Gospel Story Finder

On Sunday I noticed that the building his church met in was clean and beautiful. I felt something different there. I was met by a person who shook my hand and even put his arm around me, telling me he was happy to see me. I felt good, even though I was a bit shy and nervous. This brother took me to a class for investigators.
After the lesson two young women introduced themselves as full-time missionaries. They asked if they could visit me at my home. I quickly told them I was busy and started giving them excuses. But they still asked me to tell them when I was available, and I responded that I was available early Monday morning. I said they could come but only if they wanted to come at 4:00 A.M.
To my surprise, they looked at each other and said, “Brother Solomon, we will be there.” Then I insisted that it was hard to reach my family’s house, that it was located in the middle of a fishpond, that we had a lot of dogs. I told them they would have a hard time getting there. But they said again, “Brother Solomon, we will be there.” After I left, I forgot all about our appointment because I didn’t believe they would be coming.
Early Monday morning I was surprised to hear the dogs barking and a voice calling, “Brother Solomon! Brother Solomon!” I looked out the window, and I started to feel differently about the missionaries. I felt a confirmation that they were true servants of God. I invited them in and listened to their message. After a while I told them to come every day with a lesson, which they did. They taught me until I was prepared for baptism.

Shannon, whose husband faced a pornography addiction, attended the support group for spouses. As she participated, she noticed a change in herself as well. At first she focused on the pain she felt over her husband’s addiction. But then, as she started learning and applying the steps, a miraculous change occurred. She says, “I began talking less and less about my husband and more about what I had learned from each step. I began to see how the Lord was working in my life.”

When I was a young boy growing up in South Africa, I was not a member of the Church. But I read the Bible and said my prayers often, like my parents had taught me to. Because of that, I always felt that the Lord was close to me. I especially liked reading stories about Jesus’s life. I tried to be honest, hardworking, trustworthy, and kind, like Jesus. That’s what the scriptures and Jesus’s example taught me.
revelation: messages or direction from Heavenly Father
From reading the Bible, I also learned what the Church was like when Jesus was alive. And it made me wonder why none of the churches I knew about looked like Jesus’s Church had. Why don’t they have prophets and apostles? I wondered. Why isn’t there revelation in our day?
One day when I was older, two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints knocked on our door. “We have a message for you,” they said.
My mother, who was a very friendly person, said, “We’d like to hear it. Will you come back this evening?” When the missionaries came that evening, the room was full—my mother and father, my four siblings, and me. My parents had even invited our neighbors over to listen to the missionaries.
My family was amazed by what they taught. We were thrilled that Jesus’s Church had been restored. It was a church with prophets and apostles! Over time, the missionaries answered all the questions that I had from prayerfully reading the scriptures. Because my family and I were already familiar with the Bible, we were ready to hear the missionaries’ message. We were excited about the gospel. Our neighbors didn’t feel the same excitement.
What truly converted me to the gospel was the Book of Mormon. I read some verses from it. Then one day I decided to follow Moroni’s promise to “ask God … if these things are not true; and … he will manifest the truth of it unto you” (Moroni 10:4). So I said a prayer and started reading the very first verse in the Book of Mormon. When I read it, the Holy Ghost witnessed to me in a wonderful way that the Book of Mormon truly is the word of God.
You’re never too young to start reading the scriptures and praying every day. Doing those things will help you know what is true. It will give you faith and the courage to make right decisions.
God doesn’t expect us to rely on anyone else’s testimony of the gospel. He will tell us Himself that the gospel and the Book of Mormon are true. If we are sincere and pray with faith, He will answer our prayers to know the truth.

I have experienced this myself. In the October 1998 general conference, President Gordon B. Hinckley admonished members to get out of debt. [4] I felt that I should pay off my home, but my accountant told me I was crazy to even think about it because the interest rate on my mortgage was so low. Nonetheless, I decided to take President Hinckley at his word and just do it. It took some scrimping for several years, but I paid off the loan.

Now skip ahead to the fall of 2008—exactly ten years after President Hinckley’s warning about debt—when the U.S. economy was suddenly plunged into a recession. I was still the CEO of Deseret Book, and our sales plummeted. I was worried sick about saving jobs and frankly about saving the company.

But one evening as I drove home with a pit in my stomach, it dawned on me that despite all the pressure I was under, I wasn’t worried at all about myself. I owned my home and owed no money—all because I had followed a prophet’s counsel ten years earlier. Prophets help us see around corners.

