Gospel Story Finder

In the late 1940s, Elder Spencer W. Kimball, an Apostle since 1943, suffered a series of heart attacks. During the convalescence that followed, he stayed with friends in New Mexico. A Church magazine article later recounted an incident that occurred while he was there:
“One morning during this recuperative period, Elder Kimball’s bed was discovered empty. Thinking that he had taken a morning stroll and would be back in time for breakfast, his attendants went about their duties. But when he hadn’t returned by 10:00 a.m., they began to worry. A search began.
“He was finally discovered several miles away under a pine tree. His Bible lay next to him, opened to the last chapter of St. John. His eyes were closed, and when the search party came up to him he remained as still as when they first caught sight of him.
“Their frightened voices aroused him, however, and when he lifted his head they could see traces of tears on his cheeks. To their questions, he answered, ‘[Five] years ago today I was called to be an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ, and I just wanted to spend the day with Him whose witness I am.’”13

The quarterly conference of the Parowan Stake in December 1879 witnessed the call of forty-nine men and their families to a new mission. The call came from President John Taylor and the Twelve through Elder Erastus Snow. Later, others from nearby settlements joined the final company. What followed became the Hole-in-the-Rock expedition, an epic in Church history. Two hundred fifty of our people, with eighty wagons and hundreds of loose cattle and horses, cut their way through the rough, unknown country of southeastern Utah. The area traversed remains one of the least-known regions of the world today. Their objective was the San Juan country. In addition to desert cliffs and canyons, the forbidding Colorado River gorge stood in their way. No highway bridge crossed that gorge until 1934. No commercial airline flew from Utah to Arizona, near their route, until 1959.
Seeking the shortest route, Mormon explorers found a narrow slit in Glen Canyon. The river ran two thousand feet below the red cliffs. This “Hole in the Rock” seemed to offer the shortest route.
Only a slit in the sheer cliffs, the hole was too narrow for teams, or in some places even for a man. Sheer drops of as much as seventy-five feet made it impossible even for a mountain sheep, let alone loaded wagons. In December 1879, after having left the Parowan and Cedar valleys the previous April, the Saints began to cut a precipitous, primitive road with blasting powder and tools. Elder Platte D. Lyman, leading the party, found that if a road could be built, it would drop eight feet every sixteen and one-half, the first third of the way to the river. Thereafter came several sheer precipices. But the party was prepared. With faith, they were equipped not only for blasting cliffs and carving passages, but for building a raft-boat capable of carrying teams and wagons across the river.
A road was built and a boat made by January 25, 1880. Now came the effort to get families and the first forty wagons, camped at the rim, down the “Hole.” The others, back at Fifty-Mile Spring, would follow later.
Kumen Jones has left a description of the method of descent. Twenty men and boys would hold long ropes back of each wagon. The wheels were brake-locked with chains. Otherwise, rolling wheels would pitch, unchecked, into the struggling team. On January 26, 1880, a month later, Platte D. Lyman recorded in his journal: “Today we worked all the wagons in this camp down the Hole and ferried 26 of them across the river. The boat is worked by 1 pair of oars and does very well.”
The family of Joseph Stanford Smith and his wife, Arabella, was the last wagon to descend that day. A grandson, Raymond Smith Jones, has described their experience. I doubt that a modern film company, with millions of dollars and modern engineering resources, could film this epic.
Stanford Smith had helped the preceding wagons down that long day. His outfit had evidently been forgotten. Deeply disturbed, he climbed the two-thousand-foot incline. He found Arabella sitting on a quilt, holding the baby, patiently waiting. His outfit and their two other children in the wagon were hidden behind a huge, mountainous rock.
Stanford Smith moved his load to the edge. A third horse was hitched to the rear axle. Stanford and Arabella looked down the “Hole.” He said, “I am afraid we can’t make it.”
The wife replied, “We must make it.”
He said, “If we only had a few men to hold the wagon back we might make it, Belle.”
Replied his wife, “I’ll do the holding back.”
A quilt was laid on the ground. There she placed the baby between the legs of three-year-old Roy. “Hold little brother til papa comes for you,” she said. Ada, the older girl, was placed in front of them. Behind the wagon Belle Smith grasped the reins of the horse hitched to the rear. Stanford started the team down the “Hole.” The wagon lurched downward. The rear horse and Belle were thrown from their feet. Recovering, she hung back, pulling on the lines with all her strength and courage. A jagged rock cut a cruel gash in her leg from heel to hip. The horse behind the wagon fell to his haunches. The half-dead animal was dragged down most of the way. The gallant woman, clothes torn, with a grievous wound, later said, “I crow-hopped right along!”
On reaching the bottom, Stanford and Arabella heard a faint call from the children. Joseph Stanford Smith climbed to the top to get them. They were safely in place. Carrying the baby, the other children clinging to him and to each other, he led them down the rocky crack. As they approached the river’s edge, they saw five men carrying chains and ropes in the distance. The Smiths had been missed. The men were coming to help. Stanford called out, “Forget it, fellows. … My wife here is all the help a fellow needs.” (See David E. Miller, Hole-in-the-Rock: An Epic in the Colonization of the Great American West, Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1959, pp. 101–18.)

The Prophet Joseph Smith had a most remarkable way of handling a problem between himself and his wife. David Whitmer tells of an incident in the lives of Joseph and Emma Smith as follows:
“One morning when [Joseph Smith] was getting ready to continue the translation, something went wrong about the house and he was put out about it. Something that Emma, his wife, had done. Oliver and I went upstairs and Joseph came up soon after to continue the translation but he could not do anything. He could not translate a single syllable. He went downstairs, out into the orchard, and made supplication to the Lord; [he] was gone about an hour—came back to the house, and asked Emma’s forgiveness and then came upstairs where we were and then the translation went on all right.” (B. H. Roberts, Comprehensive History of the Church, 1:131.)

