Gospel Story Finder

When Saints from Manaus prepared to make their first trip to the temple in Caracas, they were so happy they declared, “Now it takes us only 40 hours to get to the temple!” To get to Caracas, the Saints had to endure a 1,000-mile (1,600-km) bus ride that included traveling through unsettled parts of the Amazon jungle and changing from a larger bus to a smaller bus at Brazil’s border with Venezuela. The distance was shorter, but the trip still required substantial monetary sacrifice, with the added expense of obtaining passports.

As the Saints embarked, they sang, “Rise, Ye Saints, and Temples Enter.”1 To maintain reverence and stay focused on the purpose of their trip, they held firesides on the bus and watched Church movies such as The Mountain of the Lord.

In a journal compiled by those who were part of that first trip, Church members recalled their blessings, not their sacrifices. One sister wrote: “Today I am going to the temple for the first time. Yesterday I celebrated my 20th anniversary as a member of the Church—so many hours, days, and years of waiting and preparing. My heart is full of gratitude and happiness for my friends, priesthood leaders, and especially Jesus Christ, His Atonement, and this opportunity to go to the house of my Heavenly Father.”

A brother who was sealed to his wife and children on that trip said the temple gave him a glimpse of eternity. “I have no doubt that if we keep the covenants we make in the temple, we will have a happier and more abundant life,” he wrote. “I love my family, and I will do all I can to have them with me in the celestial kingdom.”

Women who received the gospel became pillars of strength in Sweden. One example is Britta Olsdotter Persson, the first person to embrace the gospel in Vingåker. In 1877, to help support her family, she traveled to Stockholm to sell her weaving. There she met the missionaries and realized that they were teaching the truth and was baptized, at age 50.
Her conversion and valiant labor to promote the Lord’s work eventually led to more baptisms, and a branch was established in Vingåker. Her descendants are still active in the Church. Sister Persson’s great-great-granddaughter Laila Krylborn remarked, “It is wonderful to see what has happened in our children’s and grandchildren’s generations. Now our families have several priesthood holders and missionaries.”

Here is an example of the kind of Christlike ministering that happens among members of the Lord’s Church. A student at Brigham Young University recently wrote:
“I was going through a really rough time. One day I was really struggling and on the verge of tears. I pleaded and prayed silently for strength to continue. In that exact moment, my roommate sent me a text expressing her love for me. She shared a scripture and bore a testimony. It brought me so much strength and comfort and hope in that moment of despair.”

Such ward activities not only built positive relationships among members of the Church but also built positive relationships with everyone in the community.

“I remember one woman, not a member of the Church, who was new to the area,” David says. “She had been reduced to burning wood paneling from her home to keep warm. Once we learned about her plight, we made sure she had enough firewood to get through the winter. She was so thankful she could barely speak.”

Ministering efforts in Fredonia ensured that everyone stayed safe and warm through the winter.

Earlier this semester one of my students came to me distraught over failing a midterm. We discussed several ways she might improve: taking the practice exam as if it were real, forming a study group, teaching the principles to others, and trying more problems. She listened, she adjusted, and she aced the next midterm. Last week during office hours a different student expressed dismay at her performance on the midterm. The first student overheard her and immediately invited the discouraged classmate to join her study group and learn from the group’s collective experience. Love from others is essential when we are not having the experience we want.

Some time ago a father of six children who had the sole responsibility for raising the family, beginning when the youngest was in diapers, told of the struggles of doing so alone. One night he came home from work faced with the problems of being both father and mother and felt unusually burdened with his responsibilities. One of his appreciative daughters, age 12, approached him eagerly after having laid on his dresser a rock that she had painted at school. On the flat portion of the rock, she had written, “Happiness is having a dad who cares.” This painted rock and its sublime message instantly and permanently lightened the burden of this father.

Presidency meetings can also be a time to evaluate and improve. “We had a sacrament meeting where not too many people showed up, and it was hard to know how to adjust when we were passing the sacrament,” says Bridger O., the deacons quorum president.
“As a presidency,” Bridger explains, we decided that the deacons should talk that through and be prepared if it ever happens again.” The presidency also decided to meet with each new deacon as he comes into the quorum and show him how to pass the sacrament.

