Gospel Story Finder

Several years ago my husband and I were dumping a load at the local landfill when I noticed one of the ladies who worked there picking up a box to put into the incinerator. Suddenly the box broke open, and some photographs fell out.
As I watched, I had a strong impression to go and get that box of pictures. I jumped out of the car to help pick up the pictures. The lady and I both felt that the photographs had been thrown out by mistake, and I convinced her to let me take the pictures to try to find someone who would like to have them.
Sifting through the hundreds of photographs in the box, I found an envelope addressed to someone in Warburg, Alberta, Canada. Over the next several years, I wrote a few letters to people with the same last name, but I never got a reply.
After my family got access to the Internet, I discovered that there was a historical society in Warburg. I asked if anyone who worked there recognized the names I had found on the back of the pictures.
One month later we received a call from a man who had been contacted by the historical society. He said his sister lived close to us, and he asked if she could see the pictures. Of course we said yes.
The next day, Floyd and Beth Hawthorn, both Latter-day Saints, came to see the pictures. When I opened the box, Brother Hawthorn said, “Well, there he is,” pointing to the picture on top. It was a picture of Sister Hawthorn’s grandfather.
As they picked up picture after picture, Brother and Sister Hawthorn told us stories about the people in each photograph. The Hawthorns doubted that they were related to the person who had discarded the pictures, and they had no idea why the photographs had ended up at the landfill.
I feel strongly that Heavenly Father helped me return the photographs to the Hawthorn family. I testify that family history work is one of the most important works to be done. If we are willing to do the work, the Lord will help us do it.

Even if you’re nearing graduation and feel sure about the answers to those questions, it may be wise to think again. I say that from personal experience. As a senior in high school, I knew exactly the path I would take through college. My goal was to attend the Harvard Business School, just like my father. In answer to my questions about what that would require, he had informed me that the Harvard Business School admissions officers appreciate students with degrees in fields other than business, particularly science and engineering majors. That sounded good to me, because I love geology. For that I am indebted to Ricks College professors who taught me to appreciate the mountains and unique geologic features around Rexburg.

With this clear graduate school goal in mind, I declared geology as my major when I filled out my college application. Everything went according to plan. I enjoyed the geology classes and made rapid progress toward graduation. I also got a summer internship with a large oil company exploring the possibilities of geothermal energy. But I never went on any field trip that wasn’t required for a class, nor did I attempt to get to know my professors outside of the classroom. My grades were good, and I felt confident that the admissions officers at Harvard would be sufficiently impressed with me, notwithstanding my lack of practical experience or enthusiastically supportive faculty mentors.

In fact, I felt so confident that I didn’t apply to any other graduate school. I was thus completely unprepared to receive a “thin letter” from Harvard. For your future reference, acceptance letters often include not only the good news of application success, but also information and enticements designed to win your quick acceptance of the admission offer. These “thick letters” are fat and heavy. By contrast, a statement of rejection is relatively brief, making for a very thin letter. My Harvard thin letter, which weighed less than one ounce, crushed me, as it brought an end to a lifetime of dreaming.

In fairness, my thin letter encouraged me to reapply after gaining at least two years of full-time work experience, as nearly all successful Harvard Business School applicants do. But my devastation wasn’t just a matter of wanting to be admitted quickly. I seriously doubted my ability to get meaningful work experience. The price of oil had fallen by half during my time in college, on its way to falling by half again in the next two years. [2]

In other circumstances, I might have had the patience and optimism to take the Harvard counsel to get work experience and reapply. But experienced, graduate degree-holding professional geologists were being laid off in droves. The woeful joke at the time was that the best natural resource department in Denver, a leading energy hub, was also the shoe department at Sears, the Walmart of that time. Jobs in geology, especially for bachelor’s degree holders, were all but impossible to find.

Now, you may be wondering two things. One is how I could have been so foolish and unlucky in my educational plans. The other is why I am telling you this frightening story. The answer to the first question, about my foolishness and apparent bad luck, is that I can now look back and see that heaven was blessing me in spite of my vain ambitions and overconfidence. We’ll talk more about that later.

For now, let’s focus on the things you can learn from my scary story of bad college and career planning. In my defense, I did one important thing partly well. That thing was choosing a long-range goal to guide my choice of a college major. Rather than just picking a subject that I really liked, geology, I also picked it based on a post-graduation goal: getting into the Harvard Business School.

