Gospel Story Finder

That October conference, Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles shared some of his experiences related to moving his young family to Connecticut for graduate school. We had also moved to Connecticut for graduate school. Then he described how he and his family had fit all of their possessions into their little car—we had done the same. He explained that when the trip began, his car had overheated and broken down not once but twice! Our vehicle also broke down twice.
Finally, he described a more recent experience of driving a reliable car by the spot where his car had broken down 30 years earlier. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself as a young father and said these words: “Don’t give up, boy. Don’t you quit. … There is help and happiness ahead—a lot of it. … You keep your chin up. It will be all right in the end. Trust God and believe in good things to come.”1Elder Holland’s experience helped me feel understood and loved. His example gave me the courage to seek the spiritual witness that more education for my husband was the will of the Lord for our family.

The next speaker took his time getting to the podium. He was close to a hundred years old. He had been Grandma’s bishop when she was first married and was still her bishop when she sent her first son on a mission. Even now, everyone still called him Bishop Jensen.
“I loved Annie when she was a teenager,” he said hoarsely, his brown hands trembling. Then he chuckled. “Oh, she wasn’t my girlfriend, mind you. She had pluck. When it was haying time, she’d offer to help us and everyone else in the valley. And I remember the day she came racing over to our house on that chestnut horse. She wanted us to be the first to see the saddle she won at the rodeo.”
Grandma had won a saddle? I shook my head incredulously. Maybe old Bishop Jensen wasn’t remembering quite right.
I left the funeral feeling as if I had forgotten something. One sentence by the last speaker had caught me, as if Grandma were speaking to me. But now his words were gone from my mind. It’s no use anyway, I thought. There’s nothing I can do for Grandma now. I can never wipe away last Saturday at the corral.
“I never knew Grandma had a chestnut horse,” I said to Dad as we drove to the cemetery.
“I think I only heard her talk about that horse once,” he said.
“And the saddle?” I asked.
“That was news to me. With me being the youngest of seven boys, I guess she was tired of telling the same stories by the time I came along.”
Several horses were dozing against the pasture fence as we turned into the cemetery. A stylish palomino raised its head. It looked like the horse owned by that blonde down in Glenville.
“You better not let her beat you at the barrels,” Grandma had said.
There is something I can do for Grandma, I thought. I can beat the rodeo queen in the barrel racing competition.
I was next. Ginger knew it too. She kept prancing sideways and tugging on the reins.
“Easy, girl. Don’t get all worked up before we get out there.”
The afternoon was warm. Sweat was already seeping from under Ginger’s saddle blanket. The reins felt sticky in my fingers.
The crowd roared as last year’s rodeo queen zoomed out for her turn at the barrels. I could see her blonde braids streaming behind her. She zipped sleekly around the first barrel and bolted for the next.
This blonde and I were the last two barrel racers. The other competitors’ times had been mediocre, so I felt Ginger and I still had a chance.
The rodeo queen circled the second barrel without a hitch. Uneasily, I eyed the last barrel. Maybe she would tip it over and get disqualified.
I could see the girl and her horse lean together around the third barrel. It was too close. The barrel rocked wildly. But it didn’t go over. At least it might have knocked a couple of seconds off her time. The crowd thundered as she spurted toward the finish.
I’ll show them, I thought, as I positioned Ginger for a run into the arena. But I was scared.
I charged out. The flag dropped at the starting line as Ginger and I flashed past. I hadn’t thought of Grandma until that very second. Suddenly I had a feeling that beating this rodeo queen was not what Grandma had in mind.
Ginger’s black mane flew in my face as I reined her low around the right barrel. She veered around it smooth and tight—just like a pro. I didn’t feel as much like a pro. I was slightly off balance and bumpy as we raced down the arena to the far barrel. Ginger went a little wide on this barrel, but we were still on target.
Now for the last barrel. I was in her rhythm again, so my confidence rose. “Dig, Ginger, dig,” I whispered, leaning over her neck.
She flicked her ear back briefly. I felt the tremble before blastoff.
Then we were hurtling toward the last barrel. Too fast. I tried to check her, but we were already swerving steeply around the barrel. I was off balance, askew in my stirrups. Ginger was sliding. Too far. We were falling. In slow motion, we were crashing into the barrel. Grandma’s sad gray eyes flashed before me. “You can do it,” she was saying.
“I’m sorry, Grandma. I thought I could beat her.”
I was falling.
“I was never too good with words,” said Grandma. “But you are.”
“No, my words hurt you.”
Falling. Falling.
“It’s okay,” whispered Grandma. “I know you can write it.”
“Write what?” I muttered.
Then I hit the barrel.
When I came to, I was deep in rodeo arena dirt, and Ginger’s hot breath was in my face. But I knew what I needed to do.
A cowboy was leaning over me. “Write what?” he said.
“Did I say something?” I asked.
“You keep saying you need to write something.”
I rolled to my feet. “That’s right. I do need to write it.”
“You all right?” he asked.
“I’m just fine.”
I started by interviewing Grandma’s seven sons. They each gave me a different view of Grandma’s life.
“Mom was the only widow I knew who could get seven kids ready for church and still be five minutes early,” said Uncle Orvil.
“Mom would feed every hobo who’d come along the tracks,” said Uncle Russ. “I was scared of them and would hide behind her skirts. But she wasn’t scared. She’d just put them to work chopping wood.”
“I remember Mom telling me that she wanted to be Annie Oakley when she was little,” said Uncle Rolfe, “so she took her stick horse and ran away. She was gone for most of the day. Half the county was looking for her. They finally found her fast asleep in a pasture full of unbroken mustangs.”
“Long before anyone had heard of family home evening, Mom had what she called family time once a week,” said Uncle Matt. “There was no getting around it. We had to be there.”
None of my uncles knew much about the chestnut horse or the rodeo saddle.
“Mom kept pretty silent on some things,” said Sid, my oldest uncle. “All I know is that she didn’t have that horse very long.”
He motioned to several boxes of scrapbooks and letters. “But you might find something there. You’re welcome to take them home with you.”
Digging through the scrapbooks, I finally found a small picture of Grandma on her chestnut horse. “Me and Flash, 1930” was scrawled on the back. I was surprised how much Grandma looked like me sitting on that horse. Straight brown hair and freckles.
When my great-uncle Al came to town, I asked him, “Do you know any other stories about Grandma besides the ones you told at the funeral?”
“Oh, I’m chock-full of tales about my sister,” he said. “I remember her first date with your Grandpa.”
Date? It had never occurred to me that someone would actually remember Grandma going on a date.
“To be honest, I remember her second date better. It was almost the last. Her first date was kind of normal. She came home with this goofy smile on her face and walked past me like I didn’t exist. But on her second date, she came home scratching like a hen in the barnyard. I thought she must have fleas. She kept yelling, ‘I can’t stand it,’ all the while yanking at her clothes and peeling down her socks. Come to find out, Harry’s old Plymouth also served as a truck. He’d forgotten to take the chicken feed sacks out in time for his date. Harry and Annie got covered with chicken mites. They were scratching like a couple of dogs all night and didn’t dare say a word to each other. Luckily, chicken mites would rather be on chickens than people, so Annie got over it quick. But it took a few weeks for her and Harry to get back together.”
Uncle Al and my dad were laughing so hard tears were running down their cheeks. Suddenly I remembered the words from the funeral. “Whoever does Annie’s life story is in for a few laughs.”
Uncle Al knew a little more about her chestnut horse. “Oh, yes, how she loved that little mare. Annie’s dream was to become a trick rider and ride in rodeos and wild west shows.”
“A trick rider?”
“Yep, she got pretty good at it too, considering she didn’t have that horse very long. I did watch her fall a few times in the pasture.”
“Did she barrel race too?”
“Oh, no, that was before the days of barrel racing,” he said. “But she did enter some sort of horsemanship event at the rodeo. Maybe you’ve heard about the saddle she won?”
I nodded.
Uncle Al shook his head. “It’s too bad about that saddle. I don’t think she ever got to use it.”
“She didn’t?” I said.
“Nope. She sold Flash right after that.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I have my suspicions. But the person who might know is my brother Bill.”
I hugged my notebook as I entered the rest home. Uncle Bill, Grandma’s next oldest brother, always made me a little nervous. He tended to get confused when he talked. But today he seemed sharp.
“Why did Annie sell her horse?” he repeated, leaning forward in his wheelchair. “Well, the Depression was coming on. I told her it didn’t matter; I could earn the money myself. But she had already made up her mind. Maybe you know how bullheaded she could be. She wanted to do her part for my mission. She said she couldn’t stand watching Flash eat hay in the barn while I might be hungry in England.”
“And she sold her new rodeo saddle too?” I said.
“Well, I don’t recollect that she did,” replied Uncle Bill, scratching the top of his head. “I think she kept that saddle a long time, hoping to buy another horse so she could be a trick rider. Then later on she hoped to have a daughter to give it to. To be honest, I don’t know what happened to that saddle.”
I had almost completed Grandma’s history by the time I found out what happened to her prize saddle. I ran across a letter from Bishop Jensen in the box of papers Uncle Sid had given me.
“Dear Annie: I know how you like your gifts to be anonymous. But I just wanted to tell you how thrilled the Hansens are with your saddle. They were afraid of paralysis after the accident, but now their little Marie seems determined to put that saddle on a horse. I knew you wanted your saddle to go to a girl who loves horses, and there’s no doubt Marie loves horses.”
I finished Grandma’s history and made copies for my family. Everyone was thrilled, including Bishop Jensen, who turned 100 years old the day I gave him his copy.
By the way, I never did beat that sassy blonde from Glenville in the barrels. She got married that summer and moved away. But the next year, I shortened my stirrups a notch like Grandma said and won second place. First place went to Rebecca Williams, who happened to be “little” Marie Hansen’s daughter.
Grandma’s saddle deserved to win first.

