Gospel Story Finder

Such a man was Paul Tingey. Just a month ago I attended his funeral services here in Salt Lake City. Paul grew up in a fine Latter-day Saint home and served an honorable mission for the Lord in Germany. A companion of his in the mission field was Elder Bruce D. Porter of the First Quorum of the Seventy. Elder Porter described Elder Tingey as one of the most dedicated and successful missionaries he ever knew.

At the conclusion of his mission, Elder Tingey returned home, completed his studies at the university, married his sweetheart, and together with her reared their family. He served as a bishop and was successful in his vocation.

Then, without much warning, the symptoms of a dreaded disease struck his nervous system—even multiple sclerosis. Held captive by this malady, Paul Tingey struggled valiantly but then was confined to a care facility for the remainder of his life. There he cheered up the sad and made everyone feel glad. Whenever I attended Church meetings there, Paul lifted my spirits, as he did all others.

When the World Olympics came to Salt Lake City in 2002, Paul was selected to carry the Olympic torch for a specified distance. When this was announced at the care facility, a cheer erupted from those patients assembled, and a hearty round of applause echoed through the halls. As I congratulated Paul, he said with his limited diction, “I hope I don’t drop the torch!”

Brethren, Paul Tingey didn’t drop the Olympic torch. What’s more, he carried bravely the torch he was handed in life and did so to the day of his passing.

Spirituality, faith, determination, courage—Paul Tingey had them all.

A young missionary spoke to me in the temple yesterday, after we had had an hour or so of questions, and said, “I represent these missionaries in telling you we have respect for you, but will you tell us something that will strengthen our testimonies and make us better prepared to go out as missionaries?”

I responded by saying, “Well, let me share with you an experience I had with one of our business executives. His wife and children are members, but he is not. His twin sons are attending Brigham Young University, and one of them is planning to be married in the temple next year. But he said to me, ‘I can’t join the Church until I get a testimony.’ I said to him, ‘The next time you are in Salt Lake, come in and visit with me.’ As we talked following our business meeting a few weeks later I said to him, ‘I don’t know if you realize whether you have a testimony or not; or if you know what a testimony is.’ And so he wanted to know what a testimony is. I answered him by saying, ‘When the time comes that your heart tells you things your mind doesn’t know, that is the Spirit of the Lord dictating to you.’ And then I said, ‘As I’ve come to know you, there are things that you know in your heart are true. No angel is going to tap you on the shoulder and tell you this is true.’” The Spirit of the Lord is as the Master said:

The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth; so is everyone that is born of the Spirit. [John 3:8]

So I said to my friend, the business executive: “Now, remember that your testimony won’t come in a dramatic way, but when it comes, the tears of gladness will water your pillow by night. You’ll know, my beloved friend, when that testimony comes.”