Exactly 20 years ago last fall I stood on the famous white cliffs of Dover overlooking the English Channel, the very channel which 20 years before that ran as the only barrier between Hitler and England’s fall. In 1962 my mission was concluding, and I was concerned. My future seemed very dim and difficult. My parents were then serving a mission also, which meant I was going home to live I-did-not-quite-know-where and to pay my way I-did-not-quite-know-how. I had completed only one year of college, and I had no idea what to major in or where to seek my career. I knew I needed three more years for a baccalaureate degree and had the vague awareness that graduate school of some kind inevitably loomed up behind that.
I knew tuitions were high and jobs were scarce. And I knew there was an alarmingly wider war spreading in Southeast Asia, which could require my military service. I hoped to marry but wondered when—or if—that could be, at least under all these circumstances. My educational hopes seemed like a never-ending path into the unknown, and I had hardly begun.
So before heading home I stood one last time on the cliffs of the country I had come to love so much.
This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, …
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war.
(William Shakespeare, Richard II, act 2, sc. 1, lines 40, 43–44)
And there I read again,
“We have before us many, many long months of struggle and of suffering. … What is our aim? … Victory—victory at all costs; victory in spite of all terror; victory, however long and hard the road may be. …
“Conquer we must; as conquer we shall. … We shall never surrender.”
Blood? Toil? Tears? Sweat? Well, I figured I had as much of these as anyone, so I headed home to try. I was, in the parlance of the day, determined to give it “my best shot,” however feeble that might prove to be. I ask you to do the same.

The fourth miracle was found in the power of prayer.
Ray wasn’t feeling well on the day Elder Gamble picked him up for his own endowment. His medication was making him dizzy and weak in the knees. They had to stop and rest several times between the hotel room and the car.
After a fervent prayer for Ray’s health and ability to proceed with his journey, Ray got out of the car and walked into the temple to receive his endowment. He had no further issues that day.

Diligence is persisting in doing something in spite of opposition.1 Dora first learned how important—and how difficult—diligence can be after she was baptized in 1998.
When Dora was 17, she and her younger sister Alicia were baptized—helping lead to the growth of the Church in the islands of the Uros. About a month later, however, their father forbade them from having anything to do with the Church.
But something odd happened to the girls. They were suddenly less pleasant to be around and more likely to argue. Their father realized that during the time they were participating in Church activities, they had changed for the better.
“It changed his mind,” Dora says. “He began waking us up early to make sure we got to church on time.”
Dora attributes the change the gospel made in their lives to small things she and Alicia did regularly, like paying tithing, praying, studying the scriptures, keeping the Sabbath day holy, and renewing their covenants weekly by taking the sacrament.
Later, having seen for himself the changes that come from faith and diligence,2 Dora’s father joined the Church along with the rest of the family.

This morning a brown bird flew in our window at school. It almost got tangled in Rosalie’s long black hair. Rosalie screamed, and then all of us screamed. I guess our screaming scared the poor bird, because it started flying around really fast, not looking where it was going. It bumped into the ceiling light, then banged against the chalkboard.
All of us felt sorry for it, and we were afraid it would get hurt if it kept flying around that way. Then I had an idea. I didn’t know if it was a good idea or not, and I almost didn’t suggest it. But no one else had any idea at all, so I said, “Let’s go out into the hall and leave the bird alone.”
Our teacher, Mrs. Rubin, said, “Good idea, Anna.”
We all got up and tiptoed into the hall. Mrs. Rubin closed the door gently. We sat cross-legged on the floor and waited without making a sound.
At first we heard the bird fluttering and flying and crashing into things. Then it got quiet in the room. Our teacher motioned to me to look through the door glass to see what was happening. I stood on tiptoe and peeked.
The bird was sitting on the back of a chair. I could see how fast its heart was beating through the thin part of its feathers. It looked around, saw the open window, and flew toward it and sat on the sill for a minute. Finally, with a swoop, it was gone. I think it needed time to be alone so that it could decide what to do. Sometimes my mom leaves me alone when I get upset about things. I guess that’s why I knew how to help the bird.
Anyway, when we went back inside and sat down to do our morning board work, it was nice to think about the bird at home in the sky.

The mother of a young man whom Elder Andersen had once met briefly recalls that at one point her son “was on the verge of emotional and physical collapse” when he saw Elder and Sister Andersen sitting at a table in a cafeteria. “My son later told us, ‘I would not have approached any other person, but when I saw Elder Andersen, I knew he loved me, and I immediately got up from my chair and approached him.’”
Despite the terrible change in the young man’s appearance caused by his current crisis, Elder Andersen recognized him and called him by name. Elder and Sister Andersen took the young man home, fed him, and talked at length with him. Then, though it was midnight, Elder Andersen drove several hours to take the young man home.
“Elder Andersen’s influence didn’t end there,” explains the mother. “Now, years later, he continues to see our son, to be interested in his life. He saved our son.”

