Gospel Story Finder

In the early days of our marriage, our children came at close intervals. As parents of little children will know, in those years it is quite a novelty for them to get an uninterrupted night of sleep.
If you have a new baby, and another youngster cutting teeth, or one with a fever, you can be up and down a hundred times a night. (That, of course, is an exaggeration. It’s probably only twenty or thirty times.)
We finally divided our children into “his” and “hers” for night tending. She would get up for the new baby, and I would tend the one cutting teeth.
One day we came to realize that each would hear only the one to which we were assigned, and would sleep very soundly through the cries of the other.
We have commented on this over the years, convinced that you can train yourself to hear what you want to hear, to see and feel what you desire, but it takes some conditioning.

Jason’s 13-year-old brother, Alex, has autism. That means he has a difficult time dealing with changes and interacting with others. “He’s smart, but he thinks slowly,” Jason explains. “He’s gentle and softhearted. He usually gives smiles and hugs.” But he can also get upset, so Jason has learned how to calm him down, and when to get help from an adult. He has also helped Alex learn to say “sorry” or “excuse me,” because sometimes he will eat too fast and burp, or bump into people without meaning to.

William hopped into the car next to Jeremy and buckled his seat belt.
Is everybody ready for preschool?
Yes!
Yes!
Jeremy’s mom started driving down the road, and William opened his lunch box. He pulled out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and took a big bite.
Jeremy looked at William’s sandwich. It looked yummy. Jeremy was hungry.
Mom, I’m hungry. Do you have something for me to eat?
Sorry, Jeremy. We ate before we left. I don’t have anything else.
OK.
Jeremy was sad. He wanted a sandwich too.
William saw that Jeremy was sad. He pulled off a piece of his sandwich and handed it to Jeremy.
Here you go!
Thanks, William. You’re nice.
No problem. That’s what friends are for!

Prophets have charge for the whole earth, not just for members of the Church. I can report from my own experience how personally and devotedly the First Presidency takes that charge. As needs grow, the First Presidency has charged us to increase our humanitarian outreach in a significant way. They are interested in the largest trends and the smallest details.
Recently, we brought to them one of the protective medical gowns that Beehive Clothing sewed for hospitals to use during the pandemic. As a medical doctor, President Russell M. Nelson was highly interested. He didn’t want to just see it. He wanted to try it on—check the cuffs and the length and the way it tied in the back. He told us later, with emotion in his voice, “When you meet with people on your assignments, thank them for their fasting, their offerings, and their ministering in the name of the Lord.”

