Gospel Story Finder

During the 2002 Winter Olympic Games in Salt Lake City, the lifetime of preparation our students had done paid off in immense proportions. In this small, three-week window of opportunity, BYU students interacted with journalists from around the world, sipping kiwi lemonade with them at family home evenings, sitting in advanced language classes, and training with them in our athletic facilities. Many of these journalists spoke little or no English and relied on the translation abilities of our students. Over and over again we watched the amazed faces of these international journalists as they interviewed students in their native tongues.

U.S. media outlets were also impressed by our students. On Presidents’ Day 2002, a holiday for BYU, I got a call at home from David Lamb of the Los Angeles Times. He was at T.G.I. Fridays in Provo and asked if I would mind answering a few questions about BYU. It was his first day away from the hubbub of official Olympic activity, and his editor had given him permission to do two stories on cities outside of Salt Lake. He had chosen Wendover and Provo. He made it clear that his story was not about BYU and that he only wanted a paragraph about the university.

I tried to get him to go to our media hosting center, but he refused. As his questioning continued, I finally convinced him to make a trip to campus. There he could obtain a handy media kit that would answer all of his questions—thus, I pointed out, saving him time.

On duty that day were BYU students Chaliese Wouden and Julie Harris, both returned missionaries who between them spoke five languages. David spent two hours on campus: he took a campus tour, watched BYU’s hosting video, and talked with students everywhere he went, particularly with Chaliese and Julie. In parting he told one of my co-workers, “This has to be one of the most cosmopolitan universities in the nation.”

The story that resulted from that visit ran with three color pictures all featuring BYU students and lauded Provo for its friendliness—“which isn’t by accident, darn it.” In paragraph after paragraph David described BYU with its clean-cut enrollment that comes from all 50 states and 110 countries. He talked about how many students have lived abroad and how many are fluent in a second language. He applauded the large number of students serving as volunteers for the Olympic Games. He wrote of the Honor Code and quoted Julie as saying, “It’s empowering, not restricting.”

Although our office prepares for media visitors, it was not the press kits that made David’s story so positive. It was the preparation of Julie and Chaliese and all the other students David interviewed who changed his thinking—preparation that could not have happened in the few minutes it took David to drive up the hill to BYU. This story reflects, more than anything else, the personal study and experience of our students who live the gospel of Jesus Christ on a daily basis. I have no doubt that David, as a seasoned journalist, quickly recognized that his interviewees were not just parroting answers prepared for them but were speaking from their souls.

Today, as Elder Zack Clark is serving faithfully in Kirkcaldy, on the east coast of Scotland facing the North Sea, his personal symphony continues. Elder Clark and his companion, Elder Stoddard, just taught a husband and wife who both chose to be baptized. “If you want to hear music in your soul,” Elder Clark says, “just share the gospel. Watch someone embrace it, and as they learn and grow, the melody in your own heart will be sweet.”

