Gospel Story Finder

And, of course, they like to have fun, too. Some of them got a chance one day when a New Era reporter and a Church photographer hit town wanting to see the countryside. Chile Osorno Mission president Lester Haymore graciously consented to serve as chauffeur, six seminary students agreed to be guides, and the trip to Los Saltos de Petrohué (Petrohué Falls) was underway.
The road lay through forests, past soaring mountains, and over rich upland meadows where cattle grazed. The group skirted Lake Llanquihue, largest lake in Chile and the home of slab-sided lunker trout. They rode through villages where oxen plodded and towns where automobiles rolled. In deep forests of green sunlight, hawks carved the sky overhead, and bird songs could be heard from the trees. Paced by guitar chords, the students sang as exuberantly as the birds.
Canta, canta, pajarito,
Canta, canta tu canción;
Canta, que la vida es triste
Y tu cantar me alegra el corazón.*
At Petrohué Falls, stone cliffs rose towering, precipice on precipice, like the edge of the world, and forests marched away to snow-crested volcanoes. The waters of the Petrohué River were an indescribable powder blue that taxed belief. This was no reflection of the sky, but the color of the water itself, a color to be found only in dreams and in Chile.
Through a thousand channels in the black volcanic rock, these menthol-blue waters frothed and roared downward into turquoise foam and delicious blue thunder. The rock walls below sent a sweet blue mist high in the air. The young men and women stood on a bridge over a fork of the falls, stung by the mist, shaken by the thunder, looking and looking and never getting enough of this magic river.
Their dark eyes filled with blue wonder; and with a hundred pauses for one last over-the-shoulder look, the students went back to their van and followed the Petrohué upstream to its source, Todos los Santos Lake. The same impossible blue as the river (varying to cold ultramarine in its depths), it stretched away to snow-capped mountains across the border in Argentina. Along its sides, towering mountains hunched down like shaggy green dragons taking long blue drinks.
Across a narrow arm of water, where the lake became the river, was a cabin. Behind it tall timber climbed the mountain to the sky. Before it rich alpine green ran down to the wind-rippled lake. On the shore was a pale blue rowboat with one oar dipped in sunlight. Just seeing the place brought thoughts of storybooks and enchanted forests, and a question. What would it be like to look out those windows every morning and see the Andes-topping sun warming the back of dragons—or to climb into the pale blue boat and row off between the deep blue sky and the soft blue waves?
Wrapped in the magic, the group walked along the black volcanic shore. Beyond, the white cones of Osorno Volcano wedged the sky. As they walked they threw volcanic rocks into the water, frolicked with a German shepherd that happened past, and sang the songs of Chile. Meanwhile, the sun curved down the sky, silvering the blue water and announcing that it was time to start for home. Reluctantly, they did.

