Gospel Story Finder

Youth in the Short Hills Ward, Caldwell New Jersey Stake, got their “mission calls” a few years early, when a group of missionaries in their area planned “the ultimate missionary Saturday” for them at the local meetinghouse.
The youth were instructed in advance to wear missionary clothing, bring their scriptures, and keep an arm’s length from the opposite sex. Once they arrived, they got a mini-MTC experience, then went tracting through the building, where members were staged and gave them both rejection experiences and discussion-teaching experiences.
By the end of the day, some were reluctant to be “released.” Others decided they would try to carry the missionary spirit they’d gained that day with them for the rest of their lives.

Finally, consider the case of Friedrich, who never seemed to have any problems. Schooling came easy. He married well and inherited well. His business prospered. Friedrich lived in the biggest house and drove the biggest car and had the prettiest wife and enjoyed good health until he died at age 94.
Friedrich appeared to have the easiest life imaginable. But Friedrich failed his test—his “easy test.” For with all his success and all his prosperity, he lost his testimony and his perspective and died a bitter, disillusioned old miser. All his children and grandchildren grew up outside the gospel.

A funny clown and a floppy bird danced around the room, shaking hands with laughing four-year-olds. Five other girls dressed in funny costumes were passing out crayons and uncolored pictures of witches and ghosts. It was Halloween night, and suddenly things looked a lot brighter to the children (who ranged in age from three to seven) than they had earlier that evening. They were all patients at the Houston Southwest Memorial Hospital in Texas and because of sickness or injury were unable to join their friends in trick-or-treating. Not wanting the children to feel left out, the Braeburn Ward Laurels in the Houston Texas Stake had decided to take Halloween to the hospital.

The evening’s activities included telling a story about a pumpkin, singing “pumpkin carols,” acting out a ghost story while the children helped with the sound effects, and coloring Halloween pictures. The hospital supplied the young women with a room so all the children (and their parents) could participate at once. After lots of laughter and smiles, the evening of sharing came to a close. As the Laurels bade their newfound friends good-bye, they agreed that this was one Halloween they would always remember.

Our family has been lucky enough to have the opportunity to care for a piece of farm land. When we first took a look at this place, I thought to myself, “There is no way we can do this, it’s too big, too much work.” It seemed like a long road ahead and I was super hesitant to commit to it. I mean it’s not like I don’t got stuff to do. However, this has always been something that we’ve wanted to do as parents (I would say family but I don’t think my kids would say that this is something they wanted to do). We talked about it and made a commitment. When we first started it was just our family. We began pulling weeds and clearing the area the best we could. It was hard, back breaking work and it seemed even though we were making progress that it would take a significant time to get to a point that we could start to plant something. Our friend who asked us to help care for the land told us he’d be by soon to help, and we were like, “no worries we got it, when you have time, no rush.” We don’t like to burden others. Maybe it’s a pride thing. We would go a few times a week to work on clearing the area. Our kids were a great help. It helped to speed up the process. One day my husband told me that our friends would come to help the next time we went up. I felt bad that they would spend their free time working in the hot sun pulling weeds and moving dirt. The day came and not only did our friends come, they brought machines that would help to clear the land quicker. As we watched the machines work my kids and I laughed at how easily the machines cleared the area. An area that took us days to clean was cleared in minutes. We wondered what the heck we were thinking by cleaning it by hand and why hadn’t we done this from the start. We were so grateful for the effort and time that was given to help. The task to care for that piece of land seemed more achievable after that. I’m so grateful for the help we received, it has made our time working at the farm more enjoyable.

I don’t like to depend on others, mostly because I don’t want to burden them. I know they are busy too!! Asking for help is not something I am good at. I rather tell my husband do it!! It has taken me some time to learn how to ask for and accept the help of others.

In my preparation for marriage classes at BYU, we have one unit on commitment. We note the observation by Dr. James C. Dobson that marriage is a marathon and not a sprint (see Love for a Lifetime: Building a Marriage That Will Go the Distance [Portland, Oregon: Multnomah Press, 1987], 120). We talk about what we commit to or what covenants we make at the time of marriage, often across sacred and holy altars.
During winter semester 1999 I asked my students at BYU to participate in a class project. I invited them to bring to class pictures of “older couples” who had been married a long time. They wanted to know “how old,” and I just said “old.” For the baby boomers who are listening, you may be interested in knowing that one young coed brought in a picture of Al and Tipper Gore. I looked at the picture and told my student that the vice president and wife were only in their early fifties. “Well,” she responded, “you said you wanted pictures of old people!”
After we had collected a wide variety of pictures, one of my students, Melissa McKnight (now Melissa Wood), teamed up with Tamilisa Wood (not related), a media arts major. Under the guidance and direction of Glenn Anderson of the Instructional Technology Center, they matched the pictures up to another song composed by Lionel Richie in the early 1980s. It was later made popular by Kenny Rogers through his musical releases. The song was “Through the Years.” It answers, in part, the question posed about the same time by Rafe Van Hoy: “Doesn’t anybody ever stay together any more?”
We will now see our class project: Through the Years. It portrays what I believe is missing in contemporary marriage education in America today. This is but one example of what undergraduate students are capable of doing at Brigham Young University.