In December 2020, I was called to be the bishop of my ward, and I gained a different insight into the struggles that people like Debbie face. I have been able to counsel with members who are caring for loved ones with various medical conditions, including dementia. Their trials, while certainly refining them spiritually, wear them down physically and mentally. I found that my role as bishop was to connect my ward members with resources that could provide comfort, support, and real help.
I engaged my ward council. Prayerful consideration was given to determine who would be the right ministering brothers and sisters to provide the best support. When we invited these ministering brothers and sisters to serve, I often connected them with community organizations to provide training and offer support. I made assignments of where and when to help. In their usual loving way, the Relief Society jumped into action to provide support to sisters and brothers who were caregivers.
In most instances, caregivers downplay the dementia symptoms and avoid involving other family members or friends and neighbors. This isolation deprives the person living with Alzheimer’s and their caregiver from receiving much needed support. Likewise, it increases the stress, both mental and physical, on those providing care.
Because of the strenuous toll on caregivers, at least 36 percent of them die before the person for whom they are caring dies. Often it is not until the family is in crisis that they seek outside help, and at this point intervention and support services are limited in what can be offered.
I have relied heavily on the counsel from President Henry B. Eyring, who said: “Remember that when the Lord lets us encounter someone in distress, we honor the good Samaritan for what he did not do as much as for what he did. He did not pass by. … He did what he could for the beaten man and then put in place a specific plan for others to do more.”
In the same general conference address, he mentioned the toll on caregivers: “Even though extended and loving service to people is richly rewarded, you have learned that there are physical, emotional, and financial limits to what is possible. The person giving care long enough can become the one who needs care.”1
For these reasons and many others, it is important for ward council members to provide support and assistance, even when caregivers aren’t quite sure what can be done. The ward council has many resources available to them through Church programs and from outside community agencies.
Another friend of mine, whom I will call Frank, reached out to me in my role with the Alzheimer’s Association a few years ago while he was serving as a bishop. He was concerned about several members of his ward who had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease and suspected that others had some form of undiagnosed dementia. Frank was anxious to meet the needs of these ward members and support other members serving as caregivers. Unaware of any resources, he turned to me out of desperation with a plea for help.
We arranged for a presentation to his ward’s empty-nester home evening group. Normally about 25 people attended this monthly activity. After it was announced that the presentation would be about Alzheimer’s disease, more than 100 people attended. Many were concerned about getting Alzheimer’s disease but weren’t sure what it is or how they might be able to reduce their risk.
During this meeting, I shared a wide variety of tools available through the Alzheimer’s Association and from other community sources.
I encouraged them to visit alz.org to find free web-based services offered by the Alzheimer’s Association and other community organizations. The site includes family support services as well as education programs about the signs and symptoms of the disease and how to reduce risk of developing it. The site offers an online Alzheimer’s and Dementia Caregiver Center, with helpful tools for caregivers. It also provides connections for caregivers to local support groups, care consultations, and opportunities to connect with others who are in the early stages of the disease. Likewise, ward council members can use this resource to better understand the disease and learn how they can offer assistance to ward members serving as caregivers.
Another effective service is a free 24/7 helpline at 800-272-3900. Trained consultants offer callers advice, information about care, help with crisis situations, referrals to local organizations, and support in more than 200 languages and dialects.
The site communityresourcefinder.org is a database of organizations in the United States that offer services for people living with dementia and their caregivers. Services include respite care, adult day care, assisted living, and connection to local area agencies on aging. Alzheimer.ca provides similar help for those in Canada.
The Church has an excellent web page called “Support for Caregivers” that provides a number of helpful resources. It can be found at this shortened URL: bit.ly/3oXe5gZ.
As I shared these resources with Frank’s ward council, other members, and caregivers, he observed increased support for and engagement with those members affected by Alzheimer’s and other dementias in his ward and stronger support for caregivers. Increased knowledge can make all the difference!
In my capacity as bishop, I have seen these resources become valuable to help ward council members be more aware of Alzheimer’s disease and dementia and more capable of offering meaningful service to ward members who are caring for loved ones with dementia. Just like Nephi praying to ask the Lord where he might go to find ore from which he could make tools to build a ship, as ward members pray for resources to help those living with dementia and their caregivers, they can be guided to tools like those mentioned above that will allow them to minister with meaningful service. These resources will allow them to figuratively build a boat of care, support, and Christlike service.
Once my friend Debbie was released from the hospital, her husband and children sought out the Alzheimer’s Association. The local chapter provided support to the family. Debbie found the assistance she needed and realized the importance and power of allowing others to assist in caring for her mother.
The experiences of Debbie and Frank and myself within my own ward are evidence that there is a strong need for education and supportive information for caregivers, for ward leaders, and for people living with Alzheimer’s disease or other dementias. Perhaps more importantly, their experiences reflect the number of people who are suffering in silence and don’t know where to turn for assistance. Their stories demonstrate that many people in each ward and branch of the Church are dealing with these challenges.
The Christlike service we give to those with dementia and to their caregivers can help bring them peace.

“I grew up in the city, but each summer I stayed with a farmer in our branch for two or three weeks, and I learned to enjoy farming. One day while we were working in a field and the cows needed to be brought up the hill to pasture, the farmer said, ‘I’ll take the wagon down to get the cows.’ I asked, ‘Can I do that?’ He replied, ‘Do you think that you can do it?’ I was small for my age, but I was happy that he thought that I could do the job.”

“Hans, Mein sohn, was machst du da?”
“Vater, Ich studiere.”
“Hans, Mein Sohn, das kannst du nicht.”
“Vater, Ich probiere.”
“Hans, my son, what are you doing?”
“Father, I’m studying.”
“Hans, my son, that you cannot.”
“Father, I am trying.”

“That was one of the first readings that I learned in school. Because it included my first name, Hans, it was very meaningful to me then, and it still is. I’m still trying today.”

Sister Mercy Dady, beads instructor, declared, “When our class started, getting beads was not easy for YSAs due to financial challenges.” Sister Dady purchased all the beads required for the first two weeks and provided the class with all essential tools and materials. This initial sacrifice gave the class a successful start. Some of the YSA were able to contribute small amounts of money to purchase the beads required for subsequent classes.