September 23, 1995, was a life-changing day for me. My calling on the stake high council required that I attend the broadcast of the general Relief Society meeting. President Gordon B. Hinckley spoke, and for the first time I heard the words of “The Family: A Proclamation to the World.”
Immediately a growing brightness illuminated my mind and heart. I listened with rapt attention. I had just completed a PhD in family studies, but now I heard in five minutes more pure truth about the family than I had gleaned in nearly five years of graduate study. I wanted to stand up and applaud. As President Hinckley concluded, I felt a great desire to apply these principles in my family and share them with the world.
In the days that followed, I thought constantly about the proclamation. When the conference magazine finally came, I read the proclamation over and over again. I pondered and prayed. I wanted to so thoroughly digest its words that they would become an indelible part of my being. That’s when I felt impressed to memorize the proclamation. It would not be easy. I was in my mid-40s, and memorizing was not nearly as easy as it once had been. But again and again I felt the prompting: “Memorize the proclamation. Memorize the proclamation! MEMORIZE THE PROCLAMATION!”
I took a copy of the proclamation with me wherever I went. I memorized while shaving. I memorized while walking to the university. I memorized while exercising. The last words on my mind before retiring and the first words in my mind upon arising were the words of the proclamation. No miracle aided my memorizing, and my progress was painstakingly slow. But after about a month I could repeat the whole proclamation.
Now that I had it, I wanted to keep it. So I would recite the proclamation several times each day during morning exercise and stretching. As I did, it seemed as if the Spirit highlighted certain words or sentences. I would linger on these passages, and they, in turn, would prompt impressions that would bless my family and me.
For example, the next summer I was concerned about the friends my teenage daughter was spending so much time with. But when I tried to talk to her about the situation, she discounted what I said and became more distant. While I was jogging and thinking about the proclamation one morning, the Spirit highlighted in my thoughts the last sentence in paragraph seven: “Extended families should lend support when needed.” I slowed the pace of my jog, and an image of my younger sister came into my mind. This sister had experienced many trials in her life and was now nearly full term with her seventh pregnancy. The impression I had was that we, as extended family, should lend her support right now. So I bought a plane ticket for my daughter and asked her to spend a week serving in my sister’s home.
In this distant place an interesting thing happened. During the day my daughter found joy serving my sister’s family. And after the children were asleep, she and my sister had many long talks. My sister was able to talk to my daughter in a way that I had been unable to. She told her how decisions she had made as a teenager had produced a lifetime of challenges. When my daughter returned home, something had changed in her. She began making choices that blessed her life. My sister, her family, my daughter, and I were all blessed by this trip, which was prompted by the words of the proclamation.
Another time the words “Parents have a sacred duty to rear their children in love and righteousness, to provide for their physical and spiritual needs” weighed heavily on my mind. Our family members loved and had a good time with each other, but I felt that we were far from our spiritual potential. The words of the proclamation inspired my wife, Juanita, and me to begin having a family testimony meeting on fast Sunday after church. Unfortunately, our first attempt did little to provide for our children’s spiritual needs. None of them really wanted to be there. Several children complained about how hungry they were, and our youngest asked several times, “When is this going to be over?” Still, we persevered, and after a few months the complaining stopped and we started feeling the Spirit more. This family testimony meeting became a precious time to share sacred truths and to help us “rear [our] children in love and righteousness.”
A pattern was emerging. As I frequently reviewed the words of the proclamation, they formed a conduit through which the Spirit could give my wife and me inspiration to move our family forward. True, most of the inspiration was not as grand as these examples. Most of it came as ideas like “Take Hannah on a daddy-daughter date,” or “Fix dinner for Juanita tonight,” or “Listen more to Emily,” or “Put Seth to bed more often.” But the hundreds of little bits of direction added up to a much better family life.
In 2001 Juanita was diagnosed with advanced breast cancer and was given a 50 percent chance for five-year survival. Our best option was to pursue an aggressive but very taxing course of chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation. We were discouraged when after eight weeks of nauseating chemo the large tumor had not shrunk at all. During this trial I went jogging and recited the proclamation as loud as I could to relieve the stress I was feeling. It comforted me.
On one jog when I got to “Successful marriages and families are established and maintained on principles of faith, prayer,” I stopped. I felt a sense of peace as an impression formed in my mind. It was the Saturday morning before fast Sunday, and I felt inspired to send an e-mail to everyone I knew, inviting them to fast and pray and exercise their faith for Juanita so that the chemotherapy would be effective. We received a great outpouring of support. Even friends of other faiths described powerful experiences with fasting and prayer. Without our asking them to do so, friends in Australia, Japan, Hawaii, Salt Lake, Boston, Belgium, and South Africa put Juanita’s name on the prayer roll in their temples. The results were miraculous. Immediately our mood and our faith improved. And during the next four weeks of treatments, the tumor almost totally disappeared. Juanita finished the treatment, and no measurable cancer remained. We were so grateful! But this wasn’t the end of our trials or of the continued comfort the proclamation brought us.
In early 2004 we were devastated to learn that Juanita’s cancer had returned, this time in her lungs. In somber tones our doctor told us he would try to keep the cancer under control as long as possible, but there was now no possible cure. At first I felt betrayed and hopeless. Juanita and I had righteous desires and plans. What about the missions we were going to serve together? What about the grandchildren we were going to strengthen spiritually? How could this happen to us?
As I went through the proclamation again, this time it was as if someone turned a flashlight on to highlight the words “Children are entitled to birth within the bonds of matrimony, and to be reared by a father and a mother.” I recognized my children were entitled to be raised by a father and a mother. This statement filled me with hope that in the face of very large medical odds Juanita would be blessed with a miracle and be healed.
We lived a fairly normal and hopeful life for about six months, but then the cancer began to take its unmistakable toll. Juanita lost weight rapidly and acquired a nearly constant and uncomfortable cough. Even the smallest exertion left her struggling for breath. Things seemed always to get worse and never better. Soon it became apparent that it was not God’s will for Juanita to live very much longer. I was at a complete loss to explain why God had not stepped forward with the miracle we so badly needed and so sincerely hoped for. But then again the words of the proclamation provided inspiration and comfort: “Sacred ordinances and covenants available in holy temples make it possible for individuals to return to the presence of God and for families to be united eternally.” Through many tears my understanding was enlarged to see that Juanita would indeed receive a miraculous healing. Because of the plan of salvation, Juanita would pass from this life into a beautiful place to be greeted by her father, our daughter who had passed away, and the Savior. Because of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, Juanita would be healed and at the Resurrection receive a perfect body, free from cancer and any other illness. I could also see that through all eternity our children would have access to her influence as their mother—another miracle.
I also felt impressed that there was much we could yet do in this life to give the children continued access to her wisdom. I received a clear impression that it was time for us to stop focusing our faith on a physical miracle that was not in keeping with God’s will and focus instead on learning as much as we could from Juanita in the short time we had left. We needed to be better prepared “to return to the presence of God and for [our family] to be united eternally.” In our family testimony meeting we expressed these feelings poignantly, and their truth washed over us all. Then we went to work.
Juanita wrote her testimony of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, and I wrote mine as well. We printed and laminated them along with our pictures in a size that would fit in the children’s scriptures. Juanita then wrote long letters in her own hand to each of the children, expressing appreciation and offering words of encouragement and advice. We recorded Juanita’s sweet voice singing hymns, Primary songs, and childhood lullabies and made CDs for each of the children and for future grandchildren. We also recorded messages to be listened to on special occasions such as going to the temple, leaving on a mission, getting married, giving birth to a child. Juanita crocheted baby blankets and bibs for future grandchildren. Our lives now became focused, full of activity, and we received great comfort from the Spirit. All this came as a result of inspiration from the proclamation.
All of our children were at Juanita’s side when she died, and each had the opportunity to share tender communication with her. She was alert and talked to us until about 10 minutes before she passed away. That’s when I told her, “I love you,” and she responded in Spanish, “Lo mismo,” which means “Same to you.” Those were her last words. Her passing was sweet.
I have marveled at the numerous specific and personal ways the proclamation has blessed me and my family since that Saturday night more than a decade ago when I first heard it. It has changed our lives forever. It is the word of God, and it can be the basis for great joy and happiness in family life, even in the midst of unfathomable trials. I know by the Spirit that “The Family: A Proclamation to the World” is an inspired document for families today, and if seriously studied, it will open the windows of divine assistance for our families.

