Gospel Story Finder

Wheels were set in motion when Sister Jennilyn Stoffers arrived in 2022 to serve in the Barbados Bridgetown Mission office. Her call to Barbados came as a last-minute surprise. For months, she had made preparations with Church leaders to serve in Ireland, where the wet and cold of northern Europe were more conducive to her health. She had her bags packed for Ireland until she read her mission call, sending her the other direction—to the heat and humidity of Barbados.
Sister Stoffers replaced her warm wools with breezy cottons and soon arrived in Barbados. “There was a lot of adapting,” she said of the weather, the Bajan dialect,2 the culture, the food—just about everything.
“It was easy to fall in love with the members and their pure faith in God,” she said. “Everyone should experience a fast and testimony meeting in Barbados. Members know the scriptures. They are strong in their faith. They face persecution from family and society. Many are the only members of the Church in their families.”
Before long, the branch president asked Sister Stoffers to teach a class on temple preparation and family history work, a subject that fires her imagination and devotion.
A spark was struck among several members. They lingered after meetings, huddling around the branch computer, where Sister Stoffers helped them discover the richness of family history work.
Margaret Haynes was among the first to taste the spirit of the work.
“Imagine how my ancestors are reacting,” she said in reflection. “One day I will meet them. I have always felt a special feeling of being watched over by them. It brings me joy to unite my family. I feel their yearning to make covenants.”
Enthusiasm spread, and more members joined in the weekly gatherings.
“They get after it,” Sister Stoffers said. “If they need permission to perform an ordinance or need data like a birth date, they call a relative right then. There’s no waiting for a more convenient time.”
The laws and culture in the Caribbean make researching family records a challenge. “Yet,” said Sister Stoffers, “members of the branch deal with the frustrations and have now submitted more than 500 ordinances to the temple.” And more are coming.
As Church members unearthed their ancestral past, Sister Stoffers began wondering how they might experience the joy of serving in the temple on their ancestors’ behalf, given the expense of traveling to the Santo Domingo Dominican Republic Temple.
Considering her resources, she remembered the youth and adults in her home ward near Ogden, Utah, USA. With their enthusiasm to serve, could they fill the gap and help their brothers and sisters in Barbados?
Photograph of Ogden Utah Temple by David Bowen Newton
Sister Stoffers’s home-ward bishop liked the plan and rallied the support of youth and adults. Soon, names from Barbados were being shared instantly on FamilySearch.
Now, as often as their schedule permits, a battalion of youth converge on the Ogden Utah Temple, where Bishop Rob Smout pulls from a stack of ordinance-ready printouts to divvy among the youth. The talkative youth grow whisper quiet as they contemplate the unusually spelled names of people with whom they have no connection but feel a spiritual kinship.
Participation has been widespread across the ward. On certain Saturdays, a family of five boys arrives early at the temple to enjoy the sunrise over the Wasatch mountains before performing baptisms.
“It’s become a ward quest,” said Bishop Smout. “It has united the ward. Many have become involved and take names routinely, including those who haven’t attended the temple in years. Others have come back into activity to participate.”
Many members in Barbados, meanwhile, have had unique experiences that motivate them to gather their families.
“As we work together, we feel a family connection,” Sister Stoffers said. “We feel a saintly joy. It is hard to describe, except that it seems to resonate in others beyond.”
“As we work together, we feel a family connection. We feel a saintly joy.”
This enthusiasm to discover ancestors has now spread beyond the branch and across the Caribbean to members on neighboring islands. Proselyting missionaries assist by meeting with members in their homes. To guide those in the far reaches of the mission, Sister Stoffers conducts virtual training sessions.
This effort on a small island in the Caribbean began with love and a desire to bless ancestors. Then came the means to learn how. The branch discovered that the work is spiritual, requiring what Elder Scott called “a monumental effort of cooperation on both sides of the veil, where help is given in both directions.”3 They proved that even in remote Barbados, a small number of devoted members can make a great contribution.
A Work Made Possible through Jesus Christ
“Many of your ancestors did not receive [saving] ordinances. But in the providence of God, you did. And God knew that you would feel drawn to your ancestors in love and that you would have the technology necessary to identify them. He also knew that you would live in a time when access to holy temples … would be greater than ever in history. And He knew that He could trust you to accomplish this work in behalf of your ancestors.”
President Henry B. Eyring, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, “Gathering the Family of God,” Liahona, May 2017, 21.

Achy Djite Angenor is an investment assistant at China Harbour Engineering Company Limited (CHEC).
When I returned from my mission, I set goals for myself to be self-reliant, however, things did not go the way I expected. I hunted for a job for two months without success. At a point I got lost, but somehow, I had the impression to speak with a Church leader. He counselled me to visit the WSRS [Welfare and Self-Reliance Services] manager and to learn of the WSRS tools.
I spoke with Koffi Priva, one of the WSRS managers. I received training and coaching from him. I served in his department as a volunteer while at the same time pursuing my job search. My efforts paid off when after about two months I received calls from organizations to attend job interviews. I received four job offers and I had to settle on one. I am now employed with China Harbour Engineering Company as an investment assistant.
My next goal is to improve myself through career development and to stay competitive.
I recommend the WSRS initiative to every returned missionary.
I know with faith and determination that one can tame the elements and win the prize.