Every time Jared Burton Ikihega, 12, of New Zealand, looks up a telephone number in the directory, he sees something familiar—his artwork on the cover.
Jared was one of 20 winners in a national competition to produce a picture for the local telephone directories. His artwork, a linoprint which he called “Looking over the East,” is a view of houses in Porirua East from his school.
Jared’s entry was selected from nearly 600 entries in his area. But this isn’t the first time his art has been recognized. One of his pieces was included in an exhibition of New Zealand school children’s art in Paris. Another work was chosen for a brochure for the Wellington Social Welfare Department.

Katie danced into the kitchen, where her brother, Jack sat at the table. “What are you doing?” she asked as she twirled on her toes.
“I’m writing a thank-you note to Uncle Ed,” Jack told her. “He gave me his old stamp collection.”
“I want to write a thank-you note too.”
“That would be nice, but since tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, why don’t you make valentines, instead?” her brother suggested.
Katie twirled again while she thought about that. Then she started smiling. “I have another idea,” she told Jack. Then she hurried off to her bedroom.
Katie found her colored paper and markers. She got her scissors and glue. She took some white paper and cut out five wide heart-shaped ruffles. Then she glued each one on a piece of red paper. On the first one, she drew trees on one side of the ruffle and a letter carrier waving on the other side. In the middle, she printed “Thank You, from Katie.” Next, she made one with striped balls around the ruffle, and one with a piano on each side of the ruffle. The last one she made had checkerboard squares around the ruffle. All the heart centers said, “Thank You, from Katie.”
Katie put the valentine with the striped balls into her dad’s shoe. He always played catch with her.
She put the one with the pianos into her mom’s coat pocket. Mom played the piano with Katie, and they sang songs.
She slipped the checkerboard ruffle valentine inside Jack’s desk. He was teaching her how to play checkers.
She put the last ruffled heart into their mailbox. The letter carrier always waved to her as he walked by.
Early the next morning, Katie’s dad started to get ready for work. He felt sleepy and a little cranky. When he grabbed his shoes, Katie’s thank-you valentine tumbled out. Dad looked at the striped ball and smiled because he liked to play catch with Katie. He read the thank-you in the middle and smiled again. He started whistling.
In the afternoon, Mom had to go grocery shopping. She snatched her shopping list and hurried out the door. She was in such a rush that she didn’t even wave to their neighbor, Mrs. James. But when Mom put the shopping list into her pocket, she found Katie’s thank-you valentine. She looked at the pianos on the ruffle and smiled. She read the message and smiled again. Then she stopped to show Mrs. James the special thank-you valentine and asked if she needed anything from the store.
An icy wind nipped at the letter carrier’s cheeks as he walked down Katie’s street. When he put some letters into Katie’s mailbox, her thank-you valentine blew out. He caught it and looked at the pictures. He read the message and smiled. Then he waved to Katie and smiled all the way down the street.
After school, Jack sighed as he went to his room to work on his math homework. Numbers mixed him up, and he wanted to eat supper. Jack opened his desk to get a pencil, and Katie’s thank-you valentine popped out. Jack looked at the checkerboard ruffle and smiled. He read the thank-you in the center and smiled again as he began figuring out his math problems.
Later, Jack found Katie feeding her goldfish. “I like my thank-you valentine,” he told her.
“Really?”
“Of course! Everyone likes it when someone remembers to say thank you. Now, how about a game of checkers?”
“Sure!” Katie danced off to get the game.

On March 30, just one year ago, little two-year-old Ethan Carnesecca, from American Fork, Utah, was admitted to the hospital with pneumonia and fluid around his lungs. Two days later, his condition had become so serious that he needed to be flown by helicopter to Primary Children’s Hospital in Salt Lake City. His worried mother, Michele, was allowed to ride in the front seat and accompany her son. She was given a headset so she could communicate with the others in the helicopter. She could hear the medics working on her sick little boy, and being a pediatric nurse herself, Michele knew enough to understand that Ethan was in serious trouble.
In this critical moment, Michele noticed they were flying directly over the Draper Utah Temple. From the air, she looked out across the valley and could also see the Jordan River Temple, the Oquirrh Mountain Temple, and even the Salt Lake Temple in the distance. The thought came into her mind: “Do you believe it or not?”
She says of this experience:
“I had learned about the blessings of the temple and [that] ‘families are forever’ in Primary and in Young Women. I shared the message on families to the good people of Mexico on my mission. I was sealed to my eternal companion for time and all eternity in the temple. I taught lessons about families as a Young Women leader, and I shared stories about forever families with my children in family home evening. I KNEW it, but did I BELIEVE it? My answer came as quickly as the question popped into my head: the Spirit confirmed to my heart and mind the answer I already knew—I DID believe it!
“At that moment I poured out my heart in prayer to my Heavenly Father, thanking Him for the knowledge and belief I had that families truly are forever. I thanked Him for His Son, Jesus Christ, who made it all possible. I thanked Him for my son, and I let my Heavenly Father know if He needed to bring my little Ethan to His heavenly home, it was OK. I trusted in my Heavenly Father completely, and I knew I would see Ethan again. I was so grateful that in a crisis moment, I had the knowledge AND the belief that the gospel was true. I had peace.”1
Ethan spent many weeks in the hospital, receiving expert medical care. The prayers, fasting, and faith of loved ones, combined with that care, allowed him to leave the hospital and return home to be with his family. He is healthy and well today.
This defining moment for Michele confirmed to her that what she had been taught all of her life was more than just words; it is true.