George Peeples is my best friend. For 17 years, we’ve lived across the street and one house over from each other. We were born in the same month of the same year in the same hospital. When our moms went to Relief Society, George and I shared the same playpen. When George started kindergarten, I was his first seat partner. We got the chicken pox at the same time, and we both had a crush on Linda Helmers in the sixth grade.
We’re a pair, a team, bookends. And we plan to keep it that way. If everything works out, we’ll go on our missions at the same time, come back at the same time, find twin sisters to marry, and go into business together. We’re like brothers, maybe even closer. There’s not a person on the face of the earth that I know better than George.
That’s why I was more than a little surprised when George pulled me aside on Sunday after our priests quorum lesson was finished. What he said to me was totally unexpected. Brother Roberts had given a good lesson about living up to our potential and making the most of our lives by developing our talents and abilities. I could tell that it had made an impression on George.
“Casey,” he said, motioning for me to come closer. “We’ve got to talk.” He had a faraway look in his eyes. “I think I’m inspired,” he said.
“To do what?”
“The lesson today. Doing something for yourself and something for others at the same time. I’m getting this feeling, Case. A big feeling. I want to make a difference. I know it’s crazy, but …”
“But what?”
“Case, I’m going to run for student-body president.”
My mouth must have dropped open about six inches. George is a great guy, but a student-body president? That was hard to imagine.
“You don’t have to say it,” George beamed. “You’re surprised. Right?”
“I am surprised, George.”
“Here’s another surprise for you. I want you to be my campaign manager.”
I didn’t know what to say. Here was my best friend asking me to sign on as first mate of the Titanic. George was well liked, but not what I’d call popular. Maybe if he were all-universe in a glory sport, like basketball or football. George was a wrestler, and not a very good one at that. The only office he’d held in school was Science Club treasurer. This was not a man who brought Thomas Jefferson to mind. George didn’t have a chance.
My ten-year-old brother Matt came scooting down the hallway. “Dad says you need to get to the car right now,” he blurted out. I don’t know when I was happier to be pestered by my brother. “Gotta fly, George. I’ll call you later.” With that, I quickly headed toward the car. Very quickly.
“Can you believe it? George wanting to run for student-body president?”
I giggled. I was at home with my family at the dinner table, chewing pot roast and talking over the events at church. “Student-body president. Isn’t that a scream?”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s so funny,” my dad mused. “He has a lot of ability. George is a friend to everyone. He brings out the best in others, a rare trait these days.”
Mom picked up the theme in a hurry. “You shouldn’t talk about George that way, Casey. You should encourage him to run, not poke fun at him behind his back.”
My pot roast suddenly tasted a little dry. “Uh, I am supporting him. He asked me to be his campaign manager,” I mumbled.
“Good for George. Just like him to place so much faith in you, son,” Dad approved. “You know what I like about George? He’s a good people person.”
“That’s Peeples,” Matt chimed in. “He’s a Peeples person.”
“Hey, how about that? Vote for George. The Peeples Choice,” my mother said triumphantly. “Is that a terrific campaign slogan or what?”
“The Peeples Choice. Cute, Mom.” I smiled weakly. As soon as the dishes were cleared, I was on the phone with George.
“You don’t even have to say it. You’re accepting the campaign manager’s position,” he chattered. “I knew I could count on you. See what you can find out tomorrow at Mr. Carello’s office. For a principal, he knows a lot about what’s going on. Then we’ll plot strategy after school over here.”
“Right, George. Strategy. It’s going to take a lot of that to pull this off.”
About four the next afternoon, I knocked on George’s door. His little brother, Ralphie, answered. Ralphie is seven years old and the unquestioned budding neighborhood genius. He was reading at three, wrote his first simple computer program at five, and his first complex program a year later. He’s got a round little face, like George’s, a bowl haircut, and oval tortoise shell glasses. “Hi Ralphie! Discovered any new subatomic particles this week?”
“Well, no Casey, but I do have a new ant farm. It’s fascinating. Do you want to see it?”
“Some other time, Ralphie. Big doings here today,” I said, walking to the family room where George was studying a city map.
“Casey! What did you find out?”
“Good news and bad news. First the good. Mr. Carello said he knew of only two people running for student-body president.”
“Only two? Me and who else?”
“That’s the bad news, George. The other candidate is Eric Torrington.”
George looked as though he’d swallowed a snail. “Uhhh,” he groaned. “The Eric Torrington? All-state quarterback? Honor roll student? The one who never has a hair out of place?”
Before I could answer, I heard a voice from the couch across the room. “Eric Torrington. Ohhhh. He’s so gorgeous.”
It was George’s ninth-grade sister, Libby. The mere mention of Eric Torrington caused her heart to skip a beat.
“Yes,” I sighed. “That Eric Torrington.”
“It felt so right yesterday, but maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” George worried.
“We can’t let the competition scare us off,” I reassured. “Look, if you were Eric, would you take George Peeples’s campaign seriously?”
“No. I really wouldn’t.”
“Neither will Eric. That gives us the element of surprise. And I know we can outwork him.” I was startled by how confident I was sounding. I suppose that people boarding the Titanic had smiles on their faces. “I’ve already got a great campaign slogan. ‘The Peeples Choice.’ There are a lot more people at school who never will be a star athlete. They’ll identify with you, not Eric.”
George was looking less discouraged. “The Peeples Choice. That’s good.”
“The credit for it really belongs to my mom.”
“And the surprise stuff. I do have a few ideas up my sleeve. Like tracting. You know, like the missionaries do,” George explained. “I got a list of addresses from the computer today. Every student at Westmont High is right here. I’ve already started to plot their homes on this map. We can try to visit as many as we can at their own house before election day. The personal touch. What do you think?”
“It’s worth trying.”
“Then we’re in this thing to the end?”
“Together all the way.”
“And not even Linda Helmers will come between us?”
“No way. And she moved to Montana four years ago anyway.”
George laughed. “Eric Torrington is about to be thrown for a loss.”
We stood at the corner of 19th and Oak Street, looking at a long list of addresses attached to a clipboard. “Mark Crane,” George said firmly. “Second house on the right.” We marched to the door and George knocked vigorously. A young man opened the door.
“Mark Crane?”
“Yes, I’m Mark.”
“Mark, I’m George Peeples, and I’ll be a senior next year at Westmont High. I’m running for student-body president and—”
Mark’s face brightened. “So you’re the guy. I heard someone was running against Eric Torrington, but I couldn’t remember who. What did you say your name is?”
“George. George Peeples.”
“That Eric is awesome,” Mark said admiringly. “Do you remember the game against Central a year ago? We were down by six points with two minutes left.”
“Hey, do I remember that game!” George enthused. “Of course. Eric was running to his left with a linebacker and a nose tackle hanging on his back. Then he sets up and throws the ball about 60 yards against the grain …”
“And our guy is wide open, makes the catch, and dances into the end zone. We kick the extra point and the game is history,” Mark rhapsodized. “Awesome.”
“Yeah, awesome,” George gushed. “That pass was a tight spiral, no wobble at all.”
“Sixty yards easy,” gloated Mark. Mark blinked at George. “So what did you say brought you here?”
“Oh. Right. Well, I’m running for student-body president against Eric, and gosh, if you don’t vote for him, then how about voting for me?”
Mark gave George an odd glance. “Yeah. Sure. So how will we do in football next year?” They talked about football for a couple more minutes, then parted amiably. George and I turned back toward the street.
“You don’t need to say it, Casey. I’ve got to be more assertive. Mark pretty much had me talked into voting for Eric.” He looked at me. “Tell me it will get better.”
“One door, one new friend. That’s not bad. It will get better,” I told him.
Looking back, it did get better. We never knew what to expect when we knocked on those doors. We talked with tall kids, short kids, skinny kids, not-so-skinny kids, people with blond hair, people with brown hair, and in a couple of cases, people with orange hair. Some simply told us they would vote for Eric. Some showed no interest in voting at all. And a few, I think, really took seriously what George had to say. Tracy McNeil was one of those people.
We’d been working a neighborhood for a couple of hours, greeted mostly by blank looks. We were worn down. George’s shoulders slumped. We approached a large, two-story house with green shutters. I rapped on the door, and a girl our age answered.
“Hello, I’m George Peeples and I’m running for student-body president.”
She smiled. “Oh yes. Some of my friends told me you’d been to their houses.” She was just a few inches over five feet tall and as thin as a drinking straw. She had long, light brown hair. “I’m Tracy McNeil,” she said.
“This is my friend and campaign manager, Casey Baxter,” George introduced me.
“Why are you doing this, George?” Tracy asked.
“You mean going to houses and asking people to vote for me?” She nodded. “On a day like today, I wonder myself. A lot of people don’t care, it seems.
“And you do?” Her question was polite, but with a point.
“Yes, I do. I want to make a difference,” George said earnestly. “I have some good ideas, like the scholarship committee. The way I see it, with a little work and relying on some expertise in the community, we could double the number of scholarships received by Westmont students. I want to see if my ideas will work. If I don’t run, I’ll never know what effect I could have had. Right, Casey?”
“Right, George.”
“Haven’t you ever wanted to do something but were afraid to try?”
Tracy blushed. “Cheerleader,” she said softly. “I’ve always wanted to dance around with pompoms and yell silly rhymes in front of large audiences. It’s dumb, I know.”
“It’s not dumb. Why haven’t you tried out?” George asked.
“You have to be pretty and popular. I’m neither,” Tracy answered.
“I think you’re pretty,” George blurted out. “And if a little guy like me can run for student-body president against an all-state quarterback, then you can try out for cheerleader.”
A light clicked on in my head. “I remember your picture in the yearbook. You’re on the gymnastics team. You could do those cheerleader routines in your sleep.”
“Well …” Tracy wavered.
“You try out,” George demanded.
“Maybe,” hedged Tracy.
“Will you at least vote for me?” George wondered. “I have other good ideas, too.
“Eric doesn’t have any ideas. You have my vote. You earned it,” laughed Tracy.
When we left the doorstep, George’s mood was definitely on the upswing. “Tracy McNeil. A great human being. Intelligent. Attractive. And supremely insightful,” he rambled. “Case, by some chance do you think she has a twin sister?”
Still, George and I worried. You couldn’t walk down a hallway at school without seeing Eric’s football-shaped campaign tags. “Be a Winner. Join the Torrington Team,” they urged. We needed help. Even with the assistance of George’s parents and the dubious efforts of Libby, we couldn’t keep up.
I was at home one evening, halfheartedly trying to write a paper for English class when Brother Roberts called. He’s an architect, only a couple of years out of school. Our priests would do almost anything for him.
“How’s the campaign going, Casey? When I ask George, he only assures me that all is well. My instincts tell me otherwise.”
“It could be better,” I admitted. “Eric Torrington has a lot of support. Except for the wrestlers, he’s got every athlete’s vote in the school. Then there’s the hunk factor. Eric is one; George isn’t. George may not even carry his own family. Yesterday at school I saw Libby with a Torrington tag. Can you believe it? Like half the other freshman girls, she’s probably convinced herself that Eric is a secret admirer and is getting ready to ask her to the prom or something.”
“Not a good sign when you can’t count on your own sister’s vote,” Brother Roberts sympathized. “When are you and George going to meet again?”
“Tomorrow, about seven at his house.”
“Let me see what I can do to help.”
