Gospel Story Finder

Dylan watched Mom pack her suitcase for her vacation with Dad.
“Tomorrow’s the big day,” she said. “I bet you can’t wait for all the fun things you get to do with Grandma and Grandpa!”
Dylan gave a little laugh. “Yup!” Mom and Dad had been planning their trip for a long time, and he knew they were really excited.
But why did he feel so nervous?
Dylan walked to his bedroom down the hall.
“What’s going on?” he said to his empty room. “Why do I feel like this?” He flopped down on his bed to think. He remembered when he’d first heard about Mom and Dad’s trip. He’d been a little disappointed that he wasn’t going with them.
But then he found out he’d be staying with Grandma and Grandpa. He loved their house! There was the huge old tree in their backyard. Perfect for climbing. There was a closet of games that they loved playing with him. Not to mention Grandma’s famous cookies!
But for some reason, Dylan wasn’t excited anymore. He couldn’t stop picturing the moment when his parents would drive away. They would be so far away for an entire week! What if he wanted to talk with them but they couldn’t answer the phone? What if they forgot about him? He’d never been away from them this long before.
Dylan decided it was time to pray. He slid off his bed onto his knees. He told Heavenly Father all the things he was worried about. “Please help me to feel happy about the trip and to stop feeling so scared,” he prayed.
He felt a little better as he climbed back into bed. He knew Heavenly Father had heard his prayer, but how would He help? Did Heavenly Father even understand what it was like to feel homesick? Then Dylan thought about how Heavenly Father sent all His children to earth. It must be hard to send them away for so long—and so far away too. Maybe Heavenly Father did understand. Maybe Heavenly Father missed him!
Dylan started to feel warm inside. The Holy Ghost was telling him that Heavenly Father loved him very much. He thought about Grandpa and Grandma. He imagined the big hugs they’d give him. That made him smile. He kept imagining those hugs as he fell asleep.
The next morning Dylan felt a little better when he woke up. Something smelled good in the kitchen. Sure enough, Dad had cooked a huge stack of pancakes!
“Those look yummy,” Dylan said.
“Hey, Grandma and Grandpa aren’t the only ones who can make an amazing breakfast!” Dad said with a laugh.
Dylan grinned. He’d almost forgotten about Grandpa’s smiley-faced chocolate-chip pancakes. He didn’t say it out loud, but Dylan liked those pancakes even better than Dad’s. He couldn’t wait to have them again.
The rest of the morning zoomed by. Dylan helped carry the suitcases out to the car. He put on his backpack and double-checked that he had his favorite books.
Pretty soon they were pulling up to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Grandma waved from the front porch.
“Dylan!” Grandpa called out from the doorway.
Dylan jumped out of the car and ran to them. Grandma and Grandpa gave him the biggest, longest hug in the universe. Thank you, Heavenly Father, he prayed silently. Thank you for helping me not feel so afraid. Maybe a week wouldn’t be too long after all.

When Rebecca, 17, sits down to play the piano, she isn’t alone for long. Pretty soon her brother Michael, 19, joins in on the guitar or saxophone. And younger sister and brother, Alesha, 14, and Logan, 10, might sing or dance.

For the Raymond Maire family in Silverdale, New Zealand, music is something that brings a special harmony to their home. And it is a connection they have with their aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents.

“I play six instruments,” said Michael. “I like to jam with my friends. I listen to a lot of old jazz.”

“We all play something,” said Rebecca.

The Maires get their musical ability from their grandfather. Their mom, Raewyn, explains, “Michael learned the guitar first from his grandad. He spent a lot of time with Michael and helped him understand the basics of music. Once he picked that up everything else was easy.”

Family, including their extended family, is very important to the Maires. Michael explains, “We are lucky because pretty much our whole extended family is just around the corner. Our grandparents are just down the road.”

“My best friends are my cousins,” said Rebecca. “We are so close that when we see each other, even if it is just the next day, it’s a really joyful reunion. We all support each other through everything we’ve had to go through. It’s a neat feeling.”

One of the things that brothers and sisters and cousins can support each other in is their commitment to living the gospel. “The word gets around that we won’t do certain things,” said Rebecca. “We don’t realize that people watch us all the time until someone says, ‘You’re a Mormon, aren’t you?’ Or they say, ‘I saw some missionaries from your church. Is that what your brother is going to be?’”

When Michael is serving, he’ll know that there are a lot of folks at home supporting him. And maybe Grandpa will be teaching yet another grandchild about music.