The Price of Mortality
Mormon doctrine also provides a unique ?perspective on the purpose of mortality, human suffering, and what is sometimes called “the problem of evil” by theologians: How is it that an all-powerful and all-loving God can permit so much evil and suffering in the world?

Let me share a story with you about the ?powerful and attractive answer that Latter-day Saint doctrine provides to this question.

My wife, Deirdre, and I were a two-tuition family at Yale, which is to say that it was not inexpensive. She completed her MBA on the same day I finished my law degree. In fact, we missed each other’s college convocations because they were held at the same time. Then we moved to Washington, DC, where Deirdre was working for Paul Mellon and his private art collection and I was clerking for a judge on the DC Circuit Court of Appeals.

My calling in our ward was Cub Scout leader, and there were two young brothers in my Webelos group. That summer their family was in a terrible car accident. One of the brothers was in critical condition for weeks, and I visited him in the hospital, where he was wrapped nearly head to toe in bandages. This was the early 1990s, when AIDS was not well understood, and this young boy contracted the HIV virus from a blood transfusion. It took many months, but he eventually recovered from most of his injuries, yet at that time being infected with the HIV virus was akin to a death sentence.

He was asked to speak in Church about what he had learned from his experience. Although he was only twelve, he gave what I think is the most profound and insightful address on the problem of evil that I have ever heard. He said:

Some people have asked me what I did wrong to deserve what happened to me. I’m not perfect, but I’m a good boy, and I know this is not something I deserved.

Others have said, “You must be a really strong person for God to give you such a difficult trial.”

I don’t feel strong, and anyway, I don’t believe God did this as a reward for my being particularly righteous.

No, I don’t think this happened because I’m particularly bad or particularly good. I believe it happened because I’m mortal, and this is part of the price of mortality. We come to earth, we exercise our agency, and other people exercise theirs, and sometimes we hurt each other, and sometimes accidents happen.

Think about that—“the price of mortality.”

“There’s no way you’re going on that youth convention, Thomas, and that’s final.” Dad’s voice came loud and curt, bloodshot eyes narrowed, flashing danger signals. His lean, weather-beaten frame straightened to full height, his mouth clamping in a hard line.
I bit my lip, digging the heel of my boot into the dirt with sharp jerks.
“And if I hear any more on the subject, you can tell that James lad to stop picking you up for church Wednesdays. You’re slow enough at school without that … that … seminary stuff taking your time.”
He stomped off past the hen sheds, muttering and shaking his head. “Should never have let you join in the first place. Not been the same since. Always trying to change things, do things.” He tore down a dead branch overhanging the path, swishing it violently. “As if I haven’t got enough problems without you pestering. I’m sick of it, do you hear? Sick of it!” His words ended on a shout as he snapped the branch across his knee.
The hens scattered in all directions, squawking, flustered. One rushed panic-stricken into a pile of loose wire netting. I’d left it there this morning when the school bus arrived before I was ready. (Okay, so I was late—same thing.) Anyway, I never finished the job properly.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Dad yelled. “Can’t you do anything right? That’s all we need, a hen with a broken wing.” Grabbing the screeching hen, he marched back toward the house.
“Get on with the chores,” he flung over his shoulder, “and keep out of my way.”
The twisted, choking feeling in my stomach swam up my throat and stuck there. I hadn’t cried since Mum died in a car accident nine years ago, and I wasn’t about to begin now. We used to live on a Devonshire farm back then, but after the funeral we moved north to Yorkshire. It’s been so cold up here. Seems like Dad’s forever mad at someone for taking Mum, and I’m the one who gets it every time things go wrong.
I think he could use a few of those scriptures my teacher’s always quoting—especially the “forgiving” ones. I’m getting an idea what they’re on about.
I had really thought today would be a safe time to ask about the youth convention, though. I’ve never been to one before, and a boy’s 16th birthday should stand for something, surely?
But no such luck. In fact, the only bright moment was getting that card at breakfast. No one had ever bothered before. Come to think of it, no one had ever believed too much in me at all—that is, before this new seminary lady moved in to the branch. She seems to understand that I’m not as slow as I look. Probably because she’s an artist too.

