Gospel Story Finder

Two experiences illustrate the importance of caution in judging. A Relief Society worker visiting a sister in her ward asked whether the woman’s married children ever visited her. Because of a short-term memory loss, this elderly sister innocently answered no. So informed, her visitor and others spoke criticisms of her children for neglecting their mother. In fact, one of her children visited her at least daily, and all of them helped her in many ways. They were innocent of neglect and should not have been judged on the basis of an inadequate knowledge of the facts.

President Hinckley works hard. I got a telephone call from Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin early one Monday morning. I asked him where he was calling from. He said from his office. I asked, “Why are you calling from your office on a Monday, this is your day off, your Saturday. Besides, you were in Hong Kong yesterday helping to dedicate the temple there.” Elder Wirthlin said that he had returned to Salt Lake with the president late the night before, exhausted, but that he awoke with the thought, “President Hinckley will be at his office by 7!” So, he said, “I got up, dressed, and hurried to my office. I shouldn’t be outworked by President Hinckley!”

A few years ago, I was teaching a seminary class about the First Vision. As part of the discussion, I spoke about the power of sharing that story in missionary work and why it has always been part of our first lesson since the beginning of organized missionary lesson plans. One of my students raised an objection: “Brother Mathews, I think that as missionaries we should teach the world about Jesus Christ, not about the First Vision.”
On the screen in front of the class was a well-known image of the First Vision painted by Del Parson. I pointed to it and asked my student what he saw. Without really looking up or giving it much thought he said, “I see Joseph Smith. That’s my point. I think as missionaries we should teach about Jesus Christ, not Joseph Smith.”
I patiently asked him to look at it again and tell me what else he saw. More thoughtfully this time, he looked up, stared for a moment, and reflected. I could visibly see when the light turned on in his mind. He said, “I see Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I think I see your point. The First Vision is not just about Joseph Smith.”

Well, that service ended, and there wasn’t one person I knew who slept that night. And there wasn’t much talking going on. You held your rifle and reported to your boat team station, and at 5:00 when that whistle went off, we prepared to embark. I was assigned to the seventh wave that morning. Unfortunately, the first six waves didn’t even get ashore. Completely blown out of the water. Thousands of lives sacrificed for you, for me, for the defense of this country. And I remember how I felt as I was put on shore on that little coral reef; by then the tide was in and I had to wade to shore in water clear up to my chest, rifle extended, and I had to push through the dead bodies of my friends and those I had trained and associated with. Don’t tell me you don’t ask questions. Why was that wonderful kid, 19 years old, face down in the water? Why? As I crawled ashore, and finally made a little progress about ten feet up the beach and dug a little hole there, I took off my helmet and started to ask the Lord why. Why, Lord, why should I be out there?
I’d never prayed like that before. I’d been a Latter-day Saint all my life. I’d watched my mom and dad get on their knees in family prayer. May I confess again, mine was an attitude at ages 16 and 17, “Let’s get this over with, folks. My gosh, my folks are fanatical. Pa, do we have to pray tonight?” You know those feelings. I find that others feel and think this way in our society, and it’s because our vision is short; we haven’t been able to see enough to ask penetrating questions.
I remember kneeling a number of times with my father and listening to him pour out his soul to his Heavenly Father. My dad was a sharp, capable businessman, respected by the community, a great leader from whom others sought counsel, and yet in his own humble way he would often kneel and say, “Lord, here’s my problem. Help my boy Paul, and my sons Bob and David,” or “There’s a difficult area in my business. What’s your counsel, Lord?” And I watched time after time as my father got off his knees with a tear or two in his eyes, and looked heavenward, and gave thanks and appreciation.
Up to the time I went ashore at Guam, I had never known God. But one thing I did know as I waded ashore on that fateful day was that my dad knew that God lived, and my dad got answers. And as I dug in, I knew that I could do exactly what my dad did, and I’ll be eternally grateful for his guidance and teaching. As I knelt down with my head bared, even in the danger of cross fire, I asked my Heavenly Father very simply, “Do you live? Are you real? Is Jesus Christ really the Savior? Was Joseph Smith a prophet of the Church, like I’ve heard all of my life and can’t understand?” And then it came. That sweet inner commitment and verification. Spirit touching spirit, saying in a silent voice, “It is so.” And so complete was that feeling within my heart on that July day that I could actually have gotten up out of my hole, I felt, and walked unharmed across that battlefield. The peace and the security were that great.
A testimony was born, because I had asked with real intent. I had prayed a thousand times before in a mechanical way because the pressure was on from family and church. But now I really wanted to know. Are you there, Lord? Will you tell me? And he did. And since that day, I have given my life to him. And I’ve had verification upon verification that this church is true, that Joseph Smith was called and ordained to restore the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Illustrations by Jim Madsen
“The Lord my shepherd is …” Music swirled around Jane Elizabeth Manning, but she couldn’t focus on the words. She was looking at her hands, deep in thought.
She had joined the Presbyterian church a year ago. But she still felt like something was missing. I’m searching for something more, she thought. But what could that be?
After the church meeting ended, Jane drifted outside with the rest of the congregation. The leaves were beginning to turn red and gold. Sunlight glinted off the nearby Norwalk River.
“A traveling missionary has come to town,” a man was saying. “He’s a Mormon, and he says God is speaking to prophets again.”
Jane stopped to listen. Could this be what she was searching for?
“Prophets?” another man scoffed. “Like from the Bible? Who would go listen to such a message?”
“I would!” Jane blurted out. A few people turned to stare at her, including the pastor. Jane felt her cheeks grow warm.
The pastor frowned. “I don’t think you should go hear him. It’s foolishness, that’s what. Do you understand?” When she said nothing, he nodded and moved to speak with someone else. Jane watched him leave and then hurried home.
Home wasn’t where Mamma and her brothers and sisters lived. It was at the Fitches’ farm. She had gone to live there as a servant when she was just six years old. Every day she worked hard, helping Mrs. Fitch with the washing, ironing, and cooking. She usually got up before the sun. She built the fire, kneaded bread, and churned the butter. Whenever she could, she went to visit her own family.
A few days later, Jane was still thinking about the missionary while she was hanging up Mr. Fitch’s shirts to dry. The clothes flapped in the brisk breeze.
The pastor had told her not her to go, and yet … she needed to. She needed to see if this Mormon could help her find the truth she was searching for. By the time she finished hanging the clothes, she had made up her mind. She would go to the meeting, no matter what anyone else said.
On Sunday, Jane woke at dawn, put on her nicest dress, and walked alone to the meeting hall. She quietly slipped onto a wooden bench at the back of the hall. Jane smiled when she saw how many people were there. It seemed she was not the only one looking for something more!
The room quieted when Elder Wandell stood. The next hour passed quickly as he spoke about the Book of Mormon and a prophet named Joseph. He said people could be baptized by immersion, just as Christ was. And he talked about the Saints gathering to a faraway city called Nauvoo. By the end of the meeting, Jane’s heart felt so full she could hardly breathe.
That night, Jane visited her family.
“And what did you think of the missionary’s message?” her mother asked when Jane explained how she had spent her Sunday.
“I am fully convinced he presented the true gospel,” Jane said. “I must embrace it. I am going to be baptized next Sunday.”
“Baptized? You’re joining another church?” her brother, Isaac, asked, pulling up a chair.
“Yes! It’s what I’ve been searching for. It’s true.”
Isaac could tell she was serious. “So what happens next?” he asked quietly. “What will you do after you’re baptized?”
“I’ll gather with the Saints,” Jane said. “I’m going to Nauvoo.”
To be continued …

