Gospel Story Finder

I saw the results of another great teacher while serving as the president of a single adult stake at BYU–Idaho. That experience changed my life. On one particular Tuesday evening, I interviewed a young man named Pablo, from Mexico City, who wanted to serve a mission. I asked him about his testimony and his desire to serve. His answers to my questions were perfect. Then I asked about his worthiness. His answers were exact. In fact, they were so good, I wondered, “Maybe he doesn’t understand what I’m asking him.” So I rephrased the questions and determined that he knew exactly what I meant and was completely honest.

I was so impressed with this young man that I asked him, “Pablo, who was it that helped you come to this point in your life standing so uprightly before the Lord?”

He said, “My dad.”

I said, “Pablo, tell me your story.”

Pablo continued: “When I was nine, my dad took me aside and said, ‘Pablo, I was nine once too. Here are some things you may come across. You’ll see people cheating in school. You might be around people who swear. You’ll probably have days when you don’t want to go to church. Now, when these things happen—or anything else that troubles you—I want you to come and talk to me, and I’ll help you get through them. And then I’ll tell you what comes next.’”

“So, Pablo, what did he tell you when you were 10?”
“Well, he warned me about pornography and dirty jokes.”
“What about when you were 11?” I asked.
“He cautioned me about things that could be addictive and reminded me about using my agency.”

Here was a father, year after year, “line upon line; here a little, and there a little,”10 who helped his son not only hear but also understand. Pablo’s father knew our children learn when they are ready to learn, not just when we are ready to teach them. I was proud of Pablo when we submitted his missionary application that night, but I was even prouder of Pablo’s dad.

Kathryn and Emily Phillips were both excited when their stake president called them to obtain the contents of the box to be placed in the cornerstone of the new Bountiful (Utah) Temple. For approximately seven months, the box was part of the family while they gathered, sorted, and prepared its contents.
““The box is sort of like a time capsule,” says 14-year-old Emily. “We put things in it that were representative of the time when the temple was built.”
Newspapers, histories of the area where the temple was built, pictures of the temple under construction, and books about the lives of both President Benson and President Hunter were included in the box, which was sealed in the cornerstone when the temple was dedicated in January.
After gathering all of the desired items to put into the box, Kathryn and Emily’s work still wasn’t finished. They did 30 presentations for Primary, Mutual, and adult groups, explaining what they had done.
““My favorite group was a group of Primary children,” says 18-year-old Kathryn. “They had raised some money and bought a set of scriptures to put in the cornerstone box. During the program, we all sang ‘I Love to See the Temple.’ I’ll never sing that song quite the same way again.”
Although the box is out of sight, it will always be close to the hearts of these sisters who are now eagerly awaiting the time when they can enter the temple.

Speaking of parents, permit me to share a personal experience. On President Spencer W. Kimball’s eighty-fifth birthday, a large dinner party was given for him. Sister Nelson and I were privileged to attend with my parents. When President Kimball walked toward the head table, he saw us. After greeting Sister Nelson and me, he put his arms around my mother and gave her a big kiss. He said, “Thank you for being the mother of the surgeon who saved my life.” Then he embraced my father and gave him a kiss. President Kimball said, “Thank you for teaching your son to be a man of integrity.”

Now, to conclude, there is a lesson from the life of President Gordon B. Hinckley that we have perhaps overlooked because it occurred at the end of his life. President Hinckley was a bold leader filled with faith, but there were two things he feared: the first was getting cancer, and the second was losing his wife. His mother, brother, and sister had died of cancer. He feared cancer. And Sister Hinckley was the joy of his life, and he couldn’t imagine life without her.

But then, in April 2004, Sister Hinckley missed General Conference. In his concluding remarks, President Hinckley acknowledged that she was not well.

“It is a somber time for me,” he said. “We have been married for 67 years this month. … We’ve walked together side by side through all of these years, coequals and companions through storm and sunshine.”21

Two days later, Sister Hinckley slipped through the veil. President Hinckley was heartbroken and still recovering from the loss when, just nine months later, he was diagnosed with cancer. He underwent surgery, but the cancer had spread. Most assumed that, at the age of 95, he would not submit to treatment, but when he asked his doctors if they could administer chemotherapy to someone his age, they agreed to try.

One might wonder why he didn’t see his cancer at that age as evidence that it was time to reunite with his wife, but he explained, in words to this effect, “I feel I should do all I can to live as long as I can. Then when death comes, I will know it is the Lord’s will and that I did all I could do.” President Hinckley lived two more years–likely 12 to 18 months longer than he would have otherwise. In January 2008, he passed away.

In this final act of devotion, President Hinckley set a pattern for all of us. He demonstrated that, above all, he was determined to do all the Lord had sent him here to do. He modeled the admonition he had given the Church when he said, “We are all in this together. ... Within your sphere of responsibility you have as serious an obligation as do I within my sphere of responsibility. Each of us should be determined to build the kingdom of God on earth and to further the work of righteousness.”22

President Hinckley was a disciple of Jesus Christ who did as much as he could for as long as he could. Decades earlier, he had begun planting seeds of faith and devotion to the Lord that he harvested in his final days and years.

I sat at my desk one Monday morning looking at all the e-mails that had piled up over the weekend. Always suspicious of a computer virus, I was almost ready to delete an e-mail and its attachment that were from an unknown sender. But as my finger paused on the mouse button, ready to click, the Spirit prompted me to open the message.
“Hello, Elder Rian Jones,” it began. “You are now around 50 years old, and I am 37. I have only a vague remembrance of your person, and I am not sure if the man I remember is the one I am writing to.” Actually, I was 45 years old, and who was this person who would address me as “Elder”? I hadn’t been called that since my mission. The writer then asked if I was still active in the Church and had kept the spirit of my mission. My curiosity was really piqued now.
“I was only 12 years old when you and your companion taught me the gospel in Taranto, Italy. The year was 1975.” My mind raced as I tried to recall the writer. “You are probably asking yourself if I baptized me. No, you didn’t, because my mother and father refused permission.” The writer went on to explain how painful and embarrassing it was for him and his brother to stop the missionaries on the steps of their apartment building as we were going to ask his parents for permission to baptize him. He recounted how he kept coming to church for a while but eventually stopped because he could not be baptized. “But I kept the teachings in my heart and never betrayed the principles I was taught,” he wrote.
I served in the Italy Rome Mission from 1975 to 1977, and Taranto was my first city. But I could not recall the story that was unfolding in this e-mail. The writer explained that when he was 22 years old he was called into compulsory military service in northern Italy. There he suffered a spiritual crisis that caused him to pray for the first time as an adult. He received an answer to his prayers, and because of this, he sought out the missionaries in that area. He found them at a fast-food restaurant and told them he wanted to be baptized. “Nothing like that ever happened to me on my mission,” I thought. Those elders must have been shocked.
He was baptized and later married in the temple at Friedrichsdorf, Germany. He now had three children, had moved to Canada several years ago, and was an active member of the Church.
“I don’t know if you will ever answer this e-mail. If you do, I will tell you many other things about my life and how I have been blessed by your mission. Elder, you never know where a small, good action can lead.” He signed his e-mail “Cesare Quarinto.” Later he told me he had found my e-mail address on the Italy Rome Mission Web site.
Try as I might, I could not recall the experience of teaching a 12-year-old boy in Taranto. But the attachment to the e-mail was a page he had scanned from an old copy of the Book of Mormon. It was a dedication, written in my handwriting in Italian, dated September 14, 1975. It read:
“Dear Cesare,
“I am giving you this gift so that you can read it to find the beautiful truth of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Don’t ever forget prayer, because it is only through prayer that you can find the truth. … I know this is the true Church, and I hope to share this truth with you.
“Your friend,
“Elder Rian Jones”
Suddenly I had a perfect recollection. Seeing the words I had written caused the memory to return. I recalled vividly the rented space we used for a chapel in Taranto. We taught young Cesare the gospel in that building. I had given him his own copy of the Book of Mormon shortly before I was transferred to another city. Recalling the circumstances and reading Cesare’s e-mail, I was overcome with joy.
I did have some success on my mission, but unfortunately most of the people I baptized had fallen away from the Church over the years. Now a scripture came to mind: “And if it so be that you should labor all your days in crying repentance unto this people, and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father!” (D&C 18:15).

