Gospel Story Finder

One year we went through almost two boxes of film before Dad was satisfied. Thirty-four times we had to stand up straight, say “cheese,” or “pizza” and then smile. When we got the photos back, someone looked awful in 26 of them, five were out of focus, and in three others, Dad didn’t quite get into the picture in time and all you could see was his back. We went with one of the out-of-focus shots that year, which sort of symbolizes the whole family photo ritual.

The funeral was over. Almost all the people on High Street had attended it, and I had gone with Mom and Dad. Now I was home sitting on the back porch steps. I glanced over at Mr. Sedgwick’s house and thought it seemed strange not to see him working in his garden.
As the afternoon sun began sinking behind the trees, I stared at the ground and remembered other yellow, sunny days when Mr. Sedgwick was still alive …
“Worms are marvelous creatures, Margaret,” Mr. Sedgwick had said with a quick laugh. “Just trust me and hold out your hand.”
I trusted Mr. Sedgwick, but my nose wrinkled as he placed the squirming, crawling thing in the palm of my hand. After a second or two, I was surprised that it didn’t bother me anymore. “What are they good for?” I had asked as I gently touched it.
“They aerate the soil for one thing,” he explained. “They crawl around in the ground and dig tiny tunnels. Then the rain and air can get down in there and help things grow.”
I thought of Mr. Sedgwick’s body in the ground. Dad said it was in a cement box, and I wondered if it bothered Mr. Sedgwick to be in a box with no light. But Mr. Sedgwick isn’t in that box, I reminded myself. Only his old worn-out body is there. But his body hadn’t seemed worn-out to me. He was always doing something!
I pulled a long blade of grass from beside the steps, then stretched it between my palms and thumbs like Mr. Sedgwick had taught me. When I blew on it, it made a low, funny sound, and Patches barked down by his doghouse. Patches! I hadn’t even thought of him. He loved Mr. Sedgwick too. I knew it was up to me to tell him.
“Mom,” I said, pressing my nose against the screen door, “may I take Patches for a walk?”
Mom came to the screen and smiled at me. “It’s almost time for dinner, honey,” she replied.
“I’d like to take him to the cemetery and explain about Mr. Sedgwick.”
“Would you like your father or me to go with you?”
I shook my head.
“All right, Margaret, but don’t be gone long.”
Patches jumped up and down, pulling on his chain and barking excitedly. I snapped the leash to his collar hook and undid the chain. He was off with a jerk, so I had to make him behave and walk beside me. As we passed Mr. Sedgwick’s house, Patches started to turn in at the gate.
“Come on, Patches,” I said, tugging his leash. “I have something to tell you, but not here.”
We walked through the quiet of the cemetery where shadows rested behind every tombstone. The smell of lilacs was in the air, and the breeze carried the song of the wood thrush. We walked up the slope where I could see the mound of fresh flowers. Patches started sniffing the ground.
I sat on the warm grass, put my arm around his neck, and hugged him tightly. “I don’t know how to tell you, Patches,” I whispered. “I guess the best way is to say it straight out. Mr. Sedgwick died, Patches. He’s buried under those flowers. We won’t see him here anymore. He won’t give you any more scraps … or teach me any more about gardening.”
Tears started rolling down my cheeks. Patches seemed to understand what I said and how I felt, because he turned and kind of smiled at me. Then he started licking the tears from my face and his tail stopped wagging and his ears drooped. I put my head down on my crossed arms and really sobbed. I don’t know how long I cried, but Patches finally wiggled his nose under my arm and started whimpering.
I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and held Patches’s face between my hands. “It’s OK,” I said as I rubbed his ears. “Mr. Sedgwick was a good friend, and Mom and Dad said it’s OK to miss him.”
Patches lay down and put his head on his paws. His brown eyes looked as sad as I felt, and I wished I could cheer him up.
“But you know what?” I said, forcing a smile. “Mr. Sedgwick is with his wife again. Just think how happy they must be to see each other. We’ll see him again, too, when we die. Remember how he always came here and put flowers on her grave? Well, he didn’t have a family, so you and I will have to do that now for both of them.”
Patches sat up and put his paw on my arm. I wiped my eyes again and stood up. It’s a nice place to be buried, I thought as I looked toward the west. Mr. Sedgwick always liked the sunset.
“Come on, boy,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
We walked down the shady street, and when we passed Mr. Sedgwick’s house, Patches glanced in at the gate. I looked in, too, but both of us just kept on walking.
I chained Patches to his doghouse and gave him fresh water; then I sat and combed his hair. He stayed real still, like he was thinking. I was glad I had told him. Soon I heard the screen door open.
“Margaret?” Dad called.
“I’m here with Patches, Dad,” I replied. Dad waved, then sat down on the porch step, waiting.
“I’ll see you in the morning, Patches,” I whispered as I hugged him good night.
He seemed to sigh, then went and lapped up some water from his dish. I walked up to the house and sat on the step beside my dad. He put his arm around my shoulders and hugged me.
“Everything OK?” he asked.
“I told Patches about Mr. Sedgwick.”
Dad nodded. “How did he take it?”
“I think he feels better.”
“Yes, I’m sure he does,” Dad agreed.
“I think I’ll get ready for dinner now,” I said. I kissed Dad on the cheek.
“Mom and I are proud of you, Margaret,” he said quietly.
I smiled at him and said, “I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too, honey.”

I thought I would never forget these feelings, but the pull of the world is strong and we tend to slip. But God continues to love us.

Several months after I regained my strength, we were caught in another violent storm, only this time at sea. The waves became so big they flipped our small boat over, throwing the three of us into the raging, churning ocean. When I found myself in the middle of a tumultuous sea, I was surprised, scared, and a little upset. “Why has this happened?” I thought. “I’m a missionary. Where is my protection? Missionaries aren’t supposed to swim.”

