Gospel Story Finder

On June 21, 2011, I received one of “those” calls that no one wants to get. My little sister, Linda, had collapsed in her kitchen. The ambulance was called, and CPR was administered as they rushed her to the hospital in Logan, Utah. Less than 72 hours earlier, I had been at her home painting bedrooms, helping to get everything ready for her fourth child (a girl) who would be arriving soon. I gave her a squeeze as I left and told her that the next time I saw her she would have a new baby. Oh how our lives changed in that short amount of time! At the hospital the baby was delivered by C-section. Linda’s husband named her Charlie, which was the name they had decided on to honor our oldest brother, Charles, who went by Charlie and who had previously passed away. Linda and Charlie were sent on separate life flights to the IMC hospital in Murray, Utah, where they could receive specialized care together. This is where my husband and I met them.

Charlie was in the NICU, on a cooling mat, wearing nothing but a diaper. She needed to stay on the mat for 72 hours. She had a ton of tubes and wires hooked up to her, because when my sister collapsed, Charlie was deprived of oxygen, and brain damage had occurred. The cooling mat lowered the body temperature and calmed the brain.

Meanwhile, upstairs, the doctor and nurses were fighting to save Linda. They did everything they could, but her blood wouldn’t clot. Linda passed away at 5:00 a.m., June 22, 2011. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I turned to my husband in disbelief and remember saying, “I don’t understand!” How could this mother of four pass away without ever holding her new baby in her arms? How? It just didn’t seem right, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

At that point, we didn’t know the prognosis for Charlie. The doctor kept telling us the brain was plastic and could reroute, but they didn’t know enough about the brain to know what permanent damage Charlie might have. We could only prepare for the worst.

A few life-supporting brain functions that Charlie couldn’t do on her own were breathing and swallowing. She was on a machine that breathed for her, and she had a feeding tube inserted through her nose into her stomach. Funeral plans for Linda were put on hold to see if Charlie would be buried with her momma or stay with us here on earth.

Brothers and sisters, I fasted and prayed with all my might that Charlie would stay with us. I knew it was what her mom wanted. Charlie was the last gift of precious life that we would ever receive from her. I just couldn’t imagine Charlie leaving us too after all her mother had gone through to get her here. My sister loved her! I poured my heart and soul out to my Heavenly Father, praying for Charlie to live and to live a normal, productive life. This was one of those times, as Brother Roger Jackson mentioned in last week’s devotional, that “being a good one” can be hard.

After 72 hours of being on the cooling mat, another MRI was done. The damage to the brain was severe. However, Charlie had started to breathe over the machine. She was making progress! The doctor told us it was time to take care of her mother and move forward with funeral plans. Charlie had made the decision to live, and live she did!

Charlie had a feeding tube implanted in her stomach for about six months when she started to swallow on her own without aspirating. I will never forget the first time I held her in my arms and fed her. Looking at her, I knew that I had witnessed an answer to my and so many others’ prayers. She was truly a modern-day miracle.

Charlie turned eight in June and was baptized. It was such a joy to witness this event! Let me give you a little update on her. Charlie is all girl! She wants to be a cheerleader, she loves clothes (and changes hers probably five times a day), and she is fearless, as you can see from the picture of her taking my daughter on a go-cart ride. Charlie is determined, stubborn, and gives her dad fits, which just makes me smile.

This experience hasn’t been easy. In fact, it has been heart-wrenching and devastating. However, one of the many tender mercies is that my love for Heavenly Father and my brother Jesus Christ has only increased. I couldn’t imagine trying to cope with such grief, pain, and uncertainty without Them.

Karl G. Maeser was certainly one of the most refined and educated men to join this Church in the first fifty years of its restored existence. Trained in the great classical tradition and distinguished in Saxony for his breadth of learning, he gave up virtually everything he had to enter the waters of baptism. Ostracized in his community and with no way to make a living, he brought his wife and two children to America, serving missions as he came and finally joining the Saints in these valleys of the Rocky Mountains. Once here he gave the rest of his life to the educational efforts of the Church, including fifteen years in abject poverty as the first and greatest principal of the then new and struggling Brigham Young Academy located in Provo, Utah.

In December of 1900, two months before he died, Brother Maeser was brought back to see once more the modest single-building campus on University Avenue he had built and loved and defended. He was helped up the stairs and into one of the classrooms where all of the students instinctively stood as he entered. Not a word was spoken. He looked at them slowly, then made his way to the chalkboard. With is bold script he wrote four statements on the board, turned, and walked out of the BYA forever, closing as he did so perhaps one of the most distinguished educational lives this university has ever known.

