjetey is setting a faithful example for the other young people in the Penyi Branch. As its first missionary, he is a pioneer, proving that any barrier can be overcome with faith and support. He is lighting a path that many youth in this vibrant, young branch will now be inspired to follow.

Alan looked at his watch. It was 5:00. “Sherry will be getting home from Primary with the kids about now,” Alan thought, wishing a little he had brought the whole family. He was missing Sherry already.
“Todd, I hope you find a wife as wonderful as your mother,” Alan thought.
Alan’s thoughts wandered back to the day before his wedding. He’d spent the day getting traveler’s checks, changing the oil in the car, confirming reservations for the honeymoon. At night he went over to see Sherry. They went outside and walked hand in hand around her parent’s backyard, admiring the flowers and neat rows of vegetables.
“What will it be like to be married to you?” Sherry asked him thoughtfully.
“What’s the matter?” he kidded. “You change your mind?”
“It’s just that I’ve never been married before.”
“Me either,” Alan said.
“And tomorrow night at this time, we’ll … we’ll be married.”
“That’s right. Are you nervous?” Alan asked.
“I guess so. You’ll be my man. What kind of man are you?”
“What kind of man do you want me to be?”
“Oh, like my dad, like the stake president, like the prophet.”
“You mean old?” he asked with a grin.
“Oh, you know,” she said, taking his hand. “I want a priesthood man.”
“What kind of man is that?”
“D&C 121:41–46.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“You’re the returned missionary; look it up. Okay?”
“Okay. Well, I’d better go.” He leaned over and they kissed. “Do you realize,” he whispered in her ear, “that this is the last time I’m ever going to kiss a single girl? It’s an auspicious occasion.”

As a young girl, my grandmother, Chasty Olsen Harris, had a similar experience. She was tending some children who were playing in a dry riverbed near their home in Castle Dale, Utah. Suddenly she heard a voice that called her by name and directed her to get the children out of the riverbed and up on the bank. It was a clear day, and there was no sign of rain. She saw no reason to heed the voice and continued to play. The voice spoke to her again, urgently. This time she heeded the warning. Quickly gathering the children, she made a run for the bank. Just as they reached it, an enormous wall of water, originating with a cloudburst in the mountains many miles away, swept down the canyon and roared across where the children had played. Except for this impelling revelation, she and the children would have been lost.

Sister Linda K. Burton told the story of a stake Relief Society president who, working with others, collected quilts for people in need during the 1990s. “She and her daughter drove a truck filled with those quilts from London to Kosovo. On her journey home she received an unmistakable spiritual impression that sank deep into her heart. The impression was this: ‘What you have done is a very good thing. Now go home, walk across the street, and serve your neighbor!’”3