It was easy to understand why Kefa’s head was filled with ferocious tigers, leopards, mighty buffaloes, and elephants, for he had always lived in Cambodia until a few weeks ago when he moved away with his family.
One day his dreams took him thousands of miles away from his classroom until his friend Randy, who sat next to him, brought him back to class. It had begun to rain, and Randy’s nose wrinkled with disappointment as he moaned, "Oh, no!"
Miss Johnson heard Randy’s remark and smiled. She noticed Kefa’s puzzled eyes and explained, "We do not have Cambodia’s rainy season with all of the rain-filled days from April to October. When it rains here, it often means only a called-off ballgame!"
Kefa’s dark eyes were puzzled. A picture of a fat woolly caterpillar suddenly flashed through his head. He hesitated but finally asked, "What about the caterpillars?"
"Caterpillars!" exclaimed Randy, who thought this was a funny question. Everyone else thought so too, and laughter soon spread throughout the class.
Miss Johnson smiled, but Kefa was glad to see her head nod with understanding. He knew she would explain to him. But the bell rang, and there was no time.
Kefa wished there had been time. He would have liked his classmates to know that in his homeland the caterpillar, the woollier the better, was given as a present to a friend as a sign of real friendship.
The following day Kefa hoped he could tell his story. It seemed to him that everyone would want to know about the caterpillars. But no one seemed to be interested.
"There is much that boys and girls here do not understand about you and Cambodia," his father explained, "and you must not expect them to understand everything."
Kefa listened, and with a sigh decided his father was right. He would try hard to be patient.
But soon there was a big problem. Miss Johnson told the class that she was taking a leave of absence to go on a long journey, and everyone began thinking of giving her a going-away present.
"I do not know what to give my teacher," Kefa said to his father. If I were back home, I would not have a problem, he thought. He remembered the many times when he had taken caterpillars to his teacher in Cambodia—how she had bowed her head in thanks and how he had come away with a heart full of friendship and joy.
"Give what your heart tells you to give," Father wisely suggested.
Kefa’s dark eyes grew large and round. He could hardly believe that his father meant that Kefa would even dare to give his American teacher a caterpillar!
His father told him where to find a fat woolly caterpillar. "The great shade tree on the corner will surely house one or two, and so will the heads of cabbage in the garden."
Kefa decided to look first in the garden. The cabbages housed the woolliest of caterpillars!
"You are going to make a good present," Kefa told a fuzzy caterpillar, carefully setting it on a dark green cabbage leaf. He smiled, knowing the leaf would serve many good purposes—as a temporary home for his fine caterpillar, as food for it, and as a box for the present.
At school the next day, Kefa waited until his classmates placed their presents on Miss Johnson’s desk. After they were all opened, he shyly gave his gift to her.
"It’s a caterpillar," he explained softly.
Miss Johnson eyed the fuzzy caterpillar perched on the green cabbage leaf. Then she reached out for it and bowed, just as his teacher in Cambodia had done.
Miss Johnson held up her present for all to see and asked, "What is this, class?" A voice from the back of the room answered, "It’s a caterpillar, and friendship is a caterpillar!"
Kefa’s eyes sparkled. Everyone has been told about the caterpillar, he thought happily.
There was much that Kefa did not understand about boys and girls and the new country, but it was wonderful finding out!

As I thought about childlike gratitude, I remembered Christ’s injunction to become as little children. Perhaps part of becoming like a child would be to hone my abilities to feel gratitude and give thanks. My sense of grown-up “busyness” had assaulted my sense of gratitude for too long. I no longer wanted to be so busy that I failed to notice my blessings—whether great or small—and the people who enriched my life. So I made a conscious decision to practice gratitude, in much the same way I had practiced the piano as a child—daily, conscientiously, persistently.
Wonderful things happened—not in the worldly sense or on a grandiose, obvious level, but in small, everyday ways. I saw the world with new eyes.
I began to see sunsets. Had they always been there? I started to haul my family outside to watch the sky’s extraordinary hues of purple and pink. I began to see the beauty in my baby’s face—even when it was covered with mashed green peas and congealed chicken gravy. I watched my husband tenderly tuck our sons into their beds at night and remembered how much I loved him. I began to play in the sandbox with my boys and relish the texture of the grainy, white sand. I began to feel gratitude, even without a “kingdom of night.”

“I know the Church is true because when I pray, He answers,” says Nicole, who is 10. “When I ask Him for help, He helps me.”
Nicole tells about a time when her friend got very sick and the doctors decided to fly her to Peru’s capital city, Lima, because they didn’t know how to treat her. “I didn’t want her to go because she was my best friend,” Nicole says. “I asked Heavenly Father to bless her. He heard my prayer, and she was healed.”

I learned about pure love from my mother. She was not a member of the Church.

One day many years ago, I visited my mother, who was struggling with cancer. I knew that she was going to die, but I was concerned that she was suffering. I didn’t say anything, but knowing me well, she said, “I see that you are concerned.”

Then to my surprise, she asked me with a feeble voice, “Can you teach me how to pray? I want to pray for you. I know you start by saying, ‘Dear Heavenly Father,’ but then what should I say?”

