Gospel Story Finder

Brothers and sisters, how do we react when adversity hits? Is our personal righteousness sufficient to carry us through with faith and trust in the Lord? I would like to tell you of a young woman who has passed through incredible trials, is currently in the midst of incredible trials and will continue to suffer these trials, perhaps until she dies. And yet her personal righteousness, radiated through an infectious smile and humble spirit, touches all around her. In her humble way, she has consented for me to share her story with you. Her name is Maamakamo Viau of Tonga.

Maama suffers from Weber's Syndrome, a condition that causes her left leg to swell to grossly abnormal proportions. Symptoms of her condition appeared early in her life. She was very sickly, and suffered chills, vomiting and pain in her leg. As a teenager she was baptized to the Church but her parents forbade her to attend so she was never confirmed and her records were lost. In 2002, while visiting an aunt in New Zealand she became deathly ill from other complications and went into a coma and for three weeks she was on life support. All medical signs regarding the viability of her living at all registered zero chance. Her parents were still in Ha'apai but gave the doctors in NZ permission to do what they thought was right. Her aunt who is a member of the Church persuaded the doctor to continue the life support until she could contact her bishop who came and administered to Maama. After the blessing the doctor started to disengage life support, but Maama, still in the coma, lifted her arm and actually pushed the doctor's hand away. Maama's parents were on their way to NZ believing they would be attending a funeral. When they landed and were still at the airport, Maama woke up and began to improve rapidly. Her parents began softening toward the Church.

Maama recovered from her illness, but her leg was still deformed and grotesque. She wanted more than anything for love and marriage and children, but worried that her leg would turn away any suitors. That's when she met Eliesa Viau, who at the time was a less active member of the Church. He was not put off by her leg and continued to court her. They fell in love and decided to marry, which they did in 2003.

Their first child, Lu'isa, was born with a severe heart condition and lived only three months. While pregnant with their second child, Maama was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church. She and Eliesa were sealed in the New Zealand Temple soon after the child's birth. By that time, however, her leg had inexplicably begun to grow even larger. The family returned to Tonga.

By the time she was pregnant with their third child, in the fall of 2007, her leg had ballooned in size and caused her tremendous pain. The doctors told her that the baby would have to be delivered by C-section as soon as possible. Due to both Maama's and the baby's fragile health, no anesthesia could be used. So, the doctors just tied her arms down and cut her open. The baby was only three pounds but fortunately lived.

At about this time my parents, who are serving in the Tonga temple, took the Area President, Elder Spencer Condie, to visit Maama. He gave her a blessing in which he admonished her to "Have faith, faith unwavering like unto Alma" and told her that she "still [had] a mission and a work to perform on earth." Upon her release from the hospital Eliesa's brother ‘Ofa, who was less active in the Church, and his wife Mele, who was active in another religion, graciously took them in to their tiny home, despite having six children of their own.

After awhile Maama's leg grew to the point were she could only walk with tremendous effort and assistance. The last time she was able to leave the house was to go to the temple this past January with Eliesa. She had to be transported to and from the temple via ambulance. It was a beautiful experience for her and she felt the nearness of heaven. She is now completely immobile and confined to her bed, but says she thinks about the temple every day.

Brothers and sisters, although you may have a mental image of her condition in your mind, it probably does not come close to what the leg is really like. To help you better understand the extent of her condition, Maama has consented to show pictures of her leg. If you feel that you would rather not look, that's understandable.

Maama has been blessed with a husband who cares immensely for her. He is by her side continuously and loves her dearly. Doctors had told Maama that she would die last year, and she credits the love of Eliesa and others that she is still alive to fulfill her mission.

Maama is a fearless preacher of the gospel. Many prayers, tears and testimony gradually softened the hearts of her brother-in-law and his wife. Maama talked to them every day about the gospel and the Church. Two months ago, Mele and three of her children were baptized. ‘Ofa became active in the Church and now they all attend regularly. Maama believes her life was prolonged to provide an example of faith and courage for ‘Ofa, Mele and their family.

Maama recently shared her testimony with me. She says, "It is in my greatest pain and deepest distress that I feel the closest to Heavenly Father.... My testimony of the Gospel is firm and unwavering. I am so grateful that Heavenly Father has given me life and has prolonged my life, especially in my condition, so that I can repent and change, and learn to love others and become worthy of living in His presence. I am especially thankful that He loved us all so much that He gave His Son, Jesus Christ to live and die and take upon Him our sins. I give thanks for the Prophet Joseph Smith that through him the Gospel was restored to the earth. I bear testimony that this is the only true and living Church on the face of the earth."

Although I have never personally met Maama, she has already impacted my life for the better. She is an incredible example of one whose personal commitment to the gospel has sunk deep into her heart, which allows her to stay true amid terrible physical trials. In the midst of her personal suffering, she finds joy and gratitude in a righteous loving husband, in the kindness of friends and family, in the blessings of the temple, in the ability to bring others to the truth. It is not surprising that her name, Maamakamo, in the Tongan language means "light that beckons" or "beacon light."

A 6th generation member of the Church, I am very grateful to have been born into a family with a rich heritage of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Our greatest example of prayer, scripture study, faith and obedience was our grandmother, Emma Makaopiopio Kalama, who prayed in fluent Hawaiian, morning and night or whenever needed which was numerous. Grandma was widowed at 38 years of age, left with a family of five children. A single mom, raised in the Church, she knew that her greatest strength and resource was a loving Heavenly Father to whom she prayed fervently for guidance and direction. Grandma trusted and believed in Him, and the Lord answered her prayers. It was from Grandma Emma that I learned I must pray always, a principle which has and continues to make an eternal impact on my life.

