Gospel Story Finder

If you had told me I would be standing inside a temple sealing room at only 17 years old, I would have laughed. No, wedding bells didn’t chime, but there I was, inside the sealing room of the house of the Lord. It’s amazing how life has a way of turning out.
In January 1995 my second baby brother was born. We called him Michael Jon Loveland. He was beautiful with tiny hands, an adorable little nose, and eyes you couldn’t stop smiling at. There was an instant connection between us.
As I looked around the hospital room at my mom, dad, older sister, and two younger brothers, I remember thinking nothing could ever change the serenity I then felt knowing that this was my family. This was the family I would be spending eternity with.
In the weeks that followed, however, it became clear that something wasn’t right. My mother began noticing things about Michael Jon that only a mother could notice. Her concerns were soon justified only a few weeks later.
I can still clearly remember the night my parents reluctantly told us the news. I’m still not sure how they managed to get it out, but somehow through tears and quiet sobs, we soon discovered what the problem had been. Michael Jon, my new infant brother, had been diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor.
The days that followed are now fairly hazy. I can’t even begin to describe the countless emotions that ran through me. Fear, confusion, anger. How could this be? He was only six weeks old! How could something so vile and destructive be inside my baby brother, so beautiful and pure?
The doctors said he had weeks, maybe a month. After prayerful consideration, my parents decided that bringing Michael home would be the best decision. In order to do this, however, my parents would need to be trained and aided by a team of home doctors and nurses who provided hospice care.
Having Michael spend time at home, as opposed to the hospital, was a quiet blessing in more ways than one. I still have fond memories of silently going into his room at night and just holding him, holding and rocking the small miracle that God had placed in our lives and would just as quickly be taking away. But aside from the fact that we all got to spend time with him, there was another small miracle that was slowly taking place.
The rest of my story, however, generally revolves around one of the hospice nurses in charge of taking care of Michael. As the weeks passed and Michael’s health began taking a dramatic plunge, she was constantly at our house, doing everything she could to relieve the strain my parents were feeling.
In April 1995, on my mom’s birthday, which was also Easter Sunday that year, Michael’s last day came. It’s one of the few times in my life that I have ever seen my father cry. It seemed so unreal! Yet this valiant spirit had slipped in and out of our lives in only three months. The impact his life had left, however, will never be forgotten.
At the time, though, it still seemed pointless. Why would Heavenly Father allow Michael to go through such tremendous amounts of pain and suffering? It all seemed so unfair. I had lost my baby brother, and all for what? I would never get to tease him about his first-grade crush, never get to congratulate him on making the high school baseball team, and never write letters while he served a mission. But, oh, how shortsighted earth life can leave us. At the time, I could not even fathom the remarkable mission Michael had already been called to serve.
With Michael gone, it was time the team of hospice nurses moved on. For whatever reason, however, my mother and the head nurse remained in contact, frequently bumping into each other at the grocery store or other activities. Of course, it was viewed as merely coincidence.
Then it happened, one of those rare occasions when you can actually step back and see the pieces begin to fall into place. Two years after Michael’s death, my mother received a call from the hospice nurse. Due to some unusual circumstances, two of her grandchildren were in need of a stable home.
I came home from Mutual to find a new baby girl, only 10 weeks old, lying on the sofa. “Where did she come from? How long will she be staying?” Within the next four weeks, we received her brother. Two children had suddenly been dropped into our lives without certainty as to how long they would be staying. Well, five years later, that question was answered. They’ll be staying for eternity.
We ended up adopting both David and Candace in February 2002, and five months later I found myself stepping inside the sealing room of the Idaho Falls temple. The temple sealing was incredible. Words can hardly describe the spirit that was present. I couldn’t stop crying as I witnessed David and Candace sealed to our family for all of time and eternity. I have no doubt that Michael was there as well. After all, had Michael not been born into our family, we never would have had these two children introduced into our lives.
It’s amazing how life has a way of turning out. “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). Even the hardest trials are placed in our lives to serve as an anchor to strengthen us. We just need to have the faith and courage to endure to the end, trusting in the Lord.

If you will forgive another experience, a couple of years ago I had an assignment that took me to Germany. I had had a bout with the flu before I left, and I wasn’t sure if I ought to go or not; but I felt that I had better because of what had been planned and because of the many who were depending on me. After the flight from New York to Frankfurt, I was tired and not feeling well. I was alone, and I didn’t speak German, so I checked into the hotel at the airport. Before going to my room, however, I went to the pharmacy in the airport, and I got a throat spray to disinfect my throat. It was the kind of can that you push the button and the medication comes out through a finger-length piece of plastic tubing that you stick down into your throat.

I went to my room and prepared to rest for a while; but when I began to spray my throat, the plastic tube came loose and drove itself down my throat and into my chest. I couldn’t feel it, but I knew there was a three-inch piece of plastic somewhere, and I didn’t know what to do. I coughed. I did all that I could to get rid of it. Then I began to worry—not that I would die, for I knew that I wasn’t near death—but because I knew that there were people waiting for me in various countries where I was to be going for the next three weeks, and I knew that if something didn’t happen right away I would end up in the hospital to have the plastic pipe removed surgically. So I needed an immediate answer. I needed an immediate response. I knelt at my bed, and I told the Lord that I had no place to go, that I didn’t speak the language, that I didn’t know a doctor, that I didn’t know anyone, and that there were people waiting for me. And I asked Him to please remove this tubing. I got up from praying, and in two seconds it came out of my throat. You see, there are some answers to prayers that come immediately.