On my 25th birthday, I was tidying my bedroom. My space wasn’t in order, and I kept thinking about how my life wasn’t in order either. I wasn’t where I thought I would be at age 25. I wasn’t where I was supposed to be.
I thought about how I felt as a teenager when I got my patriarchal blessing. Whenever I read about my future, I pictured someone who was almost perfect. But I realized I had not grown up to be that person I imagined. And I wondered, If my younger self could see me now, would she be disappointed?
Suddenly I found myself in tears. I felt like I had messed up my life plan. I hadn’t made any catastrophic mistakes, but I also felt like I had nothing to show for my life. I didn’t have a purpose. Everyone else had it all figured out, and there I was, crying on my bedroom floor, feeling like my whole life was a waste.
I felt alone in my confusion and despair. But even at the time, I knew I couldn’t be the only young adult struggling to find their way. As I’ve talked with others, I’ve found that very few people’s lives end up exactly as they planned. And that helps me feel less alone.
I’ve spent a lot of time since that birthday thinking about my purpose. I still haven’t quite figured everything out. But I don’t feel so worried anymore. I know that God knows me and that if I turn to Him, He will help me create meaning in the space I’m in now.

When I was young, I would have to hurry home from school on Tuesday afternoons in order to get to Primary on time. It was held during the week then. I remember one particular teacher, Sister Rawlings. She helped our class learn the last five articles of faith so that we could recite them all. She also instilled in me a love for Scouting. On my twelfth birthday, I spent the afternoon passing off the Tenderfoot requirements so that I could be a Scout. Sister Rawlings had prepared me well, and I passed. She gave me a Boy Scout pocketknife that I treasured for years.

Rachel woke up hungry. She hopped out of bed and ran to the pantry cupboard. She opened the door and scanned the top shelf. There it was—the candy jar! Inside the jar, gleaming like shiny marbles, were her favorite candies. They were irresistible red-orange balls with yummy chocolate centers.
Rachel looked around quickly to see if Mummy or Daddy was watching. She could hear their voices, but they were nowhere in sight. Quietly, she pushed a stool to the pantry and stepped up onto it. Then she reached up and unscrewed the candy-jar lid. She grabbed a handful of candy, screwed the lid back on, and raced down the hallway toward her bedroom. But when her parents’ voices came closer, she ducked into the bathroom and shut the door.
As Rachel looked hungrily at her candy, she wondered, “Could I throw one in the air and catch it in my mouth?” And without a second thought she tossed a candy high in the air. It floated above her head, then fell down straight into her wide-open mouth and stuck in her throat. She couldn’t breathe!
She tried to scream but couldn’t make a sound. “Daddy, help me!” she cried in her heart. “Heavenly Father, please help me!” she prayed. Tears ran down her cheeks as she struggled for a breath that wouldn’t come. She felt sick and dizzy.
Suddenly, her father burst into the room. He picked up Rachel from behind and squeezed his arms tightly around her. Plop! Out shot the candy into the washbasin. Rachel sucked in deep gulps of air. Daddy set her down and held her close. “It’s all right, Rachel,” he said softly. “You’ll be fine now.”
“Thank you, Daddy,” she said. “I’m sorry I took the candies without asking. I love you.”
Mummy came into the bathroom. “What happened?” she asked.
“I heard a voice,” Daddy said. “It said, ‘Your daughter is in trouble! Go to her!’ I found Rachel in the bathroom, but I didn’t know what was wrong. Then the voice said, ‘Pick her up!’ I did, and a piece of candy flew out of her mouth.”
Mummy gave Rachel a big hug.
Rachel did a lot of thinking that day. She thought about candy and about being honest. She thought about how good every breath of air tasted. She thought about how much she loved Heavenly Father and Mummy and Daddy. But most of all, she thought about the Holy Ghost. Daddy had stopped her from choking because he had listened. She wanted to be like Daddy and always listen to the Holy Ghost.

Latter-day Saint Alma Richards made the 1912 Olympic team.
A high jumper, Alma Richards was part of the 1912 track and field Olympic team that competed in Stockholm, Sweden. During the competition, others were eliminated one by one until only Alma and one other remained.
“As Alma prepared to jump, his mind raced. There he was, representing his country at the greatest athletic competition in the world. Yet he felt weak, as if the whole world were resting on his shoulders. He thought of Utah, his family, and his hometown. He thought of BYU and the Saints. Bowing his head, he silently asked God to give him strength. ‘If it is right that I should win,’ he prayed, ‘I will do my best to set a good example all the days of my life.’”
Drawing upon strength from the Lord, Alma jumped and cleared the high bar. When his remaining competitor failed, Alma won the gold medal.
Later, a friend “teased him about praying before his winning jump. ‘I wish you wouldn’t laugh,’ Alma quietly responded. ‘I prayed to the Lord to give me strength to go over that bar, and I went over.’”