I was a few minutes late getting to George’s house the next night. Ralphie answered the door.
“Hey, Ralphie, been reading up on superconductivity lately?”
“Why yes, I have—an unbelievable force. George is in there. I was just going over his trigonometry with him.”
George sat in the family room, staring toward a shelf where Ralphie’s ant farm was located. “Oh hi,” he said wearily when I came into the room. He turned again to look at the ant farm. “You don’t suppose we’re any different from those ants?”
“Say what?”
“The ants and us. They wander around their little world, just like we do. They work hard, just like we do. And they won’t be elected student-body president, just like us.”
“George, you’ve been campaigning too hard. This is fairly obvious, but you are not an ant.”
The doorbell rang. We heard a commotion at the front door. Then Brother Roberts strode in carrying a dozen pieces of cardboard. Behind him streamed in our priests and the entire Laurel class.
“George, Casey,” Brother Roberts explained hastily. “This is your instant campaign committee. I’ve got a pretty good hand in art and everyone here has been cutting paper and pasting since their kindergarten days. These materials are scraps from work. We’re here to help you.”
George started to sputter something. One of the priests, Brett Young, held up his hand. “George, you’ve proved your friendship to us many times. Just think of it as returning the favor. Now stand back and let us get started.”
George sat down, looking slightly lost. In three minutes, a little factory was set up with a dozen kids bouncing around like popcorn in a popper. George watched, almost in a daze.
“Still feeling like an ant?” I shouted across the room.
“Not at all. I’m feeling like, well, the Peeples Choice!”
Three hours later, the Peeples campaign was in possession of four beautiful banners, a dozen posters, and 200 campaign tags.
The priests and Laurels also left behind one important intangible—a big dose of enthusiasm. “The confidence is back,” I told George. “Let’s go knock on some doors.”
“We’ll help,” Brett volunteered. “You won’t make it to every student’s house by next week. We can split into twos and cover the ground you won’t get to.”
Looking back, that night was the turning point. At school the next day, you couldn’t look anywhere without seeing “The Peeples Choice” hanging from a wall or ceiling, or proclaimed on a tag on someone’s clothing. We were gaining momentum. “It looks like you and Casey are giving Eric a run for his money,” Mr. Carello told us in a hallway. I saw Eric a few times that week. Underneath his cool, poised exterior, I detected a trace of anxiousness. As an athlete, he knew what could happen when the opposition mounted a fourth-quarter charge.
Suddenly, it seemed, the day before elections arrived. We had our last meeting. “We’ll finish the door-to-door work this afternoon,” reported Brett. “We’ll be close to visiting 90 percent of all Westmont students by the time you sit down for supper.”
“Great work,” George acknowledged happily.
“What about your campaign speech?” I asked George. Before the elections, an assembly was held and all the candidates addressed the student body. “Do you need help with it?”
“I don’t think so. I talked it over with Dad, and he said the best speeches are those that come from the heart. I’ll work on it tonight.”
“You’d better,” Brett advised, “because the assembly is the first thing tomorrow.”
“Nobody knows that better than I do,” George replied.
I lost track of George that afternoon. It was just as well. The campaign had taken a toll on my homework. So when my last class was over, I did the heroic thing and trudged to the library. I studied until about 6:00 P.M. and then made my way down the quiet hallways.
I passed by the gymnasium. A door was open. Inside, a girl was practicing a cheerleading routine, ending with some very polished handsprings. I watched until Tracy McNeil finished only a few feet away from me. She looked up, startled to see someone watching her. “Caught in the act,” she said, her face flushed from the workout. “Tryouts are in two weeks. I need a little work.” She frowned, feigning anger. “You know this is all George’s fault. He gave me that little boost. And whether I make the cheerleading squad or not, I’m glad that I’m trying. Better to know than always wonder,” she said, letting out a breath of air that ruffled her bangs.
“George does seem to bring out the best in people,” I said. “Need a campaign manager? I’ve put together quite a machine for George.”
“A campaign manager for cheerleader?” She laughed. “No, I don’t think so. But if I change my mind, you’ll get a call.” Tracy was done practicing. Since it was getting dark, and since I knew George would approve because he’s also a gentleman, I walked Tracy to her house. “Good luck tomorrow,” she wished before disappearing behind her front door.
I arrived home 20 minutes later, convinced that I never was that crazy about Linda Helmers in the sixth grade anyway.
Excitement rippled up and down the hallways at school the following morning. Everyone was talking about the elections. You couldn’t turn anywhere without seeing a horde of students wearing Touchdown Torrington or Peeples Choice tags.
In the school auditorium, the first row was reserved for all the candidates. I took a seat right behind George. He looked sharper than I’ve ever seen him. He wore a new, gray, pin-striped suit with a red necktie.
“This is it,” I said, settling in behind him. “Got your speech?”
“No.”
“What?”
“I’m going on instincts. I’ll know what to say when I get up there.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Trust me. Whatever I say will be right from the heart. I hope.”
The assembly started. Mr. Carello announced the candidates for president and said that Eric would lead off. Eric strode confidently to the podium, amid some encouraging shouts from around the room. He had on a white linen sport jacket, beige slacks, and a light blue shirt. He looked, well, like Eric. Cool. Sophisticated. Very in.
“I’m a natural leader,” he began. “I’ve proved it on the field, and now I’m ready to prove it off the field. When it’s fourth and inches and the game is on the line, you want someone who can take charge. I’ve been there. And hey, I took charge.”
He went on, playing the football theme to the hilt. Some of his pals in the audience let out an occasional whoop or whistle. “So you want to be a winner? Vote Torrington. Join the Torrington team. And together, we’ll be invincible,” he concluded. Right on cue, a bunch of his friends immediately jumped up and started clapping.
“Some campaign manager you’ve got,” I groaned to George. “I didn’t even think ahead to plant some people in the audience to give you a standing ovation.”
“No problem,” George said serenely, standing. He walked to the podium slowly. He stood there for several seconds, saying nothing. My stomach did some Tracy McNeil-like backflips. There were some nervous coughs. Finally, George began to speak.
“Over the last few weeks, I’ve visited many of you in your homes. Based on those visits, I’ve concluded one thing: You are winners now, and you don’t need to prove it by voting for one candidate or another …”
Cheering simultaneously broke out all over the auditorium. George smiled and waited for the noise to die down. “I know what it’s like to come to school and wonder if you’re important. To me, all of you are. We can make this school a place where we look forward to coming each day, to learn, and to see friends. I’m running for student-body president because, together—” George paused and nodded slightly “—we can make a difference.”
George elaborated on his plans—to expand the student store, to form the scholarship committee, and his idea for an intramural sports league where desire, not ability, was the only qualification for participation. You could have heard a cricket chirp as he spoke—it was that quiet. It was clear to anyone who was half-awake that George’s ideas and plans far surpassed Eric’s efforts. Then George finished. “Just do this. Think about the two candidates. Then vote for the one you think will truly best serve you.”
Applause erupted. I noticed someone standing behind me and to the left. It was Mark Crane, the very first person George and I talked with. Brett was on his feet, quickly joined by other friends from church. It was contagious. Tracy stood, and most shocking of all, Libby and some of her pals began clapping and shouting. From the back of the long, large room thundered the most thrilling sound of all. A chant, growing stronger. “Peeples … Peeples … PEEPLES! … PEEPLES!!!” Shivers shot up my spine as George walked back to the front row.
“Can you believe it?” I shouted to George, who grinned and turned to face the student body, his hands held high over his head.
For the first time, I believed that George might actually win.
George would have been a great student-body president, maybe the best ever at our school. If only he had the chance. Close doesn’t count in elections; neither does who is most deserving. Mr. Carello’s face told it all as he came out of his office to announce the results after school. He looked slightly disappointed, a fact not lost on George.
“He doesn’t even have to say it,” George whispered glumly. “Eric won.”
Mr. Carello cleared his throat. “For student-body president, Eric Torrington, 353 votes, George Peeples, 344. Congratulations, Eric. A burst of backpounding broke out in Eric’s corner of the room. George walked over, smiling to hide his hurting.
“Thanks, George,” Eric said, shaking George’s hand. “You gave me a big scare. Another day or two, you would have won. You’re a class act, Peeples.”
Mr. Carello pulled George aside. “You gave it a good try. I do plan to follow up on some of your ideas. We’ll need a student leader on the scholarship committee. I hope that you’ll consider the position.”
“Thanks, Mr. Carello.”
Friends consoled George. We left after ten minutes or so, starting the long walk home. Rain began to fall.
“You did great, George. Nobody gave you a chance, but you almost pulled it off. And look at the good things that came out of it. You made some friends. Tracy will be a cheerleader, no doubt. You gave people confidence. And that was the best priest and Laurel activity we’ve had in a while.”
“I suppose you’re right, Casey, but it’s hard not to be disappointed,” he said.
Normally I can fight off noble urges pretty well, but I was getting desperate to cheer up my friend. “I think Tracy would like you to ask her out.”
It didn’t even phase him. “That’s nice,” George mumbled.
We were quite a pair, walking in the rain, our heads down. After what seemed like an hour, we reached our street. “Look George, you should be proud. You weren’t elected, but you’re still a winner.”
He nodded a little. “Thanks for your help. You were a great campaign manager. Right now, though, I need to go somewhere quiet and think through some things. I’ll be fine, but it may be a few days before I smile again.”
He turned to his house, a forlorn figure on a gray evening. I went to my room, stretched across my bed, and spent a few reflective seconds thinking of the day’s events.
My peace was short-lived. It was shattered by an explosion coming from the Peeples’s house. I bounded off the bed and dashed down the stairs to the street. I saw Libby bolting from the house, looking disgusted. “You’ve done it this time, Ralphie! For a kid so smart, how could you do something so dumb! Dad’s going to ground you until your mission!”
Ralphie tore out of the house right behind his sister. I grabbed Libby’s arm. “What in the world is going on?”
“It’s Ralphie, the boy genius,” she hissed. “Mom’s picking up Dad at the airport. Ralphie’s been told a million times not to use his chemistry set when they’re gone. But he got into it and there was a horrible bang. I mean cups and plates fell out of the cupboards, and books off their shelves. And his ant farm. It fell and cracked, and now there’s about 50,000 ants running everywhere. Ralphie’s never going to get out of this one!”
I rushed by the panic-stricken Ralphie into the house. I turned to the kitchen. The sight was unforgettable—George, wet hair plastered on his forehead, in his soggy suit, down on the floor with the sugar bowl in his hands, sprinkling white granules and urging, “Here ants! Come and get the sugar! Ummm, good!” He looked up at me and hurriedly explained, “Got to capture these ants before my parents get home. Ralphie’s entire future is at stake. Just don’t stand there, help me!”
I started to chuckle, and then George, realizing how it must have all looked, began giggling. He sat back in a mess of sugar, a couple of ants clambering up his red tie. We laughed until we both had headaches.
“George, I don’t even need to say it.”
“Go ahead anyway, Casey.”
“You are someone who makes a difference. And always will.”
With that, I grabbed some sugar in my hand and started calling ants in the very best way that I could.