As a young man I worked with a contractor building footings and foundations for new houses. In the summer heat it was hard work to prepare the ground for the form into which we poured the cement for the footing. There were no machines. We used a pick and a shovel. Building lasting foundations for buildings was hard work in those days.
It also required patience. After we poured the footing, we waited for it to cure. Much as we wanted to keep the jobs moving, we also waited after the pour of the foundation before we took away the forms.
And even more impressive to a novice builder was what seemed to be a tedious and time-consuming process to put metal bars carefully inside the forms to give the finished foundation strength.
In a similar way, the ground must be carefully prepared for our foundation of faith to withstand the storms that will come into every life. That solid basis for a foundation of faith is personal integrity.
Our choosing the right consistently whenever the choice is placed before us creates the solid ground under our faith. It can begin in childhood, since every soul is born with the free gift of the Spirit of Christ. With that Spirit we can know when we have done what is right before God and when we have done wrong in His sight.
Those choices, hundreds in most days, prepare the solid ground on which our edifice of faith is built. The metal framework around which the substance of our faith is poured is the gospel of Jesus Christ, with all its covenants, ordinances, and principles.
One of the keys to an enduring faith is to judge correctly the curing time required. That is why I was unwise to pray so soon in my life for higher mountains to climb and greater tests.
That curing does not come automatically through the passage of time, but it does take time. Getting older does not do it alone. It is serving God and others persistently with full heart and soul that turns testimony of truth into unbreakable spiritual strength.
Now, I wish to encourage those who are in the midst of hard trials, who feel their faith may be fading under the onslaught of troubles. Trouble itself can be your way to strengthen and finally gain unshakable faith. Moroni, the son of Mormon in the Book of Mormon, told us how that blessing could come to pass. He teaches the simple and sweet truth that acting on even a twig of faith allows God to grow it:
“And now, I, Moroni, would speak somewhat concerning these things; I would show unto the world that faith is things which are hoped for and not seen; wherefore, dispute not because ye see not, for ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith.
“For it was by faith that Christ showed himself unto our fathers, after he had risen from the dead; and he showed not himself unto them until after they had faith in him; wherefore, it must needs be that some had faith in him, for he showed himself not unto the world.
“But because of the faith of men he has shown himself unto the world, and glorified the name of the Father, and prepared a way that thereby others might be partakers of the heavenly gift, that they might hope for those things which they have not seen.
“Wherefore, ye may also have hope, and be partakers of the gift, if ye will but have faith.”
That particle of faith most precious and which you should protect and use to whatever extent you can is faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. Moroni taught the power of that faith this way: “And neither at any time hath any wrought miracles until after their faith; wherefore they first believed in the Son of God.”
I have visited with a woman who received the miracle of sufficient strength to endure unimaginable losses with just the simple capacity to repeat endlessly the words “I know that my Redeemer lives.” That faith and those words of testimony were still there in the mist that obscured but did not erase memories of her childhood.
I was stunned to learn that another woman had forgiven a person who had wronged her for years. I was surprised and asked her why she had chosen to forgive and forget so many years of spiteful abuse.
She said quietly, “It was the hardest thing I have ever done, but I just knew I had to do it. So I did.” Her faith that the Savior would forgive her if she forgave others prepared her with a feeling of peace and hope as she faced death just months after she had forgiven her unrepentant adversary.
She asked me, “When I get there, how will it be in heaven?”
And I said, “I know just from what I have seen of your capacity to exercise faith and to forgive that it will be a wonderful homecoming for you.”
I have another encouragement to those who now wonder if their faith in Jesus Christ will be sufficient for them to endure well to the end. I was blessed to have known others of you who are listening now when you were younger, vibrant, gifted beyond most of those around you, yet you chose to do what the Savior would have done. Out of your abundance you found ways to help and care for those you might have ignored or looked down upon from your place in life.
When hard trials come, the faith to endure them well will be there, built as you may now notice but may have not at the time that you acted on the pure love of Christ, serving and forgiving others as the Savior would have done. You built a foundation of faith from loving as the Savior loved and serving for Him. Your faith in Him led to acts of charity that will bring you hope.
It is never too late to strengthen the foundation of faith. There is always time. With faith in the Savior, you can repent and plead for forgiveness. There is someone you can forgive. There is someone you can thank. There is someone you can serve and lift. You can do it wherever you are and however alone and deserted you may feel.
I cannot promise an end to your adversity in this life. I cannot assure you that your trials will seem to you to be only for a moment. One of the characteristics of trials in life is that they seem to make clocks slow down and then appear almost to stop.
There are reasons for that. Knowing those reasons may not give much comfort, but it can give you a feeling of patience. Those reasons come from this one fact: in Their perfect love for you, Heavenly Father and the Savior want you fitted to be with Them to live in families forever. Only those washed perfectly clean through the Atonement of Jesus Christ can be there.
My mother fought cancer for nearly 10 years. Treatments and surgeries and finally confinement to her bed were some of her trials.
I remember my father saying as he watched her take her last breath, “A little girl has gone home to rest.”
One of the speakers at her funeral was President Spencer W. Kimball. Among the tributes he paid, I remember one that went something like this: “Some of you may have thought that Mildred suffered so long and so much because of something she had done wrong that required the trials.” He then said, “No, it was that God just wanted her to be polished a little more.” I remember at the time thinking, “If a woman that good needed that much polishing, what is ahead for me?”
If we have faith in Jesus Christ, the hardest as well as the easiest times in life can be a blessing. In all conditions, we can choose the right with the guidance of the Spirit. We have the gospel of Jesus Christ to shape and guide our lives if we choose it. And with prophets revealing to us our place in the plan of salvation, we can live with perfect hope and a feeling of peace. We never need to feel that we are alone or unloved in the Lord’s service because we never are. We can feel the love of God. The Savior has promised angels on our left and our right to bear us up. And He always keeps His word.