Illustration by Carolyn Vibbert
I was serving in the California Sacramento Mission during Christmas 2003. My companion and the two other sister missionaries we shared an apartment with began receiving gifts and letters from their relatives and friends. I knew it would not be the same for me.
My family in Argentina had few resources, and their letters were usually delayed two to three months. I was far from my family, but I was happy to spend Christmas in the service of Jesus Christ.
On Christmas Eve, we were getting ready for bed when one of the sisters told me that someone had left some packages at the door with my name on them.
“For me? It can’t be!” I said, amazed.
Two large boxes had my name on them but no return address. I was excited, and the other sisters were excited for me too. I opened the packages, which were full of gifts, sweets, children’s drawings, and other items! I couldn’t hold back the tears.
“Who could have sent me these packages?” I wondered. None of us knew, but we all rejoiced because of the generosity.
Several days after Christmas, I still did not know who had sent the packages. So I called the mission office and asked the secretary if she could tell me the name of the mysterious sender. She told me that members in a ward who wanted to remain anonymous had decided to send packages to me with Christmas goodies. I will always be thankful for the generosity of the ward that brought so much love that Christmas Eve and for the support I received during my mission.
I learned that every member of the Church can make the missionaries—though far from home—feel at home through their encouragement and service. That was one of the best Christmases of my life. I was serving the Savior and felt His love through the members of His Church.

I don’t remember the exact words I used when I told my bishop that I had decided not to serve a mission. But I remember well his disappointment and the next question he asked me: “Do your parents know what you’ve decided?”
Of course they didn’t know; I hadn’t discussed my decision with anyone. As I left the bishop’s office that day, I thought, “Whew, I’m glad that’s over.”
It wasn’t that I hadn’t been taught the gospel. Our family was very active, I attended all my meetings, and I had graduated from seminary. I’m sure everyone assumed that I would go on a mission.
I was living at home, attending a nearby junior college, and trying to find a job. My hair was long, in the “hippie” fashion of the day, so it was difficult for me to find work. As my hair grew longer, tension grew between my father and me. When he told me to get a haircut, I left the house and spent three days with a friend. My return home without a haircut was my way of showing him that I was going to do as I pleased.
Several ward members mentioned to me that my decision not to go on a mission had broken my parents’ hearts. My church attendance slipped as I began to feel that the adults in our ward disapproved of my attitude and my hair length. (It wasn’t until much later that I learned that they had prayed numerous times for something to happen in my life that would help me find myself.)
When I did attend church, I attended elders quorum meetings, though I had not been ordained an elder. One Sunday morning the elders quorum president said, “We would like to call you to be a home teacher. Will you accept the call?”
Shocked, I said yes.
“Your companion will be Bill Brothers,” he continued.
As soon as I left the building, I began to plan how I could get out of this commitment. Just then Bill Brothers walked over to me. We were about the same age, and I had known him since our days together in Primary.
“Guess we’re going to be home-teaching companions, aren’t we?” Bill asked.
“I guess so,” I acknowledge glumly.
“Why don’t we show the guys in our ward how home teaching should really be done?” he said.
That thought struck me like a thunderbolt. Yes! We would show the men in our ward how home teaching should be done! We would do it better than any of them, and maybe that would silence the criticism about my attitude and my hair. Bill and I decided that the first thing to do was to ask the fathers in the two families assigned to us what they would like us to teach to their families.
Bill made the appointments. I assumed that each father would ask us to teach his children about getting along with each other or some other basic topic—but I was wrong.
“Well, boys,” said Brother Smith, “our family has been trying to read the Book of Mormon. Since our children are fairly young, it is sometimes hard for them to understand what we read. I think it would be great if you could tell us the basic stories from the Book of Mormon in chronological order.”
When we left the Smith home, Bill suggested that we visit the Smiths more than once a month. Bill was leaving on a mission in about three months and wanted to tell all the Book of Mormon stories before he left.
Bill also suggested that we start with the book of Ether, since it was first chronologically. He would give the story of the first half of Ether, and I would do the second half. I had thought this assignment was going to be easy, but now I knew I would have to spend some time preparing. I unenthusiastically agreed to do it.
Just before our first visit, I quickly read over the last part of Ether and hoped I would remember enough to get by. However, as we met with the Smiths, a sweet spirit of gentle anticipation filled the room. I felt embarrassed that I was not as well prepared as Bill, and I left determined to be prepared on our next visit.
Over the next two months, I read the entire Book of Mormon. At first, I read it just so I could tell the story to the Smith family. Soon, however, I began to ask myself, “What if this is really true?”
My view of the world began to change as I learned eternal principles from Nephi, Lehi, and Jacob. When I read of Alma’s prayers concerning his wayward son, Alma the Younger, I understood my parents’ anguish over me. I felt the spirit of Helaman as he wrote of his faithful stripling soldiers, and I wondered if I would have been as courageous as they had been. I read of the Savior’s visit and his teachings. I learned that the Nephites had been destroyed because of their wickedness. Finally, I read in Moroni that we would meet at the Judgment Day and that the Lord would hold us responsible for the words contained in the Book of Mormon. I felt as if Moroni had written that message specifically for me.
Suddenly, I knew the Book of Mormon was true! The seed of faith had been planted within me, and now it had grown until I could scarcely contain it. I wanted to tell everyone I met of the joy I felt in finding out that the Book of Mormon was true, that Joseph Smith was indeed a prophet of God, and that the teachings of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints were true. I wept in gratitude for having received this witness.
I drove over to Bishop Toolson’s house and knocked on the door. He invited me in and asked what he could do for me. Outwardly I didn’t look any different—my hair was longer than ever; yet inwardly, I had experienced a mighty change of heart. The words burst from me: “I want to go on a mission.”
Bishop Toolson smiled and invited me into his living room. He opened his briefcase and pulled out my missionary recommendation form. He had already filled it out completely, except for one box—and that was the first question that he asked me now: “When do you want to leave?”
“As soon as possible,” I answered. I could hardly wait to go! Bishop Toolson instructed me that I would need to submit a picture of myself—with a proper missionary haircut. I assured him that I would take care of that immediately.
I received my mission call on 4 August 1972. During my mission, I often bore my solemn witness that I knew from my own experience that the Book of Mormon was true. I learned that if we would encourage others to study the Book of Mormon, pray about it, and try to live by its teachings, they, too, would discover the truth of the Book of Mormon.

