Gospel Story Finder

Several years ago just before Christmas, my niece, Shelly, took hold of her mother’s hand and asked seriously, “Is it okay if I believe just one more year?”

Since that memorable happening several years ago, our family has established a family tradition. Each year on Christmas Eve, we gather together around the tree. With the lights low and the fire burning in the fireplace, we ask the question once again, the most important question of the year, “Is it okay if we believe one more year?”—not only believe in the traditions of childhood with Santa Claus, but more importantly in the message of the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, whose birthday we are celebrating. Do we believe in his mission, his atonement, his resurrection? Do we believe in his invitation to come and follow him?

Of course we are not really committing ourselves for only a year. We are pledged to follow the Savior forever. But we live life a day, a week, a month, a year at a time, and Christmas is a season to focus on the year ahead and reconfirm our discipleship.

Following the discussion and the commitment, someone reads aloud The Polar Express by Chris Von Allsburg, a story that tells how those who have faith can always hear the clear sound of a silver bell.

Following the story, we each receive a small new bell on a red satin ribbon to wear around our necks during the holidays. We listen for its clear sound as a testimony and commitment that we truly believe and will strive to live as we believe one more year. While the fire burns low, we then read from the Bible the glorious account of the Christmas story recorded by Luke telling of the birth of the Savior as announced by an angel, “For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord” (Luke 2:11), and we believe.

My priests quorum was pretty much like any other quorum. We had an adviser, inspiring lessons by the bishop, assistants to the bishop, and then the rest of us. Our ward was neither huge nor small, but we had a number of members who seldom or never came to any meetings. In one particular quorum meeting we spent a lot of time discussing those young men who had not been to church in a while. Brother Wheeler, our quorum adviser, had prepared a list.
When I was young, many considered me shy and quiet, and I did not especially go out of my way to make noise or be seen. I was not the first to volunteer to visit the young men on Brother Wheeler’s list. All he was asking was for us to pick a name, make a friendly visit, and invite them to our upcoming weekly activities.
Hands went up when Brother Wheeler called out names from this list. He said it was a plus if you were already friends, neighbors, or schoolmates. I started to feel guilty as the list grew smaller and smaller. Finally there was one name left. The other boys were chatting about their plans of how they were going to take care of this assignment. Brother Wheeler looked at the name on the list and then at me. I lifted my hand. Smiling, he wrote down the boy’s name and sketched a map for me. He said the family had moved in a while ago and a visit could really benefit the young man.
We lived in an area of southeast Idaho where it was a mixture of farms and homes. Many of the parents commuted to work in town. As in many communities like this, we were fairly close-knit, and everyone pretty much knew everyone else. But I didn’t recognize the name I was given, nor did anyone else in our quorum.
Sunday passed, and I considered the name I’d received. Monday came and went. I still considered. Tuesday passed, and I considered with increasing gravity. How was I going to approach a total stranger and ask him to come to church?
Wednesday came, and my consideration began to change into worry. The week was already passing by, and all I could consider was a gut feeling of dread. This young man I was to visit had never been seen at church, he had never been seen at Scouts, he had never been seen at school, he had never even been seen, period.
The school bus dropped me off at my house. I pulled out the folded note I had been carrying with me since Sunday. The young man’s house was about two-and-a-half miles from mine. I wanted to get it over with and release this burden. I told my sister where I was going and, with grim determination, headed out.
Imagination fed on anticipation. I pictured a family where the dad answered the door with a shotgun in his hands and vicious dogs were ready to attack. I walked half a mile. I pictured a family that only spoke Russian. I walked along. I pictured a family with so much wealth that they only wore tuxedos and ball gowns. Was this how Nephi and Sam felt while they were on their way to get the brass plates? Or worse, perhaps this is how Laman and Lemuel felt. Suddenly, there I was in front of the house.
I rang the doorbell. I heard heavy footsteps. The door swung open, and an older man stood there. He looked at me. “Hello,” he said.
A rush of relief came over me. He was not holding a shotgun, he spoke English, and he was not wearing a tuxedo. “Uh, can uh …” I looked at my note. I couldn’t remember his name. “… Bill …” I couldn’t think straight. “… play?” I finally blurted out. I felt like a little kid. What kind of word had I used? “Play?”
The man looked very surprised.
“Is Bill … available?” I corrected myself. Did I read the map wrong? Was I at the wrong house? “Does a Bill, Billy, or even a William live here?”
The man’s expression changed from confusion to smiling enlightenment. “Oh, yes, of course. Come in. You must be from the ward. Brother Wheeler called last week and told me someone would be coming.”
An entire flood of relief swept through me. I followed the man through the front room, past the kitchen, down a hallway, to a bedroom. The house was neat and modest. I saw a picture of the Salt Lake Temple on the wall. The Ensign magazine sat on the kitchen table, opened. I saw scriptures on the shelf. “But these people never come to church,” I thought with more than a touch of confusion. And what about Bill, who was a total hermit apparently—and a very lazy one, because it appeared he was still sleeping.
The man softly knocked. “Billy?” he said as he gently opened the door.
Instantly everything was explained. I felt so small. A wheelchair and a hospital bed sat in the center of the room.
An emaciated boy lay there staring out the window. He turned his head to look at us. His eyes widened. “Help me sit up, Father. Do I have company? What is your name?”
I did not have to worry about carrying the conversation; Billy was very good at assisting me with that. I returned regularly to his house for the next several weeks. I brought various games; he especially liked chess. I learned that he was actually a foster child and had not seen his birth parents for years. Billy’s disease was critical, and the older couple he was now with had taken him in so that he wouldn’t have to stay by himself in the hospital. He was a member of the Church but could only remember being baptized.
Brother Wheeler arranged for us to have our priests quorum meet for class at Billy’s home. His bed had been moved to the front room to help accommodate the extra visitors. Our bishop came and even helped bless the sacrament for Billy and his foster parents.
I felt pretty good about the whole thing. Over the past few months I had made a friend, and I had helped this friend make other friends in our quorum. I did not anticipate the phone call I received from the bishop later that week. He told me he had interviewed Billy and found him worthy to hold the Aaronic Priesthood. Billy had asked the bishop if I could ordain him.
We held our priesthood meeting again at Billy’s house the following Sunday. I do not remember what I said during the ordination. I do remember Billy’s smile and the tears he was pushing back—the tears Brother Wheeler, the bishop, and all of us were pushing back.
A few weeks later, Billy was not available for “playing” anymore. His condition had worsened, and he spent most of the time in the hospital. About six months from my first meeting with Billy, he died.
Now what I remember most about Billy is not what I did for him on my visits, but what he did for me. A young man whose name I came to know from a simple list had become one of the most treasured memories of my youth.