But I should have been looking past graduate school and on to the life’s work for which my degree would prepare me. I should have been making my best guess about what the life’s work would be. Was it to be a professor and academic administrator, like my father; a research scientist, like his father; or perhaps a real estate developer, like my maternal grandfather? Unfortunately, I wasn’t asking any of those questions.

Elder Kimball had more somber memories of that difficult period. He was the mission secretary, based at Chattanooga, at the time of the Cane Creek Massacre, which occurred on Sunday, August 10, 1884. In that incident, Elder Berry and Elder Thompson were killed in a mob action, along with a Brother Condor and a Brother Hudson. A Sister Condor was wounded in the hip.
Elder Kimball was in the vicinity of the tragedy at the time of its occurrence, and he sent a telegram from Columbia, Tennessee, informing President Roberts of the details of the incident.
Resolving to retrieve the bodies of the slain missionaries so they could be returned to their families in Utah, President Roberts set about making arrangements to do so. The bodies had been buried in an area known as Shady Grove. As their recovery involved considerable risk, Elder Kimball tried to dissuade President Roberts from personally undertaking the task and offered to go himself. However, the mission president’s will prevailed, and Roberts, effectively disguised as a farm laborer, went to the burial site with some local people, recovered the bodies, and supervised their return to Utah.

An instance when Japanese leaders appreciated the Church’s timely assistance was when local priesthood leaders identified an overwhelmed refugee shelter set up at a school in an isolated area. Together with the public affairs council and the local Church welfare manager, the priesthood leaders arranged for food and other relief supplies to be delivered to the shelter, which was housing approximately 270 displaced tsunami victims.
Although those at the shelter were initially surprised to receive assistance from a Christian church, the second time Mormon Helping Hands volunteers came, wearing their yellow vests, one child yelled, “Here they come! I wonder what they brought this time!”
After receiving the donations, the shelter coordinator told Elder and Sister Grames, “Your church brought us the first meat and fresh vegetables we had after the earthquake.”
“It felt good,” says Sister Grames, “to really be a helping hand not only to the shelter but also to the priesthood leaders who were trying so hard to reach those in need.”
Elder Niiyama explains another positive result of the council’s efforts: “We found that sharing information about the Church’s relief work with members as well as outside opinion leaders was very vital to our public affairs objectives. I feel people outside of the Church now have a better image of the Church and members are more confident in the strength of the Church in Japan.”

I know a brother in Brazil who joined the Church as a 16-year-old, the only member in his family. When it was time for his mission, his parents objected. He heard nothing from them during his mission and returned home to his bishop’s house. The story, however, has a happy ending as he now has a beautiful family, works as a dental surgeon, and his parents wish he could interest his brothers in the Church.

I grew up in Rexburg, Idaho, where I was influenced and taught by a wonderful family, friends, teachers, and leaders. There are special experiences in the lives of all of us that touch our souls and make things different forever. One such experience happened in my youth. This experience transformed my life.
I was always active in the Church and progressed through the Aaronic Priesthood. When I was a teenager, Brother Jacob, my teacher, asked that I write down on a card what I had thought about during the sacrament. I took my card and began to write. First on the list was a basketball game we had won the night before. And then came a date after the game, and so went the list. Far removed and certainly not in bold letters was the name of Jesus Christ.
Each Sunday the card was filled out. For a young Aaronic Priesthood holder, the sacrament and sacrament meeting took on a new, expanded, and spiritual meaning. I anxiously looked forward to Sundays and to the opportunity to partake of the sacrament, as understanding the Savior’s Atonement was changing me. Every Sunday to this day, as I partake of the sacrament, I can see my card and review my list. Always on my list now, first of all, is the Savior of mankind.

