Gospel Story Finder

Sarah Thomas, a recent convert, enjoyed visiting the Hill Cumorah before she was a member of the Church. She often went to the hill to watch the sunset, and she felt the influence of the Holy Ghost there, without knowing what she was feeling. “I loved being there, even though I didn’t know why,” she says.

Now as a member of the Church she knows why: “The Spirit there is so great. It’s where Moroni buried the Book of Mormon. I had no idea how incredible and important these Church-history places are. I feel very blessed to live in an area where I can visit them.”

When I accepted a mission call to the California Anaheim Mission, I had to leave one of my most prized possessions at home: my violin. Why? I wondered. Didn’t the Lord realize how much I love to play for people and how music can touch the soul?
One Sunday I felt even worse about the loss of my instrument when a woman stood up in testimony meeting and told of a spiritual experience she had had while listening to Yehudi Menuin, a world-class violinist, perform at a nearby cathedral.
My heart sank as she described in detail the priceless violin that he played, the beauty of the cathedral, and how thousands of people moved by his music jumped to a standing ovation at the close of the performance.
I could have been there, I thought bitterly. The cathedral is just down the street. I wondered where I had been as the great musician had performed—getting a door slammed in my face? Being told I was nosy by the people we tried to contact in the park? Trying to answer the questions of a skeptical Protestant Sunday school teacher who misunderstood the beauties of the gospel? I wondered where I would have been if I had had a choice.
As these regrets crowded my thoughts, I reflected on my experiences as a missionary. I remembered teaching Bob about the gospel and testifying that his family could be together forever if he would pray and take the steps needed toward baptism. I remembered feeling a burning inside as the words poured out of my mouth.
I played a beat-up, borrowed violin at Bob’s baptism. No concerto—just a well-loved Church hymn. No cathedral—just a small room crowded with Bob’s friends and family. No applause after the music ended—just an outpouring of the Holy Ghost upon those in the room. I knew this experience was of much greater worth to me.
When the woman finished bearing her testimony, I stood up and expressed to the congregation how thankful I was to be a missionary. I thanked the Lord for showing me that I must learn to be his humble instrument, not a maestro seeking applause. Little did I realize that the Lord was asking me to give up my violin in order to make me his instrument, not the player.
The words of Alma rang true to me: “I know that which the Lord hath commanded me, and I glory in it. … and this is my glory, that perhaps I may be an instrument in the hands of God to bring some soul to repentance; and this is my joy” (Alma 29:9).

Our parents hadn’t encouraged us to go. They said it was too early to be climbing in Echo Canyon, that we should “wait until spring was really here.” But the winter had been long and cold, we were 16, and we couldn’t wait any longer. Though it was just mid-March, the invitation from the brilliant sun light and the soaring temperatures could not be turned down.
Glenn, Marvin, John, and I settled into Glenn’s Chevy Bel Air. We didn’t relax much in the car for the ten minutes or so it took us to drive to Echo Canyon.
I climbed out of the back seat, stretched, and looked up at the rock formations surrounding us. The prehistoric waters of Lake Bonneville once covered this area, and the currents had eroded the cliffs and pinnacles into exotic shapes. Now the almost continual wind worked on the job of rock carving. Its blasts had slashed grotesque caves and chutes and chambers into the sandstone and shale walls. Echo Canyon was a place of eerie beauty.
In our years of going to Echo Canyon, we never climbed up any of the “real” cliffs. We didn’t have the equipment or experience for that. But several times each summer we tried our strength against the intermixed “almost” cliffs—they were close enough to being straight up and down to suit us fine.
We settled down to climb one of the major “almost” cliffs that glowered down on the main canyon and spent almost an hour getting to the top. Our ascents—though requiring more endurance than skill—were always marked by caution. Even though nature had already gouged hundreds of hand and foot holds out of the rock, it was a long way to the bottom for a foolhardy climber.
The view from the top, though familiar, was invigorating. From the valley floor, the blue sky seemed to arch overhead. Here on top, we were in the sky, a part of it. Climbing today was more than an adventure—it was a celebration of the radiance of the sun, a celebration of our youth and vitality—a celebration of life.
Going down the “cliff” took longer than climbing it did. Between us and the car, still almost a quarter of a mile below us, was a rock slide. Since we had run down similar slides on earlier trips, we knew that we could throw caution away and rashly blast down the hill without much danger of a twisted ankle or a small avalanche of cascading rock, as long as we ran without stopping.
We scattered out along the top side of the immense slide, littered with tons of shale and sand stone, threw our hands high in the air, whooped and screamed, and started running for the car. We were cheered by our own echoing voices as the sliding rocks and our churning legs started us down the hill.
One of the best parts of these lunatic runs was jumping over any sagebrush we could find. We purposely headed for any of the sparsely-spaced bushes that punctuated the shale for the incredible ecstasy of soaring over them. The momentum of our bodies would carry us over them with hardly any effort. I would feel like a lunar astronaut, bounding into the air against gravity, landing—still running—below the bushes I hurdled.
Halfway down the slide, I headed for a grand sagebrush. It was almost three feet higher than any other I had seen on the slope, and I knew I could jump it with dramatic speed. As I approached it, I calculated how I would maintain my balance—and speed—as I landed on the other side of it.
As I hit my final approach, my energy seemed electrified, yet I was in absolute control. Just before I jumped, a voice in my mind commanded, “Stop! Stop right now!”
There was no time to consider the source of the voice—I just felt impelled to stop. My legs stopped churning and dug into the shale like anchors. I leaned backwards and skidded to a stop in a shower of stones.
As the dust swirled around me, I felt foolish. My friends were still running, oblivious of me in their own descent. I lay there on the sharp rocks on the uphill side of the bush, catching my breath, wondering how long it would be until inevitable scrapes and bruises from the rock would start to sting my currently numbed body.
Some of the retinue of rocks I had loosened as I ran down the hill caught up with me and rocketed through the sagebrush and on down the slope. Then I heard the buzzing—fierce and steady. There was a rattlesnake somewhere close!
My breath stopped momentarily with fear. We all knew that a few rattlesnakes showed up here and there in our area, but not here in Echo Canyon! I wondered what I should do and warily looked around, being careful to not move anything but my eyes. I couldn’t see anything.
I listened intently to the buzzing and determined that it was coming from the downhill side of the bush. I slowly got to my feet and skirted the sage, keeping back from the sound, until I could see the downhill side clearly.
Until interrupted by me and my rocks, a big rattler had been sunning itself in the shale. Now it was coiled to strike—its defiant head was matched by its angry tail. I watched it for several minutes until it uncoiled and slid back into the security of the bush. It was a diamondback, at least three feet long. At its thickest part, its brown and gray body was as big around as a baseball.
I felt no anger for the snake. I had disturbed it; it hadn’t sought me out. The unusual warmth of the last few days had undoubtedly brought it prematurely out of hibernation. Its venom would be a thick concentrate, incredibly potent after not being used for killing prey during the winter months of hibernation. If I had jumped the bush, I would have landed inches away from its fangs. My heart was still beating like primitive drums from my downhill exertion and my astonishment. This rapid heartbeat would have scattered the poison throughout my body in a few seconds. My only chance for survival came in the voice: “Stop! Stop right now!”
I was overwhelmed as I realized, with a startling and clear perspective, that God was aware of me as an individual. He really was a Heavenly Father—and he knew Layne Dearden, one of his sons. He knew what I was doing on that March afternoon. And he knew that my careless exuberance would end my life unless he helped.
That day was more of a celebration of life than I ever imagined it could be, even when I had stood at the top of the cliff. I basked in the warmth of my Father’s love as I slowly walked down the remaining shale slope.