As I’ve reflected on this experience, I’ve quizzed myself, How well do I remember those two memorization requirements? I discovered I could still name the Twelve Apostles that existed at that time—Rudger Clawson, Reed Smoot, George Albert Smith, George F. Richards, David O. McKay, Joseph Fielding Smith, Stephen L Richards, Richard R. Lyman, Melvin J. Ballard, John A. Widtsoe, Joseph F. Merrill, and Charles A. Callis. But after the first five articles of faith, I had trouble remembering their order and their full content. I needed a refresher course! I photocopied the Articles of Faith from the scriptures and taped them to the wall of my bathroom where I could see them each morning as I was brushing my teeth and shaving. Within a very few days, I again had them firmly in mind. This experience has brought a deep conviction to me that they were given by revelation to the Prophet Joseph Smith. I reached the conclusion that if I studied the content of each of the Articles of Faith, I could explain and defend every gospel principle I might have the opportunity to expound to someone searching for the restored truth.

Last year I was noticing how I didn’t have any “real” talents. Then I received my patriarchal blessing. It said, “You have a special gift to work with people.” When I heard that, I knew what my talent was and decided to do whatever I could to pursue that talent. I was called as the Beehive president and have been striving to do what I can to be a good leader for the Beehives of my ward.
Sherry Olson, 14Sonora, California

