Like Boyembé, Léonce L’or Tsiba felt prompted to sign up for the self-reliance class when it was announced. Her father had refused to support her after her conversion, and she’d gone without food and shelter for a time before getting help from her bishop. Through the course, Tsiba gained greater temporal and spiritual autonomy. “I learned to put God first in my life,” Tsiba reflected later. “I also committed to pay my tithing, to serve my family, friends, and my community.”
Near the end of the course, one of Tsiba’s friends told her about a job posting and suggested that she apply. Fear and personal doubts made Tsiba hesitant. Nevertheless, with the help of her self-reliance instructor, her bishop, and other class members, Tsiba revised her résumé, practiced interviewing, and slowly gained confidence. When she submitted her application, she learned the job opening had already been closed, but she insisted on leaving her application and résumé anyway. Two weeks later, Tsiba was called in for an interview and then hired for the job. She later said, “That experience taught me that God will provide for us; He knows our need. He only asks us to have faith in Him.”
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Relying on God
Summary: After conversion, Léonce L’or Tsiba faced lack of family support and hardship but joined a self-reliance class and committed to put God first. Encouraged by her network, she applied for a job even after the posting closed, having practiced and refined her résumé and interviewing. Two weeks later she was interviewed and hired, affirming her belief that God provides when we act in faith.
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👤 Church Members (General)
👤 Parents
👤 Church Leaders (Local)
👤 Friends
Adversity
Bishop
Conversion
Courage
Employment
Faith
Self-Reliance
Service
Tithing
That He May Become Strong Also
Summary: The speaker’s father, a seasoned Melchizedek Priesthood holder, was asked by an Apostle to write about the age of the earth. Before sending it, he handed the draft to his son, expressing confidence in his spiritual wisdom to judge its suitability. The son remembers the empowering trust more than the content itself.
My father did the same thing for me. He was a seasoned and wise holder of the Melchizedek Priesthood. Once he was asked by an Apostle to write a short note about the scientific evidence for the age of the earth. He wrote it carefully, knowing that some who might read it had strong feelings that the earth was much younger than the scientific evidence suggested.
I still remember my father handing me what he had written and saying to me, “Hal, you have the spiritual wisdom to know if I should send this to the apostles and prophets.” I can’t remember much of what the paper said, but I will carry with me forever the gratitude I felt for a great Melchizedek Priesthood holder who saw in me spiritual wisdom that I could not see.
I still remember my father handing me what he had written and saying to me, “Hal, you have the spiritual wisdom to know if I should send this to the apostles and prophets.” I can’t remember much of what the paper said, but I will carry with me forever the gratitude I felt for a great Melchizedek Priesthood holder who saw in me spiritual wisdom that I could not see.
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👤 Parents
👤 Young Adults
Apostle
Family
Gratitude
Priesthood
Religion and Science
Herman Teague Had a Mother
Summary: A sixth-grade student recalls how he and his classmates judged a boy named Herman as a 'hood' based on his appearance and clothing. At the graduation assembly, the narrator sees Herman proudly enter with his mother, who wears a matching black leather jacket. This unexpected image transforms the narrator’s perspective, prompting empathy and a lifelong reluctance to judge others.
Such vivid physical images of Herman remain in my mind that I think I would recognize him today, and I have often wished I could see Herman again. Yet I cannot remember any conversation I ever had with him—and he was part of my life for nine months.
You cannot say we ostracized him. We were afraid of him or perhaps in awe of his ways, which because they were not known to us, were a threat to our innocence. And he seemed not to want or need our friendship. We were together only because of a clerical fact of life that took seven hours a day for nine months to be fully executed.
It was the last day of school, and we were graduating from the sixth grade. School, for all intents and purposes, was over. We were just marking time till the closing assembly would propel us into three full months of vacation, and the air was positively humming with excitement.
We were growing up fast. No longer were we wide-eyed innocents surprised at everything happening around us. People and things were sorted, analyzed, and filed for future reference in minds with miles of empty corridors just waiting to be filled.
This is where Herman came in. To minds sorting, analyzing, and filing, Herman was a gold mine. He was different for a number of reasons.
First of all was the physical. Herman was not attractive, so we did not care to look any further. He had a large nose on a thin face, and his whole head just seemed too big for his body. Maybe it was his hair that created that impression. It was thick and bushy, and on Herman we never saw the naked ears of a brand new haircut sticking out in self-conscious embarrassment. It was never longer but never shorter.
He was thin and sinewy. He had a lean, hard body that was in many ways more mature than the other boys in our class. That was because Herman was “rough.” He had “rough” friends and did “rough” things. That was the major difference.
But his clothes were the real factor when it came to sorting Herman. He was among the first group to wear motorcycle boots and black leather jackets. At that particular time in our country’s culture, the only people who wore leather jackets were “hoods.” So we went no further in analyzing Herman. We could tell, after all, just by looking that Herman did not fit in our world. Not because we did not like him but because … well, he was just different, you know? He was all the things we did not know about and did not care about.
Then suddenly, after nine months, it was time to go into the auditorium for the final hurrah of our childhood.
I was in the choir, so I was allowed to go into the auditorium early and take my place in the chairs reserved for us down front. When facing the audience we were expected to sit silently without excess movement. And it was thus that I learned one of the more startling truths of my life.
I watched as the people walked purposefully into the big room, each of my friends in turn with their mothers. I beamed as my own mother came into the room and took a place where we could see each other comfortably. It seemed that fathers never came to things like that, and we knew perfectly well it was because they were at work and could not come.
There were many beaming faces that afternoon, not only on the children, but also on the parents. (It is always hard to tell who is the prouder in a situation like that.) There was something almost magical in having your mother at school. Maybe because she reaffirmed your individuality in a sea of faces. Or maybe just because she was your mother and you had so few chances to show her off. The mothers beamed because we were their children and that was reason enough.
I knew most of the mothers of my friends from visits to our classroom, or birthday parties, or simply seeing them shopping. But nobody knew Herman’s mother or even thought of him as having one.
But then, right there in front of my eyes, came Herman Teague with—and there could not possibly be any mistake about it—his mother.
The pride in Herman’s thin, large-nosed face was the first thing I noticed and is probably why I cannot erase him from my mind. Herman never showed emotion in class. He simply showed up and “learned” every day, just like he was supposed to. It was shocking to realize that he was a boy just as proud of his mother as the rest of us were of ours, and he was showing it just as we did.
Then I looked at her. She was a little gray-haired lady not much taller than her son. All of the other mothers were somewhere around 30 years old. Herman’s mother was more like 50. She was plump and had an open face that I automatically associated with kindness and sincerity.
My revelation came when I looked at her clothes; but then I cannot really say I looked first at her age, then her face, then her clothes, because she was a total experience taken in at one gulping moment of learning. I have saved the clothes till last to bring this moment as forcefully to your mind as it came to mine on that day 20 years ago.
She had on a plain cotton print dress that buttoned down the front, the kind worn by every grandmother worth her salt. And over it she wore a black leather jacket—identical to Herman’s!
I stared, probably as every child of that age stares, with my eyes bugged out and my mouth wide open.
There they were, right before me for the whole hour’s program, none of which I can remember at all. And for one hour the thought rang through my mind and bounced off every surface in my brain lest I should somehow not have noticed or perhaps taken it too lightly: Herman Teague had a mother.
If she had worn a sweater, or a shawl, or even no wrap at all, the moment would have passed without any meaning to me whatsoever. It was the combination of mother and black leather jacket that made all the difference in my analyzing. The meaning and images of mother in my mind were too real to be denied. After all, only hoods and people like that wore those jackets, didn’t they? How could that plump old lady with that open, kind, sincere face—that mother—be a hood? Seeing her in that black leather jacket brought to mind a whole flood of reasons why Herman was different that I had never considered before.
I had such a mixture of emotions in those moments that it has taken me years to finish the sorting, analyzing, and filing that began on that day.
A seed of wisdom and understanding sprouted in an instant, and since that moment I have not only been reluctant to judge people, but I have not been able to look upon any of God’s children casually or indifferently. They, too, have mothers.
You cannot say we ostracized him. We were afraid of him or perhaps in awe of his ways, which because they were not known to us, were a threat to our innocence. And he seemed not to want or need our friendship. We were together only because of a clerical fact of life that took seven hours a day for nine months to be fully executed.
It was the last day of school, and we were graduating from the sixth grade. School, for all intents and purposes, was over. We were just marking time till the closing assembly would propel us into three full months of vacation, and the air was positively humming with excitement.
We were growing up fast. No longer were we wide-eyed innocents surprised at everything happening around us. People and things were sorted, analyzed, and filed for future reference in minds with miles of empty corridors just waiting to be filled.
This is where Herman came in. To minds sorting, analyzing, and filing, Herman was a gold mine. He was different for a number of reasons.
First of all was the physical. Herman was not attractive, so we did not care to look any further. He had a large nose on a thin face, and his whole head just seemed too big for his body. Maybe it was his hair that created that impression. It was thick and bushy, and on Herman we never saw the naked ears of a brand new haircut sticking out in self-conscious embarrassment. It was never longer but never shorter.
He was thin and sinewy. He had a lean, hard body that was in many ways more mature than the other boys in our class. That was because Herman was “rough.” He had “rough” friends and did “rough” things. That was the major difference.
But his clothes were the real factor when it came to sorting Herman. He was among the first group to wear motorcycle boots and black leather jackets. At that particular time in our country’s culture, the only people who wore leather jackets were “hoods.” So we went no further in analyzing Herman. We could tell, after all, just by looking that Herman did not fit in our world. Not because we did not like him but because … well, he was just different, you know? He was all the things we did not know about and did not care about.
Then suddenly, after nine months, it was time to go into the auditorium for the final hurrah of our childhood.
I was in the choir, so I was allowed to go into the auditorium early and take my place in the chairs reserved for us down front. When facing the audience we were expected to sit silently without excess movement. And it was thus that I learned one of the more startling truths of my life.
I watched as the people walked purposefully into the big room, each of my friends in turn with their mothers. I beamed as my own mother came into the room and took a place where we could see each other comfortably. It seemed that fathers never came to things like that, and we knew perfectly well it was because they were at work and could not come.
There were many beaming faces that afternoon, not only on the children, but also on the parents. (It is always hard to tell who is the prouder in a situation like that.) There was something almost magical in having your mother at school. Maybe because she reaffirmed your individuality in a sea of faces. Or maybe just because she was your mother and you had so few chances to show her off. The mothers beamed because we were their children and that was reason enough.
I knew most of the mothers of my friends from visits to our classroom, or birthday parties, or simply seeing them shopping. But nobody knew Herman’s mother or even thought of him as having one.
But then, right there in front of my eyes, came Herman Teague with—and there could not possibly be any mistake about it—his mother.
The pride in Herman’s thin, large-nosed face was the first thing I noticed and is probably why I cannot erase him from my mind. Herman never showed emotion in class. He simply showed up and “learned” every day, just like he was supposed to. It was shocking to realize that he was a boy just as proud of his mother as the rest of us were of ours, and he was showing it just as we did.
Then I looked at her. She was a little gray-haired lady not much taller than her son. All of the other mothers were somewhere around 30 years old. Herman’s mother was more like 50. She was plump and had an open face that I automatically associated with kindness and sincerity.