It is reported that on one occasion when Sir Isaac Newton was thinking seriously concerning the nature of light, he cut a hole in a window blind and a ray of light entered his room. He held a triangular piece of glass in the range of the light, and there were reflected in great beauty all the colors of the rainbow. And for the first time man learned that all of the glorious colors of the universe are locked up in a ray of white light.

My journey into family history began with a sense of curiosity and amazement. I first encountered FamilySearch during a class in the Tema Ghana Stake Gathering Place led by the inspiring Sister Betsy Thornton. In that class, I took a leap of faith and began to explore my family tree. The moment I added my family name, Mentee, into the FamilySearch.org/Africa platform and searched for it in my home country, Liberia, I was amazed by what I discovered. It felt like a door to the past had opened, giving me a glimpse into the incredible journey of my ancestors.
The following week, Sister Thornton approached me and asked if I would be willing to share a little about my family history with the class. I was deeply honored and excited to have been chosen for this task. It gave me a sense of pride and responsibility to represent my family’s story.
When the time came, I shared some of my history and what I had learned: I was born in Monrovia, Liberia, in 1996, during the civil war. My father was a soldier, steadfast and determined, navigating a world torn by the Monrovian conflict. He was deeply cherished as the only son of his mother. Tragically, both of my parents passed away two weeks after my birth; they were victims of the brutal conflict that engulfed our country. With their loss, I was taken back to my mother’s roots in Guinea, where I spent my childhood alternating between Guinea and Ivory Coast. I grew up hearing stories about our family’s origins and the incredible legacy left by our ancestors. I learned that our great-grandparents began their journey in Sudan over 200 years ago.
One of the most remarkable stories is about my great-grandfather, who was Liberia’s first doctor. His mission was to bring healing and hope to those in need. He was later transferred to the deep forests of what is now the Nimba region, where he was granted vast lands to establish his medical mission.
This land became the foundation for a legacy of service and family. My great-grandfather had 24 wives and many children, and from generation to generation, his family grew. My grandfather, Samuel J. Mentee, was among them, and he continued the family legacy. By the time of his passing, he left behind an incredible record of 170 grandchildren, of which I am one.
Beyond my family story, I want to share my testimony of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. A pivotal moment in my spiritual journey came when I received the Book of Mormon in French from a friend while working as a hotel security supervisor. Reading its pages filled me with hope and a sense of belonging I had never known. Its introduction, which humbly acknowledges human imperfections, inspired a profound exploration of its truths. Life’s trials have tested my faith and resilience. Loneliness, loss, and the struggle to find a place to call home have been persistent challenges. Yet these very hardships have refined me, teaching me to lean on the Lord and trust His timing. Quiet moments of reflection have brought clarity and strength, allowing me to feel the guiding influence of the Holy Ghost. Each trial reminds me that God’s hand is always at work, shaping me for a greater purpose.
Following those promptings, I eventually found my way to Tema, Ghana. It was here that I began committed lessons with the missionaries. I owe a heartfelt thank you to them, especially Elder Young, whose dedication and spirit inspired me to grow closer to the Savior.
On a beautiful Sunday morning, December 22, 2024, I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. From the moment I joined, I have felt the love and care among the members. The Church has brought light and joy into my life, and I am forever grateful for the blessings it has provided.
I want to express my deepest gratitude to my best friend, Sister Betsy Thornton, who has been a pillar of support and encouragement in my journey. Her kindness, wisdom, and love have left a lasting impact on my heart.
Each step of this journey has deepened my appreciation for family history and the Church. Family history has shown me the power of connection, the importance of understanding where we come from, and the joy of sharing these stories with others.
Wherever you are, if you are reading this, consider this as your personal invitation. Embrace FamilySearch and begin preserving your legacy for generations to come. How will your descendants learn about you 100 years from now?
I, Alias, am calling. And the Lord is also calling for the betterment of our shared tomorrow. Do not let history fade away with us—let it be recorded in FamilySearch. Wherever you are from, but especially to my beloved brothers and sisters from Africa, hear this call.
I am grateful for the opportunity to tell this story and to inspire others to embark on their own family history journeys. The past is not just history: it is the foundation upon which we build our present and future.