Illustration by Roger Motzkus
I smiled and waved goodbye as the group of youth left the Independence Visitors’ Center in Missouri, USA. Henry, the young man who had given me a referral card, smiled back as he went through the revolving doors with his friends. The referral card said: “Jessica, my older sister, hasn’t been coming to church.” I imagined that Jessica was my age since Henry reminded me of one of my teenage brothers.
Whoa. I felt connected to them and wanted to help. Referrals are always important to missionaries, but this felt especially important to me.
The next couple of days, I prayed for Jessica and Henry while my companion and I went out, taught investigators, and gave lessons at the visitors’ center. When Henry got home from youth conference, I was finally able to call him. Henry was sad that Jessica had not been going to church and had made wrong decisions. Henry had given me the referral card because he wanted his sister to feel the Spirit like he had at the visitors’ center.
Henry handed the phone to his mom. Her voice sparkled as she talked about Jessica’s hobbies, her new job, her close relationship with Henry, and her respect for others. But her mom’s voice dropped as she told me that Jessica’s questions and frustrations about the Church led her to quit listening to gospel discussions.
Once I hung up the phone, I felt overwhelmed by emotion. I was deeply touched by how much Henry and his mom loved Jessica. I felt sympathy for Jessica as I imagined her struggling with difficult questions. As I thought of the good things Jessica’s family had told me about her, I felt love for her.
If her family and I felt this much love for Jessica, then how does Jesus Christ feel about her? I teared up as I contemplated Jesus Christ’s everlasting love for each of us. He loves each of us more than we can comprehend. He loves us with a full understanding of our weaknesses, our strengths, our struggles, and our desires. More than anything else, He wants us to follow Him so we will be happy.
I dialed the number. The phone rang, and I was nervous. I had contacted referrals before, but I wanted this one to go especially well.
“Hello?”
My heart jumped into my throat. “Hi Jessica. This is Sister Moulton from the Independence Visitors’ Center.”
Jessica was polite but quick to end the conversation. “I’m sorry. The Church just isn’t my thing. I love my family, but I am not ready to do anything with the Church.”
And then she hung up.
I set the phone down and sat unmoving. I was stunned. I had imagined asking her questions about herself and sharing my testimony. I wanted her to feel the Spirit and accept an invitation to do something, anything, to feel the love Christ has for her. Now I didn’t know what to do.
I had felt so strongly about calling her. Why hadn’t the phone call gone differently? Had I failed? Why hadn’t anything changed?
I called Henry and his mom and told them what happened. I felt bad that I didn’t have much to report, but they were grateful I had tried. Henry was even hopeful that Jessica would eventually come back.
Over the next few days, I thought about the phone call and my questions. Then it came to me. I hadn’t failed. I had tried. And something had changed! I understood better the love that Jesus Christ has for each of us. He loves us so much that He performed the Atonement for everyone, whether we accept it or not. And that love is always there.
I thought about the love I felt instead of my disappointment, and then I didn’t feel discouraged. I felt a new desire that others learn the gospel so that they could feel the love that Christ has for them. I can’t make others accept Christ’s love or the gospel, but I can give them an opportunity. I can reach out even though the results may not be like I expect.
The author lives in Utah, USA.

As my mother grew into her twenties, she prayed longingly to be able to marry a member of the Church and somehow be sealed in the temple.
Our family of five was sealed together in the Cardston Alberta Temple in October 1976. My mother had set her sights on this day over 20 years earlier and finally, in a country and language that she would have never imagined as a youth, her prayers were answered. I was then almost eight years old, and I have wonderful memories of my parents’ sparkling eyes and smiles as we children entered the sealing room.

Growing up in southern Utah, some of us sought employment at the many gasoline service stations that lined old Highway 91 as it made its way through downtown St. George. My younger brother Paul, then 18, worked at Tom’s Service, a station located about three blocks from our home.
One summer day, a car with New York license plates pulled in the station and asked for a fill-up. (For you brethren under the age of 30, in those days someone actually came out and filled your car with gas, washed your windows, and checked your oil.) While Paul was washing the windshield, the driver asked him how far it was to the Grand Canyon. Paul replied that it was 170 miles.
“I’ve waited all my life to see the Grand Canyon,” the man exclaimed. “What’s it like out there?”
“I don’t know,” Paul answered. “I’ve never been there.”
“You mean to tell me,” the man responded, “that you live two and a half hours from one of the seven wonders of the world and you’ve never been there!”
“That’s right,” Paul said.
After a moment, the man replied, “Well, I guess I can understand that. My wife and I have lived in Manhattan for over 20 years, and we’ve never visited the Statue of Liberty.”
“I’ve been there,” Paul said.
Isn’t it ironic, brethren, that we will often travel many miles to see the wonders of nature or the creations of man, but yet ignore the beauty in our own backyard?
It is human nature, I suppose, to seek elsewhere for our happiness. Pursuit of career goals, wealth, and material rewards can cloud our perspective and often leads to a lack of appreciation for the bounteous blessings of our present circumstances.
It is precarious to dwell on why we have not been given more. It is, however, beneficial and humbling to dwell on why we have been given so much.
An old proverb states, “The greater wealth is contentment with a little.”
In his letter to the Philippians, Paul wrote, “Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content” (Philip. 4:11).
Alma instructed his son Helaman, giving him counsel that all fathers should teach their children: “Counsel with the Lord in all thy doings, and he will direct thee for good; yea, when thou liest down at night lie down unto the Lord, that he may watch over you in your sleep; and when thou risest in the morning let thy heart be full of thanks unto God; and if ye do these things, ye shall be lifted up at the last day” (Alma 37:37).
Alma says, “Let thy heart be full of thanks unto God.” The Lord desires that we give thanks. In Thessalonians we read, “In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you” (1 Thes. 5:18).
As holders of the priesthood we should constantly strive to increase our gratitude. Gratitude may be increased by constantly reflecting on our blessings and giving thanks for them in our daily prayers.
President David O. McKay has said: “The young man who closes the door behind him, who draws the curtains, and there in silence pleads with God for help, should first pour out his soul in gratitude for health, for friends, for loved ones, for the gospel, for the manifestations of God’s existence. He should first count his many blessings and name them one by one” (in Conference Report, Apr. 1961, 8).
A constant expression of gratitude should be included in all our prayers. Often prayers are given for specific blessings which we, in our incomplete understanding, believe we need. While the Lord does answer prayers according to His will, He certainly must be pleased when we offer humble prayers of gratitude.
Brethren, the next time we pray, instead of presenting the Lord petition after petition for some action in our behalf, give Him thoughtful thanks for all with which He has blessed us.
President Joseph F. Smith has instructed us that “the spirit of gratitude is always pleasant and satisfying because it carries with it a sense of helpfulness to others; it begets love and friendship, and engenders divine influence. Gratitude is said to be the memory of the heart” (Gospel Doctrine, 5th ed. [1939], 262).
In October of 1879 a group of 237 Latter-day Saints from several small southwestern Utah settlements was called to blaze a new route and colonize what is today known as San Juan County in southeastern Utah. The journey was to have taken six weeks but instead took nearly six months. Their struggles and heroics are well documented, particularly their seemingly impossible task of crossing the Colorado River at a place called Hole-in-the-Rock. Those who have visited this place marvel that wagons and teams could have been lowered through this narrow crack in the red rock canyon walls to reach the Colorado River far below. Once the Colorado was crossed, however, many other severe tests awaited them on the trail to San Juan County. Tired and worn out, early in April 1880 they faced their final obstacle, Comb Ridge. The Comb is a ridge of solid sandstone forming a steep wall nearly 1,000 feet high.
One hundred and twenty years later, our family climbed Comb Ridge on a bright spring day. The ridge is steep and treacherous. It was difficult to imagine that wagons, teams, men, women, and children could make such an ascent. But beneath our feet were the scars from the wagon wheels, left as evidence of their struggles so long ago. How did they feel after enduring so much? Were they bitter after the many months of toil and privation? Did they criticize their leaders for sending them on such an arduous journey, asking them to give up so much? Our questions were answered as we reached the top of Comb Ridge. There inscribed in the red sandstone so long ago were the words, “We thank Thee, O God.”
Brethren, I pray that we might keep our hearts full of thanks and appreciation for what we have and not dwell on what is not ours. As holders of the priesthood, let us adopt an attitude of gratitude in all we do is my prayer in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