“Look, Mom, there’s our neighbor!” I exclaimed as Mom backed our car out of the driveway.
“Yes, I’ve seen him sitting outside his house the last couple of days.”
I smiled and waved as we drove by. Mom waved, too.
He reminds me of Grandpa, I thought. “What’s his name?” I asked. “He looks like a nice man.”
“I don’t know. We’ve been here almost a year, but I’ve never met him.”
The next day as we got into the car to go to the grocery store, I noticed him again, sitting in his lawn chair under a big shade tree.
I called out, “Hi,” and waved. He smiled and slowly raised his arm to wave back.
“Would it be OK if I went over and met him sometime?” I asked Mom. “He looks like a nice man.”
“Sure,” she said. “Next time we see him, we’ll both go.”
Later that day, we saw him sitting in his chair again. “Hi,” I called, skipping across front yards. “My name is Kellie, and this is my mom.”
He stood up carefully and held out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. I’m Arthur Dunbar.”
“We live in that house over there,” I told him, pointing.
“Yes, I’ve seen you,” he said with a friendly smile.
“How are you doing?” Mom asked.
“Just a little slower than usual,” he replied. “Ever since my stroke, I haven’t been allowed to drive or go to work.” He looked down at his hands. “I get restless being housebound, so I like to sit outside in the shade—but I expect to be up and around again soon.”
“I have a new ring,” I said, holding out my hand. “I got it for my birthday.”
“That’s a very pretty ring,” he said, “and you’re as cute as a bug. How old are you, Miss Kellie?”
“I’m four years old.”
“A very grown-up four-year-old, right?” Mr. Dunbar asked, smiling.
“Yes,” Mom agreed, also smiling. “We’d better go now and let Mr. Dunbar rest.”
“I’ll come see you tomorrow, OK?” I asked. Mr. Dunbar looked at Mom. Both nodded, and we said good-bye.
Mr. Dunbar and I quickly became friends. When my cousin sent me a postcard, I ran across the yard and asked him to read it to me. When I found a beautiful rock in his flower bed, I brought it to his porch and let him feel its smooth edges. Later, he’d sometimes go to the store with Mom and me. I invited him to my soccer game, and when I played good defense, I could hear him cheering louder than anyone else.
One Sunday as we came home from church, he was sitting in his chair. I jumped out of the car to show him my outfit.
“Well, young lady, where have you been, dressed up so pretty?” he asked.
“Church,” I said, twirling around. As I twirled, I bumped into Dad, who had followed me.
“Hi, Peter,” Mr. Dunbar said. “I see you take your family to church.”
“Yes sir.” Dad looked down at me and grinned, then reached to shake Mr. Dunbar’s hand. “Would you like a ride to church sometime?”
“I’d like that,” Mr. Dunbar said after a pause.
“What church do you go to?” Dad asked.
Mr. Dunbar ran his fingers through his gray hair. “Well, what church do you all attend?”
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” I volunteered.
“Your church would be fine.” He smiled.
I took another spin in my new dress, adding a little jump. “We leave pretty early in the morning,” I told him.
“That’s all right, Miss Kellie,” he said. “I like to get up early and watch the sunrise.”
Mr. Dunbar had a great time at our ward. I introduced him to my friends and told him to go with my dad to classes. Soon after, he came to our house to listen to the missionaries. He said he felt peaceful when he heard the gospel. He decided to be baptized.
At the baptism, one of the speakers said that Brother Dunbar was joining the Church because I had been a good missionary. I was surprised. I hadn’t visited Mr. Dunbar to teach him about Jesus Christ. I just wanted him to be happy. Later, our stake president told me that being a good friend is a big part of being a missionary.
I’m glad that Brother Dunbar is now a member of the Church, and I’m glad to know that even a little child like me can help Heavenly Father—just by being a friend. Mom and Dad and I are still close friends with Brother Dunbar. We always will be.

A man of Christ stood on October 1, 1959, before a crowd of 1,500 people in a church within the shadow of the Kremlin and boldly referred to Jesus as the great Redeemer. He said in an emotion-filled voice:
“I believe very firmly in prayer. … It is possible to reach out and tap that Unseen Power which gives us such strength and such an anchor in time of need. … Be unafraid, keep His commandments, love one another, pray for peace and all will be well. … Truth will endure. Time is on the side of truth” (Ezra Taft Benson, Cross Fire: The Eight Years with Eisenhower [Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday and Co., 1962], pp. 486–87).
People wept openly on that occasion, including newsmen who had reluctantly attended the worship service. One newsman, a former marine, ranked the experience as one of the two most spiritual and memorable of his life.
There was a man in that cathedral in Russia on that special day. His name, Ezra Taft Benson—he who now presides as the President, prophet of the Church.

His success as a counselor comes from his faith in people. “If you don’t have faith in people, they won’t change for the better,” he says. Elder Ashton experienced this principle in his own young life. “When I was in junior high school, I was not getting the best grades in geometry. My teacher said, ‘I’m not going to tolerate this when I know what your potential is. You can do better, and I’m not going to let you do worse than you really can.’ “Elder Ashton recalls, “That was a turning point, not only in that class, but in my life, because I knew that that teacher believed in me. The best bishops I ever had were the ones who believed in me enough to give me something extra to do—just working around the churchyard as a deacon was enough.”

Of the original twelve members of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, seven apostatized and were excommunicated. Three came back into the Church through the waters of baptism and resumed activity in the Church. Four did not.

