Gospel Story Finder

I am proud of my heritage—which happens to be that of a genuine farm girl from Enterprise, Utah. Now, if you haven’t heard of Enterprise, it’s a suburb of Beryl, Modena, Panaca, and Pioche. Bryant Gumbel would have as much fun with that as some of the city slickers from the big metropolis of St. George did. We weren’t a very confident bunch, and those smart-aleck kids (who included my own husband) had plenty to make fun of.

I grew up helping my five brothers milk the family cows. I drove a pickup truck while my father fed cattle, and I missed two weeks of school every October to gather potatoes into dusty gunnysacks and ship them off to market.

Because of those humble beginnings, I was always rather shy and absolutely terrified to speak before the public. While growing up, I somehow managed to struggle through a few speaking assignments (and dodged all the rest) until I was married and living on this campus. During the first year here, our stake president asked Jeff and me if we would speak in stake conference, and, as usual, Jeff accepted. I was mortified! When we returned home, I cried, I stamped my feet, I threw a royal tantrum, but Jeff insisted. Finally I consented to do it if he would write my talk.

He said, “Absolutely not!”

I said, “Write the talk or get a new roommate.” As you can see, he wrote the talk.

I gave it—and it was a total disaster. Jeff received a lot of compliments for his, and I received gratuitous smiles for mine. When we returned home, I was more discouraged than ever. Through tears I asked, “What went wrong? The talk you wrote for me was better than the one you wrote for yourself, but from what I saw, your talk was the one that touched people’s hearts. Mine hit them like a fast-acting sedative.”

But my wise and gentle tutor put his arms around me and said, “Pat, heart speaks to heart. If you want to touch someone’s heart, you have to speak from your own.”

The Prophet’s promise was fulfilled in 1845, when Dan and his wife, Jane, were called to serve in Wales. Dan used his talent for speaking to teach the gospel with great conviction. He was fluent in Welsh and English, and witnesses recorded that he spoke so captivatingly that he could hold his audience’s attention in either language for hours.
While in Wales, Dan published Latter-day Saint periodicals, tracts, and books in Welsh. Under Dan Jones’s direction, missionaries in Wales established 29 branches and baptized nearly 1,000 people each year of his first mission. He was called on a second mission to Wales in 1852, and despite growing persecution of the Church, some 2,000 people were baptized in four years.

