Gospel Story Finder

Photographs by Sepi Hawaikirangi
When 118 youth from Auckland, New Zealand, and their leaders planned a four-day temple conference to the Hamilton New Zealand Temple, they had a simple but impressive goal: to perform as many baptisms for the dead as possible during their stay.
They began preparing for the trip many months in advance. As part of the preparation, young men and young women researched names from their family histories that they could bring with them to the temple.
All their preparation paid off in a big way. The youth and their leaders had a spiritual feast from the moment they arrived to when they set their sights back home four days later—not to mention all the blessings that came before and after the event because of their devotion to family history and temple worthiness.
In order to spend as much time at the temple as they could, they wanted to stay near the temple instead of making the two-hour drive each direction every day. So for the whole temple conference, youth and leaders stayed in dorm rooms near the temple.
Being that close to the temple was its own reward for the youth. Nichalahr U., a Laurel from the group, said, “I didn’t want to come home after the temple conference because I got used to waking up to the view of the temple and how peaceful it was to just turn and look at it standing in front of you.”
You can enjoy the blessing of seeing the temple each day by putting a picture of one in your room.
It wasn’t practical to have 62 young men and 56 young women all doing baptisms at once, so they decided instead to go to the temple in shifts. The youth were divided into five groups, and each group attended at least two shifts at the temple during the four days.
That might sound at first like there was a lot of downtime and waiting in between. But nothing could be further from the truth. When they weren’t in a shift doing baptisms, the youth headed into the community to do service projects. Sometimes they walked over a mile (1.61 km) to reach their destinations—at which point they’d begin the service project.
They helped out with cleaning, yard work, and anything else families and organizations needed. One youth group helped replant a marae, an outdoor public meeting place in the New Zealand culture.
The youth were also in charge of cooking their own meals, which led to another goal the youth made for the conference: to learn how to prepare and cook food from 72-hour kits. This, too, required a fair amount of planning. Each young man and young woman had a budget to plan and shop for ingredients.
Although the dorm rooms had large kitchens to use, the youth all whipped up their masterpiece meals on a gas stove outside. Those meals were put to good use too, since the youth needed a lot of energy to keep up with the schedule. The only way they could fit everything in was to wake up at 5:00 a.m. and keep going strong until bedtime.
Of course, this was a four-day youth conference, so there had to be at least a little recreational time! One fun event was a dance. Yet even here the dance became more meaningful than usual as a result of some visitors.
During the week, the youth had an unexpected treat when they met a group of Saints from New Caledonia (a group of islands in the southwest Pacific Ocean that belong to France) who were also visiting the temple. They quickly became friends and had the opportunity to sing hymns and also perform ordinances in the temple in English as well as French.
On the night of the dance, the Saints from New Caledonia came to visit these youth. As soon as they arrived, the youth from New Zealand danced joyfully in a circle around them to welcome them. They hugged each other in friendship formed over a shared love of temple work.
Not surprisingly, the highlight of the conference was the actual time in the temple. Mahonri K., a priest, researched and brought names from his own family to do proxy work for them. “I was excited to help my ancestors who had passed on through the veil by being baptized and receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost on their behalf,” he says. “My testimony of baptism has been largely strengthened.”
Throughout the week, the young men and young women felt a strong spiritual connection to the work. Sara M., a Mia Maid, said, “I now have a strong testimony of the gospel and the importance of temple work.”
From the beginning, their goal was to complete as many baptisms as possible to help their ancestors. They succeeded rather spectacularly. The 118 youth performed baptisms and confirmations for 3,542 people, many of whom were their ancestors.
By the time the young men and young women were ready to leave, their testimonies were strengthened and their hearts were filled with gratitude. The youth even invited the sisters who work in the temple laundry to their closing exercises so that the youth could sing a closing song to them in appreciation for their hard work. (Just imagine how much laundry needed to be washed during this temple conference!)
The youth will remember the spiritual experiences they had during this temple conference for the rest of their lives. “The feeling that I received throughout each baptism was pure and innocent,” says Caleb R., a priest. “I could feel the warm embrace of the Savior’s love.”
Throughout the temple conference the youth strengthened their ties with the Savior, with each other, and with their ancestors. After gaining such new enthusiasm for the work, their journey in family history is only getting started.

This story about the Aaronic Priesthood begins with a young woman, 16-year-old Lauren DellAquila of the Cary Second Ward, Apex North Carolina Stake. Lauren hadn’t come to Church for years. She had never been baptized and confirmed, “but I just knew in my heart that the Church was true.”
She also knew David Christison, 16, and Andrew Hill, 15, who attend the same school, are Latter-day Saints. “I’m in marching band with David and had a couple of classes with Andrew last year,” she says. And she knew they stood by their beliefs. “It meant a lot to see their example, because most teens at our school don’t have values like they do,” Lauren explains.
Then one day after band, some other classmates were making unkind comments about the Church. Lauren told them if they really wanted to know the truth, they shouldn’t repeat rumors; they should find out for themselves. Afterward, David thanked her and asked how she knew so much about the Church. “She said that when she was really young she went to Church, but then her parents divorced and she stopped coming,” David says. “So I invited her to come again.”
“People had tried to get me to come back before, but for one reason or another it had never happened,” Lauren explains. “But when I told David and Andrew that I did want to try again, they were excited. I started coming to meetings, and they introduced me to the bishop, the missionaries, and the young women in the ward. They helped me feel at home.”
Soon Lauren was baptized and confirmed, and today she’s a happy, confident Laurel who recently gave a sacrament meeting talk about the importance of the priesthood. “If the gospel had not been restored,” she says, “I wouldn’t have seen two young men honoring their priesthood. And I wouldn’t have had the opportunities I have had to make covenants and to draw close to the Savior.”