While living in Salt Lake City in 1978, my wife, Linda, and I attended a reunion of returned missionaries. At one point, one of the former missionaries enthusiastically reported that his family had been rising early each morning to read the scriptures.
I had heard about people like that. It was all I could do to read the scriptures myself on a regular basis, let alone get the entire family our of bed early each day to read a few verses.
However, Linda and I knew it was something we should do. We realized that such a habit, formed when our family was young, could provide a great foundation for our children.
A few mornings later and a few minutes earlier than usual, we gathered the family to begin reading the Book of Mormon.
We chose the Book of Mormon because of its wonderful stories and plain presentation of gospel principles. It was also the only one of the standard works for which we had a large-type edition for the children. Angela was six years old, Jamie was three, and Dallas was newly born. At first, Jamie and Dallas had poor attendance, but Angela zealously showed up each morning.
About ninety seconds into our first morning, a few things became obvious: We were not going to finish for a very long time. Second, too much reading at one time would make this project miserable for all of us. And third, the children’s joy would come as much from reading to Mom and Dad as from the messages they learned from the Book of Mormon.
Keeping these things in mind, we decided to read one column of one page each day. We would each take a verse, in order, and read it aloud. For Angela, whose reading skills were limited, it usually meant that Linda or I would say one or two words and she would repeat them.
Discussions were prompted by questions from the children or the need for emphasis from Mom and Dad. Many times a short introduction to what was ahead made the reading more exciting. When a great prophet died, we felt sad and talked about it. When we came to a favorite story or favorite prophet, we mentioned it.
From the first, we recognized that reaching the book’s final verse wasn’t the point; the fun was in getting there. We soon lost any feeling of desire to get the book read in a hurry. If it took five years, so what? If the children, or even Mom and Dad, seemed to tire or become distracted, we would not read as much. We could always pick up the next day where we had left off.
We ended each session on our knees in family prayer.
As the weeks became months and the months became years, a miracle unfolded. We saw our children learning to read. Better yet, we saw them becoming acquainted with the prophets, stories, and teachings of the Book of Mormon.
As our family grew older, our children slowly mastered the text. They needed less and less help pronouncing words and names, and they rarely missed a word like Lamanite, even though they sometimes needed help with more common words. That large-type edition was soon passed from Angela to Jamie, from Jamie to Dallas, and then to our latest child, Jill. As the older children received their own copies of the Book of Mormon, their satisfaction grew even greater.
Along the way there were many triumphs. Whenever a child was able to read a whole verse without assistance, the family rewarded the effort with a spontaneous cheer. When we read 3 Nephi, we all sensed a special spirit. The children felt the importance of the verses. We read some of the passages more than once, pausing for discussion. As we read of the Lord’s love for the children and how he blessed them, our children felt that the Book of Mormon was written just for them.
We also had our setbacks. Summer was a hard time for our reading program. While the children had their school holiday, they had no need to get up as early as I did, and we missed many days during these summer months. Still, we had no trouble starting again once school started.
The greatest challenge came in 1983, when we moved. We lived outside of a city, and I commuted an hour each way to work. This meant that I had to leave home every morning before the children woke up.
We solved the problem by switching our scripture reading to evenings, just before bedtime. Reading then required much more discipline. Busy schedules, homework, television, and even Church activities competed for our time. But after a few weeks the routine was established, and we continued on our way.
About half-way through the Book of Mormon, it became obvious that we need to “quicken our pace and lengthen our stride” if the children were to have the Book of Mormon read before they left home for college, marriage, or missions. We had long since progressed to reading both columns on a page. Now we started reading two pages a night. By October 1986 we set a goal. We would have the book finished by Christmas!
It was a special night when we read the last page. We planned it so that Jill, who was five, could read the last verse. We didn’t say much, but the prayer that night was one of special thanks for our eight-year journey through the Book of Mormon.
We thought of having a celebration, but in the end we realized that this was only the end of the Book of Mormon part of our effort; it was not the end of our daily scripture reading. So we celebrated by going to the store for ice cream. Our real reward was the quiet satisfaction we each felt. We had read the Book of Mormon, and we had done it together.
We are convinced that the Lord provided a special blessing for our children. They have all learned to be fine readers. The have also learned to love the Book of Mormon. Above all, we are bound together by the knowledge that we have obey the prophet, by the strength we gained from the counsel in the Book of Mormon, and by the love we developed during those minutes every day when each child was the focus of attention and nothing else really mattered.

Mark Ray of Tempe, Arizona, says many of his friends aren’t LDS, but he doesn’t see that as a problem.
“I think it’s all right to have nonmember friends, but we must not be overly influenced by them. I do lots of things with nonmembers, but I don’t compromise my standards.
“Once I was on a school biology trip to California with some kids I knew. That night, when we got to the hotel room, they broke out some beer. I said, ‘No thanks,’ and just sat around. I felt kind of dumb at first, but they didn’t push it.
“Most of my friends know I’m a Mormon, so that saves me from saying no very often. They already know my standards.”