Even before the 1994 Tutsi genocide, many leaders of the Hutu tribe taught that a Hutu man married to a Tutsi woman should be required to kill her and all her family to show his allegiance to his tribe. Because of those teachings, and to better protect his family, my father moved his wife and children to a small village near Cyangugu, in the far southwestern corner of Rwanda. Even in that small village, the majority of Hutu villagers spurned and rejected my mother because she was a Tutsi. But my father continued to protect us. In 1993, when the tension and genocide ideology increased, she was pregnant with me and caring for my three older sisters. Because it was known that she was a Tutsi, our family didn’t have many friends and it was dangerous every time she had to fetch water or go to the market. It was a very difficult time for her, but always my father was on her side, protecting her and taking care of his family.
During this time, there were constant meetings in the community where the locals were given machetes and guns and trained on how to kill the Tutsis. Every week they had a community meeting. In March 1994, my father attended a town meeting where it was announced that Hutu men married to a Tutsi woman would be required to kill her and all their children. It was a hard time for them. Some of the men and some of the women who were Hutus did kill their children.
In a meeting in early April, my father was ordered to kill my mother and his four daughters. When he came home from the meeting around 6:00 p.m., it was very dark because there were no street lights at the time. He immediately took us to a small island located in the southern part of Lac Kivu, a large lake dividing Rwanda and Congo. He told my mom that the villagers had determined that we were supposed to die, so we should hide in that place; he was going back home to find a safe place for us. He told her that if she saw any boats, she should ask them if they would carry us over to Congo, where we would be safe from the Rwandan genocide. She was able to find someone willing to take us across to Congo, where we spent the next five months, until peace was restored in Rwanda and it was safe to return.
All the while in Congo, and after we came home, we didn’t know what had happened to my father. When we came back we didn’t see anything; they didn’t allow us to enter the house where we had lived, and we were told everything that belonged to my father had been sold. It was a very hard time for my mom. We didn’t have a house to stay in. We didn’t have anything to eat. We went to the Seventh-­Day Adventist chapel, where we slept for a whole week. After that my mother carried all of us to town where she learned we could get small help from the new government.
In 2003, nine years after the violence ended, the government created a reconciliation program called “Gacaca” to help resolve the hard feelings from the killings. As part of the process, people who had killed others during the genocide confessed and asked for forgiveness. Through gacaca, we came to know that my father’s family members, after they looked everywhere for us and could not find us, had killed him. My mother and my eldest sister attended the hearing where my father’s family asked for our forgiveness, and they forgave them. They told my mother that they had thrown his body into the river after killing him, so we were never able to locate his body. Because I was so young at the time he saved us, I have no recollections of my father; I don’t know his face.
When I met with the missionaries, it was hard for them to tell me how God loves me and that He is my Father in Heaven. I did come to understand that because of the plan of salvation, I will meet my father once more. Because of my faith in the plan of salvation and the Atonement of Jesus Christ, I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-­day Saints in 2013.
My mother continued to struggle to raise the four of us herself. She had many health and stomach problems and for much of the time she suffered. She was not able to go to the hospital because she was a Tutsi. She finally passed away on June 16, 2016, from what was discovered to be cancer. She knew I was a member of the Church of Jesus Christ. She believed that I had become part of a big family. She blessed me and said I was doing the right thing. She always taught me and my sisters to love one another and to serve one another. She said our father suffered himself to allow us to live. She said we should always work hard; it would make our father happy.
I know this gospel is true. I know I will see my family again. I know my father sacrificed his life to allow me to have this life today and I am very anxious to meet him once more and thank him for his wonderful sacrifice.
I was thrilled to receive the privilege to serve as a missionary, starting in August 2017. My mission allows me to teach the joy of the gospel to families around me. One of the greatest blessings the Lord has given me since I have been on my mission is that two of my sisters have joined the Church. One of my greatest ambitions after I complete my mission is to do the temple work for my parents so that our family can be sealed for eternity.
The plan of salvation can bring happiness in this life and eternal joy in the life hereafter. I know this to be true, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I have always learned in Primary and at home that we should be honest. We should not keep what does not belong to us, we should return change when we receive too much at the store, and we should always tell the truth even though we may be punished.
One day when I was nine, I was waiting on the school patio for my mother and I saw a wallet on a bench. There was money in it.
I thought about what I should do. My mother works very hard to take care of my two sisters and me, but things weren’t going very well at home. I thought about what I could buy.
Then I started to worry about the person who had lost the money and how much she would miss it. I sat down and waited because I knew she would come to look for it.
After some time, a very upset woman appeared and asked, “Have you found a wallet?”
I answered, “Is this it?”
Her joy was so great she hugged me. She thanked me again and again.
At that time, I did not even think about why I made the decision to be honest. But when I told my mother about it later, she said the Holy Ghost had whispered to me and I had listened to the still, small voice.
I am grateful for having learned to be honest.

My life changed forever when my husband and I went to the doctor to check the gender and development of our unborn baby. I cried with joy when we discovered that I was expecting twins. But my tears turned to ones of despair as the doctor explained that a series of complications made it unlikely that the twins would survive until birth. The doctor suggested terminating the pregnancy. She said proceeding would be risky and that I would have to be hospitalized at some point.
Despite the dangers, we decided to continue the pregnancy.
On the drive home I realized the severity of the situation. I wondered how I could leave my husband and our three children and stay for an extended period in the hospital. Knowing that our babies would likely be delivered prematurely—and might not live—became overwhelming for me. I wasn’t sure I could endure this trial.
Only after I received a priesthood blessing from my husband and father-in-law did I feel peace. I realized that no matter what the outcome was, my family and I would be all right. I felt my Savior’s love and knew that He would be with us in joy or in sorrow.
Some time later, I said good-bye to my family and entered the hospital for an indefinite stay. The babies’ heart rates were monitored constantly to make sure the babies were safe. It was difficult for me to see their heart rates drop, and I wondered if they would make it to the delivery goal of 34 weeks. At 25½ weeks, one baby’s heart rate dropped to a critical level, nearly stopping. The doctors decided that if his heart didn’t start beating normally, both babies would be delivered by emergency cesarean section within minutes. I panicked when I heard the nurse call my husband and tell him that I was being prepared for surgery and that the neonatal team was standing by.
I knew that to get through this trial, I needed Heavenly Father’s help. I prayed silently, pleading that our baby would recover, thus allowing both twins the much-needed time to develop in utero. I also prayed for comfort. Once again I felt peace, just as I had when I received the priesthood blessing. I didn’t know if our babies would live or die, but I knew that no matter what, if I turned to the Lord, He would help carry my burden. As it turned out, the baby’s heartbeat returned to normal, and surgery was no longer necessary.
My stay at the hospital continued for the next two months, and there were many times we worried about our babies’ fluctuating heart rates. But fortunately, neither of the twin’s heart rates dropped as low as before. Our sons, John and Jacob, were born at 33 weeks. Their cords were intertwined with eight knots, and John—the son whose heart rate had dropped so low—had his cord wrapped around his neck twice. Our twins stayed in the hospital’s intensive care unit so their body temperatures and breathing could be regulated. Despite the potential problems associated with premature births, John and Jacob were able to come home after only 19 days.
Our twins are now toddlers, and they have no negative effects from being born prematurely. I am grateful that what began as a trial became one of the greatest blessings of my life. I was given two healthy sons, and my testimony of the power of priesthood blessings and prayer was strengthened. I am also grateful to be able to recall the peace and love I felt in knowing that the Lord was aware of my situation. I learned then that, with the Lord’s help, we will have the strength to endure our trials.