But swim I must if I wished to stay alive. Every time I complained, I found myself underwater, so it didn’t take long to quit complaining. Things are how they are, and complaining doesn’t help. I needed every ounce of energy to keep my head above water and make it to shore. Having earned my Eagle Scout Award, I was a pretty confident swimmer, but over time the wind and the waves began to sap my strength. I never quit trying, but there came a time when my muscles simply would move no more.

I had a prayer in my heart, but still I began to sink. As I was going down for what could have been the last time, the Lord infused into my mind and heart a deep feeling of love for a very special person. It was as though I could see and hear her. Even though she was 8,000 miles away, the power of that love came rushing across those miles and, penetrating time and space, reached down and pulled me up—lifted me from the depths of darkness, despair, and death and brought me up to light and life and hope. With a sudden burst of energy I made it to shore, where I found my shipmates. Never underestimate the power of true love, for it knows no barriers.

In Japan I witnessed a 21-year-old man accept the gospel. After baptism, he was the only member of the Church in his family. He completed the family history work for his deceased grandfather so he could perform ordinance work vicariously for him, literally doing something for his grandfather that his grandfather could no longer do for himself. As this young man came up out of the baptismal font, he had tears in his eyes. He said, “Now I know and feel, I have a witness, that I am not the only member of this Church in my family.” These ordinances strengthened his relationship with his family and brought a new closeness into his life.

I’ve studied carefully and prayerfully some who are remarkably faithful and effective witnesses of the Savior and His Church. Their stories are inspiring. One humble man was called as the president of a tiny branch. There were so few members he could not see how the branch could function. He walked into a grove of trees to pray. He asked God what he should do. An answer came. He and the few members began inviting friends to join with them. In a year, hundreds had come into the waters of baptism and become fellow citizens in the Lord’s Church.

President Daniel Allotey, stake president of the Ghana Kasoa Stake, knows that it is indeed his religious responsibility to consider how to strengthen and support the young single adults in his stake. President Allotey and his counselors prayerfully began to study President Nelson’s direction and counsel. The stake presidency received answers to their prayers and knew that their focus needed to be on YSA gathering places. This meant asking members to make sacrifices to serve with the YSA.
President Allotey shared, “Having the desire to be perfectly aligned with the prophet brings light and revelations to the mind and heart and rekindles the energy and ability to do what may seem impossible. Upon the authorization of gathering places by the Brethren, and prayerfully seeking to understand the vision, I felt the calm assurance within my heart, and I knew for certain this is the Lord’s answer and perfect solution to the YSA dilemma my stake has been trying to solve for many years. To organize the gathering place with no supporting budget became the real test of our faith. We knew that if we would take that faithful step, the Lord would make a way for us” (see 1 Nephi 3:7).
A YSA council was created. Brother and Sister Dwamena-Frimpong and Brother William and Sister Karen Aryee were called to serve as YSA supporting couples and gathering place specialists, respectively. “When this calling was extended to us, we had no idea of what to do and how to get things done,” said Sister Aryee. “As it is our human nature to come up with plans, thoughts, and goals for the future, we needed to realize God is the only one who truly knows what’s best for us. That was how we sought direction from the Lord for us to come up with activities that will unite, educate, and bring souls unto Christ. The Lord, indeed, answers prayers as we received guidance steadily on what to do and how to get all our YSA’s involved.”
The Aryees met with the stake presidency and began to petition the Lord to lead them and give them direction. President Ghunney, second counselor in the stake presidency, said, “Under the direction of the stake president, we met to discuss and plan on how to implement the gathering place. Through these council meetings, I have seen the heavens open, and revelations poured out to our understanding, and the more we met in council, the more the Lord made clear to us what we needed to do.”
The newly called leaders knew that within their stake there would be experts in various fields that could teach the needed classes. Visits were made to wards and branches seeking teachers for bead making classes, fashion, IT proficiency, eCommerce and web design, wood engineering, computer animation, web design, cosmetology, driving, detergents making and culinary arts. President Allotey said, “When I called each teacher, I told them to be prepared to make some sacrifices to help the YSA in our stake.” In West Africa, transportation costs and the premium placed on long work hours are high.
A gathering place devotional was held. Members of the Church, neighbors and friends were invited to register for skills training and BYU-Pathway classes.
There was a lot to learn. At times, leaders were not feeling the success and seeing the number of YSA for which they had hoped and prayed. They prayed continually. They felt certain that sacrifice was the key to success. When there were not enough computers for the web design class, students shared computers. When internet was not available, instructors spent time during the week creating tutorial videos that students could watch when internet was available.
Sister Mercy Dady, beads instructor, declared, “When our class started, getting beads was not easy for YSAs due to financial challenges.” Sister Dady purchased all the beads required for the first two weeks and provided the class with all essential tools and materials. This initial sacrifice gave the class a successful start. Some of the YSA were able to contribute small amounts of money to purchase the beads required for subsequent classes.
Sister Atistosgbui shared her thoughts on being an instructor. “Volunteering as an instructor over the past few weeks has been challenging, yet an eye-opening, learning opportunity for my students and me. My desire to see the YSA succeed motivated me to sacrifice my resources to transporting mannequins, pressing iron, and sewing machines among other things from my workshop to the gathering place and back twice every week. Although the cost of transporting the equipment to class was high, I knew the Lord always blesses the cheerful giver”, she said.
Brother Collins Sarkodie Aning said, “I thank my Heavenly Father for the opportunity to volunteer as the e-commerce and web design instructor. Personally, I will say that what has kept my class going since the gathering place launch is the love that I have for the YSA and my quest to help them acquire a skill to support themselves and their families.” Twice each week Brother Sarkodie dedicated an entire day to his classes and transported himself from his home or workplace to meet and teach the YSA.
At the completion of twelve weeks of classes and at the end of a BYU-Pathway semester, a graduation ceremony was held at the stake center. Students displayed projects and shared newly acquired skills and talents. Traditional dancing, music, and the awarding of certificates to 106 students ended the semester on a high note.
President Allotey testified, “The gathering place has transformed every participant’s life. Nonmembers also have been blessed, several being willing to meet with full-time missionaries to be taught the gospel of Jesus Christ.
“The happenings in the YSA gathering place are amazing! It has been many years since we last saw YSA trooping into our stake center and gathering together almost every day of the week. As I keep meeting and interacting with returning inactive YSA and even nonmember YSA who have come from the neighborhood to the gathering place, my heart swells with joy as I see the real fulfillment of the prophecy of the gathering of Israel on this side of the veil and the eventual salvation of the rising generation. I know that the YSA gathering place principle is revealed by God through our prophet to save this rising generation.”