I have never forgotten a story that Elder Robert Harbertson told at this Tabernacle pulpit. He spoke of an Indian boy who climbed a high mountain. It was cold up there. At his feet was a snake, a rattlesnake. The snake was cold and pleaded with the young man to pick it up and take it down where it was warmer.

The Indian boy listened to the enticings of the serpent. He gave in. He gathered it up into his arms and covered it with his shirt. He carried it down the mountain to where it was warm. He gently put it on the grass. When the snake was warm it raised its head and struck the boy with its poisonous fangs.

The boy cursed at the snake for striking him as an answer to his kindness. The snake replied, “You knew what I was when you picked me up” (“Restoration of the Aaronic Priesthood,” Ensign, July 1989, 77).

Although my mother was not a member of the Church, she was a very religious woman, and she had responded to the promptings she felt. When the war began, she had decided to build a bomb shelter not too far from our home in Indonesia. In it she had stored food, water, medicine, and clothing. These supplies had sustained us for eight months when we were not allowed to leave our property. She had also stored the family jewels in the bomb shelter, and before we were taken away to the concentration camp, my mother had told Baboe Kit to use the stored food to save her own family from the famine that was already rampant. But as soon as Nanny had found out where we were interned, she had carefully stuffed my doll with some of the jewelry and had walked the 192 kilometers to bring it to me.
The discovery of the jewels changed our lives. The proceeds from their sale first brought us warm clothing and furniture to make our lives more comfortable. Eventually they enabled us to obtain higher education. The training I received because of Pop Mientje’s treasures meant better employment and higher wages, both in Amsterdam and later in America.
The influence of Baboe Kit has remained with me throughout the years since my ninth birthday. For many years I felt guilty and had nightmares about her death—until one day I realized that Nanny had known she was risking her life.
She had been willing to die for me. And because of her sacrifice, those ninth-year birthday whispers that were once only dreams have become reality. Not only have I had birthdays with cakes and gifts and ice-cooled lemonade, but I have also fulfilled the destiny of which my mother spoke. I have had the opportunity to receive and accept the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, and through the gospel I have come to a greater understanding about the kind of love shown me by Baboe Kit. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” (John 15:13.)

