Gospel Story Finder

That interest and excitement about missionary work has spread. Victor, 12, is, all the brothers admit, the best baseball player, and he loves the game. His parents started getting calls from the local baseball coaches asking why Victor had not signed up to play baseball during the summer. “When I asked Victor,” says Rick, “he said he wanted to spend as much time as possible with Chris during the summer before he went on his mission. I just said, ‘Wow, Victor, you’d do that for your brother?’” With so many boys in the family, the competition was sometimes less than brotherly. Chris and Matt, being close in age, suffered from it for a while. Anything Chris did, Matt tried to do better. It caused contention. Chris says, “Mom knew best. She had a talk with me. She said that God gave us all talents, and we can’t be better than someone else at everything. Then I realized that Matt has something in him that makes him better at some things. He has his talents, and I have mine. We need to share them and gain from each other and really enjoy watching each other do whatever. It might be soccer, band, sports, being outdoors, or giving service.” When Chris watched Matt compete at state in the pole vault, the sport he had taught his younger brother, the disappointment at not being there himself lessened. He felt calm. “I was glad one of us made it and that it could be my brother.” Editor’s Note: Since this article was written, Chris received his mission call and is serving in the Lithuania Vilnius Mission.

The day I discovered I could, with my mission president’s permission, extend my mission for a month was one of the most exciting in my life. As a recent convert, I was determined to stay in the mission field and share the gospel with as many people as I could.
As the end of my 24th month drew to a close, I was grateful for the chance to stay a little longer and teach the gospel. On Sunday night, three days before transfers, the phone rang. I was serving as the zone leader in Lubbock, Texas, so I wasn’t surprised to hear my mission president’s voice.
I figured he was going to update me on the upcoming transfers. Instead, he told me that he felt inspired to send me home on time and revoke my extension. The president instructed me to pack my belongings and be on the mission van headed for Fort Worth at 7:00 a.m. the next morning.
As I hung up the phone, I began to cry. I couldn’t believe my mission was about to end. I wanted badly to have an extra month to share the gospel as a full-time servant of the Lord.
The next morning I boarded the van for the 15-hour ride to Fort Worth. By the time I reached my destination I was drained, spiritually and emotionally. I could not understand why I needed to go home now. In my final interview, the mission president assured me that it was the Lord’s will.
After returning home, I reported on my mission to the stake high council. When I left the high council meeting, I was approached by a high councilor, who invited me to accompany him on an upcoming speaking assignment. The topic was on being a modern-day pioneer. I agreed to speak.
During the next few weeks I readjusted to life but still had no answer as to why I had been sent home on time. The day of the speaking assignment arrived, and I prayed that Heavenly Father would help me speak with His Spirit. During my talk, I told of being a pioneer as my family’s only Church member and of the hardships I had faced since my baptism. I also shared the experiences of other converts I had met on my mission and how they overcame their obstacles. I felt that the Spirit was guiding my every word.
After the meeting, a 17-year-old girl approached me. She said she was not a member of the Church but was friends with a young man who was. Her friend and his family had shared the gospel with her. The girl said she had a testimony but was afraid of how her parents would react to her desire for baptism. She thanked me for sharing my experiences and told me she now knew what she needed to do.
Several months later, the high councilor I had spoken with approached me. He mentioned the girl who had talked with me after my pioneer talk and said she had been baptized a few days earlier. He said the girl felt the Spirit so strongly during my talk that she had no doubt that Heavenly Father wanted her to join the Church.
My heart swelled with joy as I realized why I had been denied my mission extension. I was merely an instrument in Heavenly Father’s hands, and He knew where I could serve best—at home.

In my own case, I also discovered that some challenges in my learning required more than simply doing my homework and then asking the Lord’s help. This was brought into sharp focus as I struggled to master statistics and probability. During my final year of college, I made plans to go to graduate school, and though I was majoring in mathematics, I had never taken a course in statistics and probabilities. But I knew that as a PhD student I would be expected to become accomplished at using the tools of statistics and probabilities as part of my training as a researcher. Thus, during my final semester as an undergraduate, I took a course on statistics and probabilities. I did well in the course because I knew math and knew how to memorize, but frankly, I didn’t understand it.

In my first two years of graduate school I took three more-advanced courses in statistics and probabilities. By that third course I knew I was in trouble—I still didn’t fully understand the concepts and principles, although I knew the formulas and the definitions. It was at that point I decided that I really needed extra help and that I needed to make my learning in that area a matter of fasting and prayer, not just prayer. I’m happy to report that within a couple of weeks, the fog lifted, and with the Lord’s help, I did gain a deep understanding of statistics and probability.