Watching this athlete reminds me of when I was a teenager. More than anything else in the world, I wanted to be an actress. You know, Star of Stage and Screen. I used to memorize lines from plays like Romeo and Juliet and Our Town, then toss them off to the bathroom mirror. Sometimes I’d practice one of the three or four acceptance speeches I’d written during math class: “I’d like to thank the Academy and also my mother for believing in me.” That sort of thing. There was only one problem. I couldn’t get in a real play. I went to tryout after tryout, but Mr. Bound, our high school drama coach, never seemed to notice how talented, how charming, how special I was.
So I worked harder and harder. I checked out library copies of the plays I knew he was producing. I worked on character interpretation and voice control. I practiced scenes with other students. I asked for advice. Surely if anyone deserved to be in a play, based on desire and determination alone, I did. But I was never selected to be in a play. Not even once. Instead, I got to sit on the front row and watch my best friend, a tall beautiful redhead, become our high school’s newest leading lady. My disappointment was so real I could taste it.
All of us would like to have the starring role in some aspect of our lives—at school, on stage, in the mission field, on center court—and sometimes we’re told if we only work hard enough, pray hard enough, sacrifice hard enough, whatever we want will be ours. But the truth is that most of us will not stand alone in the spotlight. Most of us will be part of the supporting cast—the person who stands by in the wings or on the sidelines.
I watch the quarterback take another snap, throw another ball. I know how much he wants to be his team’s starter, and I know how hard he works to make that dream a reality. I’m impressed. But I’m more impressed by how well he has played the demanding role of second-string quarterback.
Say hello to Blaine Fowler—husband, dad, college student, public speaker, stand-up comic, and Brigham Young University quarterback. Blaine likes to munch chips and salsa, dreams of taking a trip to Europe with his wife, Brenda, and their son, Kellen, and says he wouldn’t mind being Dr. J. because “basketball is my favorite sport.” He insists strangers confuse him with Kermit the Frog, although friends know him better for his dead-on imitations of Mutley the Dog and other Hanna-Barbera cartoon characters. He likes to fish, ski, play the guitar, and read (his favorite books are Huckleberry Finn and The Lord of the Rings trilogy). And, of course, he just loves to throw the football.
Maybe you’ve heard about Brigham Young University’s football team. In 1984, they were named national champions, the number one team in the United States. And if you’re really a sports fan you probably know a thing or two about the great quarterbacks the school has produced over the years. Gifford Nielsen, Marc Wilson, Jim McMahon, and Steve Young all went on to play professional football after their years at BYU were over. And now there’s Robbie Bosco, one of the best ever. In the past two years, Robbie has won more games than any of the team’s previous quarterbacks.
While Robbie continues to break NCAA records on the field, Blaine waits on the sidelines, perpetually ready for action.
Blaine, of course, is disappointed, and he frankly admits his frustration: “I would much rather be playing, and I would be happier if I were.” And, in fact, he had no reason to believe he wouldn’t start at quarterback when he entered college. At his old high school in Elmira, New York, Blaine played as a freshman on the varsity football team. (He was only the second freshman in the history of his school to do so—his cousin was the first.) As a sophomore, junior, and senior he started at quarterback on a team that won the league championship all three years. As a junior and senior he made all-state. As a senior, he was named the state’s most valuable player. He was recruited to play football by Pittsburgh, Penn State, Boston College, Purdue, and Wake Forest but chose to go to BYU because he felt “really comfortable” there.
But things didn’t work out exactly the way he wanted them to. Yet, in spite of his personal disappointment, Blaine doesn’t pout, doesn’t sulk, doesn’t bear a grudge. He seems to realize that although he cannot make a choice about playing on Saturday afternoons—that choice is made for him by other people—he can choose how he will react to the situation. His example can teach us all how to be the best supporting players we can.
Choose to keep a positive attitude. When things don’t go our way, we often take the course of least resistance and let negative feelings wash over us. Our disappointment can easily turn into resentment and bitterness.
When I didn’t realize my dream of starring in school plays, I became extremely critical of the drama department. I criticized the productions and the people involved with them frequently and loudly. “Well,” I’d say, “everyone knows Mr. Bound has favorites.” Occasionally I attacked the intelligence of the participants: “Don’t you know they all have noodles for brains?” I’d ask. Contrast my feelings with Blaine’s: “It is not the end of the world that I’m not playing football. My dad has always said that football should be played for the fun of it. It’s not a business, and if it ever becomes that then you shouldn’t play it anymore. So I’ve always taken that attitude toward it. If I’m having a good time, I’m not going to worry about things. And I’ve had a good time at BYU.”
Many people have commented on Blaine’s positive attitude, including a former English instructor who says that “Blaine is certainly no Pollyanna, but he does meet challenges happily and head-on.” Fellow teammate, Glen Kozlowski notes that “Blaine has always worked hard, kept his spirits up, and stayed ready to play whenever called upon.
His positive attitude is perhaps best demonstrated by this advice he gives for New Era readers: “Always strive to be good at something. Don’t let others tell you you’re too small, too slow, too dumb, too ugly, or just not good enough to accomplish great things. The only one standing between you and greatness is yourself.”
The truth is that while maintaining a positive attitude can be difficult—and it is certainly more difficult for some people to do than for others—we will be personally happier and healthier in the long run for doing it.
Choose to contribute. There are so many ways I could have contributed to my school’s drama program, if I just had been willing. I could have learned about set construction, stage makeup, costume design. I could have helped my friend learn her lines. But I didn’t. If I couldn’t be on stage where everyone saw me, I didn’t want to be involved at all.
It would have been easy for Blaine to just give up. But he didn’t. He works hard, giving 100 percent of himself all the time. Robbie Bosco, who calls Blaine a “friend, competitor, and teammate,” says that “Blaine is always ready to play.” BYU’s head football coach, LaVell Edwards, praises Blaine as both a person and an athlete, calling him an “unselfish player” who is dedicated to the welfare of the team as a whole. Quarterback coach Mike Holmgren is even more specific in his praise: “Blaine has sacrificed his own individual glory for the sake of team success. Blaine could have been the starter at a number of eastern universities but chose to stay at BYU, to compete for the quarterback position, and to contribute in any way that he could. His role is not easy, but it is essential to our team’s success.”
Coach Holmgren is not being merely gracious when he says Blaine’s role as backup quarterback has been critical to the team’s success: any athletic team is only as good as its second- and third-string players. These athletes are the ones who push the starters in practice, who give them a run for their money, who force them to give their best all the time. It’s unlikely that Robbie or any of the starters would be as good as they are if players like Blaine weren’t pushing them from behind.
Choose to remember the things that really matter. Perhaps both of the previous choices are made easier by knowing which things matter in the long run and which things do not. Football is not the most important thing in the world, and Blaine knows it. He says, “I realize that the family I have now is much more important than any football career I could have, and I realize that the Church is more important, too.” Blaine gives his father, Kirk Fowler, credit for his ability to put things into perspective. Of his father, Blaine says, “He always put his family first.”
Gospel teachings help us keep things in perspective. Being cut from a team, losing a boyfriend, making a lower grade than you strived for—these are all real disappointments. They can even be overwhelming. But it helps to remember that they are also temporal—that is, they are disappointments of this world and they are disappointments that will pass with the passing of time itself.
The practice is coming to a close now. The players begin taking off their helmets, shaking their heads. It makes no difference if they are first or second or third string—it’s all sore, they’re all tired. And in a very real sense, they’re all winners.