On one occasion as I stood to address a conference congregation, I observed in the north balcony a beautiful girl of perhaps 10 years. I felt impressed to speak directly to her. I began:
Sweet little one, I do not know your name or whence you have come. This, however, I do know: the innocence of your smile and the tender expression of your eyes have persuaded me to place aside for a future time the message I had prepared for this occasion. Today I shall speak especially to you.
When I was a boy your age, I too had a teacher in Sunday School. From the Bible she would read to us of Jesus, the Redeemer and the Savior of the world. One day she taught us how the little children were brought to Him, that He should put His hands on them and pray. His disciples rebuked those who brought the children. “But when Jesus saw it, he was much displeased, and said unto them, Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.”1
That lesson has never left me. Indeed, years ago I relearned its meaning and partook of its power. My teacher was the Lord. May I share with you this experience.
Far away from Salt Lake City, and some 130 kilometers from Shreveport, Louisiana, lived the Jack Methvin family. Mother, Dad, and the children are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. There was a lovely daughter who, by her presence, graced that home. Her name was Christal. She was but 10 years old when death ended her earthly sojourn.
Christal liked to run and play on the spacious ranch where her family lived. She could ride horses skillfully and excelled in 4-H work, winning awards in the local and state fairs. Her future was bright, and life was wonderful. Then there was discovered on her leg an unusual lump. The specialists in New Orleans completed their diagnosis and rendered their verdict: carcinoma. The leg must be removed.
Christal recovered well from the surgery, lived as buoyantly as ever, and never complained. Then the doctors discovered that the cancer had spread to her tiny lungs.
Christal’s condition deteriorated. The end drew nigh. But her faith did not waver. She knew that stake conference was approaching. To her parents she said, “Do you think whoever is assigned to our stake conference could give me a blessing?”
Meanwhile in Salt Lake City, with no knowledge of the events transpiring in Shreveport, an unusual situation developed. For the weekend of the Shreveport Louisiana Stake conference, I had been assigned to El Paso, Texas. President Ezra Taft Benson, who was then President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, called me to his office and explained that one of the other Brethren had done some preparatory work regarding the stake division in El Paso. He asked if I would mind were another to be assigned to El Paso and I assigned elsewhere. Of course there was no problem; anywhere would be fine with me. Then President Benson said, “Brother Monson, I feel impressed to have you visit the Shreveport Louisiana Stake.”
The assignment was accepted. The day came. I arrived in Shreveport.
That Saturday afternoon was filled with meetings: one with the stake presidency, one with priesthood leaders, one with the patriarch, then yet another with the general leadership of the stake. Rather apologetically, stake president Charles F. Cagle asked if my schedule would permit me time to provide a blessing to a 10-year-old girl afflicted with cancer. Her name: Christal Methvin. I responded that, if possible, I would do so, and then inquired if she would be at the conference, or was she in a Shreveport hospital. Knowing the time was tightly scheduled, President Cagle almost whispered that Christal was confined to her home many kilometers from Shreveport.
I examined the schedule of meetings for that evening and the next morning, even my return flight. There simply was no available time. An alternative suggestion came to mind. Could we not remember the little one in our prayers at conference? Surely the Lord would understand. On this basis we proceeded with the scheduled meetings.
When the word was communicated to the Methvin family, there was understanding but disappointment as well. They prayed fervently, asking for a final favor—that their precious Christal would realize her desire.
At the very moment the Methvin family knelt in prayer, the clock in the stake center showed the time to be 7:45 P.M. The Saturday leadership meeting had been inspirational. I was sorting my notes, preparing to step to the pulpit, when I heard a voice speak to my spirit. The message was brief, the words familiar: “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.” My notes became a blur. My thoughts turned to a tiny girl who desired a blessing. The decision was made, the meeting schedule altered. After all, people are more important than meetings. I turned to Bishop James Serra and asked that he leave the meeting and advise the Methvins.
The Methvin family had just arisen from their knees when the telephone rang and the message was relayed. They were informed that early on Sunday morning—the Lord’s day—in a spirit of fasting and prayer, we would journey to Christal’s bedside.
I shall ever remember and never forget that early-morning journey to a heaven the Methvin family called home. I have been in hallowed places—even holy houses—but never have I felt more strongly the presence of the Lord than in the Methvin home. Christal looked so tiny, lying peacefully on such a large bed. The room was bright and cheerful. The sunshine from the east window filled the bedroom with light as the Lord filled our hearts with love.
The family surrounded Christal’s bedside. I gazed down at a child who was too ill to rise—almost too weak to speak. Her illness had now rendered her sightless. So strong was the Spirit that I fell to my knees, took her frail hand in mine, and said simply, “Christal, I am here.” She parted her lips and whispered, “Brother Monson, I just knew you would come.” I looked around the room. No one was standing. Each was on bended knee. A blessing was given. A faint smile crossed Christal’s face. Her whispered “thank you” provided an appropriate benediction. Quietly, each filed from the room.
Four days later, on Thursday, as Church members in Shreveport joined their faith with the Methvin family and Christal’s name was remembered in a special prayer to a kind and loving Heavenly Father, the pure spirit of Christal Methvin left its disease-ravaged body and entered the paradise of God.
For those of us who knelt that Sabbath day in a sun-filled bedroom, and particularly for Christal’s mother and father as they entered daily that same room and remembered how she left it, the immortal words of Eugene Field bring back precious memories:
The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and staunch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair,
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.
“Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,
“And don’t you make any noise!”
So toddling off to his trundle-bed
He dreamt of the pretty toys.
And as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue—
Oh, the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true!
Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place,
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face.
And they wonder, as waiting these long years through,
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue
Since he kissed them and put them there.2
For us there is no need to wonder or to wait. Said the Master, “I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”3 To you, Jack and Nancy Methvin, He speaks: “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.”4 And from your sweet Christal could well come the comforting expression: “I go to prepare a place for you … that where I am, there ye may be also.”5
To my little friend in the upper balcony, and to believers everywhere, I bear witness that Jesus of Nazareth does love little children, that He listens to your prayers and responds to them. The Master did indeed utter those words: “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.” I know these are the words He spoke to the throng gathered on the coast of Judea by the waters of Jordan—for I have read them.
I know these are the words He spoke to an Apostle on assignment in Shreveport, Louisiana—for I heard them.
To these truths I bear record.
“Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God” (Mark 10:14) was the instruction of the Lord to His Apostles regarding little children.
Our Father in Heaven and our Savior love little children, hear their prayers, and respond to those prayers.
We are to nurture and sustain little children and learn from their faith and trust.