All morning Mrs. Stark’s third grade class had talked about the “Favorite Things Fair” that would be held on Friday. Almost everyone in the room had picked out his very favorite thing to bring to school on Friday.
“Hey, Sterling!” Jay called at lunchtime. “What are you going to bring?”
“It’s a secret,” he said.
“Won’t you even tell me?” Jay asked.
“Nope. I want it to be a surprise.” Sterling’s brown eyes twinkled as he thought about his big surprise.
“Please?” Jay pleaded. “I’m bringing my puppets. Now you know my surprise, won’t you tell me yours? I won’t tell anyone!”
“Nope,” Sterling said. “I’ve made up my mind that it’s going to be a real secret. If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.”
Just then the bell rang. Jay and Sterling gathered up the balls and bats and ran back to their classroom. “Hey!” Jay shouted to a group of boys just coming through the door. “Sterling won’t tell anyone what he’s bringing to the fair.”
That started the teasing. From then until Friday, Sterling did not have a moment of peace. Everyone kept trying to get him to tell what he was going to bring for the fair. Before school, at lunch, at recess, after school, all the time they kept after him. But Sterling was determined. Every time they asked, he would answer, “A secret is no secret if everyone knows!”
Finally Friday came. It had been hard, but Sterling had not told a single soul that he was taking his pet hamster, Harvey, to the fair. Harvey was Sterling’s very most favorite thing, so it was only right that he should.
But there was one problem. The fair would not be until the afternoon, and if he wanted to keep Harvey a secret, Sterling would have to find a way to hide his pet during the morning.
He thought about putting Harvey in a shoe box. But once Harvey had chewed a hole in a shoe box and had gotten out. Sterling couldn’t take Harvey in his cage, because that would give away the surprise.
Friday morning Sterling sat up in bed thinking very hard. He had kept the secret all week; he didn’t want to spoil it now. Then suddenly he had an idea. He would carry Harvey in his shirt. He had done it many times when he was just playing around, and if he wore a sweater over his shirt, no one would know!
Hurriedly Sterling put on his clothes. He slipped sleepy Harvey in between the buttons on his shirt, put a carrot in for the hamster to snack on, and then he slipped on his brown sweater. It worked! Even Sterling could not see the bump where Harvey was.
He grabbed his books and ran to school. Harvey had cuddled up just over Sterling’s belt and gone back to sleep. This is great! Sterling thought. No one will ever guess until it’s time for the fair.
“Hey, Sterling,” Jay called, “where’s that great big secret? Don’t tell me you forgot it!”
“No, I didn’t forget,” Sterling laughed. “But it isn’t time for the fair yet.”
“I don’t think you really have anything!” Jay said, as he kicked a rock along the sidewalk.
“You’ll see.” Sterling smiled with delight and his brown eyes twinkled. “Everyone will see.”
“Where’s the big surprise?” Lois asked, as Sterling came into the schoolroom.
“It’s not time for the fair yet,” Sterling said. “You’ll have to wait.”
“I’ll bet he doesn’t have anything,” Lois answered.
“You’ll see!” Sterling said.
Just then Mrs. Stark came into the room. “Good morning, boys and girls. It’s time to begin our day,” she said, and e]e stopped talking.
“We will start with our spelling,” Mrs. Stark began.
Sterling was so excited over his surprise that he could hardly sit still, but he knew he must. He patted Harvey under his sweater. Harvey was still asleep.
Spelling time was over, recess had ended, and the only thing left to do before lunch was math. Sterling pulled his book out of his desk. As he did so, it hit Harvey and woke him up. Sterling could feel the hamster nibbling on the carrot. His whiskers brushed Sterling’s stomach. It tickled! Sterling tried not to laugh, but Harvey kept nibbling and tickling his stomach. Finally he couldn’t hold a laugh back any longer. Mrs. Stark looked at him out of the corner of her eye. Sterling covered his mouth and pretended to cough. Mrs. Stark went back to writing on the blackboard.
Sterling started to write the day’s assignment, but Harvey had decided to do a little exercising. He began to run around Sterling’s waist. Harvey’s tiny feet tickled even more than his whiskers.
Sterling bit his lip and held his breath, but Harvey kept running. The more he ran the more it tickled; the more it tickled the more Sterling wanted to laugh.
“Be still, Harvey!” Sterling whispered. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not keep from laughing.
“Sterling Connell!” Mrs. Stark said in a disapproving voice. “What is so funny?”
Sterling grabbed his mouth and tried very hard to stop laughing, but now Harvey was crawling straight up his chest. It tickled even more!
Mrs. Stark walked back to Sterling’s desk. Now she was really cross. “What is the matter with you?” she asked.
Sterling opened his mouth to answer, but all that came out was another laugh. Mrs. Stark was bewildered.
Everyone was looking at Sterling. Again he covered his mouth and tried to stop laughing, but it was no use. Harvey was climbing over his ribs! Now Harvey’s feet and whiskers were tickling Sterling.
“What is the matter?” Mrs. Stark repeated impatiently. Then Jay, who sat behind Sterling, began to laugh too. Harvey was on Sterling’s shoulder and his little head was peeking out of Sterling’s collar. Soon almost everyone except Mrs. Stark had seen Harvey. They all laughed. Then finally Mrs. Stark saw Harvey too. Her eyebrows raised in surprise. “Oh, my!” she gasped.
Everyone laughed even harder. Mrs. Stark looked around the room and then she laughed too.
Sterling pulled Harvey out of his shirt. “Harvey is my favorite thing for the fair,” he said.
“Did you have him in your shirt all morning?” Mrs. Stark asked.
“Yes, I wanted to surprise everyone.”
“You did!” Jay laughed.
Mrs. Stark nodded her head. “You surely did. I’ve never been so surprised in my life!”
Sterling smiled and his brown eyes twinkled with delight. “I guess I was more surprised than anyone!”