Many years ago, on a Halloween night, it was my privilege to be of assistance to one who had temporarily lost his way and needed a helping hand to return. I was driving home from the office rather late. I had been stalling on Halloween, letting my wife handle the trick-or-treat visitors. As I passed St. Mark’s Hospital in Salt Lake City, I remembered that a dear friend, Max, lay ill in that very hospital. As he and I had become acquainted years before, we discovered that we had grown up in the same ward, although at different times. By the time I was born, Max and his parents had moved from the ward.
That Halloween night, I drove into the parking lot and entered the hospital. As I stopped at the desk to inquire as to his room number, I was informed that when Max had registered at the hospital, he had listed as his religious preference not LDS but rather another church.
I entered Max’s room and greeted him. I told him how proud I was to be his friend and how much I cared about him. I talked about his career in banking and as an orchestra leader on the side. I discovered that he had been offended by a comment or two from others and so had decided to attend another church. I said to him, “Max, you hold the Melchizedek Priesthood. I would like to give you a blessing tonight.” He agreed, and the blessing was provided. He then informed me that his wife, Bernice, was also very ill and was, in fact, in an adjoining room. At my invitation, Max joined me in giving a blessing to her. He asked me to help him. I coached him. He anointed his wife. There were tears and embraces all around as I sealed the anointing with Max, his hands on his wife’s head with mine, making that Halloween evening one ever to be remembered.
As I left the hospital that night, I stopped at the desk and told the receptionist that with the permission of Max and his wife the record should be changed to reflect their membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I waited and I watched until it was changed.
My friends Max and Bernice are now both on the other side of the veil, but they spent the last period of their lives active and happy and receiving the blessings which come with testimonies of the gospel and attendance at church.

The class was dismissed. Boys and girls gathered their books with their usual youthful chatter. They left the seminary building singly or in groups, their eyes and interest focused on their next activity.
Alone now, I slumped rather wearily into my chair at the front of the classroom, perhaps a bit discouraged and certainly distraught. Today had been especially trying. I had played center stage in a recurring scene with Dennis.
He had challenged nearly everything I had said about the gospel. He had resurrected for reexamination some questions I thought we had put to rest in previous discussions. Several times he had skillfully forced me into a position where I had to take a stand. I had once again borne testimony to the truth of the eternal principles I was teaching and had added my own personal witness.
Now, sitting at my desk, I began to wonder if on some things I had been too firm, too dogmatic. Certainly, I had taught the Church position supported by scripture, by the Brethren, and by my own personal experience. But had I been so firm that youth could not accept? Would I lose boys like Dennis or girls like Alice who sometimes took his part?
I was prayerfully pondering this question as I began straightening my desk at the front of the classroom. John, one of the students, stopped by to collect some books he had left behind.
“How ya’ doin’,” he said.
“Fine John. How are things with you?”
“Great! I enjoyed your class last period, even if Dennis did lead us away from the lesson for a while.”
John was a little cautious as he framed his next question. “Does it bother you when he challenges what you say and takes the negative side?”
I quietly admitted that it did but that my real concern was my apparent inability to reach Dennis and convert him to a more positive attitude of faith in the Lord’s teachings.
John smiled. “I thought you felt that way,” he said. “Let me tell you something about him.”
“Dennis has many friends who are not members of the Church. He seems negative here in class, but when he gets over to high school, he becomes you! The arguments he gives in class are the arguments he gets from his friends. The answers you give him are the answers he gives back to them. He’s just storing up ammunition.”
John picked up his books and smiled a good-bye. I sat down again at my desk, smiling. Suddenly everything fell into place. When Dennis asked questions in the future, I would understand. I would be glad to help him find answers.
Then a fear swept over me. What if I had faltered? What if I had compromised? I would not have won Dennis over—I would have betrayed him and I would have betrayed the sacred trust of being his teacher.
It was the Apostle Paul who said, ““If the Trumpet Give an Uncertain Sound”, who shall prepare himself for battle?” (1 Cor. 14:28.) We don’t blast the trumpet in someone else’s ear, but neither do we indiscreetly sound its message; rather, the call should be sweet and sure and certain of sound.

Fabian is also helping with an elder’s quorum project. There is a sister in their branch whose husband died five years ago. Later she joined the Church. Her family disowned her and refused to help her and her two daughters. The branch is building them a home. Fabian helps work on the house with the elders. Sometimes the full-time missionaries and the young people in the branch also help. Fabian shovels sand to make cement, and under the direction of the elders, he helps with the building and cleaning up. He is happy when he is helping others.

When 15-year-old Jenni tells about having a prayer answered, she starts with an apology. She is sorry to admit that she hadn’t been praying regularly for almost a year. Things in her life had not been going well—not at school, not with her friends, not even at church.
One night, Jenni explains, she wanted to watch a movie. She bent down to look at the movies on the lowest bookshelf when she caught sight of a photo of her uncle who had tragically passed away not too long before. Suddenly, the weight of everything she was worried about made her want to cry. “I just knew in that instant that I had to pray,” says Jenni. She knelt where she was and prayed.
Jenni describes receiving her answer: “As soon as I was done, I had the answers to my questions. I felt that everything was all right again. Everything is going to be OK. Everything with my uncle is OK. I realized that I love school and my friends. As soon as I finished praying, I knew that I had to go to church because it is for me. It really hit me, and I felt so comfortable and so warm. I know my Heavenly Father loves me and He will help me through things.”
For Jenni, this prayer was one she had been wanting to say but somehow couldn’t. Now, even thinking about it, she gets that same feeling of comfort over again and the same assurance that her answer was from the Lord.