by Janet Sorensen
The young members of the Church in Sao Paulo, Brazil, know how to celebrate holidays. One of the biggest holidays in Brazil is Carnaval, a three-day celebration where parades and dancing take place at all hours of the day and night. It is a time when anything goes, and morals seem to be quickly forgotten.
But the LDS youth of Sao Paulo have a better way to celebrate. Every year during Carnaval, the members plan a youth conference away from the city, so the youth can enjoy three days of recreation, learning, and spiritual activities.
Last year they went to the original Sao Paulo stake center (there are now 11 stakes there). It is located at a complex outside of the city, along with the temple and the missionary training center. The group stayed in dormitories, and though they could see the skyscrapers of the city, they were far from the drunken parties and wild people.
For Independence Day, these youth chose sites within their stake boundaries that needed to be cleaned up. All worked together to plant trees, repair curbs, and generally clean the areas. On another Independence Day, they planted more than 400 trees that were donated by the city government. It seemed an impossible task, but they finished the project in half a day because everyone helped.
These Brazilian youth know the best way to celebrate: put the teachings of the gospel into action and let the joy shine through.

Sue Ellen sniffed the acrid smell of burning leaves and felt the wind blowing her curls. She looked up through the gold and red leaves still on the maple trees in her backyard and thought she’d never seen the sky so blue. Today was Saturday and she was restless. “Mom,” she asked, “what’ll I do?”
Her mother laughed. “Why, Sue Ellen, on a nice October day like this, I’d make a house of leaves.”
“Oh, Mom,” Sue Ellen said, “how can anyone do that?”
“It’s easy and lots of fun,” her mother said. “Get your little rake from the toolshed and rake up a big pile of leaves. Then when you get tired of jumping into them, let me know and I’ll show you how to make a house.”
Sue Ellen’s best friend Linda lived next door. She couldn’t think of anything to do either until she saw Sue Ellen raking an enormous pile of leaves.
“Can I help, Sue Ellen?” she called.
“Sure, Linda. After we make a big pile, Mother’s going to show me how to make a house of leaves.”
Soon their pile of leaves was higher than both of the girls.
“Let’s run and jump right in the middle!” Sue Ellen shouted.
“Let’s!” agreed Linda.
They ran and jumped plunk into the middle. When they got up, there were leaves in their hair, down their necks, in their shoes, and some were even sticking out of their ears. And they laughed and laughed. “How do you make a house of leaves?” Linda asked.
“I don’t know, but Mother will show us,” Sue Ellen replied.
Sue Ellen’s mother came out with the big rake. “Now then, how many rooms will your house have?” she asked.
Sue Ellen said, “We’ll want a kitchen so we can make gingerbread men and a dining room—”
“And we need a living room and two bedrooms, one for Sue Ellen and one for me,” Linda interjected.
Sue Ellen’s mother raked a square of leaves. Then she said, “We need a door to the porch and one to the dining room and lots of windows.” Then she raked away some of the leaves for the doors and windows.
“Oh, oh, I see!” cried Sue Ellen. “Come on, Linda, let’s make the rest of the rooms.” And soon they had a kitchen and a dining room and a living room and two bedrooms and a porch.
When their house was finished, Sue Ellen said, “Now we need some furniture for our house.”
“I know!” declared Linda, clapping her hands. “Let’s get our dolls and doll furniture and play house.”
After the girls had everything arranged, it was time for lunch and their nap. When their naps were over, Sue Ellen and Linda decided to make a different house. So they raked their leaves up into a pile again and made an even grander house.
About three o’clock Sue Ellen’s mother came out and said, “Knock, knock. May I come in?”
“Oh, Mrs. Anderson, how nice to see you,” Sue Ellen answered. “Do come in.”
“Please have a chair,” Linda said.
“Thank you, I will,” Mrs. Anderson replied. And she sat on a little pile of leaves in the living room.
“I came over to ask if you ladies would take tiffin with me.”
“Oh, yes, we’d love to!” they both answered, giggling.
“I have it all ready, and I thought we could have it at your house. I’ll be back in just a minute.” And faster than you can say one, two, three, she was back with a tray of hot chocolate and hot gingerbread men.
After they finished eating, and when Mrs. Anderson was leaving, she said, “What a lovely house you have!”
“We think so,” Sue Ellen and Linda answered. “Thank you very much for tiffin, and do come again tomorrow.”

As I lay in my bed that night, I watched each of my sisters and brothers in turn be taken down the stairs. I was the oldest child at home that year since my older sister had left on her mission. Below me in the living room, I heard the song over and over as each child was sung to. Then it was my turn. I followed Papa down the stairs into the living room. He sat in the big chair and opened his arms.

“Do you still want me to sit on your lap?” I asked.

“Of course,” he smiled. Gratefully, I climbed onto his lap and pulled my knees up to my chin, snuggling up next to him.

“This is my last night to be rocked,” I said.

“I know,” came his quiet reply.

As the first few strains of the familiar tune began in the tape recorder next to us, I thought back to all the years I had heard this song on Christmas Eve. Suddenly something in me wanted to stay. I was so warm and comfortable, and I had no idea what the future months and years would hold. I started to cry.