Nephi again spoke of what he saw in the vision of the future:

And I looked and beheld a man among the Gentiles, who was separated from the seed of my brethren by the many waters; and I beheld the Spirit of God, that it came down and wrought upon the man; and he went forth upon the many waters, even unto the seed of my brethren, who were in the promised land. [1 Nephi 13:12]

Christopher Columbus gave credit to the Lord for his accomplishments. In a letter to the Spanish hierarchy, Columbus wrote:

Our Lord with provident hand unlocked my mind, sent me upon the sea, and gave me fire for the deed. Those who heard of my emprise called it foolish, mocked me, and laughed. But who can doubt but that the Holy Ghost inspired me? [Jacob Wassermann, Columbus, Don Quixote of the Seas, trans. Eric Sutton (Boston: Little, Brown, and Co., 1930), pp. 19–20]

During the voyage, after weeks of sailing with no signs of land, mutiny raised its head. Finally, Columbus promised the captains of the Pinta and the Nina (both of whom wanted to turn back) that if no land was sighted in forty-eight hours, they would turn back. Then he went to his cabin and in his words, “prayed mightily to the Lord.” On October 12, the very next day, land was sighted.

My father was like that. He was a scientist. He lectured to audiences in countries around the world. Once I read a talk he had given to a large scientific convention. In it, he referred to creation and a Creator as he talked about his science. I knew that few, if any, in that audience would have shared his faith. So I said to him with wonder and admiration, “Dad, you bore your testimony.” He looked at me with surprise on his face and said, “Did I?”
He had not even known that he was being brave. He simply said what he knew was true. When he bore testimony, even those who rejected it knew it came not by design but because it was part of him. He was what he was, wherever he was.

A few years ago, as a birthday gift, I went to the FamilySearch® system and retrieved my wife’s entire recorded family pedigree. That was a serious mistake. The computer revealed that my wife is a descendant of European royalty. It has been hard to live with her ever since. Maybe now, through this knowledge of her family history, I am more inclined to treat her as our family queen. But the biggest problem, of course, is that my children share in this royal ancestry, which, sadly, makes me the only “commoner” in my family.