“I hate Santa Claus!” I exclaimed, glaring at the jolly old elf painted on a mall window.
Mom looked at me with raised eyebrows. “You certainly have the Christmas spirit,” she said.
I hurried with her to the car, trying to find the words to explain how I felt. “It’s just that I’m sick of Santa and Rudolph and Frosty and all that,” I said, as I put my shopping bags in the trunk. “I mean, aren’t we supposed to be celebrating the birth of the Savior?”
“I agree. Christmas is getting too commercialized,” Mom said.
We drove past the town hall. A poster told people to bring their Sub for Santa goods in. “And that’s another thing,” I blurted. “I hate the way people feel a tug of guilt on their heart strings at Christmas time and donate all their old stuff to charity. Why can’t people be generous all year long? As if they’re fooling anyone.”
Mom smiled. “Christmas is a good time to start.”
But I didn’t care what she had to say. Before long I was mad at everyone, and by the time we pulled into our driveway I had made up my mind that I wasn’t going to act any different just because it was Christmas. I wasn’t going to be hypocritical like the rest of the world. And as for the Savior’s birth, I’d just celebrate that in April.
After dinner we cleared the table and sat down to do homework. “Hey, help me with this algebra problem,” my brother Tom said.
“I’ve got homework to do,” I snapped.
“C’mon, it’s Christmas,” he pleaded. Boy, was that the wrong thing to say. I told him I didn’t care if it was Christmas. “Ask someone who has time,” I said.
“How about someone who needs blessings because she’s acting like the Grinch.”
“All right!” Mom’s stern voice cut in. “That’s enough you guys. I’ll help you Tom. Your sister’s carrying a grudge against Christmas this year.”
“I think her shoes are too tight, or her head’s not screwed on just right, or maybe her heart is two sizes too small,” Tom said as my mom dragged him to the other side of the table.
It was hard to concentrate on my homework because the ugliness inside me was growing. I couldn’t understand why I was feeling worse instead of better. After all, I wasn’t being a Christmas hypocrite, pretending to be jolly when people the world over were starving and suffering.
Just then the doorbell rang. Mom looked at me then quietly walked to the door. Her surprised gasp brought the rest of the family to her side, including me.
There stood our home teachers dressed as shepherds. They waited until everyone had gathered around, probably waiting for some of the shock to dissolve too. “We’re on our way to Bethlehem, and we thought we’d stop by and tell you what’s happened. You see, we were watching over our flocks when suddenly an angel appeared to us. At first we were terribly afraid, but the angel said, ‘Fear not, for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord’” (Luke 2:10–11).
There was something about the simplicity and sincerity of their message that got to me. My lip started quivering and I quickly bit it to keep it under control. I didn’t hear any more. I was too busy remembering how awful I’d been, all because I didn’t want to be a hypocrite. Tom was right. I had been the worst kind of Grinch, griping about how horrible everyone is, when I wasn’t willing to change myself for the better. At least the people I complained about were generous and kind part of the year. I certainly wasn’t.
“We’re going to see this miracle which has come to pass,” one of the shepherds said. With that they disappeared into the night, leaving us stunned into silence, meditating on their wonderful message.
Then it hit me. They were going to share this marvelous event with others, to help them feel the true spirit of Christmas.
I wiped my eyes and cleared my throat. “I’ve got some Christmas messages of my own to deliver,” I said. “I’ll start with you.” Turning to Mom I gave her the biggest hug I could manage. “I’m sorry for all I put you through. I know I can be a real pain sometimes.”
Mom smiled. “I guess part of being a mother is learning to take a lot of frustration.”
I looked at Tom who was grinning triumphantly.
“Probably the hardest thing I have to do is apologize to you, Tom,” I began. “But if I didn’t, you wouldn’t believe me when I tell you that my heart has really grown tonight.” He shrugged his shoulders and brushed past me. I noticed the reddening of his ears, a sure sign he was embarrassed.
I followed him to the kitchen table and sat down. “Tom,” I asked, “can I help you with your algebra?”
Tom looked up at me, and a slow smile spread across his face. “Sure,” he said. “And maybe you can help me wrap some presents too.”
I smiled back. “I’d like that.”
And for the first time that Christmas, I meant it.

My experiences have encouraged others to speak up about offensive material. A friend confided that her daughter was embarrassed to wear her dance group’s costumes. Her daughter had even seen members of the audience avert their eyes during her group’s number. I suggested that my friend encourage her daughter to talk to the dance instructor. She did. We were both pleased when the instructor ordered costumes that enhanced rather than detracted from subsequent performances.

While my wife and I served in Eastern Europe, we lived in Russia. One day I spent about an hour in the Hermitage, a famous museum in St. Petersburg. Our guide said to us, “Be careful that you do not touch any of these important treasures, because the great wealth of Russia is found in the Hermitage.”
The next day was Sunday, and during sacrament meeting a young girl was confirmed a member of the Church. As I and other Melchizedek Priesthood holders stood next to her and placed our hands on her head, a thought came to me: “The wealth of Russia is not found in the Hermitage. The wealth of Russia is found in its children. As priesthood holders, we are allowed to stand close, lay our hands upon their heads, and bless the children.”

Having successfully obtained a bachelor’s degree, I decided to enrol for a master’s programme at Iowa State University. I met my future husband there; he was not a member of the Church. And as he was on a sabbatical from Oxford University in the UK, he had to return after being in Iowa for a year.