In 2002 my wife and I directed a Study Abroad program to Madrid. As part of the program’s activities we organized a trip to Santiago de Compostela in northern Spain. This city became famous in the Middle Ages when it was assumed to be the resting place for the remains of the Apostle James. As a result it flourished as one of Christianity’s most-frequented pilgrimage sites. For pilgrims the Santiago trail symbolized every man’s search for forgiveness, identity, and purpose. Because of these strong spiritual corollaries, we felt that it would be good for the students to experience a four-kilometer portion of the trail. We started at the Monte do Gozo, or Mount of Joy—the point at which the pilgrims catch their first glimpse of the city—and walked to the cathedral.
While we walked we conversed with pilgrims—many of them having already traveled hundreds of kilometers on foot. We learned that each one had a unique story and purpose for pursuing their journey. All of them held in common a sense of belonging to a community of believers, a connection to the earth, a place in history, and a spiritual legacy embodied in the trail. Though there were a multitude of reasons for undertaking the journey, the joy the pilgrims experienced at its completion was singular. This fact became clear when we attended the pilgrims’ mass in the cathedral and witnessed the humility and gratitude they expressed as they closed this chapter of their life. It became apparent from the look in their eyes and the expression on their face that they would walk away from their experience with renewed hope and a deeper faith.

During the Vietnam War, we held a series of special meetings for members of the Church called into military service. After such a meeting in Chicago, I was standing next to President Harold B. Lee when a fine young Latter-day Saint told President Lee that he was on leave to visit his home and then had orders to Vietnam. He asked President Lee to give him a blessing.
Much to my surprise, President Lee said, “Your father should give you the blessing.”
Very disappointed, the boy said, “My father wouldn’t know how to give a blessing.”
President Lee answered, “Go home, my boy, and tell your father that you are going away to war and want to receive a father’s blessing from him. If he does not know how, tell him that you will sit on a chair. He can stand behind you and put his hands on your head and say whatever comes.”
This young soldier went away sorrowing.
About two years later I met him again. I do not recall where. He reminded me of that experience and said, “I did as I was told to do. I explained to my father that I would sit on the chair and that he should put his hands on my head. The power of the priesthood filled both of us. That was a strength and protection in those perilous months of battle.”

Mandy opened her eyes. It was morning, and there was something outside, scratching at her window. “Whoooo,” it called. She quickly got out of bed and put on her clothes. It sounded to Mandy like a very large owl. “Whoooo,” it said again.
She tiptoed from her room and then ran to the kitchen. “Did you hear that?” she asked her mother. “I think there’s a large owl outside scratching and blowing at my bedroom window.”
Mandy’s mother laughed. “That’s the wind,” she said, “and not an owl at all. It’s just air that moves very fast and makes the bushes rustle and scratch at your window.”
“Can I go out and see it?” Mandy asked.
“You can look for it, but I don’t think you’ll find it,” Mother said with a smile. Then she gave Mandy her sweater and a piece of hot buttered toast. “Now you won’t be cold or hungry while you hunt for the wind,” she told her.
Opening the door, Mandy stepped out into the backyard. There was a dry, sweet smell in the air. She licked her lips. They felt dry too. A gust of wind brushed across her cheek and was gone. Then another, much harder than the first. “Whoooo!” it said.
Mandy blinked her eyes and looked around. Large golden and orange leaves were falling from the maple tree. They touched the ground and danced together, round and round, like whirlpools of colored paper. The wind is finger painting, Mandy thought. It’s drawing leaf pictures with little fingers of air.
Cleeter, Mandy’s dog, barked loudly and pounced onto a pile of crisp brown leaves, crushing them into thousands of coppery pieces. But Tom, the cat, just put his nose in the air and sniffed. Then he curled his tail around himself and sat very still. Mandy reached down and put her hand on Tom’s soft fur.
POP! The fur crackled under Mandy’s fingers. Tom’s back curved up into a fluffy arch, and the fur crackled again.
Mandy heard something rustle. It was a piece of newspaper standing on edge. It balanced a second, then danced across the lawn like a kite trying to fly.
Suddenly a great gust of wind rushed around the house. This time it said, “Wheeee!” Mandy’s hair blew into her eyes so she couldn’t see. She put her hands out to push the wind away, but it kept right on coming. The leaves fell faster all around her. Yellow and gold and scarlet and orange leaves whirled and whirled.
“I’m in a leaf storm,” Mandy said. “If I don’t do something quick, this wind might blow me away.” She reached out and grabbed the rough, dusty trunk of the maple tree. Then she put both arms around the tree as far as they would reach. The wind blew and blew.
“Wheeee!” it sang, pulling at Mandy’s sweater until it puffed out and made her feel like a balloon.
“Help!” called Mandy, but no one heard her except Cleeter, who was playing in the leaves, and Tom, who stretched and yawned. Then he walked slowly toward the house.
If Tom can do that, thought Mandy, so can I. So she released her hands from the tree, pulled her sweater tightly around her, and walked right into the face of the wind to the back door. It pushed her hair straight back and almost took her breath away. But it made her feel clean and fresh all over.
“Well,” said Mother, when she and Tom were sitting at the kitchen table, “did you find the wind?”
Mandy nodded her head. “You can’t see it,” she explained, “but you can feel it and you can hear it and you can smell the things that fly with it. You can’t reach out and touch it, but it can touch you. It touched me so hard, I thought I’d be blown away. But I like windy days!”

