Gospel Story Finder

I have beautiful golden-brown hair. I was watching the news one morning and saw that a little girl was donating her hair to an organization that makes wigs for young cancer patients. One day I was shopping with my mom and sisters when we noticed a salon that took hair donations. We went in and asked the hair cutter how long my hair had to be to donate it. It was long enough! So I sat down in the big chair, and she put my hair in a ponytail and cut it right above the tail. I felt happy and excited because I knew that I had done something to help little kids who were sick.

I took a poetry class where a poem was due every Friday. Several times I was so busy, or I procrastinated, and I didn’t even think about the poem all week. So come Thursday night I sat down at my desk and waited—nothing came. There was no burst of inspiration, no sudden enlightenment, and the poem had to be written! The ideas couldn’t mull around in my head for days. In frantic desperation I got out the dictionary and began to work. I scribbled, crossed out, scribbled some more, and searched the dictionary and thesaurus for the exact word. The lines didn’t come easily; every word came from tediously toiling and sweating and worrying. My pencil was half-chewed and rejects lay scattered over the floor a foot high. Yet, those poems were some of the best poems I’ve ever written. If you don’t feel inspired—write anyway.

During the summer of 2003, I was in Michigan, USA, researching my great-great-uncle Robert Hall. At the end of my trip, I revisited a cemetery I had been to 20 years earlier.
When I had visited the cemetery before, I noticed flowers on one of the headstones with the last name Hall. This time I wrote a note, dated it, and laminated it to protect it from the weather. Then I prayerfully left the note at the headstone, hoping that someone who could help me learn more about Robert Hall would find it. I returned home to California hopeful but skeptical that anything would come of this note.
I prayerfully left a note at the headstone, hoping that someone who could help me would find it.
A week later I received a letter from a distant cousin named Deke Bentley.
“Yesterday I had a strange experience,” he wrote. “At 3:00 p.m. I was headed to buy strawberries when I decided to stop by the Plains Road Cemetery to check out my ancestors’ graves. I had not been there for several years. Next to the graves was your postcard.”
Deke had gone to the cemetery the same day I had left the note. I called him immediately. During our conversation I found out that he lived in Hillsdale, more than 50 miles (80 km) from the cemetery.
A few months later I eagerly returned to Michigan to visit Deke. He told me he had relatives buried in the cemetery directly across from his home, and he asked if I would like to go there. He told me that the cemetery had four gravestones of Halls, two that he knew nothing about.
At the cemetery, Deke showed me the gravestones. The two he didn’t know about belonged to Martin and Anna Hall. I hadn’t brought my records, but I distinctly remembered having researched a Martin Hall.
We rushed to the county courthouse an hour before it closed, hoping a death record would identify Martin’s parents. It did! Martin’s father was Robert Hall! The Holy Ghost confirmed to me that my long search had ended.
Deke, not a member of the Church, said finding Robert Hall seemed “almost spiritual.” I smiled, knowing that the Spirit had led me.
“You may have been disappointed that you didn’t leave your note 20 years ago,” Deke said, “but the fact is that I moved to Hillsdale just three years ago!”
This experience was a lesson to me that family history is indeed part of God’s work and that He leads us in our righteous efforts.