Illustration by Rafael López
Where did I come from? What am I doing here? Where do I go after this life?
When I was 29, these questions kept coming back to me. My parents had passed away. I grieved for the loss of my firstborn infant son. I had three other children to raise and a life full of challenges.
The Lord began to answer my questions when He guided two young missionaries to my home. When I welcomed them inside, they asked if there was anything I felt was missing in my life. I told them about my parents and my son. I told them I thought it would be unfair to have children and to form families if everything just ended with death. I asked if I would ever see my parents and my son again.
“Marta,” they said, “you can have your family forever.”
Joy filled my heart. I wanted to know more. At their next visit, they taught me more about the gospel of Jesus Christ. They gave me a Book of Mormon and challenged me to read it and ask God if it is His word. I accepted their challenge. When I prayed, God’s answer came clear as sunshine. I knew in my heart it was true.
Unfortunately, when I took a new job, I lost contact with the missionaries. In the months that followed, my marriage ended and I tried to start a new life with my children.
Eventually, I remarried. One day my husband said he missed having God in his life. We decided to attend the church he once attended. When we entered the building, I saw a Book of Mormon on a table in the foyer. This was the same church I had been introduced to before! I loved the Spirit I felt there. When we left, I asked my husband how I could be baptized.
“You need to be taught by the missionaries,” he said.
“I was taught five years ago!” I replied.
My children and I were taught the lessons. Our baptism day was the happiest day of our lives.
Several years later, I felt that I should tell the sisters who first taught me that I had joined the Church. On Facebook, I found a group of returned missionaries from the Brazil Santa Maria Mission. It included one of the sisters who had taught me. I sent her a friend request and told her who I was, how I became a member of the Church, that our family was sealed in the temple, and that my son was serving a full-time mission. I told her all this was possible because she and her companion had planted the seed of the restored gospel in my heart.

The word come is an invitation. It suggests movement from one place to another. Taylor A. knows well the meaning of this word.
Taylor is bright, joyful, and full of the Spirit, but she would be quick to tell you that those words did not describe her two years ago. She has moved to a different place now, spiritually and physically. She is a pioneer.
“I’ve been a pioneer in my life,” she said, “because I’m a recent convert. And my journey has just been amazing. I just feel like it’s a whole new life. And once we take that first step in our journey, miracles happen.”
Not only does Taylor understand the invitation to come—she knows the source of the invitation. She observed, “In our world, we’re so disconnected with what got us here, right? We are so caught up in our jobs and technology, and a message that’s really been hitting me lately is putting Christ first. If we just connect to really what the pioneers did—[they were] centered in Christ.”
Follow is another invitation. On the pioneer trek, Ethan G. gained a greater understanding of this word. “Sometimes I haven’t felt the best on trek, or I’ve felt kind of discouraged,” he admitted. “But I realize that the pioneers also felt that way.”
Ethan used to wonder why the early pioneers were willing to do what they did. He said, “I feel like I might have just given up. But as I’ve thought about that, I kind of realized that it’s because they loved the Savior, and they have a hope they can become better through Him. I want to try that too.”
Before Ethan went on the trek, he read about pioneers from the past, felt a connection with them, and was inspired by their faith to follow Jesus Christ. And what is Ethan doing now? He is preparing to receive a call to serve as a full-time missionary. True to President Monson’s counsel, he is getting ready to show others the way to follow.
Where should we come? Who should we follow? The Savior tells us: “Come, follow me” (Luke 18:22; emphasis added). When Harmony left home for trek, she saw the Lord’s hand in her experience. She knew she was following Him.
Harmony’s path to her stake trek was different from others’ paths. At age 15 she learned that she had a rare form of skin cancer. She wasn’t able to participate in her stake trek. “I was devastated,” she recalled.
Four years later, when her stake announced another trek, Harmony was free of cancer. But at age 19, she thought she wouldn’t be able to go. Then she received a calling to participate as a leader. She said, “It’s a testimony to me that the Lord knows who we are, and He knows the desires of our hearts, and if they’re righteous and good, He’ll bless us.”
Harmony offered advice to help us when we face trials: “To anyone who’s struggling, I’d say just to lean on the Lord. He’s always there for you. He loves us, and He won’t let us fall. We just need to reach out our hand to Him, and He will help us on our pioneer journey.”
If you never go on a pioneer trek, you can still be a pioneer. You don’t have to wear a bonnet or pull a handcart. You just need to follow Jesus Christ, as the early pioneers did. In doing so, you will be, as President Monson said, “one who goes before to prepare or open up the way for others to follow.”
If you do have an opportunity to go on a pioneer trek, enjoy it! And when it’s over and you leave your handcart behind, don’t leave your pioneer testimony inside it. Bring that testimony with you.
You are a real-life, modern-day pioneer. With the ultimate Pioneer—the Savior—as your guide, you are sure to succeed!