It had just started to rain when seven-year-old Angela stepped into the tent. Her two older brothers, Michael and Mark, were already inside. Mom and Dad had their own tent set up not far away.
“Let’s say our prayers before we get into our sleeping bags,” Michael said.
The three children knelt in prayer. Angela thanked Heavenly Father for her many blessings, and she asked Him to keep them safe from the storm and to help them sleep well.
After her prayer, she slid into her sleeping bag. For a long time all was quiet except for the plomp, plomp, plomp of the rain against the roof of their tent. Then she heard Michael’s voice. “Hey, Angela, wasn’t Mount Rushmore cool?”
“Yes,” she answered with a yawn.
“So were the animals in the park,” said Mark.
“I liked them too,” Angela agreed. She pictured the buffalo calves grazing so close to the road that she could see their eyes watching the slow-moving cars.
Flash! Boooooom!
Angela squeezed her eyes tight. “Go to sleep,” she told herself. “It’s just thunder.” It had rained almost every day that her family had been on vacation. Every time it rained, lightning shot across the sky like hot arrows, and thunder echoed on and on like beating drums.
Flash! Boooooom!
Angela pulled the sleeping bag over her head. “Go to sleep,” she told herself again.
“Mark, are you awake?” Michael whispered into the darkness.
“Hmmm?” Mark’s voice was heavy with sleep.
“Are you awake?”
Flash!
Mark opened his eyes. “I am now,” he said.
Boooom!
“Angela, are you awake?” Michael asked.
“Yes,” Angela whimpered. “I’m scared. I want to go to Mom and Dad’s tent.”
“It’s raining too hard,” Michael said. “You’ll get soaking wet. Besides, it’s not safe to go out in the lightning.”
Angela frowned. “But I’m really scared.”
Flash! Flash!
“You don’t need to be scared,” Mark said. “The lightning is really cool! It’s just a bunch of static electricity in the clouds.”
Boooom!
“And the thunder sounds like a big whip!” he added.
Angela shuddered. “I don’t like it!”
Flash! Boooom!
“Well, then think of things that make you happy,” Mark suggested. “That might help.”
Angela closed her eyes and thought about a field of yellow flowers. She imagined herself running down a hill into the field, laughing.
Flash! Boom! Flash! Flash! Booooom!
“It’s not working,” Angela said, shaking. “I’m still scared.”
Suddenly, rain began pelting their tent. Angela scrunched deep within her sleeping bag. What could she do to stop feeling scared? Then a quiet thought entered her mind. “Why don’t we sing?” she shouted, hoping her brothers could hear her above the noise. “My Primary teacher said that singing Primary songs can help us feel better.”
“OK,” Mark said loudly. “What should we sing?”
“How about ‘I Am a Child of God’?” Michael suggested.
Slowly, quietly, Angela started to sing.
“I am a child of God,
And he has sent me here …”
Angela stopped. Her brothers weren’t singing with her. “They must not be able to hear me,” she thought. So she sang louder.
“Has given me an earthly home
With parents kind and dear.”
Her brothers were singing now.
“Lead me, guide me, walk beside me,
Help me find the way.
Teach me all that I must do
To live with him someday.”
(Children’s Songbook, 2–3)
Flash! Boom!
“Now what should we sing?” Angela asked.
“Let’s sing that one again,” Michael said.
Over and over, Angela, Michael, and Mark sang “I Am a Child of God” until the storm passed and peace returned to their tent.
“It worked!” Angela told herself as she snuggled into the warmth of her sleeping bag. “Finally I can go to sleep.” As she closed her eyes, another thought gently filled her mind. “I am a child of God, and I know He will help me find the way.”