We were married the day we flew out to the UK. It wasn’t easy in the UK to find a house that we could afford. House prices had nearly doubled in the year my husband was in Iowa, and obtaining a mortgage was difficult, carrying an interest rate near 15 percent. Eventually we bought a house in Headington, Oxford, and bought a car.

Up to this point, I hadn’t attended church at all. Once settled, I discovered where the Church held its meetings and attended, but only twice. Although I could drive, I was afraid to do so in Britain. My husband had to drive me there and pick me up afterwards. It was easier not to go to church. Thus began my wandering through the wilderness.

I wasn’t particularly happy in my first year of marriage, but not through any actions of my husband. I was simply lonely, without my family, my friends, my things, and my old familiar life and comforts. I couldn’t make new friends; I was completely reliant on my husband. I was isolated in a new country among strangers. My self-confidence began to wane. I started to question my identity. Was I American, Japanese, Hawaiian? Where did I belong—in Britain, America, Hawaii? I felt totally lost and wanted to go home. But where was home? I couldn’t answer those questions. I was miserable.

Then a little miracle came into my life, my firstborn. People suddenly became friendlier, it seemed, because of this sweet jewel in my arms. My life began to settle down. A couple of years later and another bundle of joy. Then nine years later, a third jewel appeared. By this time, I was settled and relatively happy. I felt very much accepted by society. I had made friends, understood and accepted the British way of life, and was loving it.

But then cracks began to appear. As the children grew older and left the family nest, the cracks grew wider and deeper. I became unloving and deceitful. I was in deep misery. After awhile, I started to reflect on the days at university in Hawaii, those days when I was in heaven on earth. I so desperately wanted to have that again, but I didn’t know how to get it. (I probably knew but didn’t want to go down that path.)

During one of my trips back to Hawaii to see my mother, I related my early heaven on earth experience to the brother who had introduced me to the gospel many years ago. He simply said, “It was the Holy Ghost.” It shocked me! It had never crossed my mind. His response helped me to put two and two together, but I was stubborn as a mule and would not turn to the Lord. I sought the counsel of man to help me deal with my problems, but soon realised that I was going around in circles. At least, it was a starting point to regaining a sense of self-worth. But it was not enough. I yearned to experience that heaven-on-earth happiness.

It was plain to me what I needed to do, but I still hesitated to do the right thing—to turn my life over to God. I was hesitating because in my mind, returning to Church had some negatives. The Lord would require a commitment that I wasn’t ready to give. So, a few more years were lived in misery.

Finally, I was ready to change, to commit myself to God; I just couldn’t continue as I was. I went to church, talked with my bishop, and took the painful step of repentance. I was afraid of going through this process. I didn’t want to go through it again. It was too painful. It would be too easy to turn away from the Lord—I’d done it once before. Would my commitment stand firm?

But since making this momentous decision, I have learnt to love God and have gained a stronger testimony of the gospel of Christ. My conversion didn’t end there, it was just a starting point, albeit a momentous one. As I’ve attended church, studied the scriptures, and repented continually, I have become a happier person. I have learnt that accepting callings in the Church helps me grow stronger and become more faithful. It helps me develop character, but more importantly my relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, bringing me closer to them. Conversion is an ongoing process, continually trying to live in accordance with the love of God.

It’s Friday night in Brazil. From Recife to Rio and from Salvador to São Paulo, the great megalopolises of the country teem with life as young people fill the streets, heading down beach boardwalks and downtown drives to outdoor festivals and markets, movies and shows, restaurants and clubs.
But in a certain corner of São Paulo—Brazil’s largest metropolis with a population of 21 million—all the bustle of a big-city Friday night is forgotten as dozens of teenagers play a part in something most unusual.
They sit in small groups around a large, lit-up building, occasionally checking their watches as they quietly talk into the night. They’re not staying up late to hit a dance club. They’re not lingering for the late show. They’re anxiously awaiting something of far greater significance, something their ancestors have also waited for: their assigned time to do baptisms for the dead in the São Paulo Brazil Temple.
Because this temple is the only one in a nation of more than 700,000 Latter-day Saints, its doors are open all night every Friday until late Saturday in order to accommodate the bus loads of Church members from outlying areas who are only able to travel to the temple on weekends. Upon their arrival, stakes are assigned times round the clock to do temple work.
According to temple president Aledir Barbour, handling such large numbers of temple goers “is now our greatest challenge because so many stakes want to come, but we cannot accommodate them all as we’d like.”
He pauses, then smiles and adds, “But certainly it is a challenge we like to have.”
The white-haired, soft-spoken temple president cites an example of a group of youth and their leaders who came by bus from Belo Horizonte, a large city about 200 kilometers northeast of São Paulo. Members of this stake youth group brought with them the names of 10,000 ancestors, all of whom the teens had identified through their own research. The group stayed from Tuesday through Friday, but it wasn’t nearly enough time to do the baptisms for all their ancestors.
The temple baptistry is so full of youth patrons, individuals can usually only be baptized for four or five deceased persons each time they come to the temple. And this is after many teens and their parents from outlying areas have saved for months to travel to the temple, riding on a bus for days to get to São Paulo (Brazil is larger than the continental United States).
When the São Paulo Temple was dedicated in 1978, it could easily handle the Church membership in Brazil, which then totalled less than 60,000. But membership in Brazil has increased by more than tenfold since then, and now the temple is consistently overflowing.
Fortunately, the rapid growth that has caused such a challenge is also a catalyst that is bringing about wonderful change—change that is already beginning to bless the lives of Brazilian youth.
Peering through the rails of a barrier fence, 17-year-old Fabio Fogliatto and his friends of the Canoas Stake watch intently as men in hard hats construct a building near the southern tip of Brazil. Fabio notes with satisfaction that one of the workers leaves the construction site before smoking a cigarette. “He must know this is a sacred site for us,” he says.
On the other side of the fence from the teens is a spectacular sight. Against the backdrop of the city, the walls of what will be the Pôrto Alegre Brazil Temple are rising out of the red earth.
“Just watching them build the temple, I can feel it really is a temple of the Lord,” says Ivan Carvalho, 14, of the Esteio Ward. “It makes me feel even stronger that I want to come here to do ordinances for the dead and for myself.”
Fourteen-year-old Guilherme Recordon of the Estancia Velha Ward adds, “And now that we only have to go 20 kilometers instead of 300, maybe we’ll be able to come here every week!”
The feelings of these boys represent an excitement growing all over Brazil as temples are built. Another temple is nearing completion in Campinas (a city just west of São Paulo), and yet another will be dedicated in the northern city of Recife this summer. As temples are built into the Brazilian skies, youth here are constructing their own temple-worthy lives.
Living worthy to go to the temple is anything but easy for young Brazilians. They are teased by their peers if they don’t use drugs, alcohol, and tobacco. Extreme immodesty is common on billboards and prime-time T.V. Many students carry pornographic magazines to school. During carnaval, a week-long festival for which Brazil is famous, immodesty and immorality are paraded in the streets.
But LDS youth say that looking to the temple helps them keep the commandments despite the many temptations and trials they face. “At school, when you won’t look at the [pornographic] magazines, people make fun of you. But I have a goal to serve a mission and marry in the temple, so I already know that if they push this stuff at me, I won’t do it,” says Fabio Marques, 16, of the Campinas Fourth Ward. “I’ve already made my decision.”
Fabio says having a temple so close to his home in Campinas will strengthen him and his Latter-day Saint friends. “It’s hard to get to the temple in São Paulo, but soon we’ll be able to do baptisms for the dead more easily and frequently at the Campinas Temple. And each time you do that, you make a stronger goal to return to the temple, and to be worthy to marry in the temple.”
Whenever challenges seem too much for 18-year-old Janise Figueiró, she looks at a little bottle of red earth she received from her Young Women president in the Higienópolis (Pôrto Alegre) Ward. “Whenever I look at that soil from the temple site, I remember to live worthy.”
Fourteen-year-old Juliano Garcia of the Guaiba Jardim Ward was thrilled with the prize he’d won. Although he’d only been a Church member for just under a year, he’d managed to win a scripture chase in his multistake seminary bowl. As he began to look through the pages of his prize, a booklet entitled The Holy Temple, he became fascinated with the pictures of temple baptismal fonts and celestial rooms. Juliano didn’t know much about the temple, but as he read in the booklet about baptism for the dead, his heart immediately turned to his deceased grandparents. “I thought about my grandparents, how great they were, and I thought that more than anything I wanted to go to the temple for them.” Juliano hasn’t been able to travel to the São Paulo Temple, but is now preparing to go in Pôrto Alegre.
As Juliano and other Brazilian teens continue to construct their own temple-worthy lives little by little, they do not doubt that when the doors of the new temples are ready to be opened, they will be ready to enter.
When the Angel Moroni appeared to 17-year-old Joseph Smith in 1823, he told the young prophet about the marvelous restoration that was about to take place, quoting from Malachi:
“Behold, I will reveal unto you the Priesthood, by the hand of Elijah the prophet, before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord.
“… And he shall plant in the hearts of the children the promises made to the fathers, and the hearts of the children shall turn to their fathers” (see JS—H 1:38–39).
This prophecy is literally being fulfilled in the hearts of young Brazilians. “The Spirit of Elijah is working … especially on the young people, to do work for their ancestors. It’s something that we cannot explain,” says São Paulo Temple President Barbour.
Take 16-year-old Jeferson Montenegro of Canoas and Suelen Alexandre (15), José Meirelles (18), Priscila Cavalieri (18), Carlita Fochetto (14), and Carolina (16), Christiane (15), and Carlos Rodriguez (12), of São Paulo (pictured above). These young people volunteer in their family history centers for 10–20 hours each week, assisting Church members in their research, entering extracted names into the computer system, and searching for names of their own ancestors.
These teens aren’t unusual. Many Brazilian youth have found the names of hundreds of their ancestors and eagerly begun their temple work. Why? “I feel the influence of the spirit of Elijah,” says Jeferson. “It makes me feel a closeness with those who’ve gone before me.”