In Belfast, in quieter times, I had two roommates—girls of another faith whom I had met through a mutual friend. None of us had any extra money. Carol and Anne were both midwifery students, and I was saving for a postgraduate nursing course.
Our apartment was dismal, faded, and hard to bear, but we could find no other place within our means.
Nevertheless, Carol and Anne decided to call the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and offer to give a Christmas party for 12 needy children. Of course, I agreed to help with the work and the financing as did Carol’s sister Marian.
I had seen some of the miseries of the slums. The most appalling thing I remembered was a little girl in a torn summer dress sitting on the cold, windy sidewalk molding a lump of filthy clay because she had no other toy. I could not now find and help that child, but I could try to help some others.
Our Christmas tree was two feet high, decorated with nine small glass balls, one package of tinfoil icicles, and a star we had made from the foil inside a cracker box. The room was decorated with a few streamers and a dozen balloons. The food was simple—fried potatoes and sausages, grilled tomatoes, cookies, and orangeade. Fancy food is almost unknown to ghetto children, and we were afraid they would not eat anything unfamiliar. Besides, we couldn’t afford it. The 12 gifts were small and inexpensive: a string of plastic beads, a doll’s feeding set, a young child’s picture book, small toys and games. And, remembering the girl on the sidewalk, I bought a package of clay.
The children arrived semiclean and in their best rags. Eleven, twelve, thirteen! One of the girls had come with her toddler sister, who had refused to stay at home. That presented a problem.
In those days my annual project for the Relief Society bazaar was dressing little plastic dolls in sturdy clothes for girls to play with. Several such dolls were in my room. I quickly wrapped one of them in the last scrap of tissue paper for our extra guest and hurriedly put it under the tree.
Most of the children stood in a group at the door, but one determined boy about eight years old examined all the gifts through the paper.
“If you don’t mind, Missus,” he declared, “I’ll have this game of blow football for me and me mates.”
Carol smiled but was firm.
“We’re giving out the presents at the end of the party. Right now we’re going to play some games.”
We played their games; they played our games. We told stories; they related past experiences. We sang songs and grew decidedly tired of the children’s favorite, “Jingle Bells.”
“Last year,” announced the oldest girl, trying hard to be sophisticated in an ill-fitting sheath and high heels much too large, “I was to a party in the Linen Makers’ Hall. Hundreds of us there was, and a tree 30 feet high.”
“Was it grand, but?” asked a slightly envious voice.
“It wasn’t, for no one had time to talk with us like these good ladies are doing.”
We served the simple food, which first brought forth cries of delight and then the silence of serious eating.
“Ye’ve left food on your plate,” objected our blow football elf to his neighbor.
“I can’t eat it, but,” she replied, “for I’ve never had this much food on me plate at once.”
“Give it here, then, for ’tis a shame to waste good food.”
He ate several children’s leavings and then conceded defeat. He could not prevent a few scraps from going to waste.
We gave him the blow football game. We gave the 12-year-old, would-be sophisticate the plastic beads.
We gave the doll’s feeding set to a seven-year-old Raggedy Ann.
“It’s no use to me, Missus. I ain’t got a doll.”
So the Relief Society lost another plastic doll. This time it was wrapped in writing paper, and we pretended it had fallen behind the tree.
“Tis the best party I was ever at,” someone announced with satisfaction. “I felt right to home.”
“Indeed it was grand, Missus,” seconded another voice. “For whenever we’uns wanted something, one of you ladies was near.”
I thought then that I had learned something about giving, but I was shortly to learn more. The sophisticate, I noticed, had traded her beads for the clay, the clay for a toy car, the toy car for the baby’s picture book.
“Sure it’ll do,” she said, trying to rewrap it. The used cellophane tape wouldn’t stick.
“And would you have a bit of string, Missus? And a pencil, please?”
I produced them, wondering. She tied the parcel awkwardly, and in large uneven letters she printed on it “TOMMY.”
She saw me looking and she explained: “’Tis me wee brother, Missus. Nobody invited him to a party, and we can’t afford him no present.”
Ragged, messy little girl in your run-over, outsized high heels, I seem to remember that you are beautiful.

Honesty begins when we are young. When I was 11 years old, I looked forward eagerly to my magical 12th birthday when I could become a deacon and a Scout. My mother helped me learn the Articles of Faith, the Scout Law and Motto, and other requirements so that I would have a good start when that special birthday arrived.
Since I had no sisters, my brothers and I were given some of the inside chores as well as outside ones, such as milking and taking care of the animals. One day Mother left me to wash the dishes and clean the kitchen while she attended to a sick neighbor. I agreed to do these duties but put off doing the dishes. Time ran out and they didn’t get done. In fact, they didn’t even get started. When Mother came home and saw the kitchen, she put on her apron and went to the sink. She spoke only three words, which stung worse than the sting of a dozen hornets. They were the first three words of the Scout Oath: “On my honor.” That day I resolved that I would never give my mother cause to repeat those words to me again.

Recently a young couple whom Kathy and I love wrote me about the precious baby they were expecting.

The father wrote: “[When my wife was] 10 weeks pregnant we found out that our miracle baby has the genetic condition of trisomy 21, commonly known as Down syndrome. We felt the pressure … from the medical field to consider termination. A few weeks later we discovered … our unborn child … would require multiple heart surgeries in her first year of life. Throughout this process as we prayed fervently for divine help, … we have felt the Spirit give us comfort. We received revelation and understanding that our daughter is an elite child of Heavenly Father and has an immense desire to be in our family and to come to earth.”

The baby’s mother wrote: “[We] were completely shocked, confused, and honestly devastated by the news. … When I was 14 weeks pregnant, we found out that our baby had multiple congenital heart defects, one that could be potentially fatal. We saw countless doctors and specialists from 10–18 weeks’ gestation. … At each of our appointments, we were asked if we wanted to continue with the pregnancy or terminate. … The Savior healed my heart and gave me a sense of peace and excitement about our baby girl. … [Heavenly Father] has shown me time and time again that He has a perfect plan for me [and] I trust Him.”

They excitedly welcomed their baby girl exactly one week ago today. She is theirs and they are hers forever.