My young friend has some difficult challenges. They limit him in some ways, but in other ways he is extraordinary. For example, his boldness as a missionary rivals the sons of Mosiah. The simplicity of his beliefs makes his convictions incredibly firm and steady. I believe that in Scott’s mind it’s unimaginable that everyone isn’t a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and that everyone hasn’t read the Book of Mormon and doesn’t have a testimony of its truthfulness.
Let me tell you of an event in Scott’s life when he was making his first airplane flight alone to visit his brother. A neighbor who was seated nearby overheard Scott’s conversation with the person next to him:
“Hello, my name is Scott. What is yours?”
His seatmate shared his name.
“What do you do?”
“I am an engineer.”
“That’s nice. Where do you live?”
“In Las Vegas.”
“We have a temple there. Do you know where the Mormon temple is?”
“Yes. It is a beautiful building.”
“Are you a Mormon?”
“No.”
“Well, you should be. It is a great religion. Have you read the Book of Mormon?”
“No.”
“Well, you should. It’s a great book.”
I agree wholeheartedly with Scott—the Book of Mormon is a great book. The words of the Prophet Joseph Smith cited on the introduction page of the Book of Mormon have always resonated with me: “I told the brethren that the Book of Mormon was the most correct of any book on earth, and the keystone of our religion, and a man would get nearer to God by abiding by its precepts, than by any other book.”
This year in our Sunday School classes, we are studying the Book of Mormon. As we prepare and participate, may we be motivated to follow Scott’s bold example to share our love of this special scripture with others not of our faith.
A dominant theme of the Book of Mormon is expressed in the final verse of the first chapter of 1 Nephi. Nephi writes, “But behold, I, Nephi, will show unto you that the tender mercies of the Lord are over all those whom he hath chosen, because of their faith, to make them mighty even unto the power of deliverance” (1 Nephi 1:20).
I wish to speak about how the Book of Mormon, which is a tender mercy of the Lord preserved for these latter days, delivers us by teaching us in a pure and “most correct” way the doctrine of Christ.

On Christmas Eve several years ago, the Kim family, who were members of our ward, stopped by our home to give us a gift. They are from Korea, and they are incredibly talented. Sister Kim is a pianist, Brother Kim plays the flute, and each of their children play a stringed instrument. They are all accomplished musicians.

That Christmas Eve they entered our home with their instruments in tow—with the exception of Sister Kim, who used our piano. Their gift to us was a musical performance of Christmas carols in our living room. Words cannot adequately express how beautiful and heavenly it was. I have to admit that I was a little sad when they concluded their performance. Imagine my joy when the following Christmas Eve, the Kim family stopped by our home to perform again!

This time, however, when they were packing up their instruments to leave, Brother Kim informed us that they would return the following Christmas Eve to perform, but they expected us to be prepared to perform something for them. Of course we wanted them to return, so we agreed.

After they left our home, Kevin and I quickly assessed our situation. We had one year to come up with something very special that we could perform for the Kim family, and we knew that, in reality, we really needed much longer than a year! After some thought, however, Kevin and I decided that we could sing a Christmas carol for them in Korean. We chose “Silent Night” because it was one song I thought I could play on the piano while everyone else sang. Then we asked a friend who had served his mission in Korea to write out the Korean words for “Silent Night” phonetically so that we would at least have a chance of pronouncing the Korean words correctly.

When the next Christmas Eve arrived, our little choir—which consisted of our family and friends who were at our home that night—practiced the song a few times before the Kims arrived. We were as prepared as we could be for our performance. The Kims arrived, and after we had waited a whole year, it was finally time for us to perform for them.

I sat down nervously at the piano and began playing, and our choir began singing “Silent Night” in Korean. We managed to get through the first line of the song just fine. The Kims sat and listened politely. Then we made it through the second line just fine too. The Kims sat with pleasant looks on their faces. I knew that we were on the home stretch, and I was feeling pretty good about our performance. And that is when it ­happened—the part of “Silent Night” that goes “sleep in heavenly peace” (Hymns, 2002, no. 204). Well, as soon as the choir sang the word sleep, every member of the Kim family—who had been sitting there watching and listening to us very quietly, respectfully, and graciously—burst out in delightful glee. It was at that moment the Kim family realized we were singing in Korean. Evidently, prior to that moment they had had no idea what language we were attempting to sing.

There are people we know who have gifts and talents that are very obvious—like the Kim ­family—and others, like us, whose gifts and talents may not be so obvious. For example, we obviously had neither the gift of music nor the gift of tongues, but we still had the gift to appreciate the music and the talents of others.

I recall a few years ago seeing a drama enacted at the Salt Lake International Airport. On this particular day, I got off an airplane and walked into the terminal. It was immediately obvious that a missionary was coming home because the airport was full of conspicuous-looking missionary friends and missionary relatives.

I tried to pick out the immediate family members. There was a father who did not look particularly comfortable in an awkward-fitting and slightly out-of-fashion suit. He seemed to be a man of the soil, with a suntan and large, work-scarred hands.

There was a mother who was quite thin, looking as if she had worked very hard in her life. She had in her hand a handkerchief—and I think it must have been a linen handkerchief once, but now it looked like tissue paper. It was nearly shredded from the anticipation only the mother of a returning missionary could know.

Two or three younger brothers and sisters were running around, largely oblivious to the scene that was unfolding.

I found myself wondering as to who would be first to break away from the welcoming group. A look at the mother’s handkerchief convinced me that she would probably be the one.

As I sat there, I saw the returning missionary appear. I knew he was the one by the squeals of excitement from the crowd. He looked like Captain Moroni, clean and handsome and straight and tall. Undoubtedly he had known the sacrifice this mission had meant to his father and mother.