All was quiet in the Andrews household one November evening when the chemistry of calamity began to bubble.
It was innocent at first—just a minor commotion in the basement. Mom, who was writing a letter at a desk in the living room, put her pen down and anxiously looked toward the basement door. Lucy, my ninth-grade sister, pulled off her headphones. Tyler, my six-year-old brother, stopped playing with his toy cars and looked worried.
“Mom,” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm, “is Dad … is he … well, you know, is he doing what I think he is doing?”
“I think so, Matt.”
“You’ve got to make him stop!” Lucy hissed desperately. “Doesn’t he know how this bothers us? I don’t want to go through all this again.”
“We’ve got to support him. I know it’s hard on all of us, but at times like these, we need to remember that we’re a family and we stick together. Your father is a good man. He just has a quirk or two, like everyone else,” Mom said slowly.
Just then, Dad burst through the doorway from the basement, a triumphant grin curling across his face. Around his neck was a camera. In one hand, he carried a tripod, in the other, his gadget bag filled with photographic filters, lenses, and film.
“I found all the gear! How about this Saturday for the family Christmas card photo?” he boomed. “Trust me. This will be the best one yet. I can feel it. What do you think?”
None of us said a word. We knew from experience that another chapter in the Andrews Family Christmas Card Catastrophe was about to be written.
Why couldn’t we be like other families when it comes to Christmas cards? Why couldn’t we actually go to a store and buy a box of cards with a drawing of a snowy forest and a sleigh filled with happy people swooshing across the countryside toward grandmother’s house, and a nice, simple message such as “Merry Christmas” scrawled on the inside? Why did we all have to huddle together and watch Dad fumble with his tripod, set the timer on the camera, and scramble back to join us before the camera clicked?
“Well, I’m sure that one was terrific, but we’ll take a few more to make sure we get a really great one,” Dad always says after the camera fires. Then we repeat the whole process over and over.
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.
We’ve threatened mutiny. “We don’t want to do this, Dad. We’re not going to this year,” we’d say.
“But our friends tell us how much they enjoy our Christmas cards,” Dad says defensively. “They’d miss our family photo if we didn’t send it.”
Can’t argue with that. We’re probably the best Christmas entertainment around. “Has the Andrews family Christmas card come yet?” people around the city probably ask each December. “We could use a laugh.”
Lucy slipped into my room. “Thinking about the Christmas photos?” she asked.
“Yeah. Our annual collision with disaster.”
“Remember the year Dad wanted our photo taken in the mountains? He thought a background of snow and pine trees would be perfect.”
I remembered. The day we headed to the mountains, a full-scale blizzard was blowing in. The temperature was about 12 degrees, and our car slid off the road on the way home. If you look closely at the photo from that year, you can see the blue tinge to our lips, as we shivered in front of the camera.
“The year we almost died for the Christmas photo,” Lucy recalled glumly.
“That wasn’t as bad as the year we wore Santa hats and pajamas,” I said.
“A horror show,” Lucy agreed.
Actually, it was our pressed pajamas and Santa hats. Mom decided to starch and iron all our pajamas and the effect was one of my older brother, Michael, Lucy, and me (Tyler wasn’t born yet) standing stiffly at attention in our cardboard nightwear.
“Cute, Matt. You looked pretty awesome in your fire truck jammies,” teased Nick Flander, who until that moment had been my best friend.
The list of disasters is long. One year we all looked fine, except for Lucy, who had her eyes closed and mouth wide open. Or the Christmas when we used a photo from our vacation at the beach, all of us in our swimming suits.
“I thought it would be different. Kind of cute,” Dad explained.
“Beach shots don’t cut it in December,” groaned Michael that year. At least this year he’s on a mission in Great Britain and mercifully out of reach of even the longest of my Dad’s lenses.
“Is there any way out?” Lucy asked sadly.
“I don’t think so. Pray for a miracle,” I answered. “It’s our only hope.”
It was Tyler who boosted my faith in divine intervention a couple of nights later. I was upstairs, deep into a college hoops game, when he came in.
“Can we talk, Matt?”
“Always. Trouble with homework? Depressed about the ozone layer? Need some advice about girls?”
“No, I was thinking about Christmas cards.”
That got my attention. “What about them?”
Tyler sighed. “Michael.”
The light bulb that occasionally doubles as my brain flickered to life. “Yeah. Michael. He won’t be in the picture this year. Doesn’t seem right, does it, bud?”
“Nope.”
I was sensing a good angle, one that would end our hopeless holiday tradition. “I’ll talk with Dad, as soon as I catch him in a good mood, like right after he eats dessert.”
Tyler looked a little happier. And I was feeling pretty good too. A foolish tradition of my father’s was about to come to a screeching halt. Now all I had to do was convince Dad that without Michael in the picture, we weren’t quite a family.
We have a spare bedroom in our house that through the years has evolved into the music room, the library, the den, and the sewing room. When Dad is doing some serious vegging out, he heads up there, which is what he did an hour after dinner the following night. The timing felt right. I gave Tyler a thumbs up, then trudged up the stairs. Dad was sitting in an old chair, listening to ancient music from the ’70s.
“Welcome to the inner sanctum,” he greeted me, sounding fairly relaxed for a parent.
“Hi, Dad.” My strategy was simple: link this all up to Tyler. That way if Dad got ticked, I just tell him it’s all his last-born child’s idea, and I skate home free, since parents hardly ever get upset with the baby of the family. “Dad, can we talk about Tyler for a second?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“He’s worried about the Christmas card. He doesn’t think we should have a family picture this year because Michael is in London.” Then, feeling a surge of nobility, I lowered my voice and quietly said, “I kind of agree with him, Dad.”