Somewhere near your home there is a vacant corner lot. Although adjoining yards may be well tended, a vacant corner lot somehow is always full of weeds.
There is a footpath across it, a bicycle trail, and ordinarily it is a collecting place for junk. First someone threw a few lawn clippings there. They would not hurt anything. Someone added a few sticks and limbs from a nearby yard. Then came a few papers and a plastic bag, and finally some tin cans and old bottles were included.
And there it was—a junkyard.
The neighbors did not intend it to be that. But little contributions from here and there made it so.
This corner lot is like, so very much like, the minds of many of us. We leave our minds vacant and empty and open to trespass by anyone. Whatever is dumped there we keep.
We would not consciously permit anyone to dump junk into our minds, not old cans and bottles. But after lawn clippings and papers, the other things just don’t seem all that much worse.
Our minds can become veritable junk heaps with dirty, cast-off ideas that accumulate there little by little.
Years ago I put up some signs in my mind. They are very clearly printed and simply read: “No trespassing.” “No dumping allowed.” On occasions it has been necessary to show them very plainly to others.
I do not want anything coming into my mind that does not have some useful purpose or some value that makes it worth keeping. I have enough trouble keeping the weeds down that sprout there on their own without permitting someone else to clutter my mind with things that do not edify.
I’ve hauled a few of these away in my lifetime. Occasionally I’ve tossed these thoughts back over the fence where they came from, when it could be done in a friendly manner.
I’ve had to evict some thoughts a hundred times before they would stay out. I have never been successful until I have put something edifying in their place.
I do not want my mind to be a dumping place for shabby ideas or thoughts, for disappointments, bitterness, envy, shame, hatred, worry, grief, or jealousy.
If you are fretting over such things, it’s time to clean the yard. Get rid of all that junk! Get rid of it!
Put up a “no trespassing” sign, a “no dumping” sign, and take control of yourself. Don’t keep anything that will not edify you.
The first thing a doctor does with a wound is to clean it out. He gets rid of all foreign matter and drains off infection—however much it hurts.
Once you do that spiritually, you will have a different perspective. You will have much less to worry about. It is easy to get all mixed up about worry.
Somewhere there is a message in the protest of a man who said: “You can’t tell me worry doesn’t help. The things I worry about never happen.”
Many years ago I was taught a lesson by a man I admired very much. He was as saintly a man as I have ever known. He was steady and serene, with a deep spiritual strength that many drew upon.
He knew just how to minister to others who were suffering. On a number of occasions I was present when he gave blessings to those who were sick or otherwise afflicted.
His life had been a life of service, both in the Church and in the community.
He had presided over one of the missions of the Church and looked forward to the annual missionary reunion. When he was older he was not able to drive at night, and I offered to take him to the reunions.
This modest gesture was repaid a thousandfold.
On one occasion when we were alone and the spirit was right, he gave me a lesson for my life from an experience in his. Although I thought I had known him, he told me things I would not have supposed.
He grew up in a little community. Somehow in his youth he had a desire to make something of himself and struggled successfully to get an education.
He married a lovely young woman, and presently everything in his life was just right. He was well employed, with a bright future. They were deeply in love, and she was expecting their first child.
The night the baby was to be born there were complications. The only doctor was somewhere in the countryside tending to the sick. They were not able to find him. After many hours of labor the condition of the mother-to-be became desperate.
Finally the doctor arrived. He sensed the emergency, acted quickly, and soon had things in order. The baby was born and the crisis, it appeared, was over.
Some days later the young mother died from the very infection that the doctor had been treating at the other home that night.
My friend’s world was shattered. Everything was not right now; everything was all wrong. He had lost his wife, his sweetheart. He had no way to take care of a tiny baby and at once tend to his work.
As the weeks wore on his grief festered. “That doctor should not be allowed to practice,” he would say. “He brought that infection to my wife; if he had been careful she would be alive today.” He thought of little else, and in his bitterness he became threatening.
Then one night a knock came at his door. A little youngster said, simply, “Daddy wants you to come over. He wants to talk to you.”
“Daddy” was the stake president. A grieving, heartbroken young man went to see his spiritual leader. This spiritual shepherd had been watching his flock and had something to say to him.
The counsel from this wise servant was simply: “John, leave it alone. Nothing you do about it will bring her back. Anything you do will make it worse. John, leave it alone.”
My friend told me then that this had been his trial, his Gethsemane.
How could he leave it alone? Right was right! A terrible wrong had been committed, and somebody must pay for it.
He struggled in agony to get hold of himself. It did not happen at once. Finally he determined that whatever else the issues were, he should be obedient.
Obedience is a powerful spiritual medicine. It comes close to being a cure-all.
He determined to follow the counsel of that wise spiritual leader. He would leave it alone.
Then he told me, “I was an old man before I finally understood. It was not until I was an old man that I could finally see a poor country doctor—over-worked, underpaid, run ragged from patient to patient, with little proper medicine, no hospital, few instruments. He struggled to save lives, and succeeded for the most part.
“He had come in a moment of crisis when two lives hung in the balance and had acted without delay.
“I was an old man,” he repeated, “before finally I understood. I would have ruined my life,” he said, “and the lives of others.”
Many times he had thanked the Lord on his knees for a wise spiritual leader who counseled simply, “John, leave it alone.”
And that is my counsel to you. If you have festering sores, a grudge, some bitterness, disappointment, or jealousy, get hold of yourself. You may not be able to control things out there with others, but you can control things here, inside of you.
I say, therefore: John, leave it alone. Mary, leave it alone.
You may need a transfusion of spiritual strength to be able to do this. Then just ask for it. We call that prayer. Prayer is powerful, spiritual medicine. The instructions for its use are found in the scriptures.
One of our sacred hymns carries this message:
Ere you left your room this morning,
Did you think to pray? …
When your soul was full of sorrow,
Balm of Gilead did you borrow
At the gates of day?
O how praying rests the weary!
Prayer will change the night to day;
So when life gets dark and dreary,
Don’t forget to pray.
(Hymns, no. 31.)
All of us carry excess baggage around from time to time, but the wisest ones among us don’t carry it for very long. They get rid of it.
Some of it you have to get rid of without really solving the problem. Some things that ought to be put in order are not put in order because you can’t control them.
Often, however, the things we carry are petty, even stupid. If you are still upset after all these years because Aunt Clara didn’t come to your wedding reception, why don’t you grow up? Forget it.
If you brood constantly over some past mistake, settle it—look ahead.
If the bishop didn’t call you right—or release you right—forget it.
If you resent someone for something he has done—or failed to do—forget it.
We call that forgiveness. It is powerful, spiritual medicine. The instructions for its use are found in the scriptures.
I repeat: John, leave it alone. Mary, leave it alone. Purge and cleanse and soothe your soul and your heart and your mind.
It will then be as though a cloudy, dirty film has been erased from the world around you; and though the problem may remain, the sun will come out. The beam will have been lifted from your eyes. There will come a peace that surpasseth understanding.
A great significant message of the gospel of Jesus Christ is exemplified by the title given to Him: the Prince of Peace. If we follow Him, we can have that individually and collectively.
He has said: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” (John 14:27.)
If you, my brother or sister, are troubled, there is at hand, not just in Gilead, a soothing, healing balm.
Consider this:
“If ye shall ask any thing in my name, I will do it.
“If ye love me, keep my commandments.
“And I will pray the Father, and he shall give you another Comforter, that he may abide with you for ever;
“Even the Spirit of truth; whom the world cannot receive, because it seeth him not, neither knoweth him: but ye know him; for he dwelleth with you, and shall be in you.
“I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you.” (John 14:14–18.)
I bear witness of Him who is the Great Comforter and as one authorized to bear that witness testify that He lives. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