Brother Michael Kagle took a convoy of trucks loaded with equipment from his own company to Mississippi. Many employees, who are not of our faith, volunteered to go with him every weekend to give assistance in the storm-stricken areas. Walkie-talkies were used for communication along the way. Mike’s high priests group leader, while driving along with them in his pickup truck, said he had white knuckles from driving so fast. Trying to slow the convoy down, he got on the walkie-talkie and said, “Gentlemen, do you realize we are going 80 miles per hour?” One of the truck drivers came on and said, “Well, you have to understand that’s all these big trucks will do. We can’t go any faster.”

Hundreds of letters of gratitude have been received. One woman, a nurse from Mississippi, wrote: “I was speechless. Had God answered my prayers so quickly? Tears immediately began to roll down my cheeks as men in hard hats and boots, with chain saws of all shapes and sizes, appeared out of the debris. It was absolutely, unequivocally, one of the most supreme sacrifices that has ever happened to me personally.”

Easton’s first Church meeting in Germany had just ended. He thought it would be really different, but it was a lot like church where he used to live in the United States. Only here he got to wear headphones to listen to the talks being translated into English.
Mom and Dad had started talking to the family sitting behind them. It looked like they had a boy his age!
“These are the Finottos,” Mom told Easton. “GianMarco will be in your class at school.”
“Cool!” Easton smiled at GianMarco. His name sounded kind of like “John” and “Mark” squished together—with an “o” at the end. “So where are you from?”
GianMarco smiled back. “We’re from Italy. But we just moved here from China.”
“Wow!” said Easton. “I’ve never been to China.”
The next day Easton went to his new school. He was a little nervous. But then he saw GianMarco waving at him from across the classroom. At least he had one friend already. There were kids from all over the world in his class. Maybe he would like this school.
“Good morning!” The teacher smiled at everyone. “I’m Ms. Albano. To start off, can anyone tell me what identity means?”
A girl raised her hand. “It means who you are. What’s most important to you.”
“Exactly!” said Ms. Albano. “So let’s get to know each other. What are some things that are part of your identity? What things make you you?”
“I like video games!” said a girl in the front row. Ms. Albano smiled and wrote hobbies on the board. “What else?”
GianMarco raised his hand. “I’m from Italy.” Ms. Albano nodded and wrote down country.
Easton tried to think of something to say. “I go to church,” said a boy in the back.
“That’s a good one!” Easton thought. “I should’ve said that.”
Someone laughed. And then a lot of kids were laughing. Easton looked at GianMarco, confused. GianMarco looked confused too. Why would they laugh?
When he got home, Easton told Mom what happened.
Mom frowned. “Some people don’t understand why church is important. They think it’s silly.”
“Oh,” said Easton. He didn’t think church was silly at all.
A few weeks later, Ms. Albano asked the students to do a presentation with a parent about their family’s identity.
“What should our project be?” Mom asked as they set the table for dinner.
Easton thought about how the class had laughed. “I think we should do it about the Church,” Easton said.
Mom smiled. “That’s a great idea.”
“And could GianMarco and Sister Finotto do it with us?”
“Great idea. I’ll call them after dinner.”
The next day GianMarco and Sister Finotto came over. First they all talked about what they thought was most important about the Church. Mom wrote down all their ideas in a notebook. Then they got poster boards and found pictures of Jesus and prophets and temples to glue on.
Finally it was time for the presentation. Easton stood with GianMarco and their moms at the front of the class. He took a deep breath.
“We are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” he began. They each took turns explaining things about the Church. GianMarco talked about scriptures. Mom talked about prophets. Sister Finotto talked about family home evening. Easton talked about baptism. It was really cool!
Easton felt pretty good when they were done. Nobody laughed—the kids actually seemed to like it! He was glad he could share something so important with his class. He smiled. He knew his identity. He was a child of God!