Dad sat up in his chair. “You kids don’t really like the idea of a family photo, do you?”
“I think we’d like to try something else, something more contemporary. Like what other families do.”
He looked serious. Very serious. “Could be that I’ve had my blinders on,” he said slowly. “I’m not the best photographer in the world. I know that. I always thought the cards were kind of cute. Maybe it wasn’t the picture itself, just that we always were together in the photo. I suppose things change.”
This was too easy. “Change is good, Dad,” I reminded him, going for the jugular. “I think it says so in the Old Testament. Or Brigham Young said something like that.”
He took off his glasses and rubbed his chin. “Still …”
The word still made me nervous. If there is one word that throws fear into the lives of teenagers everywhere, it is still when a parent is on the verge of making a wise and favorable decision. In this case, it signaled that Dad had not been totally swayed by my logic and eloquence. The sweet feeling of victory was slipping through my grasp.
“Still,” he repeated, and I felt doom encircling me, “let’s try one more year, at least. Michael may need it. Next year, we’ll buy boxed cards if you kids don’t want the family photo. Can you live with that, Matt?”
Partial victory, at least. One more year, then the family Christmas photo would be history.
“Okay, Dad. One more year.”
“We’ll take care of it on Saturday then.”
“But not in the mountains.”
“No, not in the mountains. I’ve got somewhere special planned.”
I didn’t even ask where. I wanted to hurry out of the room and give the news to Tyler and Lucy, before he could change his mind.
In our front yard is an old oak tree, and since we’d had a mild autumn, some of the leaves were still hanging from it. When I finally got up on Saturday and made my way downstairs, I was startled to see the tripod set up underneath the oak’s long, graceful branches. Dad’s special place was right at home. An hour later, we stood under the tree while he fiddled with his camera and made all the final adjustments.
“I hope nobody sees us out here,” Lucy whispered.
“Better than being in a blizzard,” I replied.
“Okay, everyone, straighten up. Everything is set. Here I come!” Dad said exuberantly. “Now one, two, three, everyone say, CHEESE!”
What can I say? The photo was great. It was perfect. Against all odds, defying all Andrews family tradition, Dad managed to get us in focus with our eyes open, and all of us looking natural and happy. Set against the oak tree, with our red and green sweaters and Tyler’s stocking cap, we managed to look right in step with the season.
“Guess it was bound to happen some year,” Dad mumbled, looking over the photos in an unconvincing attempt to sound humble.
“Miracles still do happen,” Mom chimed in.
“Can we send this to Michael? I think he’ll like it even if he isn’t in it,” Tyler said.
“Michael will get the very first one,” Mom promised.
We didn’t have long to wait before hearing Michael’s opinion about the Christmas card. Ten days before Christmas, a letter arrived. Mom tore it open as soon as she came in from the mailbox.
Dear Mom, Dad, Matt, Lucy, and Tyler,
I can’t tell you how neat it was to see the Christmas card photo. It looked great, even if I wasn’t part of it. Maybe I’m the reason they never seemed to turn out very well!
We’d had a rough day. It was dark, windy, and cold, and we didn’t have much luck with the work. We had so many doors slammed in our faces that my companion and I joked about needing plastic surgery to straighten out our noses. Anyway, we picked up our mail at the post after lunch, and I jammed your letter into my overcoat pocket.
It was on the bus that I opened the letter. When I saw you standing in front of the tree in our yard, I started to giggle. A woman sitting across the aisle said something about how I must be reading a nice letter. I showed her the card, and she was impressed by the photo. One thing led to another, and we’re going by her home to drop off a Book of Mormon tomorrow. Who knows if anything ever comes of it, but it wouldn’t have happened if a certain photo of a good-looking family hadn’t appeared in the mail.
Mom set down Michael’s letter. “Maybe we should try the photo again next year.”
Nobody disagreed. “But no train jammies,” I said. “I draw the line there.”
“No pajamas, Matt,” Dad nodded. “Same deal though. If the photo isn’t acceptable to everyone, we won’t use it. We’ll work hard to make it a decent picture.”
That evening, I walked into the spare room. Dad was on the floor, leafing through the family Christmas photo album. He flipped to the first page. “Look at this, Matt. See something?”
I squinted at the picture, faded after more than 20 years. “You and Mom. In front of your old car.”
“What else?”
“Well, Mom had long hair, and you had more hair …”
“Anything else?”
I studied the photo. Two people. My parents, soon after they were married. The first Andrews family Christmas card. No children back then. A long way from our family as it was today.
Or was it?
Whether it was two Andrews, six Andrews, or just five Andrews with one on a mission, it was still our family. The Christmas photo was about tradition, togetherness, the season of the year, and the way we celebrate it, and not so much the photo itself. This was a history of our family, a year at a time, right at our fingertips. An occasional brush with frostbite and teasing from our friends seemed a small price to pay for the treasure at hand. We would look through these photos someday and all laugh or cry, watching our family change from year to year. Someone would notice Michael was missing from this year’s photo and certainly say, “Oh, that was the year he was on his mission. Whatever happened to the woman he met on the bus?” What great Christmas memories.
“See anything else?” my father gently asked.
“What I see is a family, no matter how many people are there. I see a lot of what Christmas is about.”
And as I said so, for the first time, I got the distinct feeling that I was not looking at just a photo but seeing the whole picture.