Even an unbelievable spring blizzard didn’t stop the modern-day pioneers of Kearns and Ogden (Utah) who found out firsthand what their ancestors went through.
No one expected as much snow as the two groups ran into in their April handcart and covered wagon treks. But it didn’t stop either group from experiencing doughy scones, burnt skirts, raw-potato stew, and square dancing in mud.
More than 100 Ogden High School Seminary students hiked down the top of North Ogden Pass into Liberty, Utah, where they set up their two-day camp. Wearing handmade pioneer clothing and carrying old rifles and muskets, the group pitched tents and cooked over open fires. The heavy snowfall dampened their surroundings but not their spirits as the group joined in for square dancing, skits, and storytelling, as well as watching tribal war dances performed by some Indian students in full native costume.
Splattered with mud, the group was unanimous in their praise for Mormon pioneers who withstood even greater sacrifices.
“Having to perform guard duty at night, eat pioneer food cooked on a fire. and everything else we did helped me appreciate the hardships of my pioneer ancestors,” said Steve Belnap.

A mother in West Africa shared her testimony about tithing. She was a trader in a marketplace. Every day she would come home, count out her tithing, and put it in a special place. Then on Sunday she would faithfully take it to her bishop. She shared with us how her business had grown and how her family had been blessed with health and strength and enough food to eat. Then with tears in her eyes she said, “But the greatest blessings of all are that my children love the Lord and we are a forever family.”

Illustration by Jake Parker
The phone rang. I picked it up.
“Benjamin? This is Sister Adams. I’m organizing an activity night for the widows in the ward and was wondering if you’d be willing to help out. The activity is dancing, but don’t worry, you don’t really need any experience. It’s just for fun.”
Fun? Silently wishing I’d never picked up the phone, I replied, “Well, Sister Adams, I don’t even know the basics—I mean, I can waltz, but that’s about it.”
“That will be perfect, Benjamin. I’m also calling some other priests, so you won’t be the only one. The activity starts at seven next Wednesday, OK?”
“OK, Sister Adams. I’ll be there.”
“Great,” I sarcastically muttered to myself as I hung up the phone.
During the week I almost forgot about my dancing engagement. Almost. When Wednesday night rolled around, I didn’t feel any particular desire to hurry as I prepared for the activity. I arrived late and went to the gym, where the dance was being held. As I opened the door, I saw rows upon rows of old women sitting in metal folding chairs. Then my attention turned to the dance floor, where one solitary priest was awkwardly moving to the triple-meter beat of the waltz, widow in hand.
“Kevin, where are the rest of the priests?” I asked, walking up to him as he finished his dance.
“They aren’t here. We’re the only ones.”
“Great,” I muttered as I moved toward the rows of widows. “Hello, ma’am. Would you like to dance?” I inquired of one of the widows.
“Oh, no thank you. My legs can’t take the exertion. But I’m sure Harriett would like to. Harriet,” she called to one of her companions, “come dance with this young man!”
All the widows urged Harriett forward.
“All right, all right,” she said.
She took my hand, and I led her to the floor. “Now be careful,” she said. “I have some lung problems, and my hips don’t work very well.”
“I’ll be very careful,” I assured her, smiling.
“You know, I met my husband on the dance floor,” she said as we started to waltz slowly.
“Really? What dance?”
“The fox-trot,” she said. “He was dashing. And what a dancer.”
We finished our dance, and I took her back to her seat. “Thank you for the dance. You are a lovely dancer,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said, grateful for the somewhat ill-founded compliment.
I found that I enjoyed myself more than I thought possible. All the dances went the same way—most ladies making a witty remark about knee replacements or scoliosis, telling stories of their husbands and better days of youth, and giving me very sweet compliments as we finished.
I left the Church building, replaying the widows’ stories in my head. I laughed out loud at their wit, and I was awed by their wisdom. I shook my head and chuckled. “What a charming group of women,” I thought. “I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

You can’t help but like Andrea* when you meet her. She’s warm and friendly and fun, and she knows how to make you feel good about yourself.

But she wasn’t always like that.

For a long time, she carried around a dark and tragic secret that she could confess to no one. She cried a lot. She was usually depressed. She withdrew from people—wasn’t close to anyone, and didn’t have the self-confidence to excel in school or anything else. Andrea had been sexually abused when she was younger.

“I thought I had committed a terrible sin,” she said. “I thought it was too gross to tell anyone. I felt disgusting and totally worthless, until a very understanding bishop explained to me that it wasn’t my fault, that the Lord still loved me, and that I could get help.”

The help Andrea got, which included professional and spiritual counseling, is enabling her to put those traumatic experiences in the past and become emotionally and spiritually healthy again.

Going through these stages has helped Andrea begin to lead a happier, more fulfilling life. Others like her who have experienced sexual abuse can also begin to recover. It is important for them to realize that they have a right not to be abused, and that they need to get help if it happens. They need to know that they are not at fault, that they are not impure, nor are they any less chaste. And most of all, they need to know that Heavenly Father still loves them, has great hope for them, and has provided ways for them to recover.

