Gospel Story Finder

I’d like to share a brief example of what love and sacrifice means to Bruce and I. We were about to be married. We were in school at BYU. Bruce wanted to teach some day, and graduate school is expensive. But what about a family? Could Bruce stay in school if we started our family? Could I finish my degree? We decided we wanted to—needed to—ask Heavenly Father. We prayed. We fasted. At the end of our fast, it was clear—for us—that we should welcome a child when the Lord decided to send one. Morning sickness. What a way to announce an answer to prayer.

And that child was not easy by any stretch. He stretched us to our limits. We sacrificed every day. One night, when the child was about eight or nine (and was thankfully asleep), I remember Bruce in exasperation asking, “The Lord put Adam and Eve on the earth as full-grown people! Why couldn’t he have done that with this child?” And the thought just came to me: “That boy was given to us to make Christians out of us.”

We changed and developed as we gave day-by-day, month-by month—to teach gospel principles, to discipline with love and humor, to allow him to experience the consequences of his choices, to help him become a servant, and then a friend, and then a son to God. And of course there were many bright shining moments. But raising children well is hard!

It was two days before Christmas, and the airport was full of people. After standing in line to check my luggage and pick up my boarding pass, I was cranky. When I arrived at the gate to wait to board the plane, I couldn’t find a place to sit, so I ended up lying along the back wall, using my carry-on bag as a pillow.
The airline I was flying on had open seating, and when it finally came time to board, I scanned the rows of seats ahead of me on the plane in search of an available window seat. The flight was full, but I managed to find a window seat near the back of the plane with only one other person in the row—a young man about my age in the aisle seat.
I climbed over the young man to get to my seat, making no attempt to talk to him because of my bad mood. As I struggled to shove my big carry-on bag under the seat in front of me, my neighbor offered to put it in the overhead storage bin for me. I declined, but I at least mustered enough charity to thank him for his offer.
“What's so important in that bag that you need it with you?” he asked. As I thought about it, I honestly didn’t know.
“Nothing really, I guess,” I said.
I hadn’t thought about what was in my bag. I just knew that I liked to have my stuff with me and not in some overhead bin. This friendly neighbor continued to ask questions, and soon we were talking about where we were going for Christmas and what our plans were. By this time, a man was trying to climb into the middle seat between my new friend and me. But before he climbed over, the young man from the aisle seat slid into the seat next to me.
We kept talking, and by the time the plane took off I found out his name is P.K. He was flying to Houston to see his dad, whom he hadn’t seen for years. Then we talked about Christmas traditions. The longer we talked, the more I realized we come from strikingly different backgrounds.
I started thinking about how the Church had influenced my life. Almost as if P.K. could read my thoughts, he asked me how I felt about religion and God. Once he found out I was a Latter-day Saint, he wanted to know what we believed, if I really believed the gospel’s teachings, and how I could believe something so intangible.
I quickly prayed in my heart to say the right things to P.K., and I found myself answering his questions and telling him that I really did know the Church is true.
We continued talking until we landed in Texas. Then he said, “I’ve been searching for all kinds of things in my life to make me happy, and even when I’ve found temporary satisfaction or peace, I’ve never been as happy and confident as you seem.
“If what you say is true, then maybe this Church of yours isn’t so bad,” he said. “You must have been pretty lucky to grow up knowing all this. What you’ve told me is what people spend their entire lives looking for.”
At that moment I realized why I needed my bag with me. I’d brought a copy of the Book of Mormon to give away. I pulled it out of my bag and shared some of my favorite passages with P.K. I felt the Spirit confirm to me that what I was saying was true. The Book of Mormon really can bring P.K. the peace he is looking for because it teaches of Jesus Christ, who is the ultimate source of peace.
That Christmas I discovered how the gospel of Jesus Christ really does make us happy and how blessed I am, as a Latter-day Saint, to know that. After wishing P.K. a merry Christmas, I offered a silent prayer that he would come to know what I know: that the gospel is true and can bring us peace.