Tori felt like a brilliant scientist in a laboratory. Today her class was looking at cells with a microscope! She watched Mr. Koch place thin slices of onion onto slides. Tori really wanted to see a nucleus, the cell’s control center.
“Each lab group, send one person to get a slide for your microscope,” Mr. Koch said. “Please be careful. These slides are glass, so they’re fragile. If you break one, you’ll have to pay for it.”
Tori went up to Mr. Koch’s desk and picked up a thin slide in both hands. She walked back to her table, trying not to get smudges on it. In the center she could just barely see the sliver of onion, almost as clear as the glass.
Tori pushed the slide into the microscope’s clips and flipped the light switch. But the microscope stayed dark.
“Oops,” said her lab partner, Michael. “We forgot to plug it in.” He pulled the microscope over to an outlet.
But Michael bumped the slide, and it slipped right out of the clips and onto the floor. Crack! The slide cracked straight down the middle.
Michael grabbed the slide and set it back on the microscope like nothing had happened. He turned the light on and started adjusting the focus. Tori wasn’t sure what to do, so she just sat and looked at their assignment. Her excitement about seeing a nucleus was gone.
After a few minutes Michael whispered, “Tori, will you back me up and tell Mr. Koch our slide was cracked when we got it?”
Tori felt her chest get tight. Of course she knew that was the wrong thing to do, but she didn’t want Michael to get in trouble. She thought about what Jesus would do. Then she said, “I don’t think we should lie about that. But I’ll help you talk to Mr. Koch. It’ll be OK.”
Michael cleared his throat. “OK.” He looked back at the slide. “I don’t have enough money to pay for it, though. What should I do?”
“Just tell the truth,” said Tori. She didn’t feel nervous anymore. She knew they could do the right thing.
Michael took a deep breath and raised his hand. “I need to tell you something, Mr. Koch.” Tori gave Michael an encouraging smile as their teacher walked over.
“I accidentally knocked the slide onto the floor, and it cracked,” Michael said.
“May I see the slide?” Mr. Koch asked calmly. He looked at it closely and then said, “Michael, thank you for telling the truth. You don’t need to pay for it. Just try to be more careful next time.”
“Whew, thanks!” said Michael.
With a new slide, Tori and Michael looked at the onion cells. Tori found a perfect nucleus and drew it in her notebook. She was glad she’d made the right decision. And she’d helped Michael make a good decision too. What a relief.
As they packed up their equipment, Michael said, “Thanks for helping me tell the truth.”
Tori smiled. “Anytime.”