Several years ago a fine young woman came to me as her stake president. She was troubled over some challenges she was facing at the time.

She said, “President Kerr, it’s so hard to be a Latter-day Saint.”

We discussed her reasons for feeling that way. Our conversation led quite naturally to a discussion of the Savior and of His suffering for each of us. We spoke of His Resurrection and of its implications for our lives now and in the eternities. We then spoke of the Savior’s explanation to some of His followers of what was expected of them as disciples. We read from the scriptures where some felt the demands of their discipleship were too hard, and they turned their backs on the Savior and walked no more with Him (see John 6:66).

The young sister sat quietly for a few thoughtful moments, and, then, with tears in her eyes, she said, “Oh, I couldn’t do that.”

When I suggested that there is more than one way to turn our backs on the Savior, the light seemed to turn on in her mind and heart.

She said, “Now I can see that if I truly love my Savior and keep Him in my mind and heart, I cannot violate His trust.”

Then she said, “I want to change what I said when we first began this conversation. I now know that it would be hard not to be a Latter-day Saint.”

“I’ve swum twenty laps already, and I just can’t go another one.” Susan shouted to her swimming coach, who was standing near the edge of the pool.
“Yes, you can!” Coach Andersen encouraged confidently. “You’re good for at least four more laps.”
Susan looked up at the tall thin man and wondered why he expected so much of her.
“Four more!” the coach shouted. “And watch that kick. Your rhythm is off.”
Susan pushed off from the bank feeling discouraged and wanting to cry. Carefully she cupped her hands and pulled at the water.
“One, two, three, four, five, six,” she counted over and over to herself as she kicked and then rhythmically fit her windmill-like arms into the pattern. Slowly but smoothly she glided over the water. Her arms and legs ached and her lungs gasped for air as her head turned in and out of the water.
Susan touched the edge and then sprung backward and began the backstroke. Once more she glided gracefully over the water.
As she neared the edge, she wished she could stop, but even in the water she could hear Coach Andersen’s voice calling from the deck, “Two more laps. You’re looking good, but don’t get lazy with those arms. Pull, pull!”
Susan turned on her stomach again and did one more lap freestyle and then tried another lap on her back. Her muscles were so tired she wondered how she could make it.
“The last lap! This is the last lap!” she kept telling herself as she moved through the water. She felt a smile cross her lips as she finished.
“That was pretty good,” Coach Andersen said without smiling. “We’ll have a short workout tomorrow, and then you’ll be ready for the swimming meet on Saturday. Remember what you can eat and what you can’t, and get to bed early tonight and tomorrow night.”
Slowly Susan crawled out of the pool. For a while she sat on the edge dangling her feet in the water and breathing fast to catch her breath.
Is all this worth it? she wondered. Or am I going to all this trouble and work for nothing?
Then she looked down at the pool and her thoughts changed. “This time I’m going to win!” she whispered. “Every time I practice and every time I lose, I learn something. I can’t give up now. I’m going to win!”
She grabbed her towel and sweatshirt and went in the dressing room to change her clothes.
Within fifteen minutes she was on the bus going home. By now her tired muscles were beginning to feel better.
At the first stop a girl about her age got on the bus. Susan watched as the girl walked down the aisle and then stopped next to her seat.
“Hi,” the girl said. “May I sit here?”
“Sure,” Susan replied.
“My name is Rachel Ann Moyle,” the girl said as she sat down.
“I’m Susan Thomas,” Susan replied.
“I’m going to visit my grandmother,” Rachel Ann said. Then she opened a small sack and pulled out two chocolate bars. “Would you like some candy?” she asked.
Susan looked longingly at the candy. She loved chocolate, but the coach’s rules kept ringing in her ears, “Don’t eat empty calories. Eat high protein foods.”
She looked once more at the candy bar and her mouth began to water. “I’d better not,” Susan finally said reluctantly, “but thanks anyway.”
“Come on,” Rachel Ann urged. “I’ll feel silly eating if you don’t.”
Susan looked once more at the candy. Then she remembered her tired muscles and all the work she had done so she could win.
“No, thank you,” she said very firmly. “I really wouldn’t care for any. But you go ahead. I don’t mind.”
During the next two days Susan’s thoughts alternated between discouragement and excitement. But as she climbed onto the starting block Saturday afternoon, she felt only a determination to win.
The starter’s voice called out, “Judges ready?”
Eight hands at the ends of the pool signaled readiness, and the voice instructed, “Swimmers, take your mark.”
Susan stepped up and curled her toes around the edge of the starting block.
“Get set,” the starter shouted.
Susan poised herself to make the starting dive.
Bang! The gun rang out and the eight swimmers flew off the blocks.
One girl led the way, with Susan a little behind her and a girl in the next lane just a little farther back.
Susan pulled and kicked down the first lap. As she made the turn, the girl in the next lane caught up with her so Susan let go with all her strength. Halfway down the lap she started gaining on the leader. The two girls swam neck and neck.
When Susan could tell she was starting to fall behind, she pushed herself even more. She felt as if she would burst, but the extra push was just enough. She finished two-tenths of a second before the other girl!
Coach Andersen ran over to help Susan out of the pool. His face was one big smile.
“Congratulations!” he said. “I knew you had what it takes.”
Susan gasped for breath. Her muscles ached, but she had never felt so good.
“Thanks, coach,” she whispered between breaths. “I owe it all to you.”
“No, you don’t,” he said. “You’re the only one who can win. I’ve helped a little, but you’re the swimmer!”
While Susan was getting dressed, she thought about what Coach Andersen had said. Lots of people are willing to help me, but it’s up to me to help myself too, she decided with a smile.