An acquaintance of mine used to live in a ward with some of the highest statistics in the Church—attendance was high, home teaching numbers were high, Primary children were always well behaved, ward dinners included fantastic food that members rarely spilled on the meetinghouse floor, and I think there were never any arguments at Church ball.

My friend and his wife were subsequently called on a mission. When they returned three years later, this couple was astonished to learn that during the time they were away serving, 11 marriages had ended in divorce.

Although the ward had every outward indication of faithfulness and strength, something unfortunate was happening in the hearts and lives of the members. And the troubling thing is that this situation is not unique. Such terrible and often unnecessary things happen when members of the Church become disengaged from gospel principles. They may appear on the outside to be disciples of Jesus Christ, but on the inside their hearts have separated from their Savior and His teachings. They have gradually turned away from the things of the Spirit and moved toward the things of the world.

Once-worthy priesthood holders start to tell themselves that the Church is a good thing for women and children but not for them. Or some are convinced that their busy schedules or unique circumstances make them exempt from the daily acts of devotion and service that would keep them close to the Spirit. In this age of self-justification and narcissism, it is easy to become quite creative at coming up with excuses for not regularly approaching God in prayer, procrastinating the study of the scriptures, avoiding Church meetings and family home evenings, or not paying an honest tithe and offerings.

My dear brethren, will you please look inside your hearts and ask the simple question: “Lord, is it I?”

It is a scary thing, going up in a balloon for the first time. But it’s hard to worry too much, because there are so many things to do in advance.
On a typical launch day, the Komadinas and anyone accompanying them gather in the family living room for prayer. Then Amy and Jennifer give talks, much like stewardesses preparing passengers for takeoff on an airplane. They discuss safety (it’s important not to get in or out of the basket unless told to, because ballast is critical), preparation for landing (it’s important to remember to bend your knees to help absorb the impact), and flying techniques (the balloon drifts with the wind, but by ascending or descending, the pilot can usually find a breeze headed in the direction he wants to go).
At the launch site, two or three people unpack the balloon and spread it on the ground. Around the top of the fabric “envelope,” velcro strips are fastened together to keep flaps closed until the balloon stands upright. The mouth of the balloon is held open and a large fan is used to blow air into the nylon or polyester envelope. The propane burner then heats the air, which rises inside the envelope, inflating it even more.
The balloon then tries to assume an upright position. But if that happens too fast, the balloon will not inflate properly, so crew members use a “crown line,” a rope attached to the top of the envelope, to pull against the force of the air. It’s a tug-of-war that two adults or six kids never win.
While all this is going on, the pilot checks gauges which indicate fuel quantity, altitude, rate of climb or descent, and air temperature inside the envelope. As the balloon becomes more buoyant, he will have passengers join him to act as an anchor while he adds more hot air. Finally, when everyone’s ready, he blasts still more hot air into the envelope until the balloon begins to rise. To keep rising, he heats the air, to come down, he can let it cool off or he can pull a rope that allows air to escape.
Any fear a passenger has disappears quickly. It is as though the balloon remains where it is and the earth moves away. The only sound is the occasional hissing of the burner. The only feeling of height comes when you look down and suddenly realize that you’re 1,500 feet in the air!
It is flight without wings, flight without a runway or the whine of jet engines. Because the balloon floats with the breeze, there is no sensation of motion. It is, indeed, like standing on a cloud, quietly watching the earth beneath.
“When I’m up here, I think about Heavenly Father,” Jennifer said. “I feel close to him, peaceful, when I see the world he’s created and how big it is. You somehow know he’s in charge.”
Her father agreed. “You get some idea of who you are and how small you would be on your own. But you also get a feeling for what Heavenly Father has made, what he can help you accomplish if you have him on your side.”