On his return, Enoch taught at the Accra Missionary Training Centre for a couple of years as he contemplated his future. He had loved accounting in high school and had studied it with the intent of entering that profession. But about three years after his mission, he completed a data analytics certificate program from Coursera, offered by Google. That experience allowed him to see the critical role data plays in today’s economy in anticipating and solving problems. That vision motivated him to begin thinking of attending university to pursue a degree in data science. He applied for and got the sponsorship necessary to pursue a university education. Unfortunately, the global COVID-19 pandemic interrupted his plans, and he lost his sponsorship. Again, he endured his disappointment by casting his burdens upon the Lord.
Without the ability to continue his education at that time, Enoch pursued other interests. From the time he had mastered the piano, he had wanted to teach it, so he began doing so. In addition, he resumed his service to the Lord by working for FamilySearch out of the offices of the Africa West Area in Accra, Ghana. While working there, he met a senior sister missionary who was teaching a ukulele class. He had become acquainted and enamoured with the ukulele on his mission where his general love of music had drawn him towards it, so he joined with the class. Through his association with members of the class, they became aware of his desire to continue his education, so they helped him find new sponsors for attending university. Again, his love of music and his service to, and trust in, the Lord had brought him to the next step in his personal progress. With his sponsorship now secure, Enoch applied to, and was accepted at, BYU-Idaho where he is now studying data science.
Enoch reflects on his personal journey of perseverance and growth, and he gratefully acknowledges the value of that difficult period of his life when he struggled with questions that challenged his faith. Just as his ability to play his musical instruments came through perseverance, hard work, and struggles, learning here a little and there a little, so did his testimony grow line upon line, precept on precept. It was by persevering through his struggles that he discovered the joy of a personal relationship with his Saviour, and it is that relationship that has helped Enoch get to where he is today.