One Sunday morning when I was only five years old, I was playing with a neighbor’s cat. Eventually the cat got tired of playing with me and ran into a nearby cornfield. I wasn’t tired of playing with the cat, however, so I followed him into the field.
The corn was very high, and when I couldn’t find the animal, I decided to go home. It didn’t take long to discover I didn’t know where I was, and I had no idea where home was. I was lost in the large cornfield.
As I wandered around, the corn seemed to get taller and taller until it reached the sky. I was disoriented and felt more and more frightened. I began to run, yelling for help, but the wind drowned out my cries. I got very hot and sweaty, and the corn plants scratched my skin. I didn’t know what to do.
As I was rushing through the cornfield, I remembered a lesson my Primary teacher had taught only a few weeks earlier. “If you’re ever frightened,” she had said, “or if you’re ever lost, get down on your knees and pray.”
Then I remembered my parents telling me the same thing as we knelt in daily family prayer. “Heavenly Father cares about you,” my mother and father had taught me. “He will always hear your prayers. He will take care of you.”
As soon as I remembered the words my parents and my Primary teacher had spoken, I dropped down on my knees. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I know I shared my thoughts and fears with the Lord.
After my prayer, I felt very peaceful. My parents and my Primary teacher had told me Heavenly Father would hear my prayers, so I knew help was on the way. I was tired from running around so much, so I decided to rest until someone came. I promptly lay down and fell asleep.
It wasn’t long before my mother realized I was no longer in our yard. She had seen me playing with the cat, so she guessed I had followed it somewhere. She began searching for me. A block from our home, she saw the cat near a large irrigation canal and feared the worst. She thought I had fallen in and drowned.
She ran home and sent my older sister to the nearby Church building, where my father and other priesthood holders were gathered for a meeting. Mother then fell to her knees and immediately began praying to Heavenly Father, asking Him to protect me. She promised that if I was found safe, she would do all she could to make sure I was raised in righteousness.
After pouring her heart out to the Lord, Mother stood up. As she did, she thought of the neighboring cornfield. She ran outside to begin searching there. Some of the men from the meetinghouse met her, and she told them she thought I might be lost somewhere inside the field of corn.
Some men searched along the irrigation canal while others began searching through the tall stalks of corn. One of them, Bud Phillips, found me quietly sleeping. He picked me up and carried me to Mother, who was weeping. I remember wondering why everyone was making such a fuss. After all, I had prayed and I knew everything would be fine.
My prayers and my mother’s were answered, and she always did all she could to see that I was raised in righteousness.