I don’t care what anybody says, it’s just not easy to be your own personal matchmaker. But, in spite of all the discouragement and failure I’ve faced, I guess I’d still be at it if it weren’t for a mayonnaise jar filled with wheat.
It all happened because my turn to cook for my roommates was coming up fast, and they were fed up with the same old basic casseroles and meat loaf. They always looked to me for leadership—they think the simple fact that I’m the second oldest in a family of ten means I’m pretty smart and experienced. Granted, a family of ten is an experience, and in my own humble opinion, I’m pretty smart, but there’s only so much you can do with food. Nevertheless, I was determined to impress them with my culinary abilities, especially hoping that word of my success would get back to my current heartthrob, Rusty, who happened to be the best-looking guy in our student branch.
So I was racking my brain for something new and different to cook. I’d checked through our entire supply of cookbooks (which consisted of four—two copies of the Joy of Cooking, one Desserts for Two, and one Boys and Girls Jello Cookbook). I’d called my mother who was 1700 miles away, and after $6.49 worth of telephone time, decided it was another dead end. I’d also called my brother’s fiancée. After the conversation with her, I pitied my brother’s stomach, which would face her homecooked delights through all eternity, and turned to my last resort—my own imagination.
As I was sitting in the laundry room downstairs thinking about the food crisis, studying French, and listening to our basketball team trail the visitors by 24 points, the washer to which I had entrusted all my colored washables at once began to drool soapsuds and spit weird blue sparks at me. Soapsuds I can handle, but weird blue sparks are not normal. I raced upstairs to get the manager, not thinking to get my French book out of the potential disaster area. When we returned and the manager gingerly opened the door a crack, I groaned at the sight of my French book floating in the four inches of water that had leaked out of the machine.
In the face of pending financial catastrophe—the purchase of a new French book—I decided no amount of money was too small to save and so followed the manager back upstairs to get a refund of my 40 cents that the monster washing machine had so thanklessly gobbled. While I stood in the doorway and watched her rummage through a drawer for change, I noticed an unusual smell. I glanced around for clues as to its source. There was a strange bubbly noise coming from the kitchen, which I brightly assumed was something cooking. I also brightly assumed the noise was somehow connected with the smell. Usually a shy soul, I surprised myself by asking, “What’s that … (here I hesitated, but only for a second) … terrific smell?”
The manager, Mrs. Smith (honest, that’s her name), brightened by about 50 watts. “Oh, come and see it. It’s an old recipe that’s been in the family for simply generations! It’s called Palestine Stew, and it’s so very good. I personally think it’s what we’ll be eating in heaven.”
As I followed her into the kitchen, I fervently hoped we’d be eating nothing even remotely like it in heaven or on earth. From the smell, I could also guess why the recipe hadn’t left the family for “simply generations.” I stared at the big pot of bubbling brown stuff. In reply to my blank expression, she began to explain. “All it is is wheat and hamburger and tomatoes. It has to cook all day, and it’s delicious! Here, try a taste.”
I shook my head violently. It looked awful. But she had already dug a big spoonful of the mess out of the pot and, with a prizewinning smile, turned and stuffed it in my protesting mouth. What could I do?
I chewed the mouthful cautiously for a few seconds and stopped. It was weird, but the taste kind of grew on me. When I had finally swallowed, I stood thinking. It certainly wasn’t your basic casserole or meat loaf. And it looked pretty cheap—I mean, how much can wheat and hamburger and tomatoes cost?
Mrs. Smith was watching me carefully with a coaxing smile on her face, waiting for my words of praise. After long moments of thought, I took a deep breath and said, “It’s … it’s really good. Now, how did you say you make it?”
An hour later, armed with an index card on which the fateful recipe was written in Mrs. Smith’s eager hand, I combed the aisles of a nearby grocery store that boasted, “We have what you’re looking for,” finally realizing that in my case, they didn’t. Convinced there was no whole wheat in that store, I trudged home dejectedly with two cans of tomatoes and a pound of hamburger. My mind raced furiously, trying to decide where I could get some whole wheat. It wasn’t until I was almost at the door that I suddenly knew just the person to see about my problem.
My sister had lots of wheat. And I’d been planning to meet her that evening on campus to watch her husband of three months who would be playing in an intramurals basketball game. What luck! I raced inside to the phone and made all the arrangements to get the needed three cups of wheat to the gym where I could pick it up. My sister probably didn’t bat an eye when I made my request. She was pretty used to me by then.
Well, as luck or fate or whatever would have it, my own branch basketball team also had a game that night in the same gym as my brother-in-law Brent’s game. Brent’s game was at 6:00, our game was at 7:15, and Rusty was our team’s six-foot-three center.
It took about 15 seconds of pleading to get my roommate Laurie to consent to go to the games with me. She hates basketball but is also in love with Rusty. I thought it wisest not to mention my current obsession with him. She falls in and out of love about every four days, but I knew that with me, it was the real thing. So, at 5:30 we went off to the gym to watch the games, and get the wheat, and admire Rusty in action.
Brent’s team lost their game by about 80 points. But I finally had the wheat, all three cups of it, in a mayonnaise jar. For some reason I felt really dumb sitting there holding the jar of little brown wheat kernels. I mean, how many people on an average college campus watch basketball games with a jar of wheat in their lap? So Laurie and I ran all over the building checking every wastepaper basket for a paper bag to hide it in. We were almost desperate—Rusty’s game was starting in ten minutes, we were missing the warm-up action, and still could find no paper bag—until we got to the women’s locker room and found three crumpled bags in a garbage can. We pulled some waxed paper and orange peels out of the best one, stuffed the jar in, and were back at the game with about four minutes to spare.
It was a great game. One of our guards is about five-and-a-half feet tall, really handy for sneaking between players’ legs and swiping the ball mid-dribble. We won with a score of 35–28, and Rusty made 12 of those points. We were really proud of him—or maybe I should say I was really proud. You see, Laurie had fallen in love during a time-out with a guy named Gordon who happened to be one of Rusty’s roommates. I was ecstatic—I had the wheat, we’d won the game, and Rusty was all mine now. Well, at least he would have been if he’d known I was alive. So, thinker that I am, I began plotting a way to get him to notice me.
I didn’t have to plot long. Laurie had gotten an invitation to ride home with Gordon—in Rusty’s car—and naturally I, as her roommate, was included in the invitation.
It would have been terrific, except for the wheat. See, Rusty has a really far-out car. But I’m kind of a klutz sometimes. I mean, with ten kids in the family, sometimes Mom was too busy to notice my bad manners and lack of finesse. So, when it was time to let Rusty open the car door to let us out, I was a little nervous. At a critical moment, the bag caught on the door handle and tore, and as I jerked it away, the jar hit the door frame and shattered. Those little kernels of wheat flew like bullets—slow bullets, granted, but they did fly. A lot of them simply fell in the gutter, but a lot more fell on the car seat and floor.
I guess it was pretty funny, but I sure didn’t feel like laughing. In the back seat, however, Laurie started to laugh and Gordon let out a guffaw that turned into near-hysteria. I guess being in love warps your sense of humor. I just sat, feeling a little silly.
Rusty looked down at the wheat swimming in the gutter and then at the floor of his beautiful car where the rest of the wheat had gradually settled. Then he looked at me. My face was burning. Rusty offered me his hand and helped me out of the car. I stood on the curb a second, not quite sure what to do. Rusty leaned over and whispered near my ear, “Don’t go away. I want to show you something.” So I stood, red and helpless and speechless, as Gordon and Laurie climbed out of the car, still laughing, and went inside.
I was afraid to look at Rusty. But he took my arm and steered me toward his apartment as he started to talk.
“Don’t worry about the mess. I was planning to wash the car later tonight anyway, and I’ll let you come along and help me vacuum it out. Right now I’m curious about what you needed that wheat for. Were you going to sprout it or something?”
I shook my head, trying to think of some way to explain Palestine Stew. “You see, it was for dinner tomorrow night. I was going to make this stuff that takes wheat and hamburger and tomatoes and needs to cook all day.”
He looked down at me. “It sounds really bad.”
I grinned. “You ought to smell it.”
He laughed as he opened his apartment door. He went straight to the kitchen and opened a cupboard door. There on the shelf were about ten mayonnaise jars filled with wheat. “You see,” he said, “my parents are really big on wheat. My mom even taught me how to make bread once before my mission, but I’ve pretty well forgotten now. But they still keep me supplied really well.” He grinned down at me. “I’ll let you take some if you promise to let me try some of your Palestine Stew.”
Well, Rusty was, after all, really impressed with my stew. And, even though it took a long time before I could stand the sight of wheat again, I have had a good time re-teaching him how to make bread. And I’ve also come to appreciate the many unexpected benefits that can come from food storage.