As I knelt next to her bed and she prayed for me, I felt a love never felt before. It was simple, true, pure love. Although she didn’t know about the plan of salvation, she had in her heart her personal plan of love, the plan of love of a mother for her son. She was in pain, struggling to even find the strength to pray. I could barely hear her voice, but I surely felt her love.

I remember thinking, “How can someone who is in such great pain pray for someone else? She is the one in need.”

Then the answer came clearly to my mind: pure love. She loved me so much that she forgot about herself. In her most critical hour, she loved me more than herself.

His father took a deep breath and began to speak: “I knew a boy once who stood up a girl. He was a senior, like you. She was a junior. It was a hayride for a girls’ glee club. She asked him to go, and he accepted—reluctantly.
“First of all he felt quite superior to the girl. He was an athlete and rather popular. She was shy and a little homely. Her complexion wasn’t good. She wore braces and glasses. For two weeks he thought of how he might get out of his commitment. Well, the night of the hayride he had a bit of a cold. Nothing serious. He had gone to school, but he rationalized that he was too sick to go on a hayride.
“Half an hour before the date he called her and cancelled. He tried to sound sick, but she wasn’t fooled, even though she did accept his excuse graciously. He went to bed to at least give his excuse a semblance of truth. But he didn’t sleep. He had lied, and he knew it; he knew that there were some girls who could have asked him and he would have made the date regardless.
“At 11 o’clock that evening he got out of bed and went over and apologized to her. I know for a fact that it was the most difficult thing he had ever done up to that point. I also know for a fact that he never regretted doing it.”
They were both pensively silent for several minutes, each content to be alone with his own thoughts. Finally his father sighed. “You know that boy I told you about earlier?” he asked. Trevor nodded. “Well, he forgot about that girl—for a little while anyway.” He smiled. “After his mission and two years of college, he saw her again. She had changed.” He chuckled, leaned back, and stared up at the ceiling. “She had shed her braces and glasses, and her complexion had improved. She wasn’t the same girl. In fact, he didn’t even recognize her at first. He wanted to ask her out, but he didn’t dare. He was afraid she would remember. She was in demand then. Finally he built up his courage and asked her out, hoping all along that she wouldn’t remember that night five years earlier. She did though, but she accepted anyway. She told him later—after they were engaged to be married—that it was because he had gone to her home that evening and apologized that she accepted his date later. She said she knew how much courage it must have taken and she always respected him for that.”
Trevor smiled and glanced slyly at his father. “I think I know that boy.”
“Which boy?” his father asked with mock surprise.
“The boy you’re talking about.”
His father smiled, pushed himself to his feet, stepped up to his son, and put his arm over his shoulders. “Yes,” he said with a smile, “I think you do know him. I believe he married your mother.”

My graduate program in Indiana had its challenges, among which was my being a single, aging, returned missionary in a non-LDS environment. As some discontent with my studies grew, and my social isolation continued, even though I had received an award to do research in Finland for the next fall semester, I began to consider leaving my graduate program for a season and returning to Utah to take a job I had been offered. Then one Sunday morning as I walked up the sidewalk to attend Stake Conference, I met another student, far more spiritually mature than I, named Bud Patterson. I mentioned that I was thinking of leaving my program for a time and explained the reason why. Unlike other friends who simply wished me good luck, he stopped abruptly and asked: "Do you pray?" I answered "yes." He said "Then if God has brought you this far, why would you consider turning back now?" He saw me on a journey that I should not forsake, simply because it had become onerous. He spoke inspired sense. He was the friend who helped me in the time of need. I think of him as a ministering angel. I decided that I would not leave my studies; I would go forward.