Grandpa and I worked on the car most of the afternoon. We stopped at about 4:00. There was a dance in town that night, and I was going to take a girl I hadn’t seen in a long time.
I had known Margie for as long as I could remember. We were in the same kindergarten class, and I used to pull her ponytail. In junior high I used to tie the ends of her dress sashes to the back of her chair during class, and then laugh as she got up and knocked her chair over. Most girls would have gotten mad but not Margie. She would just laugh, shake her finger at me, and say that I had better watch out; she was going to get me back.
But when we went to high school, something happened. Margie was no longer the skinny-legged, freckled-faced girl in knee socks and braces. Sometime during that summer she had changed into a willowy beauty with an electrifying smile and sun-streaked hair. She was so carefree and simple, always laughing, always there to listen.
But halfway through our sophomore year she moved to the city. It was quite a blow to all of her friends, me in particular. But she promised to write and visit when she could.
So, when she called me to tell me that she was going to be in town visiting her grandparents for a few days, I couldn’t help but get excited. She had always been so fun to be with, and I was sure I would have a good time. Two years couldn’t have changed us that much.
As I drove up to the house where her grandparents lived, my hands were sweaty and butterflies were doing acrobatics in my stomach. My legs felt like spaghetti as I got out; and as I knocked on the door, I felt my face flush to a deep, hot red. The door opened and there was Margie, still willowy, still beautiful. Smiling, she let me in.
“Hi,” she said. “Boy, it’s really good to see you again.”
“Hi yourself,” I stuttered.
“Grandpa and grandma are in the kitchen. They said they wanted to see you when you came.”
“Oh. I saw your grandpa in town the other day, but I haven’t seen your grandma for a long time,” I said as we walked down the hall toward the kitchen.
“Bobby, how’s your grandpa?” asked her grandfather. “I hope he’s doing well. Haven’t seen him around for a while. Now, we don’t want to sound old-fashioned, but what time do you think you’ll be home?”
I assured them that it wouldn’t be too late, and then we left. As we walked out to the truck, I heard Margie clear her throat. I looked at her, but all she did was smile and ask who was going to play at the dance.
“Oh, it will be records,” I said.
“Records. How different. At home we always have a band.”
“That really must be nice,” I said uncomfortably. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice kept saying that this evening wasn’t going to be what I had expected. She just kept smiling.
All the kids welcomed her when we got to the dance, but as I watched her, I saw something that puzzled me. It was sort of an amused look, one that seemed to say, “I can’t believe the way you all act. I hope I didn’t act like this.”
We danced; then she danced with some of the others. Every once in a while I would see that same look. It bothered me, but what could I do? I just let it go.
On the way home, I asked if she had had fun.
“Oh yeah. I can’t wait to get home and tell the kids about it.”
I couldn’t help but wonder what exactly she would tell them. Her voice wasn’t the same as it used to be. She acted differently. Maybe it was just my imagination; it was probably nothing more than seeing old friends again. Whatever it was, I wasn’t going to worry about it; we were going to the county fair the next weekend, and I was sure we’d have fun.
I worked on the old car with grandpa that whole week. And as we worked, he would tell the stories I had heard so many times. The years seemed to turn backwards and sweep us away with them.
I was cleaning the carburetor when grandpa said, “Bobby, did I ever tell you what happened when I first got this old car? I’ll never forget the look on your grandma’s face when I took her for her first ride.” He chuckled to himself, then went on. “Bobby, you’ve never seen a woman more scared in all your life. The whole time I was driving she was yelling. ‘Look out for that fence! Look out for the ditch!’ Sometimes I thought she’d yell herself hoarse. I’d swerve all over the place, and she’d scream like a baby pig caught in a fence. I learned my lesson though. The next time I tried to scare her, she gave me one. She reached over and grabbed the wheel! That woman nearly ran me into the barn!”
He laughed out loud as he remembered. Then, eyes twinkling, he was off into another story. This time it was about how he had won the motorcar race at the county fair three years in a row. Then another about how some city slicker had tried to con him out of his car and how he had “showed him a thing or two.”
The week passed quickly, too quickly in fact, and it was soon time for the fair. I picked Margie up early; I was showing a calf, and I had to be there as soon as possible.
I won a blue ribbon and was pretty proud of myself, but when I showed it to Margie, all she did was smile that same smile she had given the kids at the dance the other night. But now I knew what it was that bothered me so much about it. Her smile was one of polite disinterest, as if to say, “You guys are nice and everything, but you’re so different, so uncool.” My stomach lurched inside me and my heart sank down to my toes. The old Margie was gone, gone forever. Somehow, she had gotten lost in the city.
We didn’t talk very much on the way home. She hadn’t had a good time (she’d nearly been kicked by a cow and run over by a Tennessee Walker), and I was depressed by my discovery.
I never saw Margie again after that. I saw her grandfather in town a few days later, and he said that she had gone back to the “big city.”
The days dragged by, even though I was working on the car with grandpa. He saw by my halfhearted enthusiasm that something was wrong and tried to cheer me up with his funniest stories. I listened and slowly began to feel better.
That week we finished the work on the engine. Grandpa was excited and wanted to take her for a trial run before we started on the body. So, I opened the barn doors up all the way and stood back to watch. He got in and gently ran his hand over the seat. The gleam in his eye reminded me of the excitement of a father watching his only child take its first few steps.
He tried to start it up, but the engine just sputtered and fell silent. He tried again, and again it died.
“Third time will be the charm,” grandpa yelled.
But as he tried to start it, a terrible rasping noise came from inside along with billows of black smoke and a deafening crash.
I ran to the car. Grandpa, coughing from the smoke, got out and sat on a bale of hay. I opened the hood and peered down into the remains of the engine, all black with burnt oil and grease. It was hopeless to think of fixing it again, and I knew it would hurt grandpa deeply when I told him.
But as I glanced over at him, I knew he already knew. His face trembled as he buried it in his hands. His back was bent, like a crooked cane, and he looked so old, so lost, so alone.
I went and sat next to him with my arm on his shoulder. Looking up, he mumbled, “I only wanted to bring it back, make it new, make it the way it was when grandma and I went riding in it.”
He sat there shaking, his heart crying out for the days of the past, somehow thinking that they could be brought back, rebuilt like an old car, this old Ford.
Gently I shook his shoulder.
“Grandpa,” I said. “Grandpa. Sometimes things just can’t be brought back or rebuilt. Sometimes we can only call back the memories.”
I sat there a while longer, then left him alone to sift through his days long past. Walking out of the barn, I could hear the cows softly mooing in the pasture and the hens clucking to their little ones. The sun was warm on my face, and suddenly I knew that everything would be all right for the both of us.