Let me tell you about three Turkish converts:
The first one is Murat Çak?r who is serving currently as the ?stanbul Branch President. Murat grew up as a Muslim but his parents were not active in the Mulsim religion. He started going to the mosque as a young man but knew something was missing. One day, he prayed to God that if He would help him find that which was missing, he would dedicate his life to Him. Murat’s grandmother was a very devout Muslim. She would often say, “God always protects and blesses those who have faith in Him.”

At age sixteen, in Istanbul, Murat started studying international relations. Murat received a scholarship to study in Norway. In Norway at the age of seventeen, Murat had the opportunity to learn about Christianity.

One evening when Murat was in his room in the dorms at the university, he had a strong impression to get out of his room. As he did, he saw two men in suits and overcoats passing his door. He felt a strong prompting to talk with them. These two men dressed in suits and overcoats were missionaries from the Church. Murat took the missionary lessons. As Murat prayed, he knew that their message was true. He felt a special peace in receiving the lessons and in going to Church. Murat was converted at the age of twenty. He enjoyed sharing the Gospel with others. He was called to be a stake missionary.

Murat decided to become a full-time missionary but realized this would mean leaving Norway resulting in his losing his deferment status to study in Norway again. When Murat joined the Church, there was only one Turkish member residing in Turkey. Going on a mission also meant that Murat would most likely be obligated by the Turkish Government to serve in the military for eighteen months which could easily result in his fighting terrorists in the mountain regions of Turkey.

In 1989, Murat left his education and sold everything he had to serve a mission. He was called to serve in Arizona. Murat’s parents were totally against him going on a mission. However, he knew that this is what the Lord wanted him to do. At the age of twenty-two, Murat began his mission. He devoted himself completely in the service of the Lord for the next two years. Being close to the Spirit, Murat had a dream on his mission that his grandmother would pass on in a week. This was followed by another dream two weeks later that she had died. This was confirmed in a letter Murat received from his mother shortly thereafter.

During Murat’s mission, his passport was about to expire and his embassy refused to renew it as he was not a worker or student. Murat’s mission president had him apply to BYU-Provo whereupon Murat received a four-year scholarship. Murat was able to finish his two-year mission plus one month.

At BYU, Murat was able to help out with the translation of the Book of Mormon into Turkish which took six years. During this time of translation, many miracles occurred in the translation process. In 2001, the Book of Mormon was published in Turkish.

At BYU, Murat met his to-be eternal companion, Susan. They now have five children and all are dual-citizens. After attending graduate school and taking a job in the Middle East for a time, the family moved to Turkey in August of 2008 from Provo without any job prospects. Upon their second day in Turkey, Susan was offered a position at a private Turkish school with full scholarships for their five children. Murat started working for the Translation Department of the Church. He is currently working on translating the Doctrine and Covenants into Turkish. Murat has served as the Istanbul Branch President for over the past six years.

I remember two friends from my high school and university years. He was a boy from a country town, plain in appearance, without money or apparent promise. He had grown up on a farm, and if he had any quality that was attractive it was the capacity to work. He carried sandwiches in a brown paper bag for his lunch and swept the school floors to pay for his education. But with all of his country appearance, he had a smile and a personality that seemed to sing of goodness. She was a city girl who had come out of a comfortable home. She would not have won a beauty contest. But she was wholesome in her decency and integrity and attractive in her good manners and dress.
Something wonderful took place between them. They fell in love. Some people whispered that there were far more promising boys for her, and a gossip or two noted that perhaps other girls might have interested him. But these two laughed and danced and studied together through their school years. They married when people wondered how they could ever earn enough to stay alive. He struggled through his professional school and came out well in his class. She saved and worked and prayed. She encouraged and sustained, and when things were really tough, she said quietly, “Somehow we can make it.” Buoyed by her faith in him, he kept going through these difficult years. Children came, and together they loved them and nourished them and gave them the security that came of their own love for and loyalty to one another. Now many years have passed. Their children are grown, a lasting credit to them, to the Church, and to the communities in which they live.
I remember seeing them on an airplane, as I returned from a Church assignment. I walked down the aisle in the semi-darkness of the aircraft cabin and saw a woman, white-haired, her head on her husband’s shoulder as she dozed. His hand was clasped warmly about hers. He was awake and recognized me. She awakened, and we talked. They were returning from a convention where he had delivered a paper before a learned society. He said little about it, but she proudly spoke of the honors accorded him.
I wish that I might have caught with a camera the look on her face as she talked of him. Forty-five years earlier people without understanding had asked what they saw in each other. I thought of that as I returned to my seat on the airplane. Their friends of those days saw only a farm boy from the country and a smiling girl with freckles on her nose. But these two found in each other love and loyalty, peace and faith in the future.
There was a flowering in them of something divine, planted there by that Father who is our God. In their school days they had lived worthy of that flowering of love. They had lived with virtue and faith, with appreciation and respect for self and one another. In the years of their difficult professional and economic struggles, they had found their greatest earthly strength in their companionship. Now in mature age, they were finding peace and quiet satisfaction together. Beyond all this, they were assured of an eternity of joyful association through priesthood covenants long since made and promises long since given in the House of the Lord.

For a long time in Primary, I wanted to go inside the temple and do baptisms for the dead. So when I became a Beehive, I couldn’t wait to get started. The first time I went was on my 12th birthday. My dad took me to the Ogden Utah Temple, where we did the baptisms and confirmations. I felt the Spirit so strongly, and I didn’t want the feeling to leave.
I decided that for a Personal Progress experience, I wanted to do my family history. A kind sister from my ward taught me how to use the FamilySearch program. I then searched for names with my mom, and every time I saw a green arrow pointing to the temple, I squealed with delight—it meant we’d found another name to submit to the temple for temple work!
My mother and I just went to the temple to do six of the baptisms. Temple workers said they had more names for us to do if we’d like to do them. I was overjoyed! My mom and I did at least 12 baptisms each. I felt the Spirit and always will when I go to the temple.