When President Russell M. Nelson worked as a surgeon, many young people asked him how long it takes to become a medical doctor. He told them that after four years of undergraduate work, they needed four more years of medical school and then another five years to become a specialist.
“That’s too long for me!” some responded.
Then President Nelson would tell them: “Preparation for your career is not too long if you know what you want to do with your life. How old will you be thirteen years from now if you don’t pursue your education? Just as old, whether or not you become what you want to be!”5

When facing some difficult challenges when I was a teenager, I remember praying to Heavenly Father, asking Him to just take them away from me. I knew He could. I knew He had the power to. But every morning when I woke up, the trials would still be there! I would be devastated. My heart would sink, my faith in the Lord would dwindle. I would feel completely abandoned.

Sometimes I thought my trials were given just to torment me. I couldn’t see any point to them.

One day, I came across these words from Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles: “When those moments come and issues surface, the resolution of which is not immediately forthcoming, hold fast to what you already know and stand strong until additional knowledge comes.”1

I didn’t know the reasons for my trials at that time, but I decided to focus on what I did know. And I did know deep down that if God wasn’t taking my trials away, there had to be a reason for what I was going through, even if I didn’t understand what that reason was at the time. So I continued to put my faith and trust in Him. I kept hoping some “additional knowledge” would come.

And for me in some of my trials, that knowledge finally did come. And even if it didn’t, the Lord still blessed me in other ways.

President Spencer W. Kimball taught that without trials and challenges in life, “there would be no test of strength, no development of character, no growth of powers, no free agency, only satanic controls.”2

There has to be opposition in all things (see 2 Nephi 2:11). Otherwise, how would we ever appreciate the good without the bad? How would we ever feel triumphant when we beat a challenge? We wouldn’t be able to grow if God just magically waved trials away when we asked Him to! When I realized this, my whole perspective on adversity and trials changed. I began to see the good in them.

Trials bring goodness, growth, and strength like nothing else can. But sometimes it can take a while to recognize that goodness. For example, I’ve faced a heavy trial for years, and I may have to face it for the rest of my life.