Many years ago, there was recounted to me an experience of a President Ballantyne who grew up in Star Valley, Wyoming. This is harsh country. The summers are short and fleeting, while the winters linger and chill. President Ballantyne told of a special Christmas season from his boyhood days. He said:
“Father had a large family; and sometimes after we had our harvest, there was not very much left after expenses were paid. So Father would have to go away and hire out to some of the big ranchers for maybe a dollar a day, a little more than to take care of himself and very little to send home to Mother and the children. Things began to get pretty skimpy for us.
“We had our family prayers around the table. On one such night when Father was gone, we gathered together, and Mother poured out of a pitcher, into the glass of each one, milk divided among the children—but none for herself. I, sensing that the milk in the pitcher was all that we had, pushed mine over to Mother and said, ‘Here, Mother. You drink mine.’
“‘No. Mother is not hungry tonight.’” Mothers are never hungry in cases like that.
So he said, “It worried me. We drank our milk and went to bed. I could not sleep. I got up and tiptoed down the stairs, and there was Mother, out in the middle of the floor kneeling in prayer. She did not hear me as I came down in my bare feet, and I dropped to my knees and heard her say, ‘Heavenly Father, there is no food in our house. Please, Father, touch the heart of somebody so that my children will not be hungry in the morning.’
“When she finished her prayer, she looked around and saw that I had heard; and she said to me, somewhat embarrassed, ‘Now, you run along, Son. Everything will be all right.’
“I went to bed, assured by Mother’s faith. The next morning, I was awakened by the sounds of pots and pans being used in the kitchen and the smell of cooking food. I went down to the kitchen, and I said, ‘Mother, I thought you said there was no food.’
“All she said to me was, ‘Well, my boy, didn’t you think the Lord would answer my prayer?’ I received no further explanation than that.
“Years passed, and I went away to college. I got married, and I returned to see the old folks. Bishop Gardner, now reaching up to a ripe age, said to me, ‘My son, let me tell you of a Christmas experience that I had with your family. I had finished my chores, and we had had supper. I was sitting by the fireplace reading the newspaper. Suddenly I heard a voice that said, “Sister Ballantyne doesn’t have any food in her house.” I thought it was my wife speaking and said, “What did you say, Mother?” She came in wiping her hands on her apron and said, “Did you call me, Father?”
“‘“No, I didn’t say anything to you, but I heard a voice speak to me.”
“‘“What did it say?” she asked.
“‘“It said that Sister Ballantyne didn’t have any food in her house.”
“‘“Well, then,” said Mother, “you had better put on your shoes and your coat and take some food to Sister Ballantyne.” In the dark of that winter’s night, I harnessed the team and placed in the wagon bed a sack of flour, a quarter section of beef, some bottled fruit, and loaves of newly baked bread. The weather was cold, but a warm glow filled my soul as your mother welcomed me and I presented her with the food. God had heard a mother’s prayer.’”

I was taught by great elders. When I heard the message of the Restoration, I had an even greater confirmation that I should be baptized. But I wanted to know for myself the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. The elders marked Moroni 10:3–5 in my Book of Mormon and invited me to pray and ask God if it is true.

The next evening I remembered that I had not yet read the Book of Mormon. As I began to read, I felt a very strong spirit. I prayed, and before I was finished, I knew that the Book of Mormon is true. I am grateful to God for having answered my prayer. I was baptized in July 2006.

That evening, Holly went to the LDS dance, which is one of the highlights of social life for young Latter-day Saints in Calgary. After the dance, she brought home many of her friends to meet her grandfather, who received them with graciousness and humor. He made them all feel like old and valued friends, and they also felt the powerful witness of the Spirit that they were in the presence of a beloved servant of God.

“Carson is here today,” James’s mom said, pointing to a boy in the hallway by the Primary room.
James groaned. Carson was wearing jeans and an old shirt. James knew his mom and dad would never let him wear anything like that to church, but they would never let him get away with a lot of the other things Carson did either.
Last week at school, Carson had been kicked out of class for talking back to the teacher. He always made fun of the way James dressed and gave him a hard time for being the shortest boy at school.
“What if he yells at Sister Win or starts a fight?” James asked.
“I’m sure everything will be fine,” Mom said. “Carson has never been to church, and he’s probably nervous.”
When class started, Sister Win asked who had brought their scriptures. James raised his hand along with the rest of the class, but Carson shook his head. He looked embarrassed, which surprised James. Carson usually made a joke when he didn’t do his homework. But the more James thought about it, the more he wondered what it would be like to go to a new church for the first time.
Sister Win handed Carson her scriptures to use. When it was Carson’s turn to read a scripture, James began to worry. What if Carson tossed the scriptures on the floor or refused to read?
But Carson didn’t do any of those things. He stared at the words on the page and scowled. After a moment, James realized that Carson couldn’t read very well. James had never noticed this before at school.
What do you think James will do? Will James laugh at Carson? Will he ignore him? What would you do if you were James? Turn the page to find out what happened.
James leaned over to Carson and whispered, “Verily.”
Carson looked surprised, but he said the word and continued reading the verse. When he struggled with a word, James helped him with it. At the end of his turn, Carson looked over at James and gave a small nod.
James wasn’t sure if things were going to be different at school after this. The funny thing was that he didn’t care. He felt good knowing he had helped a boy who always gave him a hard time, and nobody could take that feeling away.