Fatima skipped down the street. She was walking home from school with Mamá. She hummed a song while she skipped.
“Ms. Lopez asked us to learn a song,” said Fatima. “Can you teach me one?”
Mamá smiled. “Of course!”
When they got home, Mamá and Fatima sang songs together. They sang lots of songs. But they hadn’t sung her favorite one.
“Can I sing a Primary song?” Fatima asked.
“Sure,” Mamá said.
Fatima sang “Families Can Be Together Forever.” She practiced the words with Mamá. Then she sang it alone. She sang it until she got all the words right.
At school, Fatima was excited to share her song with her class.
“Does someone want to share their song?” Ms. Lopez said.
Fatima raised her hand. “I will!”
She stood up and smiled. “I have a family here on earth. They are so good to me,” she sang.
While she sang, Fatima felt happy. And she remembered the whole song! Everyone in her class clapped.
After class, Mamá came to pick up Fatima. Ms. Lopez spoke to Mamá.
“She sang a beautiful song. And she didn’t seem scared at all.”
Fatima smiled. So did Mamá.
“We sing beautiful songs every week at church!” Fatima said.
“You can come with us anytime,” Mamá said.
Ms. Lopez smiled. “Thank you.”
Fatima sang as she walked home with Mamá. She liked sharing a song with her class. Singing made her feel happy.
This story took place in Guatemala.

My maternal grandmother’s favorite hymn is titled, “Pe a faigata le ala, taumafai”. Its English version from which it is translated was written by William Flavell over 130 years ago, “If the way be full of trial, weary not.1” Appropriately so, my grandmother Mele, whom I am named after, has had a blessed life but not without hardships and trials that she so endured well throughout her life. Her father, my great-grandfather Aupiu Savea Moe along with my great grandmother Talalupele Tuitogama’atoe, shortly after marrying in their very young lives, were called to serve as one of the many couple missionaries who traveled the Samoan islands to help establish the church. Their mission lasted for over 50 years. An appreciation for them grew deeper when a recent trip to Samoa to visit the church schools there reminded me of their service to the church. They started their family while on this mission. Many times, at a moment’s notice in one assigned area, they would be called to another assignment in another area or island, often times with my pregnant great-grandmother and very young toddlers in tow. Mind you, travel during those days was either by walking, by horse or by canoe.

Another commitment to follow the pattern during those college years was to actively be involved in home evening group meetings and activities. I can tell you that habit had a direct positive impact on my life and the lives of my children—literally. It was in my home evening group that I found their dad—my true love. Where would our children be today if I had skipped out on home evening? Because I was following the pattern at that time in my life, I was also prepared to be sealed with him in the House of the Lord.

A few weeks before school started, I was sitting on the porch with my friends Grace and Ron when the discussion turned to how much Grace disliked her father. This wasn’t a new topic for her.
“He always embarrasses me in public just by being there. It is just so annoying when he always …” She went on to talk about her father’s failings and how he wasn’t living up to her expectations.
Ron decided he would take over the conversation by talking about his family and how he didn’t think his mom was home enough and that he didn’t like the way she dressed. He didn’t think he should have a curfew or that his dad should yell so much.
The whole time I just sat on the porch swing waiting for them to ask me what I didn’t like about my family. I couldn’t say I didn’t love my family. Moving five times in my lifetime had given my brother, sister, and me really tight bonds. We depended on each other and stuck up for one another. Our closeness was something my mother was very proud of.
Then Grace said, “What about your family, Scott?”
I didn’t say anything for a minute. I was choosing my words carefully, knowing the things I said would represent what I believe in. When I finally spoke, I felt the Spirit guiding my words. There were no interruptions from either of them as I spoke of how much my family means to me and that I hope to spend eternity with them. I encouraged them to be more patient with their families. I told them to look at the big picture.
I ran inside the house and got my copy of the proclamation on the family by the First Presidency and Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. I read to them the seventh paragraph, focusing mostly on what qualities we should base our family relationships on: “Happiness in family life is most likely to be achieved when founded upon the teachings of the Lord Jesus Christ. Successful marriages and families are established and maintained on principles of faith, prayer, repentance, forgiveness, respect, love, compassion, work, and wholesome recreational activities” (Ensign, Nov. 1995).
After reading that, I said, “This is what my family believes. This is what we want to be and are striving for. I know if I can do all that, then I will be able to stand tall on the Judgment Day with my family, knowing we are going to live together forever.”
I didn’t know how well my friends took this information because of a long pause from both of them. We just sat there for a while, pondering what had been said.
Later a thousand thoughts went through my mind. I was proud I was preparing for a mission by sharing the Church’s teachings on families with my friends. But was I doing it appropriately? And what would they think if I tried to explain more about the gospel?
As I was getting ready for bed, I flipped through my scriptures and turned to section 4 of the Doctrine and Covenants. Here we are told if we serve the Lord in missionary service “with all [our] heart, might, mind and strength,” then we “may stand blameless before God at the last day” (D&C 4:2).
Of course, my friends and I still have our disagreements. But I realized no one ever loses a true friend just by talking about religion and beliefs. Although Grace and Ron didn’t join the Church, I have continued my friendship with them. It felt good to explain my beliefs to them. Just because they didn’t immediately change what they believed about families or religion didn’t matter. I know there are hundreds of stories about the value of perseverance in missionary service. Mine may end up one of them.