My greatest adventure, however, was the reading of the Holy Bible. From infancy I had enjoyed the simplified and illustrated Bible stories, but the original Bible seemed so endless in length, so difficult to understand, that I avoided it until a challenge came to me from Sister Susa Young Gates. She was the speaker at the MIA meeting of stake conference and she gave a discourse on the value of reading the Bible. In conclusion she asked for raising of hands of all who had read it through. The hands that were raised out of that large congregation were so few and so timid! Some of them tried to explain by saying, “We haven’t read it through, but we have studied many parts of it.”
I was shocked into an unalterable determination to read that great book. As soon as I reached home after the meeting I began with the first verse of Genesis and continued faithfully every day. Most of the reading was done in my attic bedroom that I occupied alone. I stayed up very late and read long hours when I was thought to be asleep,
Approximately a year later I reached the last verses in Revelation:
“He which testifieth these things saith, Surely I come quickly. Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus,
“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen.”
What a satisfaction it was to me to realize I had read the Bible through from beginning to end! What exultation of spirit! And what joy in the overall picture I had received of its contents!
For more than half of a century now I have continued to be grateful to Sister Gates for the inspiration that encouraged me to read the Holy Bible my first time.
I recommend it to you, whether you are young or old.

Last night was Thursday and everyone was home (untypical), and everyone was busy (typical). Rinda, seventeen, had to write a paragraph for English using a wild list of vocabulary words, and she wanted some ideas. Dinny, twelve, was struggling with a report on Treasure Island to be given orally and wondered how to make it interesting. Shelley, fifteen, was sandwiching geometry theorems between preparations for a report in American Problems on movie ratings and pornography, and she wanted my views. Becky, nineteen, wanted to know a good book to read and asked what I thought about the issue of faculty tenure as reported in the college newspaper that day. Megan, eight, needed some poems to take for library day and asked where to find some information on planets.
On a night like that, I am especially glad for some resources provided by my past to bolster my pretty-tattered present.

During the final years of his life, President Benson’s once-powerful physical body steadily weakened. At first, he met with the Saints at general conferences when he could, waving to the congregation from his wheelchair. Later, his health prevented him from attending general conference. At home, in his apartment across from the Church Office Building, he still visited with General Authorities who came to express their love and also to consult with him on matters of concern. His beloved Flora passed away on 14 August 1992, after a loving companionship of sixty-six years.

President Benson’s forceful personality likewise mellowed and softened with age, observed a close associate. “Although many people grow grouchy and demanding with advanced age and infirmity, President Benson grew even sweeter and more grateful for the things others did for him.” To the end of his life, this prophet exemplified the sweet fruits of the gospel of Christ.