Don’t let this song end, I thought.

Papa began to sing.

Heaven bless you little one while you’re fast asleep.
You’ll awake to dancing toys,
Candy canes, Christmas joys.
And I pray your whole life through,
Angels will watch over you,
Loving you the way I do,
My little one, sleep well.

Each year before this night, the song had reminded me of Christmas and what the next morning would bring. But on this last time, I knew Papa was singing about life and the years ahead—not toys that would break or wear out, but eternal joys I would find on my journey through life, joys I was not even aware of now. On this night I heard the emotion of his voice as he sang for angels to watch over me, not just for tonight but for tomorrow night and all the nights that would follow when he wouldn’t be there.

I let my tears flow, as the last strains of music faded away. Papa and I watched the lights of the tree in the darkness, and we rocked and rocked, long after the song had ended.

As we rocked, I thought what our last night in heaven must have been like, the night before each of us came to earth to be born. Did Heavenly Father hold us close and tell us of the joys and dancing toys which we would find on the morrow? Did we cry and wish we could stay with him forever, even though we knew earth life would bring us more joys than we could imagine? He must have held us long after his song to us had ended, asking that angels would watch over us in our earthly journey, that our years away from him would be filled with happiness and would eventually lead us back to his presence.

I found comfort as I thought of my Heavenly Father that night, while my earthly father rocked me. Even though Papa couldn’t be there every day in the future to help me with each struggle I would face, my Father in Heaven would be there. No matter what the years ahead would bring, I would not only have the support of an earthly father but of my Heavenly Father. And he would guide my paths and bring me home for good. That night I felt he too was singing, “Loving you the way I do, my little one, sleep well.”

The other night when I announced to my family that I was taking my adorable wife to see a certain GP (rated general admittance with parental guidance) movie, my thirteen-year-old daughter firmly stated, “Oh, Daddy, I don’t think you’d better take Mother to that show. It has some bad things you shouldn’t see.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Because I’ve seen it, of course, and I just don’t think it’s the kind of show you ought to go to.”
“When did you see it?” I thundered.
Well, it seems that a neighbor had taken her daughter and mine to the GP-rated show.
After my family had given me my allotted time for stern words on the subject of permissive neighbors (my own children think I’m a strict neanderthal), my wife sweetly pointed out that I ought to be grateful that a thirteen-year-old girl would be concerned enough to warn me about a movie she’s seen that isn’t fit for her forty-eight-year-old father and his ageless wife.
That really set me off. If children are going to be that strict with their parents, how will we ever learn about life? Fortunately, in this age of tyrannical youth, my children still permit me to discuss such matters at family night, so the following Monday after our regular discussion I conducted a survey to find out just what my children think about today’s movies.
Billy, nearly ten, said that from what he’s seen, “Kids could make better movies than grown-ups.” He also thought that a boy nearly ten ought to be able to see any movie his parents can see.
Kristin, age thirteen, agreed with Bill, but conceded that “if parents are dirty-minded, I guess it’s all right if they go to a dirty movie, but I don’t want to go and I wouldn’t want you to. I’d be embarrassed for you.”
Dick, nearly eighteen, vigorously disagreed with his younger brother and sister. He feels that some movies are all right for grown-ups (people nearly eighteen) but not for children thirteen or younger. He feels that he has been unaffected by the raw scenes in movies he’s seen, and that as long as a movie makes him laugh, he doesn’t mind if it’s a bit racy. He feels that his personal standards are secure in the gospel, and this is why he is of the opinion that it’s all right for him to see a picture that he wouldn’t want his little brother or sister to see.
Elizabeth, nearly twenty, heatedly responded: “I don’t think young, impressionable kids ought to see movies with rough language or dirty sequences.” And then she said wistfully, “We Mormons can’t isolate ourselves from the world, but there are certainly a lot of tasteless movies being made.” She informed us that she judges a movie by how she feels when she comes out of the theater after the show. “As we walked out of a family musical, all of us in the group were happily singing and we felt good, but after seeing another movie (rated GP, by the way), I felt depressed and low. I won’t go to a movie any more if it’s vulgar.”
Then we discussed a recent war movie that I had seen and enjoyed, but that was loaded with rough language. Elizabeth too had seen the movie but was repelled by the gory war sequences as much as by the language. Dick, on the other hand, didn’t mind either.
Now I didn’t take my nine-year-old son to see that war movie because I didn’t think he was yet mature enough to overlook the rough aspects and appreciate the rest. I did take my seventeen-year-old son because I wanted him to see how horrible World War II had been, and I wanted him to gain some insights about some of the men on whom both sides depended.
Yet I must confess I’m inconsistent (aren’t you lucky that your parents are not?). I recently directed a musical that had been made into a movie, and I let my then fifteen-year-old daughter see the stage version but not the film version because it contained one very raw scene. To this day she needles me about that because “all my friends got to see the movie.” She reminded me of her frustration again when the movie was released for television.
Why wouldn’t I let her go?
I suppose, like all parents, I wanted to play it safe. I love my children too much to play roulette with their eternal happiness. Because I’m in theater, I’m acutely aware of how human beings are mimetic creatures. All of us have a vital urge to imitate. That is one of the chief ways we learn. Through our ability to imitate, remember, and synthesize, we cannot help but be affected by images and symbols we see and hear. Why else would billions be spent for television advertising if the images we see do not affect our behavior? To me it is sophistry for television officials to claim that a viewer’s behavior is not affected by programming content but that advertising content does affect behavior.
Research on the effects of the mass communication media is not conclusive enough for me as a parent to abandon my own judgment on what is desirable for my children to experience. I choose to use my common sense, small though that may be, to try to guide my children to a happy, fulfilled life, and I want them to have healthy, normal relationships with other people, using the gospel as the standard.
As a parent, I have the obligation to guide my children to avoid anything I think is harmful to them until they are old enough to make intelligent decisions on their own, including how best to spend their time, and I realize that my own example is one of the chief patterns for their behavior.
If more of us tried to follow Paul’s advice to seek after good, virtuous, and praiseworthy things, including movies, there’d be more good things to see. It’s worth a try.
Meantime, in spite of occasional frustrations, I’m glad to have in this permissive age a strict thirteen-year-old daughter to regulate my own movie going. Other parents should be so lucky!