My revelation came when I looked at her clothes; but then I cannot really say I looked first at her age, then her face, then her clothes, because she was a total experience taken in at one gulping moment of learning. I have saved the clothes till last to bring this moment as forcefully to your mind as it came to mine on that day 20 years ago.
She had on a plain cotton print dress that buttoned down the front, the kind worn by every grandmother worth her salt. And over it she wore a black leather jacket—identical to Herman’s!
I stared, probably as every child of that age stares, with my eyes bugged out and my mouth wide open.
There they were, right before me for the whole hour’s program, none of which I can remember at all. And for one hour the thought rang through my mind and bounced off every surface in my brain lest I should somehow not have noticed or perhaps taken it too lightly: Herman Teague had a mother.
If she had worn a sweater, or a shawl, or even no wrap at all, the moment would have passed without any meaning to me whatsoever. It was the combination of mother and black leather jacket that made all the difference in my analyzing. The meaning and images of mother in my mind were too real to be denied. After all, only hoods and people like that wore those jackets, didn’t they? How could that plump old lady with that open, kind, sincere face—that mother—be a hood? Seeing her in that black leather jacket brought to mind a whole flood of reasons why Herman was different that I had never considered before.
I had such a mixture of emotions in those moments that it has taken me years to finish the sorting, analyzing, and filing that began on that day.
A seed of wisdom and understanding sprouted in an instant, and since that moment I have not only been reluctant to judge people, but I have not been able to look upon any of God’s children casually or indifferently. They, too, have mothers.
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👤 Children
👤 Parents
👤 Other
Charity
Children
Family
Judging Others
Everyone But Me
Summary: A high school girl was accidentally left without a date for the junior prom and felt humiliated, planning to hide at home. Required to perform at the dance without an escort, she broke down in tears but then felt a powerful witness of the Savior's awareness and love. The mistake was discovered the next day, and she received a date, yet the spiritual assurance remained the most meaningful part of the experience.
It was only two days before the junior prom, and all the junior class was looking forward to one of the great events in the life of a high school girl.
To make it an even more memorable experience, the senior boys had drawn up a list of all the girls in the junior class. They made it their duty to be sure that each girl had a date. It was a wonderful gesture, and because of them, every girl in the junior class had a date. Everyone but me, that is.
Somehow I had been overlooked. The knowledge of that only added to my embarrassment, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone, not even my closest friends. I felt sure I would be able to live through this and simply hide away in my room for the night eating peanut butter cups. Everyone would be too caught up in the spectacular evening to realize I wasn’t there.
But that plan was also not to be my fate. I was reminded that the junior girls on the drill team were required to perform the "Couples Dance" after the introduction of class members. I would have to go to the prom without an escort, perform the dance, and leave by myself. Everyone in the world would know that I didn’t have a date to that all-important dance.
Two nights before the prom I locked myself in my room to perform the peanut butter cup ritual that I had earlier envisioned would take place on the night of the prom. I lit a solemn candle as a reminder that I alone carried this humiliating burden. Before I could take the first pitiful bite of candy, the tears were already racing down my face. What a lonely, sad creature I was. What a terrible day to remember and someday explain to my grandchildren, "Oh yes, the junior prom is a night I will never forget." I pictured myself quickly changing the subject with them so they wouldn’t know what a reject their old granny had been.
But as I sobbed in the middle of the greatest agony I had experienced in my young life, a wonderful, warm feeling of peace and love engulfed me. There were no words spoken to my mind, but suddenly I had full knowledge that I was not alone. My Savior was aware of my sorrow, very much aware. He had not forsaken me even when the outcome was not essential to my salvation. He cared enough for me to let me know He shared in my pain.
What a spectacular knowledge this was. Suddenly, my memories of the prom would not be as tarnished as I had imagined. One of the greatest truths of my life had been taught to me in a very special, loving way.
After that moment of sadness, everything changed. The next day the error was discovered and quickly rectified. Several boys apologized and insisted that they thought I already had a date. They were very thoughtful and concerned, and soon I had an escort.
The night of the prom was great, but it was nothing compared to what I had just experienced. Even though the decorations were beautiful, my dress was perfect, and I had that all-important date, that night could never compare to the feeling I had when the Spirit bore witness of the great love my Savior has for me. His love never fails, even when our pain is temporary, or even seemingly silly. It wasn’t essential to my salvation to go to the prom, but it is essential to know of the great love the Lord has for each of us. Now I know I’ll be able to truthfully tell my grandchildren that the junior prom was one of the greatest experiences of my life.
To make it an even more memorable experience, the senior boys had drawn up a list of all the girls in the junior class. They made it their duty to be sure that each girl had a date. It was a wonderful gesture, and because of them, every girl in the junior class had a date. Everyone but me, that is.
Somehow I had been overlooked. The knowledge of that only added to my embarrassment, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone, not even my closest friends. I felt sure I would be able to live through this and simply hide away in my room for the night eating peanut butter cups. Everyone would be too caught up in the spectacular evening to realize I wasn’t there.
But that plan was also not to be my fate. I was reminded that the junior girls on the drill team were required to perform the "Couples Dance" after the introduction of class members. I would have to go to the prom without an escort, perform the dance, and leave by myself. Everyone in the world would know that I didn’t have a date to that all-important dance.
Two nights before the prom I locked myself in my room to perform the peanut butter cup ritual that I had earlier envisioned would take place on the night of the prom. I lit a solemn candle as a reminder that I alone carried this humiliating burden. Before I could take the first pitiful bite of candy, the tears were already racing down my face. What a lonely, sad creature I was. What a terrible day to remember and someday explain to my grandchildren, "Oh yes, the junior prom is a night I will never forget." I pictured myself quickly changing the subject with them so they wouldn’t know what a reject their old granny had been.
But as I sobbed in the middle of the greatest agony I had experienced in my young life, a wonderful, warm feeling of peace and love engulfed me. There were no words spoken to my mind, but suddenly I had full knowledge that I was not alone. My Savior was aware of my sorrow, very much aware. He had not forsaken me even when the outcome was not essential to my salvation. He cared enough for me to let me know He shared in my pain.
What a spectacular knowledge this was. Suddenly, my memories of the prom would not be as tarnished as I had imagined. One of the greatest truths of my life had been taught to me in a very special, loving way.
After that moment of sadness, everything changed. The next day the error was discovered and quickly rectified. Several boys apologized and insisted that they thought I already had a date. They were very thoughtful and concerned, and soon I had an escort.
The night of the prom was great, but it was nothing compared to what I had just experienced. Even though the decorations were beautiful, my dress was perfect, and I had that all-important date, that night could never compare to the feeling I had when the Spirit bore witness of the great love my Savior has for me. His love never fails, even when our pain is temporary, or even seemingly silly. It wasn’t essential to my salvation to go to the prom, but it is essential to know of the great love the Lord has for each of us. Now I know I’ll be able to truthfully tell my grandchildren that the junior prom was one of the greatest experiences of my life.
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👤 Jesus Christ
👤 Youth
Adversity
Holy Ghost
Jesus Christ
Love
Peace
Revelation
Testimony
If We Do What’s Right, All Will Be Well!
Summary: While dating, the author learned of Kathy’s strong commitment to the Sabbath. Their family adopted deliberate Sunday practices like avoiding TV and sports, listening to sacred music, writing, and spending time together. These choices brought a spirit of peace to their home.
When we began dating, I learned how strongly Kathy felt about keeping the Sabbath Day holy. Because of her devotion, our family has always tried hard to make Sunday a special day. We don’t watch TV on Sunday or go to sporting events. We listen to sacred music, write letters, and spend lots of time talking together. Our younger children liked to read stories from the Friend and from scripture readers. As a result, we have enjoyed a spirit of peace in our home on the Sabbath.
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👤 Parents
👤 Children
Children
Family
Movies and Television
Music
Peace
Sabbath Day
Fleeing for Faith and Freedom
Summary: The author's grandmother rejoiced at seeing the temple lights upon arriving in Cardston. Years later, after retiring, she moved to Cardston and served many hours in the temple, including playing the organ. Her kindness and devotion evidenced her testimony and love for the Savior.
My grandmother was also at the temple that day. I recall her excitement at seeing the temple lights as we had arrived in Cardston. Years later, after retiring from her job in Calgary, she moved to Cardston and gave many hours of service in the temple. She loved to play the organ and help inspire reverence there. Her testimony and love for the Savior was evidenced through her kindness to everyone around her. She is to me an example of a strong Latter-day Saint woman.
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👤 Other
👤 Church Members (General)
Kindness
Music
Reverence
Service
Temples
Testimony
Women in the Church
Always Remember Him
Summary: A friend's father, a mechanic, was told at the temple to clean his hands before serving. Rather than take offense, he chose to wash the family dishes by hand with extra soapy water before attending. His humble response exemplified entering the Lord's house with clean hands and a pure heart.
My friend’s father worked as a mechanic. His honest labor showed even in his carefully washed hands. One day someone at a temple told my friend’s father he should clean his hands before serving there. Instead of being offended, this good man began to scrub the family dishes by hand with extra soapy water before attending the temple. He exemplifies those who “ascend into the hill of the Lord” and “stand in his holy place” with the cleanest of hands and the purest of hearts.
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👤 Friends
👤 Church Members (General)
👤 Other
Employment
Honesty
Reverence
Temples
Virtue
They Expected Last Rites
Summary: A priesthood holder, initially reluctant, visited Sharon in the hospital after a severe car accident. Guided by the Spirit, he promised in a blessing that she would live and heal, surprising the medical staff. The next day she showed remarkable improvement, and within two weeks she left the hospital with minimal injuries. The experience affirmed Sharon’s faith and renewed the priesthood holder’s commitment to serve.
I first heard about Sharon when my bishop requested that I go to our local hospital to administer to a woman who had been hurt in an automobile accident. I had just returned from visiting another sister in the same hospital, which was some distance from my office. Because I had not been able to get much done that day, I really didn’t want to make that trip again and was feeling somewhat annoyed at the inconvenience. As I drove toward the hospital, my thoughts were not very positive.
Sharon and her family had been on their way home from a vacation when their vehicle had collided straight into a large truck.
Sharon was seriously injured in the collision, with a deep cut over her eyes, a fractured arm, a broken nose, internal injuries, and a badly crushed skull. One of Sharon’s sons was killed in the accident. Another son had a broken leg. Her husband and the two remaining children were slightly injured.
In the hospital emergency room the doctor had examined her briefly and had told the staff he had no hope of saving her life. Sharon had asked for a priesthood blessing.
When I arrived at the hospital, another member of my ward was waiting for me, ready to help me administer the blessing.
My companion searched Sharon’s head for a place to apply the consecrated oil—a difficult task, because her skull was so severely injured. He finally located a small, clear area to one side of her head.
I searched my mind for the words for her blessing. I had never administered to anyone who was dying before, and I didn’t know what to say. I let the Spirit guide my words. I remember assuring her that she would live to raise her children, that her earthly mission was not yet over, that her family still needed her, and that her injuries would heal quickly.
This was startling to the hospital’s emergency room staff, which consisted of nurses and nuns. They were expecting last rites, and they were stunned to hear us tell a woman who was mortally injured that she would be all right.
One of the nuns who spoke with us after the blessing was excited to think that Sharon had a chance for recovery. The same nun called me the next day to say that Sharon wanted to see me.