In the 1970s, under the direction of President Spencer W. Kimball, a scripture committee of faithful scholars was formed to create what would become the LDS edition of the scriptures.

One of those scholars was a dear friend and mentor of mine, Dr. D. Kelly Ogden. He was a relatively new professor of Ancient Scripture at Brigham Young University at the time. Pay attention as you listen to a journal entry he wrote in October of 1976. Note the way he persists even though he doesn’t understand the scope of his contribution.

“When I came to Brigham Young University a year ago … I came here with a fairly empty feeling, an uncomfortable feeling of uncertainty for the future and a definite feeling of dependence on Heavenly Father. Following a couple of months of pleading and searching, life began moving in … exciting directions—the Lord was guiding me into new, unusual paths, and only He knew why. I’ve been thinking these days of how the Lord has prepared me over the years for my contribution to this Bible Aids project: my training in English grammar, spelling, diction, and reading and proof-reading skills combined with a quickened understanding of gospel doctrine and extensive memorization, study, and cross-referenced annotations of the scriptures. All these skills acquired year by year are invaluable to me.”

Here is someone who makes me very happy. This is my grandson Keenan. A few days before Easter, my husband and I talked to Keenan and his parents through Zoom. In his four-year-old excited way, Keenan urgently said, “Gramma, Gramma, Grampa, Grampa, I need to tell you something.” He had just participated in a stake Primary activity and was frustrated he hadn’t been able to share an important comment that was on the forefront of his mind. Bursting with the importance of his message, he said, “Jesus hanged up so we can be together forever.” In his beautiful, childlike way, Keenan had shared his testimony that Christ suffered on the cross so we can be happy. Then, Keenan continued, “Nobody runs away.”

Keenan’s statement makes me incredibly happy because he knows about Heavenly Father’s plan of happiness for us. We know “men are, that they might have joy,” [1] yet sometimes we might not be feeling the joy.

Perhaps for us in 2009 it would be wise for us to remember to be fully immersed and invested in the gospel of Jesus Christ. An old Christmas story best describes what is meant by invested and immersed. The story is told in first person by a tired shopper who after a long, cold day of Christmas shopping finds herself exhausted on a crowded bus with her arms full of carefully selected gifts. The last available seat on the bus is near the back next to a very handsome gentleman who politely helps her situate her packages.

“My goodness,” he said, “did you leave any merchandise still in the stores for the rest of us?” . . .

The woman in the seat behind us joined in . . . , “The worst thing is that the day after Christmas we will be carrying this same armload back to the store to exchange it.”

Her comment brought a general chuckle from all those within earshot, including my seat mate. As the laughter subsided, he began in a quiet, melodious voice, deepened with experience, to teach me a lesson that I have never forgotten.

“Hear now the parable of the shopper,” he said, speaking gently and indicating my packages. “A woman went forth to shop, and as she shopped, she carefully planned. . . . The many purchases were made with the pure joy and delight that is known only to the giver. Then the gifts were wrapped and placed lovingly under the tree.

“In eager anticipation she [watched] each face as the gifts were opened.

“‘What a lovely sweater,’ said the eldest daughter, ‘but I think I would prefer blue. I suppose I can exchange it?’”