“Wait for me, Holly Noel Hunt!” shouted her older sister, Sarah. Ten-year-old Holly stopped in her tracks, squinting into the late afternoon sunlight, glad for the chance to catch her breath.
“Where do you think you’re going—to a fire?” Sarah teased, when she caught up to Holly. She linked her arm through Holly’s. “Keep it down to a fast crawl, and tell me what you want for Christmas and your birthday.”
Holly had been born eleven years ago, two days before Christmas. She had always loved celebrating her birthday so close to the Savior’s, and she had been named Holly Noel in honor of Christmas.
Marching in step as they laughed and talked, the two girls soon burst through their front door. Mother was on the phone, a worried frown creasing her brow. She motioned for the girls to be quiet. “I’ll have to discuss it with my family first, of course,” Mother was saying. “I’ll let you know in the morning.”
Holly grabbed an apple and flopped into the nearest chair. “Ask your family about what?” she mumbled between bites.
“That was Mrs. Ortega from the Crippled Children’s School. Their vacation is starting, and they have a little girl your age, Holly, who has nowhere to go for the Christmas holidays. Debbie grew up in a foster home in the country, but her foster mother died last fall. They would like us to take her for the holidays.”
“Oh, let’s do!” Holly and Sarah chorused.
“I’m glad you’re so willing to share your home and Christmas with someone who needs us,” Mother said. “Debbie has some special problems, however. Mrs. Ortega said she is one of the most severely crippled children at the school. They wouldn’t even consider us taking her if I weren’t a registered nurse.”
Sarah and Holly looked surprised, and Mother continued, “She can only move her neck and head. The rest of her body is paralyzed and deformed. There is very little she can do for herself.”
“It’s hard to imagine a girl my age like that,” Holly whispered.
A look of steely determination settled over Sarah’s face. “Well, I’m certainly willing to help you take care of her, Mom. If it’s OK with Dad and Greg, I think we should take her, don’t you, Holly?”
“Yeah, I guess so, but it scares me a little.”
“I guess we all feel a little scared, honey,” Mother said, giving both daughters a hug.
That evening as they ate bowls of steaming homemade soup with hot, crusty french bread, the Hunt family decided unanimously that they wanted Debbie as part of their family for Christmas.
Holly had butterflies in her stomach as they pulled up to the school in their old brown station wagon, got out, and entered the building.
“Here she comes,” whispered Sarah, as a nurse came down the hall pushing a wheelchair.
Debbie was smiling at them, showing two deep dimples on each side of her face. Her clear, bright blue eyes were framed by soft yellow curls. She looked like the fairy princess in one of Holly’s old storybooks. Holly looked down at the rest of Debbie’s little body, then quickly looked away, hoping Debbie hadn’t seen her shocked expression. Nothing had prepared Holly for the little stub arms and legs coming out from Debbie’s twisted body.
“Would you like to come down to the physical therapy room with me before we go?” Debbie asked. “I’d like to show you some of the things that I’m learning to do with my teeth. Miss Durrant made me a special stick that I can type with, and I’m learning to paint and draw with some other special tools. I’d like you to meet some of my friends too. Oh, and I hope you can come to our Christmas program tonight! I’m supposed to be in it.”
By the time they reached the physical therapy room, Holly was starting to appreciate Debbie as a person.
When Miss Durrant proudly showed them some of Debbie’s accomplishments, Holly said ruefully, “I wish my schoolwork looked this neat.”
“Well, I think it’s time to get you settled at home if you’re going to be in a program tonight, Debbie,” suggested Mother. “Otherwise, you’ll be too tired.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you can come! I was afraid I might have to miss the program. I’m one of the angels in the choir.”
“Oh, we’ll all come. None of our children are in a Christmas program this year, so we’ll be happy to see yours.”
Later that evening the family sat together in the darkened auditorium, waiting for the program to begin. The curtains opened, and the program began with angels singing familiar Christmas carols. As she watched row after row of children from the audience around her go with their braces, crutches, or wheelchairs to perform on stage, Holly thought about how hard it must be for them to do things—and to do some of them in front of all these people too! She wasn’t at all surprised to see silent tears sliding down her mother’s face. Somehow after listening to Debbie all afternoon telling about her friends and the tricks they played and about how they got in trouble for racing down the hall in wheelchairs, Holly had nearly forgotten about their physical problems.
After the choir sang, a play about Santa Claus began. Santa had a bad case of gout, and he had to have physical therapy and treatment at the School for Crippled Children before he could go on his usual Christmas Eve rounds.
The part of the doctor was played by a handsome, humpbacked teenager who walked with a cane. Suddenly he lost his balance and went crashing to the floor. The audience gasped with concern. Holly felt Greg’s shoulder moving against hers, and she realized that he was struggling with the boy to stand up. Finally the boy got to his feet.