Some years ago, I was with President Marion G. Romney, meeting with mission presidents and their wives in Geneva, Switzerland. He told them that 50 years before, as a missionary boy in Australia, late one afternoon he had gone to a library to study. When he walked out, it was night. He looked up into the starry sky, and it happened. The Spirit touched him, and a certain witness was born in his soul.
He told those mission presidents that he did not know any more surely then as a member of the First Presidency that God the Father lives; that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, the Only Begotten of the Father; and that the fulness of the gospel had been restored than he did as a missionary boy 50 years before in Australia. He said that his testimony had changed in that it was much easier to get an answer from the Lord. The Lord’s presence was nearer, and he knew the Lord much better than he had 50 years before.

We admire those who risk their lives to rescue those in danger. When I visited Southern California during the devastating Santa Ana wind fires late last year, I came away with two impressions. The first was how the Church members came to the assistance of those in need. The second was how appreciative they were to the firefighters. One homeowner described what he saw the firefighters do. He pointed out that the Santa Ana winds blow from the warm desert toward the ocean. Once a fire starts, these hot desert winds carry the flames at a speed of up to 60 or 70 miles (97–113 km) per hour. The homeowner described his gratitude and admiration as he watched the firefighters standing with their hoses behind a cleared area, facing a wall of fire up to 10 feet (3 m) high descending upon them at this enormous speed. These brave men and women were able to rescue both people and homes while in constant personal danger.