Michael Oja, 18, of the Astoria (Oregon) Ward, Longview Washington Stake, met Mission President John A. Larsen following a fireside.

“Son,” President Larsen said, “I think you’d make a great minimissionary.”

By mid-July, Mike was in Oregon City, working with the missionaries assigned to the Cambodian branch. “With the help of a translator, the missionaries taught them lessons on the plan of salvation. I met a lot of wonderful converts and helped share the gospel with their families and friends.

“It’s not like an eight-hour job, where you go home when your time’s up. Sometimes it’s a real long day. But after a while, you start to see that you’re helping people. Their lives start to change, and you get to see it happen.”

Mike learned something about his wardrobe, too. “I hadn’t thought much about it before, but if I’m going on a mission, I ought to be buying clothing now that I can use then. I’m saving up for suits and white shirts.”

The day before he was to return home, Mike was interviewed again by President Larsen.

“One of the neat things about going on a minimission is that you get to know the mission president. You can tell he’s with you all the way,” Mike said.

Before they began practicing for their road show a few years ago, the youth of the Parker Ward set aside a day to fast and pray. To people who have been in a road show before, that may not seem such a strange thing to do, but they weren’t fasting in hopes of making the best use of their talents, and they weren’t praying for the road show to get canceled.
The road show participants were praying for help and guidance in making the road show a way to build testimonies. Little did they know it would build the testimony of someone who was not yet a member of the Church, and would introduce her to the scriptures.
Lindsay Thiess, a Laurel at the time, invited Roxanne McHugh (who wasn’t LDS) to be in the road show with her.
“We wanted to have the road show be a missionary experience,” says Lindsay. “I knew Roxanne would have a good time doing the show.”
Lindsay was right. Roxanne did have a good time. She also started getting curious about the story she was acting out.
“The story of the road show was about the Brother of Jared. One night after road show practice, I went home and found this Book of Mormon that my brother had ordered from an ad on television when he was 11 because he could get it for free!” says Roxanne. “I read the story of the Brother of Jared, and after that the road show meant a lot more; it started to make sense.”
That complimentary Book of Mormon, delivered to Roxanne’s house three years earlier and put on a shelf, sparked an interest in the gospel that Roxanne couldn’t deny.
“I prayed and knew the Church was right, and I knew that I needed to invite my parents to come to the play,” says Roxanne.
Roxanne’s parents had the same good feeling after watching the road show, and soon Roxanne, her younger brother, Courtney, and both her parents were baptized. One year later Roxanne and Courtney were sealed to their parents in the temple for time and all eternity.
It was a miracle. The miracle all the youth of the Parker Ward, Willow Creek Colorado Stake, had prayed for.
And the miracle continues every day for the McHughs as they read the scriptures, grow in the gospel, and share their testimonies with their nonmember family and friends. Strange as it may seem, Roxanne gained a personal connection to the scriptures while she was singing songs with made-up words and wearing an old sheet dyed and sewed to look like Jaredite apparel. Roxanne learned to really know the people of the scriptures, which helped her know that the gospel was true.
“I have learned to love the scriptures,” says Roxanne, “and that has changed my life.”

When youth in the Union Fort Sixth Ward, Midvale (Utah) Union Fort Stake, decided to enter a local snow sculpture contest, they had high hopes of winning the $50 consolation prize to buy pizza for everyone. Imagine their surprise when they won the $350 second prize!
And so, the prize money for their boat-eating shark sculpture did purchase lots of food. But it wasn’t pizza for the hungry youth. Instead, they voted to donate their winnings to their local Scouting for Food drive. With their winnings, they were able to purchase more than 800 cans of food.

Joe was seven and I was five when she was born. She was premature—that means she was born too early. She was so little that she had to stay in the hospital for a long time. We prayed and prayed for her to get big enough to come home, and finally she did. Dad says that sometimes almost losing something makes it seem even more special to you. I guess he’s right about that, because we sure love Mikey a lot.