Prophet loved music. He especially loved Primary songs and Church hymns. He hummed the tunes all day long. He imagined himself sitting at a piano, playing his favorite songs. He also imagined himself teaching other people how to play.
There was just one problem. He didn’t have a piano.
One day Prophet had an interview with his bishop.
“Have you set any goals for the Children and Youth program?” the bishop asked.
“Yes,” Prophet said. “I want to learn to play the piano.”
“That is a good goal,” the bishop said.
“And when I reach that goal,” Prophet said, “then I have another goal. I want to teach 20 other people how to play.”
“You have two good goals,” the bishop said.
“And I have a problem,” Prophet said. “I don’t have a piano.”
“Well, let us see what we can do.”
At church the next Sunday, the bishop told Prophet that he had found a missionary couple who could teach him. They would bring piano keyboards for him and others to practice on. They wanted to teach lots of people how to play the piano.
The bishop talked to people. Prophet talked to people. Prophet’s family talked to people. Soon the whole ward was talking about piano lessons. So were others.
“Many of my friends who are not members also want to learn,” Prophet told the bishop.
“They are welcome, of course,” the bishop said. “The missionaries will give you a book and help you learn the lessons. And after you learn, you can help them teach everyone else.”
“That is my second goal!” Prophet said.
Soon Prophet was practicing with the missionaries. He loved learning what each of the notes meant and hearing them come together to make a song. Two of his friends from church, Kelvin and Alexander, were also learning. After a month, all three boys started teaching too.
Every day, the boys taught keyboard classes at the Church building. At first there were about 10 students, then 20, then 50!
“This is fun!” Kelvin said one day when class was over.
“I think Heavenly Father is happy because we are helping others to learn,” Alexander said.
Prophet nodded. His goal was already helping so many people.
But there was something else that made Prophet happy. As the other students practiced the Primary songs, they were also learning about Heavenly Father. Some of them asked Prophet if they could learn more about the Church.
And in fact, some of the people who first learned about the Church because of piano lessons ended up getting baptized.
“Now in meetings,” Prophet says, “we all join together and sing the songs we love.”
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One evening after the United States Navy destroyer on which I served left Pearl Harbor for the North Pacific, I was the officer of the watch for the night shift. I retired to my bunk after supper to get some sleep before going on duty. I felt the roll of the ship as I was dropping off to sleep. Later when I relieved the watch, the roll was more pronounced, and as I stepped out into the blackness of the open bridge, I felt the bite of the wind.
During the winter the North Pacific can be quite rough, and that night the waves were large enough that the wind was starting to catch their crests and cause a white streaking of foam.
“I am ready to relieve you, sir,” I said.
The officer on duty’s face reflected the soft glow of the compass, and he reported the ship’s course and speed. He added that the captain had turned in for the evening, then said, “The barometer has dropped three-hundredths in the past hour.” This meant stormy weather.
“Does the captain know this?” I asked.
“Yes, but he did not leave any special orders.”
He closed the door to the pilothouse behind him, and I found myself alone looking out at a menacing sea.
When ships encounter heavy weather, officers are to keep the ship’s bow heading into the wind with just enough speed to maintain steering. If waves strike the ship broadside, heavy rolling occurs, which can cause injury to the crew or even capsize the ship.
After an hour the waves had become mountainous. The wind was howling, and sheets of water were being blown through the air from huge cresting waves. The ship would climb the front side of the approaching wave, reach the crest, hang momentarily, then glide swiftly down the back side of the wave, plunging into the trough and resurfacing with water running over the deck, all the while pitching and shuddering. To steady the ship I had to reduce speed.
As the storm increased, I learned that the barometer had dropped another five-hundredths. I called the captain to report the worsening conditions. He simply replied, “Very well,” and hung up.
Soon the helmsman called out to me, “I am having trouble, sir. She is falling off to starboard!” I quickly checked the compass and discovered that the bow was inching toward the trough. If that continued, we could end up in a dangerous position broadside to the waves. I ordered the helmsman to make the necessary adjustment, but before long the needle started drifting back. The helmsman tried to correct the drift again, but the ship was slow to respond.
Conditions were worsening. The wind was now shrieking at about 100 miles (160 km) per hour, the waves were 50 feet (15 m) high, and the ship’s bow kept moving toward the trough. Fear rose inside me because I knew if one of these waves hit us broadside, the ship could quite possibly capsize. I called the captain, who was awake because the violent motion of the ship made it impossible to sleep. He was worried too. He did not have any advice but told me to do the best I could.
The helmsman informed me with a frightened voice that he had done all he could, but the bow was still drifting to starboard. I was utterly desperate and fear was turning to panic as I continued my frantic mental search for a solution. The most nightmarish thoughts flooded my mind. I felt helpless and entirely humbled.
In my childlike state, I cried out to the only one who could help me—my Heavenly Father. The answer to my impassioned plea was immediate and clear. A voice in my mind said, “Use your engines. Use your engines in opposition.” I instantly understood.
I ordered, “Starboard engine ahead two-thirds. Port engine ahead one-third.” Slowly the ship’s bow responded by moving out of the impending trough. As the ship headed back into the waves, a great feeling of gratitude engulfed me. The storm continued, but I was able to maintain the ship’s direction by adding to one engine and subtracting from the other.
A skeptic might say the solution was in my mind all the time, but I know better. It came in answer to prayer.