[The man went on to tell how each recipient made similar remarks about his or her gift.] “How sad it is,” continued his soft, beautiful voice, “when gifts are not received in the same spirit they are given. To reject a thoughtful gift is to reject the loving sentiment of the giver himself. And yet, are we not all sometimes guilty of rejecting?”

[By now the bus had stopped, and the passengers were all gathered around. The gentleman] took a present from my stack.

“This one,” he said, holding it up and pretending to open the card, “could be to you.”

He pointed to a rough-looking, teenage boy in a worn denim jacket and pretended to read the gift card.

“‘To you I give My life, lived perfectly, as an example so that you might see the pattern and live worthy to return and live with Me again. . . .’”

. . . He set the present down and took another one from my pile.

“This one,” he said, holding up a pure, white present, “is for you.” He held out the gift to a worn-looking woman, who in earlier years must have been a real beauty and was still attractive. . . . She read the card out loud and allowed her tears to slip without shame down her painted face.

“‘My gift to you is repentance. This Christmas I wish you to know for certain that though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow, and I the Lord will remember them no more. . . . Signed, your Advocate with the Father.’” . . .

[Next the man] looked around the group and brought a ragged, unkempt, little child forward. “This big, red package would be for you if He were here. The card would say, ‘On this Christmas and always, My gift to you is love. My love is pure! It is not dependent on what you do or what you look like. I love you as you have been, as you are now, and as you will be in the future. From your brother, Jesus.’ . . .

“And this silver package to you, madam,” he said with a bow and handed the gift over to an aging grandmother two rows behind.

“. . . His precious gift to you would be the gift of salvation. The surety that you will rise from the grave and live again with a perfect, resurrected body. The card would [be signed], ‘your Saviour.’

“One final gift,” said [the man]. “The greatest of all the gifts of God. Eternal life! . . . Though this gift is to all men, it must be assembled. He has given us the instructions. They are here in the scriptures.” He tore off the paper to reveal a worn, well-used book. . . .

[Finally the man] stood up. He was leaving, making his way slowly down the aisle. He paused just as he reached the front and said, “One last gift. Peace! Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”

With those words, he was gone. [From Costley, “The Parable of the Shopper,” Ideals—Christmas 55, no. 6 (November 1998): 50–51]

Illustration by Eva Vazquez
After our nephew got into a serious accident, my wife, Ana María, and I talked about our desire to know the truth among so many different religions and beliefs. One afternoon I sat down on my bed and prayed, “Lord, please help me find a way to know which church is true.”
Five minutes later, the phone rang. A friend called to invite my wife and me to his home to learn about some nutritional products. We went, and while we were there, our friend gave us a Book of Mormon. On the title page was a personal note: “I hope this book helps you get closer to our Lord Jesus Christ.”
The next day, I looked at the book and prayed again, “Lord, tell me if this book is true. I don’t want to offend you by reading something bad.”
I began reading. As I read, I felt as if I knew the people in the Book of Mormon. When I reached the end, I was so pained by the destruction of the Nephites that I wept. I had read hundreds of books, but no book had touched me the way the Book of Mormon did. I knew it was true.
One Sunday I invited Ana María to accompany me to a nearby chapel of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I thought she wouldn’t want to come, but she agreed. We liked what we heard. Afterward, ward members asked if they could send the missionaries over. “Of course,” we replied.
The missionaries soon arrived with the Book of Mormon in hand and said they had a message to share with us. “That’s a beautiful book,” I said. “I’ve already read it.” This surprised them. Then Ana María surprised me. “And I’m reading it now,” she said. “I’m in Mosiah.”
She had found the book on the table where I left it every day before work and began reading herself. Later she surprised me again when she said that when I was praying for direction from Heavenly Father a few weeks earlier, she had been uttering the same prayer in another part of our home.
I told the missionaries I was ready to be baptized. They taught us the lessons, and two weeks later, my wife and I were baptized and confirmed. We are so thankful that the Lord sent us the Book of Mormon to help us know which church is true.