The Lord chose Three Witnesses who would see the Book of Mormon gold plates so they could “testify to the truth of the book and the things therein” (2 Nephi 27:12). One of these witnesses was David Whitmer.
David heard about the gold plates while visiting Oliver Cowdery, who was acting as scribe as Joseph Smith translated. Oliver later wrote to David, asking if he and Joseph could stay with him and finish the translation.
David traveled 100 miles (160 km) to Pennsylvania to bring Joseph and Oliver to his parents’ home in New York. David’s interest grew as he watched Joseph translate the Book of Mormon.
Along with Oliver Cowdery and Martin Harris, David was shown the plates by an angel and heard the voice of God command them to testify of what they had seen.
Unfortunately, David left the Church a few years later and never returned, but he never denied his testimony. Near the end of his life, David wrote: “I have never at any time denied that testimony or any part thereof, which has so long since been published with [the Book of Mormon], as one of the three witnesses. Those who know me best, well know that I have always adhered to that testimony. And that no man may be misled or doubt my present views in regard to the same, I do again affirm the truth of all of my statements, as then made and published” (An Address to All Believers in Christ [1887], 8–9).

Lisa, you should take seminary,” Ashley mentioned casually. Before us were folders displaying lists of class choices for the next school year, when we were starting high school.
I looked vacantly at my friend, finally managing a smile. I hated to tell her, but seminary was the furthest thing from my mind. I was then a less-active member of the Church, as I had been for most of my life. Over the years, I had grown vaguely aware of the gospel but hadn’t received a strong testimony of its truthfulness.
As I went home after school that day, the prospect of seminary began to intrigue me. Ashley, as well as my other friends, all seemed very excited to become a part of it. I had a desire to do what my friends were doing, even if I didn’t understand what they were doing or why they were doing it. After discussing my plan with my parents and getting their permission, I decided to take seminary my first year of high school.
I didn’t know what a profound impact that simple act would have on my life. My first year of seminary changed my life as I began to see myself and others as children of God, loved and cherished. I began going to church on Sundays, despite my family’s inactivity.
I have now finished high school, but I will always be grateful for seminary. During that hour each day, I had my prayers answered and my testimony strengthened. Seminary helped me prepare for a temple marriage and encouraged me to strive to be a better person.
I know that God cares for each of us. I know that seminary is a blessing that helped me build on a firm foundation in Jesus Christ. I would encourage you to enroll in seminary. It will change your life too.