As he neared the group, sure enough, someone couldn’t wait any longer. It wasn’t the mother, and it wasn’t any of the children. It was Father. That big, slightly awkward, quiet, and bronzed giant of a man ran out and swept his son into his arms.

The missionary was probably 6?2? (188 cm) or so, but this big father grabbed him, lifted him off the ground, and held him for a long, long time. He just held him and said nothing. The boy put both arms around his dad, and they just held each other very tightly. It seemed like all eternity stood still. It was as if all the world had gone silent out of respect for such a sacred moment.

And then I thought of God the Eternal Father watching His Son go out to serve, to sacrifice when He didn’t have to do it, paying His own expenses, so to speak, costing everything He had saved all His life to give. At that precious moment, it was not too difficult to imagine that Father speaking with some emotion to those who could hear, “This is my Beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased” (Matthew 3:17). And it was also possible to imagine that triumphant returning Son saying, “It is finished” (John 19:30). “Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit” (Luke 23:46).

Even in my limited imagination, I can see that reunion in the heavens. And I pray for one like it for you and for me. I pray for reconciliation and for forgiveness, for mercy, and for the Christian growth and Christian character we must develop if we are to enjoy such a moment fully.

I stand all amazed that even for a man like me, there is a chance. If I’ve heard the “good news” correctly, there really is a chance—for me and for you and for everyone who is willing to keep hoping and to keep trying and to allow others the same privilege.

I marvel that he would descend from his throne divine
To rescue a soul so rebellious and proud as mine. …
I think of his hands pierced and bleeding to pay the debt!
Such mercy, such love, and devotion can I forget?
No, no, I will praise and adore at the mercy seat,
Until at the glorified throne I kneel at his feet. …
Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful to me!5

She met Russell Ball, president of Staines Stake, who introduced LDS Charities and the Burnley Ward elders quorum president, William Haddock to her. William and LDS Charities helped BEST receive nearly £12,000 of funding, which enabled them to deliver a further 5,000 packs across Burnley around Christmas.
William said, “In one of the meetings I had with Sam at the centre she pointed out that she was struggling to get hold of hygiene bags to house the goods that the money would buy. I suggested that we could make the bags, thereby allowing our members to be involved and serve instead of just providing a financial donation. I approached Sister Carol Cryer (our ward Relief Society president and asked what she thought). Carol worked with Chester England Stake sisters and produced over 5,000 bags. It was amazing, but exactly what we have come to expect from our amazing sisters. Whilst LDS charities provided the money, the real miracle was how our sisters (and brothers) pulled together to make the bags.”
Continued William, “Sister Cryer and her daughters made a video showing how to make the bags. She sourced the materials, which along with the video, were distributed throughout the stake. President Russell Ball initially met Samantha at a meeting, and it went from there. He got in touch with President Michael Gratton (Chorley Stake president) who in turn got in touch with me as elders quorum president in Burnley Ward. President Gratton was very keen and supportive from the outset, and Chorley Stake funded a further £1,200 to purchase the materials to make the bags.”
“When you break the pack down into products, 80,000 sanitary towels were delivered with the funds that the Church provided for us. That’s incredible.” Samantha explained.
From September 2020 to the end of January 2021 the project delivered 12,400 packs to females of Burnley.
Samantha said, “Not only did LDS Charities provide us with the products we needed to complete our Christmas response, but they also provided links to an organisation and people within it, with whom we can build a future relationship. William Haddock collaborated with Carol Cryer from Burnley who organised a far-and-wide bag-making mission. In total, between William and Carol and the congregation of Latter-day Saints, they hand-made 5,079 drawstring cotton bags. They were so beautiful and so much easier to handle when packing. Each bag was made with care, knowing that they would be helping make someone’s life a little bit better; as a community you cannot put a value on that.”
She continued, “We will be forever grateful to Russell, William and Carol who helped us every step of the way. If Latter-day Saints ever need help from us, that connection is available to return the help. We just wanted to say thank you.”