“Nurse, see that something is done about that floor!” the boy commanded, thumping the offending floor with his cane.
Waves of applause filled the auditorium along with relieved laughter. It was a Christmas program that none of them would ever forget.
The morning of her birthday, Holly carefully closed the bathroom door, then tried drinking a glass of water without using her hands as she had seen Debbie do. She only managed to soak herself and drop the plastic glass with a clatter into the sink. She looked into the bathroom mirror, and solemn brown eyes looked back at her.
Yesterday she had come in from building a giant snowman with her friends and found Debbie watching from the window, her usually merry blue eyes shadowed with sadness.
“I wish I could run and play like other kids,” Debbie had said with a long sigh. “I wonder why I was born like this.”
Holly had put her arms around Debbie in silent sympathy but had had no answer for her. She thought about her birthday three years ago when Grandfather had become very ill and had been in the hospital. Holly had heard her parents say that he would never get well. She had sat in a corner by the Christmas tree, sobbing and tightly clutching the hand-carved cane Grandfather had made especially for her. Her father had picked her up and wiped away her tears with the back of his big, gentle hand.
“Remember when you became separated from us in that crowded store last Christmastime, Holly?” he had asked. “You were so frightened—just sobbing when we found you.”
Holly had nodded solemnly.
“I wiped the tears from your eyes, and you were safe and happy in my arms. When Grandfather goes back to Heavenly Father, it will be a safe and happy time for him too. We may all feel lost at times, but because Jesus came to earth and died for us, there will be a time when all our tears will be dried.”
Holly had felt the truth of her father’s words then, and she longed now to find a way to tell Debbie how she felt.
“Hey, come on, birthday girl—Greg’s famous pancakes await you!” her brother shouted from downstairs. Holly shook away her thoughts and ran downstairs.
“Boy, are your missionary companions going to love you when they find out about these pancakes,” she said as she pulled up her chair. Greg was going to leave on his mission right after the Christmas holidays.
“Every year on Holly’s birthday we have a tradition of giving her some special gift that we do or make ourselves,” Mother explained to Debbie. “Her birthday is so close to Christmas that we wanted to make sure it wasn’t overlooked in the holiday excitement. Greg’s gift is his special pancakes.”
“And I’m going to be her slave for the day and do all her chores,” groaned Sarah, rolling her eyes in a gesture of mock despair.
Holly’s eyes were twinkling as she said, “Tonight Mom and Dad are going to tell the Christmas story, wearing robes my uncle brought back from a trip to Israel.”
Debbie seemed unusually quiet all afternoon. She spent most of the time alone in her room with only Mother going in and out.
After dinner everyone watched as Holly blew out eleven flickering candles with one big puff. Then they all sang “Happy Birthday.” Mother and Father disappeared for a moment while Greg built a fire, and everyone gathered around the fireplace, waiting expectantly.
All the lights were extinguished except the tree lights and a few candles flickering around the room. The fire glowed and crackled in the fireplace, and soon Mother and Father returned, dressed in flowing robes. As Father and Mother told the age-old story of the first Christmas, a feeling of love and contentment surrounded the little group.
When the beautiful story had ended, they watched the fire in silence for a few minutes. Then Greg jumped up to get more wood. Just as he threw a log onto the fire, Holly noticed that one of her new furry white mittens was snagged on it. She hurried to fish it out of the flames with a poker, but the thumb already had a hole burned in it. Swallowing her disappointment, she laid it carefully on the mantel and went to open her birthday presents.
When the gifts had all been opened and Holly had thanked each giver, Debbie said shyly, “If you’ll come here, I have something else for you, Holly.”
“But you already gave me a beautiful red sweater,” Holly said as she walked to Debbie’s side.
“I wanted to give you something of myself, like the others,” Debbie said shyly, nodding to an envelope on her lap.
Holly opened the envelope and looked with amazement at a button sewn on a little square of cloth.
Debbie smiled proudly. “I sewed it on myself!”
Everyone but Mother looked at her in wonder.
“She did,” Mother affirmed. “I watched her do it.”
“But how?” Holly asked.
“I stuck myself a lot,” Debbie admitted cheerfully, “and my mouth is quite sore, but I wanted to do it for you.”
Holly’s eyes pricked with tears at the enormity of Debbie’s gift. Her eyes wandered up to the hand-carved nativity scene nestled among the pine boughs on the mantel. She walked over and reverently touched the Babe in the manger, then looked over at the charred mitten.
Turning to Debbie she said softly, “I think because of you, I understand more about giving and about Christmas than I ever did before. Debbie, I want to give you something too. She grabbed her ruined mitten and ran out, returning immediately. “Look, Debbie,” she said, holding out the burned mitten, “the part of your body that’s crippled may seem like this to you.” She tugged gently and pulled its mate from inside the burned one. “But the real you inside is just as perfect as this.”