I hope we are reading the Book of Mormon with our children regularly. I have discussed this with my own children. They have shared with me two observations. First, persistence in reading the scriptures daily as a family is the key. My daughter in a lighthearted way describes their early-morning efforts with mostly teenage children to consistently read the scriptures. She and her husband wake up early in the morning and move through the blurry mist to grasp the iron railing that lines their staircase to where their family gathers to read the word of God. Persistence is the answer, and a sense of humor helps. It requires great effort from every family member every day, but it is worth the effort. Temporary setbacks are overshadowed by persistence.
The second is how our youngest son and his wife are reading the scriptures with their young family. Two out of their four children are not old enough to read. For the five-year-old, they have five finger signals to which he responds in order for him to participate fully in the family scripture reading. The signal for finger 1 is for him to repeat, “And it came to pass” whenever it appears in the Book of Mormon. I have to admit that I love the fact that the phrase appears so often. Incidentally, for the interest of young families, finger signal 2 is “And thus we see”; fingers 3, 4, and 5 are chosen by the parents based on the words contained in the chapter they are reading.
We know that family scripture study and family home evenings are not always perfect. Regardless of the challenges you face, do not become discouraged.

David Eves discovered life can change quite quickly when, on 20 September 1997, he and his friends were riding an off-road vehicle in southern Utah.
“We hit a bump and lost control,” explains David. “I remember flying through the air, then waking up in excruciating pain. When I saw my friends looking down at me and I told them I couldn’t feel my legs, I knew I would never be the same.”
David was flown to a hospital in Salt Lake City and underwent eight hours of surgery. He spent the next three months fighting for his life.
David, a member of the La Verkin Second Ward, La Verkin Utah Stake, had been a sports star, but now he faced new challenges. He couldn’t keep food down or speak, and he was in extreme pain. His weight dropped from 170 to 100 pounds (78 to 45 kilograms) in two months.
The days and nights were long and hard to endure. “I wanted to get off the painkillers, but the pain was unbearable,” David recalls. “I asked my dad to read to me from the Book of Mormon, and as he did a miracle happened. The spirit of that book brought so much peace, I was able to rest.”
But David was not improving. Jill Eves became alarmed at her son’s severe weight loss. She prayed for inspiration and felt impressed to call a specialist. The new doctor repaired a hole in David’s esophagus. Two weeks later, David came home from the hospital.

A few years ago I read a Reuters news service account of an Alaska Airlines nonstop flight from Anchorage to Seattle, carrying 150 passengers, which was diverted to a remote town on a mercy mission to rescue a badly injured boy. Two-year-old Elton Williams III had severed an artery in his arm when he fell on a piece of glass while playing near his home in Yakutat, 450 miles south of Anchorage. Medics at the scene asked the airline to evacuate the boy. As a result, the Anchorage-to-Seattle flight was diverted to Yakutat.
The medics said the boy was bleeding badly and probably would not live through the flight to Seattle, so the plane flew 200 miles to Juneau, the nearest city with a hospital. The flight then went on to Seattle, with the passengers arriving two hours late, most missing their connections. But none complained. In fact, they dug into their pocketbooks and took up a collection for the boy and his family.
Later, as the flight was about to land in Seattle, the passengers broke into a cheer when the pilot said he had received word by radio that Elton was going to be all right. Surely love of neighbor was in evidence.

The biggest question on Luke’s mind has been about what to decide regarding his mission. Like so many others in his situation, Luke has to choose whether to defer his mission call for a year or more, or wait and see if he can go as soon as possible with the original date.
Nothing is certain yet.
For Luke, direction came after watching general conference. “President Nelson and the other leaders were so optimistic,” Luke said. “It makes me optimistic too. So, at least for now, I’m going to plan on serving during my normal time.”
Luke knows that nothing is certain where COVID-19 is concerned. Even so, he’s absolutely certain about something else. “God is at the wheel,” Luke says. “He isn’t going to let us fail.”