President David O. McKay tells: “I remember as a deacon chopping wood for the widows on Saturday. We met as a group of nine boys, held a short meeting, took our axes, went to the widows, and chopped enough wood for each to last that week.”
And President McKay continues: “As a priest, I recall administering the sacrament and my failure the first time I offered the prayer. We did not have the prayer on a printed card before us then as is frequently the case now. We were supposed to memorize it. The sacrament table was just under the pulpit, and my father, the bishop, always stood right over the one who asked the blessing upon the bread and water. I thought I knew the prayer, but I had memorized it privately, and when I knelt and saw the congregation before me, I became flustered.” (Cherished Experiences, comp. Clare Middlemiss, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1976, p. 190.) This challenge did not cause him to become discouraged, my young friends. He made additional preparation and lifted himself to a level of excellence.

And in a way, she has. Sage’s story has been published throughout the United States. “Since the articles started coming out, we get letters from all over the country,” Michael says. One was from a lady dying of cancer; she had cut a picture of Sage from a magazine and put it where it could be easily seen. “Now when I hurt,” she wrote, “I look at that and say, ‘You foolish woman, what have you got to be sad about?’”

I witnessed a simple example of this kind of prayer a few weeks ago when Elder Dallin H. Oaks and I were assigned to conduct a video-conference interview of a couple in another country. Because we are conducting more and more business via video-conferences, we have a studio for that purpose set up on the fifth floor of the Church Administration Building where our offices are located. Shortly before going up to the studio, I reviewed once again the information we had collected about the couple and felt I was prepared for the interview. As I came to the small elevator lobby on the fifth floor a few minutes before the appointed time, I saw Elder Oaks sitting alone there with head bowed. In a moment he raised his head and explained, "I was just finishing my prayer in preparation for this interview. We will need the gift of discernment." He had not neglected the most important preparation, a prayer to "consecrate our performance" for our good and the Lord's glory.