Name: Seneca Francis
Age: 17
Location: Smithfield, Utah
Noteworthy experience: In October 2008 she participated in the Youth World Championship archery competition in Antalya, Turkey, where she helped the U.S. team win a gold medal. They defeated the Russian team 224 to 223 and set a world record in the 16–18-year-old compound bow category.
Seneca Francis is a straight shooter in more ways than one. Her archery skills have led to great accomplishments. And when it comes to her commitment to gospel standards, she’ll let you know that she’s aiming for eternity. Find out a little more about her.
You’re a relative newcomer to archery, yet you compete at a world-class level. How did it all start? I’ve been doing archery for about four years. My brother had a bow, and I started shooting and liked it more than he did. I would go into the backyard and shoot at the tree stump. I started competition about three years ago. At first I went to a youth league. Then they sent me to JOAD [Junior Olympic Archery Development] because it’s more advanced.
What was it like competing in the Youth World Championship in Turkey? It was fun. My mom went with me. It was my first time going anywhere outside of the states around us. It was a totally different culture. It was fun and interesting to see how other people live. I met some good friends on other teams, and we keep in touch.
Did you have any experiences that strengthened your testimony? We were about the only Church members at the competition, so that was kind of weird for me. But it makes you stronger. Others would ask, “Why don’t you want to go and drink with us?” or “Why don’t you want to wear the short shorts?” And I would say, “We don’t do that.” I’m glad for what we have. Also, my mom and I were happy that we were safe the whole time. We prayed a lot. My grandma prayed every day that we’d be OK. Prayer works.
How do you relate archery to the gospel? It takes a lot of hard work and sticking with it. You have to always believe you can do it, even if you think you can’t. You also need a lot of concentration. If you lose concentration, you miss the shot. A tiny jerk can throw it off. In the gospel, you need to be steadfast and sure.
Would you like to share a favorite scripture? 1 Nephi 3:7. You can go and do anything you’re supposed to. You can do whatever the Lord wants you to. If He wants you to do it, you can do it.

I used to home teach a brother, who, when I was first assigned to him, was totally inactive in the Church. Despite our differences, we really connected and over time became great friends. Visiting with him, I learned a lot about how people who have strayed from the teachings of the Church think. He used to say things like:

"I still have my hand on the iron rod. I may have pulled a few screws loose and bent it a little, but I still have a hold of it."

Another of my favorites was: "I keep the fence in sight."

He felt safe, but in reality, he was not.

...

The brother I told you about earlier who joked about "keeping the fence in sight" was assigned to me to be home taught. He was a self-described "hippy hermit." His ceiling was painted with psychedelic colors and patterns. He burned incense, smoked, drank, dabbled in drugs, swore, and seemed totally disinterested in the Church. But I liked him. I confess that I was not entirely comfortable at first because this was not a world I was very accustomed to, but at the same time, I sensed a real goodness deep inside of him. He was honest and genuine. I home taught him for over three years when he began to say things like "someday I am going to surprise you and show up at church." And eventually, he did surprise me.

He started listening to some audio tapes that were made of his grandfather talking about growing up in the Church settlements of Mexico. When he told me about it, I was able to find some historical information about that time and place that I then shared with him. The spirit of Elijah began to work on him and his "heart turned to his fathers." Many months later, he asked me to ordain him an Elder in the Melchizedek Priesthood. Later still, he asked if I would travel to St. George Utah and go with him through the temple -- because that is the temple where his ancestors had traveled to receive their temple blessings. He loved the temple and would later go through five or six sessions each time he attended.

These experiences are among the spiritual highlights of my life. I felt God's love not only for him, but for me as we shared these sacred experiences together. When I reflect on how I felt during these experiences, I remember no darkness at all -- only light.