In March 1958, while serving as one of the first missionaries in the West Spanish-American Mission, Elder H. Aldridge Gillespie had an experience that profoundly affected his life. Elder Spencer W. Kimball of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles (1895–1985) had been assigned to formally organize the mission, and the young Elder Gillespie, a newly called second counselor in the mission presidency, was given the opportunity to be his “chauffeur, roommate, and companion” for approximately two weeks.
“Elder Kimball had special spiritual capacities that touched my heart and influenced my opinion of what life should be and how I should live it,” Elder Gillespie recalls. “My concept of what man should be, what families should be, and how people should conduct themselves was greatly amplified in that brief time.”

As a young man of nineteen, experiencing my first contact with Latter-day Saints, I sat ready to put one dollar in the collection plate during Sunday School opening exercises. I would show my Mormon hosts that I was not stingy. After all, I was only earning thirty-five cents an hour, so one dollar was no small contribution. But Sunday School came and went, and there was no collection plate.
And again at sacrament meeting that Sunday evening, where I had decided to double my contribution to two dollars, there was no collection. The explanation must be, I was sure, that you contributed at the door on your way out. With my hand in my pocket, I was ready—but I had to switch pockets because everyone wanted to shake my hand.
Once outside the building, I casually asked my hosts, “When do they take up the collection?”
They smiled and answered, “We don’t pass the collection plate in our church.”
“Never?” I asked.
“Never,” they replied.
“Great!” I thought. “This is my kind of church.” Obviously, it was time for me to learn about tithing.
I had been praying long and hard about religion. An unrelenting feeling of uneasiness had come over me—a feeling that was driving me to find spiritual relief. On the following Wednesday night the missionaries gave me the lesson on tithing, and I found the relief I was looking for. Never will I forget the comfort that flowed into my system when those two elders began to instruct me about tithing. From their very first word until their last amen, I knew it was true. The very next Sunday I paid my first tithing, although it was six months before I was baptized.

When I was real little, my family and I lived in Aleppo, Syria. I had trouble sleeping. I took my dolls and played with them on my bed. A couple of times, I took my markers and colored my sister’s face. I got in a lot of trouble for that. One night my dad came in my bedroom and brought some consecrated oil. He gave me a blessing, and since then—as far as I can remember—I haven’t had any trouble sleeping.
Ashley Miller, age 10Yona, Guam

My experience applying to PhD programs was the opposite of my experience of finishing up my undergraduate degree. This time I felt very clear direction that I needed to get a doctorate, and I received some of the most distinct line-upon-line16 guidance of my life in the process. Because of how strong those promptings were, I figured that getting my PhD must be really important for me.

After I was accepted to Johns Hopkins University, I decided to visit the campus in Baltimore before making a final decision. I flew in on a Sunday so that I could visit a ward and get advice on where to live. I arrived at the Inner Harbor Ward church building early and took a seat on the back row of the chapel. As I waited for the service to begin, I heard a distinct voice in my mind say, “Ali, your PhD is important, but your experiences in this ward will be more important.” Because of this prompting, I made sure to find housing in the ward boundaries.

I learned so much from my associations with people in that ward. And I am so grateful for that prompting because I made sure that I prioritized the friendships and service opportunities that were extended to me. Otherwise, I think it may have been easy to put too much time and energy into my PhD and neglect building relationships with the people around me. There is not time to share the experiences I had with my ward, but I will say that it was because of the things I learned while serving with my ward family that I came to my dissertation topic. I believe I would have been far less successful in my program if I had not accepted both formal and informal opportunities to serve that allowed me to get to know the wonderful people in my Church community better.

We are a humble and very happy family. We were baptized in 1993, although it feels as though we have always been members of the Church and blessed with the gospel of Jesus Christ.
Initially, we were not interested in A Liahona (Portuguese). But then we read a copy loaned to us by a special missionary. We immediately realized that we wanted our own subscription. Now, should we ever miss an issue, it would be quite a spiritual loss for us.

Recently, I had the blessing of meeting Patriarch James R. Boone and his wife Ruth in Jacksonville, Florida. Their odyssey to happiness has come through their faithfulness to the redeeming principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ and in being the parents of thirteen children. Four children—David, Elaine, Melinda, and Martha—presently attend this University and may be in this audience. Brother and Sister Boone’s happiness was not complete with only thirteen children, so they adopted another one—Sammy, now age three, making fourteen. In their Christmas letter of this year, they said of Sammy, number fourteen, “He is very special, this boy.” I was at a conference meeting when Sister Boone was released as president of the stake Relief Society after having served faithfully and well for twelve years. In this family, among the children in one generation, there have been eleven full-time missionaries, and nine of the boys have earned Eagle Scouts, which may be a national record. Patriarch and Sister Boone have great joy and rejoicing in their posterity, who at this point number an even fifty. Time, I am sure, will do much to increase the measure of their joy and rejoicing.