Susan awoke to the smell of sausage frying. Saturday! That’s the only day Mom cooked sausage. She sat on the edge of her bed and stretched. A familiar rattle outside drew her to the window. Uncle Gordon’s brown pickup truck drove into the driveway in a cloud of dust.
Susan quickly straightened the bed covers and tucked them in. She slipped into her blue jeans and lavender gingham cowboy shirt. Then she grabbed her cowboy boots and pulled them on as she ran down the hall.
“Good morning, Kate,” she heard Uncle Gordon greet her mother. “Is Susan up yet this morning?”
“Here I am, Uncle Gordon,” she called. “Did you get the new horses?”
“Well, now, I like that,” he teased. “I haven’t seen you since school started, and all you can think of is horses.”
“I’m glad to see you too.” Susan grinned. “How are you? Did you get the horses?”
“That’s better,” he laughed. “Yes, I did. I picked up two yesterday.”
“What do they look like?” she asked.
“They’re both mares and as black as the root cellar at midnight,” he told her. “I’m having a hard time figuring out what to call them. In fact, that’s why I’m here. I was hoping your mother would let you spend the day at the ranch with me. Then you could have the job of naming them.”
“May I please? I’ll do my chores before I go,” she promised.
“It’s fine with me if your father doesn’t need you today,” Mom agreed.
The kitchen door opened wide, and Dad entered with pail of fresh milk. “Good morning, Gordon,” he said. “I’d shake your hand, but Kate doesn’t allow us to have milk shakes before breakfast.”
Susan grinned. She liked her father’s sense of humor. “May I go home with Uncle Gordon?” she asked. “He has two new horses, and he needs me to name them. May I, please?”
“Hold on just a minute, young lady,” her father said. “You can’t go anywhere without breakfast. How about joining us, Gordon?”
“I was hoping you’d ask,” he admitted. “No one makes biscuits like my sister-in-law.”
“Susan, will you get the pitcher of orange juice while I finish setting the table?” her mother asked. “Then we can eat.”
“The men will go wash up,” Father said.
“Don’t forget the raspberry jam,” Gordon whispered to Susan as he headed to the bathroom.
After breakfast, as Susan and Uncle Gordon drove from Pleasant Heights to Middleton, Susan studied her uncle. He looked a lot like her father, only much younger. He’d only been home from his mission a few years. He was medium in build and had strong arms like her father’s from throwing bales of hay. Both had brown arms and faces from a summer in the sun. The strong jaw and high cheekbones were the same too. But Dad’s hair was dark brown touched with gray. Uncle Gordon’s was blond.
“Why don’t you get married, Uncle Gordon?” Susan asked.
“Because I haven’t met someone just like you yet,” he laughed.
Susan blushed at his joke. Deep down she didn’t want Uncle Gordon to get married right away. He would have less time for her if he did. But she knew that someday she would have to share him.
Grandpa had been ill when Uncle Gordon returned from his mission to Brazil. Uncle Gordon had taken over the ranch and cared for Grandpa until he died last summer. At first, it was hard for Susan to go to the ranch after Grandpa died. She loved the horses, but everywhere she went, she expected to see him. Uncle Gordon understood how she felt. He knew when to make her laugh and when to let her think about the emptiness she felt without Grandpa.
When they arrived at the ranch, Uncle Gordon pointed to the pasture by the barn. “There they are,” he told her. “You go over and get acquainted.”
“Are they broke?” she asked.
“One of them is, and one isn’t,” he said, “so be careful. I have a truckful of grain to unload. I’ll be back in a little while to see how you’re getting along.”
Susan leaned against the top rail of the fence and watched the two horses grazing side by side. They look just alike from here, she thought. Still, being around horses all her life taught her that no two horses were ever exactly alike. I’ll find the difference, she told herself.
She climbed the fence and walked slowly around the edge of the pasture until she could see their faces. The closest horse whinnied and tossed her head. Susan saw a brief flash of white. There must be a small blaze under her forelock, she thought. The mare tossed her head again. There was the blaze! It’s like the moon hiding on a cloudy night.
The second mare cocked her head to one side and studied Susan. Then she sauntered over to her and nuzzled at her jean pocket.
“What are you looking for?” Susan asked. “Do you have a sweet tooth?”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a sugar cube. The horse carefully put its lips around the cube on the palm of Susan’s hand, then nudged again at her pocket.
“You’ve had enough.” Susan pushed her nose away. “The other one is for your friend.”
The second mare continued to nuzzle at her, letting Susan scratch her behind the ears. “You’re pretty friendly, aren’t you, girl,” she said, stroking the horse’s slender nose. She’d keep her distance more if she was wild, Susan reasoned. Well, there’s one way to find out if she’s broke or not.
Uncle Gordon’s rule was if she could catch, saddle, and bridle it, she could ride it, so Susan headed for the tack room of the barn. She shut her eyes tightly for a moment when she entered the barn, to help her eyes adjust to the dim light. The saddles rested on sawhorses against the wall of the tack room; the bridles hung on the wall above them. She chose her favorite saddle from the farthest sawhorses, and the bridle closest to the door.
Talking softly, she approached the mare. The horse stood steady as Susan slipped the bit into her mouth and the leather strap over her ears. After putting on the saddle blanket, Susan paused for a moment. The mare acted indifferent to the blanket, so Susan slung the saddle onto her back too. She pulled the cinch tight, lifted her left foot into the stirrup, swung her right leg over the mare’s back, then took the reins and clucked her tongue. “Come on, girl,” she coaxed. “Let’s take a little walk.”
At first they swayed gently back and forth together. Then the mare went crazy. She ran full speed toward the fence. Just when Susan was sure that they would hit it, the mare turned with a jerk that nearly snapped her rider out of the saddle. Susan grabbed the saddle horn tightly with one hand and pulled back on the reins with the other. “Whoa, girl!”
But the mare just continued her wild dance. She stiffened her legs and bounced across the pasture. Each jolt forced the air out of Susan’s lungs. The horse spun around several times, then ran full speed toward the open barn door! Susan knew that the top of the door was only about a foot taller than the mare’s back, but she didn’t dare roll to the ground—the horse might suddenly turn back and trample her. Heavenly Father, help! she prayed silently.
“Lie down!” the thought pushed through her fear.
She lay back until her head rested on the horse’s rump just as the mare lunged over the threshold of the barn. The top of the door frame missed Susan’s nose by inches.
Once inside the barn, the horse stopped as though she had come in from a leisurely trail outing. She pulled a mouthful of hay from the manger and was chewing innocently when Uncle Gordon came running into the barn. “Are you all right, Susan?”
Susan was still lying on the horse’s rump, catching her breath. Her heart pounded against her ribs. “Yeah, I’m OK,” she replied sheepishly between breaths. “I guess I got the wrong horse.”
“You got the right one if you’re training for the rodeo,” he laughed. “I couldn’t have paid for a better show than the two of you put on.”
Susan sat up, swung her right leg over the mare’s back, and slid to the ground. Uncle Gordon put his arm around her and walked her to the house. They sat on the porch steps and listened to a meadowlark calling. Susan sat on the top step, and Uncle Gordon sat two below her. It made them eye level.
“Did you come up with some names for me?” Uncle Gordon asked at length.
She nodded. “I’d call the one in the pasture Moonlight for the small blaze hidden under her forelock. And you can call the one in the barn Nightmare!”
“What great names,” he laughed. “Do you think you’ll take up breaking horses?”
“It was exciting,” she assured him. “But I think I’ll leave that to you. I did learn one thing, though—next time I’m going to ask Heavenly Father if I made the right choice before I get on a horse.”

Clare makes friends wherever she goes. She has friends she met in Brownies and in Girl Guides. She has friends she has made while swimming or playing field hockey. And she has friends she met while doing a pantomime show at the local town hall, where her mother helped make costumes for everyone in the cast.

When her mother learned that some of the cast members had questions about the Church, she invited them to visit the Portadown Ward meetinghouse. While they were there, many of them and their mothers noticed pictures of the Savior and learned how deeply Latter-day Saints love the Lord. “Some of them didn’t know that Latter-day Saints are Christians,” Clare’s mother explains. “Now they understand that we are.”

Does Clare have some secret that helps her in making all these friends?

“I just remember that we’re all children of the same God,” she says, “so that means we’re all brothers and sisters.”

And that’s not really a secret.