One of the defining moments in my life happened for me at the age of 10 when I spent two weeks learning Catholic doctrine at the Loreto Roman Catholic Mission, about 20 miles (32 km) away from my rural home in Silobela, Zimbabwe. I have come to know and love the Savior Jesus Christ and to look up to the Lord through these early lessons and impressions.
While I was in the Catholic chapel, I saw paintings with scenes from the Savior’s life pasted on the wall: scenes of Jesus Christ’s birth, teaching in the temple, praying in the Garden of Gethsemane, carrying the cross to Calvary, being crucified at Golgotha, and His Resurrection. It really made me feel sad to see those nails and thorns. By the time I got to the painting of the Crucifixion, my eyes were filled with tears. And each time I would cry and say, “Hey, He really went through a lot, just for me.”
During the confirmation ceremony, one of the priests looked into my eyes and said, “You are the light of the world” (see Matthew 5:14). Then, pointing to a burning candle, he quoted the Savior’s words: “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven” (Matthew 5:16).
As I learned more about Jesus, I began to want to be of service to others. For example, we would have to fetch our water five miles (8 km) away from our village. Often, women in the village, including my mother, would carry a 20-liter container on their heads filled with water. After my experience at the Catholic seminary, I often pushed a 200-liter (about 50 gallons) container of water to help my mother, and I also helped two other widows who were our neighbors. I remembered the good feeling I felt each time I helped others.
These experiences helped develop my faith in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and indirectly prepared me to accept the gospel of Jesus Christ when I was 22 years old.

A few months ago, I set out to paint lines at Laie Park for a new sport called Pickleball. Within minutes of laying out the masking tape and pulling out my yellow traffic paint and paint rollers, I had 15 kids under the age of ten saying, “Hey uncle, I like try.” Based on their level of fascination with the painting process, I doubt a single one of them had ever used a paint roller in his life, but due to their eagerness to help and their willingness to learn, I chose to change my focus from painting Pickleball lines to helping children learn. I quickly realized it was more important to validate and encourage the children’s innate desire to serve and to learn than it was to paint perfect Pickleball lines. The kids were great. They very dutifully lined up and one-by-one and took turns dipping the rollers in the paint and rolling out the lines. Kids are naturally born with a love for learning. If you feel you have lost that love for learning, seek to regain it by trying something totally new in a safe, loving environment. If I could express one hope in my new responsibilities in the Center for Learning and Teaching, it would be that each of our classrooms become a safe and loving environment but also an environment that challenges each of us to live up to our potential.