At age 25, I found myself in a verbally abusive relationship. I’d become less active in the Church, but when I finally left my boyfriend, I decided to go back to attending church regularly. I wanted to be on the straight and narrow path again. Little did I know, though, that when I made that decision, I was already pregnant.
I decided to stay true to my choice to be active again in the Church, but I didn’t really want to be pregnant and go to church where I lived. I wanted to attend a ward in a different city, so I went there one Sunday. It was the day of the Primary sacrament meeting presentation. As the children talked about how Heavenly Father always loves us, I felt His love too. That message was a great blessing for me that day.
After the meeting, I asked the bishop if I could attend that ward given my situation. He advised me to go to the ward within my boundaries. I didn’t want to, but he assured me I’d be OK, and I was.
When I told my bishop about my pregnancy, he was so helpful. It was a blessing to meet with him regularly. As I talked with him about my options for the baby, he wanted me to know that he was there to represent the Lord in my repentance process but would not tell me what decision to make about raising or placing my baby. As we were studying Doctrine and Covenants 9:8–9, my bishop asked me to pray and tell Heavenly Father what I really wanted—he encouraged me to make a decision and seek confirmation from the Lord.
So I went home and prayed. I told Heavenly Father all the amazing reasons why I would be the best mom for this baby, and I asked to know if that decision was right. The next day, everything in life felt like it was falling apart. For instance, I lost my medical insurance, and my car broke down.
At church the following Sunday, I told my bishop how life seemed to fall apart after I prayed about my decision. Because of what had happened after my prayer, my bishop suggested that I consider a different decision and seek confirmation about it instead.
While working with my bishop, I had considered placing the baby for adoption and had narrowed down the potential adoptive families to two couples. The bishop suggested that I select one of the two couples and pray about that decision to ask if this little guy needed to go with them.
I went home and reluctantly prayed, asking Heavenly Father if the couple I had chosen were the ones my child needed. The next morning, a connection my sister made led to a miracle solution for my insurance. I felt this was a confirmation that adoption was the right path for me, and I remember thinking this child could have so much more with a different family.
I knew that Heavenly Father would help me with this decision. Part of me hoped this choice would be like the story of Abraham and Isaac (see Genesis 22)—that when it came time for me to place my son for adoption, God would tell me I didn’t need to do it anymore. But He didn’t. I needed to place my son with a wonderful family.
As I sat in the hospital with my new little bundle of joy, I turned on the TV. General conference happened to be on. I heard a talk by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles entitled “None Were with Him.” He taught that “because Jesus walked such a long, lonely path utterly alone, we do not have to do so.”1 I closed my eyes and told Heavenly Father that I felt so alone, and then I felt so much love from Him.
After the placement, I felt completely empty. But in the back of my mind, I still knew I wasn’t alone. I knew Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were with me, as Elder Holland had taught. I prepared for the temple and received my endowment. I was obeying the commandments, and I was determined I would never let myself be deceived into wrong choices again.
But years later, I was deceived again and ended up in another abusive relationship. When I broke away, I found out I was pregnant again. I didn’t want to place the baby. I was older than before, and I felt like I could be a good mom. I met with my bishop and a social worker. I started following the same process that I had before in praying about adoption, but nothing ever seemed to click. It always felt difficult.
I still went to church. Sometimes ward members would say they were surprised to see me there pregnant, which hurt a little. But I still went every week. I wanted people to see that what I had done reflected a choice I had made but that it didn’t define who I was. I worked with my bishop to move forward.
As my due date grew closer, I started to panic. With my first baby, I’d had a plan, but this one was so different. I didn’t feel like I was receiving a strong answer regarding any option for my baby. I let the couple whom I had placed my first baby with know that I was pregnant but unsure of whether I would place, and that if I did place, I would want them to raise this baby as well.
After I had the baby, I still felt unsure. Then my doctor came in to check on us and said, “I don’t know if you’ll be able to have children again, so love this little one.” While that may not be the answer for everyone, I felt the Spirit confirm that this was the right choice for me. After panicking for nine months, I felt peace. I let the couple know that I had decided to parent my daughter.
I wanted to be the best mom I could be, and I knew that the only way to do that was staying close to family and the Lord’s Church. I knew that what I had learned in the gospel of Jesus Christ would help her like it had helped me.
With my pregnancies, was one decision easier than the other? No. Both options were hard—just different kinds of hard, as were the joys. With my daughter, she is an incredible delight to me. Yet being a single mother is hard. With the son I placed, I still think about him and hope he’s happy throughout his life, but I am not as involved in his day-to-day happenings. When I was pregnant with him, I couldn’t see what Heavenly Father had in mind for him. But now I can see it, and I know he’s where he needs to be.
We can’t know beforehand what placing or single parenting will be like. But we can always trust in the Lord.
As part of my repentance, I remember hearing my bishop say, “Your sins are forgiven.” I felt such great relief, and I realized that the Atonement of Jesus Christ is real. I would remember my sin, but from that moment on, my Savior, Jesus Christ, would remember it no more (see Doctrine and Covenants 58:42). I knew that He wanted me to move forward to become a better person, to become what He sees I can be. That’s what I strive to do every day—to become even closer to Him and to hold ever tighter to the iron rod (see 1 Nephi 15:23–24; see also 1 Nephi 11:25).
One of my favorite scriptures reads, “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life” (John 3:16). I am grateful for Heavenly Father’s plan of redemption.
I currently serve as my ward’s Young Women president. One principle I try to help the young women learn is that regardless of any choices they make, there is no place where they are out of Heavenly Father’s reach. As Elder Holland taught: “However many mistakes you feel you have made or talents you think you don’t have, or however far from home and family and God you feel you have traveled, I testify that you have not traveled beyond the reach of divine love. It is not possible for you to sink lower than the infinite light of Christ’s Atonement shines.”2
I hope that the young women in my ward—and everyone—remember that truth. It has blessed my life immeasurably, and the joys I now feel in living the gospel have become an even greater strength to me.

Ring! It was the final bell of the school day on Friday afternoon. I jumped from my desk and raced to the door. My friend Kent had invited me and two other boys to camp out that night by his house. I had been looking forward to it for two weeks.
When I got home from school, I gathered my sleeping bag, pillow, flashlight, comic books, and a bag of snacks. When I got to Kent’s house, he and his father were just spreading out the tent. We took turns hammering the stakes that kept the tent secure on the ground.
Then Kent’s dad barbecued hamburgers, and we all played hide-and-seek in the woods. As soon as the sun went down, we turned on our flashlights and went exploring.
After a while, Kent’s mother called us all back from the woods and told us it was time to settle in for the night. We ran into the tent, laid out our sleeping bags, and got comfortable. Soon we were sharing snacks and listening to some of Kent’s amazing adventure stories. Kent always made us the heroes in his stories. We could always fly, and we always saved the day.
As it got late, everyone was tired and began to fall asleep. I could hear the crickets chirping in the night air and a train passing in the distance. I began to think about Kent’s stories. I realized that even though Kent had told me a lot of great stories, there was one important story he didn’t know. It was the true story of Joseph Smith and the Restoration of the gospel. The more I thought about it, the more I felt I should share this special story with my friend.
“Kent, are you still awake?”
“Yes. What’s up?”
My heart started beating a little faster and I felt anxious, but I kept talking.
“I was just wondering. Do you believe in God?”
“Yes, of course,” he said.
“Do you believe in the prophets in the Bible?”
“Yes,” Kent said as he sat up in his sleeping bag.
“Well, what if I told you that we have a living prophet on the earth today, just like in the Bible?”
“What do you mean—a prophet like Moses?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
“Well, that’s something new,” he said. “Tell me about it.”
My anxious feeling began to melt away, and excitement grew in its place. I told Kent about the Prophet Joseph Smith and how the gospel was restored to the earth. I told him about the living prophet and apostles on the earth today.
When I finished, I asked Kent what he thought about it.
He was quiet for a few moments. “I think that’s an amazing story that I really need to think about. Do you really believe it?”
“Yes, I really do.” I felt warmth inside my chest, and I knew I had said what Heavenly Father wanted me to say. I said a silent prayer that Kent would find out for himself that what I had said was true.
I later learned that Kent did pray to find his answer. He also shared what he had learned with his parents. Soon Kent’s family was studying the gospel and meeting with the missionaries. It wasn’t long until Kent’s whole family was baptized and confirmed members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Although many years have passed since then, Kent and I are still great friends. We both served missions, and we attended Brigham Young University together. I’m so glad that I took the time to share the gospel with my friend.