In addition to completing Maria’s home, a number of other good things happened as a result of the project.
Helder Manuel Tomo, 19, helped build the home before he was a member of the Church. He says, “Building Maria’s house was great! I first went to church with Jonqueiro, a great friend of mine who was about to serve a mission. I really enjoyed church, yet I felt like the ‘new guy.’”
Spending time building the house helped Helder get to know the youth in the branch. “This new feeling of belonging and having so many friends is what sealed my decision to be baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I was baptized by Jonqueiro. I am so grateful that he invited me to church and helped me ‘belong’ through this great service project.”
Jonqueiro Alai Malaica, 22, says, “It was a great service project for all of the members. It wasn’t easy, but it was most certainly worth it.” He says it brought the whole branch together.
“I’m also grateful for the youth and the friendship they showed to Helder,” says Jonqueiro. Helder is now working hard as a branch missionary and plans to go on a mission.

I thought other youth would be interested in hearing about the Punta Arenas Branch, southernmost branch of the Church in the world, I believe. When Isaiah said, “… utter it even to the end of the earth,” he must have been referring to Punta Arenas, Chile! We’re on the Straights of Magellan, facing Tierra del Fuego. The wildlife and beauty of the Patagonia is outstanding: sharp green mountains, grazed by guanacos; blue waters filled with trout and salmon; and birdlife ranging from parrots to ostriches, ducks, swans, flamingos, and an occasional penguin.
Our branch is at the tender age of four years and has a membership of two hundred Saints. Jaime, our MIA president, and Carlos, an MIA officer, both youth, have been working all year to save enough money to cover their traveling expenses to the international youth conference to be held in Arica, Chile, at the northern end of the country. It’s been a long, hard job, involving window cleaning, cakes sales, and cleaning houses, but they have finally made it. That’s what it means to be a Latter-day Saint down here.
Elder Gary WeldChile Mission

The last week home was sad. I wasn’t having second thoughts or anything, but I sure was scared, and I realized how homesick I was going to be.
A couple of days before I left home to enter the MTC, I decided to walk from our house to Gus’s station, about two miles away, just to visit him at work one last time.
As I walked, I thought about Gus and myself. We’re the only kids in our home. We’ve always been close, even though we’re so different and he’s five years older.
Gus used to be active in the Church. He had become a deacon. Then about the time he entered junior high school he started to rebel. My parents were patient but heartbroken.
Gus was tough and mean and popular. I was never Paul—I was Gus’s little brother. But that was okay, because the big guys left me alone.
People marveled we were brothers.
When I was a senior in high school I had already decided to serve a mission, so my hair was always cut short—missionary style. That school year Gus and I would always go to lunch together.
He’d lock up his station and pick me up in front of the high school on his mean Harley-Davidson. We sure must have looked funny riding down the street—Gus with his beard and long hair, something out of a motorcycle gang, and me, “Mr. Clean,” your basic prospective missionary.
I approached Gus’s station that day from a trail in back of it and was rounding the corner to go into the office when I overheard Gus talking to someone about me. I stopped to listen. They didn’t know I was there.
“Did I tell you Paul is going on a mission?” Gus asked.
“Yer kiddin?” It was the voice of Rod, Gus’s best friend, my worst enemy.
“Nope, I’m real proud of the kid.”
“He’s a ‘boot licker,’” Rod cynically responded. “You don’t believe all that stuff about Joseph Smith do ya?”
I doubled my fist in instant anxiety.
How would Gus answer the question? Would he say what he really felt to Rod? His influence had always persuaded Gus to do wrong, which was why I disliked him so much.
Gus thought before he answered.
I can’t explain what his words did to me when he finally spoke. There are things in life you’ll never forget.
“Well, Rod buddy,” he said, “let me tell you. I don’t know everything; neither do you. It could be true. All I know is it sure makes a difference in Paul. He loves it.”
Rod continued to attack me.
“He idolizes you, Gus. He’d do anything you told him to, even if he thought it was wrong.”
“No he wouldn’t,” Gus defended. “He’s never been anything like me. If more Mormons were like him, I could maybe stand being around them. Nothing’s worse than a self-righteous Mormon. He’s never judged me. And he hasn’t given my parents nearly the heartache I have.”
Then Gus said something that really made me think.
“Anyway, if I ever caught him doing something wrong, if he ever let me down, so help me, I’d punch him out.”
I left them talking and started back home without them ever knowing I had been there. A lump formed in my throat as I realized why Gus had seemed so excited about my mission. Now I knew why he had always supported me.
You see, he needed me to be strong where he had been weak. I vowed that very day I would be strong for him. I’d resist my temptations. I would not let him down. He needed to know someone could be good. I would be.