Nothing is more inspiring than to see youth praise God by honoring him on his holy day. Let me recount the story of one of them to you. Eric Liddell had been raised in China by missionary parents. When he returned to Scotland for his education, he discovered while playing rugby that he was fast on his feet. Those who watched him run called it sheer artistry. He was a wild runner, technically imperfect, but with exultant, liquid speed.
As Liddell continued to run, he began to receive honors. Friends pushed him to train for the Olympics, but his devoutly religious sister, Jennie, thought it would turn his attention from God. She knew he couldn’t be half-hearted about anything and she said, “Be honest with me. How much time will you have left for God?”
But Liddell’s father advised him differently. “Run in His name … and let the world stand back in wonder.”
And wonder it did. Liddell became known as the “Flying Scotsman,” making the 1924 British Olympic team with ease. On the way to Paris for the games, however, a reporter tossed him a question that startled Liddell. “What about Sunday? Do you think you can beat the Yanks?”
Liddell had not known that the heat for the 100-meter race he was scheduled to run in was on Sunday. The news made him a quiet passenger, and his sister’s words echoed in his mind: “Your mind’s not with us anymore, Eric.” It was heartbreakingly clear to him what he had to do. He could not run in the race, even if it meant undoing all the years of training, even if it meant disappointing his teammates.
They took the news badly, and Lord Birkenhead, who was leading the group, took it worse. “Won’t run?” he bellowed and turned red. He simply couldn’t understand.
Liddell responded, “I’m not sure that I understand. … I’ve run, driven myself, and run and run again for three whole years just to be on this ship. I gave up rugby, my work has suffered, I’ve even deeply hurt someone I hold very dear. Because, I told myself, if I won, I would win for God—it was his will. And now I find myself sitting here destroying it all, with a couple of words. But I have to. To run would be against God’s law.”
The pressure on Liddell didn’t end there. In Paris, he was called into a special meeting with Lord Birkenhead and the Prince of Wales himself. Had he no allegiance to king and country? “There are times,” said the Prince, “when we are asked to make sacrifices in the name of that loyalty. Without them, our allegiance is worthless. As I see it, for you this is such a time.”
Liddell was uncomfortable, but unmoved, and the tense situation was only resolved when a teammate entered the room and offered to give up his spot on a 400-meter race on Thursday so that Liddell could still run.
That Sunday at church, Liddell read from Isaiah 40:31. [Isa. 40:31] It was not an easy day for him, for he longed to be running for the gold, but he told the congregation what he told himself: “But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”
Later that week at the 400-meter race, he had his chance to take the Lord at his word. As the runners lined up at their marks, rumors circulated among the crowd that Liddell would never win this race. He was a sprinter, fast in the short haul, but could he take this quarter-mile distance? But as he stood at the line, Liddell received a boost that the crowd didn’t know. One of the top runners on the American team handed him a folded piece of paper that read, “In the Old Book, it says, ‘He that honors me, I will honor.’”
Liddell won that race that day. He got his gold. In doing so, those who watched believed he had passed the supreme test. He had found the courage to throw his head back, push his heart until it almost burst, and cross the finish line ahead of all contenders. But that was not really the supreme test. The supreme test he had passed on the boat on the way to France, in the meeting with the Prince of Wales, and again that Sunday while he watched the race he might have run. The supreme test in any life is whether one can stick to his highest ideals when glory or expedience pressures us away from them. (Excerpted from W. J. Weatherby, Chariots of Fire, Dell/Quicksilver, pp. 50–165.)

Some months ago I was given the assignment to interview a young man, 21 years old, to determine if his repentance was sufficient for him to serve a mission. My heart ached as I read of the serious problems and transgressions in his past. I wondered if it would be possible that one with such a background could ever prepare himself to worthily serve a mission. At the appointed time for my interview I saw a handsome young man approaching me. He was immaculately groomed and had a wonderful countenance about him. He looked like a returned missionary, and I wondered who he was. As he approached he extended his hand and, to my surprise, introduced himself as the young man I was to interview.

During the interview I simply asked, “Why am I visiting with you tonight?” Then he laid out the sordid details of his past. After reviewing and confessing again his transgression, he began talking to me about the Atonement and the years of painful repentance that brought him to this very interview. He expressed his love for the Savior and then explained that Christ’s Atonement was sufficient to rescue even a boy like him. At the conclusion of the interview, I placed my hand on his shoulder and said, “When I get back to Church headquarters, my recommendation will be that you be permitted to serve a mission.” And then I said, “I ask only one thing of you—just one. If you are privileged to serve, I want you to be the best missionary in the entire Church. That is all.”