In Chicago, a large city of the United States, a survey found the names of 3,000 young adults who are members of the Church. Less than 600 of those were active. A “search-and-rescue” program was undertaken. A team effort of active young adults with the full-time missionaries and youth leaders is producing an encouraging response. Many of these inactive youth are responding to the invitation to come back.

Attendance at sacrament meeting has increased 35 percent during the first three months of this effort. That’s more than 200 additional young people attending sacrament meeting. Some are meeting with their bishops and branch presidents and clearing up the issues that have kept them away. Testimonies and commitments are being reawakened. Lives are being changed.

My high school graduation was from a small Methodist boarding school in Thomasville, Georgia. I had enjoyed school very much and was hoping to continue my education at Berry College in Rome, Georgia. However, I was facing an uphill struggle to obtain the necessary funds for tuition, books, housing, and other expenses. My parents and family were not in a position to help me, and I made only a limited amount as a waitress during the summer. It was at this time that I received a surprising letter from the Women’s Division of Christian Service of the Methodist church. They offered to put me through college if I would fulfill a two-year mission for them as a teacher after graduation. I was deeply touched and astonished by their offer and wanted very much to accept. A few months earlier this would have seemed like an answer to my prayers, but now I wasn’t so sure.
I thought of every reason why I should accept the offer. My future would be secure, my dreams of a master’s degree in art would be realized, and I could devote my time to studying without having to worry about working. Was there really a difference in serving a mission for the Methodist church instead of the Mormon church? Weren’t they both Christian churches? My friends and teachers were encouraging me to take the offer. Their concern for my future was genuine, and I appreciated their love—I didn’t want to disappoint them. My personal desire to say yes to the Methodist church was strengthened by my fear of facing my friends if I did not.
“How could I turn down this offer?” I asked myself. But a still small voice, much quieter than the voices around me, whispered, “How can you accept it? How can you live a lie?” I realized then that if I accepted I would have to keep secret the fact that it was not the Methodist church I desired to serve. I could not use their support to achieve my goals. They were such wonderful people, so generous in their nature. The voice was right. How could I? I could not. My decision was made, and I had to find the strength to face it no matter how unrealistic it seemed to my friends. I wrote the council and explained that I was a Mormon, and though their offer was something I would never forget, I could not accept it. They answered my letter, expressing appreciation for my honesty with them, and wished me luck in my future endeavors.
Since then, through a lot of hard work and help from many people, I have graduated from Brigham Young University with the art degree I so much wanted. I was privileged to enjoy several teaching assistantships there plus the companionship of some of the greatest people I’ve ever known. When faced with similar decisions since then, I’ve reflected back on this experience of standing against the advice of friends and loved ones and listening instead to the whispering of one small voice that only I could hear. I have learned that no matter how great the problems and pressures or how difficult the decisions, Heavenly Father is always there to guide us.

It was interesting to me that a few months later, while I was serving a mission in London, England, that another professor, a distinguished Oxford-educated teacher at London University, took exactly the opposite position. Dr. Ebeid Sarofim, an Egyptian by birth and an expert in Semitic languages, read a copy of the Book of Mormon that he had discovered by chance and sent a letter to President David O. McKay asking for permission to be baptized. President McKay referred him to the London mission home.

Dr. Sarofim met with the missionaries and said he had an intellectual testimony of the validity of the Book of Mormon because he was convinced that it was indeed a translation of the learning of the Jews and the language of the Egyptians for the periods described in the Book of Mormon. One of the many examples he used was the conjunctive phrase “and it came to pass,” which he said mirrored how he would translate phraseology used often in ancient Semitic writings.