Kent Madrian is carefully maneuvering his six-foot-six-inch body and an old Kirby vacuum cleaner over grandma’s best rug. Grandma is keeping a watchful eye on her furniture.
Bump. Kent runs into the easy chair and starts to go around it.
“You’ve got to move the chair,” Grandma says. “To get underneath.”
“I know, Grandma.”
After a few more turns around the floor Kent hits the switch and the machine’s rumble dies. “What do you want for dinner, Grandma?” Kent asks.
In case you haven’t noticed, there is something unusual about this scene—grandparents usually take care of grandchildren, not the other way around. But in this house, things have changed for a while. For four months Kent has been living with his grandparents, helping them out when they couldn’t take care of themselves.
Then in January Kent’s grandma hurt her arm and wasn’t able to do normal tasks around her house. Grandpa had been confined to a wheelchair and was also unable to help.
Though preparing to leave on a mission to Italy in April, Kent moved in. “My grandparents had always been there for me, so I saw it as an opportunity to pay a small part back,” he says.
Kent moved in with the idea he would be cleaning, cooking, shopping—and he did all those things. But ask him about peeling potatoes or making breakfast and he’ll change the subject. He’d rather tell you what Grandma and Grandpa taught him.
“Grandma got me ready for my mission in a lot of ways,” he says. “She taught me how to iron and cook, but more importantly she helped me spiritually. I had a lot of time to read in the scriptures and I talked to her about what I was reading.
“Grandma taught me a lot of the gospel is learning to think about the other guy,” says Kent. “And that’s how you find yourself, by serving others.”
So, he says he came away a better person by just being around Ruby and Delos. Then again, he was a pretty decent guy to start. Let Grandma Ruby give you an example. “At first, Kent slept in a sleeping bag at the foot of Grandpa’s bed. Kent wanted to be there if Delos needed to get up in the night. After a few nights I made Kent sleep in another room because his back was hurting.”
Or Ruby will tell you how Delos enjoyed watching baseball games on television. Delos and Ruby couldn’t afford cable service so Kent dipped into his college savings to pay for a sports channel so Delos could watch Cincinnati Reds’ games.
But as close as the three got in those months, Kent faced the same challenges most young people do in relating to older people. When asked if he had to listen to the same story more than once, Kent flashed a gee-whiz grin and nodded. “I’d hear the same story like six times over. I’d just be nice and listen.”
That, however, was a small price to pay. Kent now believes he knows his grandparents.
“I have always loved them,” says Kent, “but I guess I never really understood them. I think I do now. They are just like all of us. They have the same needs. The only difference is they have a lifetime of experiences to tell you about. If you get to know them, they can be some of the best friends you have.”
Kent has now left on his mission, but the memories he has of those last months with his grandparents cannot be erased. “It was hard leaving when you know you’re needed,” he says. “But I’m needed in Italy too. They understand that.”

Let me tell you of an experience I had with one of our Area Presidents. We were in a land where, to our knowledge, there was not a member of the Church among the millions of that nation.
There was a man who knew of the Church and desired baptism. He had been a longtime student of the Bible. He belonged to a Christian church but was not satisfied. The thought came into his mind that he should belong to a church that carried the name of the Savior. In an old encyclopedia in a public library, he found listed The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints with headquarters in Salt Lake City. He wrote a letter of inquiry and received a response with literature. Other literature followed as he requested it.
When we met him he had read the Book of Mormon again and again. He had read the Doctrine and Covenants and other Church writings. With enthusiasm he had told his friends of his treasured find. He asked to be baptized.
We questioned him. He knew of the priesthood, its orders and its offices. He knew of the various ordinances and the procedures of our meetings.
Did he believe the Book of Mormon to be the word of God? Oh, yes, he knew it to be true. He had read it. He had prayed about it and pondered. He had no doubt of its truth.
Did he believe Joseph Smith to be a prophet of God? Most assuredly. Again, he had studied and prayed. He was convinced of the reality of that glorious vision when God the Eternal Father and His Beloved Son, the resurrected Lord, appeared to the boy Joseph to usher in a new and final dispensation of gospel truth.
The priesthood had been restored with all its gifts and powers. He knew that. Our friend asked for baptism and hoped for the priesthood that he might teach and act with proper authority.
“But,” we said, “if we baptize you and then leave, you will be left alone. While there are many Christians in your nation, and freedom of religion is guaranteed under its laws, there are severe restrictions concerning foreigners. There will be no one to teach you and help you. There will be no one on whom you can lean.”
He responded, “God will teach me and help me, and He will be my friend and support.”
I looked into the eyes of that good man and saw the light of faith. We baptized him under the authority of the holy priesthood. We confirmed him a member of the Church and bestowed upon him the Holy Ghost. We baptized his wife. We conferred upon him the Aaronic Priesthood and ordained him to the office of priest so that under proper direction they might have the sacrament.
We held a sacrament and testimony meeting with them. We embraced them and said good-bye to one another, and tears were in our eyes. They left to return to their home, and we left for responsibilities in other nations.
I shall never forget him. He is poor in the things of the world. But he is educated—a teacher by profession. I know little of his circumstances. But this I know—when we talked with him, the fire of faith burned in his heart, and our own faith was quickened also.
As we traveled from that scene and there was time to meditate, I wished that faith of his kind was found more widely, both among us and among others. His example has provided a text for me. It is found in the fifth verse of the seventeenth chapter of Luke. Jesus had been teaching his disciples by precept and parable. “And the apostles said unto the Lord, Increase our faith” (italics added).