In the summertime, Elder Asay and his brothers spent some time with their father on the mountain range. He was a forest guard with the U.S. Forest Service each summer, and the boys loved to go with him. This was another ideal time for teaching and training. “We spent a lot of time in the canyons and the parks, repairing, painting, clearing trails, and doing other things for the Forest Service. It was great to be together out in nature,” Elder Asay recalled.
One such learning opportunity took place one day in a park where they were all working together, repairing some tables and benches at one of the camp picnic facilities. “My brother, who was about twelve at the time, found a full pack of cigarettes. And Dad must have seen him stealthily put it into his pocket. He called us together and asked him what he had picked up. My brother pulled the cigarettes out of his pocket. Dad said, ‘Open the pack.’
“Dad instructed each one of us to take one, saying, ‘Put it in your mouth and see how it tastes.’ Very quickly he had four spitting boys on his hands. Dad asked if any of us had liked the taste. We all said no. Then he told us to remember this experience, and added, ‘Tobacco doesn’t taste good, it isn’t good for you, and it isn’t in accord with God’s law.’
“We made a pact then and there that we would never touch cigarettes again.”

“We are going to Arizona because the prophet called us to go,” Mother explained. “Remember my telling you about when I was your age and my family lived in Nauvoo? After the Prophet Joseph Smith was killed, there were contentions with our neighbors. The Brethren told us to leave our homes and move west. There our lives would be spared, and we could worship in peace.
“It was terrible to leave our home, but there was nothing else to do unless we turned away from God, the Brethren, and the Church. We made the long, hard journey to Salt Lake. We sacrificed again when we followed President Young’s direction to leave there and settle here.
“Now we have been asked to go to Arizona. We do not have to go. No one is forcing us. We are not fleeing for our lives. We could find reasons not to go. This time the struggle to obey comes from within.”
Mother hugged me as she continued. “The Lord said that when we receive a commandment ‘whether by [His] own voice or by the voice of [His] servants, it is the same’ (D&C 1:38). Our prophet has spoken to us. I know he speaks for God. Your father and I decided long ago to follow the prophet, no matter what the sacrifice.”
The Spirit warmed me as I listened to Mother’s testimony. I felt strengthened for the uncertainties ahead.
As I climbed into the loaded wagon, I took one last look at our old home, then turned to face the trail to Arizona. I realized that I, too, had a testimony of God’s representative on earth. Like my parents, I decided I would follow the prophet—even to the last frontier.

A number of years ago, as I was leaving the Church Office Building a day or two before Christmas, I found myself walking next to Elder Bruce R. McConkie. We wished each other a merry Christmas. I drove home and surmised he did the same. The day after Christmas the telephone rang. It was David Wirthlin, the administrator of the LDS Hospital.
“Guess what happened just before Christmas?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“Elder Bruce R. McConkie came to the hospital. He asked if he could give a few blessings. With permission granted, he went from room to room placing his hands on the heads of several dozen patients.”
That is the real world, isn’t it?

Years ago when my children were small, I took them with me to go shopping. While out, we found several inexpensive Nativity sets, one of them in a small box. This Nativity was crudely made, probably of ceramic, and had only five pieces—Mary, Joseph, a shepherd, a Wise Man, and a baby Jesus.
As my son opened the box, a piece popped out and fell to the floor, breaking into two. After consoling my son for his mistake, I thought to myself, “Well, I guess I’m going to buy that ugly Nativity set.” It was not a Nativity I would normally have displayed in my home, but because my son broke it, I bought it and took it home.
Once the children were in bed, I pulled out the little Nativity set and considered throwing it away. It was small and ugly in my eyes. The piece that had broken, however, was the baby Jesus. I couldn’t just throw baby Jesus away! So, I glued the piece together and made a little spot in our home each year afterward for that small Nativity.
Last year, as I was placing the Nativity pieces into bits of paper to protect them, I glanced again at the baby Jesus. Then I glanced at the box as I placed that piece inside it. I noticed that I had never removed the price tag: $1.25. That was the price I had paid to redeem my son’s mistake.
That thought made me stop and ponder on our Savior. Thoughts about Jesus Christ flooded my mind, and I thought of the price He had paid to redeem me from my sins. What a small price I had paid for my son’s mistake in comparison to His sacrifice for my sins. I paid the price of the Nativity for my son because I love him, and the Savior paid the price for us because He loves us (see 1 Corinthians 6:19–20).
Just as I had repaired the broken baby Jesus, He can repair our broken lives. I thought of the gratitude I have for Jesus Christ’s Atonement for me and for each of God’s children, and for the hope we can have in our Savior. That ugly Nativity isn’t so ugly to me anymore.