About four months later I was speaking at a missionary devotional at the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah. After the devotional I was standing in front of the podium greeting missionaries when I noticed a familiar face approaching me. My first thought was that I was about to be embarrassed because I was supposed to know this young man. I could not remember where I had met him, and I knew the first question that he was going to ask me. Sure enough, he extended his hand and asked, “Do you remember me?” Apologetically and somewhat embarrassingly, I answered: “I am sorry. I know I should know you, but I just do not remember.” He then said: “Well, let me tell you who I am. I am the best missionary in the MTC.” I could not withhold the tear that slowly trickled down my cheek as I thought: “Here is a man. He met his Gethsemane. He paid the painful price of repentance. He has humbled himself and submitted himself to the redemptive power of the Savior. He has met the challenges. He has measured up to true manhood.” And I say, “Behold a man,” a man humble enough to submit himself to the redemptive powers of the Savior.

Illustration by Katie Payne
This wasn’t what I’d signed up for. I’d been willing enough to help treat my great-grandma’s fence with linseed oil to help protect it. But as the day wore on, sweat trickled down my face and my willingness turned to fatigue in the heat.
My mom suggested a break and a drink before going back to work, but I pouted, determined to be miserable.
“Dallin, there’s no real reward for having a good attitude when everything in life is going great,” she said. “The real test of character and the true reward comes when you can have a good attitude even when everything seems miserable.”
A week later, my grandpa asked if I could treat his fence with linseed oil. His fence was longer, and we’d have to treat both sides.
This time, I determined to work on my attitude even if the job got tough. We started early, but sure enough, we were soon baking in the sun. The work seemed endless as we carried those heavy buckets of sticky, stinky oil. Thorny bushes along the fence pricked our legs. As I remembered what my mom had said, though, I didn’t complain. I didn’t quit. I worked carefully and tried to keep up a good attitude.
When we finished, I looked at the newly treated fence and felt proud of what we’d done. I was tired and sticky, but I knew I’d also passed an important test of character. I learned that I could have a good attitude even when everything seems miserable.
Dallin H., Oklahoma, USA

When Metoyera was eight years old, his Latter-day Saint neighbors, the Porters, invited the Harper family to come to church with them. Their Hyde Park Ward meets in a former apartment building in a pleasant city neighborhood. Shortly after that first visit, the Harpers listened to the missionaries explain the teachings of the Church. Metoyera and his family decided to be baptized.
Because the building where the ward meets was not originally designed as a church, there is no built-in baptismal font. So, ward members built a large wooden box, lined it with plastic, and used it for baptisms. Metoyera was baptized in that big box.

“Fam’lies can be together forever through Heav’nly Father’s plan” (“Families Can Be Together Forever,” Hymns, no. 300). I love this Primary song, which teaches that families can be sealed for eternity. I prayed that this could be true for my family, especially after my father passed away.
Recently the Lord answered my prayer. My mother, my two brothers, and I were able to travel to the Manila Philippines Temple to be sealed together and to my father. It was our first time in the temple together, and I can still remember the happiness I saw in my mother’s and brothers’ eyes. There was a great feeling of joy there.
I know the temple is the house of the Lord and that those in the temple have the proper authority to perform sacred ordinances. I’m so grateful that through these ordinances my family can be with my father again. Since going to the temple, we try to be a stronger family and do all we can to keep our covenants so that we can be together forever.

Thirteen-year-old Sherrie underwent a 14-hour operation for a tumor on her spinal cord. As she regained consciousness in the intensive care unit, she said: “Daddy, Aunt Cheryl is here, … and … Grandpa Norman … and Grandma Brown … are here. And Daddy, who is that standing beside you? … He looks like you, only taller. … He says he’s your brother, Jimmy.” Her uncle Jimmy had died at age 13 of cystic fibrosis.

“For nearly an hour, Sherrie … described her visitors, all deceased family members. Exhausted, she then fell asleep.”

Later she told her father, “Daddy, all of the children here in the intensive care unit have angels helping them.”20

My mom was my seminary teacher throughout high school, so I didn’t have much of a choice about going. Every morning for four years I hauled myself out of bed and into a cold car and zipped off to seminary.