She was sitting up in her hospital bed when I arrived. She had a bright smile on her face and a sparkle in her eyes. She thanked me for the blessing and asked me to read from the scriptures. As I was preparing to leave, she asked me to adjust her oxygen mask, which kept slipping off her face. As I reached for the head strap, I noticed that there was no sign of her skull injury. Her head was whole, with no evidence of bleeding or broken bone.
Two weeks later, Sharon walked out of the hospital with only her arm in a sling and a small bandage on her forehead. The incident had provided a rare opportunity for both of us. For Sharon it was a chance to demonstrate her extraordinary faith in the priesthood; for me, it was a time to renew my commitment to give priesthood service readily whenever it is needed.
Sharon and her family had been on their way home from a vacation when their vehicle had collided straight into a large truck.
Sharon was seriously injured in the collision, with a deep cut over her eyes, a fractured arm, a broken nose, internal injuries, and a badly crushed skull. One of Sharon’s sons was killed in the accident. Another son had a broken leg. Her husband and the two remaining children were slightly injured.
In the hospital emergency room the doctor had examined her briefly and had told the staff he had no hope of saving her life. Sharon had asked for a priesthood blessing.
When I arrived at the hospital, another member of my ward was waiting for me, ready to help me administer the blessing.
My companion searched Sharon’s head for a place to apply the consecrated oil—a difficult task, because her skull was so severely injured. He finally located a small, clear area to one side of her head.
I searched my mind for the words for her blessing. I had never administered to anyone who was dying before, and I didn’t know what to say. I let the Spirit guide my words. I remember assuring her that she would live to raise her children, that her earthly mission was not yet over, that her family still needed her, and that her injuries would heal quickly.
This was startling to the hospital’s emergency room staff, which consisted of nurses and nuns. They were expecting last rites, and they were stunned to hear us tell a woman who was mortally injured that she would be all right.
One of the nuns who spoke with us after the blessing was excited to think that Sharon had a chance for recovery. The same nun called me the next day to say that Sharon wanted to see me.
She was sitting up in her hospital bed when I arrived. She had a bright smile on her face and a sparkle in her eyes. She thanked me for the blessing and asked me to read from the scriptures. As I was preparing to leave, she asked me to adjust her oxygen mask, which kept slipping off her face. As I reached for the head strap, I noticed that there was no sign of her skull injury. Her head was whole, with no evidence of bleeding or broken bone.
Two weeks later, Sharon walked out of the hospital with only her arm in a sling and a small bandage on her forehead. The incident had provided a rare opportunity for both of us. For Sharon it was a chance to demonstrate her extraordinary faith in the priesthood; for me, it was a time to renew my commitment to give priesthood service readily whenever it is needed.
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👤 Church Leaders (Local)
👤 Church Members (General)
👤 Other
FYI:For Your Information
Summary: After a family home evening on emergencies, three-year-old Ryan immediately called his mother when his 15-month-old sister Erin fell into a deep irrigation box. The mother arrived in time to pull Erin out before the water could sweep her into a dangerous pipe. The family credited the FHE practice for saving crucial seconds and possibly both children.
Julie Loper, the Mia Maid adviser in the Sunnyside Ward, Yakima Washington Stake, shared this story: “My husband and I concentrated one of our family home evenings on what to do in case of an emergency. Since our children were so young, we felt the most important thing to tell them was to get help as fast as they could. We made up several situations, acted them out, and tested our children to see if they understood.
“Little did we know that the following Wednesday our efforts would pay off. Our daughter, Erin, 15 months old, fell into a four-foot-deep irrigation box that had a great deal of water rushing through it. Three-year-old Ryan was just coming out of the house when he heard her cries.
“All Ryan could see was her fingertips holding onto the cement. He did not take time to investigate further, but immediately called me for help as we had discussed the week before in home evening. Those valuable seconds saved made the difference. I was able to reach her before she was forced down into the pipe which carries water onto other farms.
“Had Ryan waited before going for help, Erin’s strength would have gone before help arrived. If he had attempted to pull her up himself, probably both of them would have fallen in. Ryan said, ‘Family night helped me know what to do.’”
“Little did we know that the following Wednesday our efforts would pay off. Our daughter, Erin, 15 months old, fell into a four-foot-deep irrigation box that had a great deal of water rushing through it. Three-year-old Ryan was just coming out of the house when he heard her cries.
“All Ryan could see was her fingertips holding onto the cement. He did not take time to investigate further, but immediately called me for help as we had discussed the week before in home evening. Those valuable seconds saved made the difference. I was able to reach her before she was forced down into the pipe which carries water onto other farms.
“Had Ryan waited before going for help, Erin’s strength would have gone before help arrived. If he had attempted to pull her up himself, probably both of them would have fallen in. Ryan said, ‘Family night helped me know what to do.’”
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👤 Parents
👤 Children
Children
Emergency Preparedness
Family
Family Home Evening
Parenting
A Question of Bravery
Summary: Becky accompanies her father to pan for gold near Jacksonville, Oregon, feeling afraid. Sent alone to the wagon, she finds a river otter trapped in a snare and bravely frees it despite her fear. A Native American named Swift Otter sees what she did, approves, and calls her brave, helping her realize that helping others made her forget her fears.
Becky edged closer to her father on the hard seat of the buckboard, trying to convince herself she was not afraid. As they rounded a bend in the road, the trees hid even the tall church spire. It was as though Jacksonville no longer existed.
Pa seemed unaware of her fears. His tanned face creased into familiar lines as he smiled down at her. “Sure is nice having company,” he said.
“Do you think Mrs. Arnold will be all right?”
“With your Ma watching her?” Pa laughed. “Isn’t a better nurse this side of the Cascades.”
Silence fell between them. The only sounds were those made by the rumbling wheels and the clanking harness chains.
If only Ma hadn’t gone to nurse Mrs. Arnold, Becky thought. Then I would be home now, safe behind the walls of our log cabin, instead of going with Pa on his daily trip to pan for gold.
It was early in the day, but Becky pulled at the brim of her calico sunbonnet. The summer sun was hot in southern Oregon, and Ma had warned her not to get sunburned. She stared ahead at the road that became rough as they left the town behind. Trees lined one side, their branches stretching like hungry arms toward the shallow creek that glittered to her right.
Becky jumped as a shadow passed overhead, then shielded her eyes to watch a hawk swoop low over the trees. She wished she could be as brave and proud as the hawk. There was nothing to be afraid of, she assured herself once more. After all, there hadn’t been any trouble with Indians for almost two years now, and she was foolish to fear anything else with her father beside her. Still, she felt uneasy.
They had traveled for nearly two hours when Pa pulled the buckboard to the side of the road. He jumped to the ground, and his strong arms swung her down beside him. He pulled a pick and shovel from the back of the wagon and handed Becky the battered pan he used for gold panning. “Will you carry the pan?” he asked.
Becky nodded, pleased to be helpful, then followed close behind as her father pushed through the bushes that lined the creek bed. Loose stones rolled beneath Becky’s feet, but she fought to keep up with him. She didn’t want to be left behind. They walked a few yards upstream until they reached a point where the rushing water curved in its course, creating a tiny cove. “Why don’t you sit over there on that big rock?” Pa suggested. “Can’t have you falling in. Your mother would skin us both alive if I brought you home soaking wet.”
Obediently Becky perched on the flat gray rock. She touched the velvety texture of the moss growing in the crevices of the stone—how soft it felt!
Pa crouched beside the stream and patiently swirled the pan, letting water spill over its side. He poked at the sand in the bottom of the pan before he scooped up another shovelful of gravel and began the process again.
Becky stretched her cramped muscles and wiggled her toes. The rock was hard, and she wished she had brought a book to read. Occasionally her father turned to smile at her, and once he showed her a tiny glimmer of color he found in the bottom of the pan.
At last he glanced at the sky and rose from his crouched position. “Why don’t you run back to the wagon,” he suggested, “and fetch the lunch pails? It’s time we had something to eat.”
Becky hesitated. Surely he doesn’t expect me to go back to the wagon all by myself, she worried.
A slight frown of irritation wrinkled Pa’s forehead. “Well, go on,” he urged. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
She took a deep breath and slid off her rock. She couldn’t admit how frightened she felt. He would never understand. She moved downstream, picking her way carefully, her skirt held up to the top of her sturdy boots. Her father waved once and turned back to his work.
When Becky rounded a bend, she knew she had almost reached the wagon. She quickened her steps and tried not to think of anything except getting back to Pa.
A rustle in the bushes made her stop, and a flicker of movement caught her eye. A snake! Is it a rattlesnake coiled there, ready to spring? she wondered. Becky’s heart seemed to stop beating and she was unable to move. Then she saw a patch of brown fur and forced herself to edge closer. Cautiously she pushed the bushes aside. A small brown and black animal crouched on the ground, its foot caught in a snare. Its dark eyes were wide with fear as it stared at the girl.
Becky knew it was a river otter. She had seen their hides stretched to dry behind Parker’s Store and knew a lot of the townspeople trapped them for their pelts. But she had never seen a live one before. “Poor thing,” she crooned, and crouched down and extended her hand carefully.
The animal backed away as far as the snare would allow, and its lip quivered in a weak snarl.
“I won’t hurt you,” Becky said quietly as she reached for the vine that held the otter’s foot. Perhaps she should get Pa to set it free. But she knew he would tell her this was someone else’s trap and that they had no right to release the animal. Yet she couldn’t bear to leave it here like this.
As Becky grasped the snare, she worried that the otter would try to sink its teeth into her hand. Instead, the animal cringed against the rocky ground, shivering with fear. Her fingers trembled as she fought to loosen the loop from the otter’s foot. At last she pulled it free and waited for the animal to run away, but it continued to cower in the bushes.
A rock shifted behind her and Becky whirled around. She looked up into the black eyes of an Indian. Maybe it’s one of his traps, she thought. The man’s scowling face made her catch her breath, but she rose to her feet and stood between him and the injured otter. Run, little otter! she thought fiercely. Run, before he catches you again.
The man’s gaze fell on the snare Becky held in her hands, then moved to the animal she attempted to shield. “You set him free.” It was a statement, rather than a question, but Becky nodded, unable to speak.
Slowly the scowl faded from the man’s face. He took the snare from Becky’s lifeless fingers and studied it for a moment. Then he hurled it into the stream where the current quickly carried it out of sight.
“It is good,” the Indian said abruptly. “The otter is my brother. I am named for him—Swift Otter.”
Becky watched him, uncertain what he would do next. She heard the rustle of leaves behind her and saw the otter disappear into the bushes.
“You have saved his life,” Swift Otter said. “He will be wiser now.” He studied her for a moment in silence, then said, “You are brave for so small a girl.”
The Indian turned and walked away from Becky. She stared after him. She wanted to call out, to ask him where he came from, but he was gone.
At last Becky moved toward the wagon. Swift Otter had called her brave. All her fears were still there, but he hadn’t seen them. She suddenly realized that in her concern for the trapped animal she had forgotten to be afraid. Perhaps in time she could learn to be brave—as brave as Swift Otter thought she was.
A shadow passed overhead, and this time Becky didn’t jump. She raised her face and watched the hawk swoop across the clear blue sky.
Pa seemed unaware of her fears. His tanned face creased into familiar lines as he smiled down at her. “Sure is nice having company,” he said.
“Do you think Mrs. Arnold will be all right?”