As long as I can remember I have always searched for God. I have never just believed in the possibility of a God. I knew that he existed. I knew that he had to be a person and not some vague, undefined spirit. But I had trouble trying to imagine what he looked like. My impression was of a stately old gentleman, with white curly hair and a beard, a friendly face and sparkling blue eyes. He lived among the stars, which, as a child, I assumed were the lights in his living room.
Based on the devotional cards I received from my local minister, I had an understanding of what His son, Jesus Christ, looked like. The Savior was depicted as a handsome man with wavy brown hair, and big, bright eyes. He was shown pointing with a slim, pierced hand to the cruel wound in his side, inflicted by a cowardly Roman guard. Through his white robe could be seen the red glow of his loving heart.
But how did I make contact with God and the Savior? I recognized that the way I lived was not the best introduction to them. I did almost everything the Lord had specifically prohibited.
The years passed and I married a wonderful woman, and we had responsive and loving children. We were richly blessed in the material things of life and in good health. But more and more I felt bitter self-reproach because of the sinful life I had led and because I showed the Lord so little thankfulness.
One night I couldn’t stand the feeling any more. I went to a secluded place and poured my heart out to the Lord. I pleaded for forgiveness and for guidance to know which path to take. My problem was that I knew which path to take, but I didn’t have the strength to completely walk that path.
I had tried walking the path now and then. For example, I had read the Bible, prayed in my own way, investigated several religious organizations, and had often listened to a group of gospel workers who used to preach on the street corner.
The leader of the group, a sincere person, had advised me to come to Jesus and believe in Him. “That’s all you have to do” he had said. “His blood will save you and will cleanse you from all your sins.”
That seemed too easy to me. I felt that I couldn’t come before the Lord stained with sin. First, I had to be completely clean and then not sin any more. And that was what was hard for me because I didn’t know how to do it.
However, after that prayer I tried very hard to become “friends” with God. For instance, after reading about tithing in Malachi 3:8–10 [Mal. 3:8–10], I started paying a tenth of my income to non-profit charitable organizations.
I tried to bring about a change in my behavior. I tried to be honest and not tell a lie. I tried to stop swearing and using bad language. And some unusual occurrences made me start living a more healthy life. When I was having a drink, the alcohol suddenly tasted like muddy water. When I drank coffee I felt sick. Tea gave me indigestion. My addiction to smoking a pipe ended when I had a vivid dream of a dirty brown substance going through my pipe into my mouth and throat.
Following these occurrences, I happened to be looking through a private library when I came across the Book of Mormon. Out of curiosity I began to read it, and I was very excited. Unfortunately I wasn’t a member of the library and couldn’t take the book home.
But that was not to be my only contact with the book. Fourteen days later, I met two young men with American accents. One of them asked if I believed in Jesus Christ. I said no, because I didn’t believe, I knew that He existed. He took a book from his briefcase and asked me if I wanted to read it. Much to my surprise it was the Book of Mormon!
I took the book home where I was forced to rest in bed because of a sudden attack of influenza. I used the time to read the Book of Mormon. When I got to 2 Nephi chapters 31 and 32 [2 Ne. 31–32] I found what I had been searching for for so long. There I learned of repentance and baptism as the gate to the strait and narrow path, of keeping the commandments, and of the Holy Ghost as a companion to help us. As I read those chapters I knew the Book of Mormon was true. I knew that if it was the last thing I did in my life I had to be baptized. But, I thought, what if the influenza killed me before I could be baptized? If I had to, I decided, I would ask the young men to baptize me at home in my bathtub.
Frantically I looked for the address of the missionaries, but couldn’t find it. The only thing I knew was that the Church had a small building somewhere in the neighborhood.
My good health quickly returned, and on a beautiful spring morning two Elders were astonished when I approached them with a Book of Mormon in my hand urging them to baptize me as soon as possible. In an interview, they discovered that I already met all the conditions of faith, repentance, paying tithing, and keeping the Word of Wisdom.
So on 18 May 1977, I was baptized and became a member of Christ’s true church. In August of that year, despite some initial doubts, my wife was baptized.
My conversion and baptism was not a matter of chance. I know for sure that the Lord led me to His church. And I know that the Book of Mormon was the capstone of my conversion. Reading it led me to the strait and narrow path which I gladly walk.