No long ago, after 42 years as members of the Church, we finally tracked down one of those tenacious missionaries who brought us the gospel. Reed Harris was then serving as a mission president in Chile. We shared a very emotional phone call. We wept as we talked of our families and our lives in the gospel. We thanked him for what the gospel has given us—a healthy lifestyle, love from our Heavenly Father, and a life full of blessings.

A Study Abroad Experience in Vienna
The BYU School of Music sponsors a study abroad program in Vienna, Austria, each spring term. I had never had a study abroad experience as a student or as a faculty member, and I had never been to Austria—or even to much of Europe. I really wanted this experience for myself and even more for my family.
In August 2015 I emailed the new director of the School of Music to let him know I would like to lead this program sometime.
He immediately replied, “How about this next spring term?”
Again I hesitated. That was only eight months away! I had no idea how to do anything in a study abroad program, but I knew that it would be a lot of work. And I did not speak German. What was I thinking?
But my husband, Steve, who was also anxious for this experience, said, “Reply yes!”
As I expected, it was a lot of work to ­prepare for the program. However, the ­experience was even more than I had hoped for. For a ­musician, Vienna—the home of Mozart, Schubert, Johann Strauss, and Beethoven, among others—is a paradise. We heard wonderful concerts and operas. We saw beautiful and historical places throughout Austria, Italy, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, and England. My teenage children not only experienced Europe but learned that they could face challenging and unknown situations and could learn to adapt—including adapting to haircuts from non–English-speaking Turks. They saw the Church as an international congregation in Vienna and as a branch of twenty in a village in England. All of the participants gained confidence and grew parts of their own testimonies. In addition, we added nineteen wonderful BYU students to our family circle. It was life changing.
I cringe to think that my hesitation might have robbed us of those experiences and of our individual opportunities for growth.

I have great respect for referees because they make many tough decisions which must be made in a split second and which are open to public view. But there are decisions in life that are much more important than those made by referees—decisions made in a slow, deliberate, prayerful, private manner. One such decision is whether or not to go on a mission. While I was growing up I had a desire to serve a mission. But when it finally came time to send in the papers, I was hesitant. The decision became filled with pressures. I didn’t know whether to leave after my freshman year, after my sophomore year, or after I had completed my college education. I fought with a multitude of inward thoughts and feelings. I also wondered if I had enough knowledge to go out there and give what was so precious to me to somebody else. I talked to a lot of people, and most of them willingly shared their opinions with me. Some said that I should go immediately, others said later, and some said I shouldn’t go at all. I wonder, if I had asked you, should I go now or later or not at all, what would you have told me?
Perhaps you would have been like one of our great priesthood leaders. I went to him, and we talked about my situation. He listened with patience and concern. After I expressed my feelings about being able to play basketball when I returned, he said, with words that sank deep into me, “Devin, if you serve a mission and serve faithfully, when you return you will be a better basketball player than you are now.”
I had great confidence in that man, and I felt that he was moved by the Spirit to say what he did. I felt he was talking to me personally and not to all athletes who serve missions, because each case is different. He could advise me, my parents could advise me, my friends could advise me, but they couldn’t serve for me. I was the one who was going, and no one else could make my decision. I had to make that myself.
In April of 1980 I entered the Missionary Training Center and began to learn Spanish to prepare to serve in Madrid, Spain. While in the MTC, I knew that I was doing the right thing. In my heart I wanted to someday return to play basketball. Yet at the same time I decided that even if I never played another game of collegiate ball I wouldn’t regret the decision that I had made.