One Saturday morning in February 1996, I traveled 80 miles from our home to Fargo, North Dakota. Stake training was being held, and I carpooled with two sisters from my ward.

As we entered the parking lot, a man ran out to meet us. He said to return home immediately as a severe blizzard was on its way.

We were about 10 miles outside of town when the snow and wind began to rage. It was as if white paper had been taped on every window of the vehicle. We could see neither road nor signs directing the way, only swirling snow. Our situation was precarious, and my nerves were raw.

After hours of white-knuckle driving, we saw faint taillights of a vehicle ahead. We could barely make out the lights, but seeing them gave us hope.

Creeping along for an additional four hours, we trusted if we followed the light ahead, it would guide us safely home.

At the time, I had been active in the Church only a short while. I had served a mission but later left the Church after getting caught up in the entertainment industry and using drugs and alcohol. I thought my family would be impressed with my career and wealth, but my mother didn’t care about any of that. Instead, she always put my name on the temple prayer roll, which angered me.
The woman I married had also left the Church. By the time our eight-year-old daughter, Tori, began asking questions about Jesus Christ, we had bottomed out spiritually. Despite my missionary service, I couldn’t remember anything about the Savior.
“There are people who are qualified to teach you about Jesus,” I told Tori. “Why don’t you talk to them?”
A few days later, two sister missionaries knocked on our door. Tori invited them in and began taking the discussions. Eavesdropping from another room, I heard the sisters teaching doctrines that I recognized to be true.
“Would you like to be baptized?” one of the sisters asked Tori after the third discussion.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Will your dad baptize you?”
I had not been to church for 20 years, but I knew my life was about to change. I sat in on the last few discussions, we started attending church, and my wife and I met with the bishop. As I repented, I decided that I must do everything possible to compensate for the years I had lost. I changed careers, magnified my Church callings, was sealed to my wife and daughter, and became a temple worker. That’s how I knew that a curious group of young people could become temple worthy.
My journey back to the temple was remarkable, and learning of Lars’s journey was a wonderful blessing that reminded me how we can all touch lives for good.