A few days ago we visited with an elder in the mission field. During the interview I inquired, “Is your father a member of the Church?”
He said, “No.”
“Is your mother a member of the Church?”
He responded with, “Just barely.”
“Did your father want you to go on a mission?”
He answered, “No.”
“Did your mother want you to go on a mission?”
“She really didn’t care whether I went or not.”
“Who influenced you most in your decision to go?”
“I did. I’ve always wanted to go, and I knew I could make a success of it.”
I looked that young man in the face and said, “From what I hear and what I feel of your spirit, you will succeed.” Here was a great individual who had the opportunity to knock and to murmur, “My dad doesn’t care. My mother doesn’t care. Why should I care?” He knows the importance of going forward and has the courage to continue.

On Sunday, Brother Edwards walked by the driveway where Pete was playing basketball. Brother Edwards was wearing a white shirt and tie, and under his arm he had a book. He stopped and watched Pete sink a jump shot from the corner of the garage.
“Hey, Pete,” he called, “are you coming to church today?”
Pete caught the ball before it could bounce under the fence. He dribbled it between his legs while he looked at Brother Edwards. “Nah,” he said. “Church is boring. Besides, I need to practice using my left hand.”
Pete bounced the ball back and forth, first with one hand, then with the other. Suddenly he spun around and drove hard toward the basket. He used his left hand to gently push the ball up toward the hoop. It touched the backboard and dropped through the net.
“Wow!” said Brother Edwards. “How long did you practice before you learned to do that?”
Pete shrugged. “I don’t know. I practice every day.”
“Every day! Why do you do that?”
“Because I have to. I want to be gooood.”
The next Sunday Brother Edwards stopped again. He was wearing a different tie this time, but under his arm was the same big book. He stood at the top of the driveway and watched Pete, who was concentrating very hard on the basket. Pete turned the ball over in his hand and dribbled it once. Then he took a deep breath, bent his knees, and shot.
The ball hit the inside of the rim and bounced out. It rolled off the back of the car and down the driveway. Brother Edwards stopped it with his foot. “Uh-oh,” he said as he stooped to pick it up. “Did I break your concentration?”
Pete caught the pass from Brother Edwards and shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s OK. I have to get used to it.”
“How many had you hit before that one?” Brother Edwards asked.
“Eight in a row. I need to get to twenty-one without a miss.”
“Why do you have to do that? You’re already a good free-throw shooter.”
“I want to be as good as my big brother,” Pete said. “When he was my age, he hit twenty-one in a row without missing. Now he plays for a college team. He makes eighty-one percent of his free throws. He’s gooood.”
Pete stood at the edge of the driveway, the toe of his sneaker on the painted yellow line. He dribbled the ball slowly and concentrated. He took a breath, bent his knees, and shot.
Brother Edwards waited for the ball to go through the net. “Good shot,” he said. “That’s one.”
Pete smiled and dribbled the ball back to the yellow line. He made another one.
“You know a lot about your brother,” Brother Edwards said. “Is he your hero?”
Pete shrugged. “I don’t know. I like to go to his games and watch him on TV. I saved all the articles about him from the newspaper. I even have the basketball from when his team won the state championship. I could show it to you some time. He signed it.”
“Wow! I’d like to see that.”
Pete was quiet for a moment as he stood at the line, turning the ball over and over in his hand. Finally he spoke. “Yeah, I guess you could say he’s my hero, ‘cause I want to be just like him. He’s the best.”
On Tuesday, Brother Edwards was mowing his lawn when Pete came walking home from school. Pete carried a backpack on one shoulder; with the other hand he was bouncing a ball. Brother Edwards slowed the mower and called across the hedge. “I see you’re still practicing. How was school?”