I work closely with athletes as they prepare to be coaches and teachers. I find that some of them associate their worth with their behavior in the athletic arena. I remember a young track star who blew out her knee in a pickup basketball game during the off-season. Her world was shattered, and her identity was that of a good-for-nothing—useless. She was depressed and unproductive for several months because she felt her worth was dependent on her accomplishments, and she felt she would not be able to accomplish much now that she was injured. She worked very hard at her rehabilitation to get back to her earlier running form, and this story does have a happy ending. She did return to athletic glory. At that point in time, for her, her worth was determined by her athletic abilities. When I saw her with her young child several years later and asked her about her running, she remarked that wasn’t the focus of her life anymore. Perhaps love for her baby had helped her to understand that worth is not determined by accomplishments or talents or possessions or power or appearance. It’s a given from God and is always there.

I’ll never be able to last the whole two years, thought Suzanne, as she rested her head against the old seawall. She often came here when homesickness overwhelmed her, to dream of home and to look out over the blue water of the Gulf of Aegina.
Suddenly she heard a sound coming from the other side of the wall. Someone was crying. She stood up, and there on the other side of the wall was Katia, her arms hugging her knees. Suzanne had seen her every day in their class at the American school in Athens, Greece, but had never spoken to her.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
Startled, the girl stood up and then recognized Suzanne. “I’m sorry you’ve seen me this way. I do not often cry,” she said, brushing away her tears.
“Please,” said Suzanne, “tell me what’s wrong. I won’t say anything about it if you don’t want me to.”
“It was the test today. I saw everyone writing and writing. My mind would not work. I am very stupid.” Katia began to cry again.
“Someone who speaks English as well as you is not stupid,” said Suzanne.
As the girls talked, Suzanne learned that Katia was from the island of Hydra and had never been away from home before. All the city girls seemed to be smarter and wealthier than the island people she had always known.
“My people are only fishermen,” Katia explained. “It was a sacrifice for them to send me here. I thought I could win the big scholarship and go to study in America, but now I know I never will.”
“Well, don’t give up so easily. You have lots more time to study,” Suzanne comforted.
“It will not help,” insisted Katia. “I have made a big mistake to come here.”
“I feel the same way,” said Suzanne. “I am lonely for my old home, and I think that the years my father will be working at the embassy in Greece will be very long.”
Before the girls parted, they agreed to help each other and Suzanne suggested that they study together. “Perhaps,” she said, “you will win the scholarship to America after all.”
The next afternoon the girls took their books and met again at the seawall that they laughingly named their crying wall. Before they left, Suzanne assured Katia, “You are every bit as smart as the rest of the class. No one is better than anyone else, and no one is worse. You just have to have more confidence in yourself and know that you can do it.”
“But I don’t know,” said Katia sadly.
“You will.”
Almost every day the girls studied together and one was seldom seen without the other. Katia soon was passing tests with high marks.
The day the tests for the scholarship were given, Suzanne waited for Katia outside the classroom. “How did you do?” she asked.
“I think I’ve done well,” Katia answered. The girls hugged each other in excitement. “But we must wait for the results until the Friday before the weekend you have promised to visit my family on Hydra.”
“How could I forget that!” Suzanne replied.
The day that the results of the tests came back was gray and cold. Suzanne looked all over for Katia and finally hurried to their crying wall. Sure enough, Katia was there, crying bitterly.
“Oh, Suzanne, I came in second, and second gets nothing. It was all for nothing!”
Suzanne tried to comfort her, but her own thoughts were as gray as the clouds above and the sea below. Maybe I was wrong to build up Katia’s hopes, she thought as she packed for her weekend with Katia’s family. The trip on the boat to Hydra was fun, and Katia became excited, telling Suzanne about what they were going to do.
On Hydra they went quickly to Katia’s house. It was a small, whitewashed building with a lemon tree in the courtyard. Although Katia’s mother and father spoke only Greek, they were able to let Suzanne know how welcome she was.
It didn’t take long to see the entire village and to visit the shops and cafes. Katia seemed to know everyone and they all nodded and smiled in greeting. Although Katia seemed happy to see her old friends, Suzanne could tell that she was still sad and worried about the scholarship. Late in the afternoon as Suzanne rested, she could hear Katia downstairs talking long and earnestly with her mother.
That evening the girls went for a walk. The stars, big and bright, were just beginning to dot the sky, and Suzanne had the feeling that Katia was as distant and silent as the heavens were. “Is something wrong?” she asked at last. “What are you thinking? Can I help?”
“I was just thinking that my mother is right,” Katia answered. “My place is here. I am needed to teach right here on my island when I graduate from the school in Athens. It is not necessary that I go away to school. And also I am thinking that the studying we did was not for nothing. I learned very much. But most of all I am thinking how glad I am to have you for a friend.”
“And I’m thinking,” said Suzanne, “that since the day I met you at the crying wall, time has just flown. I will be sorry to leave Greece. Maybe we need a new name for that wall.”
“I think we do,” answered Katia.
The girls were both silent for a few minutes. Then at almost the same time they said, “How about calling it the laughing wall?”

One of my favorite examples of trust is contained in a story related by President N. Eldon Tanner. He was 14 years old, and his father, serving as bishop, had gone to prepare for a funeral. He had asked Eldon and his brothers to do the chores while he was gone.
“We decided to ride some calves before we did what he had told us to do. We thought we would have plenty of time, but he came home while we were still riding those calves, and he called us over to him. … he pointed his finger at me and said, ‘My boy, I thought I could depend on you.’ That hurt me very much. I can still almost recall the exact feeling I had at that time. I made up my mind that he would never have a reason to say, ‘I thought I could depend on you.’ Right then I made up my mind that the Lord would never have reason to say, ‘I thought I could depend on Eldon Tanner’” (New Era, Jan.–Feb. 1983, p. 14).

