Gospel Story Finder

Perhaps a better example: This past spring my wife, Julie, and I had the opportunity to visit Nauvoo and the temple. For those of you who have not yet had that opportunity let me say it is beautiful. As I sat in the Celestial Room I thought of the Prophet Joseph and the Saints. They came to Nauvoo to build Zion. They came to build their homes and a temple to their God. How hard it must have been to leave all they had worked for. But as I thought on these things I began to realize that it was important for them to leave and move to the Rocky Mountains. They went west, and though it was not what they wanted to do and though it seems they had failed, in the Salt Lake Valley they established themselves; they built homes, churches, and temples. They built up the Church and kingdom of God. They gave up their homes and temple in Nauvoo, but in Salt Lake, protected from the world, the kingdom thrived. Its resources grew. Faith, membership, financial and spiritual resources all grew to point where the Church could return to Nauvoo and rebuild the city and the temple. Today the temple and the Church’s presence exist in strength. And one day, I believe there will be temples in Independence, at Adam-ondi-Ahman and there will be a dedicated House of the Lord in Kirkland. Though they were forced to let go of so much in Nauvoo, the Lord opened the door for his kingdom to return and it will never be removed. We too must let go of what we think is best and trust the Lord. He will see that the work is done.

Photograph courtesy of Quinn A.
Ultimate (also known as Ultimate Frisbee™) is a fast-paced sport that combines the running of soccer, the aerial passing of football, and the vertical leaps of basketball. The game is played by millions in the United States alone, with competitions held around the country.
However, don’t expect the number-one nationally ranked high school team to attend any competition held on Sunday.
Three years ago, Lone Peak High School in Utah started an Ultimate team. “Every single person on the team said we were not going to play on Sundays,” explains Quinn A., a recent graduate who’s played on the team since the first year.
Skipping Sunday competitions (and there are a lot of them) hasn’t limited the team’s success. Not only are they ranked number one, but they’re also respected throughout the sport. For example, at a major national Ultimate competition—the Chicago Invite—judges allowed Lone Peak Ultimate to play all their games on Saturday even though the event took place on Saturday and Sunday.
They also have a reputation for being one of the friendliest teams around no matter where they go. “We always come out with friends,” Quinn says. “Every single game.”
Quinn is now helping to coach the team while he prepares to serve a full-time mission.

Several months ago, Sister Osborn and I were traveling a narrow road in central Luzon in the Philippines, where I was serving as a full-time Regional Representative. We passed a farmer on his way to market. He was trotting along, carrying an enormous load of vegetables and produce hanging from both ends of a wooden yoke carried across his shoulders. I stopped the car to take his picture. After I snapped the camera, he lowered his burden in order to visit. I asked my friend if his load wasn’t really too heavy to carry a great distance. He replied, “No, it isn’t, because it’s balanced.”
“Doesn’t that yoke hurt?” I asked.
“At first it did, but I carved and sanded it with a rough stone, and now it fits and is comfortable.”
I noticed, also, that he had a small cloth pad that spanned his neck—I suppose to cushion the shocks of a rough road.
It wasn’t until we drove away that I thought of the Savior’s invitation found in Matthew 11:
“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
“Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.
“For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matt. 11:28–30.)

Christlike love was shown not long ago in a Houston, Texas, branch. When one woman’s husband died, she could not stop crying. No one was able to calm her. Then a friend came to brush her hair, willingly offering her love. As a result of this simple act of caring, the bereaved sister’s uncontrollable sobbing eased, and she was comforted. She became composed and was able to visit with the sisters who came to help clean her house and bring her food. She found peace in her friend’s loving touch—and then, in the calm that followed, she found gratitude for the loving service of the other sisters.

It is related of Spinola and Richardet, the ambassadors sent by the king of Spain to negotiate a treaty at the Hague in Holland in 1608, that one day they saw about eight or ten persons land from a little boat and, sitting down upon the grass, proceed to eat a meal of bread, cheese, and drink.
“Who are those travelers?” asked the ambassadors of a peasant.
“These are our worshipped masters, the deputies from the state,” was his reply.
Spinola at once whispered, “These are not men to be conquered.” (From Happy Homes and the Hearts That Make Them by Samuel Smiles.)

I recall an experience which I had two years ago, bearing witness to my soul of the reality of his death, of his crucifixion, and his resurrection, that I shall never forget. I bear it to you tonight, to you, young boys and girls; not with a spirit to glory over it, but with a grateful heart and with thanksgiving in my soul. I know that he lives, and I know that through him men must find their salvation, and that we cannot ignore this blessed offering that he has given us as the means of our spiritual growth to prepare us to come to him and be justified.

Away on the Fort Peck Reservation where I was doing missionary work with some of our brethren, laboring among the Indians, seeking the Lord for light to decide certain matters pertaining to our work there, and receiving a witness from him that we were doing things according to his will, I found myself one evening in the dreams of the night in that sacred building, the temple. After a season of prayer and rejoicing I was informed that I should have the privilege of entering into one of those rooms, to meet a glorious Personage, and, as I entered the door, I saw, seated on a raised platform, the most glorious Being my eyes have ever beheld or that I ever conceived existed in all the eternal worlds. As I approached to be introduced, he arose and stepped towards me with extended arms, and he smiled as he softly spoke my name. If I shall live to be a million years old, I shall never forget that smile. He took me into his arms and kissed me, pressed me to his bosom, and blessed me, until the marrow of my bones seemed to melt! When he had finished, I fell at his feet, and, as I bathed them with my tears and kisses, I saw the prints of the nails in the feet of the Redeemer of the world. The feeling that I had in the presence of him who hath all things in his hands, to have his love, his affection, and his blessing was such that if I can receive that of which I had but a foretaste, I would give all that I am, all that I ever hope to be, to feel what I then felt!