It was another dreary, lifeless, and boring day. For the last little while, everything had been the same, and though I tried to be happy, I was growing bored and restless. It was the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic and my country was in lockdown, so we were all encouraged to stay home until further notice.
Every day when I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw an emptiness there. It could have been because I couldn’t see my friends or because I wasn’t able to work or support my family at the time. I had just graduated from college and wanted to become a teacher, but I needed to pass an examination that had been postponed because of the pandemic.
I felt unhappy, like something was missing in my heart, but I couldn’t completely figure out what it was or even how I could find it.
One night, my cousin was browsing through a book. It was dark blue and entitled “Ang Aklat ni Mormon.” She had recently gone with her friend to something called “family home evening” and had been talking to missionaries on the phone a few nights a week ever since. On this particular night, she was talking on the phone while skimming the book when suddenly she asked me if I could help her answer a question from one of the missionaries.
“Seriously?” I thought. “You’re the one being asked, so why do I have to help?”
But I gave in and asked her what the question was. And she said, “Ano daw layunin mo sa buhay?” (“What do you think is your purpose in life?”)
My heart started beating so fast when I heard the question.
“This is it! This is what I’ve been looking for. This is what’s been missing in my heart,” I thought.
I stared at my cousin, smiling, and borrowed the phone to answer the missionary’s question. I told him that I believed that the purpose of life is to be happy, to enjoy life, and to serve others and be kind to them. And he agreed!
He and his companion also asked if they could teach my cousin and me more about the gospel, and we said yes. My family was taught by missionaries when I was young. My mother is a member but had been less active for most of my life, but after the conversation on the phone, I wanted to learn more.
Every time the missionaries shared something about the gospel, I felt joy in my heart, particularly in learning about the plan of salvation and the promises of Heavenly Father and the Savior. Eventually we went to church, and the members welcomed us with their warm hearts and helping hands.
I could feel in my heart that I was taking the right path. And after a few months, I was baptized by a close friend who had helped me move forward in the gospel.
Making a lot of changes in my life after joining the Church was hard. And my life is far from being easy or happy all the time. But as I have had new opportunities to serve and deepen my testimony, I have come to know with certainty that everlasting joy is indeed found in this gospel.
I feel joy in my heart whenever I read the scriptures, hear divine inspiration from our prophets and apostles, and witness the testimonies of the members around me. I’ve found my answer to the question those missionaries asked over the phone: the purpose of life is to be a better person for God, for myself, and for my family, all while striving to return to Him. And this knowledge has brought me the exact happiness I’ve been looking for. Continuing to serve people and take my family to church is now my top priority, because I want them to experience true joy.
President Russell M. Nelson 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.”1
I too testify that true happiness can be found only in following Jesus Christ. Every opportunity I have had in the gospel of Jesus Christ has filled my soul with joy, especially as I have allowed these experiences to help me grow closer to Him.
Before the COVID-19 pandemic, I had been happy with my life. But the true joy the gospel brings is different from happiness. Even in the pandemic, the gospel brings me peace and shows me the purpose of life, which helps me keep moving forward with faith and hope.
I finally found my missing piece. I needed the joy that following Jesus Christ brings to my heart and my life, as we all do.