I guess I’d have to say that it all started with a bad attitude. When I was about ten years old, I formed the opinion that most people around me weren’t as “good” as they seemed to think they were. This feeling of disillusionment grew as I grew.
While there were other youth in the ward, even others my age, who enjoyed church and got something out of it, my friends and I became the group that went through a Sunday School teacher every month and were proud of it.
The members of the ward really didn’t approve of our attitude toward them and toward life, and some of them just gave up on us. Some did not. We had a very patient bishop and some great leaders. Most of them, however, we considered hypocrites, and we used their perceived weaknesses as an excuse for our own.
In junior high, this same group excelled in scholarship, athletics, and popularity. We had a lot of fun and decided we didn’t need and didn’t want the Church. When “forced” to enroll in seminary, most of us managed to get ourselves kicked out before too long.
We didn’t really give in to peer pressure—we exerted it. We were among the first of our age group to start drinking. We were the first to smoke pot and experiment with other drugs. We saw the chance to make some money in it, and so involved others to increase our own profits by dealing drugs. We were living high. Immorality also became a goal in our minds.
Some of my friends resisted. They said we were stupid, that there was no way they’d get involved. But by the time we got out of high school a few years ago, only one had stayed straight. He took a lot of verbal abuse and pressure, but he did it. I have more respect for him than for any other guy my age.
We were the leading partygoers all through school. The scriptures say, “Ye shall know them by their fruits” (Matt. 7:16). I don’t know all the fruits of our behavior, and I’m thankful for that. I do know many of them, though. Many of my friends that I grew up with, even some honor students, leaders, and athletes, dropped out of school. One committed suicide. Most have spent time in court, and some in jail, for a variety of things. I knew a lot of girls who had babies or abortions while in high school. Some went into prostitution.
I quit taking drugs when I had some serious health problems. I almost died a few times—many times actually, both from overdosing on drugs and driving while my senses were gone. One night I was bored, so I took everything I could find and then sat there and watched TV while my pulse dropped to 20 beats per minute. I forced myself to stay awake, because I felt that if I went to sleep I wouldn’t wake up.
In order to straighten myself out, I had to leave my friends. Afterwards I tried to help them quit too. A few of my old friends came with me, but most really didn’t care anymore.
After I quit drugs, I went way overboard with alcohol, and can honestly say I was a high school alcoholic. When I decided I wanted to quit, I couldn’t, on my own. I didn’t care enough about myself to do what I knew I needed to do.
Then I became close friends with a good, active LDS girl. She couldn’t understand what I was going through, but she did know I was honestly trying to get out of the hole I was in. It hurt her when I slipped back. I finally quit drinking because I knew it hurt her, and I knew I wouldn’t lie to her.
Keeping my morals straight was so hard under my weakened condition that I avoided any social contacts with girls except as good friends like this one.
I hadn’t prayed for years, but I finally had to go to my knees. I was afraid to, because I knew my guilt. That first time, honestly wanting to change and repent, was the biggest turning point in my life.
I tried to pray, but I couldn’t. I started to cry, the first time in years, and I felt like I was being torn apart inside. I fell over, still in a kneeling position, and my body went into convulsions. I kept praying in my mind, “Please help me!”
I almost blacked out. Then the physical pain passed, and I just lay there crying. I had a long way to go, but I knew that the first step was the hardest. I didn’t understand the Atonement, but the feeling of peace and comfort that engulfed me left no doubt that it was real.
There was a lot more. You see, chemicals that are used to cover or bury emotions tend to cripple a person emotionally, because you stop growing. I recovered pretty well physically and mentally. I started progressing spiritually. But emotionally I was a mess. The girl who helped me so much for so long didn’t understand that, and I lost her as a friend while trying to overcome the scars of the past. She saw the outward changes and thought that was the hard part. The hardest struggle was inside me, emotionally. My pride was a fierce adversary, and the painful memories sometimes dropped me down into depression.
I still have a long way to go, and a lot of work to do. I am now trying to help other people with similar problems. It has taken a few years so far to get to where I am, and I’ve done a lot of fasting and praying. When I look back, the memories hurt. I know now that we learn through experience, from our successes and our mistakes. I just wish I could have learned more without the burdens and scars that came with my method of learning—mostly from my mistakes.
I put myself through a lot of pain, and it kills me inside to see others following me. Young men, young women, think about yourselves and your friends. Before you give in to temptation—and believe me, pride and a bad attitude are temptations—think about the effect your actions will have on others, and on yourself in the years to come.
It is always possible to repent and come back. But it is so much better not to begin. Please, please, don’t give in. You will never regret staying pure, keeping the Word of Wisdom, coming home on time—the rules are there for a reason. I have seen the results of ignoring the rules, of saying, “That won’t happen to me.” My friends and I knew that no matter how clean a girl was morally, if we could get her drunk or stoned, she would eventually give in.
The first step down is the easiest, and the first step back is the hardest. When you’re on your way down, there are a lot of people who are eager to help you, but the farther down you go, the more alone you will be when and if you start back.
I have gained a strong testimony of the truth of the gospel. My fellow members are still not perfect, but I finally realized that their imperfection doesn’t make the gospel any less true. It just shows that they, too, are human.
I know the power and reality of the adversary, but now I know the power and reality of the Lord and of the priesthood, and I know that “they that be with us are more than they that be with them” (see 2 Kgs. 6:15–17).
Never be ashamed to be innocent. I envy you that. Once innocence is lost, it is gone. Please, be strong. More people than you will ever know are counting on you—your friends, family, and unborn children. Don’t let them down.