Pete stopped and adjusted the backpack to the other shoulder, but he kept the ball bouncing. “Oh, you know—just the same stuff over and over. School’s pretty boring.”
“I know what you mean. Sometimes I get tired of mowing this lawn over and over, but I know what would happen if I stopped working at it.”
“Yeah,” Pete said, “I guess it would get pretty bad.”
“By the way, I’ve been thinking about what you said.”
Pete looked surprised. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Sure you did. On Sunday. About practicing. You said you practice all the time so you can be good, like your brother.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Pete. “So?”
“Do you really do it every day?”
“That’s right,” said Pete. “If I didn’t practice, I’d forget what I already learned.”
Brother Edwards was amazed. “Some people would think that that was pretty boring—doing the same things over and over. Some people would wonder why you work so hard at it.”
“It isn’t boring. I like practicing, and I like working hard.” He dribbled behind his back without looking. “And someday all the work is going to pay off.” He went off down the street with the basketball still going. “Like I said,” he called back, “I’m going to be like my brother, and he’s the best.”
The next Sunday, Brother Edwards walked right on by. “Hey,” called Pete, “aren’t you going to stop for a minute?”
“Maybe just for a minute,” said Brother Edwards, “but I have to hurry. I’m on my way to practice.”
“I thought you were going to church,” said Pete.
“I am. I’m going there to practice. I have a hero, too, you know.”
“No way,” said Pete. “You have a hero? Who is he? What team does he play for?”
“He doesn’t play for any team.”
“Oh,” said Pete. “Is he one of those old guys? Have I ever heard of him?”
“Well, He did live a long time ago, but I’ll bet you’ve heard of Him. He’s the best kind of gooood. And the cool thing is, He can be everybody’s hero.”
Pete couldn’t believe his ears. He tried to think of all the famous names he knew, but he couldn’t guess. “Who is it?” he said. “Tell me, tell me.”
Brother Edwards laughed. “I’ll give you a hint. This book is all about Him.” He held out the blue book.
Pete stepped closer. “Hey, that’s the Book of Mormon. Oh, I know what you mean—you’re talking about Jesus Christ. But that doesn’t count. Jesus isn’t like a real hero.”
“Sure He is. He’s my hero. He was the best at everything He did. And wouldn’t you agree that He’s gooood?”
“Yeah, He was, but He’s not even alive.”
“Sure He is. He’s alive, and some people have seen Him. Some day I’m going to meet Him too.”
Pete was holding the ball under his arm and looking funny at Brother Edwards. “But why do you go to church?” he said. “Church is boring.”
“I don’t think so. I like learning about my hero, just like you like practicing the same shot over and over. That would seem pretty boring to me. Or reading all those newspaper articles. I bet you don’t think that’s boring.”
“Nope—it’s kind of fun. I guess it’s because I know my brother, and … I want to be like him so much. …”
On the fourth Sunday, Pete was shooting layups. He didn’t seem to be very interested, and he missed most of the shots. When he saw Brother Edwards, he dropped the ball on the grass. “Hey,” he called, “wait up. I have something to show you.” He ran into his house and was gone for a while. When he came back out, he had a book in his hand. “Look at this,” he called as he ran down the drive. “Look what my brother sent me.” Brother Edwards could see it was the Book of Mormon. Pete opened it and turned the pages until he came to a picture of Jesus. “See? It has all these stories about things Jesus did.”
“That’s pretty cool,” Brother Edwards said. “It’s just like mine. You could bring it to church with you. …” Suddenly Brother Edwards noticed that Pete wasn’t wearing his grubbies. “Are you coming to church today, Pete?”
Pete smiled. “Of course,” he said. “I have to come to church. I have to practice, don’t I?”
Brother Edwards laughed. “Well,” he said as they walked down the street together, “only if you want to be gooood.”