When I moved to Utah, I was instantly greeted by Jenny. She welcomed me to the ward and introduced me to others in the room. Jenny radiated love for others.
Each week, she searched for those who were a bit lost at church. They would be quiet, often sitting in the back or in a corner in meetings. She hugged each one and engaged them in conversation. It didn’t matter who they were—no one escaped Jenny’s embrace. She glowed with Christlike love and acceptance.
Elder Patrick Kearon of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles described what can happen when we minister out of love: “We will serve not because our service is being counted and measured but because we love our Father in Heaven and are motivated by a higher and nobler pursuit—helping our friends find and stay on the path home to Him. We are loving and serving our neighbors as Jesus would if He were in our place, truly trying to improve people’s lives and lighten their burdens.”
President Jeffrey R. Holland, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, spoke of the “poor in spirit” who struggle and shared his deep testimony of the power of Christ’s love: “There can and will be plenty of difficulties in life. Nevertheless, the soul that comes unto Christ, who knows His voice and strives to do as He did, finds a strength, as the hymn says, ‘beyond [his] own’ [“Lord, I Would Follow Thee,” Hymns, no. 220]. The Savior reminds us that He has ‘graven [us] upon the palms of [His] hands’ [1 Nephi 21:16]. … When He says to the poor in spirit, ‘Come unto me,’ He means He knows the way out and He knows the way up. … He knows the way because He is the way.”
Each of us can share Christ’s love with those around us who are feeling “poor in spirit.” From testifying to encouraging to simply wrapping our arms around them and saying, “Jesus loves you!,” we can find many ways to share His love with those who desperately need reminding.
Each of us can invite others, say hello to them, pray for them, search for them, and share Christ’s love with those who struggle. This work of ministering can unite us all with bonds of charity as we do Christ’s work among our brothers and sisters.
The author lives in Utah.

I remember well getting back into school following my mission. I was rusty in math and other subjects after having been away from school for 2 years. I felt over my head. I found myself looking forward to my college days being over so I wouldn't feel so much pressure. I also longed for my days in the mission field where I was anxiously engaged in serving and helping people change their lives. Life seemed more fulfilling and enjoyable during my mission.
One day during this time, I came across a poem that hit me like a lightning bolt. It says:
Yesterday is but a dreamTomorrow is only a visionBut today - well livedMakes every yesterday a dream of happinessAnd every tomorrow a vision of hope.
I knew then that I couldn't return to my mission and I knew I couldn't fast-forward through my college years. I knew that I needed to focus on today and make it a day well-lived. That required an attitude adjustment. I made that adjustment and I have been blessed. You can make that adjustment if needed and be blessed.Being anxiously engaged does not need to nor should it wait until tomorrow.