Youth Voices: Why We Need to Stop It!
The New Era asked some youth how they felt when they heard President Uchtdorf’s talk and why they think it’s important to “stop it!” Here is what one young woman says:
“I love [President Uchtdorf’s] talk! It inspired me to stop gossiping and judging people. It truly had an impact on my life. This talk convinced me to talk to my group of friends about how we should stop with all the hate towards others. They took my words and put them into action. We have often found ourselves having a better day just because we were nice to someone. It was an amazing life lesson.”
Taylor L., 14, Utah

Cody Petterson met Trevor Olvera in the school hallway in sixth grade in Nyssa, Oregon, and after that, they were almost inseparable. Soon Cody’s cousin, Justin Kesler, joined the mix.
The three of them did everything together: sports, bowling, homework. Later on they even worked on Cody’s family’s farm. And since they shared everything, Cody and Justin couldn’t help sharing the gospel with Trevor. Soon Cody and Justin began inviting Trevor to Mutual and stake dances. As Trevor got to know the other youth in Cody and Justin’s ward, it made it easier to invite him to church and seminary and then to hear the missionary lessons.
Trevor said, “Cody and Justin weren’t perfect, but they were trying to be like the Savior. They talked about reading scriptures and saying their prayers, and I wanted to have that as well.”
Though Cody and Justin admitted they had to overcome some fears, mostly they said sharing the gospel was easy. Justin puts it this way: “We were just examples at first. And then we asked him questions about what he believed. He already knew what we believed because we acted on what we believed, so it was easy to talk to him about the Church.”
One night after Mutual, Trevor remembers telling Cody and Justin that he wanted to get baptized. “When I told them that I wanted to be baptized, they were so happy for me. I knew that I had made the right decision.” Even though some others he knew teased him, Cody and Justin were by his side, literally so—at his baptism Cody was in the font, baptizing Trevor, and Justin was on the stand, giving a talk.
Trevor described his own baptism this way: “I was in the font, and I knew that I could have my sins washed away. And to have my best friends with me was beautiful. I knew I was making the right decision, and they had helped me to make it.”
Cody said that it was a powerful experience to use the priesthood to help someone he cared about. He said, “When I pronounced the words ‘Having been commissioned of Jesus Christ,’ I felt the power of God fall upon me. I felt like my heart would burst. I was baptizing my best friend. He was receiving an ordinance of salvation, and I was the Lord’s instrument to carry it out.”

Please join me in thinking back to how you felt when you knew you were coming to Brigham Young University—the excitement, the fear and trepidation, and the witness of wonderful things to come, even as you knew you would leave your comfort zone. I remember well my feelings of that day. I was a struggling student at the University of Utah at the time, weighed down by all the life events that are overwhelming some of you: working, studying, trying to be a good parent, and never having enough time, sleep, or money. As I was wont to do, I went to the Salt Lake Temple for solace and guidance. On my way I encountered a neighbor with whom I was teaching Gospel Doctrine in the Colonial Hills Second Ward. In the middle of our conversation, with me grumbling about the heavy load I was carrying and the good brother consoling me, he stopped midsentence and half-jokingly said, “Who knows? Maybe you will teach nursing at BYU.”
There was an immediate, overwhelming confirmation through the Spirit that I would indeed come here.
Years later as I entered the west entrance of the Brigham Young University campus for the first time as a new faculty member—totally out of my comfort zone—I felt the challenge of the signs there: Enter to Learn; Go Forth to Serve. Each time I pass through those gates I am reminded of the importance of that injunction, why I chose the profession I did, and why I am at BYU. I hope you periodically take time as well to reevaluate your reasons for being here.

Christian and I had been married just 7½ years when our lives changed in a massive way. At the time, we were living in Arizona. Our oldest daughter, Claire, was just six; Jane was five. We added two sons to our family: Oliver and Nicholas, just 3 years old and 18 months.

On a hot August afternoon, after a lovely day at the family ranch in New Mexico, we crashed in a small airplane after takeoff.

Minutes before we gassed up the airplane to go home, I called my mother-in-law to tell her to tell the children that we would be home in about an hour. Minutes later, I woke up panicking in the back of our small airplane, and on fire. Screaming in pain, I couldn't believe this was really happening to me. I realized quickly, after several unsuccessful attempts trying to get out of the burning airplane, that there was no way I was going to make it out alive; and I knew if I just endured this horrid pain, it would eventually take me and the pain would be gone, but I would be dead. Then I thought about my four children, and somehow I found a way to get up and get out. Then I found the strength to roll and roll, extinguishing the flames off my body.

After I rolled for what seemed like hours, I landed in the yard of a home. I was exhausted and in shock.

I waited for help, and it came. The first of many miracles happened when our airplane happened to have crashed on the bishop's front lawn. I lay on my back, looking up at strangers who assisted me and helped comfort and calm me, and the bishop administered a priesthood blessing. All I could think about was how badly I needed someone to help me up so I could get home. My kids were so excited because I had planned to make our family's favorite dinner that night: pizza. On my kitchen counter at home sat the dough rising. I had a yoga class to teach later, and I needed to finish preparing my lesson for Young Women. I just needed to get home.

The airplane roared and crackled as fire engulfed it and a woodpile we happened to have crashed next to. We also crashed just yards away from a large propane tank. I was so frightened, and I remember frantically looking for Christian. Soon ambulances arrived and put us all three in different helicopters, and they flew us to the Phoenix, Arizona, burn center, where I was put in a medically induced coma for nearly four months.

Coincidentally, I was in a coma, lying in a hospital in Phoenix, Arizona, where I was being treated for full-thickness third- and fourth-degree burns over 80 percent of my body in one of the biggest burn centers in the country. In the next room, my husband, Christian, also lay in a coma with burns over nearly 40 percent of his body. We both struggled to live and heal.