I had been thinking about your genealogy for several weeks, and I felt that I should go to the address of your great-grandfather’s home to check the area.
After two hours on the high-speed train, I bussed to the city of Chi Kan, a place I had never been before. I fell asleep, and at the final stop the driver woke me up. I got off, looked around, and saw I was in a fishing village. I asked a young shop owner across the street for directions. He called a taxi for me and directed the driver to a place where an old man lived. When I arrived and asked that man where I could find the town’s genealogy record, he told me to walk a few blocks to a temple by the seashore.
At the temple, I saw a group of men having tea and chatting. They said that they were just starting an annual meeting of the Liu Shi family genealogy to prepare for a big conference in October. I explained that I was there to find family names for my friend.
“Usually no one is at this temple,” they said. “The door is locked except for the two to three hours when we hold the annual meeting. You are very lucky to meet us here.”
When I told the men I was looking for the name Liu Bei, they told me they had been collecting the Liu family genealogy for years and didn’t recall that name. One of the men kindly offered his genealogy records for me to take a look. They continued their meeting while I searched the records. After about 10–15 minutes, I shouted, “I found it!”
Shocked, they stopped talking and grabbed the book. I showed them the name, and they told me that it came from the family line of Mr. Liu Qiu Shan, who was attending their meeting that day. I purchased a copy of the genealogy book, which contained records going back 26 generations and 2,460 years of ancestors’ names on extended family lines.
Mr. Liu Qiu Shan later gave me a ride to the train station. He told me if I had come an hour earlier or the next day, I wouldn’t have found anyone or anything there. He said, “This place is always locked. It must be the ancestors’ blessing. It is truly a miracle.”