When Gordon and Del [Spencer’s brothers] put up hay … they would pitch it up on the wagon and Spencer would tromp it down. The older boys liked to reach the wagon at the same time, both with huge forks of hay. One would pitch his hay on top of Spencer, knocking him down, then the other would add his load. They would laugh while Spencer picked himself out, infuriated, threatening terrible punishments when he grew up . …

Occasionally he would enjoy a minor revenge. One hot Monday afternoon, hearing the Primary bell across the fields, Spencer said, “I’ve got to go to Primary.” As Spencer told the story years later: “They said, ‘You’re not going to Primary.’ I said, ‘If Pa were here, he’d let me go to Primary.’ Any they said, ‘Well, Pa is not here, and this is one time you’re not going to Primary.’ Gordon was seven years older than I was and Del was five . … They kept throwing the hay up and it all piled in the center of the wagon. They said, ‘What’s the matter with you up there?’ There was no sound. They looked off across the field and I was halfway to the meetinghouse.” (Pages 37 and 38.)

I had found the path I had been looking for. I knew I had a Heavenly Father who had given me talents and wanted me to develop them. I found myself loved by people who accepted me the way I was and who taught me how to grow as a person, as a mother, and as a wife. I knew that I had a Father who expected something from me and that I could no longer hide behind my shyness.
I began to learn and progress. I fulfilled several callings in the Church. Through the Relief Society, I learned many things that have helped me grow materially and spiritually. I have participated in dances, theater, and choir. I have organized programs. I have learned several crafts, and now I am studying music.
Today I am nearly 60 years old and currently serve as education counselor in the stake Relief Society presidency. My husband and I also serve in the São Paulo Temple. I am still shy, but I don’t hide myself when I am doing God’s work. The Church has taught me that in the eyes of God there are no inadequate people.

At this critical point in her life, Minerva had two experiences that took her out of the art world. The first experience crystallized her desire for life with a family—specifically, for life with Herman. In a testimony meeting she was listening to a sister speak on the joys of marriage and motherhood. “I thought of all the men I had met in my search for ‘the right one,’” wrote Minerva later. At that moment, she realized that “back on the Idaho desert, herding his cattle and branding his calves was a man more nearly meant for me than anyone else in the world” (unpublished autobiographical sketch, 1937, transcription from handwritten manuscript). Never one to doubt her own judgment, Minerva returned home to Idaho and married Herman.
The other experience helped her to strengthen her feeling that she had a mission as an artist and that she should place her art in the service of her faith. Minerva later recorded how Robert Henri, one of her renowned teachers, asked her, shortly before she left New York, whether any artist had ever told the “great Mormon story.”
“Not to my liking,’ I answered. ‘Good Heavens, girl, what an opportunity. You do it. You’re the one. That’s your birthright. You’ll do it well.’
“I felt that I had been commissioned” (unpublished manuscript, 1947).

Let me give you some background about the proclamation as a core message of what we believe.
In 1994, a year before the proclamation was presented, the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles discussed how society and governments were pulling away from God’s laws for family, marriage, and gender. “But that was not the end of what we saw,” President Russell M. Nelson later explained. “We could see the efforts of various communities to do away with all standards and limitations on sexual activity. We saw the confusion of genders. We could see it all coming.”
The Twelve determined to prepare a document, an official proclamation, summarizing the Church’s position on family. During that year, these Apostles, seers called of God, prepared a declaration about the family. President Dallin H. Oaks recalled they prayerfully turned to the Lord for “what [they] should say and how [they] should say it.” They presented it to the First Presidency—Presidents Howard W. Hunter, Gordon B. Hinckley, and Thomas S. Monson—for their consideration.
Just months later, in March 1995, President Hunter passed away, and President Hinckley became the 15th President of the Church. The proclamation was now in his hands. When would be the right time to make this declaration to the Church? That time came six months later.
Days before the September 23 general Relief Society meeting that preceded general conference, President Hinckley and his counselors met in counsel with the Relief Society General Presidency. The sisters, like the Apostles, had been weighing concerns about women and families. They had focused the upcoming meeting on families.
President Hinckley was scheduled to address the women at the gathering. He had been pondering the direction of his remarks. As the discussion progressed, he referred by name to the newly created but not yet public “The Family: A Proclamation to the World.” Was this women’s meeting the right setting to make the decisive declaration about family?
Relief Society General President Elaine Jack later explained: “We didn’t know what the proclamation on the family was at that time. … [W]e could tell by the title, but we felt anything on the family … would be a positive thing. … I felt very positive that we had members of the Quorum of the Twelve that were receiving revelation.”
The Relief Society meeting that Saturday was historic. President Hinckley introduced the family proclamation with these important words: “With so much of sophistry that is passed off as truth, with so much of deception concerning standards and values, with so much of allurement and enticement to take on the slow stain of the world, we have felt to warn and forewarn … of standards, doctrines, and practices relative to the family which the prophets, seers, and revelators of this church have repeatedly stated throughout its history.”
He then read the proclamation in its entirety. As the Lord has said, “Whether by mine own voice or by the voice of my servants, it is the same.”