I know of a returned missionary who thought he could take a peek at some pornography and not be hurt. One peek led to another and another. Pretty soon he was staying late at work and telling his wife he had a project to finish. His thoughts soon turned into actions. Before long, his life was destroyed. He could find no peace. He lost his job. He nearly lost his wife and children. He lost his temple blessings, his priesthood, and his membership in the Church. After nearly seven years of missed blessings, he was rebaptized and a year later had his priesthood blessings and ordinances restored. It was a rugged eight-year road he had to walk – all for a peek. None of us can afford to peek. As disciples of Christ, we must stand firm for the values and virtues of clean living that the Gospel of Jesus Christ teaches.

I have always enjoyed sports. When I was growing up, my home in Tremonton, Utah, was a gathering place for the boys in the neighborhood, and we loved to play softball and football in the pasture and basketball in the yard.
As a young man, I was invited to be on a semiprofessional baseball team. I was thrilled! But I soon found out that the games would be on Sunday. I talked with my father, probably trying to persuade him that it would be OK because I would still be able to go to my Church meetings, then play baseball in the evening. My father listened carefully and then asked me to think about how my decision might affect my friends and others who might be watching.
I thought about that advice, and I knew what I should do. I turned down the offer to play on the team. It wasn’t an easy decision, but it was one I have never regretted. Ever since, I have tried to remember that the way I choose to live my life can affect others.

A few years ago, I began to notice that things around me were beginning to darken. It troubled me because simple things like reading the print in my scriptures were becoming more difficult. I wondered what had happened to the quality of the lightbulbs and wondered why manufacturers today couldn’t make things like they had in years past.

I replaced the bulbs with brighter ones. They, too, became dim. I blamed the poor design of the lamps and bulbs. I even questioned whether the brightness of the sun was fading before the thought occurred to me that the problem might not be with the amount of light in the room—the problem might be with my own eyes.

Shortly thereafter, I went to an ophthalmologist who assured me that the world was not going dark at all. A cataract on my eye was the reason the light seemed to be fading. This certainly gives you my age. I placed my faith in the capable hands of this trained specialist, the cataract was removed, and behold, light again flooded my life! The light had never diminished; only my capacity to see the light had been lessened.

This taught me a profound truth. Often when the world seems dark, when the heavens seem distant, we seek to blame everything around us, when the real cause of the darkness may be a lack of faith within ourselves.

That is a view common to believing Latter-day Saints. You may have been blessed by a mother as I was for whom the plan of salvation was reality. More than once I complained about some difficulty in my school days. Her answer, given in a matter-of-fact tone, was, “Hal, what else did you expect? Life is a test.” Then she’d go off to something else and leave me to ponder. She knew that, because I understood the plan, her statement of the obvious would give me hope, not discouragement.

I knew and she knew that to have the blessings of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob we need to face and pass comparable tests. She knew and I knew that the greater the test, the greater the compliment from a loving Heavenly Father.

She died after a decade of suffering with cancer. At her funeral President Kimball said something like this: “Some of you may wonder what great sins Mildred committed to explain her having to endure such suffering. It had nothing to do with sin. It was that her Heavenly Father wanted to polish her a little more.”

I remember as I sat there at the time wondering what trials might lay ahead for me if a woman that good could be blessed by that much hard polishing.

Students in the Rigby, Idaho, seminary liked the October ’92 FYI’s goal jar idea so much they took it a step farther. Not only did they cut out all the goals from the New Era and put them in specially decorated jars, but they added goals of their own from the New Testament and general conference.
In addition, they started a project where one student would give another student a bead when the student was caught doing something nice or cheerful for someone else. Students string the beads and use them for bracelets, bookmarks, etc., and they say it encourages them to make a positive difference at their schools. One student said, “I found myself watching just for good things and decided that I wanted to do good too.”

Several days before our ward was scheduled to travel to the Aba Nigeria Temple, the bishop called and asked me to lead our group. I agreed, and on the morning of our trip, we offered a prayer and boarded a bus to begin our journey.
On our way, we sang hymns. Joy beyond measure filled the air. We were making good time on our 10-hour journey, but just before noon, our bus developed a problem none of us could fix.
I ran to a nearby petrol station and found an attendant. I asked if she could direct me to a mechanic.
Without delay, she called two mechanics. They soon arrived and got to work. They discovered that the fan belt was defective. They worked for hours until they had exhausted all their knowledge. Then they called another mechanic.
He appeared confident when he arrived and said sarcastically, “What’s wrong with the fan belt that you could not fix?”
He worked for a while and then said, “What has happened here is beyond ordinary.” He picked up his tools and left. The other mechanics continued to search for a solution, but our situation seemed hopeless.
I turned to my fellow Saints and saw sadness on almost every face. As I thought about what to do next, a thought came to me: “Have you prayed over the problem?”
Immediately, I called the group together. We stood in a circle and prayed to our Heavenly Father to give the mechanics the knowledge they lacked. In less than five minutes, one of the mechanics came to see me.
“We have done it!” he said, beaming.
We rejoiced and thanked the Lord. I soon noticed that the other mechanic looked discouraged. I tried to congratulate him, but he said, “Are you congratulating me for taking six hours to fix one fan belt? I fixed two fan belts before I came here. What happened here is beyond explanation.”
I told him God had intervened following our prayer.
“You prayed over it?” he asked.
“Yes, about five minutes ago.”
“Oh, that is wonderful of you!” he said.
I paid the mechanics and they left. We all entered the bus and continued our journey. We finally reached the temple several hours later, grateful that Heavenly Father hears and answers our prayers.