This tendency to wrongfully identify ourselves was again brought to my attention the other day during an interview with a troubled wife. Her marriage is in great difficulty. She has tried earnestly to correct the communication blocks with her husband but with little success. She is grateful for the time her bishop has spent in counseling. Her stake president has also been most patient and understanding in his willingness to try and help.
All of her problems are not resolved, but she is making progress. Her many contacts with properly channeled priesthood direction have left her not only grateful, but somewhat amazed. Her concluding observation the other day was, “I just don’t understand all of you people giving so much time and showing so much concern. After all, I’m really ‘nobody.’”

Another false philosophy that appeals to the Mr. Hyde side of our natures is that peeking into pornography is harmless. This is a terrible deception. Pornography is as addictive as cocaine or any illegal drug. I recently received a heartbreaking letter from an excommunicated man whose soul is filled with sorrow and regret. With his permission, I quote the following from his letter: “I hope that this letter will confirm to any who have doubt that the path of destruction only reaps sorrow and grief and no sin is worth this price.”

He goes on to state: “I have brought grief and sorrow upon myself. Only now do I fully realize the great destruction that I have brought upon myself. No selfish or lustful desire is worth losing your Church membership for. I have brought terrible grief to my wife and two wonderful children. I am grateful for my wife’s great efforts to help me overcome my sins. My wife has been a victim of my sins and had to endure great sorrow and suffering. I long for the day that I can again be a member of the Lord’s Church and for our family to be an eternal family.”

The letter goes on to admit: “My sins are a direct result of my early childhood addiction to pornography. Without a doubt, pornography is addictive and is poison. Had I learned early in my life to apply the power of self-mastery, I would be a member of the Church today.”