When she paused between arithmetic problems to look out the schoolhouse window, Julia thought about how Billy Johnson would have sweet rolls in his lunch again. Resting her pencil eraser on the unfinished problem, she pictured the package of rolls as he always produced it from his jacket pocket at noon. He would lay it on his desk and look around at everyone else to make sure he had their full attention before unwrapping the wax paper and revealing two rolls in all their splendor, filled with apricot jam and crowned with white frosting.
Julia’s stomach rumbled. Although her family had not really been wanting for food since they’d moved five months ago, she seemed always to be hungry. Most of it was a hunger that the boiled navy beans in her pail wouldn’t satisfy.
Her brother flashed her a grin when she looked his way. “I’m hungry,” he mouthed.
She raised her eyebrows and looked toward the clock. Twenty more minutes.
The teacher was hearing third graders recite the multiplication tables: “Four times five is twenty.” “Four times six is twenty-four.” “Four times seven is twenty-eight. …”
Julia bit the end of her eraser and stared at her own problem: What is the simple interest on a loan for eighty-five dollars for eighteen months with an annual rate of eleven percent?
There’s no sense thinking about rolls, she told herself. But she couldn’t get the thought of them out of her mind. Had she ever eaten sweet rolls? She wondered. She couldn’t remember the taste—only the smell, buttery rich and fruity rising out of Billy’s wax paper every day.
Get back to the problem, she scolded herself. Multiply first. What next? She worked out the first part of the problem:
$85 x .11 ——– 85 850 ——– $9.35
Loans! That’s why they had had to move and didn’t have much money for food. When the drought had come, there had been loans against the farm to buy seed. Loans against the cattle and then the horses, until they had had to be sold. Loans for more seed and for a hospital bill. Everything had finally been forfeited to the bank—as had almost all the other farms in the area. What would a bank do with all those farms and all those thin cattle and hungry horses?
Next, eighteen months is a year and a half, so multiply nine dollars and thirty-five cents by one-point-five.
Seven years of crop failures and loans. The last time Dad made a wheat crop, I was five years old, Julia thought. No wonder I can’t remember the taste of sweet rolls.
The schoolhouse door and the windows were open to the filtered light that made the month of April so hopeful. Snow still filled the ditches beside the road, but at recess Julia had heard water running under the snow and had seen it through holes her brother made by poking a stick through the crusty snow. Perhaps this year there wouldn’t be a drought. Last year they had lived on wheat that Dad had scraped out of the granary of an abandoned farm. This year there were navy beans. Maybe next year her mother could make her sweet rolls to bring to school.
Julia’s stomach rumbled again as she pictured Billy Johnson licking the frosting from his fingers the way he did every day.
Two more arithmetic problems.
Julia touched the eraser to her lips, considering. A merchant makes fifteen percent profit on clothing he sells in his store. He sells $5,082 in clothing one year and $4,237 the next. What are his total profits for the two years?
Who makes profits? Billy Johnson’s dad. He must be a rich merchant to buy all those sweet rolls.
And all she had were beans. Cold beans. All cooked from the huge sacks of beans brought with them last November when Uncle Fred had moved them the six hundred sleety, wind-whipped miles to his home in Michigan.
Uncle Fred had been cutting and hauling cedar fence posts, expecting to trade them for wild horses to sell at a profit. But none of the ranchers were building fences. Why put up fences for dying cattle? None of them had horses to trade, either. If he had gotten horses, Julia and her family would still be in Dakota.
A Crookston garage owner had let them stay all night in his shop. It had a wood fire, so Uncle Fred stoked it with some fence posts and said that if he couldn’t use them for barter, he might as well burn them.
Since November Dad and Uncle Fred had been cutting more fence posts in the cedar swamp. Their whole family was cramped into one room at Uncle Fred’s—along with their three beat-up mattresses and Mom’s cookstove. Every day Mom cooked up a pot of beans and sent it and three bowls and three spoons to school with the children.
Julia was writing down the merchant’s two-year profit, $1397.85, when the teacher announced the lunch hour.
Julia stood in line with the other girls to wash her hands in the wash pan in the entryway. She watched Billy Johnson pull the package of sweet rolls from his jacket pocket and head back to the classroom. Her mouth watered as she saw the sweet jam oozing from the coils of golden bread. “Those look good,” she said to the girl next to her.
“They’re stale,” the girl said. “His dad buys them by the bushel to feed his hogs. He gets them really cheap from a bakery in Grand Rapids.”
Julia thought a bushel of sweet rolls, even stale ones, sounded pretty good. “How do you know?”
“My mother got a bushel there once,” the girl replied, rocking on her heels. “Some of them were moldy. Most of them were just powder-dry. But it’s easier for Billy to grab up a package of rolls than to make a sandwich. Besides, I doubt if they even have stuff for sandwiches. They’re having a hard time getting by.”
“If Mom only had the things to make some rolls, …” Julia began.
“It wouldn’t matter if Billy’s family did have the stuff to make rolls,” the other girl said. “His ma’s dead.”
Julia thought about that. She thought, too, about her mom, who loved her and who cooked beans for them. Today the beans would taste better than ever. Even better than a sweet roll.