One experience that proves I am indoctrinated into Scouting happened on August 9, 1976, at 5:00 in the morning. My husband and I were frantically trying to get to the hospital. Our first child was about to be born. Instead of immediately calling the hospital or the doctor, my husband first called my father. You see, dad was packing to leave for a week at Scout camp. We wanted him to know that his first grandchild was on the way.
A few minutes later, dad stopped by in his Scout uniform to wish me luck and tell us to let him know if it was a boy or a girl. Then, as my husband and I walked out to our car, dad walked out to his truck to the waiting Scouts. Seven hours later we had a miniature Scout of our own. We tried to get the news to grandpa. Word was sent with a Scout who joined the others the next day. The message dad received was, “Mr. Hasler, you’re a grandpa, but I can’t remember if it was a girl or a boy.” Three and a half days later, dad finally found out he had a grandson.

It’s Christmas Eve as we join this next family. They are at home in a strange city. It’s new to them. The father has to complete his professional training, and so the whole family had to be uprooted. At Christmastime, it is very difficult for them to be away from their extended families. They have just finished dinner as we enter the house, and so we’ll follow them into the family room.

The father says: “Children, Christmas is a time of great love. Our Heavenly Father loved us, his children, enough to send his Only Begotten Son into the world on that Christmas Day so long ago. He was to be the example of righteous living. He was to teach us how to grow close to our Heavenly Father. We must live worthy of that precious gift. This Christmas Eve I would like to give you a gift that is available to you only because Jesus was born. Because of him I hold the priesthood of God. With that power I would like to give each of you children a father’s blessing tonight. We will start with the oldest.”

One by one the children go to their father. They receive blessings suited to their special needs. Then we see each child, even the three-year-old, stand and tell how he or she has been blessed by the life of Jesus. The parents then testify to their children of the abundant blessings they have received from Jesus Christ.

I believe that those children will always remember this Christmas Eve. I believe that the example set by the parents of faith and prayer will be a directional force in the lives of their children. It is a needful thing to organize and to plan such experiences to be a part of one’s life. They don’t just happen.

Ana chewed her last bite of tortilla. She loved her grandmother’s tortillas. They were the best part of breakfast.
Ana watched her grandmother, Abuela, wash the dishes. It was like any other morning. But one thing was not the same.
Most mornings Ana and Abuela walked to the market to buy food. But today there was no money.
What will we eat tomorrow? Ana wondered.
Then Ana remembered. Last night she saw Abuela put a few pesos in a little bag.
“Abuela, you have money to buy food,” Ana said.
“What money?” Abuela asked.
Ana ran to get the little bag of coins. Clink! Clink!
Abuela smiled. “That is our tithing. That is for Heavenly Father.”
“But what will we eat tomorrow?” Ana asked.
“Do not worry,” Abuela said. “Heavenly Father will help us.”
The next morning Abuela gave Ana the last tortilla. Then she sat down in her chair. She told stories about when she was a little girl. She did not look worried.
Then Ana heard a knock. She ran to open the door.
“Uncle Pedro!”
“I had a feeling I should visit,” Uncle Pedro said. He put three sacks on the table. One had flour for tortillas. Another had meat. Another had vegetables.
“Oh, my sweet son,” Abuela said. “Thank you!”
Ana was so happy. But there was one thing she wanted to know. “Abuela, did you know Uncle Pedro would come? Is that why you weren’t worried?”
“No,” Abuela said. “When I pay tithing, I have faith that Heavenly Father will bless me. And He did!”
Ana hugged Abuela. She felt like the happiest girl in Mexico. She and Abuela had faith in Heavenly Father.

AUNT JANE, an AFRO-AMERICAN CONVERT, typifies the witness of thousands who saw the Prophet in life and death:
"We had come afoot, a thousand miles. We lay in bushes, and in barns and outdoors, and traveled until there was a frost just like a snow, and we had to walk on that frost. I could not tell you, but I wanted to go to Brother Joseph.
"I did not talk much to him, but every time he saw me he would say, "God bless you," and pat me on the shoulder. To Sister Emma, he said, 'go and clothe her up, go down to the store and clothe her up.' Sister Emma did. She got me clothes by the bolt. I had everything.
". . . . I could not begin to tell you what he was, only this way, he was tall, over six feet; he was a fine, big, noble, beautiful man! He had blue eyes and light hair, and very fine white skin.
When he was killed, I liked to a died myself, I felt so bad. I was sick abed, and the teachers told me.
You don't want to die because he did. He died for us, and now we all want to live and do all the good we can."

While I share the next story, please reflect on your present experience at BYU-Idaho. President Russell M. Nelson states, “Your mind is precious! It is sacred. Therefore, the education of one’s mind is also sacred. Indeed, education is a religious responsibility.”

This is a shared responsibility. As rewarding as it is to see students succeed, there is concern when things do not go well. I refer to the next student by the pseudonym of John. I could count on John being to my class every time. He was pleasant, attentive, and got along well with others. But there was a problem: John did not complete any of his assignments. Fearing I would have to ultimately give him a failing grade, I invited him to come to my office for a consultation. I worried about how to handle the situation as I welcomed him in and we began to talk. I reminded him of his missing assignments and suggested he withdraw while the opportunity prevailed to receive a W on his transcript rather than an F at the end of the term.

John was shocked at the prospects. “I don’t want to withdraw,” he said. “This is my favorite class.”

As I looked at John, I sensed his sincerity. Instead of talking about the coursework, the Spirit prompted me to talk of my family and of my own journey as a non-traditional student. I explained I knew education could be hard and inconvenient—I had attended courses at night while juggling family, full-time employment, and Church callings for some 13 years to achieve the diplomas on what I call “my gratitude wall.” I shared with John that to me education is an opportunity. I told him my hardworking, skilled father only had an 8 th grade education. His service in WWII included being the company barber, a skill he enjoyed even after his release but was not licensed to practice and for which he could not charge. Years later he sought entrance into barber school, but my father was denied the opportunity for even technical education because of his lack of a high school degree. In contrast, my diplomas are a symbol of opportunity, and a humble testament of joyful blessings. I told John how as a parent I had worried about my five children, and I shared with John their success. Each had graduated from this campus and went onto earn additional degrees, one like him in communication, two as educators, and two as physicians. Then I asked John a question: “Who is sacrificing to give you the opportunity to be at BYU-Idaho?”

Tears filled John’s eyes to overflowing as he responded, “My mother, and I hope someday she will be as proud of me as you are of your children.”