This particular trial has stretched me, pushed me, and almost defeated me a few times. But now that I look back on everything this trial has put me through, I can honestly say that I am thankful for it. I’m thankful for all my trials.

I’m a different person now because of them. I’m more compassionate, more patient, more forgiving, more resilient, and more hopeful. Through it all, I’ve grown closer to my Heavenly Father and the Savior more than I ever thought I could be. I wouldn’t be who I am today without all my trials.

Adversity is meant to shape you into the person Heavenly Father wants you to become. Trials are definitely challenging, yes, but through it all, they allow you to reach out to God for help, and to feel the comfort, peace, and joy only He can offer you.

If you are struggling to see the good in them now, be patient, keep praying, and have faith. Heavenly Father can strengthen you to endure them well as you continue to put your trust in Him.

Elder Neil L. Andersen of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has taught: “Challenges, difficulties, questions, doubts—these are part of our mortality. But we are not alone. As disciples of the Lord Jesus Christ, we have enormous spiritual reservoirs of light and truth available to us.”3

If you’re facing a difficult trial, you’re in good company. The Lord is very close to you. He will not abandon you. And He can give you more strength and more courage and more faith than you can imagine.

Though it may seem impossible, you truly can have joy in your trials! In fact, President Russell M. Nelson has taught: “When the focus of our lives is on God’s plan of salvation and Jesus Christ and His gospel, we can feel joy regardless of what is happening—or not happening—in our lives. Joy comes from and because of Him. He is the source of all joy.”4

Having joy in your trials comes from focusing on gratitude, having a good attitude, serving others, and always remembering how much God loves you. He is on your side! He wants what’s best for you. He has a plan. Trust Him. He can bring you true happiness. Things might not always be easy in this life, but it is possible to have joy in whatever circumstances we find ourselves in!

Whenever you’re feeling discouraged, remember that everything will make sense one day. We will have all the answers to our “whys.”

Doctrine and Covenants 101:32–33 says: “In that day when the Lord shall come, he shall reveal all things. Things which have passed, and hidden things which no man knew, things of the earth by which it was made, and the purpose and the end thereof.”

I look forward to that day when everything will make sense. When all the dots finally connect. When everything will absolutely work out. Because it will! Though the tunnels of trials we enter may be long sometimes, the light at the end will never go out. It will always be there to guide us. Just keep going. Just keep trusting in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. They will be with you! And you will find true joy throughout this adventure we call life.

As the Maid of Iowa docked in Nauvoo to unload its passengers—more than three hundred British converts—Captain Dan Jones, also a new convert, anxiously searched the crowd of greeters for the Prophet Joseph Smith.
Captain Jones had never seen Joseph Smith, so he was startled when a “large, comely man” approached him and shook his hand, saying “God bless you, brother.” When the man returned a little later, Dan Jones realized that this was the very person for whom he was looking.

It was two weeks before Christmas, and the familiar stress of the season was upon me. I had presents to buy, a tree to decorate, and gifts to deliver.
For several months I had felt overwhelmed by the daily tasks that face a mother of five young children. I had even felt mechanical in my Church attendance as I wrestled with my little ones on the bench. I longed for an increase of the Spirit and of spiritual experiences in my life.
About this time my sister purchased a new home in a neighboring state and was trying to get things settled before Christmas. That would be a lot of work for any family, but for hers it would be even more difficult. My sister was eight months pregnant, a mother of two small children, and the caregiver of her quadriplegic husband.
Realizing the struggle she faced, I called her to see how things were progressing. She was optimistic about the move and hopeful that members of her new ward would be supportive. After our conversation I hung up the phone, wishing her good luck and wondering how I could help from 400 miles (650 km) away.
That evening the thought kept coming to my mind that I needed to be there to help. But as I looked at my schedule, I dismissed the thought and went to bed.
The next morning I awoke with the same prompting. The feeling was so strong this time that I could not deny it. I called my husband and said, “I need to go help my sister.” Without hesitation, he responded, “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
I called my sister, told her my plans, and booked a flight for that afternoon. I quickly packed my suitcase, kissed my children good-bye, and headed to the airport.
Over the next three days I unpacked boxes, organized rooms, and helped decorate a Christmas tree. After most of the boxes were unpacked, I sat with my sister and her family, admiring their pretty tree. My five-year-old niece, pleased that her family was ready for Christmas, exclaimed, “This is going to be a great Christmas!”
As I flew home, I knew that by giving part of myself to this sweet family, I had felt the Spirit, which I had been yearning to feel. It came because I had served others.

Matt James, 26, of Utah, USA, feels it’s part of his mission in life to help those who weren’t born into the privileges he enjoys. It’s partly a result of being raised by philanthropic parents, and partly because of a sense of responsibility best expressed by the words of “Because I Have Been Given Much” (Hymns, no. 219). After Matt served a full-time mission in Ireland and Scotland, his heart was drawn toward the African refugees he’d taught and baptized there, so when the chance to go to Uganda came up, he went.
Even though he had already traveled to Ethiopia, Peru, and India, “Uganda changed my life,” says Matt. “I know that God led me to that specific part of the world for a very wise purpose.” Part of that purpose was to befriend and eventually baptize a woman named Carolyn. And part was to have his heart touched by the orphans he worked with. When it was time to leave, Matt didn’t want to lose touch with these people he had grown to care for. So he spoke with his parents, who offered to help him with the funds to construct an orphanage with Carolyn in a small town called Mbale.
Carolyn, who herself grew up as an orphan, continues to oversee the orphanage’s operations. Matt returns to Uganda every summer and has partnered with others to build a larger orphanage, providing shelter and education for over 200 children. And he now runs a jewelry-making business that helps sustain the orphanage.
As Matt says, we all have certain things in life that God has blessed us to care about. “I firmly believe that if everybody were to be true to themselves and put the work forth, follow the path that’s laid out in front of them and take the opportunities that are given to them, that everyone would find their cause. And if everyone were to find their cause and be diligent, the world would be a much, much better place.”
Finding your “cause” doesn’t have to be complicated. “Pray to God and strive to find your passions,” Matt suggests. “Pray to find out what those things are that you care about, that you can have your sphere of influence touch, and do it.”