Isabelle tried to focus on the reason for their journey. They were going to the temple to be sealed as a family! She remembered hearing her parents talk about the beautiful temple in São Paulo ever since she was a little girl. Going there almost seemed like a fairy tale. After all, Isabelle’s family lived in Manaus, deep in the Amazon rainforest, and the temple was more than 2,000 miles (3,219 km) away.
Then President Santiago had planned a six-day trip to get there. More than 100 members had decided to go. “It will be a sacrifice,” Mamãe had told her. “But sacrifice brings blessings.”
Soon the boat reached land. But they still had 1,500 miles (2,414 km) to go. Everyone got on a bus for the rest of the trip. For days, the bus jolted over the rough roads. One time it bounced so hard that the windshield broke! Sometimes they rode through hot, crowded cities. But at least the roads there weren’t so bumpy.
Everyone was always grateful when they stopped at a village or town to eat. They ate at chapels or with Church members along the way. The first night, they arrived so late that Isabelle was afraid that no one would be waiting. “Don’t worry,” Mamãe said with a tired smile. “Look!”
The branch president and Church members were lined up across the road. They held a banner that read “Sacrifice brings blessings.” Isabelle smiled. Mamãe was right!
After three bumpy days, they finally reached São Paulo. Isabelle stood on her seat to get a better view as the bus drove around a curve. Suddenly everyone on the bus burst into cheers. “O templo! O templo!” They could see the tall, thin temple spire rising above rows of palm trees.
Everyone was exhausted, but no one wanted to rest. They wanted to be sealed right away. When it was time for her family to be sealed, Isabelle carefully dressed in white. As she walked into the sealing room, she saw her father beaming. Tears of joy streamed down Mamãe’s face. Their journey had been long and even dangerous. But the sacrifice was worth it, Isabelle thought. She smiled as she took her place to be sealed to her family forever.

Several law enforcement officers were returning home after attending a special school in marksmanship. As they drove through the countryside, they noticed a large barn covered with painted bullseye targets.

It aroused their curiosity to the point that they pulled off the freeway and found the lane that led to the farm where the barn was located. They drove over to the barn and were greatly surprised to see a bullet hole precisely in the center of each bullseye.

The farmer came out to see what the men wanted.

They told him they had never seen such excellent marksmanship. “Who is this person with such outstanding ability? Is it you?” they inquired of the farmer.

He said, “No. It’s my son.”

“Is he here? May we see him?”

“Well, yes, he is around somewhere.”

“Could he show us how he is able to shoot in such a superior way?”

The farmer said, “Well, my son isn’t quite bright. He has a learning difficulty, but if you would like to see how he has done this, let me see if I can find him.”

Soon the farmer returned with his son. He said, “Son, show these men how you shoot your rifle.” The young man walked some distance from the barn, turned, pointed his rifle, and shot. Then he walked over to the barn, found where the bullet passed through the siding, picked up a can of paint, and promptly painted the bullseye around the hole.

In the summer before my junior year I got news of an LDS 11th-grader moving into our area. I was ecstatic. She was an answer to prayer. It’s amazing how much we have in common and how well we get along. Together with another senior, we made up the three LDS girls at my high school. With three boys, that made six Latter-day Saints among 950 students. While the school year was stressful for all of us, we were always there to support each other. We stuck together through bad times and great times.
We went together one night to the Washington D.C. Temple Visitors’ Center. That night Katie, Paige, and I took a long walk around the temple. There was such a feeling of peace and love. There, the three of us made a pact with one another to work towards temple marriages and to settle for nothing less. We see the eternal perspective on choosing the right day-by-day. We are striving to gain the highest reward: eternal life. The Lord provided a way for three girls to choose the right, and I have never felt so good inside.