Shakespeare from Miss Whitney had been a calculated accident that went awry. I had my credits for graduation. All I needed was an elective to fill space. There were a lot of classes that would have been acceptable, and I still could have maintained my GPA. With the schedule I had my senior year, I wanted something easy for the last hour of the day. Just a filler.
At Washington High I ranked fifth in a graduating class of 509. For the last three years I had been on the honor roll with straight A’s, and there were scholarships to consider. All were reasons for keeping my grades up and taking an easy class to fill in that one elective gap.
“I know what we ought to do,” my best friend Shan Stuart suggested the second day of school as we ate in the cafeteria. “Let’s take Shakespeare from Miss Whitney.”
I laughed. “Why would I want to take Shakespeare from Whitney? Or anybody else?”
Shan thought for a moment. “Well,” he finally said, shrugging, “I figure we need a little culture.”
Cultural refinement had never been high on Shan’s list of priorities, so immediately I was dubious. “I’ve got all the culture I can handle with chemistry and trig,” I responded dryly.
“But Shakespeare will be a snap. Read a few plays,” he said. “Nothing to it.”
“What does Shakespeare have that we can’t get in wood shop?” I asked.
Shan smiled slyly. “Well …” He cleared his throat. “Penny Simms.”
“Penny …” I stopped in mid-sentence. My eyes narrowed in recollection. “She’s not the new girl, the one …”
“With the reddish blond hair,” Shan cut in dreamily, “and the blue eyes, and the smile …”
“I know who she is,” I stopped him. “If you’re dying to know her, meet her at lunch. Why sign up for a semester of Shakespeare?”
“You don’t get it, Holdaway,” Shan answered. “It’s going to be a small class. Obviously we’ll need to spend some time studying old Bill and his plays.” He grinned deviously. “A small study group of three or four after school could prove helpful. In more ways than one.”
“Just one problem. There are two of us and one of her.”
Shan shrugged and smiled, “That’s the challenge.”
“I’ll stick to wood shop.”
I don’t know how he did it, but Shan actually conned me into taking Miss Whitney’s Shakespeare class. And all because of Penny Simms.
“So what brings you to Shakespeare?” Miss Whitney asked coolly, looking down at our add cards. Shan and I stood in front of her desk, fidgeting. This was Shan’s idea, so I was determined to let him do the talking.
“Do you have a genuine interest in Shakespeare?” she asked, taking off her glasses. She had commanding blue eyes that latched onto us.
I had seen Miss Whitney around school and had always thought her to be rather plain. She was in her mid-30s, probably an inch or so taller than I am, and trim. Up close her plainness was no longer prominent. In fact, as she looked up at us, I detected a shade of beauty behind the scholarly sternness.
All during my high school career I had steered clear of her English classes because it was rumored that she didn’t give anything higher than a B, unless, of course, the student could walk on water, academically speaking. I figured that in her Shakespeare class, though, it being an elective and all, she would loosen up and I would be able to pull my A without a sweat.
“Michael and I were just talking yesterday,” Shan began. I could tell he was about to launch into one of his famous snow jobs. “We were saying how little we know about Shakespeare. We’ll be getting ready to go to college in a year, and we really aren’t familiar with one of history’s greatest writers.” He folded his arms and pursed his lips, deep in thought. “I guess what it boils down to is that we want a more balanced education.”
“How admirable,” she commented, leaning back in her chair and biting down on her glasses. “Rarely do we see that kind of intellectual drive in our students these days. It will be a privilege to have you in class,” she replaced her glasses and signed Shan’s add card. I waited for her to do the same to mine, but she handed Shan his card, and then turned to me. “And, Mr. Holdaway, what is your interest here?”
I was taken by surprise. “Well,” I laughed half-heartedly, “Shan explained it pretty good.”
“Yes, he expressed himself quite well.” She emphasized the well and I made a mental note to be more careful with my grammar when speaking to her. “I would like to know how you feel.”
I groped for words as her penetrating gaze bore into me. “I thought it would be a … well, you know,” I stammered. “A good challenging course for an elective. Some real meat and potatoes so to speak.” I forced myself to grin. She wasn’t amused. “I want to expand my knowledge and understanding,” I pushed on lamely, wondering why she didn’t just take Shan’s word for everything.
“So your main reason is learning?”
“Of course.”
“And if things become difficult?”
I was insulted by the insinuation. “I’ve handled tough classes before,” I said. “Schoolwork comes easy enough for me.”
“You’ve never taken a class from me,” she pointed out.
“I can handle the load,” I bragged, suddenly irritated.
“Then if things get tough, you won’t just back out of Shakespeare?”
“No,” I declared, “I won’t back out. I can handle any class at Washington High. Even yours.”
She smiled, actually smiled as she picked up my card, signed it, and handed it back to me. “I demand work.”
“I’ve done all right so far,” I said, still simmering. “I’m not exactly at the bottom of the class.”
“She’s as bad as everybody said,” I muttered to Shan as we walked down the hall afterward.
“Penny Simms will sweeten things up for us.”
The following day, seventh hour, Shan and I swaggered into class and dropped into the back corner seats. The class was small, only 16 of us, and within minutes we discovered that Penny Simms was noticeably absent.
Miss Whitney called the roll. Penny’s name wasn’t on it. As Miss Whitney took the absentee slip to the door, Shan raised his hand and asked, “What happened to Penny Simms?”
“Penny withdrew from class this morning,” Miss Whitney said simply.
“I can’t believe it,” Shan grumbled as we left class. “We juggle our schedules to accommodate her and she backs out on us.”
I was amused and laughed. “Maybe you should have talked to Penny to see if our change met with her approval.”
“Well, if anybody thinks I’m going to endure Miss Whitney for my cultural enjoyment, they’re crazy. I’m getting out.”
“But we just got in.”
“I’ll find a way. We have until the end of the week to change classes.”
By noon the next day Shan was out of the class.
“Did she hassle you?” I asked him.
“Didn’t say a word. Just signed the withdrawal slip and wished me luck.”
I attended Miss Whitney’s class that afternoon, but I worked on my trig all hour because I had a withdrawal slip ready for her to sign. I had almost resigned myself to the challenge of Miss Whitney, to prove to her that I wasn’t afraid of her, but I finally concluded it would be easier and safer to get out now. I had a big enough load as it was.
“Leaving so soon?” she asked as I handed her the withdrawal slip.
“My schedule is heavier than I thought,” I said without looking at her.
“You’re a Mormon, aren’t you?”
I wet my lips, surprised by the question. “Yes.”
“I knew another young man of your faith. He wasn’t nearly as talented as you. But he was honest. Completely honest. I don’t mean to imply that Mormons have a monopoly on honesty, but this particular young man’s most striking characteristic was his honesty. That always impressed me.” She looked up at me. “You remind me of that young man.
“The other day when you and Shan came in here, you couldn’t lie to me. You were willing to remain silent and let Shan lie for you, but you wouldn’t lie.” I could feel my cheeks glow warmly, and I shuffled my feet. “Do you realize,” she continued, “that the other day when I allowed you into my class, you promised to stay?”
“I said I wanted to get into the class, but I …”
“No,” she cut in, “you promised to stay, regardless of the work.”
“Miss Whitney,” I began, feeling embarrassed and frustrated but wanting to be completely up front with her since she had dragged my religion and honesty into our discussion, “I feel dumb telling you this, but the reason Shan and I wanted to get into this class was …”
“Because of Penny Simms,” she cut in.
I shrugged, and nodded. Her face didn’t change expressions.
“The fact remains, Mr. Holdaway, you promised to stay.”
“What difference does it make to you?” I asked, irritated by her insistence.
“I don’t like students running away from my class—especially good students.” She breathed deeply and shuffled some papers on the desk. “I can promise you two things if you stay. One, you’ll learn something. And two, I’ll make the learning interesting. That’s not a bad deal.”
I cleared my throat. “I don’t think you understand. I have a heavy schedule. I have a straight-A average, and I want to keep my class ranking. I have to think of a scholarship.”
“And you want all of those the easiest way possible. Do you ever wonder about learning?”
“I study all the time.”
“For grades? For class rankings? For scholarships? Do you ever study for learning’s sake?” I stared at her without answering. I wasn’t sure how to answer. “When you came to me, you wanted an easy class. Well, I don’t offer one.”
I tossed the withdrawal slip in the trash can on the way out, angry and unwilling to beg her to let me out of her class. I’d handle it, I told myself.
The first two weeks of class were easy enough. Even interesting! The first play we read was Richard the Third, and I was immediately fascinated by this villain king who had so much potential and yet chose to follow a path of willful destruction.
I had been exposed to Shakespeare in other English classes, but the study of his writings had always been dry and tedious there. Miss Whitney had an intriguing way of resurrecting characters from the tombs of the written page. The playwright and the characters were like old friends of hers. I actually found my interest sparked in her class.
But even though I read my assignments and followed the discussions with quiet fascination, I contributed very little to the class. I was sure Miss Whitney wondered if I was grasping the material, but I refused to satisfy her curiosity by opening my mouth. She’d find out how much I understood when I took her first test. And I was determined to blow the top off of it.
However, at the conclusion of Richard the Third, Miss Whitney made an announcement. “I have an aversion to tests,” she said. “Tests are inadequate for measuring a person’s understanding. I prefer a good composition. At the conclusion of each play I will ask you to write a paper. If you have read and understood the play, you should do well.”
Writing had always come easy for me. I had never had a problem in my other English classes scribbling out an A paper. I was convinced that I could do the same here. The night before the paper was due, I stayed up an hour later than usual so I could finish it.
Three days later, I got my paper back, fully expecting an A. Across the top and next to the bold red C- was scrawled, “This is not writing; this is rambling. I do not want to have to search for your meaning among the heaps of hollow verbiage. I will not allow you to peddle garbage. Even if this class is an elective!”
“What’s wrong with my paper?” I demanded as the others filed out of the room.
“You can write better than that, Mr. Holdaway.”
“Some of those others had B’s on their papers. Are theirs better than mine?”
“For you that is a C paper.”
“This would get me an A in any other class,” I came back.
“Mr. Holdaway, I don’t just give a grade. You must earn it here.”
“You’re just trying to make it tough on me because I wanted out of your class, aren’t you?” I burst out. “I need an A in this class.”
“You don’t care about learning?”
“I care about my grades.”
Miss Whitney thought for a moment. “Then you will have to earn them.”
For the next five weeks I fumed and fretted about Shakespeare. I was caught. I couldn’t drop the class without losing all credit. If I stayed in the class, I would be lucky to pull a C, unless I worked hard, harder than I’d planned for this elective. During those five weeks I wrote two more papers.
The best I could do was a C+ on my last one.
“What is this?” I demanded, exasperated as I threw my paper on her desk after class.
She looked at it and answered, “It looks like a C+.”
“Why?” I persisted.
“Your ideas are clearer now, but all you’re doing is coughing up someone else’s ideas. If you want your A, tell me what you have learned, not what you’ve been told.” The words weren’t spoken in rebuke. I detected a genuine concern on her part.
At first I resented being forced to stay in the class, but as Miss Whitney walked me through the world of Shakespeare, I began to look forward to that last hour of the day. My other classes were important to me because they were my solids; I needed them and I studied them with that objective in mind. I didn’t really need Shakespeare—except for the grade—but it was an intriguing break for me. I even accepted the compositions. It became a challenge for me to write something that Miss Whitney would accept as quality work. The turning point came while we were studying Hamlet.
All my life I had heard the famous line from Hamlet, “To thine own self be true.” For one of the first times in a class discussion my hand shot up and I burst out, “But those words are a mockery coming from Polonius. He’s not true to himself. It’s pure hypocrisy.”
“Can’t a hypocrite speak the truth?” Miss Whitney questioned.
“Sure, but all these years I thought that some great, wise person spoke those words. It’s a let-down to know that they come from … from a villain.”
“But the words are true, though the villain was not,” Miss Whitney pointed out. “Do we sometimes speak words of truth while leading lives of hypocrisy?”
The question was spoken gently, but the barb penetrated. Was I like Polonius? For my composition I chose to analyze Polonius. He fascinated me because I wondered if I would catch a glimpse of myself in his character. I went back and reread the play, not for a grade but for personal understanding. After reading it three times and reviewing parts of it many more times I was ready to write.
One full weekend I wrote. Page after page of rough draft was revised, improved, and discarded. But when Monday afternoon arrived, the paper was finished.
The following Friday the papers were turned back, face down on our desks. Curiously, even nervously, I turned mine over. A!
“I’d like to know something,” I asked at the end of class. “Did I earn this?”
Miss Whitney pursed her lips. “I don’t give anything.”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s your work.”
Swelling with pride, I turned to leave, holding the A paper in my hand.
“Mr. Holdaway,” she called. “I’ve read better student papers in my life.” Some of the pride I had felt wilted. I turned to face her. A faint smile touched her lips, and she added softly, “But not many, Mr. Holdaway. And not for a very long time. I knew you could write a paper like that.”
From then on I was determined that everything I did in that class would be my very best. I didn’t want Miss Whitney to see anything less than that.
Then one day I wrote a paper for my history class. As I read through my final draft the night before the paper was due, I remembered thinking that it would easily get me an A. But I knew that if I were to submit it in Miss Whitney’s class her red pen would bleed it pitifully. I’d be lucky to get a C+. The words from Hamlet rang in my mind: “To thine own self be true.”
It was almost ten. The paper was due second hour the next morning, but I was determined not to turn in an inferior effort. I knew I had the A, but the A wasn’t good enough. I had to turn in my best.
For the next few hours I struggled with a rewrite, not for points or grades but for pure satisfaction. And when I turned it in the following morning, still sleepy and worn out, I was satisfied.
As I went around to my classes at the end of the semester and picked up my grades, I was not disappointed. I had straight A’s in my first six hours.
Miss Whitney waited until the end of class before handing out grades. The bell rang before I received mine. I waited at my desk. When all the others had received their grade cards, she turned to me and asked me to come to her desk. We were alone. She had two grade cards in front of her.
“I have struggled with your grade,” she confessed, looking up at me. “You’ve improved tremendously. You’re not the same young man who walked in here at the beginning of the year. I usually grade the work at the end of the semester more heavily than that at the beginning. You struggled in the beginning weeks, but you’ve come a long way since then.”
She took a deep breath. “When I figured out your grade, it ended up being a B. A solid B, a high B, but a B nevertheless.” She wet her lips. “I have struggled with that. Had you taken an easy class you would have received your A. You would maintain your class ranking and not jeopardize your scholarship.”
She pressed her lips together. “I’m stingy with A’s. When I give them, I want them to mean a great deal. I coerced you into taking this class. I feel responsible. You’ve worked hard. I’d feel good giving you this.” She picked up the card to her left and handed it to me. It was an A. I studied it for a moment.
“And the other one?” I asked. She didn’t answer. I reached down and turned the other card over. Our eyes locked. I had wanted that A. A few weeks earlier that grade would have been the all-important thing, but the familiar phrase from Hamlet was anchored in my mind. I replaced the A card and picked up the B. “I only take what I earn,” I said. “It’s something I learned from you.”
Miss Whitney swallowed and blinked twice. I detected a faint mist in her eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Holdaway. I’ll keep the A for myself.”
I shrugged. “Thank you.” I smiled. “And you earned the A.” I started for the door; then stopped. “By the way,” I said, “I’ll be back next semester.”
“I was hoping you would,” she said softly, and I left the class with Miss Whitney’s B.