“He’s paying us twenty cents a row.”
“How many of you went?” Papa wanted to know.
“Me, Dora, Georgie, Frank, and Helen,” Ed replied.
“Helen, too?”
“She helped some.”
“But my arms got tired and Ed let me come home,” Helen explained.
Papa reached down to give her a hug. “Good girl,” he said. “I’m proud of all of you. Go ahead and help Mr. Clarke. I can finish our crop. We’ll all have to work fast to get done before the storm gets here.”
“What storm?” Ed asked.
“The one that’s coming before too long.”
“How can you tell?” I wanted to know.
“I can just feel it,” Papa answered.
The golden harvest weather held all week, and we worked from dawn until dark every day. By Friday night the flat corn heads were all pulled and stacked in the fields. Mama had been cooking all day for a picnic, and we could hardly wait for morning to come.
Before daylight, Papa climbed the ladder to our barn loft. “You’d all better get up,” he said. “I need lots of help today.”
“But you promised we could have a picnic, Papa.”
“Can’t help it,” Papa said. “We’ve got to get the corn in. A humdinger of a storm is on the way. Dora, I want you to come with me to warn the neighbors. Ed, you go hitch up the wagon and take Frank and George over to Clarke’s. Use his wagon, too, and after his crop is in come back and start on ours.”
There was a tone in Papa’s voice I’d never heard before. It sent shivers down my back. I dressed as fast as I could and hurried the boys along. We gulped down the breakfast Mama had waiting and flew out the door just as the sun peeked over the sand hills.
“There’re no clouds, Papa,” Ed said.
“They’re coming,” Papa declared. “Now get going!”
The boys ran toward the barn. I jumped on the horse that was waiting for me, and Papa and I rode off to warn the neighbors that a big storm was on the way.
“You’re crazy,” Mr. Cooper told Papa. “There’s not a cloud in the sky.”
“Not yet,” Papa said, “but there will be.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Mr. Cooper said and closed the door. We jumped on our horses and rode to Mr. Younger’s store. He could help us spread the word.
“Doesn’t look to me like any storm is coming,” he drawled as he gazed up at the cloudless sky.
“You’re right,” Papa agreed. “But mark my word, it’ll be here before nightfall, and it’s a big one.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
And this was the answer everywhere we went. Papa finally decided that it wasn’t any use to warn the people, so we went on home to help the boys. “The price of corn will be sky-high this year,” he said, “and we can’t afford to leave it in the field.”
We worked like demons and were piling on the last wagonload when the wind came up and nearly tipped it over.
“Head for home!” Papa shouted.
We all jumped on the wagon and by the time we pulled into the barn, hail was peppering the ground and beating everything flat. It was the worst storm I can remember. Some of the hailstones were the size of eggs. What the hail didn’t flatten the wind did. The broomcorn crop was a total loss that year except for the few fields that were brought in as a result of our warning.
Papa was right about the price. We made a big profit that year, and the other farmers were sorry they hadn’t listened to him. (To be continued.)

A convert was ministered to by personal example. As a young man, he said he spent his days lounging at the beach. One day, he said, “I saw an attractive girl in a modest swimsuit.” Amazed, he went to ask why such an attractive girl would wear such a modest swimsuit. She was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and asked with a smile, “Would you like to come to church Sunday?” He said yes.

I sank into my seat for geometry just before the bell rang. That was close. I was still learning how to navigate the halls of my new high school. I pulled out my math homework and began rummaging through my backpack for a pencil.
“Psst … Sherilyn,” the guy behind me hissed.
I turned around to face Gary, a guy I had talked to only a few times since the beginning of the school year. We were in the same Spanish class later in the day, but I didn’t know him well.
“What?” I asked.
“Do you have your Spanish book with you?” he inquired.
A sinking realization hit me as I pictured my Spanish book where I had left it on my bedroom floor.
“Sorry, I don’t have it with me,” I replied. “I left it at home.”
“Oh, okay.”
“You know, I totally forgot to do the homework,” I remarked, frowning.
My Spanish teacher consistently checked to see if everyone had done the homework. “There goes another zero for me,” I thought. “Just what I need at the start of the year.”
“Do you want to copy mine?” he asked.
Copying homework was common at this school, and no one thought anything of it. You could walk down the halls and see people sprawled on the floor, blatantly copying their friends’ work. He was trying to be friendly, I’m sure, but I couldn’t do that. It would be dishonest, and I wouldn’t feel right doing it.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I wouldn’t really feel comfortable doing that,” I said.
He paused for a moment, smiled at me, and then he said something I will never forget: “I didn’t think you would. Actually, I didn’t even do mine.”
So what was he doing? Trying to test me? I was actually surprised that he would know enough about me to know I wouldn’t copy his work. It was only the second week of school, and I hadn’t known him the previous year.
“You’re Mormon, aren’t you?” he asked.
I said yes. We talked for a few minutes, and then our teacher started the class. I reflected on this incident for the rest of the day. I’d only talked to this guy a few times, yet somehow he knew that I, a new freshman in a school of more than 2,000, was a member of the Church. How?
Then I had another thought. What if I had accepted his offer? Not only would it have made me look stupid, because he hadn’t even done the homework, but how would that have affected his idea of how Mormons behave?
That experience made me sit a little taller the rest of the year. I knew he was watching me and that other people I didn’t even know were watching as well.