When Elder Dallin H. Oaks was a 12-year-old deacon, he went with his bishop to take Christmas baskets to the widows who lived in their ward. A widow is a woman whose husband has died. The backseat of the bishop’s car was filled with baskets of grapefruit and oranges. The bishop waited in the car while Dallin took a basket to each door. He would knock on the door and say, “The bishop asked me to give you this Christmas basket from the ward.”
When they had delivered all the baskets but one, the bishop stopped the car in front of Dallin’s house. He gave Dallin the last basket of fruit and said, “This is for your mother.”
After the bishop drove away, Dallin stood in front of his house wondering, snowflakes falling on his face. His father had died when Dallin was seven. But he had never thought of his mother as a widow. His mother had always taught her children that they had a father and that she had a husband and that they would always be a family because of their temple marriage.
Dallin knew that other boys and girls had dads who played with them and took them fishing. And it hurt sometimes that his dad wasn’t there. He knew he wouldn’t see his dad for a very long time. But he also knew that someday they would all be together again as an eternal family.

Erwin Oertli, a river guide and the oarsman for our raft, gripped the handles of long, wooden oars in knotted fists. The muscles in his arms tightened. There was a growing roar of fast water on rock. The current carried the raft around a bend toward a steep precipice of water. Oertli dropped the tip of an oar and pulled. The raft straightened. The air grew dense, cold, and wet with mist. He turned, smiling.
“This is a good one.” His voice was nearly drowned in the roar.
“It’s the only bad place on the whole river.”
The veins in his neck stood out.
“There are two rocks.”
The sound of the water changed from a roar to thunder.
“The first one is right in the head of the rapids in the roughest water. It’s not hard to miss, but the second rock comes up fast right behind it. You have to row left to miss the first and then hard to the right to miss the second one.”
The river dropped suddenly in front of the raft, looking more like a waterfall than a rapid. The front of the raft hung suspended in wet air and dropped, suddenly, breathlessly, angling down toward the river.
Screams mixed with the explosive sound of the river. Hands grasped desperately to a cord of rope that ran around the inside of the raft.
The raft hit the water, crashing. An engulfing wave, fringed with a thousand sparkling fragments that felt like ice, came up and over and into the raft from all sides, blotting out the blue sky, submerging it. It rose suddenly into the sun, on a high wave mountain, water running off the black rubber sides, and fell again, into an impossible depth, plunging down a steep canyon of water on a roller coaster ride. The water was a gray silk in the waves, and near the crests, edged with sky, it rose up like a white cambric lace.
Oertli, standing, hit the oars hard. The raft moved across the water, turning. He relaxed. The raft rifled past a grizzly turbulence where a boulder, covered with foam and spilling water, back-eddied a whirlpool.
He hit the oars a second time, hard, pulling and leaning, handling the raft with the skill of a master craftsman. The raft moved across the current, and the second rock, also hidden below a mound of the Kootenay’s gray water, swept safely behind.
When we were through the rapids, he leaned back and smiled.
“Good one, huh?”
No one disagreed.

After his mother died, Gordon B. Hinckley felt responsible for his younger brother and sisters and helped them in many ways. He worked hard and saved money for his schooling. When it was time for his sister Ramona to graduate, he realized how important it would be to her to have a new dress for that special time. Thinking more about her needs than his own, he used some of his hard-earned money to buy her a beautiful new dress.

Prayer was a very important part of my life. As a child, I was taught to pray. I remember one time when I was riding out to the ranch with my father. As he drove, he started humming or singing, “‘Ere you left your room this morning, Did you think to pray?’”* Then he glanced at me and asked, “Son, did you pray this morning?”
“No.”
“Don’t you pray in the mornings?”
“I pray at night,” I replied.
At that moment, he took the time to explain to me the importance of praying in the morning and at night. From that time on, it became part of my life to pray both morning and night. In 2 Nephi 26:15 [2 Ne. 26:15], we are told that “the prayers of the faithful shall be heard.” We often experienced that scripture. I learned in my youth that as we were faithful and did our part, the Lord blessed us.