The importance of this step is illustrated by a family of five who became converts to the Church. They had lived in a neighborhood where there were many Latter-day Saints, and they had learned much about the gospel. Then they had moved to a mission area, and a Mormon missionary invited them to church. In a short time they were baptized. Someone asked, “Why didn’t you join sooner?” The father answered, “No one ever before invited us to join or even to go to church.”

I really like “Elevator Prayers” (Aug. 2012). This last year I had to take a standardized test in science. It was the first time I had taken this test because only fifth graders take it. I said a prayer in my mind while I was in the hallway. I wanted to be able to remember the things I had been taught. After the test I got a really good score. Heavenly Father helped me feel calm and sure of myself. I know that Heavenly Father hears and answers my prayers no matter where I am.

When I was growing up, I had a special relationship with my grandfather. I was the oldest son in the family. I removed the snow from the walks in the winter and cared for the lawns in the summer for our home, Grandfather’s home, and the homes of my two aunts. Grandfather usually sat on the front porch as I mowed his lawn. When I had finished, I would sit on the front steps and visit with him. Those moments are treasured memories for me.
One day I asked my grandfather how I would know if I was always doing the right thing, given that life presents so many choices. As my grandfather usually did, he answered me with an experience from farm life.
He taught me about breaking in a team of horses so that they would work together. He explained that a team of horses must always know who is in charge. One of the keys to asserting control and directing a horse is a harness and bit. If a member of the team ever believes that it does not need to obey the will of the driver, the team will never pull and work together to maximize their ability.
Now let’s examine the lesson my grandfather taught me using this example. Who is the driver of the team of horses? My grandfather believed it is the Lord. He is the one who has a purpose and a plan. He is also the trainer and builder of the team of horses and, in turn, each individual horse. The driver knows best, and the only way for a horse to know it is always doing the right thing is to be obedient and follow the driver’s lead.
What was my grandfather likening to a harness and bit? I believed then, as I believe now, that my grandfather was teaching me to follow the promptings of the Holy Ghost. In his mind’s eye, the harness and bit were spiritual. An obedient horse which is part of a well-trained team of horses needs little more than a gentle tug from the driver to do exactly what he wants it to do. This gentle tug is equivalent to the still, small voice with which the Lord speaks to us. Out of respect for our agency, it is never a strong, forceful tug.
Men and women who ignore the gentle promptings of the Spirit will often learn, as the prodigal son learned, through the natural consequences of disobedience and riotous living. It was only after natural consequences humbled the prodigal son that “he came to himself” and heard the whisperings of the Spirit telling him to return to his father’s house (see Luke 15:11–32).
So the lesson my grandfather taught me was always to be ready to receive the gentle tug of the Spirit. He taught me that I would always receive such a prompting if I ever veered off course. And I would never be guilty of more serious wrongdoings if I allowed the Spirit to guide me in my decisions.
As James 3:3 states, “Behold, we put bits in the horses’ mouths, that they may obey us; and we turn about their whole body.”
We must be sensitive to our spiritual bits. Even with the slightest tug from the Master, we must be willing to completely alter our course. To succeed in life, we must teach our spirit and body to work together in obedience to God’s commandments. If we heed the gentle promptings of the Holy Ghost, it can unite our spirits and bodies in a purpose that will guide us back to our eternal home to live with our eternal Father in Heaven.
Our third article of faith teaches us about the importance of obedience: “We believe that through the Atonement of Christ, all mankind may be saved, by obedience to the laws and ordinances of the Gospel.”
The kind of obedience my grandfather described in his example of a team of horses also requires a special trust—that is, an absolute faith in the driver of the team. The lesson my grandfather taught me, therefore, also alluded to the first principle of the gospel—faith in Jesus Christ.
The Apostle Paul taught, “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1). Then Paul used the examples of Abel, Enoch, Noah, and Abraham to teach about faith. He dwelled on the story of Abraham, for Abraham is the father of the faithful:
“By faith Abraham, when he was called to go out into a place which he should after receive for an inheritance, obeyed; and he went out, not knowing whither he went.
“By faith he sojourned in the land of promise, as in a strange country. …
“Through faith also Sara herself received strength to conceive seed, and was delivered of a child when she was past age, because she judged him faithful who had promised” (Hebrews 11:8–9, 11).
We know that through Abraham and Sarah’s son, Isaac, a promise was given to Abraham and Sarah—a promise of posterity “so many as the stars of the sky in multitude, and as the sand which is by the sea shore innumerable” (see verse 12; see also Genesis 17:15–16). And then Abraham’s faith was tested in a way that many of us would consider unimaginable.
I have contemplated on many occasions the story of Abraham and Isaac, and I still do not believe I fully comprehend Abraham’s faithfulness and obedience. Perhaps I can imagine him faithfully packing up to leave early one morning, but how did he take all those steps alongside his son Isaac over the three-day journey to the base of Mount Moriah? How did they carry the wood for the fire up the mountain? How did he build the altar? How did he bind Isaac and lay him on the altar? How did he explain to him that he would be the sacrifice? And how did he have the strength to lift the knife to slay his son? Abraham’s faith empowered him to follow God’s lead with exactness up until the miraculous moment when an angel called out from heaven, announcing to Abraham that he had passed his agonizing test. And then the angel of the Lord repeated the promise of the Abrahamic covenant.
I recognize that the challenges associated with having faith in Jesus Christ and obedience will be more difficult for some than others. I have had enough years of experience to know that the personalities of horses can be very different and, therefore, some horses can be easier or more difficult to train and that the variety of people is far greater. Each of us is a son or daughter of God, and we have a unique premortal and mortal story. Accordingly, there are very few one-size-fits-all solutions. And so I fully recognize the trial-and-error nature of life and, most importantly, the constant need of the second principle of the gospel, even repentance.
It is also true that the time during which my grandfather lived was a simpler time, especially regarding the choices between right and wrong. While some very intelligent and insightful people might believe our more complex time demands ever more complex solutions, I am far from convinced they are right. Rather, I am of the frame of mind that today’s complexity demands greater simplicity, like the answer my grandfather gave to my sincere question about how to know the difference between right and wrong. I know what I have to offer today is a simple formula, but I can testify about how well it works for me. I recommend it to you and even challenge you to experiment upon my words, and if you do, I promise that they will lead you to clarity of choice when you are bombarded with choices and that they will lead to simple answers to questions that confuse the learned and those who think they are wise.
Too often we think of obedience as the passive and thoughtless following of the orders or dictates of a higher authority. Actually, at its best, obedience is an emblem of our faith in the wisdom and power of the highest authority, even God. When Abraham demonstrated his unwavering faithfulness and obedience to God, even when commanded to sacrifice his son, God rescued him. Similarly, when we demonstrate our faithfulness through obedience, God will ultimately rescue us.
Those who rely solely on themselves and follow only their own desires and self-inclinations are so limited when compared to those who follow God and tap into His insight, power, and gifts. It has been said that someone who is all wrapped up in himself or herself makes a very small package. Strong, proactive obedience is anything but weak or passive. It is the means by which we declare our faith in God and qualify ourselves to receive the powers of heaven. Obedience is a choice. It is a choice between our own limited knowledge and power and God’s unlimited wisdom and omnipotence. According to the lesson my grandfather gave to me, it is a choice to sense the spiritual bit in our mouths and follow the driver’s lead.
May we become heirs to the covenant and the seed of Abraham through our faithfulness and by receiving the ordinances of the restored gospel. I promise you that the blessings of eternal life are available to everyone who is faithful and obedient. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