I had respect for all the doctrine and for the priesthood. Because I couldn’t hold the priesthood at that time, people often asked me, “What about the priesthood?” I told them that I had complete acceptance of it.

During the cornerstone laying of the São Paulo Temple, President Spencer W. Kimball motioned for me to come to him. I looked around to see whom he was looking at. He repeated the gesture. I did not understand. Elder James E. Faust looked at me and mouthed the words, “Come here. He wants to talk to you.” I went. President Kimball shook my hand and took hold of my arm and said, “Brother, what is necessary for you is faithfulness. Remain faithful, and you will enjoy all the blessings of the Church.”

A little more than a year later, in June 1978, we received a telephone call from a friend in Salt Lake City, Utah, telling us that President Kimball had announced the revelation* that all worthy males could hold the priesthood. I shall not forget that day. My wife cried. I cried. We kneeled to thank our Heavenly Father. After that, the phone rang many, many times. Friends from the United States and Brazil called us.

We were as tough as they come. In just a couple of weeks my friends and I would be graduating from eighth grade and be on our way to high school. One day during music time toward the end of that year, the teacher thrilled the boys by announcing that the high school freshman football coach was coming to talk to those interested in trying out for the team in the fall. Gladly, every boy in class joined the mass exodus into the gym.
We sat noisily on the floor, poking and jabbing each other when this mountain of a man walked in. He squared off, faced us, and said, “Men, if you want to play high school football, there are a few things I want you to do.” He outlined some basic conditioning techniques and cautioned us against eating too much candy and drinking too much soda pop. He told us to run every day and ride our bikes as often as possible. He even suggested we lift weights and find jobs that required discipline, strength, and stamina. He talked of the fun and thrill we could get by playing and winning but reminded us that the opponents were out to win as well.
As you might guess, the coach’s counsel went unheeded. We ate candy, goofed off, and took full advantage of a leisurely summer. Before we were ready, the summer was over and a letter came advising us where and when to pick up our football gear. On a hot August afternoon a rough-looking group of kids appeared at the gym door.
When all the equipment was issued, we were ordered onto the field, where the coach had us warm up by knocking shoulder pads with each other. We were then assigned positions according to size and where we happened to be standing. We were taught a few plays, which we practiced for about 30 minutes. By then we were all hot and tired.
The coach then blew his whistle and lined us up on the goal line. We expected a short pep talk before we headed for the welcome cool of the showers. We were mistaken. The coach said, “When I blow the whistle, run full speed to the 20-yard line, and line up there.” I didn’t see much sense in that, but we all obeyed. At the 20, he blew the whistle again and had us run back to the goal line. Now things were beginning to get ridiculous. Why would he want us to just run back and forth?
On the second sprint from the goal line to the 20, several of my friends ran to the sidelines, ripped off their helmets and began throwing up. I guess the combination of heat, physical exertion, and the poor shape we were in had taken its toll. On the way back from the 20 to the goal line, several more dropped out. Back to the 20 we went, only this time I started feeling sick. On my way back downfield to the goal line, I dropped out and joined my friends. The coach finally called us all together and rather sternly chewed us out for not taking seriously his challenge to prepare. He finished his speech by informing us that we would meet at 6:00 a.m. the next morning for a three-hour workout and more wind sprints. Several players assured the coach they wouldn’t be there. They walked to the locker room and turned in their gear.
True to the coach’s word, we started practice at 6:00 a.m. It wasn’t nearly so hot, but the wind sprints made a bunch of us sick all over again. When the coach announced another practice at 4:30 that afternoon, another half dozen guys quit.
The 4:30 practice was terrible. My muscles were sore. I even had soreness where I didn’t know I had muscles. By the next morning almost half the team had dropped out. But after a week the soreness was gone, the practices started to be fun, and the anticipation of the first game increased our excitement. By the end of the season we determined that the coach was right. Football was fun.

Several years ago, the Salt Lake City newspapers published an obituary notice of a close friend—a mother and wife taken by death in the prime of her life. I visited the mortuary and joined a host of persons gathered to express condolence to the distraught husband and motherless children. Suddenly the smallest child, Kelly, recognized me and took my hand in hers.
“Come with me,” she said; and she led me to the casket in which rested the body of her beloved mother. “I’m not crying, Brother Monson, and neither must you. My mommy told me many times about death and life with Heavenly Father. I belong to my mommy and my daddy. We’ll all be together again.”
Through tear-moistened eyes, I recognized a beautiful and faith-filled smile. To my young friend, whose tiny hand yet clasped mine, there would never be a hopeless dawn. Sustained by her unfailing testimony, knowing that life continues beyond the grave, she, her father, her brothers, her sisters, and indeed all who share this knowledge of divine truth, can declare to the world, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning” (Ps. 30:5).