I was born on March 7, 1998, in Congo Town, near Monrovia. Growing up, I attended church regularly with my grandmother in another church. Unfortunately, when she died in 2009 from pressure (hypertension), my church attendance stopped because there was no one around to encourage me about going to church and how to gain salvation.
As I grew older, I became curious about spirituality—how to get salvation and one day go to heaven. That became my goal and wish because my grandmother always told me that heaven is way better than the great America that I wished to visit.
However, I did not attend church again. I later relocated to Brewerville with no involvement in church activities. A big tree had fallen from the family—there was no more support, and everyone had to fight for themselves. I started looking for opportunities to gain an education since my grandmother was no longer around.
My life took many turns, as it does for most people, and through all these experiences, I found myself at a crossroads—searching for something more meaningful.
Later, a young man moved into our community from Nigeria. I found out that he had recently completed his mission and relocated to my community. I enjoyed coming around him because of his strange accent and his stories about the development happening in Nigeria—the beautiful streets and cities.
One day, while we were arguing, one of my colleagues, Amos Bangura, made a statement: “Liberia is a hell, and if you are born and die in Liberia and go to hell, it is a double punishment. Then God is not fair because things are so tough in Liberia.”
The returned missionary, Brother James Kolue, quickly used that statement as an opportunity to teach us about Heavenly Father’s love for all His children—no matter their location, family background, or country. He taught us that God’s love extends beyond our imagination.
After his teaching, I quickly asked him: “Which church are you attending?”
He replied, “I attend The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Have you heard about this church before?”
I quickly said, “Yes, I sometimes see their missionaries passing by.”
He asked if I would like to learn from the missionaries, and I accepted the invitation. I started meeting with the missionaries. They were friendly and kind, and their message about Jesus Christ and the plan of salvation felt different from anything I had ever heard before.
I spent several weeks learning more about their beliefs and reading the Book of Mormon. There was something about the teachings that resonated deeply with me. I remember the day I prayed for the first time to know if the Church was true, and I felt an overwhelming peace—something I had never felt before.
That was when I knew I had to take the next step.
However, life became tough, and I moved to Logan Town in search of opportunities. There, I met different missionaries and stopped them to explain that I had been learning with missionaries in Brewerville. They contacted the other missionaries and continued my teaching.
The missionaries introduced me to the bishop, who was then Bishop Paul Wrotto. He guided and helped me as I took this new step. Soon after, I was baptized. The moment I emerged from the water, I felt like a new person. My heart was full, my mind clearer, and I was ready to follow the path that Heavenly Father had set for me.
The gospel changed everything in my life, and I felt a strong desire to share it with others—just as the missionaries had shared it with me.
I felt prompted to serve a full-time mission and discussed this with Bishop Wrotto. The decision wasn’t easy. I had doubts about leaving behind the life I knew, especially the part-time job that I struggled to get. But my bishop said two things that remained in my heart:
God knows you personally. “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you” (Matthew 6:33).
You should create time for God. God should not create time for you.
These words kept playing in my mind. I knew it was what I was supposed to do.
I began preparing for my mission, and soon I was called to serve in the Ghana Accra Mission under President and Sister Young. I left my job to fully prepare, but then the unexpected happened: COVID-19.
The pandemic spread rapidly, buildings were shut down, churches were closed, and public gatherings were prohibited. The missionary training center (MTC) was closed, and I was stuck at home—no job, no mission, just frustration.
During this period, I began questioning my decision. But my bishop encouraged me to use the time as an opportunity to study the scriptures and follow the Come, Follow Me program.
Later, we were notified that we would begin online MTC training. Finally, I was blessed to serve in the Ghana Accra Mission.
My mission took me to places where I met incredible people and worked with companions who taught me to be bold in sharing the gospel and patience in helping others find the same joy I had found.
When I returned home, I felt the desire to share the gospel with my family—especially my brother. He had been skeptical when I first joined the Church. He didn’t understand why I was so passionate about it. But instead of forcing him, I decided to live by example.
One evening, I sat down with him and shared my testimony. I told him how the gospel had changed my life. To my surprise, he listened. We discussed the Book of Mormon, the teachings of Jesus Christ, and the Restoration of the gospel. It wasn’t a quick process, but over time he started reading and praying on his own.
Months later my brother made the decision to be baptized. I couldn’t have been happier. I saw him changing, growing, and the same light I once felt began to shine in him.
Eventually, he felt inspired to serve a full-time mission as well. He is currently serving in the DRC Kinshasa West Mission.
It brings me so much joy to see how far he has come. I know he will touch lives and help others find the same peace that comes from knowing Jesus Christ.
The gospel is meant to be shared, and I will continue to share it with those around me—just as I once shared it with my brother.
As I reflect on my journey—from meeting the missionaries, becoming a missionary myself, and helping my brother find his own path—I know that the Lord’s plan is much bigger than we can understand.
I call this story “a journey of faith.”