It was sensing his mother’s love and sacrifice that helped John create his own “sixteen stones.” He started not only showing up in class but skillfully fulfilling his assignments. He worked diligently to make up his past negligence. Through his efforts he began to see the Lord’s hand in his life as he successfully completed the course. Faith became an action word. As we find in the scriptures:

Even so faith, if it hath not works, is dead, being alone. . . . I will shew thee my faith by my works.

A few semesters later, I happened to see John waiting for entrance to the Testing Center. I stopped and asked him how he was doing. He glowed with confidence and joy as he reported, “Great.” Then pointing to the radiant woman sitting by his side, he said, “And she is making sure I stay that way.”

Let’s go back 60 years. The minutes of the Wandamere Ward of the Grant Stake for June 4, 1944, indicate the sacrament was administered by my friends Ward Jackson, Arthur Hicks, and me to a congregation of 141. Then it was off to war. In May of 1945, I was blessing the sacrament again—but in a foxhole on Okinawa for a congregation of only one—myself!

The training of my youth took over without fanfare—something only partially appreciated by me then—including abstaining from coffee in those same circumstances when water was scarce and highly chlorinated.
I do not know what lies ahead of you young men, but my advice would be to fasten your seat belts and hold on firmly to your principles!

This celebration was so special that I traveled more than four thousand miles to return to my Samoan village of Faletele.
The village was already bustling with activity. Crowding in with the few hundred villagers were more than a hundred of my relatives from many parts of Samoa and scores of honored guests from other villages.
I started walking through the malae, heading toward the big, dome-roofed fale. There in that fale, visiting with the most honored guests, sat my beloved cousin Sama. Suddenly I was filled with pride and pain and love as I remembered when I first came to know Sama—Sama the Thumb.
I was a little girl then, just five years old. Sama was ten. His parents had gone to New Zealand for the dedication of the Mormon temple there, and Sama had come to stay with us.
I was sitting on the edge of the malae, watching the young men and boys play Samoan-style cricket, with dozens of players on each side. The spectators were shouting and cheering and singing and dancing to a rhythm beaten out on an old, empty kerosene tin. A bus stopped on the road, and one of my aunts got out, followed by a boy who struggled to carry a heavy basket. When they went to the Tuita‘ua’s fale, I followed them.
Tuita‘ua Ioane was the main matai in our family. Hundreds of relatives honored and obeyed him. Tuita‘ua is one of the great titles in Samoa, and the Tuita‘ua is respected by all Samoans.
“Go get Tofo and Malini,” Tuita‘ua Ioane ordered me.
I ran back to the cricket match to fetch my cousins. They weren’t happy to give up their places in the match, but they obeyed the Tuita‘ua’s orders to fix fried corned beef and baked bananas and lemonade for him, our aunt, and the boy—who we learned was our cousin Sama. They bowed low and showed great respect when they served Tuita‘ua Ioane his food on a leaf-covered tray. But I saw them scowl at Sama when they placed his food in front of him.
In the days that followed, scowls were replaced by smiles and laughs. Sama won us over with his stories and jokes and his sense of humor. Even though most of the cousins were much older than Sama, they soon accepted him not only as a cousin but also as a good friend. I tagged along when they gathered coconuts, chopped the grass with bush knives, played cricket, went inland to plant taro in the family taro patch, and sang songs while strolling through the village after evening prayer services. When Sama was with us, whether we were working or playing, we laughed and had fun.
Then on Saturday the boy cousins went spear fishing in the lagoon. Sama caught an octopus and was treated like a hero.
After the cousins had cooked the evening meal of fish, taro, palusami, and, of course, octopus, two of the cousins grabbed Sama’s arms and held him while another cousin beat out a solemn rhythm on a log. Tofo marched up to Sama carrying a tray of food, including the best parts of the octopus. Tofo’s face was stern.
“We honor Sama, the great octopus hunter,” Tofo said. “As long as you are here in Faletele, you, Sama, will have the honor of serving the Tuita‘ua.” Then Tofo smiled and handed the tray to Sama, and Malini put a necklace of fragrant buds around Sama’s neck and a red hibiscus flower in his hair.
On Sunday morning I couldn’t find Sama. All day I asked the people of the village if they had seen him, but nobody knew where he was.
Finally, in the late afternoon, long after our church services and our after-church meal were over, Sama came walking through the village in his white shirt and white lavalava. Tuita‘ua Ioane called him into the fale. “Where have you been, Sama?” he asked.
“In Fuapa‘epa‘e.”
“You walked eight miles to Fuapa‘epa‘e? And back?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Why?”
“Because that is the closest village where I can attend my church.”
Tuita‘ua Ioane took off his wire-rimmed reading glasses and laid them on the Bible, which he’d been reading. “Sama, the matai has made a decree that there will be only one church in Faletele and that all the people in Faletele will attend that church. Do you understand? You are part of my family, Sama, but you are also a guest in this village and you are under my protection. You know our rule.” He leaned forward and looked Sama in the eyes. “You do what you have to do.”
The following week none of the cousins mentioned Sama’s trip to Fuapa‘epa‘e. They continued to joke and laugh together as they worked in the taro and helped harvest a truckload of bananas that would go to New Zealand. On Saturday we all hiked to our secret waterfall, where we splashed and swam and lay out on the big rocks to be warmed by the sun. On our way home we caught prawns in the stream for dinner.
Trouble started on the second Sunday. I woke up to the sounds of arguing. Malini and Tofo were chasing after Sama, who was dressed in his white shirt and lavalava.
“Sama, you know what the village rule is!” Tofo shouted.
Malini grabbed Sama’s arm. “How can you show such disrespect to your matai?”
Though Sama was shorter than the two older boys, somehow he seemed taller as he stood boldly in front of them. “Tuita‘ua told me to do what I have to do. And this is what I have to do!”
As he started walking again, Malini shouted after him, “Sama, don’t embarrass your family like this!”
At the end of the day when Sama came walking back into Faletele, a woman made fun of Sama, calling him a bad name. All the cousins were angry at Sama and wouldn’t talk to him—all of them, that is, except me. I was glad to see Sama, and it was the first time that I had him all to myself. It was wonderful as we talked and sang and he told me stories.
In the morning the cousins took their long poles and went up the hills to gather breadfruit. Sama and I hurried after them.
We talked and joked as we knocked the breadfruit from the trees. It was almost like before, and all the cousins were starting to have fun together again. Then a group of villagers came by and called Sama “Mamona” and said mean things about Sama and our family.
There was no more joking among the cousins. For the rest of the week the cousins refused to include Sama in anything that they did. Tofo told me not to talk and play with him, but I did anyway whenever I could find him. Mostly he went off by himself into the forest.
“Maybe tomorrow you will remove our family shame and come with us to the village church,” Malini told Sama on Saturday night.
But on Sunday morning Sama was gone again. Next to each of our sleeping mats was a gift that Sama had made—octopus lures for Tofo and Gutu, a flute for Malini, toy fishing canoes for ‘Ene‘ene and Pisa, and a top and a pale for me.
When Sama returned that evening, I put on my pale and ran out to greet him. He was happy and eager to see the others—until he stepped on something in the grass. He looked down and saw one of the canoes he had made, now smashed and broken. He looked around and saw that his other gifts had also been broken and discarded.
“The villagers got them mad,” I explained. “But I kept mine. I like my presents very much. Thank you.”
Sama smiled at me, then went off by himself until it was time for the evening meal. As Sama got a tray of food ready for the Tuita‘ua, Tofo grabbed the tray away and shouted, “You are a disgrace to your family! You no longer get the honor of serving the Tuita‘ua!”
“And find someplace else to sleep,” Malini yelled. “You’re no longer welcome in the boys’ fale.”
‘Ene‘ene pushed Sama down, and Gutu raised his fists to hit Sama. “Because of you, our friends are calling us dirty names!”
I was afraid that the cousins were going to hurt Sama, so I ran to get Tuita‘ua Ioane. But he had heard and had already come to the edge of the fale. “You boys, stop it now!” he commanded. “All of you, come in here!”
At the sound of his voice, the boys immediately stopped. They walked meekly into the fale and sat down across from the old matai.
“Look at my hand!” Tuita‘ua Ioane held out his hand. “See how these fingers are bunched here together? And how the thumb is out here all by itself?”
We all looked at his hand.
“We have a saying here in Samoa: ‘The thumb stands alone, but it is the strongest of all the fingers.’”
Tuita‘ua Ioane pointed at each of the cousins. “You boys are the fingers. But Sama is the thumb!”
Even though I was very young, I learned many things that night. Tuita‘ua Ioane taught us about integrity, about standing up for what you think is right no matter what other people say, about being true to yourself and valiant in your beliefs. His words and Sama’s example changed my life.
As I stood on the malae thinking back to those days, a small girl came up to me and handed me a pale.
“Thank you.” I smiled at her and put it on. Then I walked up the steps of the big fale and removed my shoes. Sama saw me immediately. I made a thumbs-up sign. That had always been my secret sign to him. None of the other matai in the fale seemed to notice, and even if they did, it wouldn’t mean the same thing to them. They were there for just one reason—to honor the new Tuita‘ua. Tuita‘ua Sama.
But to me he would always be Sama the Thumb.