That principle is illustrated by the story of a little girl. She was upset with her brother, who built a trap to catch sparrows.
Unable to get help, she said to herself, “Well, I’ll pray about it.”
After her prayer, the little girl told her mother, “I know he is not going to catch any sparrows in his trap because I prayed about it. I’m positive he won’t catch any sparrows!”
Her mother said, “How can you be so sure?”
She said, “After I prayed about it, I went out and kicked that old trap all to pieces!”

Jesus taught us to love and help each other. One way to do this is by being a good friend. This is something that Carmen does well.
However, Carmen isn’t a normal friend. She is a goat. And she isn’t just a normal goat. Her ears are long and fluffy like other goats, she eats plants like other goats, and she baas like other goats. But unlike other goats, Carmen has a special gift.
When Carmen was born, she was unable to stand or walk. To help Carmen, her owners made her a special walker. She could lie on it with her legs hanging over it and her hooves on the floor to scoot herself around.
Soon Carmen started using her walker to go on walks with her owners. This is when her owners discovered Carmen’s talent for being a friend. One of Carmen’s first friends was a little boy who was afraid to talk. When he met Carmen, he smiled at her and said, “Hello, goat. I like you.” Carmen replied with a “Baa!” This made the little boy smile.
Carmen made other friends on her walks, and soon her owners realized she had a gift for making people happy. They took her to classes where she learned how to be an animal therapist. Carmen and her owners started visiting children in hospitals and people in nursing homes. Carmen helped people feel happier and less lonely. She helped people smile and made lots of new friends.
Carmen isn’t strong enough to walk on her own, but she has an important job to do—and that is to be a friend.

Living in Pennsylvania puts Andrew’s family close to many of the Church history sites. A few years ago, the family visited the Palmyra New York Temple. While there, the family also visited the Sacred Grove. Andrew says, “I remember walking around and looking at the trees. I wondered where Joseph was praying when he saw Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.” His family has also visited the Nauvoo area where he saw Carthage Jail and learned about how the Prophet Joseph was martyred. “It was sad,” he says softly.

Before I became president of the Church, I was assigned as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles to visit some of the countries of South America for various gatherings with the Saints. We were received well by the countries, by their officials, and by the press.
I was interested in a comment made by a representative of one of the largest papers in Brazil. She had heard my sermon the day before, on Sunday, in which I had spoken rather strongly about the restoration of the gospel. She asked me why Christ was crucified.
I answered: “Because he said, ‘I am the Son of God.’”
And her next remark shocked me: “He should not have said it, should he? He really was not, was he?”
I thought she was joking. I looked into her eyes for a moment and thought she was going to smile. But she did not. And I said firmly: “He said he was the Son of God because he was the Son of God.”
Later I read an article in the Easter paper of one of the largest cities in South America. The author was a minister with letters after his name. I read the entire article and in the half a page given front page notice, he never mentioned the Lord of heaven and earth, the Redeemer, the Savior. He always spoke of “Jesus.” He quoted two or three scriptures which mentioned Jesus of Nazareth as being more than the carpenter’s son, but never in his writing did he ever give any other title to the Christ who shed his precious blood for him.
During the same trip, I asked 400 missionaries gathered in a meeting, “What think ye of Christ and the claims that are made?” And I heard 400 inspiring testimonies from youth—sure testimonies, ringing with conviction.
I am reminded of what Paul said: “And I, brethren, when I came to you, came not with excellency of speech or of wisdom, declaring unto you the testimony of God.
“For I determined not to know anything among you, save Jesus Christ, and him crucified” (1 Cor. 2:1–2).
I could not see how we could really celebrate an Easter without discussing the Lord Jesus Christ. Why even the devils know that Jesus is the Christ. On one occasion the devils came crying out and saying, “Thou art Christ the Son of God. And he rebuking them suffered them not to speak: for they knew that he was Christ” (Luke 4:41). On another occasion “the evil spirit answered and said, Jesus I know, and Paul I know; but who are ye?” (Acts 19:15). And another time, “they cried out saying, What have we to do with thee, Jesus, thou Son of God? art thou come hither to torment us before the time?” (Matt. 8:29).
I believe that there was a considerable conviction in the heart of Pilate, who was constrained by his conscience to let the Savior go free, but because of political ambitions and other reasons, in spite of his wife’s importuning, he delivered him to be crucified. But even after that, he wrote on the cross in three languages—Hebrew, Greek, and Latin—this famous statement: “Jesus of Nazareth the King of the Jews.” The Jews, offended, came and said:
“Write not, The King of the Jews; but that he said, I am King of the Jews.
“Pilate answered, What I have written I have written” (see John 19:19–22).
You have read of Nathanael, the man without guile, who said, as he saw the Christ: “Rabbi, thou art the Son of God; thou art the King of Israel” (John 1:49).
Paul had hardly made his transformation, had just barely received back his sight from his unusual experience when he went straightway into the synagogues and preached Christ, “that he is the Son of God.”
Why will the divines of the day purposely avoid the names of the Deity whom they would choose to call only Jesus? There are tens of thousands of Jesuses in the world. In all the Spanish-speaking countries you find them on every hand. They pronounce it Ha-sús, but it is Jesus. But there was only one Jesus who became the Prince of Light, the Author of our salvation.
Joseph Smith said: “I had actually seen a light, and in the midst of that light I saw two Personages, and they did in reality speak to me; and though I was hated and persecuted for saying that I had seen a vision, yet it was true; and while they were persecuting me, reviling me, and speaking all manner of evil against me falsely for so saying, I was led to say in my heart: Why persecute me for telling the truth? I have actually seen a vision; and who am I that I can withstand God, or why does the world think to make me deny what I have actually seen? For I had seen a vision; I knew it, and I knew that God knew it, and I could not deny it, neither dared I do it; at least I knew that by so doing I would offend God, and come under condemnation” (JS—H 1:25).
You remember what Peter said when the disciples were asked, “Whom do men say that I the Son of man am?” They spoke up and said men thought him to be Elias or one of the other prophets, and then the Lord said again, and I can imagine his piercing eyes, wondering and expectant eyes, “But whom say ye that I am?” And the answer was one of the most stirring and glorious of all statements made, “Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.” And the next statement must never be overlooked: “Flesh and blood hath not revealed it unto thee, but my Father which is in heaven” (see Matt. 16:13–17). In other words, man has not told you this, but my Father has revealed it unto thee; a great revelation has come unto thee, and thou knowest it.
I asked 400 missionaries the Lord’s question which faces every man, woman, and child on this earth: “Whom do ye say that I the Son of man am?” And I was gratified at the hundreds of replies saying “Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.”
And that is my testimony to you, that Jesus is indeed the Christ, the living Son of the living God.