The maestro bows, raises his baton, and the music, Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite, swells out over the audience like a storm rolling over the city, swaying the trees with a cool, clean wind and flooding the streets with sweet rain.
The dancers, members of the San Francisco Ballet Company, come onto the stage. Motion flows into motion, movement into movement. They float effortlessly into the lights. The bright colors, the colors of spring and fall and Christmas, blur together. The memories of other images come, memories of a small flock of white swans locking their wings and landing at dawn on a misty, still pond; of eagles soaring in the sky until they are high enough to touch the clouds; of the red and gold leaves of autumn swirling with the wind. And with this poetry of motion and with the rising and falling of music, the dancers spin their fantasy.
The dreams of a little girl come alive. A toy soldier becomes a prince with a white horse and transports her to an enchanted kingdom. Flowers come to life, and snowflakes dance across the stage. The Nutcracker is an exhibition of the fantasy and beauty of ballet.
What is always amazing about ballet, when it’s performed well, is the emotion of it, emotion the dancers communicate with the grace and beauty of movement. Motion that, like the great paintings of the old masters, can lift the soul and change it.
Backstage, one of the flowers, Melanie Watts, 18, a member of the San Francisco Singles Ward, San Francisco California Stake, awaits the cue to go on. The effect a ballet performance has on an audience is an important part of her involvement in the art.
“It gives me great pleasure,” she says smiling, “knowing that when I’m out there on stage I’m making people happy. I consider ballet a service.”
A month before the Nutcracker performance, I talked with Melanie after one of her classes at the San Francisco School of Ballet. Melanie’s two-hour class was nearly finished when I entered the classroom. Sunlight streamed down from a skylight onto the rows of students. The teacher stood in front of the students demonstrating a series of techniques.
“Enchainement of echappé 2nd, relevé devant, and relevé avant,” she said as she moved, repeating the names of the techniques in French.
The students repeated the movements again and again and again. It is only after years of practice that the refinement good ballet requires begins to take shape. The San Francisco Ballet’s school is considered to be one of the best in the world. It demands from its students a high level of dedication and achievement.
Because of the success of its dancers, competition to get into and stay in the school’s professional program is tough. The school’s scholarship programs come from donations, and competition for scholarships is even greater. Only students who make satisfactory progress are able to continue in the program, and only students who excel are awarded scholarships.
Although Melanie has studied with the school for three summers while finishing high school and is now on a full scholarship, she doesn’t consider ballet to be the most important part of her life.
“I was first exposed to ballet when I was eight,” she said. “I fell in love with the beauty and grace of it. I’ve been studying ballet ever since then. It’s an incredible discipline. I’m taking something God gave me, and I’m perfecting it. It’s a part of my life, but it’s not all of it. Ballet isn’t everything. There’s life after ballet. More importantly, there’s life after life. I want to have a family, and I want to be with my Father in Heaven again. With the gospel we are able to see life in a bigger round. The moment I know I’m losing with the Lord or that my interest in the Church isn’t strong, that’s when it’s time to quit. One day if I’m not living the gospel and I’m a great artist, I know there will be something missing in my life and that I won’t be happy.”
The instructor stopped the class, and Melanie walked over and slumped down on the floor next to me, wiping her head with a towel. Her red hair was wet with perspiration.
“How did it go?” I asked.
“With ballet,” she said laughing, “even if it does go well it’s not good. You’re never perfect, and there’s always room for improvement. You go to class and what you get is criticism. A couple of days ago the instructor gave me a correction, and the next day I thought to myself, ‘I’m going to get this right,’ and I did. But all my teacher said was that my arms weren’t right.”
Criticism is a necessary part of ballet, Melanie explained. That’s how you become good. The more the better, but it can be devastating to your self-image. “I’m amazed at how people survive without the gospel,” she said, “and without a close family. The second I walk into class I give it 100 percent, but the minute I walk out the door I’m somewhere else. The greatest strength we can have comes from the Lord. It would be difficult to imagine doing anything without his help. One night I was depressed. I was homesick. I wanted to go home and give up. I was too upset to sleep, so I pulled out my patriarchal blessing and read. It made me feel so incredibly good to know my Father had said something to me. We can accomplish anything we want that’s right, if we put our families and the gospel first.”
Melanie’s family lives in Utah, and she boards with LDS families in San Francisco. But because she has been performing since she was nine years old she has been exposed to a lot of different lifestyles.
“I’m grateful for the opportunities I’ve had as a dancer,” she said. “But it’s also been tough. There are lots of temptations. When I was 12, I went on tour for five weeks with a ballet company. I was offered wine at Thanksgiving. No one there knew what my beliefs were. I didn’t have to refuse the wine, but I knew my parents trusted me, and I knew what they expected. Similar temptations still confront me, and I can only thank my parents because they taught me and prepared me, when I was still young, to think for myself and to make correct decisions. I know I can be the best at ballet that I can be and still live the gospel. I have to know my limitations and not put myself in situations that make the struggle too difficult. And I rely heavily on my family. My best friends are my family.
When you talk to Melanie it’s easy to see her love for her family and for the gospel by her enthusiasm for it. And as for her love of ballet, that’s also easy to see.
There is a change in the music, and dancers dressed as flowers move onto the stage as a swirl of color. There is emotion to it, emotion the dancers communicate with the grace and beauty of movement, emotion that like the great paintings of the old masters can lift and change the soul.