This past spring two different bird families built nests in my yard. A small sparrow chose a rose tree on my patio for her nest. Time after time she flew back and forth, carrying blades of grass and small twigs in her beak. Carefully she manipulated her way through the rose thorns, depositing her building materials in the chosen spot. She worked without resting until the tiny nest was finished. I was amazed at how carefully the grasses were woven to make a strong and stable structure. I was almost moved to tears when I saw in the bottom of the nest four small pieces of cotton, placed in just the right spot to make a soft bed for her little ones.
The second bird, a robin, chose to build her nest in front of my house near the rain gutter, up high where ground predators could not reach it. Since she was larger, so was her nest, and in addition to being bigger, the outside of her nest was glued with mud, which kept the grasses and twigs together and held it in the crook of the rain gutter. Inside, single blades of grass were woven into a soft, cuplike shape that perfectly cradled the bird.
When the nests were completed, both birds laid their eggs and began the daily vigil of protecting and nurturing. Hour after hour, day after day these birds sat on their eggs. After the eggs hatched, the mothers worked full time to feed their hungry babies.
One particularly hot day I noticed the robin sitting on her nest, panting with her beak open. Obviously she was uncomfortable in the glare of the sun. I wondered why she stayed. Then I realized she was not sitting deep in the nest as she had when she was keeping her babies warm. Instead she was carefully stretched over the top of the nest, forming a protective shelter to keep her featherless babies from being sunburned.
I began to read about birds and the great pains they take to build homes for their families. Did you know that barn swallows make more than 1,200 mud-carrying trips in order to construct their nests? One single nest of a hooded oriole was found to contain 3,387 separate pieces of material. It seems to me that birds invest everything—their time, their energy, their means, their own comfort—to make a home and rear their young. It is not a priority that is given second place or avoided. It takes first place.
Since watching the birds in my yard, I have wondered who taught these birds what to do. How did they know how to build a nest and to shade their fledglings from the sun? Birds follow instincts to provide, protect, and nurture. These are God-given instincts, and pondering on them caused me, along with the Psalmist, to exclaim, “O Lord, how great are thy works!” (Ps. 92:5).

I’m having a blast here at the summer conference of the National Association of Student Councils. Among the 2,000 student delegates from North America, I didn’t expect to find other Mormons, but soon they found me!
Some LDS delegates planned a testimony meeting and spread the word. Dozens of LDS kids from all over North America showed up! As we bore our testimonies, the Spirit let us know the truthfulness of the Gospel.
Here’s a photo of some of the LDS kids. It’s great to know that so many student leaders are also such wonderful examples for the Church!
Love, Jamie

During the next year, however, the Lord was able to teach me how to keep the spirit of Christmas. We served among a humble group of people living in nearly abandoned milling towns scattered along small rivers. And we loved serving among these people immensely.
We decided to share our Christmas with an investigator, Alice, and her family. Alice supported her three teenage boys, a daughter, and a granddaughter all with her income working at a fast food place. Needless to say, her budget was tight. So instead of focusing on ourselves at Christmas, we decided to serve someone else.
My companion at the time, Elder Werner, felt there were basically two things that would bring joy into the world: the gospel and good food. When we showed up on Christmas morning to cook a simple breakfast, we were hailed like Old Saint Nick himself. Her extended family was there, and everyone was laughing, joking around, and wanting to help us cook. Since our families were allowed to call on Christmas, Alice and my mom were able to talk on the phone together. Watching her speak with my family was far more of a gift than the three meals I participated in the year before. It connected someone I was serving to my family and helped my family share my mission with me. The morning was filled with a feeling of familiarity that was almost tangible. I knew I was where I was supposed to be.
During that morning, I came to appreciate the true spirit of Christmas. And it has everything to do with the example of our Savior and the teachings of the gospel. The excitement wasn’t about us as missionaries; it wasn’t even about our gesture of making breakfast. That morning was about sons and daughters of God simply sharing with one another. I wasn’t given a feast of food, but my soul was full of joy.

The summer before my junior year of high school, I took my first job as a cashier at a fast-food restaurant. The first couple of days were a little shaky. But as time passed, I became one of the fastest button pushers and food gatherers you’ve ever seen.
One day halfway through the summer, it seemed like nothing was going right. Some orders had come out wrong, and the customers were not happy. I had been yelled at more than once. Several times, customers demanded to see my manager. I worried that this one bad day would get me fired.
Soon after the crowds had gone, two young boys came in. When I read their order back to them, the older boy used the Lord’s name in vain and said, “Can’t you get anything right?” I apologized and fixed the mistake. When he handed me a ten-dollar bill, I realized there weren’t enough one-dollar bills to make change. I explained this to the boy, and he cursed again.
As I was putting their order together, I noticed an elderly woman in line talking to the older boy. When I handed him his order, he looked down and apologized for what he had said.
When the woman reached the counter, she said, “I can’t believe how that boy treated you. There was no reason for such behavior.”
I smiled and told her it didn’t bother me. “It’s all right; I’m used to it.” I turned to put the lid on her drink and was surprised that I felt like I was going to cry. I guess it was because someone understood and took the time to talk to me decently.
When I gave her the order, she handed me one-dollar bills to pay for it. I looked up at her, and she said, “I overheard you say you needed one-dollar bills.” Then she winked at me and left.
The rest of the day didn’t seem so bad. I never saw her again, and I don’t think she knew how much she helped me that day. We don’t always know why certain people come into our lives, but this woman was there to help me when I needed it.
No one should ever have to say “It’s all right; I’m used to it.” Now I try extra hard to be nice to people every day. Then, before I go to bed, I ask myself, “Was someone’s day made better or a burden made lighter because of coming in contact with me?” When the answer is yes, the feeling is wonderful.