As I stepped over the concrete and rebar jutting out of the ground, I thought this had to be the strangest family home evening ever. Mom and Dad had loaded all five of us kids into the van and driven us to where our future home was being built. We were excited about our new house and often visited the site to see the progress.
At this stage, however, the progress wasn’t very exciting—just long rows of poured cement that looked more like buried walls with iron rebar running through them.
“Sit down,” Dad said, and we all looked around to find a comfortable spot to sit. “This is the foundation of our house,” he explained. “Our home will be supported by all of this concrete and metal. This foundation will keep our house safe during storms. It will even keep our house standing strong during an earthquake.”
This got my attention. Living in California, we were all used to earthquakes, both big and small. We’d seen what earthquakes could do to homes.
“Normally, builders don’t make foundations go this deep into the ground for a house this size,” my dad gestured into the trench holding the underground concrete. “And once the house is built, we won’t even see it. Some people told me I was wasting money to build a deep foundation for our home, but I wanted to make sure our home was as safe as I could make it.”
The building of our home was a big part of our lives, but my dad had taken to talking about it at every opportunity. Now he was giving us a family home evening lesson on overbuilt slabs of concrete and iron that no one would ever see after a few more weeks.
Of course, Dad wasn’t done with his lesson.
“There is another kind of foundation we need to build as well.” We all looked at him expectantly. “Each of us needs as his or her own foundation a testimony of our Savior, Jesus Christ. Just like our home’s foundation will keep us physically safe during storms and earthquakes, a testimony will keep us spiritually safe when we face trials and challenges.”
Dad continued, “I challenge each of you to build strong foundations by learning about our Savior and praying for help and ways to know Him better. Follow His example and keep His commandments, and you will be blessed with a strong testimony of Him.”
Since that family home evening lesson, set amid the crucial beginnings of our new home, I have learned just how important it is to have a strong, deep testimony of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ as my own personal foundation. When adversity comes, I can always rely on what I know to be true. My testimony keeps me strong and makes it possible for me to weather the many storms of life.

Mandy dropped her book beneath the tree and excitedly ran to the fence. Next door a large truck had just pulled up at the curb.
Mandy watched closely as two men began to unload furniture from the truck. She wished very hard that the new neighbors would have to have a girl her age! All the other neighborhood kids were either older or younger than she was. It would be wonderful to have a friend her own age to talk to.
As Mandy stood watching and wishing, a car pulled up behind the large truck. A man and woman climbed out—and a girl just Mandy’s size!
“Hello!” Mandy called out.
The girl didn’t answer.
“Hello, there!” Mandy called again.
The parents were busy talking to the men who were unloading the truck, and the new girl was just staring at the house. She didn’t turn around.
Mandy felt disappointed as the girl followed her parents into the house. With a sigh, Mandy sat down under the tree again and tried to read her book. She couldn’t concentrate, though. She was too busy watching to see if the new girl would come back outside.
It wasn’t until the truck was nearly empty that the neighbors reappeared. Mandy ran to the fence and tried again. “Hello!” she called out loudly.
The new girl still didn’t turn around. Her mother heard, though. She motioned to her daughter and pointed to Mandy. The girl turned and smiled.
Now that’s better. She must have been too busy thinking about something to hear me before, Mandy decided.
“My name’s Mandy. What’s yours?”
The new girl didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and motioned to her mother. The mother nodded, and they both walked over to the fence where Mandy stood.
“Hello, Mandy. I’m Mrs. Henderson, and this is Carol.”
“Hello, Carol.”
Carol smiled shyly but still didn’t say anything.
“Please forgive Carol for not speaking to you,” continued Mrs. Henderson. “She was born deaf. Because she can’t hear, she can’t speak well enough for you to understand her. But I know she’d like to be your friend.”
Mr. Henderson called to his wife, and she hurried back to the truck. Carol stayed by the fence and continued to smile at Mandy, but her eyes were looking all over the yard.
Mandy could feel her face turning hot with embarrassment. Now what do I do? she worried. How can I be friends with someone who can’t hear or speak? Carol and I can’t just sit and smile at each other all day.
Suddenly Carol turned and ran to her father. She made motions asking for help. Smiling fondly at her, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a book, and gave it to her. When Carol ran back to the fence, she pointed to the gate and looked at Mandy questioningly.
“You want to come in?” asked Mandy. Then she thought, How dumb, talking to her like that. She can’t hear me.
But Carol was looking closely at Mandy and understood what Mandy had said. She nodded her head.
Mandy nodded back and watched while Carol ran to the gate and let herself in.
Carol went quickly to the tree and sat down. She motioned for Mandy to join her.
Mandy wasn’t quite sure what to do, but Carol patted the ground beside her, so Mandy sat down and leaned against the tree trunk while Carol opened the book.
Carol pointed to the word tree in the book, then touched the tree they were leaning against.
“Tree?” asked Mandy.
When Carol could see that Mandy understood, she nodded.
Carol started to giggle, then Mandy giggled too. They laughed so hard that they both fell backward and bumped their heads against the tree.
O-u-c-h, spelled Mandy from the book.
Tears of laughter rolled down Carol’s cheeks.
This is going to be fun, thought Mandy. She pointed at the word f-r-i-e-n-d in the book and gave Carol a big hug.