Years later, while in the MTC, I was amazed at how much seminary was still helping me. One day while teaching a lesson, my companion turned to me and asked, “How do you know the scriptures so well?” I was taken aback—I didn’t feel like I was a scriptorian at all. “Seminary, I guess?” I stammered.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that attending seminary and memorizing the scripture mastery verses was the reason I felt comfortable in the scriptures (see the scripture mastery verses at sm.lds.org). It was the best preparation I had for serving a mission! Even though I was still an awkward new missionary and I didn’t know how to teach, I did know 100 scriptures that I could turn to when I didn’t know what else to say. So many times, a scripture mastery verse came into my mind through the Spirit when I was teaching investigators.

If I’d read my scriptures just on my own, I wouldn’t have had the same experience without going to seminary and learning the scriptures there too. My advice to my teenage self is to go to seminary—no matter what—and fully participate! The Lord will use the knowledge you gain for years to come.

A second thing to remember in responding to others is not to lose your temper. Uncontrolled anger distorts reason and cancels wisdom. All of us are susceptible to rising anger, but before we act we can bring ourselves under control. I have often thought how easily a young missionary becomes angry when he sees something that doesn’t seem complimentary to him or his religion. But we sometimes fail to remember that we too can offend others. Our doctrine, for example, is offensive to some people. In one city in Brazil, our elders found that a Protestant minister had begun publishing and distributing derogatory pamphlets against the Church. It was information that would not have been accepted in the United States, because generally we have been too well known for people to believe those ridiculous stories. But the people in Brazil began to get some wrong ideas about the Church, and the elders wanted to do something about it.
I suggested they take a copy of the pamphlet and visit the minister, if they could find him. After some preparation, they found him, and they said, “Are you responsible for the publication of this material?” He responded rather evasively and with some embarrassment. They said, “We would just like you to know that we represent The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and that this material is not true. This is not what we believe. We don’t appreciate having this kind of falsehood distributed about us, but you should know that when we find people who have read it, it is easy for us to tell them the truth, and then, of course, they get a poor opinion about you. If you feel that you must publish this sort of thing, then continue to do so; it really doesn’t hurt us that much. In many ways it helps us. But we would prefer that you don’t do it.” That solved the problem.

When I first learned to write, I wrote everything backwards, in a mirror image. Later I learned to write my letters in the right direction, but my handwriting was very sloppy. My mother was worried, but Mrs. Leroy, my second-grade teacher, said, “He’s doing well in math and in other areas, so don’t worry about his handwriting. It will improve.”
Sometimes you wonder if you’re progressing or not. But if any of us looked back to when we were in kindergarten, we could certainly see we have made progress. You’re getting better and better in every way.