I really love the New Era and look forward to seeing its bright yellow envelope protruding from the letter box. The standard of journalism and especially photography is higher than in any other magazine I have seen. I enjoy the fiction and look forward to any devotional addresses from BYU. I have found much good advice which helps me at University here in Canterbury.
I come from a nonmember family and have been a member of the Church for just over a year. Here in the South Island the Church is small but growing rapidly, and there are many leaving on missions now or very soon. At one stage when I was investigating the Church, I went through a time of rebellion when put off my baptism as long as possible. During that time the Church magazines were practically my only contact with the Church, and they helped me to overcome the world and be baptized. Thank you for such a high-class magazine.
Nicki WardChristchurch, New Zealand

Let me tell you about something I love. There is a fragment of a Dead Sea scroll from Cave 4 at Qumran that I had the privilege to work on several years ago. It is a piece of a hymn called Barkhi Nafshi— “Bless, O My Soul.” One cold winter day I was in the workroom at the Shrine of the Book in Jerusalem examining this fragment. It had not yet been mounted in a protective frame, and a gust of wind came through the window and blew the fragile fragment onto the floor. Horrified, I quickly got a large piece of paper and knelt down to scoop it up. As I stood to put it back onto the table, I was overcome with emotion—holding in my hands this precious piece of the past, a piece of leather that contained the hymn of praise from a Jewish author two thousand years ago. In this fragment of text the ancient hymnist expressed the mystery of acquiring the attributes of God: “Bless, O my soul, the Lord. . . . He has been gracious to the needy, and he has opened their eyes to see his ways, and their ears to hear his teaching. And he has circumcised the foreskins of their heart” (4Q434 1.i.1–4).14 Paraphrasing from Deuteronomy (10:16–17; 30:6), another sacred text that I love, the ancient author of this poem acknowledges that it is only God who can, through His grace, open our eyes and ears and change our hearts.

Let me share another story. A new bishop was nervous because he had no training in counseling and a young man was coming for counsel with some serious issues. The interview started with prayer and some casual conversation. Then the real topic was shared. The bishop’s mind went blank. He looked down at his hands momentarily and as he was looking back at this individual, concerned with what to say, he saw his new journal on the desk. With a spiritual nudge (I believe a spiritual nudge is the still small voice that inspires thoughts and promptings), he stood, picked up the journal, crossed the room, and sat next to the young man. Still not understanding what he should do or say, he handed the journal to the young man. As the young man said thank you, the bishop had another spiritual nudge. He remembered why he bought the journal. It was to record his positive thoughts and promptings so he could be more aware of the Spirit and how to become better. The bishop then proceeded by giving the same instruction to the young man and asked that he do this every day for the next week. The following week came and they reviewed what the young man recorded. As they reviewed the journal, the young man began seeing steps he needed to take to work through his problems. Over time and with some guidance from the bishop, he used the journal to study the problem out in his mind. As he wrote and reflected, he saw small, spiritual nudges recorded in his journal. From these nudges, he came up with solutions, made decisions, and acted. He saw the hand of the Lord helping him change as he reviewed his journal. He recognized answers to his prayers—confirmation.

SIS. COCHRAN: When those 2 big boys of ours were toddlers racing each other on Hot Wheels bikes, we managed dorms here on campus. During one devotional, I remember hearing Elder David A. Bednar say,
I have come to understand better the protection available through our temple covenants and what it means to make an acceptable offering of temple worship.
There is a difference between church-attending, tithe-paying members who occasionally rush into the temple to go through a session and those members who faithfully and consistently worship in the temple. [18]
He was just vague enough to peak my interest. What is the difference? So when our then youngest child started preschool, I decided I would try to increase my temple attendance. That lasted for about a year, and then a period of chronic illness followed by morning sickness kept me from attending regularly. However, this last year I have once again tried to attend weekly. Of course, it doesn’t always happen and there isn’t a week that goes by (especially with a baby) that I don’t have 101 excuses as to why this would not be a good day to attend the temple. But, as I look back over the times when I attended the temple regularly and when I didn’t, I can testify without a doubt that what Elder Bednar said is true. There was and is a difference in our home when I am able to attend more regularly. I think the following quotes explain what the difference is:

President George Q. Cannon said: “Every foundation stone that is laid for a Temple, and every Temple completed . . . lessens the power of Satan on the earth, and increases the power of God and Godliness.” [19]
Elder Richard G. Scott also testified that “a sure way to eliminate the influence of the adversary. . . [is to] immerse [ourselves in temple work].” [20]
In today’s world, Satan’s influence is rampant. I can really see the prophecy coming to pass that even the elect may be deceived. [21] I do not think it is a coincidence that while the adversary’s influence is increasing, the number of temples on the earth is also increasing. Just like the saints in Nauvoo, we need the power that comes from temple attendance and keeping our covenants. Isn’t it interesting that we go to the temple to help save those who have died and, yet, end up saving ourselves in the process?
Sometimes, while in the temple, I feel burdens literally being lifted. Sometimes I receive revelation. Sometimes comfort or peace. But most of the time nothing out of the ordinary happens. Yet I always feel the power of the adversary lessen in my life and in our home. It is never easy, but I do feel it is always worth it. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I clenched my fists, bit my lip, and kicked the ball that was rolling toward me. Then I frowned as I watched it soar out of bounds instead of going into the goal.
A girl named Nan had been standing on the sidelines watching our game. She ran to pick up the ball, tripping in her excitement. Everyone laughed. No one thanked her as she threw the ball back to us.
I felt guilty. I knew Nan wanted to play, but I didn’t want to be the one to invite her.
Nan was quiet, with messy brown hair, thick glasses, and a squeaky voice. She didn’t have one friend in our whole class. It wasn’t that I didn’t like her. I had just never talked to her.
That afternoon our teacher announced that she was going to move our desks around. She would make a new seating chart.
The room buzzed with excitement. My best friend, LeAnna, and I smiled at each other.
Just then Caroline leaned toward me. “I heard Nan tell Mrs. Martin she wants to sit by you. Gross!”
I sat in shock. “Why me?” I wondered. I had never been mean to Nan, but I had never been nice to her either.
“Tell the teacher you don’t want to sit by her,” Caroline whispered. “Otherwise no one will want to sit by you.”
I looked at Nan. Her head was lowered. She must have known what everyone in the room was thinking.
Mrs. Martin called me up to her desk. I knew Nan was a child of God and that Jesus said to love everyone. But if I became friends with Nan, everyone would think I was weird.
“Who do you want to sit by?” Mrs. Martin asked me.
“LeAnna,” I said. That was easy.
Mrs. Martin smiled. “Would you be willing to sit by Nan too?”
I looked down at the floor and whispered, “I’d rather not.”
Mrs. Martin looked surprised. “Are you sure, Angie?”
“Yes,” I muttered.
The next day our desks were rearranged. I sat by LeAnna. Nan was across the room. The two girls sitting by her pushed their desks away from hers so it looked like she was sitting alone. She looked like she was going to cry.
A few weeks later Nan changed schools. A girl in my ward went to that school, and I asked her if she had met a new girl named Nan.
“I think so. What does she look like?” she asked.
“Well, she’s really quiet. Her hair is messy, and she wears thick glasses. No one in my class liked her.”
“Really? It must not be the same girl,” she said. “The new girl I know is really fun. Everyone likes her. She’s a great soccer player.”
I thought about the day Nan had watched us playing soccer. She only needed a chance and a friend. And I could have given her both.
That day I made a promise to myself to always be nice to everyone and never let a girl like Nan slip by me without trying to be her friend.