Ten-year-old John Taylor took a basket of food to Mr. Allee West, an old family friend, who lived three miles from the Taylor home in Milnthorpe, England.
Mr. West: Johnny, it’s good to see you again.
John: Here. My mother sent you these.
John enjoyed visiting with Mr. West, but when dark clouds started to come, he realized he needed to leave.
John: Mr. West, it’s getting dark. I need to be getting home.
Mr. West: Johnny, let me walk you home.
John: This is my first trip here by myself, and my mother won’t let me come alone again if you do.
John started down the hill toward home. Soon thick fog started rolling in.
John: This lamp won’t light.
The fog thickened and closed in around him. Soon he came to a big iron fence, and he heard a dog growling. He was lost.
John: The path ends here! What’s that noise?
He was very scared. He remembered something his mother had taught him.
John: Mother said that I can pray anywhere at any time.
As he prayed, his fear left him.
Mr. West: Johnny! Johnny!
Mr. West had decided to follow young John to make sure he arrived home safely.
Mr. West: Johnny, I’ve come to take you home.
John: God did answer my prayer!
John Taylor later became the third President of the Church. He never forgot the answer to prayer he received as a young boy, and he prayed diligently all his life.

Not me, though. I had only one question when it was my turn to walk up in front of everybody as they announced my name: was I actually going to graduate?

I wasn’t exactly what you’d call a scholar. Studying pretty much never topped my ideal to-do list. And during my senior year I was doing so poorly in one class I didn’t even know if I had passed the class. The final exam earlier that week would seal my fate, but grades wouldn’t post until a week later.

If I failed this class, I wouldn’t graduate high school.

In the end, I squeaked by on the thinnest possible margin and did graduate. (Whew!) At that point I had 14 months until I turned 19, the missionary age at the time. I intended on working during that time to save money for my mission. I knew I wasn’t much of a student, so under no circumstances did I plan on attempting college.

Fast-forward three and a half years from my high school graduation ceremony. I had worked for around a year and a half, served a two-year mission, and ultimately decided to try college after all.

I wish I could say I felt all grown-up and ready for school, but that’s laughable. I felt more intimidated than ever. If I was so bad at high school, how in the world could I handle college? This time I resolved to do my best and involve God along the way. I prayed fervently to develop new and better study skills.

To my complete shock, I ended up doing so well that semester that I qualified for academic scholarships. Nobody was more surprised than me! Even so, I could also easily look back over the previous months and see the hand of God helping me along as I learned to become a good student.

What I believed about myself back in high school simply wasn’t true. From that point on and with God’s help, I was able to forge a completely new path that carried me through college graduation and beyond.

One night after contemplating the upcoming change, I dreamed about my great-great-grandfather Joseph Skeen. I knew from his journal that when he and his wife, Maria, moved to Nauvoo, he desired to serve, so he sought out the Prophet Joseph Smith and asked how he could help. The Prophet sent him to work on the prairie and told him to do the best he could, so he did. He worked on the Smiths’ farm.8
Fulfilling callings requires faith. Shortly after Joseph began working on the farm, he and Maria became very sick. They had no money and were among strangers. It was a difficult time for them. In his journal, Joseph wrote, “We worked along [and] hung on to the Church with what little faith we had, though the devil tried to destroy us and turn us back.”10
I, along with hundreds of other descendants, will be eternally grateful that Joseph and Maria did not turn back. Blessings come as we persevere in our callings and responsibilities and hang on with all the faith we have.

When I was eight years old, my dad took my brother and me on a long hike.
As we got closer to the top, my brother and I started asking the questions every parent dreads:
“How much farther?”
“Are we almost there?”
My dad would respond patiently:
“You’re so close!”
“Just 15 more minutes!”
But 15 minutes would pass, and then 15 more. My dad went from encouraging to cajoling to pleading. “Just a little farther,” he’d say, believing it to be true. Even he was surprised we weren’t at the end yet.
When we passed hikers coming down from the top, we eagerly asked how much more walking we had ahead of us.
“You’re so close!” was their encouraging reply. “You’re almost there!”
This happened several times. Eventually, my brother plopped himself down in the middle of the trail, folded his arms, and declared, “I’m not going any farther.”
As we found out on that hiking trail, different people have different opinions. Everyone we met along the trail told us we were “close” to the top, but they all had different ideas of what that meant. Even my wonderful father—who had packed our snacks, filled up our water bottles, and gotten us to the trailhead—had misremembered how long the hike really was. Without an experienced guide, my brother and I became exhausted and frustrated to the point of wanting to give up.
Ultimately, my brother got off the ground and made it to the beautiful lake we’d been walking toward all day. It was a wonderful and worthwhile experience.
But how much better might it have been if we’d known what to expect? The hike wouldn’t have been any shorter or less steep, but we would have been better prepared. As President Nelson explained, “Overcoming the world … makes everything about life easier,” even if it doesn’t necessarily make everything easy.7