I grew up in a quiet town in Idaho, USA. My family is Catholic, but we always felt very welcomed by the large Latter-day Saint community. We were often invited to what I now know to be “ward” activities, and I would get invited to attend Primary. I don’t remember going to Primary that often, but when I became Young Women age, I participated in lessons and was asked to play on the volleyball and softball teams.
One very special activity I went to was Young Women in Excellence night. Leigh Anne, my best friend since second grade, had invited me. I wasn’t familiar with what happened at these activities, and she’d told me just to come in a dress and to listen with my heart. She walked me through the displays of handmade crafts, desserts, inspirational thoughts, and more crafts.
Then a movie was shown of a boy with his mother, who spoke to him about eternal families. As she spoke to him, I recognized a warmth and swelling in my heart that I’d never felt before, and it made me want to cry. I wasn’t sure what it was.
I looked at Leigh Anne, and she was looking at me. She knew what I was feeling. She didn’t say a word. She just looked at me with tears in her eyes, nodding that she understood and wanted me to keep listening.
I remember the feeling I had as the Holy Ghost testified of the truthfulness of eternal families. I learned to recognize the witness of the Holy Ghost because my friend was someone I could trust and because she followed the prompting to allow me to learn. I’m so grateful for this first step in my conversion process.

When I first entered Young Women, I felt alone because I had left my friends in the Valiant class. However, I tried to support the young women, and they also supported me, and I was able to make new friends and interact with them. I no longer felt alone, and that made me happy. Now I am the president of the Beehives, and if I see a new sister who feels uncomfortable being with us, I talk with her, explain what we do in class, and make her feel that she is part of us.
Gredy G., age 14, Lima, Peru

BYU and its departments have developed many programs designed to make each major challenging and relevant to the professional goals of the student. For example, the University Studies program allows students whose needs aren’t met by existing majors to design their own programs. One girl wanted to be woman’s page editor for a newspaper. Instead of majoring in communications, which would be the usual procedure, she outlined a unique program that fit her particular needs. After completing her general education requirements, she spent 15 hours in foods and nutrition, 15 hours in clothing and textiles, 15 hours in home economics, and 15 hours in photography and journalism. She graduated with exactly the training she needed for the job she wanted.

A true story from Australia.
It was snack time at school. Zoe grabbed her sandwich and walked to the table. The sunshine came through the window and shone down on her. It was a warm day, and Zoe felt happy.
Everyone was talking, and the classroom buzzed with the sound of happy children. A girl named Luna sat down nearby with her friend Jesse.
“You’re a Christian?” Zoe heard Luna ask Jesse.
Zoe felt her heart sink. Luna always said mean things! What would she say next? The whole classroom went quiet as they listened.
“I don’t believe in Jesus,” Luna said next.
One by one, lots of kids in Zoe’s class said the same thing.
Zoe’s heart was beating fast now. She wanted to have courage and say that she believed in Jesus Christ, but she was afraid of what would happen. What would everyone else think? Would she lose friends?
Suddenly she felt a warm, peaceful feeling. A thought came into her mind: Stand up for what you believe. I’ll protect you. Zoe knew it came from the Holy Ghost.
She took a deep breath. “I believe in Jesus Christ,” she said. “And I know He loves me. He loves you too, even if you don’t believe in Him.”
The warm feeling grew stronger and stronger. Zoe felt happiness growing inside her.
Soon, snack time was over, and it was time to play outside. Zoe skipped to the playground. Some of the kids in her class followed her.
“I liked what you said to Luna,” one girl said.
“Me too,” said another boy. “How can I believe in Jesus too?”
Zoe smiled. “You can go to church and read the scriptures to learn more about Him! And you can try hard to follow what He taught.”
Zoe was happy she had the courage to share her beliefs. She knew Jesus Christ would always be there to help her be brave.

When I was a missionary in the Marshall Islands long ago, I, along with my Samoan companion, Tuiletefuga, were initiating the work in a small, but historically significant village on Majuro Atoll. We had been working hard to learn the language upon our arrival and to establish positive relationships in the village, especially with the high ranking individuals. Our work was progressing slowly and in fact, we had become the target of some persecution that moved from verbal taunts to stones thrown at us as we rode our bikes at night on the dirt trails, and even attempts to use sorcery against us. My very robust and towering companion had little patience with such gestures, and I had some curious event filled moments ensuring he did not exact corporal punishment upon our antagonists (and he would have done so with vigor and efficiency I have no doubt). During this time of un-ease in the village we began teaching an old man, Labwujtok Lane, who as the son of a paramount chief held significant title and rank. We had baptized his wife some months before and she was numbered among our three congregants. We met often with Labwujtok, teaching him all the lessons at least four times over a six-month period. We considered taking him off our teaching list, nonetheless we would call on him for friendly visits and attend to him as he was quickly deteriorating with severe diabetes. During this time, the infections necessitated amputating his right leg just above the knee.