Let me give you an example. Elder Maxwell talked the talk, but he also walked the walk. Aileen Figuerres, who currently serves on the Relief Society General Board, shared this story:
Elder Maxwell oversaw the Asia North Area while my husband, Cyril, presided over the Japan Fukuoka Mission. Each time we saw the Maxwells, they would ask if there was anything they could do for us when they returned to Utah. However, we never wanted to burden such busy people with extra things to do.
While we were in Japan, our daughter Dawn was a new BYU student. One day she was called to the front desk of her dorm to find Elder and Sister Maxwell waiting. [Wouldn’t that be a surprise!] They knew she was away from us and brought her a potted plant for her room and a book by Elder Maxwell. He humbly and humorously suggested that she could read it if she was ever having difficulty falling asleep. They chatted with her, told her about what we were doing, and offered her the name and phone number of their daughter who lived nearby in case Dawn ever needed assistance.
But this was not the end of their ministering to a young college student. During the Christmas holidays Dawn received a call to make sure she had somewhere to go. Sister Maxwell even invited her to the MTC to hear Elder Maxwell speak.
Their ministering was a blessing to Dawn and to us, her parents, who thought about her and worried about her as we lived half a world apart from each other.

Feeling good about yourself is very hard, especially for teenagers, since we are at an age when almost everything makes us feel different and awkward.
I did some things to help myself. I started taking ballet and jazz classes. I also turned to people I knew would lift me up and never put me down. I asked my best friend, my parents, and church leaders to write down a list of things they saw that were good in me, and I started working at improving myself in those areas. I started feeling better about myself and people felt more comfortable around me, so I had more friends and that made me feel better too.
Remember no matter what you or anyone else thinks, Heavenly Father thinks you are great!
Astrid Sieger, 15Dallas, Texas

With special permission, I carefully share the experience of some great friends of ours, Nick and Cindy. On November 19, 2022, while awaiting an emergency lung transplant, their 24-year-old daughter, Taeloni, was in a battle for her life. Despite having exhausted every possible measure they could think of, including finding the best medical professionals, enduring multiple tests and treatments, and enlisting multitudes to fast and pray on her behalf, Taeloni, sweet, courageous, and positive to the very end, took her last few mortal breaths and passed away.

In this time of devastating loss, their family was left with a lot of unanswered questions. Comments like, “She is in a better place,” “The Lord needed her more,” and “Everything happens for a reason,” though said with the best of intentions, seemed to magnify their pain, not ease it, when they were already struggling.

In the two years since Taeloni’s passing, I’ve had many tender conversations with Nick. He admitted that he could have easily fallen away from the Lord when they didn’t receive the answer they had hoped for. But knowing how important it is to hold onto faith, Nick explained, “God’s promises can be different than we pictured, slower than we wanted, and further away than we thought.” And when asked about his feelings toward the gospel, he said, “I don’t know if I can say that I absolutely know this is true. But I sure hope it is.” As tears filled his eyes, he continued, “And if it is, I need to do all that I can to be with [my family] for eternity.” Through his pain, he has chosen to follow the Savior and is aiming for eternity. I admire the strength and examples of Nick and Cindy.

"I grew up in a big city, in Los Angeles, which gave me the opportunity to meet early on people from different walks of life. I had interactions and connections with people that helped me learn about their lives as they learned about my life.

"I had an experience at a bus stop where I was running late to work. And, in my frustration, I turned around and I noticed an older lady who was going about digging in the trash. Her hair was very damp; she was missing a lot of teeth, but she smiled at me. It made me forget that I was running late.

"Who is going to help her? Who is willing to give her something to make her have a better day? I don’t know. But in that moment, it made me realize that’s me. I know I’ve been in different phases of my life where I’ve needed help and I’ve prayed for someone to offer something in my life, mostly love or a sense of belonging. And that made me think about Jesus Christ and how He loves me and how He does give me a sense of belonging. That motivated me to offer her my apple.

"We started interacting, and I couldn’t help but want to offer her my whole lunch. I would have offered her everything if I had even more. I’ll never have everything that I wish I could have to offer someone. But that is why Jesus Christ is the great Mediator, because He can. He can offer and duplicate what I can’t by infinity.

"When I think about Jesus Christ and how He fed the five thousand or the four thousand, it wasn’t about loaves and bread. Of course, feeding them provided a very temporary nourishment. But when you read carefully behind that, it really is about His mercy. It really is about His grace. It really is about His love.