“Good morning!” she practically shouted as she pulled my covers off. I gave her my usual cheerful grunt, then proceeded to let out a long, mournful yawn. Yep! It was morning; I wished it were not. I am not what you would, even casually, call a morning person.
Then there’s my mom. How she ever keeps that smile on her face when she goes to bed so late at night is a mystery to me. Maybe she sleeps with a clotheshanger in her mouth. I’d go bananas if I didn’t get my full 7 1/2 hours of peaceful slumber. I guess Mom’s just used to it. She could go to bed early, but she would rather fold clothes, finish up the dishes, or do something where she can have some time to herself. Believe me, she certainly needs it.
I come from a pretty big family—four brothers, four sisters, and one dog—so Mom doesn’t get much time for breathers. Like this morning for instance. Mom was polishing shoes between pouring and flipping pancakes. She was also going through her purse, looking under cushions, and searching Dad’s pockets looking for lunch money. She ended up writing checks. Then while she was busy ironing a shirt for my brother, I got the chance to complain to her. I politely explained that either she and I would have to go shopping after school or I would have to quit school because I didn’t have anything to wear. I calmly told her I was sick and tired of making my older sister’s bed just so I could wear something of hers. Mom wasn’t much help. All she did was suggest a few strange outfits that I wouldn’t be caught going to the moon in.
As soon as I was through, my sister started whining to Mom. She was upset that Mom had fixed pancakes because she was on a diet. Mom said she didn’t have to eat them, and my sister shot back, “Mothers who care about their children on diets, don’t tempt them with pancakes!”
“Oh brother,” Mom said as she looked at the ceiling.
By now the family had to hurry and eat so there would be time for family prayer. I was right in the middle of a perfectly buttered and jammed pancake when the dog came running through the kitchen.
“Stop the dog! Stop the dog!” my youngest brother yelled. My mom told him to hold on so she could find out what was going on.
“The dog just had a new experience!”
“What are you saying?”
“He threw up on the carpet!”
Mom just groaned and told everybody to hurry and come for prayer. It took five to ten minutes for everybody to kneel down. Then as soon as we had prayer, and a lecture from Dad on turning off the lights, chaos hit our humble home. Everyone claimed they hadn’t had their turn in the bathroom. Nobody could find his schoolbooks. Everyone was going to miss the bus. My sister was wailing because she couldn’t find her navy blue socks. I knew where they were—on my feet. I told her she could wear my white ones. My dramatic younger brother said he had to have a note to excuse him for being sick the day before or he’d be accused of sluffing and classified as a delinquent for life. Mom was trying to help everybody as she reminded us all that she only had two hands. Finally, five good-bye Dad’s, and four good-bye Mom’s were said. (My sister was still mad about the pancakes.)
Well, I never got my turn in the bathroom, so I went to school with seeds from the raspberry jam stuck between my molars. I was sitting in seminary trying to get some of them out with my tongue when my teacher asked, “How many of you here honor your father and mother?” My hand went up like everyone else’s, of course. Then the teacher spent the rest of the class explaining what honor really means.
“Honor,” he said, “to show respect, consideration, courtesy, admiration; to pay attention to, think much of, etc.”
We talked about honor until I felt good and guilty, but I also determined to try harder to honor my parents, especially my mom parent. I think I’ll start by telling them how much I love them. Then comes the part that really counts—showing them.

Nils heard creaking, cracking, and then a great big crash! Everyone in the house jumped up to find the two missionaries buried in a pile of blankets and boards that had been Nils’s bed. His bed had been too small for these two grown men who were in Sweden preaching the gospel.
They had come just after supper and had stayed so late that Mama had insisted they stay the night. She had let them sleep in Nils’s bed while he slept on the floor.
Dismayed, Nils looked at his broken bed. Mama whispered, “Don’t worry. Papa will make you a new one.”
But Papa didn’t seem to have time. He worked all day and talked to the missionaries in the evenings. He said that the Book of Mormon explained everything he hadn’t understood in the Bible.
Soon Mama, Papa, Peter, Botilla, and Bengt were baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Nils and his baby sister would have to wait for their eighth birthdays. Even though they were happy, everyone else in town seemed angry—especially Grandmother and Grandfather. Nils’s family decided to go to America where they could be with other Church members.
“You will like America, Nils,” Mama said, “and when we get there, we will get you a new bed.”
The ship to America was crowded with other Swedish and Danish members of the Church. Nils slept on top of two giant water barrels. He was afraid that when the ship rocked back and forth he would roll off! He could hardly wait to see land and sleep in a bed that held still.
But Nils’s first bed in America didn’t hold still. After leaving the ship, they got on a train. Nils fell asleep listening to the clacking of the wheels. When they got off the train at a place called Council Bluffs, they loaded their belongings in wagons pulled by oxen. Nils had thought the ship was crowded, but this was worse!
“No room for mattresses or pillows,” shouted the man in charge. “Pack only your clothes and blankets!”
“No pillow, no mattress, and no bed,” Nils sighed.
His family shared a wagon with a widow and a newly married couple. Every night Nils and his family slept on the ground, and day after dusty day they walked until they made it to Salt Lake City. Once there, they shared a house with another family.
The family’s first home of their own in the valley was a little room dug from a hillside, with a dirt floor. They slept in blankets that could be rolled up during the day. They longed for a more permanent home.
Finally Papa found them some land for a place of their own. Once again, they packed everything into their wagon and rode to Huntsville, Utah. The valley there was green and full of tall grass, and the hillsides were covered with trees. Their second home was a rough cabin with a leaky willow-branch roof and corn-husk mattresses on the floor.
Finally, on Christmas Day, they moved into a real log home with a wood floor, pine shingles on the roof, and real beds! Four and a half years after leaving Sweden, Nils snuggled under his quilt in his own new bed. It creaked a little when he moved, reminding him of the night his old bed broke. How much had changed! Nils smiled. Maybe someday he would grow up to be a missionary in Sweden, too. If he did, he would watch out for little beds!
Years later, Nils P. Lofgren did return to Sweden as a missionary.