It was late at night, and the house was dark and quiet. I knelt beside a fold-out camp cot, my bed while visiting at my sister’s house. My arms rested on the rough woolen blanket of the bed, and I closed my eyes, pouring all my effort into a fervent and determined prayer.
I was there because I had to learn the truth. I needed an answer to my prayers.
My search for the truth had begun almost a year before. At that time, I was a senior in high school, active in my own church, and happy with my family and my life. I didn’t know the Lord had greater things in store for me.
My sister and her husband had joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They were filled with missionary zeal and had come to visit us, hoping to share the joy they had found. My family and I were not receptive. We were very happy just as we were. But we did agree to accompany them to the Los Angeles Temple Visitors’ Center for a tour.
That was the beginning for me. The story of Joseph Smith and the translation of the Book of Mormon sounded terribly far-fetched, and yet, I thought, “If this is true, what an incredibly wonderful thing!”
So I decided to do a little research. Throughout that year, in my English class, we were assigned to write a series of research essays on a topic of our choice. I decided to compare and contrast my religion with the Latter-day Saint faith. My research included attending several ward meetings, interviewing members of the Church, reading the Book of Mormon, and writing many letters filled with gospel questions to my sister.
Although I was active in my church, I never felt the personal connection with God that the LDS people I met seemed to possess with such ease. As I spoke with them, I realized it was their understanding of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ that gave them such profound faith. I felt not envy but a great desire to believe and understand that what they testified to me was true.
After eight months, my sister invited me to visit her during my Easter vacation. I agreed, and we spent a week baking and laughing, cleaning and visiting, and discussing gospel principles. I didn’t realize it then, but the Spirit dwelt in that house. I was amazed at her ease in answering my questions. No matter what I asked, no matter how complex, she gave me a good understanding of that principle. I felt her love for me, and I felt God’s love for me. I did not know whether Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, but I desperately wanted to know.
So there I was, kneeling on the cold, hard floor, my eyes tightly shut, begging the Lord to answer my prayer, to tell me whether Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I felt if I could just know that, then everything else would fall into place. It would follow that he translated the Book of Mormon, that he received the revelations in the Doctrine and Covenants, and that he helped establish the Lord’s Church on the earth.
As I prayed, I felt loving arms surround me. I felt great warmth and joy flood my heart. And I heard a voice in my mind say, “Yes, Joseph Smith is a prophet of God.”
I wept for joy as I knelt there, feeling infinitely important to my Heavenly Father, important enough that He would listen to my stumbling, pleading prayer and answer me with such tenderness and compassion.
Grateful for the answer to my prayer and rejoicing in the truth I had found, I decided to be baptized. The only snag was that I had not had lessons from the missionaries yet. I contacted the missionaries, and they came immediately to teach me. The doctrines of the gospel were “as the dew from heaven distilling” (see Hymns, no. 149). I had not known of the Savior’s great love for me. I felt unworthy and began fervently to repent of the things I had said and done and thought that were out of harmony with the Lord’s teachings.
The change was gradual, but after six weeks of learning and praying and striving, I was baptized. I felt such overpowering joy, such purity as I came out of the water, that I knew my sins were forgiven, and I was worthy to be given the gift of the Holy Ghost.
Although the night I had prayed so fervently was long ago, because I knelt in faith before the Lord and received an answer from Him, I have a great testimony of prayer and of a loving Father in Heaven, a testimony that our Savior lives and loves us and that the Holy Ghost is always there to guide, strengthen, and comfort all who seek Him.