When I was growing up, my parents often traveled from our home in southern Nevada to Salt Lake City to attend general conference. On one occasion my mother brought me a small copper cast of the Salt Lake Temple. It sat on my nightstand throughout my youth, serving as a visual reminder of my goal for an eternal marriage.

It’s no wonder that I always wanted to be sealed in the Salt Lake Temple, even though our closest temple was in St. George, Utah, where Shirley wanted to be married. Can you guess where we were sealed? The Manti Temple, which is halfway in between! Now, if you were to ask Shirley, she would likely point out that the St. George Temple was closed that day, or we would have been sealed there. Either way, in our marriage we have continued to strive for a pattern of oneness and unity in all we do.

“Mom,” Anna said, “could we please stop at the next rest area? I need to get out and stretch.”
“Sure,” Mom replied. “There’s one coming up in just a few miles. I guess you haven’t had much chance to stretch since I picked you up after kindergarten.”
As soon as Mom stopped the car, Anna jumped out. There were no other cars, so she ran back and forth along the sidewalk for a few minutes. Then she went into the rest room. The first thing she saw was a shiny blue belt lying on the counter. She picked it up and looked at it. It was almost new. She rubbed it against her cheek. It felt good.
Blue is my favorite color, she thought. This even matches my pants. She tried it on. It fit just right.
When her mother came into the rest room, Anna held up the belt. “Look what I found.”
“That’s really pretty,” Mom said.
“Would it be OK if I kept it? There’s no one here for it to belong to.”
Mom thought a minute. “I think it’s your choice, Anna.”
Anna left the belt in the rest room and went out and sat on the lawn. She thought about what a great belt it was. Then she remembered a story Dad had told them in family home evening about finding a pocketknife when he was a boy. He had left it where he found it because it wasn’t his.
But I bet he didn’t want the knife nearly as much as I want this belt, Anna thought. Anyway, who would it hurt? The owner is long gone.
She thought how impressed the girls at school would be when she wore it. Maybe even her teacher would tell her what a pretty belt it was. Then she remembered the story her Primary teacher had told last week about a little boy who had returned a ball he’d found and how good he had felt about his decision.
Anna went back into the rest room. She picked up the belt and tried it on again. She remembered that she had a skirt it would go with perfectly. She even had shoes that were the same color of blue. She started to leave the rest room wearing the belt, then stopped and looked at herself in the mirror. The belt looked awesome with her pants. But did she like the girl who was wearing it? She took it off and rubbed the buckle with her thumb. She put it back on the counter and left, looking back at the belt one last time.
As she walked out the door, another car pulled into the parking lot. A girl about Anna’s age jumped out and raced into the rest room. A moment later, the girl ran back out, waving the belt in the air. “Mom, Mom, it was still there!”
Anna smiled.

With almost any conversion story, I believe the process begins with members of the Church attempting to share what they believe. I was fortunate enough to have such a member do exactly that for me when I was a sophomore in high school. Her name was Cami, and she often invited me to Mutual activities and to church. Unfortunately, I wasn’t ready to accept the gospel at that point in my life, so I kindly turned her down. However, her efforts were not in vain.
During my high school years, I played football and had a good friend named Ryan. I frequently offered him rides home from practice. Early one morning in February of 2003, my senior year, I was at school getting help from my math teacher. A girl walked in the door and announced the death of my friend Ryan. I was astonished and almost didn’t believe the words I had just heard. A good friend of mine, whom I had just talked to a week before, was now dead.
I made the decision to miss school the next week and attend the funeral services. Upon arriving, I noticed that the building was very beautiful and bore the logo of the church to which it belonged—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The moment I walked in the door, I felt something different: a sense of peace, joy, and happiness—feelings that are not typically experienced at a funeral. As the services progressed, I noticed a new vocabulary, one that I had never before heard. The words gospel and Atonement entered into my mind for the first time. It was something new and unheard-of but, oddly enough, familiar. I listened attentively as Ryan’s mom spoke, and tears came to my eyes. Something was telling me that this “plan of salvation,” which she was speaking about, was true. I felt that the people in this chapel had something in their lives that I did not, and for some reason, I felt a desire to get it.
Now, I was not completely oblivious to Mormons. I grew up in Mesa, Arizona, where members of the Church come in great abundance. I knew two things for sure: first, many of my friends were members of the Church, and second, Church members believed in something called the Book of Mormon. I had a newfound desire to get my hands on this book and to find out what this religion was all about.
In March of 2003, one of my good friends, Bret, invited me to help with his Eagle Scout project. After school the next day we drove in his truck with another friend of ours, Camden, to where the project would be. Inspired by the Spirit, Bret directed Camden to a Book of Mormon situated in a holder in the passenger-side door. He told him to open to a verse he had recently read in the Book of Alma. My interest was sparked, and for the first time, I saw the book I wanted so very badly. However, I was too scared to say anything right then. Upon returning that evening, I worked up the confidence to ask Bret for the book. He happily gave it to me and told me to read it. That night I read nine chapters. From the moment I picked up the book, I fell in love with its message.
The next evening, I was sitting in Bret’s living room with his family and two young men dressed in dark suits, both of whom were named “Elder.” I learned these were missionaries for Bret’s church. We watched Finding Faith in Christ. I will admit that I cried during the movie and loved every bit of the lesson. I decided to continue investigating and to come to church. I eventually finished the lessons and accepted everything the elders taught me about being a member of the Church of Jesus Christ.
One night as I was kneeling in prayer after reading a portion of the Book of Mormon, I specifically asked if what I was learning was true. Overwhelming feelings of peace and joy came into my heart. I was feeling the Spirit, and it was answering my prayers. After that time, I knew without a doubt that the Book of Mormon was true. I felt it in my heart and had the knowledge given to me in my mind.
With this new knowledge, I knew what my next step would be. I was baptized on May 3, 2003. The following day, I was confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I will always remember my baptism, the Spirit I felt, and the covenants I made with my Heavenly Father.
My first year as a member of the Church was a long and difficult one, but also full of rewards. Being the only member in your family isn’t the easiest thing, and I also received much persecution from old friends. In May of 2004, I received the Melchizedek Priesthood and a call to serve in the Virginia Richmond Mission, speaking Spanish. I left my nonmember family in July of 2004, not knowing exactly what I was getting myself into or just what it was that I was leaving behind.
During the beginning months of my mission, I heard many things from many friends about the progress of my parents in the Church. They had been attending church off and on and had allowed the missionaries to come by every so often. I was always excited to hear news. Then one Saturday morning my mission president told me he had just spoken with my stake president about my parents. My parents had decided to join the Church. The gospel had now changed their lives for the better, just as it had mine only two years before.
I am so grateful for my Savior Jesus Christ and for the opportunity I had to serve Him as a missionary. I now understand more fully the plan of salvation. I know that this is the gospel and Church of Jesus Christ. Upon returning from my mission in July of 2006 I was overjoyed to enter the Mesa temple with my parents, where we were sealed as a family for time and all eternity. It’s a day I could hardly have imagined just a few years earlier.