Every year, my husband and I and both our extended families go on a camping trip to celebrate the end-of-year holiday season. We choose a site that can accommodate our numbers and then camp from Christmas Eve until just after New Year’s Day.
These camps are a wonderful time for us to strengthen our family bonds. Because most of us are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, these camps also strengthen our testimony of Christ and of His Church as we celebrate His birth.
At the end of 2020, we found a site in Bikenibeu Village, Tarawa, which has a large mwaneaba (a traditional meetinghouse) that our whole family could sleep under. As always, my dear sister-in-law, Meteta, joined us in the camping festivities.
Meteta lived with my husband and me and, at 71 years old, she was more like a mother to us. She was still quite healthy and active, except that she walked on crutches as a result of a surgery she had 20 years earlier. Meteta loved our Christmas camping trips and eagerly participated in our family games and activities.
On the 31st of December, a few hours before our New Year’s celebration, Meteta was so excited. She took an early shower, got dressed and then sat down in the mwaneaba, ready to enjoy the night. Everyone else was rushing around, getting ready, too.
Then, in the midst of all the preparations, Meteta quietly said to me, “I have a burning pain in my chest.” I dropped everything I was doing, called my husband and another sister-in-law over, and soon several of us were trying to help her.
It all happened so fast. About fifteen minutes later, Meteta started to gasp for air. My husband and son gave her a priesthood blessing while we waited for the ambulance. Sadly, the doctors couldn’t do much more for her. Soon after we arrived at the hospital, our Meteta was gone.
That evening, the world stopped for us. As we slowly made our way back to the campsite—to share the tragic news and inform everyone that we had to break camp—my husband and I reflected on Meteta’s final moments. The doctors had done their best to revive her, and those around us tried to give us hope, but we felt a strange kind of peace that told us it was Meteta’s time to go.
Our faith in Jesus Christ and our testimony of His gospel also helped the rest of our family accept what happened. We had just spent a week in both worldly and spiritual celebration, but as our holiday camp transitioned into a funeral, we tuned the world out completely.
We mourned the loss of our dear Meteta—she had been a great source of stability in our home, and we would have to make many adjustments without her—but in the wake of her passing, we talked more about the meaning of our own lives.
We focused on our Saviour and on His divine gift of exaltation. We expressed deep gratitude for His atoning sacrifice and His victory over the grave. It was a time of spiritual renewal for all of us. As we worked together to organise and prepare for Meteta’s earthly farewell, our thoughts were on Heavenly Father’s plan of salvation, and on His Son, who has made it possible for us to reunite with Meteta again, one day.
Our family holiday camps are always boisterous events, full of music and dance, talent shows, laughter and fun, but this particular Christmas, the happiness of our festivities seemed to dim in the light of true joy—the joy that our Saviour Jesus Christ brought when He was born into this world to give us life.
Our understanding of His gospel is what brought our family peace after Meteta’s passing. It helped us to remember the real meaning of Christmas.

Years ago a friend of mine went to a large university to study under the ranking authority in the field of counseling and guidance. This professor quickly took an interest in this personable, intelligent young Latter-day Saint. He attracted attention as he moved through the course work required for a doctor’s degree.
He chose the Latter-day Saint bishop as the subject for his dissertation. All went well until he described the ordination of a bishop, the power of discernment, and the right of a bishop to spiritual guidance.
His doctoral committee felt that such references had no place in a scholarly paper, and they insisted that he take them out. He thought he might at least say that Latter-day Saints believe the bishop has spiritual insight. But the committee denied him even this, for they would be quite embarrassed to have this spiritual ingredient included in a scholarly dissertation.
He was told that with some little accommodation—specifically, leaving out all the references to revelation—his dissertation would be published and his reputation established.
He did the best he could. His dissertation did not contain enough about the Spirit to satisfy him and too much to be fully accepted by his worldly professors. But he received his degree.
I asked this friend what was the most important thing he had learned in his study of bishops. He answered, “I learned that the mantle is far, far greater than the intellect, that the priesthood is the guiding power.”