I opened my Book of Mormon to catch up on some reading. We were supposed to read at the beginning of my fifth-grade class. My teacher asked me what I was reading. I said, “It’s called the Book of Mormon.” She asked me what it was about. I began explaining all I knew about the Book of Mormon. Soon I had almost every ear in my class. I told my teacher and classmates about my testimony and Joseph Smith.
When I got home, I wrote about my missionary moment in my journal. When I talk about that day, I feel the Spirit testifying to me that what I said to my teacher was true. I have had many missionary moments since that day. Some of them have come from taking my Book of Mormon to school. I have always been taught that I can be a missionary even when I am young. And guess what? I am! Anyone can be a missionary!

“Ahhhh!” Oliver cried. He jumped into Mom and Dad’s bed. “A monster is after me!”
“You had a bad dream,” Mom said. “The monster isn’t real.” She put her arm around him. They snuggled tight.
Oliver shivered. “It was really tall. It had yellow eyes and green teeth,” he said. “I said a prayer. But I could still see it coming!”
“I’m glad you asked Heavenly Father for help,” Dad said. “What else can you do?”
“What do you mean?” Oliver said.
“Remember when you gave a talk in Primary? You prayed for help. But is that all you did?”
“I practiced,” Oliver said. “I stood in front of the mirror. I said my talk over and over.”
“And you gave a great talk!” Dad said.
“And remember when you lost your toy car?” Mom said. “You prayed to find it. Then did you just stay on your knees?”
“No. I searched and searched. I looked under my bed. Then I looked behind the couch.”
“And there it was!” Mom said.
“So,” Dad said, “how can you get rid of the monster?”
Oliver imagined himself in a suit of armor.
“First,” he said, “pray.”
“Good. And then?”
“I can take some deep breaths. And then I can sing ‘I Am a Child of God.’”
“That’s a great plan!” Mom said. “Now back to bed.”
The next morning Oliver ran to talk to Mom and Dad.
“I had another dream about the monster,” he said. “But I said a prayer and followed my plan. And the monster went away!”
“I’m so glad the monster went away,” Dad said. “Heavenly Father really does hear your prayers.”

“My first experience of knowing a spiritual truth occurred in the Roger Smith Hotel, where my family had traveled for a conference. I was sitting on a folding chair somewhere near the back, next to my mother. I must have been very young, because I can remember putting my legs through the back of the chair and sitting aft instead of forward. I heard a man’s voice from the pulpit, and I turned around and looked at him. He stood behind a rostrum set on wooden risers. There was a tall window behind him. I remember only that he was tall and bald and that he seemed very old to me. As he spoke, I knew that what he said came from God and that it was true. It burned in my heart.

“My memories of childhood are inextricably connected with family and Church. I never remember my parents sitting me down to teach me gospel principles because we just always lived in a gospel setting, a family-home-evening atmosphere.

“Father came home every night shortly after six o’clock, and dinner was always at six-thirty. I remember wonderful evenings at the dinner table. The moment dinner was over, Dad would help clear the table; then we would go into the living room. He would be at one end of the room, totally absorbed in the work he’d brought home. Even so, he always knew what we were doing. If we listened to some good program on the radio, we would keep it down low so that it wouldn’t disturb him. Then, in the middle of the program, he’d look up and smile and say, ‘Turn it up a little. I can’t hear what’s happening.’

“My father was never anxious about his work; he just loved it. My mother was a very musical person. She played the piano and loved the symphony. Dad would go to the symphony with her, and when the music stopped, he’d stand up and ask, ‘Is it over?’ and Mother would realize that he’d been thinking about molecules the whole time. Chemistry to him was the air he breathed.

“In the Book of Mormon the prophet Mormon explains that the Lamanites were more righteous than the Nephites ‘because of their … steadiness in the faith’ (Hel. 6:1). If I have learned anything from my father, it is steadiness and total absorption.

“From my mother I learned the lesson of sacrifice. Mother always put the family, the gospel, and the Lord first. She’d say, ‘Don’t complain when things don’t go very well. Life is a test to see whether or not you will keep the commandments.’ When President Kimball spoke at her funeral, he spoke of her illness and said, ‘God loved her, and He was polishing her.’ And that was just the way she saw life.

“I never knew any other children in the Church when I was growing up, so to me Latter-day Saint youths were my brothers, Ted and Hardan. I just loved them.

“I remember going to see my grandfather in Pima, Arizona. He and Grandma had a home on a hill. When my family went to see them, Grandma would fix us huge meals, and Grandpa would borrow some horses and take us kids riding. Afterward Grandpa would talk to each child alone, treating us as if we were terribly important. I decided that I was his favorite grandchild. Years later, my cousin Eddie Kimball said he’d decided the same thing. Grandpa had a way of making you feel not just special but truly noble.

“Grandma Eyring came to Princeton to visit us. She was always busy. If she wasn’t doing something, she’d say, ‘Let’s take a walk.’ Although she was quite short, she could walk faster than anyone I knew. I had to go on a dead run to keep up with her. One time I said, ‘Grandma, it’s raining; we’ll get soaked.’ So we got soaked while Grandma walked through Princeton, seeing the historic sites.

“My message to the children is this: You really are Heavenly Father’s children. And if you love Him, then you will not be inclined to do things that are wrong. Heavenly Father thinks the world of you. He’s given you many blessings, and He wants to give all His children many more blessings. Don’t do anything that would prevent Him from giving them to you. Don’t do anything that would keep you from going home to Him.”

One day after a particularly hard shift in the hospital’s pediatrics unit, I was tired and grumpy. As I walked to the security desk, I noticed some beautiful flowers. When I commented to the person at the desk how beautiful they were and how good they smelled, she told me I could have them.
I was so happy! I thought that surely Heavenly Father wanted me to have the flowers to brighten my day.
Walking out of the hospital, I found myself behind a woman in a wheelchair. I grew impatient with her but finally was able to pass her as we exited the building. As I passed, she lifted her head and said, “Oh, what beautiful flowers.” I thanked her and hurried toward my husband, who was waiting in our car. I was excited to show him my flowers.
Suddenly I felt the Holy Ghost tell me that the woman needed the flowers more than I did. I was reluctant to give them to her, but I followed the prompting. When I asked if she would like them, I hoped she would say no.
“Oh, yes!” she replied. “I would love them. They are beautiful.”
I handed them to her, but as I turned to leave, she began to sob. When I asked if she was all right, she told me that her husband had passed away several years ago and that it had been more than a year since any of her children had visited her. She said she had been pleading with God to show her a sign of His love.
“You are an angel sent from God to give me my favorite flowers,” she said. “Now I know that He loves me.”
My heart broke. I had been so selfish. This woman needed a loving word, and I didn’t even want to talk to her. I was no angel. As we parted, I also started to cry.
When I reached the car, my husband asked what was wrong and why I had given away my flowers. He seemed confused but then relieved as I related the story.
“I sent you roses today. I felt that you needed them,” he said. “I was worried you had just given them away. If those weren’t the flowers I sent you, where are they?”
It turned out that the floral shop had forgotten to deliver the roses, so we drove to the shop. My husband went in and soon came out with a beautiful bouquet.
I couldn’t help but cry again. Heavenly Father had asked me to sacrifice those flowers, knowing that there was something better waiting for me and also that His lonely daughter needed a reminder of His love.