Characters
Mariah
Molly
Miles
Max
Simon
[Mariah, Molly, Max, and Miles enter.]
Mariah: I love summer.
Molly: The ice cream!
Max: The swimming pools!
Miles: The sunshine!
Mariah: And no school. This summer is going to be the best ever!
Molly: What should we do first?
Max: We should start a club.
Miles: Yes! Clubs are the best. We can make badges—
Molly: And a clubhouse!
Max: And make up a secret password!
Mariah: We can call it the Mariah, Molly, Max, and Miles club. Hey, all our names start with M!
Molly: That can be part of the club—your name has to start with an M to join. We can call it the M Club!
Max: The Marvelous M Club!
Miles: The Marvelous Magnificent M Club!
Mariah: The Magical Marvelous Magnificent Club!
Molly: This is going to be the best club ever.
Max: And the best summer! [Molly, Max, and Miles exit. Simon enters from the other direction.]
Simon: Hi, Mariah.
Mariah: Hi, Simon. Excited for the summer?
Simon: Yeah! Do you have any plans?
Mariah: Well, Molly and Miles and Max and I just formed a club, and it’s probably going to be the best club ever. It’s called the Magical Marvelous Magnificent Club.
Simon: Wow! That sounds really cool. Can I join? I could bring some of my favorite books for the clubhouse.
Mariah: Sorry. Only people whose names start with the letter M can be in the club.
Simon: You mean I can’t join your club just because my name is Simon and not Mimon? That doesn’t seem very fair.
Mariah: I’m sorry, but club rules are club rules.
Simon: OK. Well, have a good summer. [Simon walks off, looking sad. Mariah goes the other direction, after Molly, Miles, and Max.]
[Max, Mariah, Molly, and Miles are sitting around their clubhouse.]
Molly: Majestic!
Miles: Memorable!
Molly: Majestic!
Miles: Memorable!
Molly: Mariah, which do you think sounds better? The Magical Marvelous Magnificent Majestic Club, or the Magical Marvelous Magnificent Memorable Club?
Mariah: I don’t really care.
Max: What about amazing?
Molly: That doesn’t start with an M.
Max: It can if you say the uh part really soft. Uh-Mazing. See?
Miles: Mariah, why aren’t you helping think up more M words for the club name? Is something wrong?
Mariah: Simon asked if he could be in the club.
Molly: You told him no, right? Because his name doesn’t start with an M.
Mariah: I told him no, but it didn’t make me feel very good. Don’t you think we should include everyone?
Miles: It might be more fun that way.
Max: Simon is a really good friend.
Molly: Simon probably doesn’t want to be part of our club anymore. It’s not as fun as I thought it would be.
Max: There really isn’t much to do.
Miles: We argued about the name, made up a secret password, and made a clubhouse. What do we do now?
Mariah: Maybe our club would be better if we weren’t just thinking about ourselves all the time.
Molly: You mean make a club to help other people?
Miles: I like it!
Max: I think it’s a great idea!
Mariah: And I know just who we can start with.
[All exit]
[Mariah, Miles, Molly, and Max sneak on stage. They set notes in various places, making a trail of notes across the stage. They all exit. Simon enters. He sees the first note and picks it up.]
Simon: What’s this? [Reads it out loud.] “Simon, you are always so kind to everyone you meet. I’m glad you’re my friend.” [Simon smiles.] I wonder where that note came from. [He takes a few more steps and finds another.] Here’s another one! “Simon, you are really smart, and I admire how hard you work in school.” [He looks up and sees the trail of notes.] All these nice notes are about me! I wonder who left them.
Mariah: [entering with Miles, Molly, and Max] We did!
Simon: Oh. Was this part of your moldable, magnetic, macho club that I can’t join?
Molly: Actually, you can, if you still want to.
Max: We decided to change the club rules so that everyone can join, no matter what letter their name starts with.
Simon: Really? But why’d you leave me all the notes?
Max: We want our club to be about more than just us. From now on, our club is all about doing nice things for other people.
Miles: We’re going to pick up trash at the park—
Molly: And make cards for the nursing home down the street—
Max: And cook dinner for someone in the neighborhood!
Molly: So what do you think? Want to join our new and improved club?
Simon: You bet I do!
Mariah: Then welcome to the official first meeting of the Kindness Club, dedicated to making the neighborhood a better place, one good deed at a time!
Max: But can we still have a secret password?
The end

Hard work brought the young couple a fine brick home and prospering meat business in Salt Lake, enabling them to pay for the immigration of Elizabeth’s family in 1867. But the next year the Woods gave up home and career to fill a difficult colonizing mission to Arizona. They returned destitute four years later and took up residence in a tumbledown dugout within sight of their former home. When asked her reactions to this strange turn of fortune, Elizabeth told her husband, “I am glad you filled your mission, and would rather be in this dugout with your mission filled, than in that fine house with your mission unfilled.”

The gospel truly changes people’s lives. Last month I met the missionaries who taught a family of five in South Carolina last year. The father of this wonderful African-American family was born and raised in Newark, New Jersey. His father had abandoned his mother when he was very young. He said his “angel mother” worked hard every day of her life to keep them from being homeless. He cannot remember one fun day as a child or as a teenager. He stated, “Other than the love of my mother, I felt very much alone in this world.” He served in the navy on the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk, where he learned discipline, organization, and order. He subsequently met and married his sweetheart, and they have three children. They came in contact with the missionaries, and he subsequently wrote:

The missionaries taught us to pray. They taught us about the Restoration. They taught us about revelation and truth. As they bore their testimonies, my heart became softened and I saw in their eyes the truth of what they said. In my whole life I have never seen such sincerity and love. On May 5, 2006, my family was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Now I really do believe that I have found my place in this world.

He has received the Melchizedek Priesthood, he baptized his eight-year-old daughter two weeks ago, and the family is planning on going to the temple this May to be sealed for time and all eternity.