As a matter of fact, their love for Christ is so big that they wanted to share it with all their friends, LDS or not. They wanted to host an activity that would bring LDS kids and non-LDS kids closer to the Savior and closer to each other. They also decided that such an activity would be the perfect way to cap off the year’s seminary study of the New Testament.
Both youth and adult leaders were called to help organize the event. They decided that since football is such a big sport in Texas, former BYU and Houston Oiler quarterback Gifford Nielson would help attract a crowd. They invited Tim Ross, a Church member well known in the area for his wacky TV weather reports, to speak, figuring he would draw people out too. The conference would include slide presentations, testimonies, prayers, workshops, and of course, there would be some serious, heartfelt talks about the Savior—how much he means to the youth of Texas and to people everywhere. There would be lighter activities, as well, like a dance and a Texas barbecue.
Equipped with an irresistible agenda, they went out to contact various youth groups in the vicinity and invite them over for the big day.
That’s when a big problem came up.
“I contacted several youth groups, and they were really excited at first,” said Anna Francis, 17, a member of the youth planning committee. “But when it got to their ministers, they decided they didn’t want them to come to a Mormon activity. Some of them seem to think that Mormons aren’t Christians, so they said we had no right holding a conference on Christ. It’s sad, because we were trying to help them see that we really are Christians.”
At that point, Plan B went into effect. Since all the youth groups invited declined the invitation, the LDS kids were encouraged to invite their nonmember friends from school. “All the Mormon youth fasted and prayed that everything would work out, and that more people would want to come,” said Tomasyn Harlow, another member of the planning committee. “We invited our friends and talked to people all over the stake. It worked. We ended up with over 225 people.”
Actually, that was quite an impressive turnout. “On a beautiful Saturday like this, they could have been in a million other places,” said Bob Ferguson, a member of the stake high council who was assigned to coordinate the conference. “They could be out waterskiing, fishing, hitting all the new movies. They could have been out working and earning some money. But they wanted to come here to get closer to Christ.”
And the event turned out to be a big success after all.
“I think this is the best we’ve ever done,” said Johnny Apel, 16. And that’s a pretty big compliment. After all, this is a stake that sponsors memorable activities at the end of each seminary year that correspond with the book of scriptures they’ve been studying. They’ve put on things like a “Nephite Festival” that was their version of a county fair in the land of Bountiful, complete with a realistically simulated earthquake and storm, followed by a beautiful talk on Third Nephi.
Then there was the big “Wander in the Wilderness,” where the seminary students were taken to a desolate area, divided by their birth months into twelve “tribes,” and required to complete 12 Old Testament-oriented tasks like rescuing Daniel from the lion’s den, building a tower of Babel, and building an ark. At the end, they were treated to a big feast, similar to that of the Passover.
With activities like that, rating the “Come unto Christ” youth conference number one really says something.
What made the event such a big success? The location wasn’t out of the ordinary—much of the program was held in the chapel, and the workshops were held in church classrooms. Meals were brought in and either eaten outside in the Texas sunshine or inside, picnic-style, on blankets on the gym floor.
So it was the theme itself and the attitudes of the kids involved that made this such a big event. “What could be more important than to come unto Christ?” said Tisha Perry, age 16. “I hoped that this activity would help me to get closer to him, and it did.”
You could actually see some changes taking place right before your eyes as the day wore on. “I really don’t know where it started, but lately I’ve had a real problem with listening to what my parents say and following the counsel they give me,” Greg Harkrider, 16, told the entire group. “I just want them to know that I’m glad that I listened to what they said and came today to learn more about Christ. That’s what I need to be here for. I’ll try to be better because of this.”
And responses from the 30 or so non-LDS kids who did come were positive as well. Rick Moore and Eric Bradshaw, two 16-year-olds who met on the set of a movie they were both involved in, came to the conference because the subject was of great interest to them both. Rick is LDS. Eric is Presbyterian. “Pretty much everything that’s been said here today I’m 100 percent with,” said Eric. “This is really encouraging for me.”
Darla Marburger, 16, who came with her LDS friend Milli Egger, 14, had a response similar to Eric’s. “This has really helped me to grow spiritually,” she said.
“I’m just glad someone has taken the time to teach us more about Christ,” added Milli. “It’s important to learn now, when we’re young and impressionable, so we have a better chance of turning out right.”
Richard Cromwell, a very popular high school teacher and an ordained Methodist minister, also paid big compliments to the event. “This is great!” he said. “I’m all for anything that helps bring the kids closer to Christ.”
The spirit of the day was not diminished when the lights in the gym went down low and the music was turned up for the dance that finished off the conference. A stake music committee, made up mostly of youth, had previously selected all the music that would be played, making sure it was fun to dance to, yet didn’t contain inappropriate lyrics.
While the music played inside, the youth on the organizing committee wandered outside for a breather. They inevitably began discussing the big subject of the day. “Being a part of all this really makes me want to work harder to be better—to be more like Jesus,” said Mark Davies, 17. “That would be so great.”
“We heard a lot about Christ today, and his spirit was here,” added Anna. “That’s exactly what we wanted.”
“Oh yes,” Thomasyn agreed. “Even though it didn’t turn out exactly like we’d planned at first, it was a big success.”
There it was. Still another big to add to the Texas list.

When I was growing up, young men went on missions when they were twenty years old. Not all young men were expected to go on missions, as they are today. My father had always hoped that I would go on a mission, and he had encouraged me several times. But as I got older, I wondered, Is that really what I want to do?
My priests quorum advisor, Dale Waite, was a great example and a wonderful teacher. We boys all thought he was terrific. One time he took us to a ward outing at a swimming resort. We had a good time swimming, playing volleyball, and just enjoying being together. That night we piled into Brother Waite’s car to go home—the car sure was full! Full of good memories of the evening’s activities, we were starting up the old highway in the dark of night, when Brother Waite asked, “Did any of you hear the First Presidency’s announcement today?”
None of us had; we were all ears. Brother Waite told us, “The First Presidency has announced that young men can be called on missions at nineteen years of age.” When he said that, the Spirit of the Lord came over me, filling me from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet. I knew that the message was, “You are going on a mission.” I had never had that kind of experience before, but the feeling that I was to go on a mission never left me.
When I was old enough, I was called to serve in Germany. I loved everything about my mission. It was a turning point for me. I came to love Heavenly Father, His Son, and the gospel as never before, and I loved to hear the word of God preached. I came to love the scriptures; I loved reading them and understanding them. I found that the General Authorities who came to see us in the mission field were men of God and had great power to change people’s lives. I saw people accept the gospel and repent and be baptized and be filled with joy.
When I came home from my mission, it was with the firm resolve that I would never be the same—and I never have been. And all of that happened because a priests quorum advisor stayed close to the young men in his quorum, taught them the gospel, and helped them learn in a very simple way that they could go on missions and be touched by the Spirit of the Lord.