"Those people, those individuals that He would help that were considered the outcasts, the people who were marginalized—which in today’s world might be the refugee, the immigrant—sometimes we see people different because of their skin color, because they’re from a different religion.

"Because of these experiences that I’ve had and as I realized what God has done for me, how could I not want to help someone out of the love and the mercy and the grace that God has for me?" [5]

Now to Katie, the horse I acquired a few years ago. She has a very prestigious pedigree. Each of her parents was a champion. Katie is a beautiful chestnut. She is intelligent and holds her head high. Her first foal has won many ribbons in competition in harness and in the three-gaited class.
When we first got Katie she was in poor condition. She had been mistreated and not fed properly. But I felt that with proper care she would respond, and she did. She is the best bred and most handsome horse I have ever owned. She would be a real champion except for one thing—she has never learned proper discipline. Her early training was poor. She is fun to ride for a short while. She prances, holds her head high, lifts her feet, and looks wonderful; but the moment she is startled or comes upon an unknown object, she loses her head. One day she was startled by a dog. She reared up on her hind legs, causing her to fall over on her back and on me, injuring my leg. She then struggled to her feet and ran like a frightened deer. With all her beauty and intelligence, she is now out to pasture.

Paul Cox had no idea the rain forest near the village where he and his family were living in Falealupo, Western Samoa, was about to be destroyed until he heard the roar of bulldozers one morning in 1987.
Villagers had reluctantly sold more than 12,000 hectares of forestland to raise money to build a new school. Building the school was required by the Samoan government; financing it was left up to the village. “The villagers didn’t want to allow the loggers into the forest,” explains Brother Cox, who is on leave from Brigham Young University while he serves concurrently as director of the National Tropical Botanical Garden in Hawaii and as a professor of environmental science in Uppsala, Sweden. “In fact, they had held off the loggers for 10 years. But they had no other way of getting funds for the school. They felt they had to choose between their children and their forest. It was a terrible, terrible decision for them.”1
Many people would feel powerless in such a situation, but in that difficult moment, Brother Cox made a decision. “I offered to raise the money to build the school if the villagers would protect the forest. … I had no idea how we’d get the money.”
But a more immediate challenge than finding the money was getting the villagers to accept his offer. Many of the village chiefs were suspicious of Brother Cox, but High Chief Fuiono Senio trusted him and persuaded the other chiefs to accept Brother Cox’s assistance.
The loggers had already begun clear-cutting the forest when the chiefs gave their agreement. Chief Senio ran several kilometers down the road, machete in hand, and chased the loggers away.
The next day, after talking with his wife and receiving her support, Brother Cox flew to Apia, Samoa’s capital, and signed a mortgage for the amount needed to build the school. Then, he remembers, “I came back to my wife with the good news and the bad news. The good news was that we’d helped save a 12,000-hectare rain forest; the bad news was that we’d have to sell our house and our car and we still might not have enough money.
“I guess it’s at a moment like this that you know your marriage is working because Barbara took my hand and said, ‘Paul, how often in our lifetime will we have a chance to do something so wonderful? What a great thing!’”
Brother and Sister Cox began preparing to sell their Utah home, but soon Brigham Young University students, family members, and community members heard about the cause and raised enough money that the Coxes did not actually have to sell their house and car.
Brother Cox worked out a covenant with the people of Falealupo that protects the forest for 50 years. Villagers can still use the forest as they always have: to gather food, medicinal plants, or materials to build homes and canoes. Loggers or other commercial developers, however, cannot harm the forest in any way.
Brother Cox did not stop after saving Falealupo’s rain forest. In 1997 the international community honored him and Chief Senio for their work in Falealupo with the Goldman Environmental Prize, which has been referred to as the Nobel Prize of environmentalism. Brother Cox used his portion of the prize money to set up a fund that will protect the Falealupo forest permanently, even after the original 50-year preservation covenant runs out.
By 1997 he had also established the Seacology foundation. Seacology works to “save the world one village at a time” by helping other Pacific island villages finance schools, water systems, health-care facilities, and other necessities without having to sell their forests.2
“They’re small projects that we’ve done in little villages,” Brother Cox says, “but they mean a lot to the people who live there. These projects are not changing the whole world, but they’re helping improve the lives of a few people in several villages, and that’s worth my time.
“I hope that when I leave the world, I can leave it just a little bit better than when I came. Let’s face it: the Falealupo forest is a small place. The country of Samoa is a small country, but at least I’ve made a difference there. And I think that’s what it comes down to—each one of us. We can all make a difference in our own way.”

One year we went through almost two boxes of film before Dad was satisfied. Thirty-four times we had to stand up straight, say “cheese,” or “pizza” and then smile. When we got the photos back, someone looked awful in 26 of them, five were out of focus, and in three others, Dad didn’t quite get into the picture in time and all you could see was his back. We went with one of the out-of-focus shots that year, which sort of symbolizes the whole family photo ritual.