Patricia Holland
Jeff is kidding you. We really have a perfect marriage. My father told me we would have even when we were dating. Just a few nights before we were to be married, we had some kind of a little lovers’ quarrel, and I was really upset with Jeff and said, “Please take me home.” He brought me home and I ran into the house, slammed the door, ran into my father’s bedroom, woke him up out of a dead sleep, and said, “Daddy, you’ve got to call this wedding off. This marriage just won’t work.”
My father in all his wisdom sat up in bed and said, “I will not call this marriage off. This marriage was made in heaven.” When I stopped crying long enough to find out why, he said, “Because the rocks in Jeff’s head will fill the holes in yours.”

Over 30 years after that humbling missionary call experience, I got a very different call—this one from the Pentagon. After the officer on the phone confirmed with me that I was indeed the COL Guy Hollingsworth she had been ordered to contact, I was told that I was being deployed to Iraq for 400 days with a particular assignment in mind. After listening to the assignment and being somewhat stunned by what I was hearing, I asked the Pentagon officer something similar to what I had asked my Heavenly Father in an angry prayer over three decades earlier, although I switched up the words a bit this time. I said, "Surely Ma'am, there is someone better than me prepared to serve in this Middle East assignment." Then I asked myself when I hung up the phone, "Had I prepared properly for such an assignment in a dangerous combat zone?" Deep down inside I realized the years of training had put me in a position to serve the Army, and although scared on one side of the coin, I pushed forward with all my might to succeed from a military standpoint over that next year.

A couple months after I arrived in country, I got another call while in the Green Zone in downtown Baghdad—this one came in the form of a Skype call—from Elder Paul Pieper of the First Quorum of the Seventy. After some initial discussion, he told me the Brethren felt it was time to establish the Baghdad Iraq Military District and create a number of branches in country. My next challenging service at that point for the Lord would come in the form of District President for the remainder of my time in theater. This time—although I didn't say it to Elder Pieper—I asked my Heavenly Father silently the same thing I asked the officer from the Pentagon; "Surely there is someone better prepared than me for this assignment?" However, as is the case with most callings, there was not time to tell Elder Pieper that the calling sounded fine, but could he give me a few more weeks to prepare to serve in that capacity. At that moment I could only look back at my preparation. Did I prepare well spiritually the day before, the week before, or before being deployed to Iraq? What was my spiritual preparation like the year before, or the decade before? This was not the time to dither in the service of the Lord in a calling to oversee 1,300 members of the Church in a place called Iraq. My Heavenly Father needed me right then—not after the fact. The Lord taught me again the value of preparation for a calling not of my choosing—in a place where I did not expect.

Four years later a similar call came from United States Central Command Headquarters, to serve another 400 days in a different combat zone—this time in Afghanistan. I answered the call, feeling inadequate initially, but in the end realizing that my preparation was comprehensive and consistent enough over the previous months and years to serve the Army as needed. After arriving in country and going about my assignment in this different combat zone, I again received a call to serve in the Church, this time as a Branch President at Bagram Air Base—Afghanistan. And again, I asked myself those familiar questions; "Was I prepared to serve in this capacity, had I been worthy the day before, the year before, the decade before?"

As with so many other occasions, there was no time to delay for a few weeks when it came to accepting the call to allow me to get "more ready" if you will. The Lord needed me to serve worthily then and there. While in that assignment, some good Church members deployed in that combat zone suffered from intense depression due to loneliness, and the constant grind of being put in harm's way—the overall trappings of war if you will, and often asked for a blessing of comfort and healing. There was no time to tell them that I wasn't quite ready to assist where needed, and to give me a few days to prepare myself to administer help. When a Marine was worried beyond measure of an upcoming combat operation and needed reassurance that all would be well, there was no time to ask for a reprieve to prepare the right spiritual thoughts he needed. When a wounded soldier struggled for his life after a suicide bomber took a number of other lives, and nearly took his during an ugly firefight, there was not a later time to prepare that priesthood blessing to keep him alive.