A friend told me of an experience she had many years ago when she was a teenager. In her ward was a young woman named Sandra who had suffered an injury at birth, resulting in her being somewhat mentally handicapped. Sandra longed to be included with the other girls, but she looked handicapped. She acted handicapped. Her clothing was always ill fitting. She sometimes made inappropriate comments. Although Sandra attended their Mutual activities, it was always the responsibility of the teacher to keep her company and to try to make her feel welcome and valued, since the girls did not.

Then something happened: a new girl of the same age moved into the ward. Nancy was a cute, redheaded, self-confident, popular girl who fit in easily. All the girls wanted to be her friend, but Nancy didn’t limit her friendships. In fact, she went out of her way to befriend Sandra and to make certain she always felt included in everything. Nancy seemed to genuinely like Sandra.

Of course the other girls took note and began wondering why they hadn’t ever befriended Sandra. It now seemed not only acceptable but desirable. Eventually they began to realize what Nancy, by her example, was teaching them: that Sandra was a valuable daughter of our Heavenly Father, that she had a contribution to make, and that she deserved to be treated with love and kindness and positive attention.

By the time Nancy and her family moved from the neighborhood a year or so later, Sandra was a permanent part of the group of young women. My friend said that from then on she and the other girls made certain no one was ever left out, regardless of what might make her different. A valuable, eternal lesson had been learned.

An appropriate tribute of gratitude was made by a young Latter-day Saint girl attending a Denver, Colorado, high school. The students in her class had been asked to prepare a letter to be written to a great man of their choice. Many addressed their letters to sports heroes, some to the leaders of their nation, while others addressed their letters to persons of reknown. This young lady, however, addressed her letter to her father, and in the letter she stated: “I have decided to write this letter to you, Dad, because you are the greatest man that I have ever known. The overwhelming desire of my heart is that I will so live that I might have the privilege of being beside you and Mother and other members of the family in the celestial kingdom.” That father has never received a more cherished letter.