We had been in an airplane crash, and on impact the airplane had burst into flames, and we had been trapped. Because of the violent impact, Christian, our pilot and dear friend Doug, and I had all been knocked unconscious and lay burning to death inside the cockpit. Doug passed away 24 hours after the accident.

In 1915 President Joseph F. Smith asked the people of the Church to have family home evening. My father said we would do so, that we would warm up the parlor where Mother’s grand piano stood and do what the President of the Church had asked.

We were miserable performers as children. We could do all kinds of things together while playing, but for one of us to try to sing a solo before the others was like asking ice cream to stay hard on the kitchen stove. In the beginning, we would laugh and make cute remarks about one another’s performance. But our parents persisted. We sang together. We prayed together. We listened quietly while Mother read Bible and Book of Mormon stories. Father told us stories out of his memory. I still remember one of those stories. I found it recently while going through a book he had published some years ago. Listen to it:

Out of those simple little meetings, held in the parlor of our old home, came something indescribable and wonderful. Our love for our parents was strengthened. Our love for brothers and sisters was enhanced. Our love for the Lord was increased. An appreciation for simple goodness grew in our hearts. These wonderful things came about because our parents followed the counsel of the President of the Church. I have learned something tremendously significant out of that.

I was 25 and sitting in church one Sunday—a Sunday that would change the course of my life. I had recently returned after 10 years of inactivity. As the sacrament was being passed, the Spirit told me I had to go on a mission. I nearly died with shock. I couldn’t believe it. “Me? That can’t be right!” But over and over again, throughout that sacrament, the message persisted.
Nothing like that had ever happened in all my years sitting in sacrament meetings. I was shocked. My life was not in order. I was not comfortable, nor had I settled back into Church life. I felt overwhelmed. It was too soon. And, in any case, I had never wanted to serve a mission. I’m strong minded; I had my life all planned. This wasn’t an option or a choice I would ever have considered. So, I decided there and then: I was not going to go; I was going to continue making my own life decisions.
I told no one and tried to push the matter to the back of my mind, but the promptings continued: “You need to go on a mission.” But the answer was, “I don’t want to go.” This carried on for a year. I thought if I ignored the promptings they’d eventually go away. During the day it was easy to do this because I was busy at work, at church, and so on. Then the Holy Ghost started prompting me during the night when I was trying to sleep. I’d wake up and find it hard to go back to sleep. It was relentless. I didn’t want to hear it. I was exhausted. This whole process was consuming me day and night.
It was about this time I started changing my attitude, listening instead of ignoring. I didn’t want to do it, but why? Because I felt forced! It wasn’t in my life plan. So, I decided I would start thinking of the possibility of going, as I knew these promptings would not stop. I had to pick up my mission papers from the bishop.
I was still at odds with myself, but I had to admit defeat and succumb. The Lord had another path he wanted me to follow. It was terribly hard for me to accept this, but I knew it had to happen.
As I was trying to come to terms with everything, I knew the bishop was being prompted to talk to me about my mission papers. I just knew. I had never mentioned it to anyone, but I knew he was also getting the vibes. But I still needed time to adjust and come to terms with everything, so I started dodging him.
If I saw him in the corridor at Church, I’d dive into a classroom and hide until he passed. I’d watch him and stay out of his vicinity—terrible, but I thought this would gain me more time. But one Sunday I was walking up the corridor only to find the bishop walking towards me. No one else was there. I couldn’t hide or dive away. I was nabbed, pure and simple.
The bishop simply said, “Can you come with me for a minute? I’ve got to give you something”. I was hoping the something was to do with my Primary or activities committee callings, but he walked into the clerk’s office, opened the filing cabinet, and handed me my mission papers. He said, “You need to fill these in, and send them.” I said, “I knew you knew!” When I told him that I had been deliberately dodging and hiding from him, he laughed and said he wondered why he could never find me.
That was it. I received my papers; it was all on. It was around Christmas 1996 when I thought I’d better let the family know what was happening. I decided I’d tell everyone over Sunday dinner. As we were sitting at the table my sister said she had something to tell everyone: she’d been thinking of changing careers from a hairdresser to a beauty therapist, thus needing to give up her job and go to college. Everyone was happy about her decision. Then it was my turn. I told them I also had something to say. I told them that I was planning to go on a mission. A look of disbelief and surprise appeared on every face. I told them, “No one is more surprised than me.” Then between Christmas and New Years, a quiet holiday period, I managed to get all my medical and dental appointments arranged. Within three days my papers were ready.
When I was 17, I’d taken out a small insurance policy that I thought would be useful, when it matured, to go towards a deposit for a house. I cashed it in early. (I lost nothing; every penny I had paid was returned to me; there was no financial penalty for early exit.) I was sent a cheque that paid for my whole mission. Isn’t it funny how things work out? Another small unplanned blessing. I then posted my papers.
Over the next few months, I started shopping for my mission attire. Coming from Scotland, I’m no stranger to cold weather so I was going to be well prepared. But every time I went to buy something like a winter coat, big woolly jumpers, hat, scarves, or gloves, I’d get the answer, “No!” I’d leave it a couple of days then go elsewhere. Again, the answer would be “No! Don’t buy that.” I couldn’t believe I was being prompted to buy certain clothes.
The promptings were very specific. I’d pick up clothes and I’d hold the hanger and wait for a yes or a no. I obediently bought according to those promptings. When I look back, I can’t believe how much the Holy Ghost kept prompting me and specifically telling me things each day—I was not asking for such clarity. I’ve never experienced this level of prompting ever since. That was how it was supposed to be—minute detail.
One morning I went downstairs and there on the carpet was the big fat white envelope. My heart leapt. I quickly grabbed it and immediately locked myself in the bathroom. I have a big family, and someone could have been lurking; I wanted to open it on my own.
I stared at the envelope, scared to open it. I kept thinking that it held the next 18 months of my life, my future. I was very anxious. I eventually opened it and scoured through the first few lines. I just wanted to know where I was going—it was the Greece Athens Mission. I’d never heard of this mission. I’d never heard of anyone even going to this mission. I would later find out that I was the first Scottish sister to go there. How cool! I would learn to speak Greek. l would serve my mission during one of the hottest summers they’d had, and another summer the following year. Greece was indeed a different, unusual place. The gospel was still in its infancy there; it had only been dedicated 25 years previously by Elder Gordon B. Hinckley (1910-2008).
I served my mission from May 1997 to November 1998. It was one of the best experiences of my life! I can’t believe that I hadn’t wanted to go. I could quite easily have missed out on this crucial experience. It was meant to be. I would never have chosen that path but it’s what Heavenly Father knew was right for me. Greece will always be a special place with special memories for me. Whenever I go back to visit, I get ‘goose bumps’ and butterflies in my stomach. When I left my mission, I left a part of my heart there, and there it will stay. It brought me so much happiness. It shaped my future. It put me on the right path, in the right direction. It was priceless. I loved it. I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. It changed me for the better. My favourite word is fantastic, and Greece was fantastic!