When President Hinckley was a young man, he served a full-time mission to the British Isles. He tells us some of his experiences.
The boat on which I traveled to England docked at Plymouth the night of July 1, 1933. The three of us missionaries aboard took the boat train to London, arriving late at night. The next day I was assigned to go to Preston, Lancashire. After what seemed like a long, lonely train ride, I met my companion at the station, and he took me to our “digs,” a short distance from Vauxhall Chapel where the first LDS missionary sermon had been preached in 1837.
My companion then announced that we would go into town and hold a street meeting. I was terrified. We sang a hymn and offered prayer. Then he called on me to speak. A crowd gathered. They looked menacing to me. The world was then in the bottom of the Depression, and Lancashire had been particularly hard-hit. The people were poor. They wore wooden clogs on their feet. Their dress reflected the hard times in which they lived. They were difficult to understand; I was a westerner from the United States, and they spoke with a Lancashire dialect.
Those first few weeks I was discouraged. I wrote a letter home to my good father and said that I felt I was wasting my time and his money. He wrote a very short letter to me which said: “Dear Gordon, I have your recent letter. I have only one suggestion: forget yourself and go to work.” Earlier that morning my companion and I had read these words of the Lord: “Whosoever will save his life shall lose it; but whosoever shall lose his life for my sake and the gospel’s, the same shall save it” (Mark 8:35).
Those words of the Master, followed by my father’s letter, went into my very being. I went into our bedroom and got on my knees and made a pledge to the Lord. I covenanted that I would try to forget myself and lose myself in His service.
That July day in 1933 was my day of decision. A new light came into my life and a new joy into my heart. The fog of England seemed to lift, and I saw the sunlight. I had a rich and wonderful mission experience, for which I shall ever be grateful.

One day after school, one of our daughters came into a teenage son’s room. It looked as if a big wind had blown through. He was sitting in the midst of it all. She felt the anger rising within, but remembered her resolution to look for the good. Searching desperately, her eye finally looked upward. “Your ceiling’s really clean, Adam!” she was able to say quite honestly. He laughed; he got the message, and he cleaned up the room.

I am a compulsive journal keeper. I began keeping a journal back in the days when it was called a diary. In those days, there were no rows upon rows of books with blank pages filling the bookstore shelves. I wrote on scrap paper stuffed in an old stationery box. It took a little more effort to feed a journal-keeping habit in those days.

It’s much easier now. Today you can choose leather-bound, gold-embossed, parchment paper journals where you dare not write anything but the truly profound. Or, if you’re a bit intimidated with these, you can buy a three-ring plastic binder with loose-leaf paper.

Whatever journal you choose, just remember one thing. Somewhere along the line, you might want to reveal the “real” you and not a plastered smile imitation of someone else. Don’t fall into the same pitfalls I did in my early years of self-expression.

My interest in journal keeping started way back in prehistoric times when school’s main attraction for me was the lunchtime menu. I wish someone had told me that detailed lists of “what I ate today” wouldn’t satisfy the requirements of great literature.

I remained naive enough to believe that someday my family would have to hide in a secret room upstairs in the attic while World War III exploded in the world around us. I just knew that someday my writing would be “discovered” and that Anne Frank would have to step down a notch to make room for me.

Of course just the thought of someone actually reading what I wrote was enough to make my writing style a bit unnatural. To let someone discover the real me would be, in my estimation, as bad as getting caught with oily hair and an old flannel nightgown, complete with mascara under my eyes on Saturday morning by a recent heartthrob who had dumped me. It made my toes curl.

Just the thought of someone actually reading what I wrote distorted my journal entries. For example, here’s what really happened:
I lost the election for sophomore vice president by the widest margin in our school’s history. I can’t think of one good reason why anybody would vote for Carol instead of me. I felt so rotten that I cried all night.

But here’s how it appeared in my journal account:
Running for student-body office was a real growing experience for me. I’m so glad Carol won. She’s a wonderful girl.

Of course I tried my luck with a little honesty. But then someone at church told me that the angels in heaven would read from my work and that my life’s deeds would be shouted from the rooftops. That was enough to make my page-long detailed description of my latest crush on the bag boy at the grocery store seem so subject to ridicule that I ripped out the page and burned it.