A Church history story illustrates the difference.
A small six-year-old boy wandered away from his handcart company during a storm and was lost. When the storm subsided, Robert and Ann Parker realized their boy was missing and began searching. For two days an organized search was unsuccessful. The decision was made that the company must move on because of the approaching winter.
A pioneer journal records the following:
“Ann Parker pinned a bright [red] shawl about the thin shoulders of her husband and sent him back alone on the trail to search again for their child. If he found him dead he was to wrap him in the shawl; if alive, the shawl would be a flag to signal her. Ann and her children took up their load and struggled on with the company, while Robert retraced the miles of … trail, calling, and searching and praying for his helpless little son.”
One suspects that he did not just casually look behind a few trees or leisurely walk along the trail, but that he vigorously investigated every thicket, every clump of trees and gully or wash.
“At last he reached a … trading station where he learned that his child had been found and cared for by a woodsman and his wife. [The boy] had been ill from exposure and fright. [But] God had heard the prayers of his people.
“Out on the trail each night Ann and her children kept watch and, when, on the third night the rays of the setting sun caught the glimmer of a bright red shawl [above her husband’s head], the brave little mother sank in a pitiful heap in the sand. … [She] slept for the first time in six … days.”

Like Joanne, my mother was married to a nonmember. Our bishop counseled her to put her love for my nonmember father above all else, and my brothers and I grew up watching her devote herself to that advice. The bishop further counseled her not to fret or feel guilty when she had to limit some of her Church activity when my father objected to the amount of time it took her away from home.
My parents were committed to our family. Our home was peaceful and nonjudgmental. My father, though he never joined the Church, respected it and had no bad feelings about it. He even proudly supported me financially on my mission to Venezuela and Colombia.
There were still difficult and painful times for us. I remember the day my parents sadly waited outside the temple while I was married there. Still, they respected my decision and stood joyfully by my husband and me later during the wedding reception with which they honored me. I have often felt sad that my father was not a member, and I have prayed all my life that he would someday join the Church. On the positive side, however, I am grateful that my mother never belittled him and showed me a wonderful example of tolerance and love.