What do you love to do? I’ve always enjoyed playing sports. After trying different sports, I settled on American football. Through hard work and great coaching, I became an All-American quarterback in college. When I graduated, I joined the Houston Oilers professional football team.
I’ll never forget that first game. The other team’s defensive linemen were bigger than any I’d ever gone against. I was nervous! In my first big play, two huge players tackled me at the same time—harder than I’d ever been tackled before. My leg throbbed, my shoulder ached, and I wanted to quit right then. I had a decision to make. Would I give in to my fears, or would I have the courage to keep trying?
I couldn’t just give up, so I got up and played with all my might! Through courage and lots of teamwork, we won the game. I learned a lesson I’ve never forgotten: never quit when things get tough.

At one of the stake conferences to which I was assigned, a home teacher was invited to be a speaker at the general session on Sunday morning. He began by telling about a man who accidentally fell into the waters of the Niagara River some distance above the falls. As he was carried downstream by the current, he called out repeatedly, “Which way to shore? Which way to shore?” There were people along the banks on both sides of the river who saw and heard this man but they were slow to act. They noticed that he could swim and was keeping himself afloat, so they concluded that he was engaged in some kind of a publicity stunt and gave him no further attention. However, when he reached the point where he was precariously close to the falls some of the people along the banks went into action and tried to get ropes to him to pull him from the water. But they had waited too long and he went over the brink of the falls and was killed. When his body was recovered and identification made, the horizons of those along the banks of the river were pushed back and their understandings improved and increased. Yes, the man could swim, but he could not swim with purpose or direction because he was blind.

The day the bad people flew airplanes into buildings and killed lots of people, I said in my bedtime prayer, “Bless all the good people, but don’t bless the bad people.” After I finished my prayer, my mom explained that we need to pray for bad people to help them choose the right. In my next prayer, I said, “Bless all the bad people so they will turn into good people.” I am glad I can pray to help people be good and choose the right.

Katy skipped along the sidewalk toward the big oak tree at the corner of her street. The old tree made Nana’s house easy to find.
As usual, Nana was sitting in her living room, quietly braiding and sewing strips of bright cloth. The polished wooden floors of Nana’s house were decorated with beautiful rugs that Nana made herself.
“Hello, honey,” Nana said as Katy came in. Soon they were talking about what Nana called the “old days.” They looked at black-and-white photos together. Katy especially liked seeing the clothes and hairstyles her relatives wore when they were younger.
“Things were very different then,” Nana said with a sigh. “You know, we didn’t have cars or TV or cell phones.”
Katy couldn’t even imagine having to walk everywhere. “What did you do for fun, Nana?” Katy asked.
“We loved to sing together. We would gather around the piano in the evening and sing our favorite songs. Sometimes we’d sing ourselves hoarse! It was such a fun time.”
Nana looked off into the yard as if she could rewind the years and watch them over again.
Katy sat next to the coiled rug that spilled off of Nana’s lap. She traced the careful stitches with her fingers.
“I’ve been thinking,” Nana said slowly. “How would you like to make your very own braided rug?”
Katy jumped up and clapped her hands.
“I would love to, Nana! Can we start today?”
Nana chuckled. “Well, there’s something you need to do first. Go home and gather up old clothes that we can cut into strips.”
Her eyes twinkled as she leaned toward Katy, her voice quiet as if she were sharing a secret.
“That’s what makes the rug special. Because it’s made of clothes, the rug can tell the story of your life. Each braid is like a chapter in a book about you. Looking at the fabric of an old dress can help you remember the places you wore it and what you did when you had it on.”
Katy’s eyes widened. She pointed to the rug Nana was braiding.
“Do you remember all about the cloth in this rug?”
Nana smiled. “You bet I do! This red piece is from the dress I wore when you were born. I remember pressing my nose to the glass window in the nursery to get a closer look at you. You were still all pink and wrinkly.”
Katy and Nana laughed together as Nana continued to tell Katy stories from the rug. As soon as Katy got home that night, she and Mama set aside old clothes that Katy could use for her rug.
The next day, Katy took the cloth to Nana’s house. Nana showed Katy how to cut the fabric into long strips, braid them, and sew the braids together.
Every day after school Katy went to work on the rug at Nana’s house.
Little by little, the rug grew. As the days went by Katy learned many of Nana’s stories by heart. Some days she was the one who told stories to Nana.
One day, after adding a blue strip of cloth that used to be a favorite pair of jeans, Katy rubbed the palm of her hand against the colorful braids.
“Don’t you think that rug is about done?” Nana asked, looking up from her work.
“Not yet,” Katy said with a smile. She never wanted this time with Nana to end.