The recital room at the Finnish high school was quiet, even though the hallway outside was not. Outside, students rushed from one class to another, their chatter and laughter filling the hall.
But here in the recital room, with its gilded trim and arching windows, the noise was distant and muffled. Here, where 15-year-old Säde (pronounced saw-day) Metsätähti was about to touch the keys of a black enamel piano, there was peace.
Säde could have played many things—Rachmaninoff or Beethoven, Phil Collins or Billy Joel. She’s learning to be a good pianist, and with practice can work her way through most pieces.
But right now, she only had time to play and sing one song. And so she played her favorite. The tune was simple, but memorable, the kind of melody I knew I would find myself—later in the day—unexpectedly humming.
Saria Karhunen, 16, joined Säde on the chorus. They’ve been friends since they were children, and somehow that showed as the harmony of their voices built power in the song. Säde’s brother Vesa, also 16, watched the two young women and listened. Even though he’d heard the song over and over again, he knew it was his sister’s favorite, and it still made him smile.
The girls finished. “Singing that,” Saria said, “is like singing a prayer.” Säde nodded her agreement.
In English the song is titled “Look Inside” (see page 10). But the Finnish version, translated by Säde’s mother Virpi, expresses the idea even more strongly. “Sydämees kun katsot,” it says, “When You Look to Your Heart.”
The second bell rang, and that meant the brief performance was over. Säde, Saria, and Vesa are on a strict schedule at the Puolalanmaen Koulu, a school for students with musical aptitude. They had been granted only a few minutes for a photo session with the New Era.
The magazine was also allowed a short time in Säde’s Swedish language lab, where, listening on her headphones, she diligently repeated phrases from her textbook. Even though the school caters to students with an aptitude for music, there are plenty of other courses required. For example, in addition to music and Swedish, Säde has classes in math, Finnish, gymnastics, English, biology, geography, and French.
She also studies seminary every day, and meets once a week with the other seminary students in her ward. That meeting would be tonight, and the New Era would take photos there, too. But for the next few hours, Säde had to return to school. As she said good-bye, she left a parting thought.
“That song I played for you,” she said. “I know other people wrote the words and the music. But every time I play it, I feel like it’s my song. I think everybody—everything—has a song of its own, if you just listen close enough to hear it.”
Because of what she said, for me the next few hours were filled with music, the kind of songs even rocks and trees sing if you’re listening. And Turku (toor-koo), the city where Säde lives, was a perfect place to hear them: The medieval songs of cold stone walls and wooden villages, of lives lived in search of fire and food. The Renaissance songs of castles and courtyards. The sea chanteys and songs of the river, for this is a town of both river and sea.
Walking through flower stalls of the open-air market, I heard the songs of spring. Wandering past the museum dedicated to composer Jean Sibelius, I could hear in my mind Finlandia, the anthem of a nation yearning to be free. The Olympic theme, beating like my heart, pounded inside me as I neared the statue of Finnish runner Paavo Nurmi, born in Turku, winner of nine gold and three silver medals. Near the cathedral, I imagined organs and choirs, their praises vaulting higher than the ceiling.
By then it was evening, time to walk back across town, past the windmill, through the park, over by the sports arena to the LDS chapel on the other side of the city.
“When you look to your heart,” I thought, and sure enough, I started humming the tune. Then I heard another song, faint but getting stronger. Was it a hymn like “Come, Come, Ye Saints”? Or the Primary song “I Am a Child of God”? Or was it my own personal song, the one my soul sings when I feel the joy and hope of being a Latter-day Saint?
It was activity night at the chapel, and seminary students, institute students, Scouts, family history workers, and other ward members had gathered for various purposes, but all as brothers and sisters. Did each one, I wondered, hear a song just like me? Did they all make a chorus together?
In seminary I listened.
“How can you get closer to Jesus Christ?” asked Auli Haikkola, the teacher.
“Study the scriptures,” said Aki Keskinen.
“Pray,” said Todd Katschke. “Go to church.”
“Talk about the Savior with your family,” said Jukka Merenluoto.
“Do good for someone else,” said Joni Mikkonen.
“Most people in Finland don’t talk about religion,” Maria Sokoli explained. “They go to church once or twice a year. They don’t understand how it can be such a big part of my life.”
“My friends respect me,” said Heidi Hankiala. “But it still gets tough when they all drink and do other things I won’t do.”
“Maria, Heidi, Saria, and I all grew up in the Church,” Säde explained. “Most of the people in this ward have grown up with the gospel. But now the Church is growing fast, and I see the day when it will grow faster and faster, when there will be lots of young people joining, not only in Finland, but in Russia, in Eastern Europe—all over the world. The Church is the hope of the future, and the youth are the hope of the Church.”
I could hear their song now, pulsing to a crescendo, the song of belief, of faith, of peace, of answers—the song of young Latter-day Saints all over the world.
I wanted to explain what I was feeling. As I interviewed the seminary students, I tried. But my words sounded like an echo compared to a symphony. We talked about how seminary helps prepare young people for missions, about getting up early to study the scriptures, about prayer and families and priesthood and the Spirit and a dozen other things youth all over the Church have in common. But still I wondered if I was the only one hearing the marvelous music.
Too soon, the conversations were over. The youth said good-bye and departed. The seminary room was deserted and the building was almost empty, too. Only a few people lingered.
That was when I heard the song again.
Waiting for her mother, Säde had found a piano. Not an elegant one like the black enamel grand in the recital room at school. This was a brown upright, with a key or two chipped and a scratch in the finish. But the melody she played on it was the same.
The song of faith continued.