The sacrifice of these members of the Church to pay their tithes and offerings has become more meaningful to me in the last few weeks. I was assigned to divide a stake just a couple of weeks ago in a country south of here. In the process of issuing a call to a stake president, the man the Lord had selected to serve, I saw him almost break into tears when the call was extended to him. He explained that he knew the call was coming. He said with a sad heart, as he assumed this heavy burden, that he knew the sacrifice he and his family would have to make. Then he went on to explain that right now one day’s salary in every month is required just to transport his children, his family, back and forth to church as they pay their fare on the bus. Now with this additional assignment, added bus fare would be needed to attend more meetings. Then he continued to say that he would gladly and willingly accept the call, for he was anxious to build the kingdom and to make whatever sacrifice the Lord would require of him. He knew his family would sustain him in this sacrifice. My eyes glanced down, then, at this point, to the tithing record that was before me, and I found his contributions marked “paid in full.” Suddenly I realized that this great and devoted, humble servant was making enormous sacrifices through the payment of his tithes to help my children have an education at this great institution. Literally the widow’s mite is being supplied you to give you an education at this school.

Aloha. It was in the summer of 1987 I was preparing to graduate from BYU–Hawaii with a degree in Hospitality and Tourism Management. It had been a wonderful and challenging journey for our young family. My wife and I were both students at that time and we had our four beautiful daughters all under the age of 8 years old. We lived in the highly aspired TVA, in building D. I was excited to graduate and had applied at several hotel chains in Hawaii. I thought I was a perfect match for the hotel industry. I was bringing a background of experience in the industry which I had obtained previously before coming to school and now I had added a degree.
As graduation approached and what I presumed was a time for my family and I to relocate to start my career, my sweet wife shared with me that we still needed to be here and that she needed to continue in her schooling. After several long discussions together, fasting and praying we decided that we would stay here on campus for one more year.
After my graduation, my sweetheart continued her schooling and I accepted an internship in Food Services. This transition for me was very difficult. I had said yes to stay here BUT my heart and mind were definitely saying – NO. I struggled with this decision for several months. It became increasingly difficult when friends would ask me what I was doing now that I had graduated or when prospective employers called for second interviews or had tendered job offers. In my own way, I felt that I had been dealt an unjust hand in my life and questioned the value of our decision. I often knelt down and confided in the Lord of my predicament pleading my case before him.
What seemed like eternity was really only a short period of time but one day a gentle answer to my pleadings came into my mind and heart, “I was not yet as Joseph, who was sold into Egypt.” I vaguely remembered the details of Joseph’s story, but knew that this was my answer and I had a lesson to learn. I quickly grabbed my scriptures and poured myself into his story which reassured me that the Lord had not forgotten me and I was about to learn some valuable life lessons through his tutoring and in preparation of what was to come.
Within a year of our decision to stay here, my wife and I both felt the whispering from the spirit that the time had finally arrived and we needed to prepare to leave. Both my wife and the Lord had been very patient with me during this time. In July 1988, we packed our young family, said good-bye to our loved ones and moved to Utah to begin our new life. I had accepted an offer to work at BYU Provo and as I looked around this campus, I thought to myself this would be my last farewell to BYU–Hawaii… and as you can plainly see I have come back, and I am still learning.

I was recently working on a project about body image and the media. I visited a local mall to interview dressing room attendants, who frequently see how people view their body image, to discuss my project. However, when I got there I started to feel self-conscious. I lost courage and felt like I could approach them only if I were prettier or skinnier. So instead, I thought I’d take some pictures of advertisements throughout the mall. But then I started feeling too self-conscious for that, too. I felt like people would judge me or think I was weird.
When I left the mall, I had made no progress on my project. The car ride home was long and miserable because the whole time I was just wishing I looked different. Suddenly I realized that the visit was completely related to my project. Even though I didn’t talk to anyone or take any pictures, I left the mall feeling worthless. I could see how I had allowed the media’s overbearing influence to overwhelm me. But it doesn’t need to be that way.