Nina Bazarskaya lives in Voronezh (about 400 kilometers south of Moscow). She works as a professor of English there. At a young age, she learned about God, but she never went to church and didn’t read the Bible until age 40.
Her husband, Oleg, a physicist, “was a thorough atheist,” she recalls, “and at the beginning was amused by my faith and prayers. …
“The year 1985 brought great changes into my spiritual life. I was able to go to church openly, fearing neither the KGB nor any unpleasantness at work. … Then came September 1991 and my first-ever international linguistics conference in Zvenigorod, near Moscow.”
During a conference session, Nina felt compelled to answer an American professor’s question about the current religious climate in Russia. Her sincere expression of gratitude for her ability to speak openly of religion touched many people in the room, including Dr. Robert W. Blair from Brigham Young University, who had posed the question. They soon became acquainted, and Nina invited him to Voronezh.
In the spring of 1992 Brother Blair visited Nina and Oleg and attended Orthodox Easter services with them. “I had been eagerly awaiting this event,” Nina writes. But “the service did not move me at all. … I returned home discouraged, convinced that my personal sins had not allowed me to experience any feelings of redemption.”
Then, in the summer of 1992, students from Brigham Young University arrived to teach English. Nina attended one of their Sunday meetings and was struck by the love and warmth she found there.
“I wanted to become like them, and I wanted my son, Aleksandr, to be with them. These were … people unlike any others I knew.”
At first she thought it would be possible to remain a member of the Orthodox Church while living the principles exemplified by her new LDS friends. But it soon became clear that she could not. She was torn between remaining with her traditional faith and joining the people she wanted to be like.
“This choice would not allow me a moment’s peace. All the while it seemed to me that by choosing the Mormons I would betray the faith of my fathers and that God would not forgive me for this apostasy. I prayed and asked God for an answer, and it came.
“One day … while I was sitting on the bank of a river gazing into the water and persistently thinking about the choice I had to make, I perceived a distinct voice that said I would not betray anyone, that I would simply progress further and believe more deeply.
“It’s difficult to describe the feelings I experienced upon hearing this voice: surprise, relief, happiness. … I was baptized on 15 December 1992, on the eve of the students’ flight back to America.
“My life changed. I became more tranquil, tolerant, and patient. Problems in our family life gradually diminished. For the first time in my life I understood the meaning of the words ‘quiet happiness,’ that is to say, harmony with oneself and peace of mind. During that year I became convinced that faith can grow, and much that I had doubted a year ago now seemed true and right.
“I don’t know what first influenced my husband, whether it was the example of my son and me or his interaction with the students, the mission president, or the missionaries, but in September 1993 he began to attend church regularly. … On January 15, 1994, he was baptized.”
Sister Bazarskaya has served in many callings since her baptism, including Relief Society president. Her husband became president of the Voronezh Branch. Their son, Aleksandr, served in the Latvia Riga Mission.

The glacier glows from deep within, pulling scarce light from a gray day and turning it an eerie blue. Mostly, the glacier is dirty white. But from parts of the vertical face comes faint, cold blue fire. “Ice blue” is a real color.
At the glacier’s foot a shallow lake of ice melt is dotted with an occasional miniature iceberg. A stream of glacial water tumbles into the lake with a distant, dull rumble. It’s the only sound you hear until—
Splash! “Whoop!” Someone has just jumped into the lake. Or fallen. Or been pulled. Youth of the Juneau Alaska District are holding their annual games on the sandy shore. Relays rage back and forth across a shallow inlet. Put on hip boots, wade-run through thigh-high ice water, take off the boots and hand them to a teammate for the return trip. Splash! Someone else has tried to run too fast. Again, a sharp intake of breath and “whoop!”
Soon, a stout rope is drawn across the same inlet and the teams take sides, muscles straining, heels dug into the sand. Rhythmic chants of “pull … pull … pull” echo across the lake. Inch by inch the losing team is drawn toward the incredibly cold water.
Incredibly, too, some of the youth who didn’t get wet in the relay or tug-of-war give berserk yells and wade into the bone-chilling water for the sheer daring of it. Afterward, when everyone has dried off and is back at the chapel warming up, the kids explain. It’s not insanity, just enthusiasm.
Juneau is Alaska’s capital, beautiful and interesting but a challenging place to live. There are no highways to other major cities. To get to the rest of Alaska—and the rest of the world—you either fly or you load the family car on a ferry boat. Both are expensive, so you try to find most of your fun close to home—like the Mendenhall Glacier just a few minutes from town.
Close to home there’s plenty of cold and snow in winter, lots of clouds and rain the rest of the time—more than 100 inches of precipitation a year. So, the young women just plan their camps by the calendar, not by the weather forecasts. If you let the probability of rain stop you, next thing you know, you could start worrying about the possibility of bears. Instead, you take along rain gear and a few armed priesthood brethren. And you go enjoy camp.
School football and soccer games are rarely canceled for rain. Baseball is often played under conditions that would be a “rain-out” in the lower 48 states. In a climate like this, trees grow tall, roofs grow moss, and these LDS kids have grown an attitude that seems to say, “No matter where you live—live. Jump into life with both feet.”
No, the rope’s not for the weatherman. We’re still on the subject of jumping. Carly Perkins and Shannon Orme are members of the Juneau Jumpers, one of the largest rope jumping teams in the world. “It’s about the only thing we can do that’s indoors and doesn’t cost much,” explains Carly. “And since it’s always raining, it’s something to pass the time.”
But what a way to pass the time! According to Shannon, 10 minutes of rope jumping equals about 20 minutes of jogging. “If we didn’t keep the Word of Wisdom, we really wouldn’t we able to do this,” she adds. Qualifying for the “double unders”—two passes of the rope on each jump—requires doing 200 in a row without a mistake. Then there are the “quadruple unders” … !
Add complicated routines with multiple ropes and jumpers, and you can see that competition rope jumping is as different from the schoolyard variety of rope jumping as the Monte Carlo Grand Prix is from driving school. So who teaches all of this? Sure, there are adult coaches, but it’s the team members themselves who train new candidates for the team and literally teach each other the ropes. You work with another team member to qualify for new routines. “Even freestyle, we have to do it with someone else so they learn it too,” Shannon says. “You learn to get along with pretty much everybody,” adds Carly. There’s no “king-of-the-hill” mentality on this team. You only progress and go on the road trips by being willing to help others reach your own level of accomplishment.
That’s a lot like the attitude you find among the LDS youth of Juneau, Alaska. For example, at the lake and at the chapel afterward was a fellow student who was being friendshipped by some of the LDS kids. Having seen them in action, she announced that she was ready to talk to the missionaries. You know that when she does talk to the missionaries, she’s going to have a big team backing her up and teaching her the ropes. Around here, they don’t just jump into life with both feet. They like to take a friend along.
Sometimes the world can seem like a pretty cold place. But LDS kids in Juneau have learned that if you jump in with both feet—and help someone else do the same—life can be great no matter where you live.

Our youngest grandson illustrates the first principle. After learning to crawl and then stand, he was ready to try walking. During his first few attempts, he fell, cried, and gave a look that said, “I will never—ever—try that again! I’m simply going to keep crawling.”

When he stumbled and fell, his loving parents did not feel that he was hopeless or that he would never walk. Instead they held out their arms while calling to him, and with his eyes on them, he tried again to move toward their loving embrace.