1832–1919
“She took me in and was a mother to me.”
She and her husband joined the Church in Hawaii.
She cared for Joseph F. Smith when he was sick as a young missionary.
When Joseph F. Smith was the prophet, he promised her she would live to see the temple in Hawaii.
When the temple in Hawaii was finished,she was able to go inside and be sealed.
Joseph F. Smith, as quoted by Charles W. Nibley in Gospel Doctrine, 5th ed. (1939), 520.

Finally, let me tell you about a woman I have never met but whom I love dearly because she was true to her covenants. My great-great-grandmother Charlotte Gailey Clark was one of the last 295 people to receive their covenants in the Nauvoo Temple prior to the beginning of the great exodus west. The temple had been closed since the Saints were being forced to leave, but all those who were worthy had not yet had an opportunity to receive their endowments. My great-great-grandmother and her husband would be leading their family west, and she wanted her covenants with her before she set out on that journey. I have thought about her so often these past few months. I someday want to say to her, “Grandma, thank you for keeping your covenants. I am so blessed to be your granddaughter. Your faithfulness has blessed me and my family—and will continue to bless all of us throughout the generations.” And sisters, our children and grandchildren will one day be able to say the same to us, and of us. One day they will thank us for keeping this “bag” of covenants with us and using them to bless the lives of our families.

When I was about 17, I began to feel I couldn’t relate to people at church anymore. Around the same time, my parents divorced and stopped attending church. I still went, but I had lost faith in eternal marriage. When I met Kristian,* it wasn’t hard to turn my back on the Church and walk away. So I did.

We lived together for almost four years before we split up. I wanted to start going to church again, but I was afraid everybody would ask all sorts of questions. I went to visit my sister. In her ward no one knew me or how long I’d been away from the Church, and during my stay I started going to church again. I continued going in my own ward when I returned home. The first Sunday I was really scared, but people were just happy I was there.

I knew I had to choose a side; I couldn’t keep walking with one foot on the Lord’s side and one on the world’s. I started meeting with my bishop. He has helped me understand the Atonement. It’s been a long road of repentance—at times a very difficult one. I’m still in progress, and I still have a lot of things to learn, but I’m happier now. I know I chose the right when I decided to come back to the Church. It was about making up my mind about what I felt and what I knew was right and then just going for it.

This year’s homecoming royalty at BYU is symbolic of the seventy countries represented at that school. The queen Michiko Nakamura is from Tokyo, Japan. Her attendants are Ruth Ann Brown, a Navajo Indian from Window Rock, Arizona, and Jana Rae Warren from Spanish Fork, Utah.
Michiko called her mother in Japan after being named queen. “We don’t have homecoming queens in Japan, so my mother didn’t even know what I was talking about. I told her to go to church and ask the American missionaries what it was.”
Michiko, a convert of seven years, will ultimately return to Japan to teach dance. “We don’t have modern dance over there, and it would be neat if I could pioneer in that field in Japan.”