I was serving as a missionary when I met Susie (name has been changed). She and her family had been taught the gospel by two missionaries who worked in the mission office with me. They had received all the lessons and had accepted the invitation to be baptized and confirmed. It was my privilege to interview this wonderful family of four: mother, father, younger brother, and Susie.
I had completed the baptismal interviews for the other three family members and had found them wonderfully prepared and excited to be part of the Lord’s kingdom. But when Susie walked in, she seemed quiet and somewhat hesitant to meet with me.
I began asking questions about what she had been taught. She knew the story of the Prophet Joseph Smith and believed it; she had read the Book of Mormon and knew it to be true; and she accepted the Church as the only true and living Church on the earth and wanted to be part of it. I asked Susie about her willingness to live the law of tithing, the Word of Wisdom, and other commandments. She said she understood these and was willing to live them for the rest of her life. Indeed, the interview was much like those I had had with the rest of her family.
Then I asked, “Can you tell me what the law of chastity is?” Her countenance immediately changed. I quickly recognized this must be why she seemed hesitant to meet with me. Before I could say anything, she covered her face with both hands, put her face and hands in her lap, and began to sob uncontrollably.
We sat without speaking for several minutes. I was unsure of what to say, and Susie could not stop sobbing. I prayed for the Lord’s help and asked Susie what was wrong. She finally lifted her face and told me that several weeks before meeting the missionaries she and her boyfriend had done things the missionaries had taught her were wrong according to the Lord’s law. She had already told her boyfriend what she had learned and had told him she would no longer be involved in such a relationship. She had even suggested to him that he meet with the missionaries and hear what she now knew was true. Still, the guilt for having engaged in these acts weighed down her soul.
My heart hurt with hers. I wanted so much to help her because I felt that her remorse and her desire to do right and be baptized were sincere. At that moment, the answer to my prayer came clearly. I asked her, “Susie, would you like to be free of the guilt and pain of this sin?” Once again her hands covered her face, and her head bowed. She uttered only one word: “Yes.” Her tears came even more freely, and I consoled her by talking about the Atonement and how she could apply it to her life. I explained that one purpose of baptism and confirmation is to heal the souls of those who are sincere in repentance, and without question I found her to be sincere.
We completed the interview with a prayer. The Spirit of the Lord was clearly present, more powerfully than I had ever before felt in an interview.
My companion and I arrived at the chapel shortly before the baptism. There was no time to speak to Susie or her family prior to the service. After the singing and the talks, they were baptized—first her mother, then her father, then her brother, and finally Susie. She walked down into the font, and her smile told the story—the healing balm of the Master was working in her heart. As she came out of the water, tears were in her eyes and mine. Her smile was even bigger than before, and her countenance was radiant. I understood at that moment why the Savior taught, “Come unto me, all ye that … are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).
We spoke only briefly after the service. I welcomed the family as new members of the Lord’s kingdom. As I shook Susie’s hand, I wanted to tell her how much this experience had meant to me. I had repented in my life and felt the power of the Atonement, but I was grateful to have felt it more powerfully than ever before because of my association with her.
Joining the Church is a challenge in and of itself. Joining under such personally strained circumstances had to be an even greater challenge for Susie, as it is for many new members. But the Atonement of Jesus Christ made the challenge surmountable and led this wonderful daughter of God to conversion and a healing of the soul. It also taught an impressionable young missionary an important lesson about applying the Atonement in his own life.