In August 2024, I was selected to participate in a research exchange program at Sciences Po University in Paris, France. Although I was excited about this remarkable opportunity, I dreaded the thought of leaving my family for eight long months. After counseling together as a family, we prayerfully decided that I should accept the offer.
While in Paris, I was actively involved in academic research, Church activities, and temple worship. Paris is a beautiful city, rich in culture, full of educational and professional opportunities, known for its delicious food, stunning architecture, and pleasant weather. Yet, in the midst of all this, I felt something was missing. I missed my family deeply. I remember telling my husband during one of our phone conversations that if I ever make it to the celestial kingdom alone, I will not be happy.
That thought has stayed with me. The celestial kingdom is indeed the most glorious of all kingdoms, but without one’s family, even eternal life would feel incomplete. My time in France taught me, through experience, that family is everything. Nothing compares to it.
I came to better understand the importance of family history and temple work. This sacred work is not merely about gathering names; it is about gathering people, our family, those we love and hope to be with forever.

I recall in the 1980s when we were opening a $30 million chemical plant in the Far East. A government minister invited us to his home for dinner. He took us to see his fleet of nineteen fancy cars, given as gifts by foreign companies. Soon a foreign partner suggested Jon make a yearly kickback to the minister of $250,000. Jon responded that he “had no intention of paying even five cents toward what was nothing more than extortion.”6
Rather than bow to the minister’s demand, he sold the plant and moved the operation. We lost millions of dollars, but word spread that Huntsman would not succumb to demands for “fees.” Such demands were never made again.

Henry Mackay had married into a family that was proud of its service and loyalty to the Church. Every time Henry met with his in-laws, he sensed that they felt their daughter had let them down by marrying a nonmember. As time went on, he became more and more defensive. He began to stay away from traditional family gatherings. Gradually, he started to notice shortcomings and faults in members of Marie’s family. He even directed some resentment toward his wife.

A very sensitive and perceptive girl, she quickly became aware of what was happening. She loved her husband; he was a loyal and devoted companion; and she felt he would someday join the Church and be a strong member. While Henry was out of town during a family anniversary party, she went into action. She brought the situation up for discussion and plead with her family to accept her husband as an honorable man, a child of God who had not had the opportunity to learn about and participate in the gospel plan. She suggested they dwell on the strong points of his personality and character. The family agreed to show warmth, acceptance, and appreciation.

Henry’s response was most gratifying. Feeling accepted, he began to warm up to his wife’s family and increasingly integrated his life with its members. Eventually he justified his wife’s confidence and became an active member of the Church.

My work as a chef was my life. I traveled the world cooking in luxury hotels and on cruise ships. I joined a team of great cooks that won many international culinary competitions.
Once, I was away from home for three years. My mother would often call me in tears and tell me to come home.
One day in Milan, Italy, where I had contracted to cook at a hotel, I met the full-time missionaries in a crowded subway station. They told me about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and shared some gospel principles. I especially enjoyed what they taught me about the family.
The missionaries gave me a copy of the Book of Mormon and asked me to pray about it. They also gave me a pamphlet with instructions on how to pray.
I returned to my hotel happy, went to my room, prayed, and began to read. The more I read the Book of Mormon, the more I desired to read. Unfortunately, work kept me from seeing the missionaries again. When my hotel contract ended, I returned home to Bari, where I began cooking for another hotel.
One day at the hotel restaurant, another cook, for inappropriate reasons, tried to get dates with some of the waitresses there. He was mad because the waitresses, who were Latter-day Saints, refused to go out with him.
Remembering the missionaries I had met in Milan, I told the cook that the waitresses had a right to turn him down.
“So, are you a Mormon too?” he asked.
Because I liked the principles the missionaries had taught me and because I felt justified in defending the waitresses, I replied, “Yes.”
The next time the cook saw the waitresses, he told them I was a Latter-day Saint. They were excited. When we gathered for lunch, they began asking me questions about the Church in Milan. I told them about the city and that I had met the missionaries there. When our lunch arrived, I reached for a glass of wine on the table.
“What are you doing drinking wine?” one of the waitresses asked.
“Is there something wrong with that?” I said.
“Are you even active?” another one asked.
“In what sense?” I said.
“How were you dressed the day you were baptized?” they asked.
“I don’t remember,” I told them. “I was only a month old.”
They were extremely mad because they thought I was making fun of them. I assured them I wasn’t. I admitted that I wasn’t a member of the Church, but I told them that I liked the Book of Mormon and the gospel principles I had learned. Then I asked how I could learn more about their church.
The waitresses soon introduced me to the missionaries. They could hardly believe it when I finished the discussions and got baptized.
Family photograph courtesy of the author
With my baptism, my life changed. I learned that you can’t have one foot in the world and one foot in the gospel. I learned that work is not the most important thing in life. I learned that the Lord and my family come first. Finally, I understood the sadness my mother felt in my absence, and I asked her to forgive me.
I quit traveling the world, got married in the Bern Switzerland Temple, started a family, and took a job cooking at a local hospital, where I used my talents to help sick people recover. Now I am in charge of human resources at the hospital. Working locally gives me time to dedicate to my family and Church callings.
From the day I went to the temple and received my endowment two years after my baptism, I have loved the sacredness of the temple and the work there. When my father died four years later, I was devastated. He was my hero. Thanks to the gospel of Jesus Christ, I know that he still lives.
When I entered the celestial room after doing my father’s vicarious work, I felt his embrace. At that moment, I knew that my father had accepted the gospel and the love the Lord has for His children.
We Latter-day Saints have the blessing to know the true gospel. I’m grateful for how it changed my life. The gospel is where I found true happiness. The gospel and my family are my greatest treasures.