The professor was informed that while his intellectual approach based on his profession had helped him, it was still essential to have a spiritual testimony. Through study, listening to prophetic messages, and prayer, he gained a spiritual witness and was baptized. So what one famous humorist saw as an object of ridicule, a scholar recognized as profound evidence of the truth of the Book of Mormon that was confirmed to him by the Spirit.20

And a woman also can be a multitude. How many is one if that one is a Mary Fielding Smith? Let me tell you just a little bit about this woman. Mary Fielding Smith became the second wife of Hyrum Smith after his first wife died and left him a widower with five little children. Within seven years, when Hyrum was killed with the Prophet, she herself was left a widow with a small family of her own, including the earlier family of Hyrum’s, which had become her own. A few years later, when the Saints fled from Nauvoo, Mary Fielding Smith was faced with the same problem as was her sister-in-law, Emma Hale Smith, the widow of the Prophet. What should they do? Should they stay in their relatively fine homes in Nauvoo and let the main body of the Church leave them? Or should they leave their homes and endure the hardships of the long trek westward?

Emma Smith decided to stay; Mary Fielding Smith decided to leave with the Saints. The trip was not easy, and the young widow and her family endured many hardships, but these hardships helped to forge some strong men and women. After they were finally settled in the Great Basin, the hardships did not stop. It was a difficult thing for eleven-year-old Joseph F. Smith to divide the family’s meager potato crop into two piles and then follow the directions of his widow mother to take the pile of the better potatoes to the bishop as tithing—but he did. At fifteen this young man was sent on a mission; in his early twenties he was ordained an apostle; and later he became president of the Council of the Twelve Apostles. Finally, he became the sixth president of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in this dispensation.

Because of the decision of Mary Fielding Smith to remain faithful to the gospel and to leave Nauvoo and to endure the hardships of the trip west, I understand there are now over 400 descendants of Hyrum Smith in the Church, including the present president of the Council of the Twelve Apostles, Joseph Fielding Smith. Mary Fielding Smith’s decision—as do many of our decisions—affected not only herself but also her family, her friends, and generations yet unborn. How many is one if that one is a Mary Fielding Smith?

Not long ago I listened at length to a couple who sat across the desk from me. There was bitterness between them. I know that at one time their love was deep and true. But each had developed a habit of speaking of the faults of the other. Unwilling to forgive the kind of mistakes we all make, and unwilling to forget them and live above them with forbearance, they had carped at one another until the love they once knew had been smothered. It had turned to ashes with the decree of a so-called no fault divorce. Now there is only loneliness and recrimination. I am satisfied that had there been even a small measure of repentance and forgiveness, they would still be together, enjoying the companionship that had so richly blessed their earlier years.

During the past year I’ve become friends with a young woman who belongs to another faith. As we became better friends, I felt like I needed to share the gospel with her. It wasn’t an easy thing to do, because I’d had a bad experience with another friend I had tried to share the gospel with. But I repeatedly felt the promptings of the Spirit and decided I needed to follow through.
I began inviting my friend over to my house to spend time with my family and to feel the Spirit. I know that it was the strength of my family and the spirit in our home that made her want to know more about the Church, because she soon wanted to know why we were so happy. After a few weeks, I gave her a Book of Mormon with my testimony written in the front. She has since begun attending church in her area and was even asked to give a talk recently!
This young woman has been such an example of strength to me. It has been incredible to talk to her and hear her say that she has a sure faith in our Heavenly Father. She knows that if she does what is right, her family will be blessed and may feel the Spirit as she does.
Having seen someone take the first steps on the path to conversion, I now see just how blessed we are to have the priesthood, the temple, and all of the other blessings that come with the gospel. It excites me to share those blessings with others, and I can’t wait to do so as a missionary of the Lord.

In the marvelous experience of Brigham Young in February of 1847, when the Prophet Joseph appeared to him in a dream or vision, Brigham pleaded to be reunited with the Prophet. Brigham Young asked the Prophet if he had a message for the Brethren. The Prophet said:
“Tell the people to be humble and faithful, and to be sure to keep the spirit of the Lord and it will lead them right. Be careful and not turn away the still small voice; it will teach them what to do and where to go; it will yield the fruits of the kingdom. Tell the Brethren to keep their hearts open to conviction, so that when the Holy Ghost comes to them, their hearts will be ready to receive it.”
The Prophet further directed Brigham Young as follows: “They can tell the Spirit of the Lord from all other spirits; it will whisper peace and joy to their souls; it will take malice, hatred, strife and all evil from their hearts; and their whole desire will be to do good, bring forth righteousness and build up the kingdom of God.” (Manuscript History of Brigham Young: 1846–47, Historical Dept., The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, pp. 528–31.)

During this past month I received two widely differing messages. One was a formal invitation to attend the swearing-in ceremony in Washington, D.C., of the newest and youngest member of the United States Tax Court—an appointment made by the President of the United States, and a very prestigious honor.

Within hours of receiving that invitation, I had a visit from a law enforcement officer inquiring if I knew a certain young man. I replied, “Of course I know him. Why do you ask?” This young man had indicated to the officer that he knew me. A sordid story was then related to me of drugs, immorality, stealing to satisfy the high cost of drugs, buying illicit sexual favors, and cheap rooming house living. When I expressed a desire to see and help this young man, the officer suggested I not see him at this time because of his emotional condition.