I got to know of the Church in 1993 through a classmate while a law student at Rivers State University of Science and Technology (RSUST) Port Harcourt Nigeria. I visited with him and saw the book Jesus the Christ by Elder James E. Talmage. I read a portion of the book titled “Christ’s Tabernacle in the Flesh.” I was touched by the gospel insights in the book and asked where I could get one. He then told me about the Church that he joined in 1987.
I asked Brother Amadi more about the Church. I was desirous to find answers to questions I had as a young man. I eventually arrived at the nearest meetinghouse, the Port Harcourt 3rd Ward, located close to the university entrance which was also within walking distance from my hall of residence. I arrived late and sat at the Sunday School class, which was the first meeting of the day, as was the pattern then. A few moments later, I was invited to the Investigators class. The bishop later gave me a copy of the Ensign magazine, and specifically referred me to a talk by Elder Russell M. Nelson, attending the Parliament of the World’s Religions. I read the story and it changed my attitude about marriage and family as he brought with him Primary children who sang “I Am a Child of God” in the meeting.
In the investigators’ class, I was taught about the Prophet Joseph Smith and was asked if I had heard about him. The name seemed familiar, but I could not recollect where I had come across it. But now I know that it was the Spirit telling me about the Prophet Joseph Smith.
Bishop Kalu was a source of strength and inspiration and a great gospel teacher. I sincerely wanted to teach the restored gospel with a testimony like his. I eventually got baptized on December 26, 1993. The following Sunday, I was ordained a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. And during sacrament meeting, I was asked to bless the sacrament.
The message of the restored gospel appealed to my heart, though born Anglican to humble parents and, as the tradition of the Anglican Church, was given infant baptism with my other siblings in 1973. The Book of Mormon changed all that as the copy I was given in the investigators class and with marked portions to read, I tried my best in reading it not with a desire to obtain a testimony but with my student legal mind. I was searching for faults because nothing compares to my Holy Bible. I had been doing critical Bible study before coming to the Church. I finished the Book of Mormon in no time and diverted my love for secular books to love of scriptures, particularly the Book of Mormon.
My bishop extended a call to me the Sunday after my ordination in the Aaronic Priesthood as a Sunday School teacher. I was also called as a seminary teacher, and I enrolled in an Institute of Religion class. While I taught the Old Testament in seminary, I studied the Book of Mormon in the institute class. This connection to the scriptures changed my life as that was the beginning of a lifelong love for the standard works of the Church and other writings that I have accumulated over the years a large library of Church literatures and scriptures. I even went on to teach institute classes for years even as a stake president.
While I was in Lagos, Nigeria, where I did my National Youth Service, I received the strong feeling that I had a mission to establish the Church in my hometown. I felt inspired and decided to fulfill the mission. I began with my wife, who was not a member at the time. With her unique testimony, she joined the Church and I baptized her like I did our five children.
We went to church in Port Harcourt from Omoku, our hometown. It was about two-hour drive. We did this every Sunday until sometime in 2001 when the Port Harcourt West Stake Presidency authorized me and family to stay back and worship in Omoku under the supervision of the Rumueme Ward. We reactivated some members of the Church who resided in our town and surrounding towns, two of whom were old schoolmates at the university. We started worshipping in my one-room apartment and later moved into a three-rooms flat in the city center where, on the 9th of January 2005, the Church was officially organized with me as the first branch president and my wife as first counsellor in the Relief Society. We had 36 members of our branch.
Missionaries who taught us the gospel of Restoration and eternal families inspired us tremendously and helped to inspire our infant children to love missionary work.
The gospel of Jesus Christ means everything to me and my family. The principles of the gospel are true and life-changing when we apply every word therein. As a branch president in a new place, it naturally imposed a new life on me. They must see the change in me to believe and follow. This is a religion with everlasting promise, hope, and blessings.
The Aba Nigeria Temple was dedicated on August 7, 2005, by President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008). Our family of five then—me, my wife, Justina, and our children (Joy, Daniel, and Gabriel)—were overjoyed. We got sealed as a family on September 22, 2005. Our sons John and Joseph were born in the covenant. My life is about family, Church, and community.

I knew before the race started that it would be tough—a six kilometer cross-country trek through the sand hills. There were plenty of ups and downs and several places where your feet sank into the sandy soil and slowed you to a walk.
I knew it would be hard because I’d helped my dad mark out the trail two days before. He is the gym teacher at my school. It’s his job each fall to choose and mark out the route for the divisional cross-country races.
“I want it tough, David, but fair,” he said to me as we tied up small blue ribbons to mark the route. “There will be good runners as well as some who race just to get an afternoon off school. I want the course tough enough to challenge the serious runners.” He grinned at me and said, “You wouldn’t want it too easy, would you?”
I grinned back and shook my head. This was the first year I could be in the race. Each year I had heard Dad talk about it, and I had heard the older kids at school say it was really tough. I was eager to compete in it.
I’m in fine form, I thought. I had been practicing for six weeks, and my legs and lungs felt ready. In gym class I easily beat the other boys at three kilometers, but we had never run the whole six kilometers. That and the hills might make a difference. And, of course, kids from five other schools would be in the race, too. I had heard rumors that one of the other schools had a really good runner in my division.
When we lined up for the first race of the meet, I knew who it was. His classmates called him Mike and urged him on. I was determined to beat him, even though he was a good 15 centimeters taller than I am. That meant his legs were a lot longer—I’d probably have to take four strides to cover the same distance he did in three!
The route began with a really steep hill with stunted oak trees scattered over it. “Why did you put the start here?” I had asked Dad when we set it up. “Do you want to scare everybody at the start?”
“That’s the idea!” He grinned, then explained that the actual reason was to make the runners spread out instead of bunching together. “They are less likely to bump into each other that way.”
Now, racing up Heartbreak Hill, I saw what he meant. Everyone was soon walking, including me! At the top I resumed running. Only one runner—Mike—was ahead of me as I followed the course-marking ribbons down the other side. I didn’t try to catch him. This side was much shorter but steeper, so I was careful to keep my legs under control.
At the bottom, the trail flattened out and wound through poplar trees. Then it took a sharp right turn through an open wire gate before twisting alongside a creek for half a kilometer or so. By the time we turned away from the creek, Mike was about a hundred meters ahead, going at a steady pace. The rest of the runners were so far behind that I couldn’t see anyone else.
We were more than halfway there, and I was beginning to wonder if I would be able to catch Mike. My legs were straining on “automatic,” but his long legs seemed to carry him effortlessly up the hills. Even the sandy places didn’t slow him down much.
My breath was getting ragged. I thought about walking for a while, but I didn’t want to let Mike increase the distance between us. My classmates were counting on me to win, and even Dad had hinted that it would be nice to see my name on the trophy. I forced myself to keep running.
Then Mike suddenly slowed and turned his head from side to side as if he were lost. He’s right where the trail branches, I thought. He can’t tell which way to go.
The trail was marked to turn right, but he turned left and picked up speed again.
I’ll catch him! was my first thought. Then, Why didn’t he follow the ribbon?
In a moment I was up to where he had turned off. There was no ribbon visible, though I’d seen Dad put one there. I took a few strides in the right direction, and there it was, fallen to the ground and half hidden by grass.
He’ll soon figure out that he’s wrong, I thought and took a couple more strides. But it was almost as if I could hear Dad’s voice: “Winning is important, but it’s not the most important.”
I stopped running. “Mike!” I called loudly. “You’re going the wrong way.”
“Is this a trick?” he shouted, turning back.
“No trick,” I called. “See? Here’s the ribbon.” I held it up and tied it to a branch for the later runners to see.
I waited for Mike to pass me, and when he was a hundred meters ahead again, I started running. Even so, I figured I had gained a small advantage, since I had rested for a moment and hadn’t gone quite as far. My breathing was easier, and slowly I managed to lessen the distance between us.
Mike went up and over the last hill. In the distance I heard a cheer as the crowd sighted him. I topped the hill and saw that he wasn’t more than 15 meters ahead.
I’m going to catch him, I thought. He was almost staggering, and I urged my legs to move faster.
The gap closed. Mike glanced back, saw me coming, and made one last effort. With less than one meter to spare, he crossed the finish line ahead of me.
I walked around slowly to catch my breath. Dad was standing near the finish line, recording names as later runners crossed, and he gave me a thumbs-up signal. I knew he didn’t mind that my name wouldn’t be on the trophy—but it sure would have been nice.
When I saw Mike recovering, I went over to congratulate him. “Good race,” I said, “but just wait till next year!”
He gave me a funny look. “Why did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Call me back to the trail. And then give me a head start.”
I shrugged. “It was only fair,” I said. “You were ahead, and the ribbon had fallen, but I knew where to go.”
“But you would have beaten me.”
“It wouldn’t have been right,” I said. “Not that way. You would have done the same thing.”
“I don’t know, really,” Mike said, his smile uncertain. “What I know for sure is that I hope I would have.”
“What I know,” Dad said, coming up to us, “is that you’re both winners in my book!”