Grandma got steadily worse after that. Mom kept trying to get her to use the bedpan, but grandma insisted on her dignity. All those months that grandma lived with us, I would go into her room and talk to her after school. Her mind seemed to drift backward at times. She could remember her childhood better than what had happened only moments before. I tried not to notice her sagging skin hanging off her protruding bones. She weighed only 80 pounds.
Mom told me not to bother grandma anymore. She told me that grandma didn’t understand what I was saying anymore. Sometimes I’d rub grandma’s feet or stroke her forehead or we’d just be together.
My father was always too busy with work and my mom was pregnant with twins and half crazy with worry over my rebellious older brother and his motorcycle and girl friend. But grandma, she was always there.
It was nearly the end of the school year when I ran in the house one day and charged down the stairs to grandma’s room. A boy in my science class and I had been working on a science fair project for two months together. We’d taken first place, and he had asked me to the graduation dance. I wanted to tell grandma as I had everything else all year.
When I opened the door, flushed from running, the bedroom was empty. Grandma was gone.
“Where is she?” I shouted running up the stairs to the kitchen. “Where’s grandma?”
The house seemed strangely quiet. Most of my family were in the kitchen looking solemn.
“Mom had to take her to the hospital this morning,” my dad said, squeezing my arm. “She died this afternoon.”
“No!” I shouted, “She wasn’t ready yet!”
“It was her time, honey. It’s better this way. She won’t be suffering anymore. She’s happy now,” dad answered.
“She was happy before, too,” I said pulling away.
I ran out of the house and up the street to the field at the end. The tears stung as they ran down my hot cheeks. I climbed the tree. There, in the top branches, the wind felt cool on my burning face. With my eyes closed, I bit down on my bottom lip. I wanted it to hurt. The soft summer wind rustled the lacy leaves, and the slow tumbling water from the irrigation ditch lapped against the crooked, moss-covered roots of the willow tree. Time passed.
Later, I opened my eyes and looked up. I could see the gray silhouette of a bird slicing through the crimson sky overhead. Somehow I didn’t feel angry any more. I laid my cheek against the rough bark of the tree and put my arm around the limb. I felt comfortable and secure. The sun, round and orange, balanced on the mountain horizon. Cool, dark shadows rolled across the weed grass in the field.
Slowly, deliberately, I climbed limb by limb back down the tree to the ground. I took a deep breath of the summer-scented air. As I walked away from the tree, I felt as if an irreplaceable part of myself had stayed behind—there in that tree in the topmost branches. Yet I felt a new part of myself fill the gap and the longing as I realized that maybe, no matter how old we are, we’re never good and ready. Even knowing the glories of the other side doesn’t make it easier to let go of that which we know and love.
As I reached the end of the field near the street to my home, I turned around. The tree looked dark and hazy in the early evening light.

Not all who marry outside the Church are so fortunate. One sister recalls the serious problems she encountered with her in-laws, strong in another religion, when they learned she was an active Latter-day Saint. They threatened to end any relationship with her. Her husband took their side, and she did not attend Church meetings for several years. But when this sister and her husband were no longer living with his family, a caring Relief Society president and loving sisters in the ward helped bring her back. Now she serves in a leadership calling, trying to reach out to other sisters.

There are still difficulties in the home, however. Working hard to support the family, her husband feels he is fulfilling all the obligations of a husband and father. But his influence has been absent in some areas where it is badly needed, his wife says. Their son is becoming rebellious, and the father is beginning to see that he needs to change in order to help their son. One particular missionary has touched the man’s life, helping him make progress, and he and his wife are working through issues of religion in the family. This sister expresses gratitude for gospel teachings that help her understand “we can work the problems out.”

I have recently returned from a mission in the Florida Ft. Lauderdale (Spanish) Mission. Before my mission, while in a Sunday School class at Brigham Young University, my friend Laurel Stowe and I were trying to pay full attention to the teacher. But my attention was dwindling fast because I was excited. I was preparing to leave on a mission. A little later I leaned over to Laurel (my attention being almost gone) and asked her to please write me a poem, knowing her special talent. She did, to my delight! One day near the end of my mission, while in the office, my companion picked up the latest edition of the New Era and promptly asked me if this was my friend who wrote poetry. It was, and to my surprise, the poem was the one she had written for my mission! It was extra special because it appeared in October, which was my last month in the mission field. Thank you for this special surprise!
Claudia WaiteLas Vegas, Nevada

In my mother’s blessing, she was promised she would have sons and daughters. When my parents’ first child was born, it was a girl. Then Melinda came—a second girl. After that, Julie, Allison, Mary Jane, and Michelle followed. After she had had six girls, friends and family began suggesting that perhaps her blessing meant she would have sons in the next life or maybe she would have sons-in-law when her daughters married. But my mother remained prayerful and firmly believed that sons would be born to her. She wasn’t surprised when her next child was Scott and the last one was Kurt. She knew what her blessing meant, and she had faith in God’s promise, claiming that blessing with confidence.

Many individuals and families in countries around the world were prepared to receive the message of the Restoration. These included the Prophet’s parents, Joseph and Lucy Mack Smith, two deeply spiritual individuals who were raised in a culture that taught them to love Jesus Christ and study the Bible.

For years, Joseph and Lucy had experienced financial, health, and other setbacks in New England, in the northeast corner of the United States. By 1816, when they lost their crops because of the worldwide climate change caused by the eruption of Mount Tambora in Indonesia, Joseph and Lucy had little choice but to give up on New England and make a courageous decision to leave the safety net of family, friends, and community.

As volume 1 of the new history of the Church states: “Joseph Sr. loved his wife and children dearly, but he had not been able to provide them much stability in life. Bad luck and unsuccessful investments had kept the family poor and rootless. Maybe New York would be different.”16

In many ways, the Smith family’s failures in New England pushed them to western New York, where religious excitement increased and inspired Joseph Smith Jr. to seek the Lord in his quest for forgiveness and direction. It was also where the gold plates lay hidden, waiting for him to locate, translate, and publish them.