Last August we took some of our grandchildren to Timpanogos Cave National Monument, one of Utah’s most popular destinations. It is a rather strenuous one-and-a-half-mile (2.4 km) hike to reach the cave but well worth the effort to witness the cave’s beautiful, spiraling formations. I was certain that nine-year-old Ruthie would have little difficulty, but I wondered whether six-year-old Caroline would have the strength and stamina to make it all the way.
We were all very excited to begin the hike, and at first we moved rapidly along the paved trail. One-fourth of the way came quickly, but it took longer to reach the halfway point. Caroline started to get discouraged. Ruthie was doing well and encouraged Caroline to continue. We slowed down so Caroline could keep up. Then it seemed that everything went wrong. Strong winds came up, and the dust from the winds made it difficult to see. It was a little scary, and as if that weren’t enough, we came across a signpost that read, “Rattlesnake Habitat. Stay on the Trail. Stay Safe.”
Slowly we trudged along, three-fourths of the way to our goal, but we still had the steepest part of the mountain to climb. Tired, scared, and doubting her abilities, Caroline sat down and tearfully declared, “I give up! I can’t go any farther!”
We sat down, and we talked about what we should do. We made a plan. We decided to count our steps and see how we felt after 100 steps. Ruthie and I assured Caroline that we would help her. We were to look for something that made us happy along the way and share our discoveries. We even sang some Primary songs.
Things changed. Caroline made the choice to follow the plan. One hundred steps made an impossible task seem doable. Caroline knew we would help her, and as we looked for the good things around us and sang songs, we felt happier.
Young women, choose good friends who will support you in your righteous decision to follow the plan. Like Ruthie, who gave encouragement to Caroline, we know that many of you can do much to strengthen each other. After you receive your Young Womanhood Recognition, it is your turn to be the “big sister.” Earning your Honor Bee will give you opportunities to strengthen another young woman with your righteous example and testimony as you mentor her with her Personal Progress.
Finally, live to be worthy of the companionship of the Holy Ghost. When we helped Caroline, looked for the good around us, and even sang Primary songs, we invited the Spirit. We felt love, joy, and peace, which are fruits of the Spirit (see Galatians 5:22). You will need that peace and assurance when Satan tries to confuse you with winds of doubt, when you are tempted to take another path, or when others are unkind or mock you for your beliefs.

A number of firsts occurred in 2008 for young women in the New Delhi India District. At the first ever Young Women camp in the district, young women built wood fires, cooked over open flames, slept in tents, and learned survival and camping skills while filling the air with friendly laughter.
“My favorite part of camp was talking to and getting to know the girls,” said Hanna Smith of the New Delhi First Branch. “I got to make friends with girls I had never met before.”
For many of the young women it was their first experience camping, and they learned the basics of outdoor survival and living. The girls also learned how to interpret maps and how to read and conduct music. Youth camp leaders taught a variety of other skills, including dancing, sewing, water safety, and glass painting. Cumorah Taylor, one of the young women in the district, said she felt more confident in her abilities after the camp ended.