Of the many happenings that I remember when thinking of these delightful outings, the incident I remember best happened one summer on Puget Sound in Washington.
A cunningly hewn, 30-foot Indian war canoe with a high animal head for the prow was our home and our method of travel for that summer. We were truly “roughing it” and had become tanned, tough as leather, and happy as could be.
Toward the close of this very enjoyable outing, we had pulled the canoe up onto a sandy beach and had been lazily lying around on the sand just passing the time in complete relaxation. Then the sudden inspiration came to us to move on somewhere. It was unanimously felt, so although it was late afternoon, we all got into the canoe, spread our blankets on the floor for those who wished to sleep, and pushed the canoe toward the shore on the other side of the bay.
The canoe was so wide that my father had equipped it with oars. We each rowed with just one oar, like the galley slaves of olden times. We were rowing along contentedly, paying little need to our exact destination, when suddenly we sat up and took notice. The shore seemed to be rapidly leaving us. We were caught in a rip tide and going swiftly out to open sea. My father, having been a ship’s captain and steamboat man knew there was trouble ahead. A storm was coming, a big storm!
He had mother and the two children sit in the canoe bottom to balance it as much as possible and then said, “Now, you four kids (meaning my brother, two sisters, and myself) row, but save your strength because you’re going to need it before we’re safely out of this fix.
Soon the storm began; the waves rolled higher and higher and the distant hills to which we must row were becoming misty and purplish with the on-coming night. My father, an expert boatman, was guiding the canoe between the great waves that now foamed all about us. Just one great wave over the side of the canoe would be enough to finish us.
Still, on we rowed and then came the night. Few words were spoken. The wind was in our hair and the salt spray dashed against our faces. We moved our oars carefully, fearful lest one of the waves bury them and throw us into the sea.
On and on we rowed, our arms becoming weary. But we dared not stop. My arms were numb. They had become mere mechanical devices that made the oar go forward and back.
Through the wind came my father’s voice: “Is everything all right?”
“All right,” was the reply, and on through the night we crept, barely moving against the wind and tide.
Hours passed before the dashing of waves against the rocks could be heard above the wind and the roar of the incoming waves. Ahead loomed the darkness of the cliffs toward which we had been rowing. The sound of the breaking waves on the rocks would have to be our guide. We could not turn in the wild tumult of those giant waves on the bay without capsizing, and we had to go ahead as fast as possible to have headway enough to move between the waves as they tumbled forward. But toward what were we moving? Although accustomed to the dark by now, we could discern outlines but nothing definite. We came closer.
I remember distinctly my father’s words: “Please forgive me if I fail this time. There’s one chance in ten thousand that we will see the sunrise again, and it is that chance I must take now. Are you ready?”
“Ready,” was the reply.
Straight toward the ominous cliff we rowed. I did not look ahead anymore but just rowed hard. Soon the canoe turned quickly.
“Oars in!” shouted father.
We quickly drew in our oars. A soft grating of sand could be felt. The canoe scraped to a stop. Our heads buzzed as the wind whistled through trees far above our heads but did not touch us.
We felt nothing but the large swells raising and lowering the canoe. No one spoke for a while. Then, as if without knowing that he spoke aloud, my father said, “Truly there is a God.”
We had to remain in the boat until dawn. I dropped off to sleep from sheer exhaustion, but father and mother kept watch. The tide might go out and leave us in a dangerous plight.
When next I opened my eyes, I saw a cozy little cove a little larger than the canoe, which was then resting on sandy bottom. A wall of rock all but surrounded us, with a break just large enough for the canoe to pass through into this shelter. Had father’s eyes been less keen, or his hand less capable with the paddle, none of us would have remained to tell the story. For kilometers up and down that coast, the cliff was otherwise unbroken.
To pass through that storm in a canoe that tossed about like a peanut shell, and in the dark come directly to that one possible shelter that was barely large enough to enclose the canoe, was truly a thing that could not be attributed to anything but the care of our Heavenly Father.

I have always been impressed with an experience President Hugh B. Brown, former member of the First Presidency, shared with me when I was serving a mission under his direction in the British Isles. He told about his mother’s encouraging words as he left on his mission when he was about 20 years of age. This essentially was her message, as I recall:
“Hugh, you remember when you were a little boy and you would have a bad dream or wake up in the night frightened, you would call from your room: ‘Mother, are you there?’ and I would answer and try to comfort you and remove your fears. Now as you go on a mission and out into the world there will be times when you will be frightened, when you feel weak, inadequate, alone, and have problems.
“I want you to know that you can call to your Heavenly Father as you used to call to me and say: ‘Father, are you there? I need your help.’ Do this with the knowledge that He is there and that He will be ready to help you if you will do your part, and live worthy of your blessings and needs. I want to reassure you that He is there and will answer your prayers and needs for your best good.”