Then a strange thing happened. I kept getting older, and World War III was still waiting in the wings. I was also starting to zero in on a new world’s record for the number of rejection slips I had collected from publishers of my unsolicited manuscripts.
The thought actually occurred to me that I might be the only one who ever read or benefitted from my now overcrowded bookshelf full of journals. I started to realize for the first time that my journal was a history for my sake as well as any future readers.
From that point on, the real me started to emerge. I found, rather surprisingly, that the real me was much more interesting, oily hair and all. Spending time with myself while writing in my journal became more valuable because I was finding time to really listen to my own voice.
My journal took on a whole new role. Sometimes it was my best friend or trusted confidant. Sometimes it was a good place to sort out my feelings and remember friendships and experiences. Sometimes it was a goal-setting instrument or just a convenient place for creative expression. Sometimes it became my psychologist or a means of solving my problems.
I was beginning a friendship with myself. I was finding out that I was unique and important, a discovery that flowered only after an honest and intimate acquaintance with myself. And after learning to appreciate my own uniqueness, I was better able to transfer that love to others.
When I read back over these less self-conscious entries, they made the dramatic and everyday parts of my life seem real enough that I could relive them and be inspired. I could actually see the hand of the Lord in my life. I could sense a pattern emerging that gave me a more eternal perspective to my life. I felt excited to be alive and looked forward to the future. I felt an increased awareness of God’s love for me.
I found that I could be truthful without concentrating on the negative or even washing over my less admirable traits. I found I could truthfully portray my challenges as well as my successes. I found out that it was all right just to be me.
Now I know that you and I may never write for generations of yet unborn dedicated fans. But even if none of our great-grandchildren ever chuckles over page 762,493 of our personal pencil trottings, it will have been worth the effort. If you already keep a journal, never relinquish your enthusiasm. If you haven’t developed the habit yet, get started. Journal keeping is really a fantastic road to discovering the real you.
You and I may never make the best seller list or even be remembered for our profound thoughts at age 15. But not even Shakespeare can tell you exactly what my mother said and how her eyes looked on the day I first left home; or what shade of blue the sky was on Friday, June 27, 1975; or how an old woman with her nose pressed tight against the glass door made me feel when I drove away after volunteering at a rest home; or …

A General Authority whose personal influence was felt far and wide was the late President Spencer W. Kimball. He really made a difference in the lives of countless individuals.

When I was a bishop, the telephone rang one day, and the caller identified himself as Elder Spencer W. Kimball. He said, “Bishop Monson, in your ward is a trailer court, and in a little trailer in that court—the smallest trailer of all—is a sweet Navajo widow, Margaret Bird. Would you have your Relief Society president visit her and invite her to come to Relief Society and to participate with the sisters?” We did. Margaret Bird came and found a warm welcome.
Elder Kimball called on another occasion. “Bishop Monson,” he said, “I have learned that there are two Samoan boys living in a downtown hotel. They’re going to get in trouble. Will you make them members of your ward?”
I found these two boys at midnight sitting on the steps of the hotel playing ukuleles and singing. They became members of our ward. Eventually each of them married in the temple and served valiantly. Their influence for good was widespread.
When I was first called as a bishop, I discovered that our record for subscriptions to the Relief Society Magazine in the Sixth-Seventh Ward had been at a low ebb. Prayerfully we analyzed the names of individuals whom we could call to be magazine representative. The inspiration dictated that Elizabeth Keachie should be given the assignment. As her bishop, I approached her with the task. She responded, “Bishop Monson, I’ll do it.”
Elizabeth Keachie was of Scottish descent, and when she replied, “I’ll do it,” one knew she indeed would. She and her sister-in-law, Helen Ivory—neither more than five feet tall—commenced to walk the ward, house by house, street by street, and block by block. The result was phenomenal. We had more subscriptions to the Relief Society Magazine than had been recorded by all the other units of the stake combined.
I congratulated Elizabeth Keachie one Sunday evening and said to her, “Your task is done.”
She replied, “Not yet, Bishop. There are two square blocks we have not yet covered.”
When she told me which blocks they were, I said, “Oh, Sister Keachie, no one lives on those blocks. They are totally industrial.”
“Just the same,” she said, “I’ll feel better if Nell and I go and check them ourselves.”
On a rainy day she and Nell covered those final two blocks. On the first one she found no home, nor did she on the second. She and Sister Ivory paused, however, at a driveway which was muddy from a recent storm. Sister Keachie gazed about 100 feet (30 m) down the driveway, which was adjacent to a machine shop, and there noticed a garage. This was not a normal garage, however, in that there was a curtain at the window.
She turned to her companion and said, “Nell, shall we go and investigate?”
The two sweet sisters then walked down the muddy driveway 40 feet (12 m) to a point where the entire view of the garage could be seen. Now they noticed a door which had been cut into the side of the garage, which door was unseen from the street. They also noticed that there was a chimney with smoke rising from it.
Elizabeth Keachie knocked at the door. A man 68 years of age, William Ringwood, answered. They then presented their story concerning the need of every home having the Relief Society Magazine. William Ringwood replied, “You’d better ask my father.”
Ninety-four-year-old Charles W. Ringwood then came to the door and also listened to the message. He subscribed.
Elizabeth Keachie reported to me the presence of these two men in our ward. When I requested their membership certificates from Church headquarters, I received a call from the Membership Department at the Presiding Bishopric’s Office. The clerk said, “Are you sure you have living in your ward Charles W. Ringwood?”
I replied that I did, whereupon she reported that the membership certificate for him had remained in the “lost and unknown” file of the Presiding Bishopric’s Office for the previous 16 years.
On Sunday morning Elizabeth Keachie and Nell Ivory brought to our priesthood meeting Charles and William Ringwood. This was the first time they had been inside a chapel for many years. Charles Ringwood was the oldest deacon I had ever met. His son was the oldest male member holding no priesthood I had ever met.
It became my opportunity to ordain Brother Charles Ringwood a teacher and then a priest and finally an elder. I shall never forget his interview with respect to seeking a temple recommend. He handed me a silver dollar, which he took from an old, worn leather coin purse, and said, “This is my fast offering.”
I said, “Brother Ringwood, you owe no fast offering. You need it yourself.”
“I want to receive the blessings, not retain the money,” he responded.
It was my opportunity to take Charles Ringwood to the Salt Lake Temple and to attend with him the endowment session.
Within a few months, Charles W. Ringwood passed away. At his funeral service I noticed his family sitting on the front rows in the mortuary chapel, but I noticed also two sweet women sitting near the rear of the chapel, Elizabeth Keachie and Helen Ivory.
As I gazed upon those two faithful and dedicated women and contemplated their personal influence for good, the promise of the Lord filled my very soul: “I, the Lord, am merciful and gracious unto those who fear me, and delight to honor those who serve me in righteousness and in truth unto the end. Great shall be their reward and eternal shall be their glory.”