Benjamin lay back on his bed and put his feet up on the wall. He always did that when he had to think. Today’s problem was the essay Miss Hardgrave had assigned in language arts. He was supposed to write about why his parents had named him Benjamin and share it with the class.
He knew, of course. There was the picture hanging right above his feet: King Benjamin on top of the tower with everyone in tents looking up at him. Benjamin nudged the frame with his toe, and the picture tilted to one side. Usually he liked knowing he was named for a righteous king in the Book of Mormon. But nobody in his school class was going to know who King Benjamin was. Or what the Book of Mormon was, for that matter. One more thing to have to explain.
Lately it seemed like he was always explaining things: why he didn’t play in soccer games on Sunday, why he wouldn’t watch some of the most popular movies, why he hadn’t joined the same Cub Scout den everyone at school belonged to. He kicked the wall, and his door rattled.
Dad opened the door a crack and peeked in. “Aren’t you asleep yet?” he asked.
“Still doing homework.”
Dad came in and sat on the edge of the bed. “Anything I can help you with?”
“What do you know about Benjamin Franklin?”
“Hmm. United States patriot, flew a kite in a thunderstorm, and he was bald.” Dad rubbed his own bald head and smiled. “How’s that? Are you writing a report on him?”
“Well, not exactly,” Benjamin admitted. He looked down and twisted one of the quilt’s yarn ties around his finger. “I have to write about my name.” Benjamin wasn’t looking at Dad, but he felt his steady gaze.
Dad cleared his throat. “I admire Benjamin Franklin, but that’s not who we named you for.” He leaned over and straightened the picture of King Benjamin until the tower was standing straight again. “We named you after King Benjamin because we hoped you’d be like him—bold and fearless and righteous.”
“But, Dad,” Benjamin protested, “I can’t just stand up in front of my class and say I’m named after a Book of Mormon prophet.”
Dad looked surprised. “Why not?”
“This is for school. You’re not supposed to talk about religion in school. It’s illegal.”
Dad smiled. “Maybe it would be illegal for your teacher to preach to you in class, but we’re talking about answering the question she asked. There’s nothing illegal about that.”
“I bet nobody else even goes to church,” Benjamin said.
“You’d be surprised, I think. Besides, remember what King Benjamin said?” Dad pointed to the words printed below the painting. “Mosiah 5:15. ‘Be steadfast and immovable.’ That means you shouldn’t let other people decide who you are. Even at school.”
Dad stood up and kissed Benjamin on the forehead. “You’d better go to sleep soon. It’s late.”
Benjamin went to his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. Above his bed, King Benjamin looked calm and confident. His arm was raised in a grand gesture, and the people were peering out of their tents, all their eyes fastened on him. Benjamin thought about what a hard time his teacher had getting everyone to pay attention sometimes. “I bet even King Benjamin would’ve been nervous in front of my class,” he muttered.
The paper on the desk seemed to stare up at him, still blank. Benjamin could hear his clock ticking. Finally, too tired to think anymore, he started to write. “My name is Benjamin. You’ve all heard of Benjamin Franklin. …” He didn’t have to actually say he was named for Benjamin Franklin. He’d let them draw their own conclusions.
The next morning, Benjamin yawned as he waited with Yusuf and Max for the bell to ring.
“That language arts assignment,” Max complained. “It’s so embarrassing.”
“Why?” Yusuf asked.
“My mom got my name from a TV show!” Max leaned against the wall of the school and groaned. “She thought this character named Maximilian was really handsome. She watched the show every day, and when I was born that was the first name that popped into her head.”
“Are you going to tell everyone your name is from a TV show?” Benjamin asked. Explaining you were named for a TV star would be much harder than explaining you were named for someone in the scriptures.
“No.” Max pulled his essay out of the front pocket of his backpack and smoothed out the wrinkles. “I wrote that my mom had heard the name somewhere and liked it. Where did you guys get your names?”
Benjamin leaned over and fidgeted with the zipper on his backpack. He felt uncomfortable. He couldn’t tell his two best friends that he was named for Benjamin Franklin.
Yusuf said, “My name comes from the Koran.”
“What’s the Koran?” Max wanted to know.
“It’s my book of scripture. Like your Bible. There’s a person named Yusuf in it. My parents were going to name me for my grandfather, but he told them to name me Yusuf instead.”
“You’re lucky,” Max said as the bell rang.
Right after taking roll, Miss Hardgrave called on Patricia to read her essay. Her parents had found her name in a name book and liked it because it meant “noble.” Then Maria said that her name was Spanish for Mary, the mother of Jesus, and that her mother had the same name. Yong’s name meant “courageous,” and Jasmine’s parents had liked the way her name sounded.
Now it was Benjamin’s turn. He carried his essay to the front of the room. He was always nervous when he had to speak in front of the class, but today his hands seemed extra sweaty. He leaned against the chalkboard tray and read the first line of his essay to the class: “My name is Benjamin. You’ve all heard of Benjamin Franklin. …” He looked at the rest of what he had written and then looked up at the class. Max was looking at him. Yusuf smiled and nodded. Benjamin wondered if King Benjamin’s hands had gotten sweaty up there on that tower.
He took a deep breath and folded up his paper. “But I’m not really named for Benjamin Franklin. I’m named for a king in the Book of Mormon, one of my books of scripture.” He imagined his friends peering out of tents at him, and he talked a little louder. “Let me tell you about him.”

As Sir Walter Scott lay dying, he said to his son-in-law, “Lockhart, read to me from the book.” His son-in-law said, “Which book?” Sir Walter said, “Lockhart, there is only one book. Read to me from the book.”

Latter-day Saint missionary work began in New Zealand in 1854. Missionary work was slow until 1883, when the Maori people began to join the Church in large numbers. The Lord had prepared them for the gospel. Several Maori tohungas (priests) had prophesied concerning the true Church before the missionaries taught the people. One priest had told his people to wait and not join a church until missionaries came in pairs, visited their homes, and spoke to them in their native language. Many other prophecies were given to the Maoris that were fulfilled by the missionaries.