I’d always been proud to live in Peggy’s Cove. Then she came. Each evening I stood in my backyard among the jumbled boulders and lapping seawater, watching the fishing boats come home. “How’s our own Peggy today?” the fishermen called as they unloaded their baskets of lobsters. “Waiting for your dad, aye?”
Then the other Peggy arrived. I knew something was up when Mom came bustling in, grinning as if Dad had caught a record lobster. “You know that lady from Saskatchewan who bought the gift shop?” she exclaimed. “She has a daughter your age named Peggy!”
“Peg—!” My swallow felt as long as a giraffe’s.
“You should get acquainted. What fun it will be to have a pair of Peggys in town!”
“Peggy’s Cove isn’t big enough for two Peggys,” I muttered.
Still, I walked into the gift shop a few minutes later and found the new owner bending over a box of Peggy’s Cove sweatshirts. She looked up. “Oh, you must be the other Peggy I’ve been hearing about.”
“I’m the Peggy,” I replied.
As if on cue, the owner’s daughter emerged from the back room, carrying a box of Peggy’s Cove stationery. I grimaced. Wasn’t it bad enough having another Peggy in town? Did she have to be beautiful as well?
She smiled sweetly at me with perfect white teeth. “I’m glad to meet you,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if there would be anyone my age here. I’ve never lived in such a small town.”
“Well, you and your mother might push the population past eighty. That’s almost too big for me.”
“You wouldn’t want it to get too big,” she agreed. “It’s such a beautiful place.” She flipped her long black hair toward the window. “The ocean is really spectacular.”
“Oh, it isn’t usually this nice,” I said, flipping my stiff brown hair that hardly moved. “Often it’s terribly foggy and cold.”
She laughed. “Probably not as cold as Saskatchewan. Have you lived here all your life?”
“All my life.”
Her deep blue eyes opened wide with interest. “Have you ever been lobster fishing?”
My dull, sort-of-brown eyes narrowed in contempt. “Of course. My father’s a lobster fisherman.”
“Wow! I’ve never even seen a lobster.”
How revolting! I thought. How could anybody even think about moving to Peggy’s Cove to sell Peggy’s Cove sweatshirts and stationery and knickknacks and never have seen a lobster?
That afternoon I took some plain white stationery and sat on the massive granite rocks between the lighthouse and the cove. The thrashing Atlantic Ocean groaned with me. “The most awful thing has happened,” I wrote to my best friend, Melissa, who had moved to New Brunswick. I told her the whole sad story, then added, “P.S. The next thing I know, she’ll be taking your place next to me in the church choir.”
On the outside of the envelope I quickly scrawled Melissa’s address and my return address—Peggy, Peggy’s Cove, Nova Scotia. That was all I needed.
I mailed the letter inside the lighthouse. The redheaded lighthouse—that’s what I call it because of its red top and white body—is no longer an operating lighthouse. In the summer it serves as the Peggy’s Cove Post Office.
On Sunday I was walking to the little white church on the hill, when the other Peggy and her mother drove by, smiling and waving. “Here comes my next choir partner,” I grumbled. But she never showed up. I guess our church isn’t good enough for her, I thought.
When I saw her washing the gift shop window the next day, I tried to sidle past without being seen.
“Peggy,” she called, “I saw my first lobster the other day. They’re interesting creatures, aren’t they?”
“I suppose. I didn’t see you in church.”
“Our church is in Halifax. But it must be nice to walk. Our Primary’s going to have an activity day here at the cove sometime. You’re welcome to come.”
“Primary?”
“It’s like a children’s Sunday School.”
“Oh.” Another strange thing from Saskatchewan. “Our church is having its own picnic soon.”
“Sounds fun,” she said. “I’d love to come. When is it?”
“I’m not sure,” I hedged. “I’d better go. There’s a letter I need to mail.”
The lighthouse was crowded with tourists when I walked in. The postmistress glanced up quickly. “Oh, Peggy, there’s a package for you.”