When I was 10, I was introduced to the gospel by my friend Stephen Bulleigh when we played together on the same little league baseball team. My parents were divorced, and my kind and wonderful mother was left to raise three children. Realizing the need for male role models in my life, my mother insisted that I participate in sports. There I made friends and grew particularly close to an LDS family, the Bulleighs.
I sometimes spent the night at my friend’s house. There I met Stephen’s family: his father, Roger; mother, Juli; and their eight other children. I saw the happiness and love that they had, and I wanted the same in my own life.
I was raised in a nondenominational church and learned a lot of misinformation about the LDS Church. Believing what I was told, I was convinced that Latter-day Saints were wrong. I often told my school buddies that they shouldn’t listen to the Mormons. I even convinced some of my friends who had an interest in the Church not to listen. I spent six years of my life as an enemy to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I often had the opportunity to discuss religion with the Bulleighs. From them, I learned that Mormons believe in Christ. Point by point, and precept by precept, I began to see that the teachings of the gospel made sense. How could God, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit be the same person? Are we saved by faith alone or is there more? What must I do to live with God? Questions such as these and many more began to prick at my heart as I considered the things the Bulleigh family taught me.
My LDS friends invited me, at age 16, to attend a youth conference held at a Church-owned ranch in northern Oklahoma. The Church leaders asked all the youth to read 3 Nephi in preparation for the youth conference. I decided I would read it. I remember reading the last page of 3 Nephi and then going to the Bible to read. I picked up where I had left off in Acts 9. I remember the words of the Savior as he chastised Paul (Saul). “Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me? And he said, who art thou, Lord? And the Lord said, I am Jesus whom thou persecutest: it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks” (Acts 9:4–5).
I had persecuted the Lord as Paul had. I had kicked against the pricks of the Holy Spirit for nearly seven years. I decided at that moment that I would join The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I went to the youth conference. Near the end, a time was allotted for testimonies. I stood in front of more than 1,000 people and bore testimony of this gospel and of this Church. In front of the very people whom I had persecuted for nearly seven years, I expressed my desire to join the Church.
I returned from youth conference and informed my mother (who by this time had remarried) and my stepfather of my desire to be baptized. They did not like the idea and grounded me indefinitely. The tables were turned, and I spent the next two years of my life being the one persecuted. For two years I was not allowed to date any LDS girls, go to Church activities, or even have a Book of Mormon in my possession. I tried to share the beauty of the Book of Mormon with my mother and stepfather, but my stepfather threw it across the room and demanded I return it immediately.
With tears in my eyes I rang the doorbell of the Bulleigh home. Joel, one of their sons, answered, and I returned the borrowed Book of Mormon he had given me. Would my testimony of the Book of Mormon be strong enough to support me until I turned 18 and could join the Church? Sure it was.
At 8:00 A.M. on my 18th birthday, my mother and stepfather asked me to leave their home, and I joined the Church one week later. I moved in with the Bulleigh family and used the $9,000 I had saved by working between the ages of 16 and 18 to support myself until I graduated from high school seven months later. I read the entire Book of Mormon after being baptized and learned of a prophet named Alma who had also persecuted the Church of God. He spent the rest of his life preaching the gospel to amend for his past transgressions. I decided also to serve a mission.
After graduating from high school, I continued to work and save money so I could pay for my mission. I recently finished serving in the Bolivia Cochabamba Mission. Choosing to be a missionary cost me my family, my home, and a lot of money.
I am thankful that at the age of 10, God sent a Latter-day Saint to play baseball on my team. That event has changed my life forever and enabled me to help change the lives of many others with whom I labored on my mission.