I have a friend named Sveta who lives in Russia. She lives in a shelter because she doesn’t have a mom or a dad who can take care of her. My family is helping her so that she doesn’t have to live on the streets. I decided that I wanted to help her, too, so I decided to sell lemonade and send the money to Sveta so she could stay in the shelter.
With my family’s help, I made a sign and made fresh lemonade to sell to our neighbors. Before I set up my stand, I prayed that I could sell a lot of lemonade to help Sveta. I stood on the corner next to my stand and waved at cars as they went by. When people stopped, I told them about Sveta and how I was trying to help her. People were so nice! They gave me extra money to send to Sveta. I sold all my lemonade in less than an hour and had to make more! Even though I got hot standing in the sun, I was very happy that I could help my friend.

Summer Saturdays are special times for my brothers and me. After eating an early lunch, we usually take a large jug of water and drive with our dad to the Gila Indian Reservation a few miles south of our home in Tempe, Arizona, to look for dust devils. There, on dry fields that don’t have any crops growing on them, giant swirling columns of dust regularly form and march across the landscape. We like to run into them and release colored balloons or smoke bombs, while our dad takes pictures of them. These pictures help him understand how whirlwinds are created and how they grow and finally disappear.

I love nature! I like to hear the singing of the birds, the rustling of the leaves in the wind, and the sound of the sea.
Sometimes my family goes to the beach with other families. The dads play volleyball, and the moms sit under umbrellas and play with the younger children.
One afternoon I was so excited when we got to the ocean! The waves were calm, and there were small pools scattered around the shoreline. I ran to the water. I wanted to swim like a fish and collect seashells.
“Stay close, Sueli!” my mother called as she gathered the young children into the shade of the big umbrella.
“All right, Mom,” I said as I dug my toes into the wet sand.
I searched for shells and inspected the little creatures in the pools along the shore. As I splashed in one of the pools, I looked back toward my family. I could see the umbrellas in the distance. I realized I had gone too far away. I tried to swim back to the beach, but the tide had risen. The pool grew deeper as I struggled to get out.
I was getting tired, and I knew I was in danger. All I could think of was getting help from Heavenly Father. I said a prayer in my mind. As soon as I finished praying, a hand grabbed my arm and pulled me to safety. It was one of my father’s friends. I am grateful that Heavenly Father answered my prayer and held out His hand by sending someone to help me.
The next time we visited the ocean I stayed close to my family, just as I can stay close to Heavenly Father through prayer.

There was one day that Wilford Woodruff later called “a day of God’s power.” After a morning prayer, Joseph blessed the sick.
Brigham, do you have faith enough to be healed?
Yes, Joseph, I do.
Joseph and Brigham went to see Elijah Fordham, who was about to die. Each minute was expected to be his last.
Joseph took Elijah by the hand. Elijah did not answer at first, but everyone in the room could see the effect of the Spirit of God resting upon him.
Brother Fordham, do you know me?
Elijah, do you not know me?
Yes!
Have you faith to be healed?
I’m afraid it is too late. If you had come sooner …
Do you believe that Jesus is the Christ?
I do, Brother Joseph.
Elijah, I command you, in the name of Jesus of Nazareth, to arise and be made whole!
The words Joseph spoke were like the voice of God. They seemed to shake the house, and they caused Elijah to leap from his bed.
Healthy color came to Elijah’s face, and he was full of life. He called for his clothes, ate a bowl of bread and milk, and put on his hat. Then he went with Joseph to bless the other sick members.

“Years ago,” Mother began, “I had a neighbor who felt I had done something very wrong. It hurt me deeply. I couldn’t even see her in church without hurting so much that I wanted to go home where I wouldn’t have to look at her. I talked to your dad about it, but it didn’t help. I even talked to the bishop. But still the hurt went on and on. In time, I think she realized that she was wrong, but she never apologized to me.”
Mother reached for the large family Book of Mormon on the end table next to the couch and flipped through the pages. “I used to pray so hard that I could forgive her so that we could go on being friends like before. But it didn’t seem to help. I didn’t even want to have a Church calling anymore if it meant working with her or teaching her children. It was like a poison, and I knew it. But I just didn’t know how to overcome it.
“I was reading in the Book of Mormon one afternoon, and I came across these verses.” She pointed to Moroni 7:47–48 [Moro. 7:47–48]. “Will you read them for me, Roger?”
“‘But charity is the pure love of Christ, and it endureth forever; and whoso is found possessed of it at the last day, it shall be well with him.
“‘Wherefore, my beloved brethren, pray unto the Father with all the energy of heart, that ye may be filled with this love, which he hath bestowed upon all who are true followers of his Son, Jesus Christ.’”
“Well, at first I thought, That’s just what I’m doing. I pray every morning and every night that I can forgive, but it just isn’t helping. And then another thought came to my mind as clearly as if someone had spoken it: It doesn’t say to pray to forgive, it says to pray for the pure love of Christ. The thought was startling to me, and I realized that by asking Heavenly Father to help me forgive her, I was really asking Him to side with me. After all, if I had to forgive her, then she was wrong and I was right. But if I just wanted to love her the way Jesus Christ loves her, it didn’t matter who was wrong and who was right. Then I was leaving the judgment in the Savior’s hands, where it belonged.”
“Are you still friends?” Roger asked.
Mother nodded. “That neighbor was Kathy.”