I leaped across the granite rocks toward home. My birthday present from Melissa, at last! I was passing Dad’s dory before I noticed the front of the package. The handwriting didn’t look like Melissa’s. Suddenly I prickled in a cold shiver. It wasn’t to me! It was addressed to the other Peggy. I stiffened in hot anger. How dare another Peggy get mail at the Peggy’s Cove Post Office! Why hadn’t Melissa sent me a present?
I crawled into Dad’s dory and moped. Peggy of Saskatchewan didn’t deserve to get mail here. She had no right to even live in Peggy’s Cove. Suddenly I opened the latch of a lobster pot and stashed the package inside. I would give it to her when I was good and ready. Or maybe I wouldn’t give it to her at all. She would never miss it.
The next night at dinner, Dad announced, “I’ve decided to do something different tomorrow for the last day of lobster season. That new Peggy down at the gift shop has never had a chance to go lobstering.” He looked at me. “She’s a cute little thing, aye?”
I shoved more potatoes into my mouth. “I’ve never noticed.”
“Well, anyway, I thought I’d take both of you out with me.”
I almost choked on my potatoes. “I doubt that she’d want to go.”
When the other Peggy arrived at the boat early the next morning, her usual cheery “hi” sounded a bit shaky. Her eyes darted nervously. She’s not used to being around smelly lobster bait, I thought smugly.
But suddenly she was fumbling with her small red backpack. “I need to give you something. I opened it by accident and thought it was so beautiful that I almost kept it for myself.”
She withdrew a small package. I grabbed it. Inside was a beautiful necklace. “I was right!” I said triumphantly. “Melissa wouldn’t forget my birthday.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, hunching her shoulders and looking down. “I should have given it to you sooner.”
By the time the boat had chugged out of the cove, she seemed her usual self again. She was asking Dad a stream of questions. I was more nervous than a lobster in a seafood restaurant.
“See that string of purple and white buoys?” Dad shouted above the wind. “Those are mine. They have my own color pattern to mark where I’ve dropped my lobster pots. We’ll haul up the line and see how many lobsters we’ve caught. Then we’ll rebait the traps with herring and drop them again.”
“Sounds like fun,” Peggy said.
“It’s a lot of work,” I shouted, pacing the deck.
“Two lobsters in this pot,” Dad called, winding up the line on a pulley.
The other Peggy wasn’t a bit squeamish about handling the lobsters. In fact, she seemed to enjoy it. “Look at how many we’re getting!” she shouted.
Dad was hauling up another pot. “No lobsters in this one. Looks like the trap’s broken up pretty badly.” He quickly found another pot to replace it. Opening the wooden trap door to hang the bait bag, he stopped short. “What’s this?” he exclaimed.
Peggy peered curiously inside the pot. “It looks like a package. Oh, my, it’s my package.” She grabbed it out of the pot. “This is what I’ve been waiting for to give Mom on her birthday. How did it …”
I turned. “I’m sorry. I got it by mistake. I was going to give it to you.”
“Lobster pot and all?” Dad asked sternly. He was giving me his “we have some serious talking to do” look while she ripped open the package.
I stared over her shoulder. “A hymnbook?”
“Yes,” she said. “Mom loves to sing, and there’s one song in here she’s always asking me to sing to her.”
As Dad dropped another lobster pot overboard, the other Peggy began to sing:
“‘I am a child of God,
And he has sent me here,
Has given me an earthly home
With parents kind and dear …’”*
Sounds like something those Saskatchewan people would make up, I thought, trying hard not to like it. But the truth was, I did.
She looked up at me. “Do you sing, Peggy?”
“Well, yes. In the church choir.”
“You must have a beautiful voice,” she said. “Will you sing it with me?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” But I was already humming the tune under my breath.
As it turned out, we not only sang the song while Dad lobstered, but we sang it for our church picnic, her Primary Activity Day, and several church and community functions in neighboring coves. We even sang it at the lobster festival. We were billed as the Peggys of Peggy’s Cove. I rather liked the sound of it.
She’s going to teach me more of her songs.