I used to have a monster crush on Tyson Davis. Used to. I mean, he’s gorgeous. But he knows it. Besides, he’s kind of a jerk.
I am not going to call him. No way.
But …
Last Sunday I saw Tyson at church. It was the first time he’d been there in about a year. He looked really sad and miserable. He was sitting in the back row, and if I didn’t know better I’d say he’d been crying.
He didn’t stay for the whole meeting. I sort of wish he had. I wanted to talk to him. He looked so sad.
Ever since I saw Tyson, I can’t get him out of my head. I feel like I should call him. I’m not going to, though. When Tyson first moved into the ward, I called him all the time. I invited him to do things with the Young Women and Young Men. He never did anything with us, though, and he treated me like a pest. He made me feel stupid.
I am not going to call him.
Besides, I’m late. I’m going to the church dance.
I make it all the way to my car and start backing out of the driveway before I finally sigh. “Okay, I’ll call him.”
The urge to do it is too strong to ignore. And I grumble to myself all the way to the phone. I’ll call him, and he’ll make me feel like an idiot. But at least then I can go to the dance in peace.
“Hi,” I say when his little sister, Kari, answers the phone. “Is Tyson there?”
“Uh, I’m not sure,” she says. “Who is this?”
“It’s Michele.”
She’s silent for a moment. “From church?”
“Yep,” I tell her. “Michele from church.”
“He’s probably not here, then,” she says. “But I’ll check.”
I hear her put down the phone. I’m almost positive she is going to come back and tell me he’s not there. Apparently he’s having the six-year-old screen his calls. So I’m pretty floored when a minute later Tyson picks up the phone.
“Hello,” he says, “Michele?”
“Yeah.” He sounds friendly. Weird. Maybe Kari didn’t give him the whole message. “It’s Michele from church.”
“I know,” he says. “Hi.”
“Hi. Well, I was just calling—well, wondering, um, I saw you at church Sunday and you seemed really sad.”
Tyson is silent for a moment. “Yeah, I was.”
“I’m calling because there’s a dance at the stake center tonight. Maybe you should come.” I feel sort of lame inviting him, knowing how he feels about the Church. He’s been pretty clear he doesn’t want anything to do with us. Still, I can’t get my mouth to shut up. “Maybe it could cheer you up,” I tell him.
“Yeah, maybe.” He sounds thoughtful. “I’ll meet you there, okay?”
I nod, even though I’m talking into the phone. “Okay.”
“And Michele?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for calling.”
When I hang up the phone, I stand staring at it in amazement. Did I dial the wrong number? Was that really Tyson? Tyson Davis? Mr. I’m Too Good for Church Dances?
When I pick up Audrey and Shawna they don’t believe me about the conversation. “Tyson actually said he would come? Tonight? To the dance?” Shawna asks.
I nod. “That’s what he said.”
“He was being sarcastic,” Audrey decides.
When we get to the dance, we look all over the building. No Tyson. I dance for a while then go back to the parking lot—not really to wait for him but just because I have the feeling I should check it out. There I find Tyson sitting in his car.
I knock on his window, and he gives me a sad kind of smile. “Hi,” he says. He looks sort of embarrassed.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask.
“I couldn’t go in,” he says. “I was going to but, ah, I don’t know. I was hoping you would come out. I wanted to talk to you. Is that okay?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
I get in the passenger seat, and I’m surprised to see that he’s dressed up. I can tell he planned to go in. “What did you want to talk about?”
He’s silent for a moment. “When you called tonight it was weird. I’d been praying. I hadn’t done that in a long time—prayed, I mean. And then you called.”
He explains that his best friend, Seth, had died two weeks ago. He wasn’t from here. He lived in Florida where Tyson used to live.
“Seth was drunk and ran into a car,” Tyson says. “He died and everyone in the other car—a family—died too.”
Tyson wipes away a tear. “Seth messed up. He really messed up his life. I have too. I’ve messed mine up really bad. But I want to change. I really do. That’s what I was praying about, see, but it’s hard. My friends are partiers. That’s what we do. We party.”
Tyson’s silent for a moment. He looks tormented. “And I don’t have other friends. I mean, friends in the Church. I blew them off a long time ago. I was so mean to you. But then tonight you called.” He sounds full of wonder.
I didn’t know what to say. “I just felt like I should.”
“Yeah, see, that’s it,” he says. “You’re really close to God. He talks to you and you listen.”
Tingles run through my body. “Yeah, but Tyson, you can have that too. It’s the Holy Ghost. If you listen, He’ll talk to you.”
Tyson shakes his head. “I’m not like you. You don’t know what I’ve done. I’ve done bad things.”
“But Tyson,” I protest.
“Look, you don’t have to bear your testimony to me. I know what you believe. You live what you believe. I watched you all last year. You can’t know how it is for me. You don’t do things wrong.”
“I do too!”
“Well, not like me,” he says. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re the way you are. I needed someone to talk to tonight. I’m glad it was you.”
I blush, feeling totally complimented. “So, do you want to go into the dance?”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” he says. “I thought I was. I want to change my life around. That’s what I want. But it’s harder than you think.”
“I don’t think it’s as hard as you think,” I tell him, pulling him out of the car. “It’s just a church dance.”
I take his hand. “Don’t be scared. I’ll be with you.”
“Mormon Michele, protector of the inactives,” Tyson says with a grin.
“That’s right,” I tell him. “And don’t you forget it.” I give his hand a squeeze. “I mean it, Tyson. Don’t forget it.”

My family sat in father’s hospital room in a hospital in Boise, Idaho, and waited anxiously. The doctors hadn’t yet diagnosed father’s sickness, but we all knew he was terribly ill. After father had been sick for a month, mother called my brother Rich home from Brigham Young University to give father a blessing. We had done everything medically possible to help father, and this was our only hope.
We were all gathered together, and I had my own prayer in my heart. I had been on my knees more in that last month than I ever had in my entire life. I hadn’t slept much and didn’t feel physically well. My nerves were worn, and I was always restless. Although I did not know the nature of father’s illness, I had this horrible feeling that he was going to die.
After a few minutes, Rich laid his hands on father’s head and began the blessing. We were all hoping that Rich would promise a restoration of father’s health; however, Rich never once promised father that he would recover. He did tell father that peace would be with him and his family and that we would be comforted.
I left the room with tears in my eyes. My brother Keith drove me home. I went to my bedroom to be by myself and think. While sitting there I felt something good come over me, and I knew that I would be okay. I still felt that father wouldn’t live, but I felt a reassurance that I hadn’t experienced before.
Within the next week the doctors discovered that father’s illness was bone cancer. I again felt nervous and afraid. The months that followed were like a horrible nightmare. I cried myself to sleep at nights and wondered if the pain from the whole ordeal would ever go away.
Six months after the blessing, father died in his hospital bed. I was at home when he died, and my brother Steve called from the hospital to tell me of his passing. I went to my room and began to cry. I didn’t know how to feel. I only felt empty.
As I lay on my bed thinking of what my future would be like without my father, I began to feel cheated. I was only 14 years old at the time, and I didn’t think it seemed fair that I should have to give up my father when I was so young. I felt a deep sense of loss.
Then a peaceful, calm feeling came over me. It was similar to the feeling I had experienced the day of father’s blessing months before. This peacefulness was accompanied by a sense of relief. I felt father’s spirit, and I knew his love was still with me and always would be. I realized that night that although my father could be taken away physically, his spirit and love would never be taken from me. I knew that my father wasn’t gone forever. His inspiration and guidance would continue to be with me throughout my life.
Now, five years later, I realize even more the love that both my Heavenly Father and my earthly father have for me. I have often felt my earthly father near. I have felt the reassuring comfort of his spirit many times and know he has not left me alone.