Two years after his baptism, Patrick was attending a young single adult ward in London when he met Jennifer Hulme, a Brigham Young University student from Saratoga, California. Jennifer had come to London for six months to study art history and English literature. The youngest of eight children, she had been raised in the Church.
Almost immediately, Patrick caught her eye.
“As I watched him interact with people in the ward, I saw the way he treated them,” Jennifer says of Patrick. “Whether it was a new member, a returning member, someone who was having struggles, or someone who was a close friend, he treated everyone with the same kind of genuine love and interest. That quality first and foremost drew me to him. It is a quality I have seen him develop, and that God has put to good use, over the 33 years we have been married.”
Elder and Sister Kearon’s love and respect for each other allows them to work united in faith.
After their courtship, the couple married in the Oakland California Temple in January 1991. They then raised their family in England for 19 years until Elder Kearon was called in 2010 as a General Authority Seventy after serving in several leadership callings, including as a stake president and Area Seventy. He was serving as Senior President of the Seventy when he was called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
Elder Kearon says his wife is a faithful disciple who knows her true identity. “She lives a happy, positive, constructive, helpful, joyful life, with the Savior at the center of it all. She has been a source of strength and an enormous blessing to me since the moment we met.”
Susannah, the second of the couple’s three daughters, says her mother loves to give of herself: “She is full of life and light and has a passion for the gospel.” And like her father, her mother is an “excellent listener.”
Susannah and her sisters say their parents’ love and respect for each other allows them to work united in faith toward common goals. They listen to one another and respect and appreciate each other’s thoughts and opinions.
Emma, the couple’s youngest daughter, says her parents’ harmonious relationship and overt love for their children “has made for a very happy and secure home environment.”
Lizzie Kearon Staheli, the oldest, says of her father: “Dad sees people with Christlike eyes. He is always anxious to encourage and empower people. He sees the potential in everyone, whatever their circumstances.”
Emma adds: “He is full of faith and loves the joy the gospel brings him. Having found the restored gospel as an adult, he appreciates the difference it makes in one’s life as a source of light and joy.”
Elder Kearon calls his daughters—Lizzie (pictured with husband, Jonathan), Susannah, and Emma—“the most beautiful light in our lives, our greatest treasures.”
Jean B. Bingham, former Relief Society General President, describes Elder Kearon as calm under pressure. She recalls a time when she, Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, Elder Kearon, and others found themselves stranded abroad during a political uprising. Under Elder Bednar’s direction, Elder Kearon spent hours on a satellite phone working with local officials and Church representatives to create a path for their removal.
“His calm nature, focused efforts, and inspired insights produced a solution that allowed for our safe departure,” says Sister Bingham.
In December 2021, the family was shocked to learn that Sister Kearon had been diagnosed with breast cancer.
“I never thought cancer was going to hit me or us,” says Sister Kearon. She called the ensuing treatment extremely difficult, but the Savior was her source of strength through it all. “I’m still on oral chemotherapy, but I’m grateful to say that I’m cancer free as far as doctors can tell.”
Elder Kearon says: “Jen has been steadfast and impeccably faithful through it all. We give thanks every day for her health, and we give thanks for the exceptional care she’s been given.”
As with other trials she and her husband have experienced, Sister Kearon says, “Life serves us things we simply don’t want to do. We don’t like them. We didn’t ask for them. But we have to face them anyway. The best way to deal with things that are just plain hard is to turn to the Lord and ask for His strength, putting our faith in Jesus Christ and in His grace and power. A long time ago, I learned a lot about how the Savior succors us at our deepest, darkest times.”
Elder and Sister Kearon acquired that sacred knowledge after the birth of their first child, Sean.
During Sister Kearon’s first pregnancy, the couple learned early on from ultrasound scans that their baby boy had “a difficult heart anomaly, a life-threatening condition,” says Elder Kearon. “We spent the rest of the pregnancy tracking down the best doctors, cardiologists, and cardiac surgeons equipped to address his particular problem. We found a world-class team in London, and they were confident they could fix the problem.”
Surgeons operated on Sean when he was 19 days old. The surgery was long and painstaking. Afterward, says Elder Kearon, “Sean’s little heart could not restart. So, we lost him. His death was exquisitely painful. This was not the result we had fasted for, prayed for, and pled for, but we knew that heaven’s hand was in that experience.”
Sister Kearon says, “God led us through those months of pregnancy and the beautiful, brief life of our son in a way that, at the end of it, we knew we had done everything we could for him. That was a tremendous comfort.”
Healing came from an increased understanding of the Savior’s Atonement and Resurrection that Sister Kearon gained from an in-depth study of 1 Nephi and 2 Nephi. “In the grief of our loss, I felt like I was spinning in a black hole,” she says. “And yet, time after time, that free fall was arrested by the rock of the Atonement of Jesus Christ—because it is true. His grace, His living reality, make even the most painful losses bearable and hopeful.”
Healing came from the birth of the couple’s three daughters. “They brought healing with them,” Elder Kearon says. “They are the most beautiful light in our lives, our greatest treasures.”
Healing came from the words of inspired Church leaders, including a general conference talk by Elder Lance B. Wickman, in which Elder Wickman shared the pain of pacing deserted hospital corridors as his own little boy lay dying of a childhood disease. “Elder Wickman teaches that ‘believing is seeing’ and that faith is trust in the Lord,” says Elder Kearon. “His talk was enormously valuable to me because of his clear understanding of such an experience. This was magnified by the number of times I read it and listened to it.”
And healing came from ministering to others in their loss—be they refugees in Europe, the abused or oppressed, or fellow Church leaders like Elder Paul V. Johnson of the Presidency of the Seventy, who had lost a daughter to cancer two months before joining Elder Kearon in the Europe Area Presidency in 2015.
“He and Sister Kearon were wonderful in helping us in that grieving and healing time,” Elder Johnson says. “They were so sensitive to our situation. I’ve always loved them for that.”
Such is the way of discipleship. We bear one another’s burdens. We mourn with those who mourn. We comfort those in need of comfort. And we stand as witnesses of God—and the eternal promise of joyful reunions made possible through the Atonement of Jesus Christ. (See Mosiah 18:8–9.)
Elder Kearon greets members in the Europe East Area.
Then, when trying times come to us, that healing love and ministering balm are reciprocated. As an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ, Elder Kearon is prepared to share with all the world that gospel message of hope, healing, and peace.
As an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ, Elder Kearon is prepared to share with all the world the gospel message of hope, healing, and peace.
“Why do difficult trials happen to us?” Elder Kearon asks. “Because we come to earth to learn, to grow, to be sanctified, and to love and trust our Father in Heaven and our Savior. For now, we can’t see Them, and They can’t hold us. But the blessings of the Savior’s Atonement are infinite—infinite!”