Around the world needles have been slipping through satins, calicos, muslins, and velvets, stitches taken tiny and neat. No ordinary sewing projects, these—they’re works sewn from the strong threads of testimony, thankfulness, love of family, and all the lovely feelings a young woman holds sweet in her life.
What’s the occasion?
The young women of the Church have made banners to celebrate the Church’s 150th anniversary!
“A banner lets you express what’s important to you,” explained Shauna Stebers of the Northwest First Ward, Chicago Illinois Stake. “It’s not just a sewing project—it’s a part of your personality, of what’s important to you and how you feel about the gospel. And it’s a special reminder of the Church’s sesquicentennial that you’ll be able to pass down to your children and to their children.”
If you could float your thoughts or goals high above the crowd for the world to see, what would you show them? Some young women quilted or sewed slogans on their banners like “Plant happiness and love will grow,” or “I love and sustain our prophet,” or “Prayer is so simple it’s like quietly opening a door.” Other young women filled their banners with symbols of their heritage and goals. And all of them spent long hours designing, planning, and sewing the banners (often with the help of mom, dad, brothers, or sisters).
And the stories the banners tell! Marylynne Aposhina of the Hunter Ninth Ward, Hunter Utah West Stake, designed her banner after an oriental rug her great grandfather, Zadik Moses Aposhina, had made. A wealthy rug designer, her grandfather was forced to flee Armenia because of persecution against Christians. He lost his wealth, and some of his family members were sold as slaves in Mexico, but after overwhelming struggles, they finally reached the Salt Lake Valley.
“Making the banner helped me appreciate my heritage even more,” said Marylynne. “My mother and grandmother and I had fun together doing it, too. I don’t get to do things with both of them very often.”
Teuila Matua, a Mia Maid from the West Jordan 24th Ward, West Jordan Utah South Stake, whose first name means “Ginger Flower,” is Samoan, and her banner reflected her heritage. Her banner was symbolic of a taupaou (handmaiden) of Samoa, who must be of royal family, must be pure, and have dignity.
Teuila explained, “My heritage and the work of the Lord go hand in hand. First, I am born of the royal birthright of Christ. Second, I have purity in keeping clean thoughts and maintaining moral standards. Third, I have dignity in studying the scriptures, attending Church meetings, and keeping the commandments of the Lord.”
Mary Lou Beilfuss, a Laurel from the Holladay 17th Ward, Salt Lake Olympus Stake, earned the money for her banner by working at a grocery store. The theme of her banner was eternal life.
“It helped me understand more about the recent death of my father, because I studied more about eternal life. The subject was on my mind a lot, and the banner gave me the opportunity to express it on material.
“My mother and sister helped me make it. We are very close already, but working together helped us share our love. I feel close to them because they’re always willing to help. We also shared tears together because the banner had a very special meaning. It made my sister and I think of our father and my mom of her husband.
“I learned from making this banner that I am a daughter of God and that he is there when I call. It has helped my self-image and helped me grow closer to my Heavenly Father. Also, it comforted me about my father’s death,” said Mary Lou.
Many of the young women earned the money needed for the banner by themselves. Others made their banners from materials they already had. LeeAnn Cox of the West Jordan 36th Ward, West Jordan Utah Stake, raised the money by babysitting, giving rides on her horse, and selling bread.
And the excitement of making the banners was often contagious. Annett Pemberton, a Laurel from the Bluffdale Second Ward, Riverton Utah Stake, spread her enthusiasm for the banner to her friends and family. “I included everyone as I prepared my banner—mother, father, all 11 brothers and sisters, 5 friends, my basketball coach, and my sewing teacher at school. I learned that friends can make a big difference in a person’s life if you give them the chance to help.” Annett’s brothers and sisters each made a quilted patch with their name on it for the bottom of her banner. The patchwork symbolizes love, purity, and loyalty to the gospel, Annett explained, and her theme is “A Quilt for My Lord.”
And there are many, many other stories that the banners tell. LeeAnn Cox’s banner was in honor of her pioneer ancestors whose son was lost while they traveled across Nebraska. The mother pinned a red shawl on the shoulders of her husband who was to search along the trail for the lost son. The bright shawl waving in the evening sun let a mother, sick with worry, know that all was well.
Kjersti Harward’s banner honors her grandparents in Sweden who dearly wanted to come to America after they joined the Church. Even though they saved enough money, they decided they couldn’t leave their parents, who were unable to make the strenuous journey. Her grandparents sacrificed by remaining in Sweden until their parents no longer needed them.
Displaying the banners has been just as exciting as making them, many of the young women have found. For the Pioneer Day Parade in the Salt Lake Valley, 1,500 young women dressed in white marched up Salt Lake streets, heads erect, banners pointed towards the sky. Thirty-six young women dressed in costumes from around the world marched alongside. And a band of 76 young women playing flute, drum, and clarinet accompanied them all by playing hymns.
In Pasadena, California, at the Rose Bowl, 400 young women dressed in white displayed their banners to the audience gathered for a regional dance festival. And throughout the Church, programs are being held in special meetings where the young women have the opportunity of displaying their banners and bearing their testimonies.
“Making the banners can bring you special opportunities and blessings, even if you can’t march in the 24th of July parade like we did,” said Alyson Barlow of the Monument Park 16th Ward, Salt Lake Monument Park Stake. “It lets you say how you feel about the gospel and brings you closer to whoever helps you.”
Lanette Madsen of the Butler 16th Ward, Salt Lake Wasatch Stake, agreed. “It’s helped me grow so much and can be a great missionary tool. We were able to display our banners and explain them to the people who attended the World Conference on Records. Thousands of people were there, many of them non-Mormons, and I think we were able to touch the hearts of the people who saw us. Many of them were from other countries, and even if they didn’t know our language, they could still feel our spirit.”
“It gives you a good opportunity to spread the gospel, because people ask you what your banner is about. It’s an easy way to talk to them about yourself and the gospel and what you believe,” said Becca Briggs of the Oak Hills 5th Ward, Provo Utah Oak Hills Stake.
For many of these nimble-fingered seamstresses, their banners have pulled a shower of blessings down from the sky. It’s given them the chance to learn more about their heritage, to get closer to their families, and to pass their testimonies down to future generations. And to top it off, they’ll have a lasting reminder of the Church’s 150th birthday.
As Jeannie Winters of the Taylorsville Utah North Stake, 14th Ward, put it, “I think all the young women should make banners, because if they don’t, they’re passing up a great experience they’ll remember all their life.”