It happened at Camp Steiner in the High Uinta Mountains. I was 17, one of the older boys in the ward, and Brother Faux had asked me to come along and help with the Scout troop. I would help prepare duty rosters, fill in with work where it was needed, and take the boys fishing.
I packed my sleeping bag and fishing rod, but I didn’t bring any food. The camp had plenty. I could also bring a friend my age. They would supply his food, too.
My first morning at camp, I took the boys down the lake to a special place where I’d caught some nice brook trout as a Scout. I saw myself as a good fisherman and anticipated being praised by the boys as a knowledgeable guide.
An hour went by. No fish. Two hours. I knew it was nearly time for Brother Faux to have breakfast ready, but I did not want to stop and admit defeat. By the time I gave up, leading the disappointed 12- to 14-year-olds back to camp, it was 9:25 A.M.
“Breakfast is cold,” Brother Faux said sternly. It was my fault, but I just made excuses. If that was the way I was going to help out, he told me, I could get out of his way. He had expected help, not more problems.
He was right. I couldn’t deny that. But I had my pride. No one was going to tell me what to do. My friend, Deral Barton, and I had come prepared to help for three days, but since our valuable help wasn’t appreciated we would hike over the mountain to Ruth Lake and live off the land!
The Scouts looked at us in awe as we departed. I felt smugly independent at the time. But when we got to Ruth Lake, it was not the best time of day to catch fish. We unrolled the sleeping bags from our backpacks and went to bed very early—and very hungry.
The next morning, a young mule deer buck awoke us early, seemingly an indication of good things to come. We each quickly caught a foot-long trout. But we had no pan or foil to cook the fish in, so we tried to heat a rock to get the job done. Some three hours later, we realized we would never succeed.
Then we saw a group of boys trudging down the mountain toward us. They were from our Scout troop, bringing soda pop and sandwiches, cans of beans, and cookies. Not even St. Bernards in the Swiss Alps could have looked so welcome.
Pride at living off the land was soon swallowed, along with one of the most delicious meals I’d ever eaten. Deral and I remained in our camp until our benefactor’s supplies ran out.
The next Sunday in church, Brother Faux came over. “I shouldn’t have become angry,” he told me. “After you left, I became worried. I hinted to the boys about heading your way with food, and I was greatly relieved when they did. I want to apologize for being so sharp with you.”
I, too, had to apologize for my less-than-humble departure from camp. It had complicated the outing he was responsible for.
From that time on, he was one of my closest friends in the ward. From then on, he kept checking on me whenever I went “over the mountain,” so to speak. He showed his concern over the years and made sure I had the nourishment I needed, spiritually as well as physically, as I prepared for my mission. And I responded to his good example just as I had when he sent the troop after a stubborn boy who made a wrong decision.