I discovered file-sharing software as a college freshman, and, however innocently, I quickly got caught up in the world of free downloads. I thought that since it was so easy, and seemingly without penalties, it was harmless. Before long, my hard drive was jammed with almost 1,000 of my favorite songs.

Then I started to wonder about the collection of songs on my computer. Every time I listened to them, I felt guilty for enjoying something I hadn’t paid for. As much as I loved my music, I just couldn’t feel right about keeping it. I finally deleted the software.

A few months later, I heard rumors that the record labels were filing lawsuits against people who used the same file-sharing software I had just removed. Some people were being fined more than $100,000! I couldn’t believe it.

After the shock wore off, I realized just how serious music pirating is. Fortunately, I had removed all my files before the legal battles began, so I didn’t have to worry about paying monetary damages. But I realized that I hadn’t gotten away without damaging my spirit. I had known stealing was wrong since I was a child, and yet I had convinced myself that somehow this was different.

After a Young Women lesson about patriarchal blessings, I had this feeling that I needed to receive mine to know the guidance that Heavenly Father has in store for me. I prayed a lot and studied for months.

Then, one day in Sunday School, my teacher told me, “If you’re thinking about your patriarchal blessing, it’s probably time for you to get it.” That inspired me to go for it, and I’m so grateful I did. Because of my patriarchal blessing, I know that Heavenly Father knows who I am.

Acadia L., age 16, Baden-Württemberg, Germany

I remember teaching an extremely intelligent woman who had a hard time accepting anything until she had nailed down every intellectual loose end. However, at long last we heard her say, “I cannot deny this feeling any longer.”
She joined the Church and was very happy for the next few years, but she gradually let her intellectual doubts creep back in and ultimately left the Church.
Fifteen years went by, and she came to visit our family. We took her to Temple Square. As we started up the circular ramp leading to the statue of the Savior, she paused and tearfully said, “Here comes that feeling again. My heart still yearns for what my mind won’t accept!”
Once you have felt it, you can never forget it.