Once home, we found that Abby seemed to respond more than the neurosurgeon had predicted. However, it wasn’t long before her head began to enlarge rapidly, and the neurosurgeon had to install a small tube device to drain excess fluid. He felt it was unnecessary surgery, but for us to stand by and do nothing would have meant watching her suffer a slow, agonizing death. We couldn’t have borne that. She had a heart murmur, and we despaired that she might not make it through the surgery, but we felt we had no alternative.
Abby withstood the operation valiantly, and we marveled. What kept her alive? Eventually her appetite improved and she began to gain weight.
I noticed almost immediately when she came home again that she could hear, and we were very encouraged. But it soon proved more of a problem than a blessing. She reacted violently to the slightest sound. More than once I walked into her room and spoke softly to her, only to have her turn purple with her screaming. She had no way of relating to the different noises around her, and they terrified her.
That was the beginning of the hardest summer of our lives. Abby Ruth was up all night long, night after night, crying until Randy and I thought we would lose our minds. Many times she screamed all night until 5:00 or 6:00 A.M., then finally went to sleep. By 10:30 or 11:00 A.M., I had to force myself to go check her. What if she was dead? What would I do? I knew that how I reacted to such a situation would deeply affect my other two daughters, and the pressure became more than I could handle.
Finally, I had reached the point where a complete breakdown for me was not far off. Near the end of September we made an appointment with the chief of staff at the state training school for the handicapped, hoping to get some kind of help.
The staff at the state school were very receptive. At last we found people who really understood what we had been going through. They offered to take her, to give us one week’s rest.
At the end of that week, the same pattern began again. She cried constantly, day and night, and many were the times that we stood next to her crib or held her and cried right along with her. I felt so helpless, and I could see no end in sight. “What kind of life is this?” I asked myself. My two older children were beginning to suffer from neglect, and so was my marriage.
Another major decision had to be made, but Randy and I disagreed. He felt that placing Abby at the state school would be the same as deserting her. I looked on it as our only chance to return to a normal life and continue with our family; it would be impossible for me to go on giving her the twenty-four-hour care that she needed.
I couldn’t help but feel that I had failed her, though, and in my grief I turned to Heavenly Father. He knew the whole story, but I repeated it all to him on my knees late one night. I prayed longer and more earnestly that night than ever before. When I was finally finished, I crawled into bed and, feeling completely drained, leaned back against my pillow, staring into the darkness that surrounded me.
It was then that I received my answer. It came clearly and distinctly, a soothing response to my prayers and heartache. Not only should we place Abby Ruth in the state training school, we need not worry about her. She would understand why we made the decision to place her in the school.
Perhaps other parents in a similar situation would have received different direction. I only know that our answer came from Heavenly Father, and we trusted that He knew our situation and had inspired us to act appropriately.
On 1 November 1980, Abby became a permanent resident at the state training school. We’ve never regretted having her home with us as long as we did. Because of that, she became an integral part of our family.

Not long ago, Sister Floripes Luzia Damasio arrived at the São Paulo Temple with other members of the João Monlevade Branch, Belo Horizonte Brazil Stake. During this temple excursion on 3–7 June 1997, she went through at least three sessions each day, and on one day she attended four sessions. During this trip she was also sealed to her deceased husband and to other family members—including her daughter, Maria Raimundo, who received her own endowment. This 500-kilometer trip was the third time Sister Floripes has attended the temple since her baptism in 1993.
None of these facts is entirely unusual—unless one knows a little about Sister Floripes and her circumstances.
Sister Floripes was born on 13 December 1889, just over one year after the May 1888 declaration freeing the slaves in Brazil. Her parents were former slaves and worked for owners of sugar plantations.
Sister Floripes, however, was born into freedom. She learned from her parents to place a high value on life, on freedom, and also on work. And from the time she was very small, she has worked to build a better life. As a young woman she married Cassemiro Jovino da Silva, and they had 12 children. He died at age 60.
It wasn’t until 11 July 1993—at age 103—that Sister Floripes was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. On 2 December 1994—at almost age 105—she traveled to the São Paulo Temple for her own endowment. During her latest trip to the temple, she was 107 years old!
While serving in the temple, Sister Floripes did not want to rest. She was a little tired but explained that she was very happy being in the temple.
On the last day of the trip, she wanted to see a little of the city of São Paulo. As she became acquainted with the streets, the stores, and the surroundings, she expressed her joy at each new thing she encountered. She was impressed by the many cars, airplanes, and people, explaining that she grew up accustomed to oxcarts and buggies.
Now age 109, Sister Floripes has outlived five of her children. She still plants and harvests her own food, cooks her own meals, and takes care of a daughter, who is also a widow, when she is ill. And she always arrives at the meetinghouse early on Sunday—in spite of having to walk a distance and then catch a bus.
Sister Floripes does not give in easily to the annoyances and challenges of life. Her spine may have been curved by the passage of time, but she shows much determination and perseverance and is an example of finding happiness in righteous living. She prays for the branch members and always encourages them to keep the Spirit in their lives. When her visiting teachers stop by, she asks them to read the Book of Mormon to her.
Sister Floripes is, as James wrote, “an example of suffering affliction, and of patience.” As James continued, “We count them happy which endure” (James 5:10–11).