I must have recited the Young Women theme more than five million times before I had an experience that helped me learn to appreciate its importance.
Usually in Young Women opening exercises, we all recited the 90-word theme without really thinking about what we were saying. But one particular day, during my junior year, those inspired words rang through my mind as I faced an important decision.
In my speech class, my teacher assigned group projects. Each group picked a scene from a play to perform for the class. As we spent the next four days preparing for our performance, rumors started that one group of boys had chosen a risque play dealing with morality issues. A lot of us were surprised when our teacher allowed them to keep their selection. He argued that it was a well-known play, and “for art’s sake,” he must allow them to perform it.
On the day of the performances, our teacher again discussed the controversial play. He agreed it may be offensive. Then he added, “Those of you who feel uncomfortable have my permission to leave the room.” Jokingly, half the class stood up and pretended to walk out. Who wouldn’t take advantage of going out to lunch an hour early?
I began feeling a little nervous as the boys started their performance. At first, several of my classmates blushed and giggled uneasily, but as the piece went on, people began to relax. I was shocked that no one was leaving the room. I looked over at a few of my LDS friends, watching for one of them to give the signal for all of us to walk out together. However, none of them seemed to be preparing for departure. I remained at my desk, holding my head down so no one could see my crimson cheeks. I felt very uncomfortable in the situation, but I was also afraid to leave. After all, it was art, right?
At this moment, the Young Women theme came into my mind: “We will ‘stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places’” (Mosiah 18:9). Immediately, I knew what I should do. “All places” meant everywhere, even in a classroom with my friends.
Quietly, I got up and left the room. That was it. No one got up and followed me. No one applauded my valiant act. No one was converted by my example. But inside I knew I had done the right thing, even though people teased me for the next two weeks. I felt good about standing up for my beliefs “at all times, and in all things, and in all places.”

After we arrived at our mission assignment in Florida, I said to myself, “What am I doing here? I’m homesick. I can’t stand all of these trees so close in around me; I need more open space. If only I had never told the bishop I’d do this! What good can I possibly do here?” I felt completely out of place.

One evening, the branch president asked us if we could visit a couple who had received the missionary lessons two or three times. They were good people, but they hadn’t joined the Church.

“Take me to them!” I said.

We went over to see them, and in less than thirty minutes we had set a baptismal date with the husband. Three weeks from the time we arrived in our field of labor, we baptized him.

When our mission president heard about it, he was delighted. There hadn’t been a baptism in our mission area for more than a year, and only six in the last five years. This gave me the encouragement I needed.

Things really started happening after that; people started coming to church who hadn’t been there in years; we noticed a greater feeling of love and unity among branch members; and we baptized the wife of that first contact.