“With your Ma watching her?” Pa laughed. “Isn’t a better nurse this side of the Cascades.”
Silence fell between them. The only sounds were those made by the rumbling wheels and the clanking harness chains.
If only Ma hadn’t gone to nurse Mrs. Arnold, Becky thought. Then I would be home now, safe behind the walls of our log cabin, instead of going with Pa on his daily trip to pan for gold.
It was early in the day, but Becky pulled at the brim of her calico sunbonnet. The summer sun was hot in southern Oregon, and Ma had warned her not to get sunburned. She stared ahead at the road that became rough as they left the town behind. Trees lined one side, their branches stretching like hungry arms toward the shallow creek that glittered to her right.
Becky jumped as a shadow passed overhead, then shielded her eyes to watch a hawk swoop low over the trees. She wished she could be as brave and proud as the hawk. There was nothing to be afraid of, she assured herself once more. After all, there hadn’t been any trouble with Indians for almost two years now, and she was foolish to fear anything else with her father beside her. Still, she felt uneasy.
They had traveled for nearly two hours when Pa pulled the buckboard to the side of the road. He jumped to the ground, and his strong arms swung her down beside him. He pulled a pick and shovel from the back of the wagon and handed Becky the battered pan he used for gold panning. “Will you carry the pan?” he asked.
Becky nodded, pleased to be helpful, then followed close behind as her father pushed through the bushes that lined the creek bed. Loose stones rolled beneath Becky’s feet, but she fought to keep up with him. She didn’t want to be left behind. They walked a few yards upstream until they reached a point where the rushing water curved in its course, creating a tiny cove. “Why don’t you sit over there on that big rock?” Pa suggested. “Can’t have you falling in. Your mother would skin us both alive if I brought you home soaking wet.”
Obediently Becky perched on the flat gray rock. She touched the velvety texture of the moss growing in the crevices of the stone—how soft it felt!
Pa crouched beside the stream and patiently swirled the pan, letting water spill over its side. He poked at the sand in the bottom of the pan before he scooped up another shovelful of gravel and began the process again.
Becky stretched her cramped muscles and wiggled her toes. The rock was hard, and she wished she had brought a book to read. Occasionally her father turned to smile at her, and once he showed her a tiny glimmer of color he found in the bottom of the pan.
At last he glanced at the sky and rose from his crouched position. “Why don’t you run back to the wagon,” he suggested, “and fetch the lunch pails? It’s time we had something to eat.”
Becky hesitated. Surely he doesn’t expect me to go back to the wagon all by myself, she worried.
A slight frown of irritation wrinkled Pa’s forehead. “Well, go on,” he urged. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
She took a deep breath and slid off her rock. She couldn’t admit how frightened she felt. He would never understand. She moved downstream, picking her way carefully, her skirt held up to the top of her sturdy boots. Her father waved once and turned back to his work.
When Becky rounded a bend, she knew she had almost reached the wagon. She quickened her steps and tried not to think of anything except getting back to Pa.
A rustle in the bushes made her stop, and a flicker of movement caught her eye. A snake! Is it a rattlesnake coiled there, ready to spring? she wondered. Becky’s heart seemed to stop beating and she was unable to move. Then she saw a patch of brown fur and forced herself to edge closer. Cautiously she pushed the bushes aside. A small brown and black animal crouched on the ground, its foot caught in a snare. Its dark eyes were wide with fear as it stared at the girl.
Becky knew it was a river otter. She had seen their hides stretched to dry behind Parker’s Store and knew a lot of the townspeople trapped them for their pelts. But she had never seen a live one before. “Poor thing,” she crooned, and crouched down and extended her hand carefully.
The animal backed away as far as the snare would allow, and its lip quivered in a weak snarl.
“I won’t hurt you,” Becky said quietly as she reached for the vine that held the otter’s foot. Perhaps she should get Pa to set it free. But she knew he would tell her this was someone else’s trap and that they had no right to release the animal. Yet she couldn’t bear to leave it here like this.
As Becky grasped the snare, she worried that the otter would try to sink its teeth into her hand. Instead, the animal cringed against the rocky ground, shivering with fear. Her fingers trembled as she fought to loosen the loop from the otter’s foot. At last she pulled it free and waited for the animal to run away, but it continued to cower in the bushes.
A rock shifted behind her and Becky whirled around. She looked up into the black eyes of an Indian. Maybe it’s one of his traps, she thought. The man’s scowling face made her catch her breath, but she rose to her feet and stood between him and the injured otter. Run, little otter! she thought fiercely. Run, before he catches you again.
The man’s gaze fell on the snare Becky held in her hands, then moved to the animal she attempted to shield. “You set him free.” It was a statement, rather than a question, but Becky nodded, unable to speak.
Slowly the scowl faded from the man’s face. He took the snare from Becky’s lifeless fingers and studied it for a moment. Then he hurled it into the stream where the current quickly carried it out of sight.
“It is good,” the Indian said abruptly. “The otter is my brother. I am named for him—Swift Otter.”
Becky watched him, uncertain what he would do next. She heard the rustle of leaves behind her and saw the otter disappear into the bushes.
“You have saved his life,” Swift Otter said. “He will be wiser now.” He studied her for a moment in silence, then said, “You are brave for so small a girl.”
The Indian turned and walked away from Becky. She stared after him. She wanted to call out, to ask him where he came from, but he was gone.
At last Becky moved toward the wagon. Swift Otter had called her brave. All her fears were still there, but he hadn’t seen them. She suddenly realized that in her concern for the trapped animal she had forgotten to be afraid. Perhaps in time she could learn to be brave—as brave as Swift Otter thought she was.
A shadow passed overhead, and this time Becky didn’t jump. She raised her face and watched the hawk swoop across the clear blue sky.
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👤 Parents
👤 Children
👤 Other
Children
Courage
Judging Others
Kindness
Racial and Cultural Prejudice
A Small Thing
Summary: A college student, new to visiting teaching, repeatedly feels prompted to invite a less-active sister, Cassie, and her boyfriend, Will, to a fireside and finally leaves a voicemail. They arrive late, meet with the missionaries, and soon after marry and Will is baptized. Six years later, the narrator reunites with Cassie, now joyful, active in the Church, and attending multiple temples with her family. The experience teaches the narrator that small acts, like a phone call, can lead to great blessings.
I joined the Church when I was in high school and was the only member in my family. I had a difficult time making the transition to life in the Church, finding many of the activities and callings unfamiliar. So when I was asked to be a visiting teacher for the first time during my second year in college, I struggled to understand exactly what that meant. My companion was a faithful young mother, Sister Bray (names have been changed), and it was easy for me to let her set the appointments, direct our visits, and care for our sisters. One sister, in particular, proved more challenging than the rest. Cassie was less active, living with her boyfriend, and expecting their first child. She always seemed sad or troubled.
One Sunday the branch presidency asked us to make sure we invited everyone on our visiting teaching routes to a missionary fireside that evening. “No problem,” I thought. “Sister Bray will call Cassie.” I scanned the chapel. Sister Bray was out of town that Sunday and would not be making any calls.
When I reached my apartment after church, I felt the tugging of the Spirit: “Call Cassie.” I stoutly refused. Surely she wouldn’t come even if I did call. A second time the Spirit prompted strongly: “Call Cassie!” Again I refused. Finally the Spirit was impossible to ignore, and I grudgingly made the call—only to reach Cassie’s answering machine. “See,” I thought, “I knew it wouldn’t do any good.” I left a message telling Cassie and her boyfriend, Will, that there would be a fireside that evening and we’d love to see them there.
At the fireside I noticed that although many were in attendance, Cassie and Will were not among them. “I knew they wouldn’t come,” I thought, somewhat smugly. With 10 minutes left in the fireside, I was quite surprised to see Cassie and Will enter the chapel. The missionaries stood up quietly and left with them. “How about that!” I said to myself.
Christmas break came soon after that, and I attended my home ward for the holidays. A month later when I returned to my college ward, one of the members excitedly approached me and asked if I would be at the baptism that evening. “Of course,” I said, “but who is getting baptized?” The sister answered, “Will, Cassie’s husband.” Husband? I went to look for Cassie as quickly as I could.
When I found Cassie and Will, I congratulated them on their marriage and Will’s baptism and asked how it had all come about. “Remember that fireside you invited us to attend?” Cassie answered. “We got there late, so the elders took us into another room and showed us a video. Will liked it so much he asked to hear the discussions. We were married, and today Will is getting baptized.” I was humbled and ashamed of myself and yet in total awe of Heavenly Father’s love for each of His children.
But this isn’t the end of the story. Not long ago I had the opportunity to return to my college ward after being away for six years. I was thrilled to see many familiar faces and to introduce my old friends to my husband and two children.
As I passed through the foyer, I saw someone I thought I knew but who looked different somehow. “Don’t I know you?” I said. “Yes, I’m Cassie. You were my visiting teacher. You remember Will, don’t you?” She pointed to the man standing to her left, then called to two children in the hallway. “And these are our two children.” She looked happy, peaceful, and sure of herself. She said she was serving in the Primary presidency. “Have you had a chance to go to the temple?” I inquired. “Which one?” she asked with a smile. “Chicago? Detroit? Nauvoo? We’ve been to all of them.”
This encounter once again reminded me “that by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6)—even a small thing like a phone call.
One Sunday the branch presidency asked us to make sure we invited everyone on our visiting teaching routes to a missionary fireside that evening. “No problem,” I thought. “Sister Bray will call Cassie.” I scanned the chapel. Sister Bray was out of town that Sunday and would not be making any calls.
When I reached my apartment after church, I felt the tugging of the Spirit: “Call Cassie.” I stoutly refused. Surely she wouldn’t come even if I did call. A second time the Spirit prompted strongly: “Call Cassie!” Again I refused. Finally the Spirit was impossible to ignore, and I grudgingly made the call—only to reach Cassie’s answering machine. “See,” I thought, “I knew it wouldn’t do any good.” I left a message telling Cassie and her boyfriend, Will, that there would be a fireside that evening and we’d love to see them there.
At the fireside I noticed that although many were in attendance, Cassie and Will were not among them. “I knew they wouldn’t come,” I thought, somewhat smugly. With 10 minutes left in the fireside, I was quite surprised to see Cassie and Will enter the chapel. The missionaries stood up quietly and left with them. “How about that!” I said to myself.
Christmas break came soon after that, and I attended my home ward for the holidays. A month later when I returned to my college ward, one of the members excitedly approached me and asked if I would be at the baptism that evening. “Of course,” I said, “but who is getting baptized?” The sister answered, “Will, Cassie’s husband.” Husband? I went to look for Cassie as quickly as I could.
When I found Cassie and Will, I congratulated them on their marriage and Will’s baptism and asked how it had all come about. “Remember that fireside you invited us to attend?” Cassie answered. “We got there late, so the elders took us into another room and showed us a video. Will liked it so much he asked to hear the discussions. We were married, and today Will is getting baptized.” I was humbled and ashamed of myself and yet in total awe of Heavenly Father’s love for each of His children.
But this isn’t the end of the story. Not long ago I had the opportunity to return to my college ward after being away for six years. I was thrilled to see many familiar faces and to introduce my old friends to my husband and two children.