“I spent eighteen years teaching and fulfilling my responsibilities as a priest,” says Hsieh. “I was very busy, but I wasn’t happy. I had had the opportunity to study in Europe; I had been a teacher, a student, a professor, a chaplain, a seminary director—my life was colorful—but there was a spiritual void.”
And there were rules and customs within the Catholic church with which Hsieh was uncomfortable, such as the ban on certain books—and he liked to read and study all he could. Another problem that bothered him as an ordained priest was the Lord’s statement: “It is not good that the man should be alone” (Gen. 2:18).
“This particular scripture became a vivid reality for me once when I was seriously sick and there was no one close to take care of me. I felt very alone. I realized the need for a companion to share my life. I decided then that being alone forever wasn’t right.”
This combination of feelings built up over time. Finally, in 1973, he asked to be released from his priestly vows. He resigned from Fu Jen University and was immediately hired by National Cheng Chi University in Taipei. There, one year later, Hsieh met, courted, and married one of his university assistants. He was about fifty years old at this time.
“But giving up the priesthood was difficult for me,” he says. “I had been a priest for so long. Now I had given up everything that I had lived for up to that point in time. I missed sharing my knowledge and understanding of the gospel, something I had been able to do as a priest. I thought about becoming a minister in another church that allowed priests to marry. But because of my belief in the Catholic church, I couldn’t make that change.”
Three years after his marriage, Hsieh was alone in his home when two young men knocked on his door. “They asked to talk to me, and I said I had no time and no interest in whatever they wanted to talk about.
“But as I thought about them, I became more curious. I wanted to know who they were and what they were doing in Taiwan, so I looked out from the balcony of my apartment and saw them going from door to door. I waited for a long time for them to come out of one of the apartments, and then I called to them to come back to mine.
“The first question I asked them was, ‘Are you missionaries?’ When they answered yes, I questioned them about their religion. Many of my questions were left unanswered, and I didn’t feel satisfied with our first conversation.
“That evening, as I discussed their visit with my wife, she reminded me of the Lord’s admonition to ‘beware of false prophets.’” (See Matt. 7:15.)
When the missionaries made a return visit, Hsieh was not going to let them in, but he didn’t want to be impolite. For the entire evening, Hsieh explained to the missionaries what true religion should be. He did not tell them that he had been a Catholic priest, but they felt encouraged by his knowledge of Christianity.
One of the missionaries, Donald B. Cenatiempo, wrote of the experience, “I felt as if we were the students and he was the teacher. We could tell he was a very intelligent and religious man.” The missionaries asked if they could return, and Hsieh said yes. The visits became a weekly ritual.
“I didn’t want to send them away,” Hsieh remembers. “I thought that if their church were true, it would have a prophet and continuing revelation. I asked them why their church didn’t have crosses or crucifixes, and they said, ‘Because Christ is risen; Christ lives. If one of your friends or parents dies,’ they said, ‘do you take out a photograph of them dead and show it to everyone?’ I was spiritually touched by the wisdom of their response.”
Hsieh started to read the Book of Mormon and the Doctrine and Covenants, which he especially liked because it is a record of the Lord speaking to man in these latter days. He asked for other books to read, and the missionaries gave him a copy of A Marvelous Work and a Wonder, by Elder LeGrand Richards.
“We told Brother Hsieh that it was possible for him to receive the priesthood and perform certain duties within that priesthood,” Elder Cenatiempo wrote. “Brother Hsieh understood as well as anybody could in his stage of spiritual progression what it would mean to hold the priesthood—the true priesthood of God.”
Hsieh explained to his wife what he had read, and she found it very interesting. Together, they began to study and pray for understanding. Eventually, Hsieh’s wife announced to the missionaries, “We have prayed and we feel it best to be baptized together.” They were baptized in December 1977.
In the years since that special event in their lives, they have developed strong testimonies that they enjoy sharing with others.
“We have always said that we would be willing to do whatever the Lord wants us to do,” says Brother Hsieh. “And we’ve always tried to use every opportunity and every talent he has given us to help build up the kingdom of God on the earth and to share the gospel message.”
Some unique opportunities have opened up to Brother Hsieh to do this. He has lectured seven times at the International Conference for Christian Professors. “They are interested in the Church because it is quite new and unique in modern Christianity,” he says. “The Lord has given me many opportunities to bear my testimony to these scholars.”
Currently, Brother Hsieh, a member of the Mu Cha Ward, serves as a high councilor in the Taipei Taiwan West Stake and has assisted in work on a second Chinese translation of the Book of Mormon.
“The gospel is the love of God,” he says. “It is important that all men and women hear this message. What we do, we do for the glory of God and the salvation of souls. Friendship is the method by which we share the gospel. The final goal for all is salvation and exaltation.”

Let me share another example. Fousseyni Traore came to BYU in the fall of 2021. Fouss, as he was affectionately called by BYU fans, came to the United States from Bamako, Mali, in West Africa, to play basketball at Wasatch Academy a few years prior to entering BYU. When he came to the United States, he spoke a Mali dialect of Bambara as well as French; English was his third language, and he spoke little of it.

Fouss left his loving family in West Africa and arrived with little more than a backpack, a small amount of clothing, and a few personal items. While at Wasatch Academy, he experienced the love and support of two host families: Troy and Holly Zentner and Rich and Lisa Saunders. Both families had transformative impacts on Fouss’s life.

Fouss was recruited by several high-profile college basketball programs, including BYU. In all reality, Fouss would not have ended up in Utah or at BYU if it hadn’t been for his exceptional basketball skills. When the time came for Fouss to decide what university to attend, he relied heavily on his faith. Fouss is a man of faith, and this began with his devotion to the Muslim religion. He made the decision a matter of serious prayer. His faith and prayers led him to select BYU.

Fouss’s Muslim faith matched well with BYU’s faith-based focus and high character standards, and he had a historic career at BYU. He left BYU as all-time leader in career field goal percentage (61 percent)5 and as sixth all-time in rebounds (868).6 More importantly, Fouss was an excellent representative of BYU to the world. Shortly after graduating from BYU, Fouss went on to play professional basketball in France. That was a great BYU ending for a terrific former student-athlete; however, the story doesn’t end there. In December 2025, Fousseyni Traore made the decision to become a baptized member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Jesus Christ has the power to make BYU a transformative experience. It did for Fousseyni Traore!

Almost 40 years ago my husband and I went to the temple for our Friday night date. We had been married only a short time, and I was nervous because this was only my second time as a newlywed. A sister sitting next to me must have noticed. She leaned over and whispered reverently, “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.” My fears were calmed, and I was able to enjoy the rest of the temple session. She first observed, then served.