It was a rainy day, and everyone was gathered at Grandma’s house. Dad and Uncle Carl were putting new paneling in Grandma’s game room while Mom, Aunt Shirley, and Grandma were busy in the kitchen.
When Aunt Shirley went to set the dining room table, she said, “Stevie, dinner won’t be ready for a while. Why don’t you play somewhere else?”
Carly went to the table and knelt to look under the jiggling, low-hanging tablecloth at her cousin. “What are you doing?” she asked.
Stevie shrugged. “Nothing.”
“Come up to the attic with me.”
Stevie grinned. As they passed the den, Carly paused. “Becka, do you want to go up to the attic with us?” she asked.
Her cousin looked up from a book that she was reading and wrinkled her nose. “Yuck!” she replied. “Too many spiders!”
“I’m not afraid of spiders,” Stevie announced as he and Carly climbed the stairs to the second floor.
“Neither am I,” Carly said. They walked side by side along the carpeted hallway. “Have you ever been in Grandma’s attic?” she asked as they neared the closed attic door.
“Maybe a long time ago,” Stevie replied. “Becka says it’s spooky.”
Carly shrugged. “It’s not spooky, just dusty.” She opened the door at the bottom of the stairs and raced up them eagerly. When she reached the top, she looked around and motioned to Stevie. “Come on,” she called happily. “You can see everything from up here.”
She went to the dormer and looked out. Below, the yard and rolling hills were washed with a fine gray mist from the rain. When Stevie reached her, she moved to make room for him to rest his elbows on the windowsill.
“See? I’m not afraid of spiders,” he said proudly.
Carly nodded. “I didn’t think you were.”
“If the weather was nicer, there’d be something to do,” he sighed.
“There’s always stuff to do,” Carly said. She walked beneath the slanted ceiling toward Grandpa’s old rolltop desk and slid back the cover.
“That’s a funny-looking book,” Stevie said, pointing at a thick volume inside the desk.
“That’s the kind of book that Grandpa read.”
“How could he read when he was blind?” Stevie asked curiously.
Carly chuckled. “He read the words with his fingers. Here, give me your hand.” She opened the book and moved his fingers slowly across the page. “Feel the dots?” she asked. “It’s called Braille writing.”
Stevie frowned. “I wouldn’t want to read a book that way.”
“You would if you couldn’t see.” Carly put the book back inside the desk. “Grandpa made this desk, too,” she announced with a smile.
Stevie looked at her with wide eyes. “Oh, wow! Even though he couldn’t see?” He ran his hand over the finely finished wood. “It’s as smooth as glass!”
Carly nodded. “He said that he knew what the desk looked like, even though he couldn’t see it with his eyes. He saw lots of things people who are sighted never even notice.”
“How’d he do that?”
Carly smiled. “Shut your eyes and tell me what you know without looking.”
Stevie closed his eyelids tightly. “It’s dark,” he said with a giggle.
“That isn’t what I meant,” she said. “I’ll do it.” She closed her eyes and stood quietly. “You have to listen and feel and stuff,” she explained. “I hear the rain falling and trickling through the downspout. It almost sounds like quiet music. I smell a roast cooking and musty books … and dust. The air up here feels warm against my skin, and I can tell that the floor is bare. You moved behind me,” she added as Stevie tiptoed around her. “Now you’re picking something up.”
Stevie took her hand. “Here,” he said as he put something in it. “Tell me what this is.”
Carly closed her fingers loosely around the material. “It’s an old hunting coat,” she said as she followed the lines with her fingers. “It’s trimmed with leather and it’s dusty. There’s a jagged tear here. Maybe it was caught on a thorn. Now someone’s coming up the stairs.”
Stevie moved closer to her and grabbed her hand.
“I feel the floorboards moving slightly, and a draft just blew across my ankles.” Carly opened her eyes and turned toward the stairs.
“It’s only Becka,” Stevie said with relief.
“I knew that you’d be pretending that you were blind again!” Becka said with a scowl.
“Carly was showing me how Grandpa saw things!” Stevie explained excitedly.
“Grandpa didn’t see things!” Becka insisted. “He remembered them from the time that he could see; that’s all!”
Carly frowned. “He saw things, Becka!”
Becka tossed her head and turned back toward the stairs. “It’s too musty up here for me!” she replied with a shiver of disgust. “You’d better come with me, Stevie—before she has you acting weird too!”
“Did Mom want me to come down?” he asked.
His sister didn’t answer.
“I’ll stay up here with Carly, then,” he said.
Becka stomped down the stairs and slammed the door behind her. Carly sighed and laid the hunting coat on top of a dust-covered trunk.
“Tell me more about Grandpa,” Stevie pleaded.
“Too bad you didn’t live around here when he was alive, Stevie. He was really nice, like Grandma. He could tell by the way the birds sang if it was going to rain or if it was going to be a nice day. And by the smell in the air, he could tell when spring was coming or if there would be a frost. He said that he could tell what kind of mood I was in just by the way I hugged him or the way I walked.”
“How could he, Carly?”
“Grandpa said that some people look and don’t see; they touch but don’t feel; they listen but don’t hear. He said that God gives us more abilities than we ever think about until we lose one of them—like he lost his eyesight. Then we start to use the others just as he started to see by using his senses of touch, taste, smell, and hearing. Grandpa said that most of all we could learn to see with our hearts.”
Stevie nodded thoughtfully. “Could I learn to see with my heart, too?” he asked.
“Sure,” Carly replied. “All you have to do is start using it that way. The more you learn to see with your heart, the better you’ll become at it.”
“Becka doesn’t have a heart!”
Carly chuckled. “Sure she does, and some day she’ll learn to see with it more too.”
“Thanks for asking me to come up here with you,” Stevie told her. “It was boring under the table.”
Carly grinned. “I’m glad that you did.” Grandma’s tinkling bell sounded from far away in the dining room. “We’d better go down now,” Carly said.
At the top of the stairs, Stevie turned. “I don’t care what Becka says—I know that Grandpa really could see.”

It was the last week of high school. Among the seniors there was a feeling of celebration and yet also sadness, because what they’d shared was coming to an end.
Dark-eyed, raven-haired Whitney Brown, the only member of the Church in her Minnesota high school class of 547, would be going to Ricks College in the fall. She played first chair French horn in the high school band.
Next to her in the French horn section was Steve Dunn, also a senior, a boy she’d known since first grade.
The last week of school the seniors were excused from rehearsals while the rest of the band practiced the songs they would play for baccalaureate and commencement. Mr. Richards, the band director, asked the seniors to help sort and file music. And so each day, Steve and Whitney would meet during band period and sort through music in a practice room. By Tuesday the other seniors had vanished, having better things to do than that.
While Steve and Whitney worked they talked. They’d been talking to each other once a day during band for the past six years, going clear back to seventh grade band.
Steve was a little on the shy side. Band had been his only activity in school. His father had an auto body shop, and Steve worked there after school and on Saturdays.
Through the years Steve had listened to Whitney’s chronicle of life, hectic but always interesting. She had always talked to him openly about the guys she was interested in because he was her friend and seemed interested in her and never talked to anyone else about what she said.
Steve’s plan after high school was to study auto body work at a regional vocational training center and then come back and work for his father. Fixing dented cars was what he loved to do.
Whitney thought that someday she might like to be a high school drama teacher. She’d been in nearly every play in school. Steve had come to see her perform in most of them.
On Friday they had nearly finished sorting and filing the sheet music. “I guess this is the last time we’ll be together,” Steve said.
“Oh, not really. We’ll see each other at commencement.”
“Sure, but you have your friends.” He paused. “And I have mine. Besides I bet it’ll be really crowded. I just wanted to say I’ve really enjoyed knowing you,” he said, his gaze fixed on the music he was working on, not daring to look at her directly.
“I’ve enjoyed you too, Steve. You’re really a nice guy. If I ever bang up my car, you’re the first person I’ll think of.”
“I can hardly wait.”
They both smiled. They had a comfortable kind of humor between them.
“I’ve kind of been watching you through the years,” he said.
She laughed. “You poor guy.”
“No, it’s been great. I always looked forward to band each day because I knew I’d see you.” He stopped suddenly. “I’m sorry for spouting off. I’m not all that important to you, right?”
“You are, Steve. You’re one of my friends from high school I’ll always remember.”
“I was always hoping you’d open up more to me.”
“Steve, I’ve told you practically everything that ever happened to me. I told you about the time I was waiting for my date for prom and I was so hungry I took a bite of my brother’s hot dog and spilled mustard on my prom dress just before my date came and had to pin the corsage over the stain. I told you about sneaking into school and turning around all the desks in Mrs. Halvorson’s class. I’ve told you a lot of things.”
He looked at her like he’d been betrayed. “Do you care what happens to me?”
“Of course I do.”
“What’s the most important thing in the world to you?” he asked.
She didn’t say anything.
“Whitney?” he asked softly.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Just tell me what it is you value above anything else in the world?”
She paused and then said, “My family I guess.”
“What else is important to you?”
“I’m glad I get to go to college in the fall.”
“Is going to college the most important thing in your life?”
“No.”
“Then what is?”
She paused. “I’m glad I’ve learned to set and achieve goals.”
“Is that the most important thing in your life?” he asked.
“No.”
“Nobody in school really knows you very well, do they?”
She turned away from his stare.
“I’ve always been fascinated by you,” he said. “You had fun but you had a way of avoiding things that weren’t good for you. I could never figure out how you could be so smart. It was like you had some hidden compass that helped you make decisions. And then someone told me you were a Mormon.”
“You didn’t know that?”
“No, not really. Maybe you mentioned it in passing once. I can’t remember. You never said much about it. Is being a Mormon important to you?”
“Yes it is.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me then? We were friends, but you never once talked about what you believe. Why not? Are you ashamed of your beliefs?”
“I didn’t want to offend you.”
“Why would I be offended if you told me something that was important to you?”
“I didn’t think you’d be interested.”
“Maybe I wasn’t at first, but I’ve spent all this time with you. I know we’ll probably never see each other after we graduate. I’m really going to miss that.” He sighed. “I guess what I’m trying to say is I want to have friends like you all my life.”
“Can I tell you now about what I believe?” she asked.
“I’d like that.”
And so as the band rehearsed the commencement processional music that would lead the 547 seniors out of high school into adult life, with the French horn section noticeably lacking its two best players, Whitney started in.
She talked about her beliefs in Jesus Christ, in the Book of Mormon, and in the plan of salvation. She told him what it meant to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Steve listened, and when she finished, he said he had never heard anything like that before. He told her that he wanted to know more and asked if she would give him a Book of Mormon.
She did. In the weeks that followed, he read it. He asked questions. Whitney answered as best she could, and she also introduced him to the missionaries.
Before long Steve decided he wanted to be baptized. Whitney was there when he was baptized, and later, when he was confirmed a member of the Church, she was there too.
The friendship that had grown through years of band practice continued, but now it had a new dimension. Steve said he was grateful that Whitney had been willing to share what mattered most to her, because it had changed his life.