Recently, in our priesthood quorum meeting we were discussing prayer and its role in our lives. We spoke of various places and attitudes of prayer. And eventually, the discussion got around to our own personal experiences with prayer.
Though the Lord had answered my prayers hundreds of times, and though my testimony of prayer has always been extremely strong, my thoughts turned instantly to an experience I had had at basic military training camp in San Antonio, Texas, in 1968.
My air force training group was assigned to Barracks No. 1019. It was a typical two-story military building with double doors at each end, windows on both sides. It stood among a hundred other buildings just like it, all painted white.
My assigned bunk was on the upper floor toward the back. When you got to the top of the stairs, you faced the training instructor’s office on the right, the latrine on the left, and a dark wood floor straight ahead.
The foot of my bunk stood alongside thirty other beds just like it. My footlocker was at the head of my bed. I slept on the bottom bunk.
Sleeping on the bunk above me was William E. “Willy” Wilson, short, strong, black, raised in America’s south, deeply religious, a great friend.
From the first day in the camp I felt the need to pray more than usual. But I wondered if I would be able to kneel to pray in the barrack room.
The first night I waited patiently for the lights to go out. At 9:00 P.M. they shut off automatically, controlled by a timer in the training instructor’s office. They came back on at 4:45 each morning.
At about 9:20 P.M., I quickly and quietly got out of my bed and fell to my knees in prayer. I asked God to help me find a way to have my prayers without any interruptions.
Though we were all supposed to be in bed, many of the men continued polishing their army boots by flashlight or writing letters by the light of a cigarette lighter. Many just talked.
After praying, I would gently climb back into bed, careful not to disturb Willy.
I did that each night for about a week.
On the first Sabbath morning, we were allowed to sleep until 6:00 A.M. At a few minutes past 6:00, as I sleepily sat on the side of my bed, still trying to wake up, our training instructor, Sergeant Bradbury, came into the room.
He sternly called out, “Does anyone want to go to church today?”
“Yes, sir,” I called out. Total silence came over the barracks, upstairs and down.
“Come into my office, Fish,” he quietly ordered.
That first week, we had all learned never to volunteer for anything. Now I had.
“You made a mistake,” Willy whispered as I walked past him.
In the sergeant’s office I reported, “Airman Fish reporting as ordered.”
“Relax,” he said. “Sit down.” I did as I was told.
“What religion are you?” he asked.
“Latter-day Saint, sir,” I replied. His face had a puzzled look.
“Mormon, sir,” I explained.
“Oh,” he half smiled. “I have a good friend who is a Mormon,” he said half apologetically, as if to seek my permission to say that. I nodded in agreement.
“Do you know where your church meets?” was his next question.
“No, sir. I don’t.”
Opening his desk drawer, he pulled out a camp directory and showed me where to go. He also gave me the name of the camp chaplain, whom I called from the sergeant’s office. He was most helpful. “Priesthood meeting starts at 9:00,” he told me.
After getting all of the necessary directions, I gently hung up the telephone and Sergeant Bradbury said, “You are free to go. Be back by 6:00!”
“Yes, sir!”
When I was halfway back to my bunk Sergeant Bradbury spoke again, where all could hear. “Except for Fish, you are all confined to barracks, except going for meals.”
When I returned from church that day, I was greeted by the other men with sarcastic remarks.
“Hi, chaplain,” one remarked.
“How was God today?” another asked.
I just tried smiling and kept walking toward my bunk. I could see Willy lying on the top bunk reading.
“Like I said,” he greeted me, “you made a mistake.”
That was the first time in my life I had ever been told that going to church was a mistake.
I changed my clothes and marched to supper with the group—though only Willy would sit with me.
We spent the rest of our Sunday evening reading, writing letters, and doing other things.
Following my regular procedure of the past week, at around 9:15 I climbed quietly once more from my bed and in the darkness slipped to my knees. As usual, the regular barrack room noise continued.
Barely had I begun praying when a very familiar voice shouted clearly, “Quiet! The chaplain’s praying.”
It was Willy.
The noise on the upper floor of Building 1019 instantly stopped. Many of us would soon be assigned to the fighting in Indochina. I came to realize that we all felt a need for the comfort that comes from prayer.
By general, respectful agreement, I spent the next six weeks, promptly at 9:15 P.M. each night, standing at the foot of my bed and offering a two or three minute prayer in behalf of all of the sixty men on that top floor in Building 1019. And during those few short minutes of prayer, it seemed as though we were assembled in a sanctuary, far removed from military affairs and procedures.
At the end of each prayer there were always some quiet “amens” and many louder “hallelujahs.”
But it didn’t matter. As I stood there those forty nights, being the “voice” for many, we all prayed to the same God. And he had answered my prayers.