Sixteen-year-old Kimberli Lingard left for work one afternoon last summer, having no idea that in a few hours she’d come face-to-face with a killer and be shot twice and left for dead. After what should have been a fatal event, a series of miracles occurred, and now Kim is living proof of God’s blessings in her life.
Kim worked at a laundromat in Grantsville, Utah, a tiny town where everyone knows everyone, and few people lock their doors. The town is located near a major freeway, and in early June 2004, an angry gunman on the run from the police pulled off the freeway into this quiet town. He looked around at local shops for an easy place to rob until he found the laundromat where Kim was working alone.
The man took what little money was in the cash register, shot Kim in the head and shoulder, and fled. With Kim lying on the floor and losing blood fast, time was precious. A woman—only the second customer to come in during Kim’s shift—entered just minutes after the shooting to discover Kim lying in a pool of blood. The woman raced to a nearby restaurant and called the police.
Uncertain if the shooter had left the premises, a brave man from the restaurant rushed to find another priesthood holder, and they gave Kim a blessing. Kim was soon flown to a hospital and immediately underwent seven hours of surgery to remove bullet fragments from her brain.
Kim can’t remember any of this. The last thing she remembers was being alone at work. But her family has a clear recollection of everything after the shooting. They remember turning immediately to the Lord. Her younger sister Rachel says, “I was really scared. I came downstairs and knelt down beside the couch and said a prayer that she’d be okay.”
The 45-minute drive to the hospital was tense, but her little sister Jenessa says, “I just sat there praying the whole time.”
Kim’s friends at school started calling other friends to ask them to fast and pray for their dear friend.
Many hours and prayers later, Kim was stabilized. Three days after being shot, she woke up in the hospital to see her older sister Nicole leaning over her with a tear-stained face. Kim wanted to know what was wrong but couldn’t ask. Her vocal chords had been partially paralyzed from the shooting. Kim couldn’t talk, eat, walk, blink, or smile.
She couldn’t move her right arm or hand, and the doctors weren’t hopeful that she would ever fully recover from her wounds.
Even with Kim’s future uncertain, her family drew comfort from the Holy Ghost and remained positive. The Lingards say there was a special feeling in Kim’s hospital room throughout her stay. Her youngest sister Kristin explained: “When I came into Kim’s room, I didn’t want to go because I felt the Holy Ghost so strongly that I wanted to be in the room more.” This feeling helped the family to be calm and hopeful.
Kim wanted more than anything to be able to play the piano again and wrote a note asking the doctors if it would be possible. She says, “They just got this look in their eyes. They wanted to say yes, but they couldn’t. And from then on, I wanted to prove them wrong. I was going to get well.”
She received another priesthood blessing that she would heal quickly, and with faith and hard work, Kim made astonishing progress.
Kim’s family stayed by her bedside for weeks while she was in the hospital. Every day, her sisters would massage her hands so the nerves might begin to work again. And Kim worked hard to exercise her hand.
Eventually Kim’s voice came back, and she regained movement in her face. Then one day her family came in and found her moving her fingers—something the doctors never expected to see. Kim’s stepmom, Karen, says, “Every day seemed like a week’s worth of recovery. You’d see her the next day, and she’d be doing something they said she may not ever be able to do.”
Kim’s condition improved at a remarkable rate, and she became eager to leave the hospital. Just over three weeks after the shooting, she went home—in time for her 17th birthday. The only obvious change in her appearance was that her hair was shaved short from the surgery.
Still, Kim faced weeks of voice and hand therapy. Although her rehabilitation was difficult and painful, she didn’t complain. Her father, Craig, says, “Her testimony is stronger because she sees how her Heavenly Father has blessed her.”
Kim’s family are no strangers to loss. Her mother died of lung cancer only three years earlier, leaving behind a family of 11 children. And now this challenge. But Kim doesn’t feel the need to ask questions. She simply says, “The Lord knows a lot more than we know.”
The Lingards count their blessings. Brother Lingard says, “I knew that if the Lord preserved her life, we could live with whatever else we had to live with.” Kim’s family was calm as they relied on the Lord for strength.
Kim says, “I think about how the Lord hears our prayers. I know that the Lord knew I could do this. I know that He lives and that He’ll help me, and I’m so glad it was me and not someone else.”
Kim’s testimony left her with a good attitude and peace throughout her struggle. And because of that, Kim says, “I was able to forgive the shooter. I know that he is a son of God, too. He made serious mistakes in his life, and I feel sorry for him.”
From the looks of the half-inch round scar the bullet left on the back of her neck, it seems impossible that anyone could live through such an injury. But these days Kim is driving, painting, playing the piano, and laughing with her sisters. Kim has several lasting effects from the shooting, including weakness in her right arm, no right jaw socket, and total deafness in her right ear.
“The doctors didn’t know if I would ever be able to live a normal life.” But Kim was at school the first day of her senior year, just 11 weeks after the shooting. She graduated with her senior class and is now a freshman at Brigham Young University—Idaho.
Kim has few regrets about what happened. “It just amazes me how aware the Lord is of us. The Lord knows all things. We just need to learn to trust in Him. There are good days and bad days, but He is there for us when we need Him.”

I was accepted at BYU Provo when I was already 27 years old. I had been out of school for several years. When my first semester ended and I got my grades, I was afraid to arrive home and show them to my wife. My grades were terrible. I started preparing a mental plan in my own defense. I thought to myself: I will show my wife my grades, she will not be pleased, then I will tell her that this school is too hard, that I am not prepared for college and that we'd better go back to Brazil. And as I walked home carrying my grades (just like a child goes back home to show mom his grades) I started rehearsing in my mind what I was going to say to my wife. When my wife saw my grades, first she agreed that they were really bad. Then I immediately started telling her my feelings of inadequacy, and my desire to interrupt school and go back home. Then she said, "Carlos, we have come all the way from Brazil over here for you to graduate from this university, and we're not going back home until you graduate. I don't care if you need to take a particular class 2 or 3 times, but we will not go back home until you have graduated!"

After hearing those words from my wife I thought, well, I have no way out. I'd better stay in school. So dear brothers and sisters, the fact that I am here this morning sharing my testimony with you is thanks to my dear wife who at a very crucial moment of decision, gave me the help and support I needed.

During a religion class at Ricks College, I was teaching from section 25 of the Doctrine and Covenants, in which Emma Smith is told she should give her time “to writing, and to learning much” (D&C 25:8). About three rows back in the class sat a blond woman whose brow wrinkled as I urged diligence in developing writing skills. She raised her hand and said, “That doesn’t seem reasonable to me. All I’ll ever write are letters to my children.” That brought laughter.

Then a young man stood up, near the back. He had said little during the term. He was older than the other students, and he was shy. He asked if he could speak, then told in a quiet voice of being a soldier in Vietnam. One day he had left his rifle and walked across his fortified compound to mail call. Just as he got a letter in his hand, he heard a bugle blow and rifle fire coming in ahead of the swarming enemy. He fought his way back to his rifle, using his hands as weapons. With the men who survived, he drove the enemy out. The wounded were evacuated. Then he sat down among the living, and some of the dead, and opened the letter.

It was from his mother. She wrote that she’d had a spiritual experience that assured her he would live to come home if he would remain righteous. To my class, the boy said quietly, “That letter was scripture to me. I kept it.” And he sat down.