Later, I attended Duke University in North Carolina, where I participated in a graduate seminar studying a collection of Jewish and Christian writings dating from the time of Jesus, known as the Pseudepigrapha. During the course of the seminar, I had mentioned the Book of Mormon from time to time, but my comments were not taken seriously by others around the table. Toward the end of the semester, the distinguished professor, who has an impressive reputation in his area of research, asked the seminar to tackle one particularly puzzling writing, the little-known “Narrative of Zosimus.” It tells of a righteous family that God had led away from Jerusalem prior to its destruction by the Babylonians around 600 B.C. and how this group escaped to a land of blessedness where they kept records on metal plates soft enough that they could inscribe them with their fingernails. In the story, Zosimus was allowed to visit these people in vision. In order to get to their land, Zosimus had to journey through wildernesses, pass through impenetrable mists of darkness, cross the ocean, and come from a tree that bore pure fruit and gave forth water sweet as honey. (See the same elements in 1 Ne. 8:10–12 and 1 Ne. 11:25.)
After discussing some of the technical aspects of this Near Eastern document, the professor put it to the class, “Well, what do we make of the Narrative of Zosimus? Is it Jewish or Christian?” The seminar had little to say, and the members of the class were about to conclude that the writing could not be classified, since the Narrative was so unlike anything else they had ever seen. By then I could wait no longer. I told the seminar the history of Lehi and his family and more about the Book of Mormon. When I had spoken, the group had even less to say. Then the teacher said, “Class, let me tell you a few more things about this Book of Mormon.” He then described the Book of Mormon’s use of chiasmus, of Melchizedek in Alma 13, and other things that the two of us had discussed privately, and then he asked, “Well, class what do we make of the Book of Mormon?” Although some of the members of the seminar ultimately concluded that the most convenient solution to their problem might be found in identifying Joseph Smith as a reincarnated Jewish scribe, it was significant to me that the student who had been most sarcastic toward the Book of Mormon earlier was now the one who asked if he could learn more.

I was born in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. As the eldest of eight children, I left school when I was twelve years old to help support my family. After I grew up and married, my wife, Ruda, encouraged me to go back to school, and I earned my high school diploma and a bachelor’s degree in accounting.
But even when I was the financial management comptroller for Petrobras, the biggest oil company in Brazil, and I had the respect of my colleagues, I was not satisfied. I did not feel happy; I felt confused. I thought that the solution would be religion. I had a wonderful wife and two children, Marcus and Marisa. (Later, another son and daughter, Raphael and Aline, were born.) We were not involved in a church at that time, and I told my wife that it would be best for us and for our children to find one. Many of my friends at work were members of different religions, so my family and I went to five or six different churches.
One day we found on our door a card with a picture of Jesus Christ on one side and the name The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on the other. I had never heard of this Church, and I asked my assistant at work, “What is this church?”
He said, “Boss, don’t go there.”
But Heavenly Father had heard my family’s prayers. A few days later, in April 1972, the missionaries knocked at our door. That changed our lives. We received all the discussions in one night. I asked and asked and asked questions. The missionaries answered my questions about the Church and about God and Jesus Christ and about the standing of black people in the Church. Elder Thomas McIntire and Elder Steve Richards were two very special missionaries, and they were prepared for that moment. All my questions were answered. The Holy Ghost testified all the time that these things were true.
When they left my house, I was completely changed. With respect and reverence, my family attended the meetings and activities, but we postponed baptism because of fear of negative reactions from our extended families.
Then we attended a district conference in Rio de Janeiro. The inspired messages from the pulpit prepared our hearts for an unforgettable moment. The counselor in the mission presidency bore his testimony about Jesus Christ, after which the congregation sang “I Need Thee Every Hour.” In that moment, the Holy Ghost reconfirmed the truthfulness of the things we already knew: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the Lord’s kingdom on earth, the road back to the celestial mansion of our Eternal Father.
My wife and I and Marcus—Marisa wasn’t old enough yet—were baptized July 2, 1972, the most important date in our lives. All the members of our branch attended our baptisms.
I had respect for all the doctrine and for the priesthood. Because I couldn’t hold the priesthood at that time, people often asked me, “What about the priesthood?” I told them that I had complete acceptance of it.
During the cornerstone laying of the São Paulo Temple, President Spencer W. Kimball motioned for me to come to him. I looked around to see whom he was looking at. He repeated the gesture. I did not understand. Elder James E. Faust looked at me and mouthed the words, “Come here. He wants to talk to you.” I went. President Kimball shook my hand and took hold of my arm and said, “Brother, what is necessary for you is faithfulness. Remain faithful, and you will enjoy all the blessings of the Church.”
A little more than a year later, in June 1978, we received a telephone call from a friend in Salt Lake City, Utah, telling us that President Kimball had announced the revelation* that all worthy males could hold the priesthood. I shall not forget that day. My wife cried. I cried. We kneeled to thank our Heavenly Father. After that, the phone rang many, many times. Friends from the United States and Brazil called us.
The hand of the Lord is resting upon Brazil. It is a special country. We have many challenges, but we have a very special people who are friendly and accepting of the missionaries’ message.