Stonehenge—one of history’s mysteries. Every year millions of people travel to Salisbury Plain, England, to visit this ancient monument. What most people don’t know, however, is that, tucked away nearby in the remote village of Kingston Deverill, lives the Ralph family, whose history is as rich as Stonehenge and whose acts of charity are as monumental.
Meet Edwin, 17, Emmanuel, 16, Martha, 13, and Sophia, 8, descendants of King Alfred the Great. Their daily schedules are as busy as most young people their age, with school, church, and sports; but their household responsibilities are unusual. They, along with their parents and grandparents, live in Kingston House, where they care for five mentally challenged men. The five residents are between ages 33 and 71. They have multiple learning disabilities with their mental ages ranging from two to five years. They need constant supervision. With the extended Ralph family, each child plays an important role in the running of this unusual home where service and charity are taught and learned daily.
Early each morning, Sophia scrambles out of bed, wakes her father, then helps him make breakfast for the family of 11. Later on Martha washes up, Emmanuel vacuums, and Edwin supervises bathing sessions. As the Ralph children interact with their less able “brothers,” their love for these men radiates. “They bring a lot of laughter into our lives,” smiles Edwin, a priest in the Yeovil Branch, Bristol England Stake. “You learn to develop patience and a sense of humor.”
He relates a story of one man who came to their home after living in an institution for most of his life. “The first thing he did was to vacuum the toilet. He had learned to vacuum and did it very well. When he arrived, he asked us if he could use the vacuum cleaner, which we thought was great—until it went up in smoke.”
There’s never a dull moment at Kingston House. Caring for the men is a full-time job, which the family happily shares among them.
Emmanuel explains the feelings he has towards the men whom he sees as brothers. “I know they’re special people, and it’s my responsibility to help them. They have boys’ spirits in men’s bodies, and it is refreshing to be around them.”
Emmanuel dreams of being a professional cricket player one day. He shares this dream with the residents by playing cricket with them on a regular basis. In fact, all the Ralphs are cricket fans and will challenge anyone to a match in their backyard. The sport enables the disabled men and non-LDS friends and neighbors to come together. Once the game begins, barriers vanish, and the participants lose themselves in fun.
Martha, who plays for Dorset Girls Cricket Team, enjoys watching her friends overcome their fear of the patients. “At first they’re a bit scared,” she says. “We forget at times that they are mentally disabled until we see the reaction of other people to them. After a while they get to know the men and see them in a different light. We all have a great time.”
As a Beehive in Young Women, Martha realizes that the time she spends with the residents has helped her learn to view others less judgmentally. “Because of the experience I’ve had with our residents, I realize that other people need help too. It’s not good to hold prejudices. Christ never did.”
The gospel gives Edwin a clearer perspective. “It’s nice to know they are spirits just like me, and there is a purpose for their disability here. I want to help them live the best lives they can. It will be brilliant to see them in the Resurrection. I look forward to meeting them in the next life when their bodies are perfect.”
One of the residents, Roy, was 46 when Sophia was age two. Because Roy’s mental age was the same as Sophia’s, they became best friends. Brother Ralph describes how they played together and followed each other around. “Now Sophia is eight, and Roy looks up to her as his big sister. Mentally he’s still a two-year-old.” It’s touching to watch them walk hand in hand down the lane to the lambing fields. When it’s spring, Sophia takes Roy to see the newborn lambs, an outing they both cherish.
Brother Ralph serves on the high council of the Bristol Stake. He’s pleased with the spirit of charity the residents have brought into his home. “The children feel it’s quite natural for them to help the disabled men. Giving them attention and time is not a burden; it’s a benefit. There’s no question in my mind that we’ve been blessed.”
Where there are obstacles, there are also talents. The family believes that the men have been blessed with unique gifts despite their limitations. One has a great memory and always knows where everything is. Another is shy until he gets involved in sports, when he forgets himself and his skills come out. Yet another is an artist, even though he is partially blind and deaf. And another is a natural clown. He is a genius at remembering names and voices.
Another source of enjoyment for the Ralphs is missionary work. The Yeovil Branch which they attend is 28 miles away with an average attendance of 75 members. Eleven years ago, when Edwin and Emmanuel were six and five, they helped to convert their grandparents. “It was exciting to teach my parents,” says Brother Ralph. “The children are not afraid to share the gospel with others, and this has made the world of difference in our lives.”
The Ralphs’ missionary work also extends to family history. When they traced their family lines, they discovered they were descendants of King Alfred the Great. It also happens that the standing stones mentioned in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, King Alfred’s meeting place with his troops in 878 A.D. where he made plans to battle the Danes, are on the Ralphs’ land. These two five-foot stones form part of their family shield. The wooden coat of arms also displays the motto “Honor, Truth, and Excellence.” These qualities reflect in their lives as a family as they serve those in need.