In October 2008, as I was listening to the broadcast of the priesthood session of general conference, President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, began speaking about serving in the Church. He related a story about how he and some other brethren had tried to move a heavy piano. When all efforts failed, one man urged them to simply stand close together and “lift where you stand.”1
President Uchtdorf went on to talk about serving in the Church wherever you are called to serve. Some people feel they could serve better if only they were called to do something befitting their considerable talents. He said, “No calling is beneath us. Every calling provides an opportunity to serve and to grow.”2
As President Uchtdorf spoke, my mind drifted to a time I met an unassuming member of the Church who was willing to lift wherever he was standing.
In 1985, I was stationed as a U.S. Army officer in a small town in Germany. I had served a mission in Germany 10 years previously. Upon arriving in 1983 as a soldier with my wife, Debra, and two young daughters, we began attending a serviceman’s branch of about 100 members strong. After two years, we decided to immerse ourselves fully into the German culture and began attending the small Bad Kreuznach Branch, which had about 12 members.
About the second week after we began attending, we noticed a new man there. He was in his mid-40s, and we learned that he was the high councilor assigned to our branch. He wasn’t there to conduct stake business, just to visit. We spoke for some time after church, and when we said goodbye, I figured we would next see him again in perhaps six months.
The next week, the high councilor was there again. I learned he lived about an hour away from our small town. During the remainder of his calling as a high councilor, he came to our branch two or three times a month. He was friendly, low-keyed, and encouraging. He always spoke with each member of the branch. And, with a branch that small, he was often asked to speak from the pulpit. Impressed with his dedication, in my mind I nicknamed him “the Faithful High Councilor.”
One Sunday he came to the branch services in the morning and then returned at 6:00 p.m. to attend a baptism. In between, he had gone to another branch. I have to admit that the thought actually crossed my mind, “What did he do to upset the stake president? Why else would he have been assigned to the smallest and most remote branch in the stake?” Maybe he wasn’t really the intelligent, humble, and likeable man I thought him to be. Maybe he didn’t like his home ward and used this assignment to get away. I couldn’t figure it out, so I just accepted it.
Several weeks after this baptism, I returned home after midnight on a Sunday morning. I had been training near the border between East and West Germany, and it had taken me three and a half hours to get home. I was exhausted when I walked in the door. My wife, Debra, was still up. She told me that “the Faithful High Councilor” had called. He wanted to meet with me. I asked, “Before or after church?” Church started at 10:00 a.m. I was hoping it was after church so I could sleep until 8:30.
“Before,” she said.
“9:30?”
“No. He has to go somewhere else on stake business. He wants you to meet him at his office in Frankfurt. He said to go to Gate 5.”
“What time?” I asked.
“Six,” she responded.
Now I was upset. It was already 12:30 a.m. In order to make the appointment at 6:00, I would have to get up at 4:30. That meant less than four hours of sleep. What was I going to do? I didn’t even have a phone number to call him the next morning to tell him I wouldn’t be meeting him. I dropped my clothes next to the bed and lay down without setting the alarm clock. As I lay there, these thoughts went through my mind:
If I didn’t meet “the Faithful High Councilor,” what would happen? If I didn’t show up at his office, I was sure he would make productive use of his time. The next time I spoke to him and explained why I hadn’t met him, he would respond, “Of course you made the right decision. I would never have asked you to come if I had known you were getting home so late. We can take care of that business now.” And besides, I wasn’t really a member of the branch. Sure, our records were there and we attended every week, but we were foreigners, spoke some pretty atrocious German, and would be moving in five or six months.
My conscience was almost clear. A few more minutes and I could drift off to sleep. Then I remembered the nickname I had given him and all the times “the Faithful High Councilor” had come to the branch since we had been attending. He came to that baptism late on a Sunday night. He came to a branch activity in the middle of the week. He always spoke to all the members and encouraged and inspired them. He never seemed judgmental or indifferent. He was respectful of the branch president and of his efforts. If he was disappointed in being assigned to this little branch, he certainly never showed it.
I got up and walked over to the dresser where my alarm clock sat. I set the alarm for 4:30 a.m. In deciding to meet “the Faithful High Councilor,” I was not concerned about what he would say or think if I did not. After all, I would probably never see or hear of him again after we moved. I decided to get up in less than four hours and drive 50 miles (80 km) to his office because I truly respected him for what he was, “the Faithful High Councilor.” I decided to follow his example.
I pulled my car up to Gate 5 at 6:00 a.m. that Sunday morning to be greeted by a security guard with a machine gun. He eyed my American Armed Forces license plate. He may have wondered if I was lost. Had “the Faithful High Councilor” decided not to show up? Not more than two minutes later, though, his car pulled up next to mine. He said, “Good morning, Don. Let’s go into my office.” The guard opened the gate and let us pass.
After some small talk and showing me around his office building, he came to the point of the meeting. He said he was calling me to serve as the councilor to the branch president. Not the first or second counselor—the only counselor. Before my arrival, there had been only two priesthood holders in the branch, and they had traded off every few years between being branch president and elders quorum president.
I accepted the call and served until I left three months later to attend a two-month training in the United States.
During my absence, my wife and young son both became ill. His medical issues took him to a hospital about 60 miles (97 km) from our base. Being a strong army wife, Debra never complained or asked me to return to Germany. In fact, I didn’t learn of the true nature of her illness until after I got home. After one visit to the local clinic, the doctor had driven her home because he didn’t think she was well enough to drive herself. The branch president and Relief Society president both offered to help, but she politely refused. In addition to language and cultural difficulties, Debra didn’t want to put anyone out.
One day “the Faithful High Councilor” called her. He had recently been called to be the stake president. He gently inquired about her health and refused to take “I’m doing all right” for an answer. Every assurance from Debra was met with a gentle but effective inquiry into the actual condition of the family. Finally he explained, “Debra, you need to let the branch help you. They really want to help, and it will bring the branch closer together to be able to assist you.” She gratefully accepted their assistance.
Upon my return from the United States, we stayed in the branch for another two months before finally moving to a larger city.
My memories of that time in my life faded as I leaned forward in my seat and refocused my attention on President Uchtdorf’s voice coming over the speaker system. I was truly impressed by the implications of his message. Unlike other times when I’ve wondered about the correlation between a speaker’s words and the speaker’s personal actions (in business, in the military, and, yes, even some talks I have heard in church), I had no doubt about President Uchtdorf‘s message. It wasn’t just the fact that President Uchtdorf’s accent reminded me of Germany and my experience with “the Faithful High Councilor.” It was the fact that President Uchtdorf was “the Faithful High Councilor.” The industrial complex we met at that early Sunday morning was the Frankfurt International Airport, where he was Chief Pilot for Lufthansa German Airlines.
I can honestly say I have never known a man more humble and more faithful in practicing what he preached. I was grateful to have learned a valuable lesson of what it means to “lift where you stand.”

In his landmark address on this topic, President Jeffrey R. Holland, speaking of mental or emotional challenges, said that “these afflictions are some of the realities of mortal life, and there should be no more shame in acknowledging them than in acknowledging a battle with high blood pressure or the sudden appearance of a malignant tumor.” [1]
Let that truth settle into your heart. There is no shame in this struggle. None.
Your suffering does not disqualify you from God’s love or from belonging in this community.
So, I’m going to ask you to do something brave right now. If you or someone you know or love has suffered with depression or any other mental illness, would you please stand?
Look around. If there are days when you feel alone in your struggle, remember this moment. You are not alone. Everybody has a story.
After my own painful experience, I started sharing what had happened to me, and soon realized that many people were walking a similar road—quietly, and often alone. I felt that needed to change. So, I spent the next three years interviewing members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints who suffered with mental illness—students, moms and dads, church leaders, and professionals all over the country. I collected hundreds of their stories and I’d like to share three themes that emerged: The crushing weight of stigma, the danger of toxic perfectionism and how mental health challenges can affect our ability to feel the Spirit.