It is being able to talk in the language of music when other languages are not shared that intrigues these young people. Sarah said, “Last year I had a friend who was a piano major. We met some Africans who had come here, and they couldn’t speak English. We all went to a practice room and sort of talked by way of the music. They would just play pieces; then my friend would play something for them. Everyone could understand. It was like we were talking through music.”

I love to bake. I love the smiles that come from baking. Everyone likes good treats. One time my mom left all the ingredients for banana bread in the kitchen, but she wasn’t looking forward to making it.
I decided to bake the banana bread for her. Soon I found out that the banana bread wasn’t for her. Instead, she was preparing it to give to her students. My mom was very happy I helped her in that way.

One of my favorite activities as a priesthood leader is visiting members of the Church in their homes. I especially enjoy calling upon and talking with members who commonly are described as “less active.”

During the years I served as a stake president, I often would contact one of the bishops and invite him to prayerfully identify individuals or families we could visit together. Before traveling to a home, the bishop and I would kneel and petition our Heavenly Father for guidance and inspiration, for us and for the members with whom we would meet.

Our visits were quite straightforward. We expressed love and appreciation for the opportunity to be in their home. We affirmed that we were servants of the Lord on His errand to their home. We indicated that we missed and needed them—and that they needed the blessings of the restored gospel. And at some point early in our conversation I often would ask a question like this: “Will you please help us understand why you are not actively participating in the blessings and programs of the Church?”

I made hundreds and hundreds of such visits. Each individual, each family, each home, and each answer was different. Over the years, however, I detected a common theme in many of the answers to my questions. Frequently responses like these were given:
“Several years ago a man said something in Sunday School that offended me, and I have not been back since.”
“No one in this branch greeted or reached out to me. I felt like an outsider. I was hurt by the unfriendliness of this branch.”
“I did not agree with the counsel the bishop gave me. I will not step foot in that building again as long as he is serving in that position.”
Many other causes of offense were cited—from doctrinal differences among adults to taunting, teasing, and excluding by youth. But the recurring theme was, “I was offended by …”

The bishop and I would listen intently and sincerely. One of us might next ask about their conversion to and testimony of the restored gospel. As we talked, eyes often were moist with tears as these good people recalled the confirming witness of the Holy Ghost and described their prior spiritual experiences. Most of the “less-active” people I have ever visited had a discernible and tender testimony of the truthfulness of the restored gospel. However, they were not presently participating in Church activities and meetings.

And then I would say something like this: “Let me make sure I understand what has happened to you. Because someone at church offended you, you have not been blessed by the ordinance of the sacrament. You have withdrawn yourself from the constant companionship of the Holy Ghost. Because someone at church offended you, you have cut yourself off from priesthood ordinances and the holy temple. You have discontinued your opportunity to serve others and to learn and grow. And you are leaving barriers that will impede the spiritual progress of your children, your children’s children, and the generations that will follow.” Many times people would think for a moment and then respond, “I have never thought about it that way.”

The bishop and I would then extend an invitation: “Dear friend, we are here today to counsel you that the time to stop being offended is now. Not only do we need you, but you need the blessings of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. Please come back—now.”

The experience of a full-time mission changes those who serve. Many of you here are fully aware of what I mean. More of you will discover this to be true in the future, some in the very near future. As we devote our time, our focus, and our energy to the Lord’s purposes we can’t help but be changed. So it was with me while serving as a young missionary in the islands of Tonga, more than 40 years ago.
A few experiences are indelibly impressed upon our hearts and minds as we serve. One such for me began one early evening on what had been a rather typical day. My Tongan companion and I had been meeting all day with investigators and members on a small island in the Ha’apai Group called, Ha’ano. We lived on the island of Foa. A long and jagged reef connected the two islands.
This was not a particularly difficult crossing at low tide and when it was daylight, yet for us, on that day, the sun had already set and we could see the tide rushing in. These conditions made a crossing rather difficult, even dangerous.
I turned to my companion and suggested we might better wait to cross until the next day when it would be safer. He looked at me with a smile and as he ran into the water covering the reef, he said over his shoulder, “Where is your faith, Elder? We have work to do tonight. Let’s go!”
As I scanned the horizon with its fading light and gauged the ocean current passing over the reef, I could also see the water splashing with each step as my companion quickened his pace. With some real hesitation I stepped onto the reef with the thought of catching my companion, who was already a good 25-30 feet ahead.
In the beginning, the water was a few inches above our ankles. There was enough light and the ocean was clear enough that I could see where to place my feet, so as to avoid the countless, unevenly-shaped holes and the sharpest of the coral outcroppings.
My companion seemed to be almost running with barely a glance at the reef. He seemed to be concentrating on our island destination off in the distance.
His teasing challenge, “Where is your faith?” rushed into my mind. “If he can do this, I can do it!” I told myself.
I looked straight ahead at him and said a quick and silent, but fervent prayer, “Father, please give me faith like my companion’s faith!”
I felt a quiet calm come over me. I increased my speed. I didn’t look down. I merely trusted the Lord would place my feet precisely where they needed to be. The distance between my companion and me began to decrease. It was actually a wonderful feeling.
After some time, I’m not sure exactly how long it was, a sudden, hard, cold and ominous feeling struck me, the sky was growing darker, the ocean current growing stronger and deeper.
The calm reassurance I had felt as we set out disappeared in an instant. The reality of where we were and what we were trying to do hit at once both my heart and mind with a hammer blow, “Who do you think you are? Who are you trying to kid? You can’t do this! You’re crazy to even try!”
My eyes glanced down at my feet and the reef below. The current was now nearly to my knees. It was hard to see where it was safe to make a step. In that moment all faith evaporated and was replaced by a consuming fear.
My foot lost the safety of the path provided by faith-filled determination and I fell. I hit hard on the reef, which tore into my hands and my uncovered feet. The pain seared through me.
My companion seemed to know something was wrong. He stopped and turned. I stood and could somehow still see his face a distance away. His exclamation came loud and firm, “Have faith, Elder… have faith!” He turned and was off once again.
My lips uttered another prayer and a pleading, “Father, I’m sorry I let go of my faith! I’m sorry I allowed fear to take over! Please forgive me! Help me to have the faith to do what needs to be done this night!”
The spirit returned, as did the calmness I had felt before. Sure footed we moved through ocean current and across the jagged reef at an amazing speed, especially considering the conditions.
My eyes held fast to my faith-filled companion. We pressed forward. We continued this way for what seemed a long time. We were now about half-way across the reef.
The sky grew darker still. The ocean current grew ever stronger and the water ever deeper. It was now well above our knees and necessarily slowed our pace.
Then out of the darkness there came once again the rush of the same hard, cold, strangling fear, washing away my faith.
I was instantly crushed by the thought we were as far from our destination as we were from our starting point. I feared we couldn’t get to either island before, on this moonless night, we lost all light and all ability to see a safe pathway along the reef.
As fear gripped me my foot found another hole encased by razor-sharp coral. Down I went again with the coral tearing at my already bleeding hands and feet and legs. The pain was intense.
Again, my companion stopped and turned. As I found a place where I could stand I looked towards him. It was dark enough now that I couldn’t make out his face, but his voice came sure and true, “Faith, Elder. Faith!” He began once again his determined march through the rising current.
“Father” I pleaded, “Forgive me again, please, for my weakness! Give me the faith to overcome fear and doubt!”
And then I was off, following my ever faithful companion once again. I felt guided, directed, watched over, protected. We made good progress.
And then a third time I was struck by the same force that had consumed me the two previous times, doubt and fear, concern for the ever darker night and the ever increasing depth and strength of the surging tide.
In that very moment, I stepped into a hole I could not see. It literally gobbled me up. I went entirely under the water and inside the reef. More sharpened coral tore through my clothes and into my flesh. My forward motion had taken me under the surface of the reef. My hands searched for the way back out, while the tide slammed me into this coral encased cocoon inside the reef.
After what seemed like forever and with another pleading prayer for help I found a way out and surged to the surface, climbed back onto the top of the reef and looked for my companion. He was in the distance, barely visible. I heard his now familiar admonition over the noise of ocean waves and wind, “Faith, Elder. Faith!”
My head bowed in prayer once more, a supplication for strength, for courage, for faith. With the ocean current now waist-high and stronger than ever, and with the night’s darkness complete, I, none-the-less felt, thankfully, a surge of strength and the reassurance of Heaven’s watchful care. Through the struggle that remained there was no faltering, no second-guessing, no doubt, no fear, only the determination to reach the comforting sands of the island ahead.
After what was to me an eternity, I don’t know how long this adventure actually took, my companion and I knelt in prayer on the welcome sands of the beach at the end of the reef. We uttered a prayer of thanks, for protection, and for lessons learned, about faith, and about the power of Heaven. After cleaning up and patching up, we went forward with the appointments scheduled for that night.
Yet my thoughts and the tug of my heart remained, “How was it that my companion never faltered? What had he done to develop such great faith?”