When we arrived to California, my mom was a single mother who worked hard to support me. Though my aunt and uncle helped, I was often left alone. My father had been arrested by the Vietnamese communist after the war and was in prison when my mother and I escaped. They were later divorced. I was raised with my 3 cousins (2 older and 1 younger) who all came over with me from Vietnam to the United States. Here is a picture of the 4 of us.
Can you guess which one I am? I know. It’s hard. You know what they say? All Asians look the same yeah!
We spent all day in the streets hanging out and trying to fit in. It was very different from our home country and often times we got into trouble: the cultures in our neighborhood didn’t always mix together well and often times got into fights. In the 1980s and 1990s, my neighborhood of Long Beach and Santa Ana and its surrounding areas were well known for gangs and violence.
A recent PBS special called “Freedom Writers: Stories from the Heart” which was later made into a movie depicts the serious problems of gang warfare among the Southeast Asian, Mexican, and African-American gangs of the Long Beach, California area. I was raised in that setting, and although I was never officially “jumped in” or initiated as a gang member, almost all my friends and 2 out of the 3 cousins were affiliated with gangs.
But because of these influences, in time, I started to get into serious trouble and was sent to several reform schools. One of the reform schools took me all the way from California to Utah. Over a period of 2 years, I was finally released from all the reform schools (mostly because my mom’s insurance no longer covered it). I felt that people had given up on me.
I roamed around for a while and finally ended up back in Utah because of the connections I had made there. Over a period of time, I ended up living a life headed for ABSOLUTE disaster. I found myself waking up one morning in a VW bus in a junkyard. Poor decision after decision brought me to the point of being homeless and living a life I was not proud of.
One very cold night, I found myself kneeling in prayer for the very first time in my life and asking if somebody could help me. This was my first-ever uttered prayer. There came into my mind the thought to go see my former therapist, Chris Wallace. His advice was simple: “Go get a job.” So I did.
Earlier another person had come into my life: Nancy Gibson. Nancy had been my recreational therapist at a reform school in California before I met Chris. I was shocked because at our first meeting when she opened your mouth, she spoke Cantonese! (the Chinese dialect I grew up speaking)
I then learned that she had served a mission in Hong Kong! Now I didn’t know much about missions or God or religion back then. I had not been raised in a religious setting. But Nancy’s kindness had a big impact on me.
It turns out that Nancy had relocated to Utah from California for work and when she found out I was in Utah, she brought me a blanket and took me to get some Chinese food one night when I was living in that abandoned bus. In fact, she was the one who, after hearing how tough things were going for me, told me to pray to God and ask for help. Without her suggestion, I would have probably never called for help on that cold, lonely night. But she did teach me to pray and I did call out to God. And I did have that thought come into my mind to go see Chris. And I did go and get a job.
Now it wasn’t a great job and things didn’t get better right away. I was still living on the streets, but I would go to see Chris Wallace and sometimes got to spend time in the Wallace home. A few months later Chris and Debbie called my mom. They explained to her that they had felt prompted to take me into their home to live with them and their 6 small children, one boy and 5 girls. Here is a picture of the Wallace family at that time.
In thinking back to that time, I am amazed that this family with a boy who was 9 and 5 young girls ranging from 8 years to 6 months old would take me into their own home. What a risk they were taking! But that is what they did. And I am eternally grateful. This was the first time I ever experienced such a close and loving family.
I remember coming home tired and hungry and Debbie making grilled-cheese sandwiches for me (I don’t know why the grilled-cheese sandwiches stood out to me but somehow those just tasted so good!).
I saw a family that sat down for family dinner regularly. Around the table, the parents and children talked so naturally and seemed so close. I saw Chris and Debbie both helping their children with their nightly homework assignments. I saw the parents working out the everyday problems of family life with their children. I was completely blown away.
Because I had been out of school for a while, they helped me get back into school. I still remember Chris taking me to see the principal of the local high school and he said that I had to take a half credit of English and a half credit of Math from a night school in order to get back into regular school. So, Debbie would take me to the night school and I earned my way back to taking classes again.

I know a wonderful Gospel Doctrine teacher who lifts class members as she teaches, but that wasn’t always the case. After joining the Church, she received a calling to teach in Primary. She felt she had no teaching skills, but because she knew the importance of serving, she accepted. Fear quickly overcame her, and she stopped attending so she wouldn’t have to teach. Thankfully, her home teacher noticed her absence, visited her, and invited her back. The bishop and ward members assisted her. Eventually, with increased faith, she began teaching children. As she applied principles now taught in Teaching in the Savior’s Way, the Lord blessed her efforts and she became a gifted teacher.11