Lugging a bucket of warm, foamy milk, I stepped from the barn and slammed the heavy door behind me. A chill wind blasted across the barnyard and tore at the buttons on my coat, almost snatching my cap away. Ducking my head into my collar, I pushed toward the house, possessed with an anxious longing to escape the late autumn’s icy breath. I glanced at the gray, forbidding sky and hoped it wouldn’t snow, at least not until Ma and Pa and the girls returned from Uncle Tommy’s.
I was almost to the house before I saw him. He was shuffling tiredly down the dirt lane that came from the highway to our farm. Squinting against the onslaught of the wind, I watched him approach, all the while loathing him for coming.
I didn’t know him, and yet he was familiar, not as a person but as a representative of the motley mob of defeated wanderers who had stopped at our door in the past. I recognized the slumped shoulders; the hollow cheeks; the sunken, searching eyes; the rumpled, ill-fitting clothing; the dusty shoes; and the apologetic reluctance—all of which characterized this singular breed. They were cast-off by-products of these lean Depression years of the 1930s. Their only crime had been misfortune and circumstances. Nevertheless, my own selfishness caused me to despise them.
“Hi, son,” he greeted me, a cautious humor in his voice. “This wouldn’t be the Lorenzo Platt place, would it?”
I glanced toward the empty house. No one would know, I told myself. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to lie, even to him. “Yeah, it is,” I mumbled.
“I wasn’t sure,” he said with a smile that revealed a chipped front tooth. “The barn wasn’t finished before, and the house wasn’t painted.”
“We did that last summer,” I replied tartly, trying to discourage conversation.
“Sure looks nice.” Uneasily he looked around, obviously stalling. I knew what he wanted. They were all the same. Pa had never needed more excuse than that they were hungry, discouraged, displaced, or cold. He had always brought them into the house, given them a chair by the stove, a place at the table, and a home for the night.
I had especially disliked these gaunt, faceless guests who intruded and disrupted our home. If Pa had been content to offer them a bowl of beans and a place on the front step to eat, I could have ignored their intrusion, but that wasn’t Pa’s way. When night fell, Pa didn’t send them off to the barn loft; he offered them a bed in the house, usually mine. I would sleep on the couch, always resenting the one who supplanted me.
“Why do we have to do it?” I had accused Pa one afternoon while we were stacking hay. “Why can’t they find their own place and their own food? We’ve got to work for ours. Let them work for theirs.”
Pa had picked up a fork full of hay and carried it to the corner of the stack and said gently, “Every night and morning when I pray, I thank the Lord we have work, that we can provide. We’re not rich, son. No one is these days, but we have sufficient. I wouldn’t trade places with any of those men. It isn’t their fault that the winds blew the land away and tore them from their farms. It isn’t their fault that these are hard times. No, son, I don’t condemn them. My heart aches for them, and as long as I have a single chicken, a meager cup of beans, or a crust of bread, those men won’t leave here hungry.
“But Pa,” I protested warmly, “you do all that for the folks in the ward, too. Whenever they need something, they always come to you. It just isn’t fair, even if you are the bishop. But I wouldn’t mind that, because they’re our folks, our neighbors, and our friends. But not those others.”
Pa didn’t listen. He continued to reach out to them, and they continued to come. Although they were complete strangers, they all seemed to know that here was home for the night.
As I stood in the cold wind eyeing this new stranger, this intruder, I was determined to send him away as I had wanted to do with the others.
The man stuffed his hands into his pockets, glanced at me, and then kicked at the dust with the toe of his battered boot. “Is your pa here, son?”
I shook my head. “He’s over at my Uncle Tommy’s helping out. My ma and sisters are with him. Uncle Tommy and Aunt Lacerne are both sick. Been that way for a week or so. Won’t be back till tomorrow afternoon. I’m here alone.”
I watched the spark of hope in his eyes flicker and then die. He glanced about the place. Like all the others, he was too proud to ask. I wasn’t about to extend an invitation, not today when the decision was completely mine.
“You can come back tomorrow,” I suggested with calloused indifference. “He’ll be back then.”
“I see,” the man mumbled, knowing what coming back tomorrow implied. He looked back down the long dusty lane to the highway then peered over my shoulder toward the house. There was a longing not easily concealed in his famished eyes. He turned toward the barn and then back at me. But there was no encouragement in my unflinching stare. This man represented the whole mob that had imposed upon me, crowded me at the kitchen table, and forced me from my bed. Sending him down the road was a vindictive retaliation against all of them.
“Well, I guess I’ll be on my way,” he said more to himself than to me.
As he turned to go, I said, “I’ll tell Pa you stopped.”
The man nodded his head and waved weakly. “You’ve got a nice place here,” he commented, motioning to the barn and house with his hand. “I’ve got a boy about your age watching after my place, too. What’s left of it. It’s not as big and nice as yours, but he’s got plenty to do. I sure hope he’s getting along. Well, tell your pa I stopped by. He won’t remember me, but he helped me once before.”
I didn’t watch him pass through the front gate and start down the lane. Not even I could do that. With as much indifference as I could muster, I stepped up on the porch, put the white pad in the strainer, and poured the milk in, listening to it drip into the clean bucket below.
Suddenly I thought of Pa. Just before he had climbed into the truck and driven over to Uncle Tommy’s, he had given me his last-minute instructions. Now his words flashed into my mind, and I couldn’t drive them out: “Son, I’ll trust you to watch after things. I wish I didn’t have to leave you alone this long, but we’ve got to help Uncle Tommy out. If we don’t get the rest of that corn in, his cattle aren’t going to have much this winter. I don’t know how good it is now. I know the frost got a lot of it. If you need anything, run over to Brother Ramsey’s place. I told him you’d be here alone.”
“Pa, I can do it,” I protested, hurt that he had deemed it necessary to speak with Brother Ramsey. I was 17 and felt capable of taking care of things for the three days.
“I know, Son. You can handle things as well as I can.”
His unconditional confidence mocked me now. A gnawing shame bore into my soul.
The last drops of milk pattered into the bucket. Without thinking I glanced up and gazed down the lane toward the departing figure, hunched and plodding against the wind. I don’t know why, but I thought of his son. It was strange that I had never considered that these wanderers could possibly have families, folks who cared, who wondered whether they were safe, had enough to eat or a place to lay their heads. Suddenly, so unexpectedly, he became a real person.
A horrifying vision leaped to my mind’s stage, a vision I could not close my eyes to. The man was transformed. He was no longer a stranger, a mere wanderer, tacitly begging for a place to stop for the night. He became Pa! And I was the selfish youth who had refused him even a corner in the barn. It was a shattering revelation, one that staggered me with its vividness, one that made me loathe the merciless boy who had sent him away.