You take these pumpkin seeds, Brose. Plant them and take good care of them. Who knows—when pumpkin pie time comes this fall, your pumpkins might be just what we need!”
It seemed to Brose that even her eyes smiled as Granny handed him the little bag of seeds. The seeds were his! Not Jeremy’s, not Willie’s, but his, his very own! He was pleased that Granny had given them to him instead of to his older brother.
Brose took care of the pumpkin patch, all right. In fact, he did it so well that it began to bother Pa. “Every time I need you, Brose,” he complained, “you’re in that pumpkin patch. Why, the weeds in the rest of the garden could grow as high as cornstalks, and you’d be out there lifting up pumpkin vines, trying to find another weed to pull. Well, at least I always know where to find you.”
This second year in the Salt Lake Valley was proving to be about like the rest of his nine years, Brose decided. Being in the middle, a boy could scarcely move either way. No one paid him the attention that they did Willie, who was only two and a half and who had hair the color of the brightest sunset over Great Salt Lake. Why, even strangers would stop Willie and ask his name. All they ever said to Brose was, “Is he your brother?”
When Willie did something wrong, no one made a big fuss because Willie was still so young. But when Brose did something that Pa didn’t like, Pa would say, “Brose, you’re big enough to know better!” And whenever it came to deciding which boy would get the best jobs—like riding the pony and herding the cows on the east bench—Pa would say, “Wait up a spell, Brose. You’d best help Ma with the wash and let Jeremy do the herding this year. You’re still a mite small for that job, and Ma can use a little more help than Trudy can give her.”
Brose didn’t give up, though. He wanted Pa to know that there were lots of the good jobs that didn’t have to be left for his older brother to do.
One day the three of them took Old Brownie and Belle and went up City Creek Canyon for a jag of firewood. As soon as they’d found a good place to stop and load up, Pa had Jeremy unhitch the team so that they could graze while the wagon was loaded.
“There,” said Pa, when the wagon was full. “That’ll do it for this trip. Hitch the horses back to the wagon, Jeremy, while Brose and I fasten the chain around the load to keep any logs from falling off.”
“Let me hook up the horses, Pa!” cried Brose. “I can do it, honest! I watched you and Jere do it every day, coming across the plains! Let me hook ‘em up, Pa!”
Pa hesitated, then said, “All right, Brose. Don’t forget to fasten the crosslines, so you can drive the team together without their trying to go off in all directions.”
“So you can drive them!” That’s what Pa said! Maybe, if I hook ‘em up just right, thought Brose, Pa’ll let me drive all the way home!
Brose didn’t have any trouble leading the horses into place. Brownie stepped right over the wagon tongue into her place while Belle stood quietly waiting on the other side. Then, just as Pa had cautioned, Brose fastened the crosslines, snapping the one from Belle’s harness onto the ring on Brownie’s bit, and the other onto the ring on Belle’s bridle.
Next he took the wide leather strap on the front of Brownie’s harness, slipped it through the big ring on the end of the yoke, and fastened the snap to the ring on the other side of the harness. “There! That was just the way Jeremy would have done it,” Brose murmured, pleased. He fastened the strap on Belle’s harness to the yoke the same way. Then he took the driving line from where Jeremy had hung it on Brownie’s hame and threw it ever so gently over Belle’s back, just the way Pa would have done it—quiet, easy, so as not to frighten the team.
When he walked around to put Belle’s line with the other, Brose heard a bird call. It was a new sound, something like a meadowlark’s, yet different. It was more like that little brown bird he used to hear back in Connecticut before the family had come west. Maybe it was! Maybe that very same little brown bird had followed him, Ambrose Dodd, all the way to the Valley!
Brose didn’t know how long he had listened to the bird before he saw Pa and Jeremy. They had walked a little way down the canyon and had stopped, waiting for him.
Brose was to bring the team and wagon! He was going to drive! He climbed up onto the seat, picked up both of the lines, and slapped them against Brownie’s side, just as Pa would have done.
“Giddap!” he cried, loud enough for Pa and Jeremy and the horses to hear. The horses stepped forward. But the wagon did not move. Only the yoke went with the team, the ring on it sliding off the end of the wagon tongue and the lines slipping through Brose’s hands.
Jeremy ran toward him just as the wagon tongue banged to the ground. “Brose!” he called. “Hey, Brose! You forgot the wagon! It won’t move unless you hitch the tugs!”
Brose couldn’t move. How could he have been so dumb! How could he possibly have forgotten about the tugs?
Jeremy reached out and took the lines and drove the team around in a little circle, putting the team right in place. Brose came out of his daze and scurried around to pick up the end of the tongue and slip it through the ring of the yoke, which was still fastened to the horses.
Jeremy was just hooking the last tug to the doubletree when Pa came. Brose watched Pa climb over the front wheel and take his place on the front of the load. Pa reached for the lines, and Jeremy handed them up to him. Pa took them without a word, and Brose knew that he had lost another chance.
There wasn’t much talking during chores that night. When supper was over, Brose sat on the little stool beside the fire, listening to the crackling and hissing of the pine knot and watching the sparks it sometimes sent up with the smoke.
Jeremy took Pa’s fiddle from its case, and music began to fill the little cabin, then float away on the night air. Brose leaned back against the warm cabin wall near the fireplace and listened. He wished—oh, how he wished!—that he could play like Jere. Pa had been fair about it, though. He had tried to teach both of them. Brose still remembered Pa’s words: “Seems as though you’ve got ten thumbs, Brose, and they all want to go in different directions.”
Pa had quit trying to teach him soon after that, and at the time Brose had been relieved. But now every time he listened to the fiddle singing under Jere’s fingers, Brose wished Pa hadn’t given up quite so quickly.
He’d much rather be standing there by Pa’s chair, playing the fiddle, with Ma and Trudy and Willie giving him all the smiles Jeremy was getting, than do the job he was supposed to be doing. He saw Ma looking at him from time to time, but she didn’t interrupt the music with talking, and after a bit Brose made himself get started.
He knew someone had to straighten out the kinks in the wool so that Ma and Trudy could knit it into socks for winter. Brose hated to card. Mostly women and girls did it, but Ma said that Trudy was as fast at knitting as she was, herself. With both of them knitting, they could have twice as many socks ready when winter came. They could, that is, if Brose would just keep ahead of them with the carding.
Brose had his problems with this job too. Sometimes he got the wool so tangled up that Ma said it was worse for knitting when he got through with it than before he started. But she had more patience than Pa. Or maybe she needed the wool carded more than Pa needed another boy to play the fiddle.
Across the firelight Brose saw both Ma and Trudy knitting, each tapping a foot in time to the music. The only time either of them stopped was if one of them happened to drop a stitch. Then the stitch-dropper would move closer to the fire so that she could see to pick it up. Brose sighed as he pulled the big basket of wool closer to him and reached for the cards.
He laid one card close to the fire so that the wire brush would warm. He picked up a handful of wool and drew it across the other card. Then he took the card he had warmed and pulled it carefully across the wool, trying to get the strands straight.
“Learned that fiddle quicker’n I did,” said Pa, as Jeremy stopped for a moment. “Never did see a boy pick it up as fast as that.”
Pa will never be that proud of me, thought Brose, even if I did the carding perfectly! Ma would be pleased, but Pa and Jere wouldn’t care about it at all. Maybe … just maybe someday I’ll do something that they’ll think is important …
“Brose!” He was startled from his daydream by Ma’s voice. “The wool, Brose! I can smell it! You’ve got it too close to the fire!”
(To be concluded.)

I was quite young when World War II started, but I was old enough to be frightened by what was happening. My father assured me that the Lord was in control and that all would be well. As he told me not to worry, he put his arms around me, enveloping me in security and love. I had the same feeling of safety as we knelt in family prayer and I listened to my father, a bishop, pray for the servicemen who were from our ward. I knew that Heavenly Father lived and that He was listening.