I have two big things in my life: church and sports. I found out that I had to combine the two when I tried out for my high school basketball team.
I started going to practice during the summer right before my freshman year. As I got to know the older players and their personalities, they started to notice I didn’t do a lot of things they did—I didn’t cuss, smoke, do drugs, look at pornography, or even go on dates yet. They started to make fun of me slightly. In a high school of about 1,500 students, only 4 of us are members of the Church. So you can guess we got teased a bit. But it didn’t bother me much, and I was happy to stand up for what I knew was true.
As the season drew on, my teammates started to ask me more about the Church. There weren’t big, important questions, just things like “Why don’t you date?” Then one day during study hall, some of the players started talking about their families, and that conversation turned to religion. So they asked deeper questions about the Church like “What is repentance?” and “Do you believe in a heaven and a hell?”
I always carry a copy of For the Strength of Youth in my backpack, so I pulled it out to help answer their questions. We talked about the Church for over an hour. When it was over, there were two questions I could not answer. I promised to look up the answers and get back to them. That night I looked up the answers, and my mom suggested I bring extra copies of For the Strength of the Youth and also the book True to the Faith.
The next day while we studied together, when the boys asked questions, I pulled out the books and passed them around. We had another long and deep discussion about the Church. I asked if anyone wanted to keep the books, and some people did. Later that week we had another talk about other churches, not just mine, and my coach, who is very religious, talked about his and other beliefs.
I don’t know if anything good will come out of this, but I know that my team members now know more about the true gospel and why I am different from them. My testimony had been strengthened, and I have gained the courage to talk about and stand up for what I know is right and true.

More than a century ago President Brigham Young offered a prayer in which he pleaded for a blessing “upon the priesthood, [and] all in authority in thy Church and kingdom, that they might enjoy the outpouring of the Holy Spirit to qualify them in the discharge of every duty.”
This prayer was voiced as he stood at the pulpit of the Tabernacle and offered the invocation on the first conference of the Church ever convened there. The day was 6 October 1867. More than 130 years later his plea to the Lord is as timely as it was on the day it was offered.

The summer after high school graduation seemed almost magical. I had everything I could possibly want—except a tan. With a job, my social life, and the plans I was making to go away to school, I hadn’t taken the time to lie in the sun and bake my skin cells. Then came the chance to remedy this one imperfection in an otherwise unblemished existence in the form of an invitation to spend the Fourth of July at Bear Lake in northern Utah.
The weather at Bear Lake matched my nearly flawless life. The sun was bright, the sky clear, and the air just the right temperature. I lay on the beach all day and eagerly watched my anemic legs and arms turn a bright shade of pink which, I was sure, would turn into a golden tan. Everything, I thought, would be storybook perfect.
Bear Lake is cool and invigorating and can be literally smooth as glass. Its high elevation, though, means the atmosphere is thinner, providing less protection from the sun’s harmful rays. Anybody who has ever been there knows—usually from painful personal experience—that Bear Lake is one of the worst places for sunburn.
I knew it too, but chose to ignore that particular bit of truth. My thoughts that day went no farther than dreams of looking magazine-and-movie beautiful. Only it didn’t work out that way. My legs and arms (and back, feet, and face) didn’t go from rosy pink to gorgeous tan. Instead, they turned blazing red and blistered. And I hurt all over.
I don’t remember much about the return trip that evening except feeling awful and just hoping I wouldn’t throw up before we got home. Once home, I doused myself with vinegar (it’s supposed to help) and went straight to bed. Getting to sleep that night was a real pain. Getting dressed the next morning was even worse.
After a few “Don’t touch me!” days, the pain finally subsided, the blisters popped, and I began to peel. Yuck! Dead, flaky skin was everywhere. Instead of looking sophisticated and stunning, I looked splotchy. It wasn’t exactly what I had envisioned.
I often think about that episode, especially when I’m sitting in the shade wearing my wide-brimmed hat and slathered in sun block. I lost more than a few nights’ sleep from that experience; I also lost much of my body’s built-in protection against the sun’s harmful rays.
More important than what I lost, though, was what I gained. I realized that just as Heavenly Father provides an earthly atmosphere to protect our physical selves, he has also given us a spiritual “atmosphere”—the Holy Ghost—to shelter our spiritual selves. I always recall my day at the beach whenever I am tempted to leave that heavenly shelter to become more attractive according to the world’s standards. I remember the sleepless nights, painful days, and lasting physical consequences, and know there is no way I want to risk getting a spiritual “sunburn.”