My father grew up in the small town of Monticello, Utah. When he was seven, one of his daily chores was to bring the family’s cows in from their pasture. His prized possession was his pocketknife, which he always kept with him. One day as he was riding his horse to fetch the cows, he reached into his pocket for his knife. To his dismay he realized he had lost it somewhere along the trail. He was heartbroken, but he believed what he had been taught by his father and mother: God hears and answers prayers.
He stopped his horse and slid off its bare back to the ground. There he knelt and asked Heavenly Father to help him find his pocketknife. He climbed back on his horse, turned around, and rode back down the trail. After some distance his horse stopped. Dad climbed off the horse and put his hand into the deep dust on the trail. There, buried in the dust, he found his prized pocketknife. He knew that the Lord had heard and answered his prayer.
Because he had learned to listen to and act upon the whisperings of the Spirit, my father was blessed to see the hand of the Lord on many occasions throughout his life. He witnessed many miracles. Yet when he gathered his family to teach us the gospel, he often spoke of his experience on the dusty trail in Monticello when the Lord heard and answered the prayer of a “freckle-faced seven-year-old boy.”
In his later years he told us that he had learned something else from this childhood experience. With a twinkle in his eye, he said, “I learned that God can speak to horses!”
My father’s experience as a young boy left a lasting impression on him because it was the beginning of his personal spiritual education. This was when he learned for himself that God hears prayers. This was when he began, as the Prophet Joseph Smith termed it, to learn the Spirit of God.1

At the end of his mission, Edward Angeles’s mission president encouraged him to pursue higher education when he returned to the Dominican Republic.
“I started BYU–Pathway right after I got home, and it was without a doubt one of the best decisions of my life,” he said. “I am on my first certificate in web and computer programming. I already had a job as a web developer. I got a salary increase, and I have been offered jobs at many other companies.”

Illustration by John Kachik
School was out for Thanksgiving break, but I was not looking forward to it. I was struggling at school, and I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of being surrounded by family members who were in the mood for holiday cheer. It seemed to me that I didn’t have a whole lot to be thankful for.
“Who is it?” my dad called from the kitchen as I came in the front door after school.
“It’s me,” I called back.
He came to give me a hug and invited me to help him make pies. I’d been hoping he would just tell me to relax, but all he said was, “I really could use your help.”
At first the task was tedious—one cup of this, two teaspoons of that. I’d never talked a lot with my father. I could ask him to help me with my homework, or he could tell me to do the dishes. But it seemed that deeper conversations just didn’t happen between us. So we went on working side by side until he asked a simple question: “How’s school going?”
I started talking about how school was really going—my frustrations, my worries, the things I liked, and the things I didn’t like. I talked and he listened. After I was done, it was his turn. He told me stories of his high school days and how he had experienced some of the same frustrations and delights. He gave me advice that I actually needed to hear.
We discovered that we didn’t have any bananas for the banana cream pie. “I guess I’ll have to run to the store,” my dad said.
“Can I come with you?” I asked. He agreed. Off we went, singing to the radio at the top of our lungs the whole way. I don’t remember ever having such a fun time on a trip to the grocery store.
The pies were all gone after a few days, but I will never forget talking with my dad while making them. It was the first time that I realized that my dad was just a person like me, the first time I saw that in addition to being my father, he could also be a friend. I learned to appreciate my whole family more and the small memories we create each day. I went back to school with a newfound motivation. For some reason, I felt like I had so much to be thankful for.

Soon afterward, Opapo and Toai moved their family from Sauniatu to the island of Tutuila, in preparation for eventually moving to Hawaii to join the Saints there. Persecution was particularly acute in Tutila, and it caused Opapo much sorrow though it never weakened his faith. On one occasion, he and Pinemua Soliai, a good friend, were walking towards Pago Pago and waved to a passing bus to stop for them. It stopped for them, but as they neared it, the driver, recognizing them as Mormon missionaries, suddenly pressed on his accelerator and left them standing in the dust. Brother Soliai ruefully commented to Opapo, “Well, it’s going to take us a long time to get up to town now.” Sadly, Opapo said, “No, we’ll get to town before he does.” One and one-half kilometers later they came upon the scene of an accident. The bus had collided head-on with a truck and the bus driver had been killed.

As a returned missionary, busy with a young family and my own company, I was called to be the president of a good-sized branch with many faithful and mature members. Did I feel prepared, trained, and educated to start serving? No! I had good counselors with whom I could discuss issues. But was their help enough? No!
Thinking back on that calling and on other callings, I realize that in addition to the Holy Ghost and the scriptures, what really helped me were the Church handbooks! They were a treasure of information—as a guide to my initial learning and as a valuable reference along the way.

As identical twins, we’ve always had a lot in common. Growing up, we both loved swimming and joined a competitive swim team at six years old. The heart-racing feeling before each race was exhilarating. Unfortunately, that exciting feeling quickly turned to fear about how we looked in our swimsuits. For both of us, our appearance started to creep to the forefront of our every thought.
In middle school, we each filled journals with weight-loss goals, food logs, and our most beauty-obsessed thoughts—stacked on shelves next to teen magazines promoting the latest fashion and beauty fixes.
At age 15, we both quit swimming—not because we hated to swim but because we hated the way we looked in our swimsuits. Our years of relentlessly trying to “fix” our bodies simply hadn’t worked.
What we didn’t realize then is that our bodies were never the problem. The problem was our body image, or the way we viewed and thought about our bodies. It had been skewed by all kinds of influences, including movies, TV, magazines, and even friends and family who learned from all of these same sources.
After years of struggling, things changed. We even started swimming again. But it wasn’t dieting or makeovers that did the trick—it was learning how our skewed views of our bodies had held us back in every way. Our research has showed us that developing positive body image—or feeling good about your body from the inside, not just how it looks—is a key to health, happiness, and seeing ourselves as God sees us.

Recently a stake president shared with me a tender story demonstrating the power of the council system in building up the Church. He said that both the Relief Society and the priesthood had been working with a family in their stake but had failed to make progress with the parents. Primary leaders found the answer. Permission was given by the parents for their young daughter to attend Primary. Their one condition was that she had to want to go badly enough to get there on her own. Rides to church could not be provided. Because she had to go through a rough part of town, the ward council saw to it that someone would drive along beside her as she rode an old bicycle to church. Through summer heat, through rain and even snow, she persisted in going to church. One young man, who with his family was assigned to escort her on a snowy morning, was so touched as he watched the commitment of this little girl pedaling through the snow and cold that he decided to serve a full-time mission, citing this experience as the turning point in his life. At Christmastime, a family in the ward gave this faithful little girl a new 10-speed bicycle. This so touched the parents that they too began attending church. In May 1999 this young girl was baptized. What made the baptism even more special was that it was performed by the newest priest in the ward, her recently activated father.