As I passed through the foyer, I saw someone I thought I knew but who looked different somehow. “Don’t I know you?” I said. “Yes, I’m Cassie. You were my visiting teacher. You remember Will, don’t you?” She pointed to the man standing to her left, then called to two children in the hallway. “And these are our two children.” She looked happy, peaceful, and sure of herself. She said she was serving in the Primary presidency. “Have you had a chance to go to the temple?” I inquired. “Which one?” she asked with a smile. “Chicago? Detroit? Nauvoo? We’ve been to all of them.”
This encounter once again reminded me “that by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6)—even a small thing like a phone call.
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👤 Missionaries
👤 Church Leaders (Local)
👤 Parents
👤 Young Adults
👤 Church Members (General)
Baptism
Conversion
Holy Ghost
Humility
Kindness
Ministering
Missionary Work
Service
Temples
You Go First
Summary: As a young missionary traveling with his mission president, the speaker had to climb down a rope ladder from a steamer at night to reach D‘Urville Island. In the dark and rough waters, he prayed with each step until a Maori Church member pulled him safely into a rowboat, after which his mission president also descended. After their visit, they had to climb back up the ladder, again requiring faith and effort. The experience taught him that while some tasks remain daunting, faith, prayer, and repetition increase one’s power to do them.
I suppose there are some things in life that we would never get used to. I am reminded of an experience that happened many years ago while I was a young missionary. Between the north and south islands of New Zealand is a very rough body of water known as Cook Strait. Out in this rough water are many small and beautiful islands. On D‘Urville Island lived a large group of wonderful Maori people who were members of the Church. They were in an excellent branch of the Church and lived the gospel well. All were related to one another and were mainly professional fishermen.
President Matthew Cowley, my mission president, and I left Wellington on the steamer that sailed between the two islands. It was a rather large ship carrying up to 600 passengers. The only way for a passenger to get off the ship anywhere near D’Urville Island was to climb down a rope ladder lowered from the side of the ship at about two o’clock in the morning. This little maneuver didn’t frighten me too much until the time to perform it approached.
It was a dark night with no moon and few stars. As the ship slowed down to stop, President Cowley and I could see off in the distance a little light bobbing up and down in the water. It was a lantern held by one of the Maori men who was rowing out to pick us up. As it got closer, we could tell that the water was very rough.
Finally the boat was right under us and we could look over the railing and see them. Then we heard one of them shout for us to come down. The deck steward on the ship opened a gate in the railing and threw down the rope ladder. I looked down into the water that dark night, turned to President Cowley, and said, “You are the mission president. You go first.” He looked down that rope ladder into the darkness of the night and said, “I am the mission president. You go first.”
Fearfully, yet bravely, I started down the ladder. Never in my life had I ever climbed a rope ladder more than two or three rungs long. The first and second steps were easy because I could still feel that I was near the side of the ship. But the farther down I went, the farther the ladder hung away from the side of the ship. After I had gone down about six steps I felt very much alone and was hanging on for dear life, praying with each step.
I think that in the darkness of that night, thousands of miles away from home, I learned how to pray all over again. I was frightened, but I hung on and slowly and carefully took it one step at a time. Finally a large Maori hand grabbed me by the ankle, and a voice assured me, “You’ve made it!” I managed to get into the rowboat and put on a raincoat to keep from getting wet.
I sat down and relaxed. Then I looked up the long rope ladder to watch my wonderful mission president begin to climb down. I am sure he prayed just as hard as I did, and finally he made it into the boat. We were then with friends, feeling safe and secure. In a short while we were on dry land on D‘Urville Island. The whole branch was out to greet us in the middle of the night.
Several times while we were there, I thought of that rope ladder. I thought, That is something no one would ever get used to doing. You could never take that downward trip for granted. But doing it over and over would make it easier and possibly less frightening.
When our visit was over and it came time for us to return to the North Island it dawned on me that we needed to climb up that ladder. I discovered that a climb like that would be just as dangerous and treacherous as the climb down. This would require practically the same amount of prayer and effort.
I will never forget that one dark night in the islands of the sea. It was a most unusual and unique experience in my life.
President Matthew Cowley, my mission president, and I left Wellington on the steamer that sailed between the two islands. It was a rather large ship carrying up to 600 passengers. The only way for a passenger to get off the ship anywhere near D’Urville Island was to climb down a rope ladder lowered from the side of the ship at about two o’clock in the morning. This little maneuver didn’t frighten me too much until the time to perform it approached.
It was a dark night with no moon and few stars. As the ship slowed down to stop, President Cowley and I could see off in the distance a little light bobbing up and down in the water. It was a lantern held by one of the Maori men who was rowing out to pick us up. As it got closer, we could tell that the water was very rough.
Finally the boat was right under us and we could look over the railing and see them. Then we heard one of them shout for us to come down. The deck steward on the ship opened a gate in the railing and threw down the rope ladder. I looked down into the water that dark night, turned to President Cowley, and said, “You are the mission president. You go first.” He looked down that rope ladder into the darkness of the night and said, “I am the mission president. You go first.”
Fearfully, yet bravely, I started down the ladder. Never in my life had I ever climbed a rope ladder more than two or three rungs long. The first and second steps were easy because I could still feel that I was near the side of the ship. But the farther down I went, the farther the ladder hung away from the side of the ship. After I had gone down about six steps I felt very much alone and was hanging on for dear life, praying with each step.
I think that in the darkness of that night, thousands of miles away from home, I learned how to pray all over again. I was frightened, but I hung on and slowly and carefully took it one step at a time. Finally a large Maori hand grabbed me by the ankle, and a voice assured me, “You’ve made it!” I managed to get into the rowboat and put on a raincoat to keep from getting wet.
I sat down and relaxed. Then I looked up the long rope ladder to watch my wonderful mission president begin to climb down. I am sure he prayed just as hard as I did, and finally he made it into the boat. We were then with friends, feeling safe and secure. In a short while we were on dry land on D‘Urville Island. The whole branch was out to greet us in the middle of the night.
Several times while we were there, I thought of that rope ladder. I thought, That is something no one would ever get used to doing. You could never take that downward trip for granted. But doing it over and over would make it easier and possibly less frightening.
When our visit was over and it came time for us to return to the North Island it dawned on me that we needed to climb up that ladder. I discovered that a climb like that would be just as dangerous and treacherous as the climb down. This would require practically the same amount of prayer and effort.
I will never forget that one dark night in the islands of the sea. It was a most unusual and unique experience in my life.
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👤 Missionaries
👤 Church Leaders (Local)
👤 Church Members (General)
Adversity
Courage
Faith
Friendship
Missionary Work
Prayer
FYI: For Your Information
Summary: Seventeen-year-old Elizabeth Jeffery of Brisbane needed to raise $400 to tour Europe with her youth orchestra. Declining raffles because the Church discourages them, she made and sold about 1,192 lamingtons, with her family helping, including her dad driving deliveries. The sales delighted buyers, funded her trip, and may prompt questions about the Church among her peers.
How many lamingtons does it take to go to Europe? Seventeen-year-old Latter-day Saint Elizabeth Jeffery of Brisbane, Australia, found out it takes about 1,192.
As a violist for the Queensland Youth Orchestra, Elizabeth naturally wanted to accompany the group on its trip to the International Youth Orchestra Festival in Aberdeen, Scotland, especially since it was scheduled for precompetition concerts in Rome and Florence.
But each orchestra member had to raise $400 for the trip, and they decided to do it by selling raffle tickets. Since the Church discourages raffles, Elizabeth decided to earn her money by making and selling lamingtons. Lamingtons, as almost anybody “down under” could tell you, are square pieces of sponge cake dipped in chocolate and rolled in coconut, and since Australians love them dearly, Elizabeth was soon in business.
The project soon became a family affair with everyone helping. Dad was especially helpful as he drove Elizabeth around to make the deliveries. One delivery consisted of a dozen lamingtons to Elizabeth’s viola teacher!
Those lamingtons may turn out to have been more than just yummy pastry. In addition to delighting the buyers and sending Elizabeth to Scotland, they will no doubt raise some questions about the Church among other young orchestra members.
As a violist for the Queensland Youth Orchestra, Elizabeth naturally wanted to accompany the group on its trip to the International Youth Orchestra Festival in Aberdeen, Scotland, especially since it was scheduled for precompetition concerts in Rome and Florence.
But each orchestra member had to raise $400 for the trip, and they decided to do it by selling raffle tickets. Since the Church discourages raffles, Elizabeth decided to earn her money by making and selling lamingtons. Lamingtons, as almost anybody “down under” could tell you, are square pieces of sponge cake dipped in chocolate and rolled in coconut, and since Australians love them dearly, Elizabeth was soon in business.
The project soon became a family affair with everyone helping. Dad was especially helpful as he drove Elizabeth around to make the deliveries. One delivery consisted of a dozen lamingtons to Elizabeth’s viola teacher!
Those lamingtons may turn out to have been more than just yummy pastry. In addition to delighting the buyers and sending Elizabeth to Scotland, they will no doubt raise some questions about the Church among other young orchestra members.
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👤 Youth
👤 Parents
👤 Church Members (General)
Family
Gambling
Music
Self-Reliance
Young Women
The Power to Raise Up
Summary: After consecutive high school soccer losses, the narrator watched a young teammate move from player to player giving specific praise and gentle comfort. Her touch and words transformed the team’s mood as smiles replaced disappointment and players stood with renewed purpose. The narrator later identifies her actions as sharing the light of Christ and an example of how we can participate in His healing work.
Defeated. Again. I slumped against my chair with my head hung low. I was just an observer, but still I had no energy to stand. Our team had tried so hard. Some were bruised. Some were limping off the field. After our high school soccer team’s consecutive losses, we weren’t just beaten—our hearts were broken.
Just as my disappointment seemed to overcome me, one of the youngest girls on the team strode past. I was drawn instantly to the sense of purpose I saw in her face.
I watched as every few steps she reached out a hand to each girl, but not in acknowledgment of defeat. Instead, she was giving individualized praise, comfort, and compassion. “I’ve never seen you run so hard to get there for every pass. That was your best game.” And to another, “Wow, amazing game. Seriously, you were on it today!”
With each high five, her one hand lingered in theirs, while her other hand held on to a shoulder or gently patted a leg bruised and grass-stained. I could feel that she carried something within her, a power that somehow transferred from her to the heart of each team member. Smiles started to break through the painful winces and disappointment. Slowly, one by one, each player stood with a new feeling vibrating through the air.
Who cared about the bruises and pain? Who cared about the anger and frustration? Not one. But how could a mere hand lift someone from a place of suffering to a place of purpose and strength?
How could a mere hand lift someone from a place of suffering to a place of purpose and strength?
I saw that in our light-giving soccer player. She was sharing the light of Christ on a soccer field and allowing Him to perform His healing. By holding up His light, she was helping to gather Israel.
Each of us will need saving by someone other than ourselves. However vulnerable that may seem to leave us, we can trust that Heavenly Father provided a Savior who can help raise us from despair. And we can participate with Him, just as my soccer hero did.
Just as my disappointment seemed to overcome me, one of the youngest girls on the team strode past. I was drawn instantly to the sense of purpose I saw in her face.
I watched as every few steps she reached out a hand to each girl, but not in acknowledgment of defeat. Instead, she was giving individualized praise, comfort, and compassion. “I’ve never seen you run so hard to get there for every pass. That was your best game.” And to another, “Wow, amazing game. Seriously, you were on it today!”