On the day the Indianapolis sailed toward Leyte, I enlisted in the United States Navy. At the Naval Training Station near San Diego, California, I endured the extreme discipline of boot camp and the intense training for combat.
At last our first liberty came, and we were advised that all those who could swim could now take the navy bus to San Diego, while those sailors who could not were to remain for swimming training. How pleased I was that I could swim and had done so for many years. Then came an unexpected order. We who answered that we could swim were marched away—not to the waiting bus, but rather to the base swimming pool. We assembled at the pool’s deep end, were told to undress, and then were commanded to jump in one at a time and swim the length of the pool. Most accomplished the feat with little effort and anticipated eagerly the bus ride to San Diego. But there were men who had been untruthful, who had answered they could swim when in reality they could not. For them, the petty officers waited until they were about to go under the water for the second or third time before proffering a bamboo pole to tow them to safety. The lesson learned? Tell the truth. It could ultimately save your life if you were in harm’s way.

Ryan threw open the front door. “Mom,” he shouted, racing down the hall to the study, “I struck out three men at practice today, and one of the guys walked home with me.”
Mother looked up and smiled into the brown eyes glowing with enthusiasm. “I knew it wouldn’t take you long to make a friend,” she said. “And if you keep on pitching like that, you’ll soon be the star of the team.”
Ryan grinned, tugging at a strand of hair that had escaped his cap.
“By the way, I made some friends today, too,” Mother continued. “Go wash up. You can help me put a pizza together for dinner while I tell you about them.”
Ryan joined his mother in the kitchen a few moments later and started rolling out a ball of dough.
“While you were at practice, a neighbor, Sister Krein, and her eleven-year-old son, Joey, came to visit me,” Mother said. “They brought us some honey wheat rolls fresh out of the oven.”
“All right!”
“You see—there are advantages to being the new family in town.” Mother paused to enjoy Ryan’s smile before she went on. “After visiting with them, I agreed to let Joey stay with us during the day this summer when Sister Krein can’t be home with him.”
“But you said that he’s eleven! Can’t he stay by himself?”
“No—you see, he was born with Down’s syndrome.”
“You mean he has a mental handicap?”
“Yes. He does some things quite well, but he has to have help doing other things, and he can’t be left alone for very long. He needs more supervision than other children his age.”
“Well, I guess it will be OK,” agreed Ryan, “as long as I don’t have to miss playing baseball with the guys.”
Mother popped the pizza into the oven and set the timer. “I’m sure Joey won’t keep you from ball practice. He loves sports, too, and plays on one of the city teams himself.”
When Ryan answered the door the next morning, Joey was standing on the porch with a baseball cap on his head, a glove on his hand, and a big smile on his face. “Hi,” he said enthusiastically. “I’m Joey.”
“Hi, I’m Ryan. Come on in.”
“Do you want to play ball?” Joey asked, smacking his fist into his glove.
Ryan laughed. “You love baseball as much as I do, don’t you?” he said, picking up a bat and glove. He and Joey headed for the backyard.
“Can I bat?” asked Joey.
“Sure,” said Ryan, “but I think you’ll do better if you hold it a little higher.” He shifted the bat in Joey’s hands, then positioned himself near the back fence. “Swing straight into it,” he called, and made a gentle pitch.
“I can’t believe how patient Joey is,” Ryan told his mother a few days later. “I’ve never seen anyone who keeps trying the way he does.”
Mother smiled. “Joey never seems to want to quit playing, once you two get started. It’s a good thing you both like baseball.”
The boys played together every minute they could spare from practicing with their own teams. Then one afternoon they both realized that Joey was hitting the ball almost every time. “I hit it again!” he shouted, jumping up and down with glee as Ryan thumped him on the back.
He was even more excited the next day. “My team is going to play your team,” he announced.
Ryan pulled his schedule out of his desk drawer, and both boys bent over it.
“See,” said Joey, pointing. “Thursday. Pitch slow, Ryan. I want to get a hit. Please, Ryan, pitch slow—like when we practice.”
What should I do? Ryan wondered to himself after Joey had gone home. I want Joey to get a hit, but I want to help my team win the game too. What will they think of me if I don’t do my best pitching?
Ryan’s anxiety increased as the day of the game approached, but Joey grew more and more excited. “Pitch slow so I can get a hit,” he told Ryan over and over again.
Thursday arrived. Ryan had already struck out two boys and gotten six others on easy ground balls or pop flies, when Joey picked up the bat and ran over to home plate. Ryan glanced at his teammates. He knew they expected Joey to be an easy out.
Ryan was suddenly very hot, and not just from the blistering sun overhead. Pulling off his cap, he took his time wiping the sweat from his forehead. Then he smiled at Joey, wound up, and pitched a slow ball with great care over the plate. Crack! Joey’s bat connected solidly, but Joey was just standing there, exulting.
“Run, Joey, run!” Ryan looked around in wonder as he heard his own teammates take up the cry.
By the time Joey’s foot landed on first base, the whole ballpark was alive with cheering. Joey’s freckled face beamed as players from both teams pelted his back with pats of approval. Ryan thought he had never seen a bigger smile than Joey’s.
Ryan smiled, too, as he thought, There’s more than one way to win!

The morning after I returned home to Ghana from my mission in the Ivory Coast, I woke up at 6:00 a.m. My appointment with the stake president to have him release me was not until the afternoon, so I decided to sleep in. While I was falling asleep, an impression flashed through my mind: “Go to the Cape Coast mission home.” I knew the Ghana Cape Coast Mission home, but I had no idea why I needed to go there that morning.

After having these thoughts, I began to feel anxious about the impression, so I headed to the mission home. On my way I worried about what I would say to the mission president. I knew he would ask me the purpose of my visit, so I tried to prepare a suitable answer.

When I arrived, I still did not know the answer. The mission president, Melvin B. Sabey, invited me into his office, thinking that I came there for him to release me. After asking a few questions, President Sabey told me to go to my stake president to be released.

“I know that, President,” I replied.