Ellie pulled the zipper up to her chin and shoved her hands deeper into her jacket pockets. Her worn tennis shoes scuffed along the sidewalk. The Saturday morning was dull and overcast. The cold rain had stopped, but everything was wet; her bike had a flat tire, and none of her friends could play, anyway. I hate days like this! She thought as she angrily kicked a rock.
She didn’t lift her head when Mr. Coriman’s front door slammed. “Hey, you, missy! Come here!” Mr. Coriman’s booming voice made her jump. She froze right there on the sidewalk in front of his house.
Mr. Coriman was a crotchety old neighbor who lived four doors down from her house. Ellie and her friends called him “the crank.” Once Marty had dared Alex to ring his doorbell and run away, but Mr. Coriman had caught them. He had stood on his porch, shaking his cane at them, and had shouted at them to stay off his property. Now he was hollering at her!
“Me?” she asked nervously. “I haven’t done anything!”
“I didn’t say you had! Just come here!”
She wanted to run home; instead her feet walked unwillingly up the worn path to his front porch, where he stood staring down at her.
“Do you know why you’re bored? ’Cause you can’t be loud!”
Ellie looked up at him in surprise. This wasn’t what she had expected. Mr. Coriman’s face was scrunched up and angry. She watched his bristly eyebrows shoot up as he opened his watery eyes wide and tottered toward her, buttoning his heavy sweater against the chilly air as he came.
“All day long you and your friends scream up and down this street with your sleds or on your bicycles, and now that you don’t have anyone around to be loud with, you can’t think of anything to do!”
He leaned so far forward that Ellie wondered if he would tumble down the front porch steps. He spoke more quietly now, and the corners of his mouth lifted in what might have been a smile. It was hard to tell—she had never seen him smile before. “That’s a shame. There’s a lot to see and hear if you’re quiet and listen for a minute.”
He turned away from her and scraped a battered old lawn chair across the porch to the top of the steps. As he slowly settled himself into it, Mr. Coriman pointed to the steps. “Sit down for a bit.”
She really didn’t want to stay here with this crabby old man, but since she didn’t have anything else to do, she sat down on the creaky, weathered step. She glanced up warily at Mr. Coriman, but he wasn’t looking at her now. He was squinting and looking into the distance.
“Look at how many birds there are today in my maple tree over there.” He poked her with his finger and pointed towards the far corner of his yard. The maple tree was huge and spreading, with thorny branches from nearby bushes growing around the trunk. Beneath the tree, she noticed that the grass was long and scraggly.
“I bet you can’t name all the kinds of birds in it!” Mr. Coriman leaned toward her, and she saw with surprise that he really was smiling. He challenged her again. “What do you see?”
“I don’t know—I can’t see that far away. And I don’t know their names, anyway,” Ellie admitted.
Mr. Coriman chuckled, “I can’t see them very well, either. But I listen to them singing. You get to know each bird when you listen to its song.”
They both sat quietly and listened for a moment. There were so many birds singing that it seemed impossible to listen for just one bird’s song. This is stupid! Ellie thought. She shifted impatiently on the cold step and turned toward the old man.
He put his finger to his lips, then whispered, “Just listen. You have to wait and be patient.” He looked into the sky above the tree and closed his eyes. “And maybe close your eyes.”
Ellie scrunched her eyelids closed and sat still for longer than she ever had before. At first the birdsongs all blended, but as she listened, they became separate sounds that split and overlapped. She tried to catch up with them, and for a few seconds, Ellie did hear just one song. Her eyes flew open. “I did! I heard a song! It was a ‘tweet tweet tweety tweety tweet.’”
“That was Mr. Meadowlark. Now we know he’s here this morning. Look on a middle branch.”
Hopping to the end of the branch as if to help Ellie see him better, the little brown meadowlark sang again, and she heard his song above all the others.
Ellie moved to the other side of the post and sat closer to Mr. Coriman’s chair. “What others are there?”
“Oh, no,” Mr. Coriman said, his eyes twinkling, “I’m not going to tell you. You have to hear them for yourself.”
Ellie concentrated and looked at the tree. Soon she ventured, “I hear ‘cheep cheep cheep.’”
“That’s Mr. Sparrow—but he’s not in the tree. He’s up on the power lines with his friends.”
Way up high, Ellie saw two tiny birds perched on the power line that stretched across the gray sky to Mr. Coriman’s house.
He leaned toward Ellie and cupped his ear. “Hear that other one?”
Ellie nodded. “It’s really pretty and ends with a ‘brrr.’” She trilled her tongue.
“He’s one of my favorites, Mr. Red-winged Blackbird.”
Ellie stopped listening for a moment and looked at the long grass and overgrown brambles. Then she wondered aloud, “Why is your yard so messy?”
Mr. Coriman pulled his sweater closer around him. “I can’t keep it up. My heart’s bad, and I have to take medicine.” He looked down and shifted his chair. “My nephew used to mow and trim for me sometimes, but then he had to move.”
The silence hung between them. Ellie thought of the lawn mower and clippers in her garage, and of her three older brothers. She should talk to her mom. It would be fun to surprise him.
“Well, Missy, do you hear any more birds?” the old man’s voice broke into her thoughts.
Just then Ellie’s friend Marty screeched to a halt on his bike by Mr. Coriman’s driveway. He looked puzzled. “Uh, Ellie,” he finally said, “you want to come play?”
“Come here, Marty!” Ellie stood up and waved to him. “We’re listening to the birds. Mr. Coriman is showing me how to tell the birds apart!”
Marty leaned his bike against the rusty mailbox.
While he was coming up the walk, Ellie explained, “You need to sit down and be quiet. Sometimes you have to wait and be patient and listen for each bird’s song. Listen to his song, and then you’ll know who he is!”
She looked up with pride at Mr. Coriman, and his wrinkled smile warmed her.

Diego’s two-year marriage to an abusive woman left him shattered and semi-suicidal. In retrospect, he wishes he had paid attention to the warning signs. His wife had been in several failed marriages and relationships. However, their six-month courtship had gone smoothly, and he fell in love.

After they married, her behavior surprised and confused him. She would make critical comments about his appearance, and when he asked why she said those things, she would tell him she was joking and that he didn’t have a sense of humor. “There was a lot of verbal abuse and gaslighting,” he says.

There were also episodes of physical abuse when she spit in his face and kicked and scratched him. As with many victims, Diego tried to excuse his wife’s behavior. He told himself she was just having a bad day. He tried desperately to do things he hoped would make her happy.

“I would clean the bathrooms and cook dinner,” he remembers, “but I could never please her. The physical abuse was probably the worst thing for me as a man. I felt weak and powerless. Sometimes I would find a place to hide at work and break down and cry. I was the victim, but she made me feel like everything bad that happened was my fault. I felt guilty. Was she right? The sadness was incredible.”