“What?” I said incredulously. “I’m doing what? Dad, how could you?”
My dad just shook his head and waved me off, “Well, I thought you’d like to go on a rafting trip. You weren’t here to say, so I said yes.”
I stomped off angrily. My dad had accepted an invitation from the bishop for me to go on a weeklong rafting trip down the Colorado River with a bunch of kids from church. I had just spent over two weeks waterskiing with some of my real friends. I never expected to come home to the news that I was leaving the very next day to go rafting with the “church people.”
We had gone to church when I was younger, and I was baptized when I was eight. But shortly after that we moved from our old neighborhood to a new development. We slipped into inactivity, and no one seemed to notice. Now I was 16 and thought I was happy with my life. Even though my parents still raised me with high moral expectations like other Mormon kids, I still avoided people from church.
The next morning my parents dropped me at the Scoutmaster’s house. I recognized a few of the faces. I had gone to church with some of these guys when I was a kid. Some of them even went to my school.
As we started the long drive to the starting point of the trip, I was nervous about how things would be with the other boys. But everyone was cool. No one treated me like the “less-active kid.” It didn’t take long to feel like I was just part of the group.
I ended up having a great time. I liked these people. I listened to these boys and their leaders pray, and I felt something. Another boy, Todd, and I had become good friends. One day as we were waiting for dinner, we went for a walk. We found a set of train tracks and started walking along them.
We were goofing off and tossing rocks around when Todd suddenly said, “You know, you should come to church.”
I picked up another rock. “Yeah, maybe.” He didn’t say anything else about church then, but I remembered his invitation.
The whole experience was so different from the two weeks I had spent waterskiing. The adults on the skiing trip were always drunk, swearing at each other, and saying inappropriate things. The adults on the rafting trip were respectful toward us and one another. I was impressed, and I respected them for it.
After I returned home, the next Sunday I got up and got dressed for church. I knew enough to know that I should wear my best. As I came downstairs my mom and sisters were doing the dishes. “Hey, Gary, where are you going?” Mom asked.
“Uh,” I paused. “Church.” My mother seemed surprised (as did my sisters), but she just nodded. I went to church and sat in the back. For several weeks I went by myself.
Then one Saturday night my sister Patti said that she would go to church with me. Even though we liked the kids at church, we realized that going to church wasn’t about fitting in or having friends—church was about how we felt when we were there.
One day Patti and I were getting ready for church when we heard a call from downstairs, “Patti! Gary! We’re going to be late.” I went jogging down the stairs and saw my parents dressed and standing by the door. Our family was beginning to change.
I believe my bishop was inspired to invite me on that trip, and I believe my father was inspired to accept for me. The scriptures say, “Now ye may suppose that this is foolishness in me; but behold I say unto you, that by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6).
One small invitation led a family back to church. I earned my Eagle Scout Award and went on a mission. Patti and I each got married in the temple to returned missionaries. We’re now raising our own families in the gospel.
If you invite a less-active person to an activity, it may or may not impact their lives. But if you don’t invite them, it definitely won’t.