With each high five, her one hand lingered in theirs, while her other hand held on to a shoulder or gently patted a leg bruised and grass-stained. I could feel that she carried something within her, a power that somehow transferred from her to the heart of each team member. Smiles started to break through the painful winces and disappointment. Slowly, one by one, each player stood with a new feeling vibrating through the air.
Who cared about the bruises and pain? Who cared about the anger and frustration? Not one. But how could a mere hand lift someone from a place of suffering to a place of purpose and strength?
How could a mere hand lift someone from a place of suffering to a place of purpose and strength?
I saw that in our light-giving soccer player. She was sharing the light of Christ on a soccer field and allowing Him to perform His healing. By holding up His light, she was helping to gather Israel.
Each of us will need saving by someone other than ourselves. However vulnerable that may seem to leave us, we can trust that Heavenly Father provided a Savior who can help raise us from despair. And we can participate with Him, just as my soccer hero did.
Read more →
👤 Youth
👤 Friends
Adversity
Charity
Hope
Jesus Christ
Light of Christ
Ministering
Young Women
Temple Sawdust
Summary: As a girl, the narrator and her brother brought dinner to their father, a stonecutter on the Salt Lake Temple, and were given sawdust to make a pincushion. She later used pins from that temple-sawdust cushion to sew a new dress for her sister while their mother was away. Growing up, she became a dressmaker, chose to marry in the temple, and, since the Salt Lake Temple was not yet finished, was sealed in the Logan Temple. The pincushion remained a cherished reminder for her and her children of the temple's sacred importance.
“Rosie!” called Mama. “It is time for you and Heman to take Papa his dinner.”
We needed no second call, for this was one errand we delighted in doing. Mama filled a plate with hot food, covered it with a soup dish to keep in the warmth, wrapped it carefully in a large napkin, and placed it in a basket. Then she handed the basket to us with final instructions: “Carry it carefully, don’t play on the way, and hurry home after Papa has eaten.”
It was ten blocks from our home on East Third South to Salt Lake Temple Block where Papa worked as a stonecutter. But it didn’t seem that long to us as we talked of the fun we’d have while Papa ate his dinner. It was interesting to watch the huge granite blocks being brought in from the canyon quarry by ox-drawn wagons. While the wagons were unloaded, the oxen stood patiently switching at flies with their tails. After the rough blocks were cut and smoothed to the required shape and size, they were tilted and placed in rows like dominoes, leaving the sharp edges protruding like saw teeth. We enjoyed running back and forth on top of these stone dominoes in our bare feet. Shoes were saved for Sunday and for school.
Sometimes we would watch as skilled workmen cut sun, moon, and star designs into certain stones. Each held a small iron chisel in his left hand and a hard wooden mallet in his right, tapping gently so as not to chip out too much rock and spoil the pattern.
Today Papa had a special surprise for us. He said, “The men who are making the circular staircase (there was one in each corner of the building) say you may go up as far as it is completed, but you must be very quiet, because this is the Lord’s house.”
I took Heman’s hand, and together we climbed the huge stone steps—up, up, up until we were out of breath. It was easier going down. Then Papa took us into the carpenter shop where wood for the building was sawed. On the floor was a heap of clean sawdust and Papa told us that the foreman said it would be all right for us to take some home so Mama could show us how to make a pincushion. “Someday it will be a fine thing,” Papa said, “to have a pincushion made with temple sawdust.”
Eagerly we filled the basket with fragrant sawdust and hurried home. But Mama had no time right then to help with a pincushion. She was trying to finish the washing and ironing for Sister Young, who lived next door, and the baby was cross. I rocked the baby to sleep, then helped Mama prepare supper.
In the evening, after the dishes were washed and put away, Mama found a piece of strong, durable brown cloth on which she drew a large fig leaf. She showed me how to embroider green lines for veins and outline the edge with a blanket stitch. A matching piece for the back was sewed to the front, leaving a hole near the top to pour in the temple sawdust until the leaf would hold no more. Then we sewed the hole shut so none of the precious sawdust would be lost. When the pincushion was finished I proudly showed it to Papa for his approval, then placed it on top of Mama’s dresser with my other special treasures.
Sometime later Mama was called to Idaho to help with a new grandchild, leaving me to do the cooking and housekeeping. Heman helped Papa with outside chores, while our little sisters Aggie and Birdie played together under the trees. One morning I noticed how faded and worn Birdie’s hand-me-down dresses were and asked Papa for a quarter to buy material to make her a new dress. At McMaster’s Store I bought a piece of lovely pink gingham. Laying it on the floor, and using pins from the temple-sawdust cushion, I pinned one of Birdie’s old dresses to the cloth for a pattern, then cut around it carefully, and sewed the pieces together. Birdie looked as sweet as a rosebud when Papa came from work that evening.
When I was older I found work in a dressmaking shop, and learned how to make nice clothes for myself and for Mama and my little sisters too. Soon after this Jody, my childhood sweetheart, asked me to marry him. Looking closely at the temple-sawdust pincushion one day, I knew I wanted to be married in the temple. But after nearly forty years in building, the temple still was not completed, so Jody’s father solved the problem by giving us railroad tickets to Logan. On a beautiful June day we were married in the Logan Temple for time and all eternity.
The pincushion made from temple sawdust traveled with us to our home in Salt Lake City. It went with us wherever we lived. And it has been a reminder to each of our eight children that the temple is a sacred and important place. Papa was right. It has, indeed, been “a fine thing to have a pincushion made with temple sawdust.”
We needed no second call, for this was one errand we delighted in doing. Mama filled a plate with hot food, covered it with a soup dish to keep in the warmth, wrapped it carefully in a large napkin, and placed it in a basket. Then she handed the basket to us with final instructions: “Carry it carefully, don’t play on the way, and hurry home after Papa has eaten.”
It was ten blocks from our home on East Third South to Salt Lake Temple Block where Papa worked as a stonecutter. But it didn’t seem that long to us as we talked of the fun we’d have while Papa ate his dinner. It was interesting to watch the huge granite blocks being brought in from the canyon quarry by ox-drawn wagons. While the wagons were unloaded, the oxen stood patiently switching at flies with their tails. After the rough blocks were cut and smoothed to the required shape and size, they were tilted and placed in rows like dominoes, leaving the sharp edges protruding like saw teeth. We enjoyed running back and forth on top of these stone dominoes in our bare feet. Shoes were saved for Sunday and for school.
Sometimes we would watch as skilled workmen cut sun, moon, and star designs into certain stones. Each held a small iron chisel in his left hand and a hard wooden mallet in his right, tapping gently so as not to chip out too much rock and spoil the pattern.
Today Papa had a special surprise for us. He said, “The men who are making the circular staircase (there was one in each corner of the building) say you may go up as far as it is completed, but you must be very quiet, because this is the Lord’s house.”
I took Heman’s hand, and together we climbed the huge stone steps—up, up, up until we were out of breath. It was easier going down. Then Papa took us into the carpenter shop where wood for the building was sawed. On the floor was a heap of clean sawdust and Papa told us that the foreman said it would be all right for us to take some home so Mama could show us how to make a pincushion. “Someday it will be a fine thing,” Papa said, “to have a pincushion made with temple sawdust.”
Eagerly we filled the basket with fragrant sawdust and hurried home. But Mama had no time right then to help with a pincushion. She was trying to finish the washing and ironing for Sister Young, who lived next door, and the baby was cross. I rocked the baby to sleep, then helped Mama prepare supper.
In the evening, after the dishes were washed and put away, Mama found a piece of strong, durable brown cloth on which she drew a large fig leaf. She showed me how to embroider green lines for veins and outline the edge with a blanket stitch. A matching piece for the back was sewed to the front, leaving a hole near the top to pour in the temple sawdust until the leaf would hold no more. Then we sewed the hole shut so none of the precious sawdust would be lost. When the pincushion was finished I proudly showed it to Papa for his approval, then placed it on top of Mama’s dresser with my other special treasures.
Sometime later Mama was called to Idaho to help with a new grandchild, leaving me to do the cooking and housekeeping. Heman helped Papa with outside chores, while our little sisters Aggie and Birdie played together under the trees. One morning I noticed how faded and worn Birdie’s hand-me-down dresses were and asked Papa for a quarter to buy material to make her a new dress. At McMaster’s Store I bought a piece of lovely pink gingham. Laying it on the floor, and using pins from the temple-sawdust cushion, I pinned one of Birdie’s old dresses to the cloth for a pattern, then cut around it carefully, and sewed the pieces together. Birdie looked as sweet as a rosebud when Papa came from work that evening.
When I was older I found work in a dressmaking shop, and learned how to make nice clothes for myself and for Mama and my little sisters too. Soon after this Jody, my childhood sweetheart, asked me to marry him. Looking closely at the temple-sawdust pincushion one day, I knew I wanted to be married in the temple. But after nearly forty years in building, the temple still was not completed, so Jody’s father solved the problem by giving us railroad tickets to Logan. On a beautiful June day we were married in the Logan Temple for time and all eternity.
The pincushion made from temple sawdust traveled with us to our home in Salt Lake City. It went with us wherever we lived. And it has been a reminder to each of our eight children that the temple is a sacred and important place. Papa was right. It has, indeed, been “a fine thing to have a pincushion made with temple sawdust.”
Read more →
👤 Parents
👤 Children
👤 Youth
👤 Young Adults
👤 Church Members (General)
Children
Employment
Family
Marriage
Reverence
Sealing
Self-Reliance
Service
Temples
What Would I Sing?
Summary: While hiking the Milford Track in 2013 with an international group, a spontaneous talent show began to include off-color remarks. The author felt impressed to sing “I Am a Child of God,” drawing on memories of Primary in New Zealand. The Spirit softened hearts, and others then shared uplifting music, including church choir pieces, a Jewish folk song, and Maori songs. The group felt united as children of God rather than strangers.
In February 2013, I returned to New Zealand on vacation. Being an avid hiker, I booked a four-day hiking excursion of the famous Milford Track in Fiordland National Park on the South Island.
I was joined by three Americans and 37 other hikers from around the world, including Australia, Brazil, England, Finland, Germany, Israel, and Uruguay. During our adventure, we shared thoughts, experiences, and opinions as best we could given our language barriers. It didn’t take long for our cultural differences and preconceived opinions to melt away under our growing bonds.
At the end of our third day of hiking, one of the hikers wanted to build upon our growing friendships and sprang to his feet, announcing that we should hold a talent show. He said he would begin the show. He chose to share his storytelling talent, which he had been practicing at his business office in Caesarea, Israel. His story went well, so he announced that he would tell another one. But as he shared some off-color remarks, I realized that the evening could easily turn out to be something less than uplifting.
During his story, I felt a strong impression to sing for the group. But what would I sing to my newfound friends from all over the world? The answer came to me forcefully: “I Am a Child of God” (Hymns, no. 301).
I felt a strong impression to sing for the group. But what would I sing to my newfound friends from all over the world?
I was anxious but drew upon my memories of and love for the Primary children of New Zealand. I rose to my feet and explained that I would sing a special song that I had sung nearly 40 years ago with children in New Zealand. I explained that I had been a missionary, had taught these children, and had grown to love them. I then said a silent prayer, asking for help to sing in a manner that would bless the group.