Loving parents are always ready with outstretched arms to welcome even our smallest step in the right direction. They know that our willingness to try and try again will lead to progress and success.
The Savior taught that to inherit the kingdom of God, we must become as a little child. So, spiritually speaking, the first principle is that we need to do what we did as children.
With childlike humility and willingness to focus on our Father in Heaven and our Savior, we take steps toward Them, never giving up hope, even if we fall. Our loving Heavenly Father rejoices in each and every faithful step, and if we fall, He rejoices in each effort to get back up and try again.

Victoria, British Columbia—
Sometimes before you share the gospel, you have to share your dreams.
That’s how it started for Gillian Hitchmough, a Laurel in the Victoria Third Ward, Victoria British Columbia Stake, and Reta Stevenson, her friend from school. Because they had classes together, they had plenty of time to talk about what was on their minds.
“At first, we didn’t really talk about religion, we just talked about what was going on in our lives,” says Gillian. “But then there was a boy at our school who was another religion, and I remember him really harping on me about being a Mormon. It was hard for me, and I told Reta how bad it made me feel.”
Reta says she could tell from those conversations how strongly Gillian felt about her religion. Pretty soon she was asking questions, and Gillian extended the invitation for Reta to come to youth conference. Reta readily accepted.
“At youth conference I learned a lot of stuff that I could really use in my life. I felt the Spirit so strongly at the testimony meeting. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before. I knew there was something really real there.”
Enter another LDS friend, Matt Hall—whose mom happens to be the seminary teacher—and Gillian got just the backup support she was looking for.
“My family and I had Reta over for family home evening one night and showed her a [Church] video. The missionaries were here, but so was Gillian, so it was just kind of business as usual. One of the missionaries bore his testimony. It was really great,” says Matt.
Pretty soon Reta was attending seminary, week-night activities, and church on Sunday. Reta knew the Church was true, but she was having a hard time overcoming a few things, especially the idea of being the only member in her family. She knew that if she joined the Church her family couldn’t come in the temple with her when she got married. And since she was so young in the gospel herself, it was sometimes hard for her to explain her new beliefs to her mom.
“My decision to be baptized came when the questions I had were answered. This big feeling of relief came over me, and I knew I was doing the right thing. It was a big step, but it was a good big step,” says Reta.
And so, on a beautiful summer day, Matt baptized Reta. She says she’s never been happier.
Matt and Gillian were happy too. They now know firsthand the joy that comes from extending the gospel message to their friends and seeing them accept. And both of them are eager to receive mission calls when they’re old enough.
“My life has really changed since I joined the Church. It’s made me a better person, and it’s filled some empty spots in my life. It gives me hope for the future,” says Reta.

Photograph by Christina Smith
My friend had depression and anxiety and felt really bad. She would often get excluded from my friend group and sit by herself. I didn’t know whether to go along with what my friends were doing or to be with this friend who wasn’t feeling well and who had sat by herself.
That’s when I decided that I had to sit with her. My other friends were giving me weird looks because they were mad at her, but I went and sat with her, and we cried together as she told me about her problems. After that, she started feeling much better, and I was able to show her both the love that I had for her and the love that God has for her.
Being a disciple of Jesus Christ is about sharing the love that He has for us with others. It’s about love, service, and developing the same qualities that He had when He was here on the earth. That day, when I felt compassion for my classmate, I felt like a true disciple of Jesus Christ.

I remember the day my father died, my mind was somewhat in anxiety and turmoil. I returned home, sat in my favorite chair, and picked up the scriptures. I read a little, then closed my eyes. In my mind’s eye I saw my father as a young man, and he was dressed in white. Although he had never become a member of the Church, I knew I would see him in the resurrection and, furthermore, I had seen him as he would appear. My mind was at peace again. When we rely on the Lord, we can have fulfillment of his promise, “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: … Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid” (John 14:27). He is “The Prince of Peace” (Isa. 9:6).

When President Nelson invited the women of the Church in October 2018 general conference to read the Book of Mormon before the end of the year, Matthew, Andrew, and Isaac, along with their father and younger brothers, decided to offer Mom their support. “We’ll read it with you!” they said. Every morning before seminary, they woke up to read together.
Matthew was going through a hard time when the family started reading every morning. He says, “I wasn’t doing well in school. I struggled with my personal scripture study and my relationship with Heavenly Father, and I kept it all to myself. I didn’t talk about it with my parents.”
However, as Matthew spent more time reading the Book of Mormon, the gospel began to take first priority in his life. He also put more effort into school. He worked hard and got his grades up.
“I also realized how much Heavenly Father and my parents love me and how much they help me. And I have a greater testimony of Jesus Christ. He has helped me overcome bad habits and helped me get my life headed in the right direction. I’m so glad we took President Nelson’s challenge as a family. It changed my life.”

I remember one day I took some of those little round paper circles that form when you punch holes in paper, and I wrote on them the numbers 1 to 100. I turned each over and wrote her a message, one word on each circle. Then I scooped them up and put them in an envelope. I thought she would get a good laugh.
When she passed away, I found in her private things how much she appreciated the simple messages that we shared with each other. I noted that she had carefully pasted every one of those circles on a piece of paper. She not only kept my notes to her, but she protected them with plastic coverings as if they were a valuable treasure. There is only one that she didn’t put with the others. It is still behind the glass in our kitchen clock. It reads, “Jeanene, it is time to tell you I love you.” It remains there and reminds me of that exceptional daughter of Father in Heaven.

Before working on my Virtue value project for Personal Progress, I had read the Book of Mormon many times, but I didn’t feel like I had a testimony of it. I would read the Book of Mormon, ask God if it was true, and feel OK about it, so I figured that was a good enough answer and would move on, never really taking more time on it. I thought since I had a testimony of everything else, that was good enough.
When I began to read the Book of Mormon for my Virtue value project, I really studied and tried to gain a testimony of it for myself. It came through finding that the Book of Mormon held messages for me! It held things that Heavenly Father needed me to know at that point in my life.
The Book of Mormon is for us. It helps us to be better and to have the Spirit more in our lives. I’m so grateful for this testimony I’ve gained. Now I can gladly say that I know the Book of Mormon is true!
Ashley H., Utah, USA