When I read in the Book of Mormon about how Nephi always supported his visionary father, I concluded that most youth in the Church were probably like Nephi. But when my family decided that we needed to move to the desert, I felt more like Laman and Lemuel. I didn’t want to leave my home.
Like Nephi and his brothers, I was “born of goodly parents” (1 Nephi 1:1). Both joined the Church when they were teenagers, and my mother waited for my father while he served a mission. They were active, hardworking members of the Church.
When I was in high school, the economy slowed down in our region of Concepción, Chile. Jobs dried up, and my father began having trouble finding work. Finally, he began looking for a job out of town.
His job search took him north to the city of Calama, in Chile’s mining region. He is a construction engineer, and he found a good job there. But he was alone and far away. We saw him only when he could afford the 32-hour bus ride home.
After a few years of seeing my father only two or three times a year, my mother felt that it was time to make a change. My parents concluded that the rest of our family needed to move north.
My younger brother had no problem moving. And my older sister, who was in college, set a good example for me.
“I’ll sacrifice my studies,” she said. “We need to be with our father.”
Everyone supported the decision to move except for me. I wanted to be with my father too, but I resisted making changes and personal sacrifices. I had my friends, I knew my surroundings, I enjoyed my lifestyle, and I wanted to go to college in Concepción. I did everything I could do to convince my mother that we shouldn’t go.
Finally, she said, “Son, your father is alone. He wants us with him. I wish you understood, but you’re too focused on yourself.” Then she reassured me, “We will have opportunities there.”
In my heart, I knew she was right—even though my head wasn’t convinced. I didn’t have a strong testimony at the time, but I decided to pray about whether I should go with my family. A clear answer came to me: “You need to leave this place.” I was sad, but I told my parents I would go.
Concepción is a green place with lots of trees. It receives 50 inches (127 cm) of rain per year. Antofagasta, the city near Calama we were moving to, receives only 0.1 inch (0.25 cm) per year.
The most shocking thing for me about the move was the actual trip. As we made our way north by bus, watching the transition from green to brown was agonizing. I wondered, “Where are the trees? Where are the cows in the countryside?” All I saw was dirt, rocks, and hills.
Obviously, northern Chile is a desert, so what else could I expect? I was reminded of how Laman and Lemuel felt when Lehi’s family left the land of their inheritance and headed into the wilderness.
I had a lot of fears when we arrived in Antofagasta. What would happen if I didn’t make any friends? What would happen if I couldn’t get used to the area? What would happen if my hopes for the future didn’t come true?
In the end, I shouldn’t have worried. My mother was right about the opportunities awaiting us—especially the spiritual opportunities.
Before our move, the gospel wasn’t a priority for me. The Lord was in the background. But in Antofagasta, people came into my life who helped me see the beauty of the gospel. I received help from special priesthood leaders. I made friends who remain a treasure to me. My spiritual life changed completely.
I’m grateful I listened to my mother. I’m grateful the Lord answered my prayer. I’m grateful I had the courage to move north with my family.
Here in the desert is where I made the changes that helped me become who I am today. Here is where I committed to embrace the gospel, serve a mission, marry in the temple, and dedicate my life to the Lord. Here is where I determined that I no longer wanted to be like Laman and Lemuel.
For my family and me, the wilderness turned out to be our promised land.
The author lives in Antofagasta, Chile.