The song went well, and afterward I could feel the Spirit. My new friends smiled, and the song seemed to open their hearts. It wasn’t long before others rose and began sharing their musical talents. A group of four ladies, previously reluctant to participate, sang selections from their church choir. Another hiker taught us a Jewish folk song.
At the end of the talent show, a beautiful young woman from Australia sang three songs in Maori, her native tongue. Truly the Spirit of our Heavenly Father had distilled upon us and helped us realize that we were all children of God, not just “strangers and foreigners” (Ephesians 2:19) from various lands.
I was joined by three Americans and 37 other hikers from around the world, including Australia, Brazil, England, Finland, Germany, Israel, and Uruguay. During our adventure, we shared thoughts, experiences, and opinions as best we could given our language barriers. It didn’t take long for our cultural differences and preconceived opinions to melt away under our growing bonds.
At the end of our third day of hiking, one of the hikers wanted to build upon our growing friendships and sprang to his feet, announcing that we should hold a talent show. He said he would begin the show. He chose to share his storytelling talent, which he had been practicing at his business office in Caesarea, Israel. His story went well, so he announced that he would tell another one. But as he shared some off-color remarks, I realized that the evening could easily turn out to be something less than uplifting.
During his story, I felt a strong impression to sing for the group. But what would I sing to my newfound friends from all over the world? The answer came to me forcefully: “I Am a Child of God” (Hymns, no. 301).
I felt a strong impression to sing for the group. But what would I sing to my newfound friends from all over the world?
I was anxious but drew upon my memories of and love for the Primary children of New Zealand. I rose to my feet and explained that I would sing a special song that I had sung nearly 40 years ago with children in New Zealand. I explained that I had been a missionary, had taught these children, and had grown to love them. I then said a silent prayer, asking for help to sing in a manner that would bless the group.
The song went well, and afterward I could feel the Spirit. My new friends smiled, and the song seemed to open their hearts. It wasn’t long before others rose and began sharing their musical talents. A group of four ladies, previously reluctant to participate, sang selections from their church choir. Another hiker taught us a Jewish folk song.
At the end of the talent show, a beautiful young woman from Australia sang three songs in Maori, her native tongue. Truly the Spirit of our Heavenly Father had distilled upon us and helped us realize that we were all children of God, not just “strangers and foreigners” (Ephesians 2:19) from various lands.
Read more →
👤 Church Members (General)
👤 Other
Children
Diversity and Unity in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints
Friendship
Holy Ghost
Judging Others
Music
Prayer
Racial and Cultural Prejudice
My Search for the Restoration
Summary: A Sicilian Catholic priest struggles with deep doubts, studies extensively, and ultimately leaves the priesthood, facing isolation and a long period of religious searching. Years later, after renewed prayer and spiritual impressions, he meets two Latter-day Saint missionaries, reads the Book of Mormon, and gains a witness of the Restoration. He is baptized, his wife later follows, and he receives the priesthood, bearing testimony of the restored Church.
I come from a small village in Sicily, Italy, where the lemons bloom and the boundaries between the fields are marked by green rows of prickly pears bristling with thorns bearing the sweetest of fruits. I remember with pleasure the years I spent there preparing to become a Catholic priest. After entering seminary at age ten, I completed my high school and advanced theological studies in various cities in Sicily. I was a good student and seminarian.
But my story, now told in old age, is one of sorrow as well as joy. After having spent a lifetime in anguished searching, I dedicate this brief account of my conversion to all believers of good faith, Christian or non-Christian, and especially to those who are searching for the restored Christian church.
After I was ordained a priest in 1950, my faith in the Catholic Church started to waiver. At a certain point, I thought I had lost my faith altogether. This was the first of many crises of belief to follow. However, I spoke of this to no one; I don’t know whether any of my colleagues or superiors were ever aware of my internal anguish. Externally, I continued to carry on as before: I said mass, prayed in public, and administered the sacrament regularly. My superiors conferred positions of trust upon me. Among other things, I was appointed Dean of the Seminary and became a preacher much in demand.
But I was deeply unhappy, because my old faith had collapsed inside me. I requested the opportunity to pursue further theological studies at the Pontifical University in Rome, hoping to dispel my doubts. My request was granted, and I spent four years obtaining my doctorate in the Department of Dogmatic Theology.
But instead of dispelling my doubts and strengthening my faith, the experience had the opposite effect. Thus, I returned to Sicily with another doctorate—but with a faith that was literally in pieces.
I no long viewed my situation as a passing crisis, but as a permanent reality. Deeply unhappy, I envied those uneducated believers who maintained their simple faith. Not only was I enduring the internal anguish of religious doubt, but I was also facing a moral and professional quandary: How could I remain in the service of a church whose teachings I did not believe?
When someone advised me to use caution and to prayerfully continue my studies, I enrolled in the Department of Letters and Philosophy at the state university. For four more years I analyzed my questions. But my faith only continued to deteriorate.
I could find no answers to my major problem: As a result of my historical research on my church, I was certain that an apostasy had occurred as early as the end of the first century after Christ. But how could I reconcile that fact with the never-changing nature of God? Surely, I reasoned, when God established his church, he wouldn’t have let it vanish forever after lasting only one century; it must endure eternally. But where was the solution to the apostasy? Surely there must be another Christian church that had inherited the doctrine of the true church of Christ.
After achieving yet another degree, I arrived at a crossroads. Only two possibilities existed: continue on as a priest of a church that clashed with my conscience, or leave my church and my profession in order to remain consistent with my religious convictions.
I knew very well that the first option was ethically immoral, but it certainly would be the most convenient. And I knew that the second option would create enormous difficulties. But at that point, I did not hesitate. On 25 September 1965, I gave my official and final adieu to my church and my profession.
As I expected, my decision created an enormous void around me; even close relatives ostracized me. Alone and without money, I left for northern Italy, where I began a new life. There, I quickly found a job as a teacher of letters in a technical institute in Bologna.
In my free time, I continued my research, first embarking on a study of Protestantism that left me even more disillusioned and bitter than before. Not one church seemed to possess the requirements of the true church of Jesus Christ. If the Book of Mormon had come into my hands at that time, or if someone had told me about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, perhaps my journey would have ended there.
Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. I went on to study other religions besides Christianity—Islam, Buddhism, and Hinduism—eventually neglecting my search for the true church of Jesus Christ. Instead, I became an expert in Oriental philosophy and came to believe that perhaps one religion was as good as another. As a result of all my study, I seemed to have fallen into religious indifference.
But, thanks to the grace of the Lord, I still believed in God and in his divinity. And I never completely lost my faith in the divinity of Jesus Christ. For this reason, I continued to search for Him.
In the meantime, I had married. My wife, Ines, had been reared in a Catholic home but was not a practicing church member. We decided not to instruct our two children in any religion, leaving the choice to them.
With the passing of years, I had grown closer to Christ. I had started praying regularly and reading the Bible again. I was a Christian without a church—but still engaged in the search for the true church of Jesus Christ.
By this time I was old, past sixty. It was at this time that the good Lord took pity on me, sending me premonitions, in the form of dreams, that my chance would soon arrive.
On a clear September morning, I had just left my car when I saw two boys at a distance. They watched me as though they recognized me and were waiting for me. Strangely enough, I didn’t assume the defensive stance that I normally used in order to shun the annoying approaches of sellers or missionaries. Much to my surprise, I felt drawn to them, as though I, too, had been waiting to meet them for a long time. Although they were strangers, I was open and friendly to these clean, sincere young men.
They were two Mormon missionaries. When I found this out, it hit me like a thunderbolt, and I listened to them with great joy in my heart. I felt that God had finally answered my questions. I willingly took a Book of Mormon from them and started reading it with anticipation later that evening.
Sitting alone at my desk with that book, I felt overcome with joy and tenderness. Sweet feelings that I had never known before made me feel almost lightheaded in a semi-conscious state that lasted for perhaps an hour.
God gave me the inner assurance that I would find in that book the truth I had been seeking for so many years. The reading of the Book of Mormon bound me immediately. The Book of Mormon and the Bible both pointed me toward a single divine revelation: the Christian church, which had fallen into apostasy, had been restored! Christ had not abandoned his church after all—it was man who had been the author of the Apostasy, and now the Lord had again placed his church upon the earth! Even I, in my small way, felt that I had been restored. My long night, which had lasted for many years, was finally at an end!
Thanks to God, I was finally happy. My testimony grew every day as I continued to study the scriptures and to discuss the doctrine with the missionaries and the branch president, Ezio Caramia. A few months after meeting the missionaries, I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Adding to my happiness, my wife also decided to be baptized a few months later.
I later received the Aaronic Priesthood and then the Melchizedek Priesthood. And I testify today, with absolute certainty, that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the true and only church of Jesus Christ. I am also grateful for my testimony of a living prophet and of the modern-day Twelve Apostles.
This is my joyful testimony, molded from much suffering, which I offer humbly to all those whom it may help. The Church is eternal, as are all the works of God. It is his masterpiece.
But my story, now told in old age, is one of sorrow as well as joy. After having spent a lifetime in anguished searching, I dedicate this brief account of my conversion to all believers of good faith, Christian or non-Christian, and especially to those who are searching for the restored Christian church.
After I was ordained a priest in 1950, my faith in the Catholic Church started to waiver. At a certain point, I thought I had lost my faith altogether. This was the first of many crises of belief to follow. However, I spoke of this to no one; I don’t know whether any of my colleagues or superiors were ever aware of my internal anguish. Externally, I continued to carry on as before: I said mass, prayed in public, and administered the sacrament regularly. My superiors conferred positions of trust upon me. Among other things, I was appointed Dean of the Seminary and became a preacher much in demand.
But I was deeply unhappy, because my old faith had collapsed inside me. I requested the opportunity to pursue further theological studies at the Pontifical University in Rome, hoping to dispel my doubts. My request was granted, and I spent four years obtaining my doctorate in the Department of Dogmatic Theology.
But instead of dispelling my doubts and strengthening my faith, the experience had the opposite effect. Thus, I returned to Sicily with another doctorate—but with a faith that was literally in pieces.
I no long viewed my situation as a passing crisis, but as a permanent reality. Deeply unhappy, I envied those uneducated believers who maintained their simple faith. Not only was I enduring the internal anguish of religious doubt, but I was also facing a moral and professional quandary: How could I remain in the service of a church whose teachings I did not believe?
When someone advised me to use caution and to prayerfully continue my studies, I enrolled in the Department of Letters and Philosophy at the state university. For four more years I analyzed my questions. But my faith only continued to deteriorate.
I could find no answers to my major problem: As a result of my historical research on my church, I was certain that an apostasy had occurred as early as the end of the first century after Christ. But how could I reconcile that fact with the never-changing nature of God? Surely, I reasoned, when God established his church, he wouldn’t have let it vanish forever after lasting only one century; it must endure eternally. But where was the solution to the apostasy? Surely there must be another Christian church that had inherited the doctrine of the true church of Christ.
After achieving yet another degree, I arrived at a crossroads. Only two possibilities existed: continue on as a priest of a church that clashed with my conscience, or leave my church and my profession in order to remain consistent with my religious convictions.
I knew very well that the first option was ethically immoral, but it certainly would be the most convenient. And I knew that the second option would create enormous difficulties. But at that point, I did not hesitate. On 25 September 1965, I gave my official and final adieu to my church and my profession.