The midnight sun ruled the June evening in Sweden, where its fiery red and yellow spears still pierced the solemn blue sky. Children played, tumbling and jumping as though they had not walked three miles to the Lutheran seminary that day and had not spent two hours that evening raking in the hayfields. Suddenly their laughter was interrupted by the shouting of an older boy running toward them down the soggy road.
The small blond ones stood alert, staring at the intruder, who shouted again, “The Mormons are coming!” Expressions on young faces hardened, and little mouths lost their smiles and became straight lines. Bright blue eyes clouded.
The children ran up the nearby hill, picking up stones and sticks along the way. At the top of the hill they gathered in a group and looked out over the rolling meadowland. No one was in sight except the boy who had sounded the warning. They waited for him on the hill.
When the older boy reached the other children, he shouted commands: “Girls, stop crying. Go to your homes and take the little ones with you. Ask your fathers to come help us. Ja (yes)! The Mormons are coming!”
The boys began stacking stones in the furrows near the road. Girls and younger children ran across the fields toward their small wooden houses.
Hulda and Anna, the twins, and their younger brother, Gustav, had the farthest to go. Their house and land, located at the far north corner of the farmland near Hogbrun, West Vinåker, were rented from a wealthy landowner. Gustav fell down, but the girls pulled him up, paying no attention to his ripped trousers. As they neared the house, they could see their mother, Ingrid, a younger sister, Carolina, and baby sister, Maria, picking bouquets of tiny white-belled lilies of the valley.
“Mor (Mother)! Mor! The Mormons are coming! Shall we go to Farfar (Grandfather) Lars’s? They’ll eat us up and burn our house!”
The young woman frowned at Gustav’s skinned knees and tried to comfort him. She looked at her five children, whose father had died a year before from pneumonia. “If your far (father) were here, he would not be afraid of the Mormons. I do not fear them either. Those Mormons may be from the devil, but if they come here, I’ll use this devil’s pitchfork on them! Go into the house and say your prayers and go to bed.”
The children crawled into their beds, but they could not sleep. Their mother stood outdoors in the changing light of the midnight sun, resting her body against the house. She sighed and closed her eyes and thought of the approaching Mormons.
Farfar Lars hated the Mormons. He had warned, “Don’t ever shake hands with Mormon missionaries or they’ll get you.” But Ingrid had to admit that those Mormon hymns Britta Larsson had sung, while they were spinning during her last visit, were comforting.
Ingrid’s thoughts were interrupted by the bellowing of the family bull. She looked up and saw him tossing his head and pawing the ground in the middle of the road. Picking up a rope from the front yard, Ingrid hurried toward the road. She voiced her irritation under her breath and snatched up a dead limb lying close by. Holding the limb in front of her and moving slowly, step by step, she approached the bull. The bull, with lowered head, took a step toward her. Ingrid trembled for a moment then retreated a step, caught her foot in a hole, and fell to the ground.
Suddenly the bull charged, and the young woman rolled into the ditch for what little protection it provided. Miraculously, the snorting bull missed her and charged down the road, tossing clods of mud with his horns as he went.
The shaking woman lifted her head and watched the bull grow smaller in the distance. Then she stood up and dropped a rock she noticed was still clenched in her fist.
The sound of shouting was heard from down the road. That bull has met someone else, Ingrid decided. The shouts increased, and the frightened woman picked up her twill skirts with trembling hands, swallowed hard, and forced her feet to run along the rutted road. Just over a rise she saw two men chasing the bull. The big animal stopped suddenly and again began pawing the dirt. The woman’s lips formed some word, but the cry caught and could not escape. Her eyes widened in fear, and again Ingrid swallowed. Her chest heaved rapidly, begging for more air before she started to run again.
One man threw his coat over the bull’s head and tried holding him by the horns while the other young man, who had found an old rope, secured it around the bull’s neck. Leading him toward the woman, the man asked, “Is this your bull?” His hair was dark, and he walked lightly and talked with a strange accent.
“Yes,” she answered in airy gasps. “He broke … out … of the field … and … and … nearly gored me when I fell.”
“Let us help you take him back and mend your fence,” offered the other young man.
The bull kicked and began pulling his captor down the road, and the young man shouted and made play by mocking the bull. Terror again crept into the woman’s eyes, but when the young men began to laugh, she laughed with them.
After the bull was penned and the fence mended, Ingrid said, “May I make something for you to eat?”
The men’s eyes lighted up, but then one of them answered, “We have an appointment in the village and we’re already late.”
“At least let me give you some knäckebröd (hardtack) and smör (butter),” insisted the woman.
“Thank you,” came the warm reply.
Ingrid went into the small frame house and reached up to the rafters, where several months’ supply of knäckebröd hung, dry and crisp. She slipped two of the large, thin disks of rye bread from the pole and carefully buttered each one. Adjusting the braids in her hair, she returned to the waiting men.
“Here,” she said, smiling shyly. “May this satisfy your hunger. And if you come this way again, please stop by to say hello.”
“Thank you, we hope to return soon.”
Ingrid watched the men leave. As soon as they were a few feet from the cottage, they broke off large chunks of knäckebröd and ate hungrily.
Just then the woman thought to warn them. “Watch out for the Mormons! They’re coming this way, you know.”
The men stopped their eating and walked back quietly, “We are the Mormons,” one of them said gently.
“And I hope you still mean your invitation to stop on our way back,” added the other.
Ingrid looked into their kind eyes for a moment. “Yes, I do,” she said. “I would like my children to meet you.”