Hi! My name is Brittany Scott. I want to tell you about a special member of our Primary class, Richie Tanner. What makes Richie special? Well, he’s developmentally delayed, or what some people call mentally handicapped. He looks like most ten-year-old boys, but he acts younger—like maybe a five-year-old. He doesn’t speak very clearly yet, and it takes him longer to learn things.
Richie and I are in the Valiant B class in the Monument Park Ninth Ward, Salt Lake Monument Park Stake. There are four children in our class, Steven Jones, Michael Knudson, Richie, and me. Our teacher is Janet Fawcett. She’s great! She always tells Richie what a good job he’s doing when he listens quietly to the lessons. Sister Fawcett calls on Richie to say prayers and to answer questions. She treats him like everyone else, and she tries to help Richie learn the gospel, just as she helps us.
Richie hasn’t always been able to sit through a lesson. So our Primary has tried different ways to help him. He used to have a special teacher, Sister Neva Clayton, just for him. She would sit with Richie in our class and take him out in the hall if he got noisy or disrupted the class in some other way. But now Richie can sit in class all by himself, just like everyone else!
I’ve seen Richie make good progress: he talks better, he pays attention longer, and he sings in Primary programs. I hope that someday Richie will be able to give a talk by himself.

For Camber Page, 17, of Macclenny, Florida, writing her testimony was a spiritual experience. She’s borne her testimony in church before, but, she says, “I get nervous, and I don’t get to say what I am really feeling.” But when she wrote her testimony, she says, “The Spirit was just coming out of me. I had time to think about it. I was able to write it down without getting up and crying and getting all emotional and shaking. I didn’t know I had believed in so much until I started writing it down. I thought, Gosh, my testimony’s stronger than I thought it was.”

An example of this concept comes from F. Enzio Busche. He was working with a young man in the Young Men's program in post World-War II Europe. This seventeen-year-old boy was working in a foundry where hot iron was poured into molds. One of the older workers regularly picked on the boy, stealing his tools, teasing him, and occasionally beating him up. One day, he again stole his tools. The boy went to the restroom, knelt down, and prayed. He suddenly felt a great peace come into his soul. Calmly he went back to the man and apologized to him, saying, "I have accused you of things, for which I am sorry. I do not want to accuse you. I have so many reasons to be grateful that I am permitted to work with you. You are a good man, and I look up to you as an example, because I need to have an example in my life." These words were sincere, because the Lord had shown him the goodness hidden in that man.

The man broke down in tears. "I am not a good man. I am not a good example." He admitted to stealing the boy's tools and then said, "I am not worthy to be an example to you, but from now on, I will try." That was the beginning of a solid friendship.