My standards were first tested the week before Christmas when I attended the ski patrol party. I walked in the front door and was immediately greeted by seemingly happy and carefree co-workers. People who had never said a word to me before now seemed to think we were best friends. Their beer spilled on my clothes as they stretched their arms out for a hug. A fellow rookie approached me and unleashed his frustration at not having the personal strength that I exhibited in avoiding alcohol. I was surprised by his sincere concern as he continued to share his disappointment in his lack of conviction.
The beer sloshed out of his cup as he gestured with his hands, and I explained to him the Word of Wisdom and the personal choice I made long before not to drink. As I drove home that night, I felt peace that I had been an example to one person.

Liola Christine Nau Hingano grew up in the Church, and she often saw the missionaries serving in her community. “I wanted to serve a mission myself,” she says. However, serving would not be easy.
Shortly after Liola submitted her mission papers, she became very sick. The doctors discovered she had a tumor and had to perform surgery to remove it. While she was in the hospital, Liola received her mission call—to serve in Tonga. She had two months to recover before starting her mission, but it was a difficult time for Liola because her parents thought a mission would be too hard on her and didn’t want her to go.
“But I believed that because the Lord had called me, I would be OK, so I decided to go,” she says. “When I entered the missionary training center, the mission president gave me a blessing and said that as I served the Lord, I would be as healthy as any missionary.
“My first mission area was very hard. We walked for miles each day just to get to the area where we were working. We carried our scriptures with us, and the sun was hot. But I knew I would be fine because I had received a priesthood blessing that said so. And I was. I never had trouble because of my previous illness.
“I am very grateful I had the courage to go on a mission and not turn back. It has made such a difference in who I am today—and in my testimony. I have faith in our Savior and Heavenly Father.”

The greatest joy of his childhood, Bishop Brown recalled, was his horse. “I always had a horse from the time I was quite small. I was the oldest of three boys in our family, and we had lots of fun together. One day the three of us rode to town bareback on my horse. My father had given each of us some cap pistols, and on the way home the horse stepped on an old wagon rim while crossing a stream. The rim flipped up and hit the horse. He reared up, and we all slid of his back into the water. Our pistol caps were ruined. The horse walked out and waited quietly for us on the bank.”

When I was a law student I was handicapped by a self-satisfied assurance that I could write verse even though I had never been schooled in that discipline. A classmate and I entered a poetry-writing contest sponsored by three law professors who knew something about the subject. In this naive collaboration, my friend was to provide the rhymes and I was responsible for the meter. Our lengthy effort of fifteen or twenty stanzas attempted to describe and poke fun at a recent judicial opinion by a renowned judge, to whom we sent a copy of the finished version. Though our poem didn’t win a prize, or even a favorable mention, I still thought we were the cleverest poets in the school. Proceeding on that assumption, I sought a compliment from one of the faculty judges by reminding him of our effort, telling him we had sent a copy to his friend the judge, and asking him if he thought the judge would be offended at our poem. His reply told me where I stood as a poet and probably saved me great subsequent time and embarrassment. “Oh, no, he won’t be offended,” the professor replied thoughtfully, “not unless he has a good sense of meter.”

Another Saint who sacrificed much during this period was John Rowe Moyle, an excellent stonemason from England. It was Brother Moyle’s custom to work on his farm in Alpine, Utah, only on Friday night and all day Saturday. Then each Monday morning he walked from home back to Salt Lake City to work until Friday on the temple. Following an accident, Brother Moyle’s leg was removed in an excruciating operation. While recovering, he made himself a wooden peg leg and walked around his farm on the stump until he was able to stand the pain. Eventually, he walked to Salt Lake City—a distance of more than thirty-two kilometers—to begin his labors at the temple again.

According to a story told by his family, John Moyle “climbed up the scaffolding on the east side of the Temple and carved ‘Holiness to the Lord,’ as his contribution to the Temple building.”