Caroline Jacobs focused on the words of the closing song. If she concentrated hard enough, she could block out the jeers and cries coming from outside—almost. Her father offered a prayer, and the meeting was dismissed.
Because there was no church building, the Mormon families in the area met in the Jacobses’ home. No one was in a hurry to leave tonight, Caroline noted. They were afraid, just as she was.
The mob hadn’t actually attacked anyone yet. But daily they grew louder and bolder in their protests against the Mormon families in the small Missouri settlement.
Surely they won’t harm people who only want to live in peace, Caroline kept telling herself. But the struggle to believe it intensified every day. Reports came, relating the persecutions the Saints in other towns were suffering, but so far the mob had stopped short of real violence here.
Caroline’s family had moved from New York a year ago, just after her baptism. At first she had liked the frontier town. She’d seen trappers and traders, cowboys and soldiers, all of whom she’d only read about before her family’s move to Missouri.
But as more Latter-day Saint families settled in the area, anti-Mormon sentiment had grown. Caroline kept close to home now and no longer played outside by herself.
When the other families had left the house with her father, who was seeing the widows safely home, Caroline turned to her mother. “Mama, why do the men outside hate us?”
Her mother sighed. “I don’t think they really hate us. I think they’re afraid.”
Caroline listened to the shouts that could still be heard, even though the meeting had ended. “They don’t sound afraid. They sound angry. Besides, why would they be afraid of us?” She knew her father didn’t even own a gun. He’d told her often enough that he believed in talking out differences, not shooting them out.
Her mother looked sad. “People often are afraid of what they don’t understand.”
Caroline thought about that. Maybe her mother was right. “Are you ever afraid, Mama?”
Her mother busied herself with sweeping the wood floor. “Sometimes I am,” she said at last. “Then I remember that if I am at peace here”—she placed a hand over her heart—“I don’t have to be afraid.”
Caroline put a hand over her own heart. “But how can I feel peace when people are trying to force us to leave our homes?”
“Peace isn’t something that comes from the outside. It’s a feeling inside,” her mother said with a slow, soft smile.
“A feeling inside,” Caroline repeated, liking the sound of the words.
The next day Caroline walked with her mother to the small store that sold supplies to the farmers. She kept her eyes straight ahead when several boys from town yelled, “Dirty Mormons!”
“They can’t hurt us with their words,” Mama said quietly, but she tightened her hold on Caroline’s hand and walked faster toward the store.
Caroline thought about Mama’s counsel from last night and placed her hand on her heart. This is where it matters, she thought. If I can feel peace here, it doesn’t matter what’s happening around me.
She fixed her thoughts on the sweet feelings she’d received the previous night, when she’d knelt by her bed and prayed for Heavenly Father’s help. Never before had she known such peace.
On the way home she ignored the taunts aimed at her and concentrated on what she felt inside. Her mother was right. The peaceful feeling didn’t go away. Instead, it grew steadily stronger until she no longer even noticed the boys’ insults.
At home she climbed the ladder to the loft that was her bedroom. Once more, she knelt by her bed and prayed. This time it was a prayer of thanks.

I enjoyed reading the New Era in high school, but in some ways it made me feel discouraged and inadequate. It was always telling stories about talented youth, and I thought I could never be like them.
It seemed I wasn’t talented in anything. I was uncoordinated and bad at sports. I was extremely shy and self-conscious, and I was made fun of in school, often because of my high standards. I did make pretty good grades—mainly because I worked hard at it.
I figured that maybe there was still something I could do, even if I couldn’t be a real star like the people highlighted in the magazine. I read the scriptures about loving others and decided I would try to do that.
One day as I came out of Mutual class, I saw a girl standing at the end of the hall. She was slouched over. The thought came to me that this girl needed a friend, so I walked over and started talking to her. More accurately, I started listening to her. She talked very softly, but I showed interest in what she had to say.
We were friends from then on. She was four years younger than I was, and she was not a member of the Church; her neighbors had started bringing her to Church. A few months later, I was able to go to her baptism. She was 13 years old and the only member in her family.
I made friends with other people too. Sometimes I would think that a person wouldn’t want to be friends with me, but I found that these people seemed happy to have someone who cared about them.
When it was time to graduate, our high school had an awards assembly to honor students’ achievements. My name was not called, but my friend who had gotten baptized made a little award for me and had my friends sign it. I felt I had really achieved something too.
I also realized that everyone has their place and purpose in this world. I know that those talented and popular people had an influence on others. But perhaps if I had been very talented or very popular, I might have been too busy for my new friends, and those friendships have become rich treasures to me.

In Farmington, Utah, there lived a good man named Bob Hasenyager, who was not yet a member of the Church. His wife, Marlene, was devoted to the gospel. She honored her covenants quietly and patiently, never pressuring—only loving. Bob was serving and helping in the local ward. One day the stake president asked Bob, “Are you aware that your wife longs to attend the temple but still waits, not wanting to hurt you?”
Bob wept when he was told this. Then he gave his full support. Marlene received her endowment and began attending the temple regularly. Bob noticed something different: not pressure, not argument, but peace. Then one day a young missionary simply suggested Bob be baptized on a specific date. In Bob’s words: “I felt the Holy Ghost. I felt warmth and joy and peace. I finally had my answer.” Bob was baptized. He was later diagnosed with terminal cancer. He and Marlene were sealed four months before he passed away.

President Howard W. Hunter has great reverence for Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, and all of Their creations. As a young boy he especially loved animals. One day, when he was about seven years old, he saw several older boys gathered around a large irrigation ditch near his home. He saw them throw a kitten into the water. Every time the kitten managed to crawl out of the ditch, the boys would throw it back in. When the boys left, Howard took the kitten gently in his arms, carried it home, and put it by the wood-burning stove to keep it warm. He fed the kitten warm milk and lovingly nursed it back to health. His family let him keep the kitten, and it became one of his beloved pets.