Brushing up on their service skills meant the youth hauled woodchip-filled wheelbarrows, wielded paintbrushes, and picked up trash at a park near their stake center. They toted their trash bags to a nearby school to beautify it as well. Some of the youth also went to a rest home and played games with and sang to the residents.
Jane Wilson, a Laurel, really enjoyed serving in her stake. She says, “It’s kind of hard to choose the right with all the bad influences around you.” But you can tell when you’re doing what you should because of “the joy you feel when you’re doing what’s right.”

I had been living for a few months in Kinshasa, the capital of the Democratic Republic of Congo, when the branch Relief Society president asked if she could come visiting teaching. I realize now that she waited so long to visit so I could have time to learn a little French. At that time our family was the only North American family in the branch. Some of the women spoke French, but the majority spoke Lingala, a tribal language. Although I tried not to feel alienated, I felt very different from the sisters in my branch.
The Relief Society president was a widow with two sons. She was always smiling a beautiful, big smile. When she arrived to visit me, she came accompanied by the Spirit of the Lord.
After greeting me, she asked me to get my English Bible. She spoke very slowly so I would understand her message. We read in her French Bible, and then in my English one, Ephesians 2:19: “Now therefore ye are no more strangers and foreigners, but fellowcitizens with the saints, and of the household of God.”
I smiled as I read the verse she had chosen. My Relief Society president understood the struggles I was experiencing.
As she prepared to leave, this sweet sister presented me with a gift of 10 eggs. I knew it was a sacrifice for her. I felt guilty accepting the eggs and tried to decline the gift. But her eyes told me they were given in love.
I accepted the eggs, and we basked in the love that she had brought. It filled the house and made everything seem brighter. After a prayer with her, I watched her leave the yard, her petite and gracious form wrapped in African cloth. I no longer felt a stranger, but at home with the Saints of God.

Early in my life, when I was just a few years younger than the graduates here today, I had an experience that offered a different kind of perspective. I was a member of the Hungarian community. I was very proud of my Hungarian heritage. I was very proud of my Hungarian citizenship. I loved my native tongue. I relished my Hungarian literature, music, culture, and civilization. Yet it did not take me long to recognize that much of that community in the late 1930s and 1940s was not a community of shared values but a community of hate or, minimally, a community of noncaring—a community of indifference. In a period of a few short months, some 600,000 Hungarian Jews—men, women, and children—were packed into cattle cars and shipped to the gas chambers of Auschwitz, where most of them perished. There were young men and young women like you, with hopes and dreams and aspirations and lives not fulfilled; wise, sage, kind old men and women who could not fathom their fate; and toddlers and, yes, infants, as innocent as anyone could be, experiencing en masse man’s most nightmarish experience, the horror of the Holocaust.

A week ago today I was in the rotunda of the Capitol with President George W. Bush as he spoke at the annual commemoration of the Holocaust. He spoke powerfully, with conviction, and from the heart. And he pointed to me—to my great surprise and considerable embarrassment—as one who survived the Holocaust and who came here to build a life and a family and to be privileged in the concluding years of his lifetime to serve his country in the Congress of the United States.

The fact that George W. Bush would single me out is not my achievement. It is the achievement of a Swede, a man by the name of Raoul Wallenberg, who was the most extraordinary figure of the Second World War. He was the son of Sweden’s most distinguished, most outstanding, and most powerful family. He had before him endless horizons. He had become a diplomat, a businessman, a banker, a professor, and an architect—which was his profession—but he voluntarily left behind the security, the safety, the comfort, the affluence, the joy, and the fun of peaceful Stockholm and came to the hell where we lived. With courage that defies description, he placed his own unarmed body between the Nazi war machine and the intended innocent victims. He saved more than 100,000 innocent men, women, and children whose only crime was that they were born into the Jewish faith.

Wallenberg did not come to Budapest because the people in Budapest were part of his community. He spoke Swedish and we spoke Hungarian. He was a citizen of Sweden and we were citizens of Hungary. He was a very wealthy man and we were destitute. He was a Christian Lutheran and we were Jews. Yet he came of his own free will and he came eagerly to Hungary and daily offered his life as he confronted Nazi leaders such as Adolf Eichmann and the Hungarian fascists in an attempt to save innocent people with whom he had nothing in common except his humanity. And he saved more than 100,000 of them.

What makes Wallenberg’s story so extraordinary is that he taught us a lesson that reaches beyond our own community, whatever it is. The lesson he taught us is that as fellow human beings, we, by virtue of that very fact, are part of a community, and each of us is in fact a brother’s or a sister’s keeper.