He paused for some seconds and then asked me the very question I had been striving to answer: “Why are you here this morning, Elder Mobio?”

“President Sabey, I don’t have a suitable answer to that question,” I said. “It’s just that this morning I had a strong impression to come here.”

He paused again for a moment and told me softly, “Elder Mobio, your presence here is the assistance I prayed for yesterday.” He explained that his assistants had just arrived with new missionaries. Among them was an Ivorian, the first French-speaking missionary he had ever received, and he didn’t know how he was going to communicate with him. Then he declared, “I am certain Heavenly Father heard my concern yesterday night.”

I had finally learned the reason for my morning impression. We immediately joined the new missionaries, and I interpreted for the Ivorian elder as he started his mission.

Seven months later I traveled back to the Ivory Coast to renew my passport and to share that wonderful experience with my mission president. He told me, “We are instruments in the Lord’s hands. He knows how and when to use us in His work.”

“Go away! Go away!” Little Wolf shouted, looking back and racing over the carpet of pine needles as fast as his legs would carry him.
But the small bear cub kept making lonely little grunts as it followed him. The cub had lost its mother and was willing to accept anyone as a substitute—even a frightened Indian boy!
Little Wolf had been picking berries for his mother when he peeked through the bushes and saw the small bear standing awkwardly on its hind legs, stretching to nibble off the juicy berries that hung in clusters all along the branches.
The boy had stood quietly, grinning with delight as he watched the clumsiness of the small grizzly. He would have liked to pet him, but Little Wolf’s father, Chief Otoe, had taught him that it was very dangerous to bother the young of any wild animal.
There was nothing sweet and cuddly about a mother grizzly, especially if she felt one of her cubs was in danger. Certain that the cub’s mother would not be far away, Little Wolf had begun to slip backwards through the brush, away from the little bear. But he wasn’t able to glide silently through the forest as the braves could, and suddenly a small dry twig cracked like a whip under his moccasin.
The cub had seen the boy and eagerly loped toward him. All Little Wolf could think of was the cub’s mother. “Go away! Go back to your mother!” he kept shouting, as he ran toward his village.
Looking backward over his shoulder, the boy failed to see a big log lying in his path. He tripped over it and sailed through the air, then fell face down in the pine needles.
“My mother has always said they should have named me Clumsy Wolf,” Little Wolf grunted. “And she is right.” Sitting up, he tried to straighten the broken feather in his headband, which had flown off when he fell.
The cub caught up with the frightened boy. It pounced on him and pawed playfully at Little Wolf’s drawn-up knees; then it began to lap at his bare chest and nuzzle his chin. What would the braves think if they saw the Chief’s son being kissed by a bear!
Climbing over the logs, Little Wolf threw some sticks at the cub and limped into a clearing that surrounded a small cluster of tepees on the bank of a clear and sparkling brook.
No one laughed at the sight of the dusty, tired boy jogging into the village with a grizzly close behind. They were all afraid that an enraged bear might be close behind the pair. The mothers hurried small children inside the tepees. Several of the braves put arrows in their bows and stood waiting.
“I should have run the other way—away from the village,” Little Wolf panted. Now he had put everyone in danger! He always seemed to do everything wrong. Would he ever learn to be a real brave? Suddenly he snatched up the cub and, ignoring his mother’s cries, raced back into the forest as fast as he could go. If I can find the mother bear, he thought, I can return her cub. Then our village will be safe!
“Being little has some advantages,” he mumbled, beginning to tire. The little bear was heavy and kept turning its head to lap at Little Wolf’s chin, as if they were playing a game! The boy slowed and began to walk carefully when he approached the berry patch. Putting the cub down, he shoved it toward a branch hanging heavy with purple fruit. He sighed with relief as the little bear gave a grunt of pleasure and began eating. Now Little Wolf could sneak off.
A loud, sniffling grunt from the other side of the bushes made Little Wolf stiffen in sudden panic. Luckily he was close to a tall tree. There were no low branches he could leap to and grab, but climbing trees was one thing Little Wolf did well. Wrapping his arms and legs around the slender trunk, he shinnied his way up and into the thick foliage just as the mother bear appeared, accompanied by another cub.
Circling the cub, she sniffed suspiciously. Her eyes told her this was her cub, but her nose warned her that something was wrong. The cub smelled of man.
Breathlessly Little Wolf watched, his heart hammering in his throat. If the bear caught his scent and climbed the slender tree, it would snap under her weight, or bend until his hiding place hit the ground. Then he would have to leap out and run. He had seen bears run, and he knew that he would have little chance of making it to safety. Despite their lumbering walk, bears could run like the wind!
His father had taught him that the only way to escape a running bear was to go downhill. Because of their short front legs, they had to go slowly or they would become overbalanced and roll down the hill.
The little cub kept trying to approach his mother, but her fierce grunts kept him back. Bewildered, he stood quietly staring at her as she circled him warily, sniffling the ground. “Oh, no!” Little Wolf gasped as she came directly to his tree. Standing on her hind legs, she began to throw her massive head from side to side as she made angry sounds.
Little Wolf felt sick as he clung to the swaying branches and stared down at the huge teeth waiting for him. Seeing that she couldn’t dislodge him, the bear began slashing at the tree trunk with her claws. Tree bark flew in all directions as she tore at it. The boy knew that when the bear saw she could not knock the tree over, she would begin to climb.
Little Wolf had never heard a more welcome sound than the drumming of a tom-tom and the shouts of men who were running through the forest toward his hiding place. The shouting braves were led by his father, Chief Otoe. They had come to rescue him!
Concern for her cubs overruled the grizzly’s rage. Turning, she lumbered off, leading them away from the shouts.
“You were willing to sacrifice yourself for the tribe,” Chief Otoe said to his small son as they walked back toward the village. “It was a very brave thing to do, Gray Wolf.”
Little Wolf glowed with pride. His father had called him Gray Wolf, not Little Wolf. It was his first big step toward manhood!