He recalls: “I wanted our marriage to work. I prayed so hard, went to the temple, fasted, read the scriptures, and tried to grow closer to Heavenly Father in every way. Hope kept me afloat. I kept believing that if I was obedient, things would work out.”

Some people won’t respect those boundaries, however. Diego tried to set boundaries, but his wife continued to argue. “You can’t always reason with an abuser,” he explains. “And it’s very hard to stay calm when someone is verbally attacking you. Christ would have walked away or been soft spoken. I wasn’t perfect that way. I could have done better. I think you need a mediator—a Church leader or a therapist—to have a rational discussion.”

Diego talked to a marriage counselor and met with his bishop regularly. “I’m not sure I would have gotten through this experience without the help of my bishop, the most loving man ever. And the temple was my solace.”

Diego struggled to heal after his divorce but says, “I learned so much from the relationship and have grown in all aspects, which has made me a better man, father, person, priesthood holder, son, friend, and partner. I did everything in my power to make the marriage work, but it wasn’t to be. She had her agency and made her choice.”

I was so excited to tell Mom and Dad about Primary that I had a hard time sitting still in sacrament meeting. My mind kept wandering back to the story about the sons of Helaman in the Book of Mormon. Now I knew what I wanted to be for our neighborhood costume party this year—one of the two thousand stripling warriors! I just hoped that Mom could make my costume. I kept imagining how cool I would look with a big gold shield and arm bands like the young men in the picture.
On the way home, I told Mom and Dad about my idea. My sister started to laugh, but I didn’t care. At school recess the next day, when I told my friend Jacob about my costume, we got into an argument because he wanted to be one of the sons of Helaman too. Then we decided that it’d be great if we dressed alike.
After school, the guys I play baseball with heard us talking about it and wanted to be stripling warriors, too—and lots of them weren’t even members of the Church! I knew my dad would be happy to hear that I’d been talking about the Book of Mormon with my friends, but I was a little nervous about telling my mom that I had volunteered her to make all the costumes! Fortunately, when they heard about it, the other moms volunteered to help make the costumes.
That night in family home evening, we talked about the two thousand sons of Helaman. At first I thought it was just a coincidence, but during the lesson, I realized that Mom and Dad wanted me to see that there was more to the story than handsome young men with shields and weapons and fighting. I guess I missed the important part in Primary because I was thinking about my costume. I was impressed that night not only by their courage in defending their country and religion and families but also because they had listened to their mothers and were obedient to the things that were taught to them.
As I lay in bed that night, I realized that I could be like one of Helaman’s sons by being obedient to my parents and keeping the commandments. One of the things Mom and Dad had always taught me was to be kind and to serve others. I knew that it was just as important for me to serve those around me as it was for the sons of Helaman to fight for their freedom. And I had an idea.
The next day at school I told Jacob what I wanted to do. He looked at me a little weird at first, but then decided it was a pretty good idea. At recess we all got together and made our plan.
It was fun for all of us to wear our costumes to the neighborhood party. But the best part was after school the next day. We put on our costumes again, but this time our weapons were rakes and brooms and garbage bags. We raked leaves and swept driveways and porches in our neighborhood. We were an army of second graders, “fighting” with love and service. The neighbors watched us out their windows with smiles on their faces. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a good time.

The air was painfully cold and damp. The pungent odor of smoke from coal fires stung our nostrils as we breathed. The fog and the darkness of the evening made it difficult to see. It was a typical winter night in England.
I was a new missionary of two months. My companion and I were hurriedly riding our bicycles to a nearby town to meet the lady missionaries. On the telephone the sisters’ voices seemed anxious and concerned. A member in their area needed help.
Arriving as quickly as we could after the phone call, we accompanied the sisters to the member’s home. We knocked at the door and a woman answered, inviting us into a very small room with a fireplace at one end. In the dim light I could see the woman’s face. She had puffy cheeks and sad, tired, reddened eyes. Her eyelashes were wet and matted. More tears streaked her face as she pointed to a small crib near the fireplace. Sobbing, the mother said, “My baby is sick. She can’t breathe and the doctor says she will die.” Bronchitis and pneumonia kill many babies during the harsh British winters.
The mother asked us to administer to the tiny, three-week-old baby. Tenderly she lifted the baby from its crib and held it gently and protectively in her arms. Tears fell from her eyes onto the clean linen in which the baby was wrapped. There was hardly enough room on the tiny head for my two comparatively large hands. As I placed my hands on her soft little head, I could feel the delicate tufts of hair.
It was the first time in my life that I had administered to a sick person. Somehow I managed to say the correct words. “Sonja Holbert, in the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the Holy Melchizedek Priesthood …” At that moment I could feel a surge of power within me. It was something unique and unusual. I knew without a doubt that I was acting as an instrument in the hands of Almighty God himself to heal that little baby girl.
This experience merged into others as the time went by until the memory of it was dimmed. Almost two years later near the end of my mission, I was assigned to work in the town where the mother and the little girl lived. As we tracted down a street, one of our investigators told us that a member of our church lived around the corner. We found the house and knocked at the door. English row houses look much the same, and I was not immediately aware that this was the same house I had visited nearly two years before. The woman invited us in. As we entered the same small room, a pair of bright, blue eyes stared up at me. I sat down in a chair, and a beautiful little girl climbed up on my lap. As I patted the blond hair on her head, a flood of memories returned to me—the dreary night, the tearful mother, the infant gasping for every breath, and the unmistakable power of the priesthood. “Thank you, Heavenly Father,” I murmured silently, “for the privilege of using that power to help this little girl.”
I was strengthened by this experience. I knew then the reality of what it meant to say, “I know that the priesthood has been restored in this day, and I bear testimony that God lives and loves us. I know great blessings can come through righteous use of his priesthood.”