We prayed for Labwujtok, not just that he would come to accept gospel truths, but for comfort in the waning days of his mortality. Then one morning, we rode our bikes out to his compound, and when we called through the door he enthusiastically invited us into his hut to sit on mats next to him. He told us, “Elders, I had a dream the night before last, that I was outside my house near the trail leading towards the lagoon. People in white clothing were passing by me headed toward the lagoon. When I stopped them to ask what they were doing, they told me they were going to be baptized. So I followed them to the shore. Thousands of people were standing on the beach in white clothing, and as I pressed through the crowd I could see a man standing in the water, baptizing one person after another. When I asked who it was they told me it was the Apostle Peter. I was curious for which church he was baptizing, and they answered it was for the true church of Christ. And then I awoke wondering about the dream and which Church was that of Christ. Then last night I dreamed again, and it was the same dream. I followed the people in white down to the shore, and I asked again who was doing the baptizing. This time I was told it was Moroni, that he too had the power to baptize for the true Church of Christ. And then I awoke, and I knew then you young Mormon missionaries had this same authority and the true Church was on the earth. You will see, thousands will come to be baptized.”

Two days later we carried Labwujtok down into the water of the lagoon. Because he could not stand or walk, Tuiletefuga and I made a cradle with our arms interlocked, and setting him upon it we descended into the water. A senior missionary performed the ordinance. We then submerged Labwujtok by both of us squatting down and immersing under the water with him. We confirmed him at the water’s edge. A week later, we sat and prayed with him, until he died. I could not help but think of the words of the prophet Joel, that in the latter-days your “…old men shall dream dreams…”12 At the time I could only grasp a semblance of what this event may mean. But after this experience with Labwujtok the persecution stopped, and we began to teach, baptizing many converts every month, a pattern that continues to this day. When I was a missionary there were only four to six missionaries in all the Marshall Islands, and we were 2300 miles from the mission home in Guam. Today, a mission headquarters for the Marshall Islands and Kiribati is located on this atoll, and the first stake from the old Micronesia mission was organized there with thousands of members. The Lord had His time-table and His purposes for which He prepared a way. I had supposed that our missionary labors were stuck, that the people would not be receptive due to certain traditions and an entrenched Christianity. I had supposed wrong, but was allowed to peer into the Lord’s way of bringing about His purposes in His time.

During Charlie’s five-year struggle to reach the age to become a deacon, he became a hero in another way, in the unselfish help he gave doctors doing research about his disease, even though he would not directly benefit. In the year before and after Charlie died, he was in the spotlight. He was featured on the news show 20/20 and was named by the ABC television network as one of its heroes of the year. His story of sacrifice also became the plot for a television show. Charlie found out that if he let doctors study his body, they might be able to discover a cure for other children who have this rare form of cancer. Charlie traveled to the University of Michigan, where a specialist in medullary thyroid cancer was working at the time. He went through a series of studies and new tests. He gave blood many times for future research. The doctors continued to ask for more blood from Charlie because the research from Charlie’s mutation was proving significant and became the link to solving many unanswered questions about this disease. In June 1996, the mysterious mutant gene was discovered. “Charlie was excited about that,” his mother says, “but he also understood that he would not be alive when the cure for this disease would be found.”
“Because of Charlie,” his mother explains, “it will be easier in the future to detect this type of cancer. It will now be possible to detect it early enough to stop the cancer from spreading. Charlie helped save other children’s lives. That’s an incredible gift he left behind. But to me, the second gift he left behind is just as incredible. He outlived his life expectancy by many years. He set an impossible goal for himself, to become a deacon. Charlie weighed less than 35 pounds when he died. He should have died months or years before. But he wanted to live to pass the sacrament. And he did. That is a miracle. He wanted to be a true follower of Christ. That’s why Charlie is my hero.”