The pony’s brown hair was like a short-bristled brush, heavier and stiffer than Brian had imagined. And now that he was standing next to it, the pony seemed quite tall. Brian had to look up to see her eyes. “You wouldn’t seem so big to the other boys in my class,” said Brian, remembering how small he was compared to them. It was hard sometimes to be the smallest boy in class. The little horse suddenly jerked its head back and pawed the soft dirt. She’s almost as excited as I am, Brian thought.
The booming loudspeaker suddenly broke into Brian’s thoughts. “The next rider will be Jimmy Nelson, coming out of the white gate.” Brian scrambled up the sides of the red gate to watch. Jimmy sat three seats ahead of him in school. He was the biggest boy in the class, a great ballplayer, and had a horse of his own. If anyone can ride one of the wild ponies, it’s Jimmy, Brian decided. None of the other boys had been able to stay on their ponies, and only he and Jimmy still had a chance. He watched his friend settle down on the animal and grasp the wide leather cinch fastened around the horse’s middle like a belt.
Jimmy looked confident as he told the cowboys working in the chute that he was ready. The bell rang and the boy shot out of the gate on the brown and white pony. In an instant the pair were jouncing up and down. The pony kicked, twisted, and turned, trying to throw the rider from its back.
The crowd cheered as Jimmy hung onto his bucking mount. Suddenly the little horse reared back and violently rocked forward. Jimmy sailed straight over the horse’s head just as the buzzer went off. He landed on his shoulders in the soft brown dirt. But before the pickup cowboy arrived to help him, Jimmy was up, shaking his head and kicking the dirt in disgust. The crowd clapped for Jimmy’s good try as he walked across the arena.
Now Brian began to wonder if he should have signed up to ride in the Little Buckaroo Rodeo. He had been around horses before, but he hadn’t had much experience. If Jimmy Nelson can’t ride his horse, how can I ever stay on for eight seconds? Brian asked himself. He knew that all he had going for him was a powerful desire. “I’m going to try and hang on, and I’ll do it!” he declared under his breath.
“OK, son, it’s your turn,” said the big cowboy who was working the red chute. Then smiling at him, the man added, “Just remember to hold on with all your might and lean back as far as you can.”
Brian scrambled up the sides of the metal chute and stood for a second looking down at the pony. “I’m going to do it,” he told the little animal. “You’d better understand that right now.” He climbed over the top rail, kicked his leg out, and settled down on the pony’s back that was so broad Brian’s short legs didn’t come halfway down its sides. As he put his full weight on the pony, it jumped.
Brian slipped his left hand under the leather strap, and jammed his cowboy hat on his head with the other hand. Then he slipped his right hand under the belt and the big cowboy pulled it tight.
The announcer called Brian’s name and the boy leaned back and threw his legs up on the horse’s shoulders. “Let go if you start to fall off,” the cowboy warned him. He smiled and winked at Brian and asked, “Ready?”
“Ready!” shouted Brian as he grasped the strap with all his might and leaned back as far as he could. The bell rang and out jumped the pony. Brian imagined he was sitting still and the world around him was jumping up and down and spinning around. The little horse kicked and bucked as hard as she could, but this rider was not going to lose his hold. Up went the horse and up went the rider. The pony spun and kicked again, but Brian stuck to her like glue. Finally, the pony gave a violent heave and Brian’s cowboy hat went flying into the air. Although he slipped over a little to one side of the horse, the boy hung on with all his might.
After what seemed like an hour of roller coaster riding, he heard the buzzer sound, and then he let go and “bit the dust!” Slowly Brian got up, brushed the dirt from his face and clothes, and looked around, not sure where everything was. The pickup man pointed over to the side of the arena. He handed Brian his hat and said, “That was an awfully nice ride, cowboy; you had a real mean horse.”
Brian could hear the crowd cheer for him as he made his way from the arena. He was still spitting dirt as he looked up into the thousands of faces in the stands to see if he could locate his family. Then he saw them wildly waving their hands at him and smiling. Brian grinned and waved back.
“The winner of the pony bareback-riding event is Brian Johnson,” the announcer called.
The littlest cowboy had won!

President Hinckley’s sense of humor gives him a light touch in many settings. For example, while chairing a budget session held early one afternoon in which Church Educational System managers were presenting their budget needs for the coming year, feelings became intense. Another General Authority turned to President Hinckley and asked, “What do you think?” President Hinckley, who had been listening with his chin resting on the palms of his hands, replied: “I think I am never again going to have stuffed pork chops for lunch.” Everyone laughed, and the tension was diffused.

As a young boy growing up in an active Latter-day Saint family, Ken G. had never had much trouble keeping his standards high. But when he started high school, things became harder and Ken sometimes felt isolated from the good influence of his family—especially at school.
“My high school friends were all really close to me even though they were not members of the Church,” Ken says. “We still had a strong connection. The problem was they started doing things that did not follow the standards of our Church.”
At home Ken never had a problem choosing the right, but he says that when he got to school and his family was no longer around to help guide him, he started making wrong choices. “I admit I did things that were not in line with the standards of the Church, so in seminary I always felt like I was the one being talked about in the lesson.”
That’s when Ken realized he wanted to make a change, but he didn’t feel strong enough to do it on his own. “So I made a resolution to pray for God to give me the strength and the courage to say no to my friends when they did bad things,” he explains. “And I feel that God answered my prayers. It became easier for me to say no whenever my friends asked me to do something wrong or tempted me. I already had the knowledge and knew what was right and wrong. But then, through prayer, I felt like I had the power and the gift to say no and to do what was right.”
Ken says the most important thing he learned from this experience is that “prayer is a sign of your humility, because you admit to yourself that you are weak and that only God can help you become strong” (see D&C 112:10).

I am the only Church member in my family and when I joined the Church, I never thought of going on mission, but as I continued to exercise my faith, the Lord blessed me with immense blessings, and I experienced miracles, and this gave me the courage to decide to go on a mission. I have been called to serve in the India Bengaluru mission and I reported to the Philippines missionary training center on March 7. I am looking forward to a lifetime of rich and fruitful experiences that I can pass on to my descendants.