Elder Bruce D. Porter once said that he had learned a great deal from Elder Charles Didier, under whom Elder Porter had served in the Europe East Area Presidency. Elder Porter mentioned an occasion when a number of problems posed grave challenges to the work in Europe: political troubles all across the area; serious difficulties with the government in Bulgaria; unrest in Albania; problems in Russia and Ukraine, and so forth. Elder Porter then commented that whenever such problems came up, "Elder Didier would never panic. He would never say the situation is grim. He would never send off a letter to the First Presidency and tell them that we needed help. Elder Didier simply would smile and say, 'The Lord will take care of it,' and he did again and again and again." Elder Porter added: "Now, I am not saying there will never be setbacks, because there will be, or that we will not occasionally have to leave a country for a time, but what I am saying is that the Lord has all these things in his hands. We need not fear. We need not panic. This is his work" ("Family and the Global Church: Cultural and Political Challenges," in The International Society 9th Conference, 17 August 1998, pp. 3-4).

While serving as a mission leader in Japan some years ago, I attended a weekend conference in a rural city in one of the far corners of our mission. The district president had arranged for me to conduct an interview with a man who had joined the Church a year earlier and was seeking to receive a temple recommend. He hoped to receive his own endowment on or close to the one-year anniversary of his baptism.
During our conversation, this new member described how deeply grateful he was for the bounteous blessings he had received in the year since he was baptized. He enjoyed attending weekly sacrament and other meetings. He became deeply involved in the activities of his branch. To me, he exuded a covenant confidence resulting from understanding his gospel purpose, which was now an integral part of him. He was a converted disciple of Christ who had experienced a mighty change of heart (see Mosiah 5:2).
The rest of our conversation followed a hopeful pattern. We discussed the ordinances and covenants that would be part of his temple experience. He affirmatively answered each of the standard questions associated with receiving a temple recommend.
Following the interview, I recall commenting to the district president how grateful I was to meet such an outstanding man. I told him how impressed I was that the missionaries and members had found, and spiritually nurtured, someone of such caliber and promise.
I was stunned when the district president shared that when this man began receiving lessons from the missionaries and attending church over a year earlier, he was homeless and in exceedingly difficult—near hopeless—circumstances. The district president then described how this brother’s study of the gospel and his conversion over a period of months led to his miraculous change, putting him on a path of both spiritual and temporal self-reliance and giving him a sense of purpose and joy.
I end where I began, recalling my experience years ago with a recent convert in Japan. Through his diligence and the diligence of missionaries and members, he found the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. In finding the gospel, he also discovered his purpose, which expanded his vision. He also found the great plan of happiness. Obedience to the plan’s gospel covenants brought him blessings and joy, lifting him temporally and spiritually.
His journey leading to membership in the Church of Jesus Christ allowed him to become a witness of Jesus Christ. Elder Patrick Kearon of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has described the joy that follows:
“Because of the loving plan of our Heavenly Father for each of His children, and because of the redeeming life and mission of our Saviour, Jesus Christ, we can—and should—be the most joyful people on earth! Even as the storms of life in an often-troubled world pound upon us, we can cultivate a growing and abiding sense of joy and inner peace because of our hope in Christ and our understanding of our own place in the beautiful plan of happiness.”

Olá! My name is Alice, and I try to SHINE MY LIGHT by SHOWING GRATITUDE!
I live in Brazil with my parents and sister and brother. My sister Julia and I play the piano for sacrament meeting in our ward.
One Sunday, a man named Brother Stahlke gave us a present. He said it was a gift to thank us for the music we played on Sundays. When we opened the box, we found a special kind of flute inside! I put the flute together and started playing. I was enchanted by the sound.
Soon I started playing hymns on the flute. I wanted to do something to thank Brother Stahlke for the gift. So I practiced the hymn “How Great the Wisdom and the Love” (Hymns, no. 195). I asked my dad to take me to Brother Stahlke’s house so I could show him that his gift helped me discover a new talent.
When I played for Brother Stahlke, he was very happy and emotional. He told me that he had a dream about this hymn the night before! I felt the love of God for him and for me.
When we show gratitude, the Lord blesses us with happy feelings from the Holy Ghost.