My husband, Howard, has a fine Latter-day Saint heritage. Both of his parents came from devout pioneer families. Both of his grandfathers were called to help the expedition that searched out a route to the San Juan River country (southeast Utah) in 1879–80.
Howard’s father moved his family from Paragonah, Utah, (southwest Utah) to western Colorado’s plateau region in 1927. Their new home was a good place to continue a sheep-ranching business, but there were no towns within and no Latter-day Saint wards.
Howard and his brother learned to work at an early age. Their life’s pattern of never-ending work and learning to live in a harsh, cold, isolated environment, far removed from family and church, developed their self-sufficiency but not gospel testimony. They were two strongly independent young men who thought they didn’t need religion.
Howard and I met in 1938 when we were sixteen. He was “one of those Mormons.” Nevertheless, four years later we were married. Six years and three babies later I was visited by the missionaries, and I became “one of those Mormons.” There was a difference, however. I had been searching for the true gospel for several years, and when I found it I accepted it wholeheartedly. I was determined to raise our family in the faith, and I tried energetically to convert my own family—as well as my husband—as I went along.
But my family turned from me—one of the hardest trials I had ever faced. Then my husband became indifferent, even resentful, after a small branch of the Church was established in our area. I was happy to serve in the Primary and Sunday School, and I took the children—now numbering five—with me. But Howard resented the time I spent at church, and told me he resented it. I felt betrayed and frightened. What could I do to develop harmony in our home?
One day I walked to the hay field, feeling very confused and alone. Weeping, I knelt near a haystack and poured out my troubles to my Father in Heaven. After a long time, the answer came forcefully: Love him!
This was not the answer I had expected. I thought, “I have loved him; I’ve done all I could.” But as I walked back to the house, trying to put that counsel out of my head, I found I could not.
That night I prayed again, “How, Heavenly Father, how do I show him my love?” Finally came another answer: Don’t criticize him. Respect him. Praise him. Communicate with him. Bear your testimony!
I suddenly realized how wrong I had been. I had been critical and resentful. I had not praised Howard enough, and I had never told him how I really felt, except in anger. I had never talked to him about how much the Savior meant to me or how I felt about the gospel.
Now I knew I needed to change. I had no choice; the Spirit urged me every day. A few days later, for the first time, I was able to bear my testimony to him. He listened, and I felt encouraged. I asked the children’s help, and we fasted and prayed together. I asked the help of the ward priesthood leaders, and they gave their support.
Slowly, with divine help, I began to see changes. Howard attended a few programs the children and I took part in; occasionally he came to church. After four of our children had been married in the temple without us, our fifth child announced his engagement and told us we would have a year to get ready to go to the temple with him.
Howard wondered if we could do it, but we set a goal. And, after thirty-five years of marriage, we got to the temple! All five of our children and their spouses went with us to the Provo Temple, where we were sealed as a family. What a wonderful, spiritual, happy day!
Howard has since served as scoutmaster, elders quorum president, counselor in the bishopric, home teacher, and is now serving as group leader of his high priests quorum. He is loved and respected by all who know him. How grateful I am for that long-ago answer to fervent prayer: Love him!

In the mid-1970s when the Jiménez family of Cádiz joined the Church, people turned against them. Their little son was dismissed from the nursery school he attended. Clients for their shoemaking and shoe repair business gradually deserted them. They survived in part because they had heeded President Spencer W. Kimball’s (1895–1985) counsel to build up their food storage after hearing him speak at a conference in Europe in 1976. But they struggled.

Things are better now. The Lord has blessed them with new, more reliable clients, Enrique Jiménez says, and they have lived to see the day when neighbors and acquaintances ask how to get whatever it is that makes their family stand out.

The Jiménez family is large by Spanish standards today—eight children. Families of two, sometimes three, children are more common. Costs of supporting a family are high, and the average family has a piso—a two- or three-bedroom flat on one floor of an apartment building. The Jiménez family has two pisos in a building on one of the narrow, winding cobblestone streets in old Cádiz.

In the Jiménez living room, a specially made tabletop is stored out of the way until mealtime, when it fits onto a smaller table so the whole family can sit down to dinner together. Others ask Margarita Jiménez how she and her husband are able to support such a large family; she replies that the Lord blesses them by meeting their needs and helping her to manage well what they have.

Their challenges have not gone away, Enrique says, but the ability to meet them has grown. “The Lord has tried me many times, but He has always made the way for me to pass the test.” Enrique currently serves as first counselor in the bishopric of the Cádiz First Ward, Cádiz Spain Stake, and his wife is a counselor in the Relief Society presidency. Through the years, they have led the way in service; all of their children are active in the Church, and three sons have served missions.