The families of these two young men are well known to me. As boys they were members of the same ward. Both received the Aaronic Priesthood and had had the same Sunday School teachers. The scriptures, Church magazines, and lesson manuals had been made available in their homes.

One received the Melchizedek Priesthood, fulfilled a mission, married in the temple, and while attending law school, served in a bishopric; and now, Judge Stephen Jensen Swift has been honored by his national government by appointment to a federal judgeship.

The other young man never merited or obtained the promised blessings of the Melchizedek Priesthood. Going to top-rated private schools overshadowed interest in a mission. He never married, associated with the wrong people, has now become a ridiculer of gospel principles because they differ from his life-style, and is virtually an outcast from family, society, and from the word of God. His family’s life-style failed to encourage him spiritually by its lack of interest in the scriptures, family home evenings, family and personal prayer, and hearing in their home testimonies of religious belief.

The Honorable Judge Stephen Swift is settling his family in Washington, D.C., and learning to feel comfortable in the robes of a federal judge. He has our love, admiration, and highest respect.

The other young man needs our love even more—a special love. I have faith that we can recover him. It was such as he of whom the Savior spoke: “What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?” (Luke 15:4.)

I had just gone through some dating heartache and was spending a lot of time at my sister’s. Inevitably we ended up eating junk food, watching TV, and taking naps. Waking from one of these naps, I remarked, “I don’t think we’re very good for each other.” We laughed, but that night I thanked Heavenly Father for the realization that I was using my sister as a security blanket and prayed for greater understanding of what I might do to move forward with my life. Over the next few months, that prayer was answered as I gained understanding one concept at a time.
The next day, while attending a Relief Society meeting, I noticed a particular scripture: “Others will he pacify, and lull them away into carnal security, that they will say: All is well in Zion; yea, Zion prospereth, all is well. … Therefore, wo be unto him that is at ease in Zion!” (2 Nephi 28:21, 24). I had always read these verses as describing the proud who went through the motions of worship. I had not considered myself as being at ease in Zion by spending so much time with my sister. But I began to realize that instead of seeking healing, I’d sought comfort. I resolved then to try harder to get out of my comfort zone.
The resolution helped, but stepping out of my comfort zone made me more aware of my inadequacies, which led me to feel more critical of myself. When I mentioned these feelings to a friend, he commented, “Isn’t forgiving ourselves great?” His comment helped me desire to better forgive myself of my shortcomings—without becoming complacent like those who are “at ease in Zion.”
One day I was struck by Mormon 2:13–14: “Their sorrowing was not unto repentance, because of the goodness of God; but it was rather the sorrowing of the damned, because the Lord would not always suffer them to take happiness in sin. And they did not come unto Jesus with broken hearts and contrite spirits.” I came to understand that my feelings of failure were stunting my personal growth, and I began to ponder what appropriate sorrow would entail. It was in Sunday School that I found my answer.
Our teacher drew a line on the chalkboard, labeling one end, “Being too hard on ourselves” and the other end, “Eat, drink, and be merry.” We talked about avoiding either extreme. I wondered what words would be in the center of the line, and the Spirit guided my thoughts to the phrase “a broken heart and a contrite spirit.” It seemed to me that the solution to a tendency to be too hard on oneself might be described as a contrite spirit—one that is repentant, accepting of the Lord’s help, and grateful for His mercy. The remedy for being at ease in Zion might be called a broken heart—one that is justly motivated to change and to heal.
The Savior taught, “Ye shall offer for a sacrifice unto me a broken heart and a contrite spirit” (3 Nephi 9:20). I am grateful to know that as I seek the Lord’s help to avoid being at ease in Zion and to avoid harshly judging myself, I am offering an acceptable sacrifice to Him—a sacrifice that helps me move forward with my life.

Being the only member of the Church in my family was not easy. I longed for a way to share all I had learned about the Church with my family but feared they would accuse me of trying to convert them. I struggled with doubts. I knew the Lord wanted me to share the gospel with my family, but for more than a year I was too afraid to suggest that we have family home evening.
Finally, with my heart racing in fear, I asked the Lord for courage and strength to invite my family to have family home evening. To my surprise they said an enthusiastic “Yes!” to the suggestion, and our relationship has never been better.
Through family home evening I have been able to share the gospel and my testimony with everyone from my mother to my three-year-old niece. What a blessing it has been to read the Book of Mormon with them and hear that they believe what they are reading. In addition, the missionaries have been welcomed into our home to assist in our scripture study.
The greatest blessing is that in such a busy time of work, school, and other activities, my family is committed to meeting together every Monday and devoting an hour to learning more about the Lord. Laughing, singing, and kneeling together in family prayer have brought a tremendous sense of peace and love to our home.
Arlene Pryce, Don Valley Ward, Toronto Ontario Stake