As I expected, my decision created an enormous void around me; even close relatives ostracized me. Alone and without money, I left for northern Italy, where I began a new life. There, I quickly found a job as a teacher of letters in a technical institute in Bologna.
In my free time, I continued my research, first embarking on a study of Protestantism that left me even more disillusioned and bitter than before. Not one church seemed to possess the requirements of the true church of Jesus Christ. If the Book of Mormon had come into my hands at that time, or if someone had told me about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, perhaps my journey would have ended there.
Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. I went on to study other religions besides Christianity—Islam, Buddhism, and Hinduism—eventually neglecting my search for the true church of Jesus Christ. Instead, I became an expert in Oriental philosophy and came to believe that perhaps one religion was as good as another. As a result of all my study, I seemed to have fallen into religious indifference.
But, thanks to the grace of the Lord, I still believed in God and in his divinity. And I never completely lost my faith in the divinity of Jesus Christ. For this reason, I continued to search for Him.
In the meantime, I had married. My wife, Ines, had been reared in a Catholic home but was not a practicing church member. We decided not to instruct our two children in any religion, leaving the choice to them.
With the passing of years, I had grown closer to Christ. I had started praying regularly and reading the Bible again. I was a Christian without a church—but still engaged in the search for the true church of Jesus Christ.
By this time I was old, past sixty. It was at this time that the good Lord took pity on me, sending me premonitions, in the form of dreams, that my chance would soon arrive.
On a clear September morning, I had just left my car when I saw two boys at a distance. They watched me as though they recognized me and were waiting for me. Strangely enough, I didn’t assume the defensive stance that I normally used in order to shun the annoying approaches of sellers or missionaries. Much to my surprise, I felt drawn to them, as though I, too, had been waiting to meet them for a long time. Although they were strangers, I was open and friendly to these clean, sincere young men.
They were two Mormon missionaries. When I found this out, it hit me like a thunderbolt, and I listened to them with great joy in my heart. I felt that God had finally answered my questions. I willingly took a Book of Mormon from them and started reading it with anticipation later that evening.
Sitting alone at my desk with that book, I felt overcome with joy and tenderness. Sweet feelings that I had never known before made me feel almost lightheaded in a semi-conscious state that lasted for perhaps an hour.
God gave me the inner assurance that I would find in that book the truth I had been seeking for so many years. The reading of the Book of Mormon bound me immediately. The Book of Mormon and the Bible both pointed me toward a single divine revelation: the Christian church, which had fallen into apostasy, had been restored! Christ had not abandoned his church after all—it was man who had been the author of the Apostasy, and now the Lord had again placed his church upon the earth! Even I, in my small way, felt that I had been restored. My long night, which had lasted for many years, was finally at an end!
Thanks to God, I was finally happy. My testimony grew every day as I continued to study the scriptures and to discuss the doctrine with the missionaries and the branch president, Ezio Caramia. A few months after meeting the missionaries, I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Adding to my happiness, my wife also decided to be baptized a few months later.
I later received the Aaronic Priesthood and then the Melchizedek Priesthood. And I testify today, with absolute certainty, that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the true and only church of Jesus Christ. I am also grateful for my testimony of a living prophet and of the modern-day Twelve Apostles.
This is my joyful testimony, molded from much suffering, which I offer humbly to all those whom it may help. The Church is eternal, as are all the works of God. It is his masterpiece.
Read more →
👤 Missionaries
👤 Church Leaders (Local)
👤 Church Members (General)
👤 Other
Adversity
Apostasy
Baptism
Book of Mormon
Conversion
Doubt
Education
Faith
Family
Holy Ghost
Missionary Work
Prayer
Priesthood
Revelation
Sacrifice
Scriptures
Testimony
The Restoration
Salt and Snow
Summary: A college student and her friend detour from a library trip to help an elderly woman shoveling snow. They salt the sidewalks, visit with the woman and her recovering husband, and share a warm conversation. The woman expresses gratitude for the visit, and the student realizes that both the woman and she herself needed friendship. The experience relieves the student's stress and reminds her to watch for opportunities to serve.
Ring! Ring! sang my cell phone.
“Yeah?” I answered.
“You want to hit the library?” my friend Andrea asked.
I glanced up at the clock and then at the pile of homework on my desk. With finals lurking around the corner, I desperately needed a chance to study, and I couldn’t focus in my college apartment.
“Yeah, let’s go,” I said, gathering my books. I bundled myself in several layers before braving the frigid air and wading through four inches of fresh snow to Andrea’s car.
We set off for the library, grumbling about our mountains of homework. Just thinking about the next week made me nervous.
As we passed an intersection, I noticed an elderly woman shoveling snow from her sidewalks.
“Look at that!” I exclaimed. “Why is that little old lady shoveling snow all by herself?”
“We should turn around and help her,” Andrea suggested. Moments later, we pulled into her driveway.
“Can we help you with that?” Andrea asked, reaching for the shovel.
“Oh, no, I’m all right, but thank you,” she said in surprise.
“No, really,” I insisted. “At least let us finish for you. You must be freezing.”
She hesitated, but then gratefully consented to let us salt down the sidewalks.
We collected the salt and chatted with her as we sprinkled the sidewalks. The salt melted away the ice almost as quickly as our disgruntled moods.
After we finished, we went inside to meet her husband, who was unable to shovel the snow because he was recovering from surgery. We enjoyed some eggnog, admired family photos, and told her about our families. Then out of the blue she stopped and smiled at us.
“I’m so glad you stopped by,” she confided. “It’s just so good to visit.”
We stayed with her for about an hour, then hugged her good-bye and continued our trek to the library.
“I don’t think she really needed someone to salt her sidewalks,” Andrea said as we drove away.
“No,” I said. “She needed a friend.”
As I glanced at my pile of books, I realized I had needed her, too. The stress I’d felt just an hour before was nearly gone, replaced by blissful relief. I had been so focused on my tests that I couldn’t see how others struggled with bigger problems like loneliness, growing older, and even shoveling snow. I will always be grateful for that reminder to watch for opportunities to serve.
“Yeah?” I answered.
“You want to hit the library?” my friend Andrea asked.
I glanced up at the clock and then at the pile of homework on my desk. With finals lurking around the corner, I desperately needed a chance to study, and I couldn’t focus in my college apartment.
“Yeah, let’s go,” I said, gathering my books. I bundled myself in several layers before braving the frigid air and wading through four inches of fresh snow to Andrea’s car.
We set off for the library, grumbling about our mountains of homework. Just thinking about the next week made me nervous.
As we passed an intersection, I noticed an elderly woman shoveling snow from her sidewalks.
“Look at that!” I exclaimed. “Why is that little old lady shoveling snow all by herself?”
“We should turn around and help her,” Andrea suggested. Moments later, we pulled into her driveway.
“Can we help you with that?” Andrea asked, reaching for the shovel.
“Oh, no, I’m all right, but thank you,” she said in surprise.
“No, really,” I insisted. “At least let us finish for you. You must be freezing.”
She hesitated, but then gratefully consented to let us salt down the sidewalks.
We collected the salt and chatted with her as we sprinkled the sidewalks. The salt melted away the ice almost as quickly as our disgruntled moods.
After we finished, we went inside to meet her husband, who was unable to shovel the snow because he was recovering from surgery. We enjoyed some eggnog, admired family photos, and told her about our families. Then out of the blue she stopped and smiled at us.
“I’m so glad you stopped by,” she confided. “It’s just so good to visit.”
We stayed with her for about an hour, then hugged her good-bye and continued our trek to the library.
“I don’t think she really needed someone to salt her sidewalks,” Andrea said as we drove away.
“No,” I said. “She needed a friend.”
As I glanced at my pile of books, I realized I had needed her, too. The stress I’d felt just an hour before was nearly gone, replaced by blissful relief. I had been so focused on my tests that I couldn’t see how others struggled with bigger problems like loneliness, growing older, and even shoveling snow. I will always be grateful for that reminder to watch for opportunities to serve.
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👤 Young Adults
👤 Friends
👤 Other
Friendship
Gratitude
Kindness
Ministering
Service
Truths of Moral Purity
Summary: Susan was raised with high moral standards and lived the law of chastity before joining the Church. She married Tom in the temple, and when their baby died at birth, they found peace knowing she was born in the covenant. Decades later, despite challenges and others’ divorces, they remain committed to their covenants and work through difficulties together.
Susan, baptized into the Church at age 28, had always lived the law of chastity. “My parents had integrity and expected me to have high moral standards, to be honest and chaste, so I just did it,” says Susan, who was raised in the midwestern United States. “Now I realize I was responding to the light of Christ. I never dated a Latter-day Saint until I met Tom. When I heard the gospel, I was glad I had never given in to sexual temptation. Later, Tom and I were married in the Salt Lake Temple. One year later our baby daughter died at birth. We were devastated but grateful we had been worthy to be sealed in the temple when we were first married. Knowing that our baby was born in the covenant brought us understanding and peace.”
Susan and Tom still live in the Midwest after 24 years of marriage and five children. “Several of our friends and cousins have divorced,” says Tom. “We have had our share of financial and family challenges, yet we both want to be true to our temple covenants, so we just work things out.”
Susan and Tom still live in the Midwest after 24 years of marriage and five children. “Several of our friends and cousins have divorced,” says Tom. “We have had our share of financial and family challenges, yet we both want to be true to our temple covenants, so we just work things out.”
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👤 Parents
👤 Church Members (General)
Chastity
Children
Conversion
Covenant
Dating and Courtship
Death
Endure to the End
Family
Grief
Light of Christ
Marriage
Peace
Sealing
Temples
Parenting:
Summary: An 11-year-old son repeatedly body-blocks his mother at home, leading her to lose patience after a fall. Tearfully, he explains he thought it was fun and that practicing on his mother would prepare him for future success. The exchange softens the mother’s heart and reframes the experience.
I would like to close with an experience that occurred recently.
For three days in a row, my son Duffy (who is our eleven-year-old and plays on the school football team) leaped from some hidden corner of our home to throw a body block on me, in professional style. The last time he did this, in my effort to avoid the attack, I fell on the floor and knocked over the lamp and found my right elbow wedged up somewhere near my eyebrow. I completely lost my patience, and I scolded him for making me his tackling dummy.
His response melted my heart when he said with tears rolling down both cheeks, “But, Mom, you’re the best friend a guy could have. I thought this was as much fun for you as it was for me.” Then he added, “For a long time now I’ve planned what I will say in my first interview as a big time trophy winner. When they ask me how I got to be so great, I’ll tell them, ‘I practiced on my mother!’”
For three days in a row, my son Duffy (who is our eleven-year-old and plays on the school football team) leaped from some hidden corner of our home to throw a body block on me, in professional style. The last time he did this, in my effort to avoid the attack, I fell on the floor and knocked over the lamp and found my right elbow wedged up somewhere near my eyebrow. I completely lost my patience, and I scolded him for making me his tackling dummy.
His response melted my heart when he said with tears rolling down both cheeks, “But, Mom, you’re the best friend a guy could have. I thought this was as much fun for you as it was for me.” Then he added, “For a long time now I’ve planned what I will say in my first interview as a big time trophy winner. When they ask me how I got to be so great, I’ll tell them, ‘I practiced on my mother!’”
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👤 Parents
👤 Children
Children
Family
Friendship
Love
Parenting
Patience