Growing up on a farm, there were plenty of jobs to do. But milking the cows was my favorite chore. Mother liked me to milk the cows because she was convinced they gave more milk when they were listening to music. When I milked the cows, I sang to them.
Early one September evening I began milking and singing to our cow Old Spooky. She had been raised on the range and hadn’t taken kindly to being milked, so sometimes milking her was a struggle. I was singing my most soothing song, developing a kind of mesmerizing rhythm, when a rock landed on the tin roof right above Spooky and me. Spooky’s reaction to the noise was both violent and predictable. I found myself dazed and flat on my back, ten feet away from the milk stool. My arm felt like it was broken, and the milk pail lay dirty and dented in the manure. I sat there for a few moments trying to figure out what had happened when I heard a shrill, fiendish laugh emanating from the street immediately outside our fence. The laugh told me the source of my troubles. It was also my first introduction to Winferd.
When I stepped out of the shed, I saw the little towheaded neighbor boy convulsing with laughter. Obviously, he had never before witnessed anything so funny. I shouted a few well-chosen words hoping to intimidate him and thwart a repeat performance.
Several days passed, and I had almost forgotten my little seven-year-old troublemaker. I was confident my threats had deterred him from further mischief when one day I was milking Old Spooky and the clangor on the tin shed triggered a performance from Spooky that would have done credit to a rodeo Brahma bull. The only difference this time from the first rock-throwing episode was that I didn’t get kicked. Spooky had stepped in the milk bucket, bending it beyond repair. Without even looking, I knew who had thrown the rock. I leaped the corral fence and caught Winferd in full cackle. I grabbed him, then twisted his arm until I extracted a promise that he wouldn’t do it again. But Winferd was not intimidated. As soon as I released him, he crawled through the fence that surrounded his lot. When he was sure I couldn’t overtake him, he shouted a defiant, “I’ll do it again!”
And he did. Again and again and again, each with diabolical variations. He filled my milk buckets with manure and hayleaves. He opened the gate and chased my animals. There was no end to his ingenuity. I caught Winferd several times and gave him a good pummeling and rubbed his face with fresh cow manure—all to no avail. Winferd was having too much fun. He met my threats with “I’ll do it again” whenever he felt he could elude me.
While Winferd seemed to be thriving, my relationship with my mother was deteriorating badly. She couldn’t understand how a little seven-year-old boy could outguess a fifteen-year-old. My fall from grace with Mom pained me. One day, I explained my situation to my older brother, who was home from college. He listened quietly and then took an excruciatingly long time before he spoke. I expected him to tell me some way to get revenge.
His answer was both disappointing and unbelievable.
“Why don’t you try killing him with kindness?” he said.
“I’ll kill him, all right, but not with kindness,” I blurted out. After I finished, my brother could see I was overwhelmed with frustration and malice.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s the way to do it. Kill him with kindness.” Then he continued. “I’ve got a dime. Here, take it. The next time you catch this Winferd, act as angry as usual. Grab him by his collar and drag him to the store and buy an ice cream cone for each of you.”
“Waste a nickel on that brat?” I was incredulous.
“What have you got to lose?” he asked. “It’s my dime. You’ve tried everything you could think of and it hasn’t worked.”
It was a measure of the depth of my frustration that I even agreed to try what seemed like a silly plan. I figured even if his plan didn’t work I would at least get an ice cream cone out of it.
I didn’t have long to wait to try my brother’s crazy experiment. The following Monday, I was feeding the animals when I spotted Winferd sneaking around the far corner of the barn. It took a bit of doing to both catch him and not give in to my anger and frustration. After I caught him, I marched Winferd the two blocks to the store with him resisting every step of the way. I then ordered two ice cream cones. One for me and one for Winferd. Nellie, the storekeeper, was mystified. She was not accustomed to seeing anyone being coerced into taking a cone, least of all a young boy.
Winferd was clearly baffled at this strange turn of events. As we started for home, I kept a tight grip on his collar. Soon, however, I felt Winferd relax as he licked his unexpected bounty. I let go of Winferd, and we walked slowly together to my gate. What an unlikely and unexpected scenario—tormentor walking with the tormented, and both eating ice cream as if nothing had ever happened between them.
As we arrived at the gate, I turned in and Winferd went his way toward home. Neither of us had said a word. I was left to wonder: What next? I was troubled with mixed emotions. Our walk together had given me a small ray of hope that things could be different between us. But our silence seemed to prevent that from occurring. Nothing prepared me for what would happen next.
The following morning as I went out the back door of our home with my milk buckets, scarcely able to see in the early morning twilight, there, huddled on the step, was Winferd. He timidly asked, “Can I help with the chores?” All of the bravado was gone. Only a ragged little towhead remained who wanted to be noticed and loved.
After that, Winferd was a joy to be around. Sometimes he was like a friendly, loving, eager-to-please puppy. In the ensuing years he spent much of his time at our place, often only going home to eat his meals. Until I went away to college, a blond, loving friend often worked at my side, quick to be helpful, never demanding or expecting any kind of remuneration. None of us in those Depression years had money to spare. Winferd knew how it was and worked willingly just to be around someone who cared. After high school I served a mission, went to college, and joined the Air Force, and our paths seldom crossed. I missed Winferd, and was full of sorrow when I learned he had been killed in World War II.
I often think of Winferd, and when I do I see in my mind’s eye a ragged little boy lofting a rock onto our tin shed, hoping someone—anyone—would notice and love him. I also pay tribute to a loving and insightful older brother who had the compassion and vision to understand that a towheaded kid could become a friend for life for the price of a five-cent ice cream cone.

Sam Walker of Shelley, Idaho, had been a missionary in Argentina for two weeks when he decided to accept the challenge in Moroni 10:4 [Moro. 10:4]:
“I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you by the power of the Holy Ghost.”
He waited until his companion was asleep, and then he went into the bathroom to pray in private.
“I wore my overcoat over my pajamas because our bathroom had no roof,” says Elder Walker. “I can still remember kneeling down on the hard, damp floor. As I prayed, I listened intently for that still, small voice. When I felt my knees could take no more, I closed my prayer and went back to bed.”
Elder Walker continued to pray for a “sure testimony” of the Book of Mormon, but without the results he wanted. One day, he and his companion were teaching an elderly gentleman.
“An extraordinarily sweet spirit began to fill the room as my companion taught this man about the Book of Mormon,” remembers Elder Walker. “Suddenly my companion stopped and looked at me. I knew it was my turn to bear witness of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. I don’t remember my exact words, but I do remember the warmth of the Holy Ghost bearing testimony to me. It grew stronger as I bore testimony to our friend that the Book of Mormon was true. At last I felt the sure knowledge of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon I had been seeking.”

Also of utmost importance to Sister Whang was that the girls learn responsibility and be treated as equals. They were each assigned chores around the home—preparing food, washing clothes, and cleaning—and they were each expected to use the home’s resources wisely. Jessica remembers a time when one of the girls threw away a blouse that could have been repaired. When Sister Whang found it in the garbage, she lectured the girls on not wasting. Then, at the next home evening, she gave everyone a plastic sewing box full of needles and thread and taught them how to mend.