Here is an example from a BYU student:

I got to know Tyler16 after he moved into the apartment down the hall from mine. I helped him move some of his stuff into the apartment, and as we talked we found that we liked the same kind of music. A few days later my roommate and I started chatting with him. Without us guiding the conversation to Church-related things, Tyler told us that he wanted to be straight with us about his relationship with the Church. He said he had many doubts that he was working through. What ensued was a deep conversation about truth and how one finds truth in the world today. My roommate and I testified of the Book of Mormon and about revelation. Tyler shared that his parents didn’t know about his doubts and thanked us for listening and being so understanding. We prayed together before we left.

That is a good illustration of how to begin a longer process.

Sixteen-year-old Dwan Chevelle Bondad, one of the speakers, shared that she was not confident enough in delivering her talk in Filipino, as English was her first language.
“I’m afraid I might not articulate my talk well,” she said.
Her parents Marisol and Oliver Bondad shared the same concern. “She’s not very good at Tagalog. Her nerves might get into her and she might stutter,” her mother revealed. “So we included her in our daily family prayer.”
She added, “We prayed hard. We were confident that the Lord would bless her.”
While reviewing her talk, Dwan had a hard time understanding her own message.
Then a beautiful turn around happened. She recalled, “The moment I gave my talk in the Celestial Room, my own message resonated with me more.”
She felt comforted. “I received the aide I needed and my anxieties disappeared,” she said. “I realized that there’s no room for worry in the Celestial Room.”

Not long ago, on the campus of Brigham Young University, I was teaching a New Testament class focused on the life of Jesus Christ. At the conclusion of a discussion focused on the hypocrisy1 of those who questioned the Savior’s authority and the signs2 given of His Second Coming, I had a student approach me to ask a question. His motive seemed pure as he reflected: “The scriptures state that in the last days, if it were possible, even the very elect will be deceived.3 Sister Platt, how will I know Him? I don’t want to be deceived.”
My first thought was to turn to the scriptures and reexplore what we had just studied in class pertaining to the signs of Christ’s Second Coming. But the Spirit prompted otherwise. Instead, I asked a question much like one the Lord has asked on various occasions: “Do you know Him now? Is He familiar to you?” Or, in the words of Jesus, “What think ye of Christ?”4
His eyes filled with tears. “No. I don’t think I know Him as I should. Please teach me how I can come to recognize Him.”
His honest inquiry is reflective of every disciple’s desire. How can a sincere seeker of truth come to know and recognize Jesus Christ so he or she is not deceived?

Gracie felt like she had been waiting in line at the fabric store forever! She was ready to go home and play with her toys. Then she saw a girl in line in front of her. The girl looked a little older than Gracie. She had braces on her legs and used crutches to help her stand. She turned and smiled. Gracie smiled back.
As they were leaving, Gracie was surprised when Mom reached out to stop the other mom.
“Excuse me,” Mom said, “Could I ask why your daughter is using crutches?”
Spina bifida is a problem with the way a baby’s spinal cord grows before birth. It can cause problems with legs, feet, or hips.
The other mom smiled. “This is Saylor, and she has spina bifida.”
Gracie’s eyes opened wide as she looked at Saylor. “This is Gracie, and she has spina bifida too,” Mom said.
Saylor’s mom smiled at Gracie. “Do you have an owie on your back?”
Gracie nodded. She had a long scar on her back from a surgery she’d had right after she was born.
The two moms started talking. Gracie heard words like surgery and treatments. Gracie grinned at Saylor and said hi. Gracie liked Saylor right away. She learned that Saylor was nine, and she was nice. Gracie knew they would be great friends.
Finally they all said goodbye to each other. Gracie heard their moms make plans to meet again soon. She could hardly wait!
Back in the car, Mom said, “You know the surgery you’re going to have soon? Well, Saylor had that surgery, and she’s doing great! I felt the Holy Ghost tell me I should talk to her mom, and I’m glad I did.”
“Me too!” Gracie said.
Gracie loved playing with Saylor. Even though Gracie was five, she and Saylor had lots to talk about. And Mom and Dad talked with Saylor’s parents a lot too—mostly about the big surgery.
Thinking about the surgery made Gracie feel scared. She thought about the long scar on her back. She couldn’t remember that surgery, but she would remember this one. She hoped it would make her better. Saylor had told her that everything would be OK.
A few weeks later, Gracie went to the hospital to get ready for the surgery. The halls of the hospital were bright and happy. There were paintings of blue whales and other fun pictures on the walls. Gracie met with doctors and nurses who explained the surgery to her. She practiced moving the bed up and down and played with the remote for her little TV. They told her she could order chocolate milk every day! Maybe the surgery wouldn’t be so bad.
When Gracie got home, she made a little hospital bed with her pillow and a laundry basket. She got a tray of snacks and pretended she was at the hospital. It would be fun. She tried not to think about the surgery.
A few days before surgery, Gracie got a card from Saylor. She had drawn a picture of Gracie with Saylor and Heavenly Father and Jesus. It said, “Remember that Heavenly Father will make you brave.”
Gracie hugged her card tight. Saylor helped her be brave. Gracie knew Heavenly Father could help her be brave for the surgery too.