Leaving the milk on the porch, I started down the lane on a run, impelled by an awful dread that this man would escape me in the cold, dreary dusk. The terrible realization of my heartless act haunted me.
“Hey, mister,” I gasped when I was still several yards away. The man stopped and turned around. “I didn’t ask you if you wanted to spend the night. You can you know.”
“Well, I didn’t mean to …” the man stammered.
“I’m not much of a cook,” I pressed, “but I can give you something and a place to stay.” He looked down the road as though debating. “It’s getting colder. There’ll be frost for sure tonight,” I pointed out.
To my relief he came back with me. Neither of us spoke as we returned to the house. I invited him in and stirred up the coals in the stove and insisted he pull up a chair to warm himself. I could tell he was cold through and through. He rubbed his hands together and reached out to the warmth, beckoning it to penetrate his chilled body.
“Ma left some lima beans,” I apologized, wishing Ma were there to fix something nice. “But there’s bread, and we’ve got lots of milk. I can’t fix anything like Ma, but it will fill you up.”
The man nodded, “Anything, son. Beans sound good.”
We ate supper in silence. I gave him three bowls of beans, a half loaf of Ma’s bread, and a quart of milk. He wouldn’t have eaten it all, but I insisted. I could see he was hungry, and I knew he wouldn’t ask for more.
“I didn’t mean to make a pig of myself,” he apologized.
“We don’t eat steaks and stuff, but what we’ve got we have plenty of, and you’re welcome to it.”
By the time the work was done, darkness had settled and there was nothing to do but go to bed. “Son,” he began, “if you’ve got a blanket I can go out to the barn and bed down. I’ll get up early in the morning and be on my way and won’t have to even bother you. You’ve been real good to me, son.”
“You can’t sleep out there. Pa never lets folks sleep out there, not when we’ve got plenty of room in the house. I’ll fix you up.”
“Then I can lay down by the stove,” he replied.
“No, Mister, we’ve got beds. Come in here.” I led him into my room. “I think there’s enough quilts. If you need more, we’ve got plenty.”
“Isn’t this your room, son?”
“Not tonight,” I explained simply.
The man seemed embarrassed and unsure of himself. “I appreciate all this, son. I stopped by here once before on my way to California looking for work. Your pa took me in, just like you’ve done.” He took a deep breath and shook his head. “You know, there’s a lot of mean folks in this old world, folks that don’t care about anyone but themselves. Folks like that could turn a man sour on everybody. I know. When I was looking for work, sometimes I was bullied and cheated and sent on my way. I’d get real mad. All I was doing was trying to make enough to send back to my family and keep them going. But these other folks didn’t care. As soon as the fruit was picked or the cotton in, then they sent us on our way. It wasn’t my fault I was in hard times. I got to hating.”
He paused and looked down at his dry, calloused hands. “Then I remembered your pa. He didn’t make me eat on the front steps and sleep in the hay in a ditch like most folks. I was somebody to him.” He smiled wanly and brushed his eyes with the back of his hand. “I had to come back. You see, I’m on my way back to Arkansas to get my family. Going to take them out to California. But I had to stop here.”
I nodded my head and looked at the floor. For a moment there was a heavy silence. “Well,” I mumbled, “if you need anything, Mister, just call.”
“Son,” the stranger said just as I turned to go, “you got a good pa. You’re Mormon folks, aren’t you?” I nodded. Out of his coat pocket he pulled a worn copy of the Book of Mormon. “Your pa gave me this. I haven’t read it yet because I don’t read too good, but I’ve kept it with me. I’ve heard a lot of bad things about you Mormons, but I haven’t believed any of it.” He rubbed his rough, chapped hands over the book’s cover. “They said you weren’t Christians and such.” He wagged his head. “But I don’t believe them. How could I? I’ve met just one Christian man in my life. It was your pa. I’m going to get my boy to read me this book and maybe then I’ll find out why your pa’s so different.”
The next morning I was up early to milk. The stranger was up and dressed and ready to head down the road, but I said he couldn’t go until he’d had breakfast. I milked, and he went with me and helped me feed the stock and strain the milk. All the time he talked about his boy and his family. All the while I could picture Pa talking about Ma and the girls and me like that man talked about his folks. I shuddered to think I had almost sent him away.
After breakfast I put a loaf of bread in a brown paper sack and wrapped a chunk of cheese in wax paper and handed them to him. “I wish I could give you more,” I said.
“You’re just like your pa, son. Your pa can be proud of you,” he said hoarsely. With that he turned and started toward the front gate.
As I watched him start down the lane, it seemed his head was a little higher, his shoulders were not so stooped, and his step had more spring in it. I didn’t take my eyes off him until he reached the highway and walked over a little rise out of sight.
It was late afternoon when Ma and Pa and the girls came home. I was out in the barn cleaning the stable. Pa came out as soon as he took the things from the truck into the house.
“How’d things go, Son?”
“Good.” I leaned the fork against the wall. “A man came.”
“Who?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t ask. He was just passing through. Like the others.”
“You put him up, didn’t you?” There was an edge of panic in his voice as though he was worried that someone in need had come and he had not been there to help.
“Yeah,” I replied. “I did what I could.”
Pa sighed, then took a deep breath, obviously relieved.
“I didn’t finish cleaning out the pig pen, though. I ran out of time.”
There was no rebuke in Pa’s look or tone of voice. “There will be time for that. If you looked after the man, that’s all that matters for now.”
Suddenly I felt hot tears burning in my eyes. I didn’t even care that Pa saw me. I didn’t care that I was 17 and supposed to be grown up. I felt something inside me warm and reassuring, something that almost burst my soul. Pa put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me down on a bale of straw beside him. He didn’t say anything for a long time. We just sat there together, knowing what the other was feeling. I knew Pa’s eyes were filled with tears too, but I wasn’t ashamed. In a strange kind of way, I was proud we could shed tears together.
Finally he squeezed my shoulder tight and whispered, “Son, you’re a man now. You’ve proved it today.”
I swallowed hard, remembering the stranger, glad he had come. I offered a silent prayer that before nightfall he would find another man like Pa.

Conditions in China during the 1940s were very difficult. One family with a three-month-old child left mainland China and returned to their home in Taiwan. Twenty years later, in 1963, that small child, now a young woman, arrived in Hong Kong for her studies. She responded to the invitation of the missionaries during their tracting and became a member of the Church in 1964.
A year later I returned from my university studies in Sydney, Australia, and became acquainted with that beautiful young woman, Hui Hua, in the Kowloon City Branch in Hong Kong. We were married one year later at the Kam Tong Hall in Hong Kong. The chance of our meeting instills in our minds the idea of a miracle in our lives.