As a teenager I attended family home evening reluctantly. I thought I had better things to do.
One Monday night, after a few difficult FHEs, my mother wiped off the kitchen table and placed a small cherry pie in front of each of us. I eagerly looked around for forks—but there were none! Mom explained that we were having a pie-eating contest, but we could not use utensils or our hands. The winner got bragging rights.
We ate as fast as we could. Soon we had cherry pie covering the table, all over our faces, and even in our hair. I don’t remember who won, but I do remember laughing uncontrollably and truly enjoying my family. I didn’t realize it fully that night, but now I appreciate how nice it was to have a safe and loving place to call home and to have people who watched out for me.
I am sure we had a song and a lesson that night, and that it took my mother a lot of time to prepare and clean up. But I am grateful for an activity that taught a message about the importance of families that I needed—then and ever since.
Heather Mockler Teuscher, California, USA

Whitman wrote: “The ice storm [that winter] wasn’t generally destructive. True, a few wires came down, and there was a sudden jump in accidents along the highway. … Normally, the big walnut tree could easily have borne the weight that formed on its spreading limbs. It was the iron wedge in its heart that caused the damage.

“The story of the iron wedge began years ago when the white-haired farmer [who now inhabited the property on which it stood] was a lad on his father’s homestead. The sawmill had then only recently been moved from the valley, and the settlers were still finding tools and odd pieces of equipment scattered about. …

“On this particular day, it was a faller’s wedge—wide, flat, and heavy, a foot or more long, and splayed from mighty poundings,” which the lad found in the south pasture. A faller’s wedge, used to help fell a tree, is inserted in a cut made by a saw and then struck with a sledge hammer to widen the cut.

“Because he was already late for dinner, the lad laid the wedge … between the limbs of the young walnut tree his father had planted near the front gate. He would take the wedge to the shed right after dinner, or sometime when he was going that way.

“He truly meant to, but he never did. [The wedge] was there between the limbs, a little tight, when he attained his manhood. It was there, now firmly gripped, when he married and took over his father’s farm. It was half grown over on the day the threshing crew ate dinner under the tree. … Grown in and healed over, the wedge was still in the tree the winter the ice storm came.

“In the chill silence of that wintry night, … one of the three major limbs split away from the trunk and crashed to the ground. This so unbalanced the remainder of the top that it, too, split apart and went down. When the storm was over, not a twig of the once-proud tree remained.

“Early the next morning, the farmer went out to mourn his loss. …

“Then, his eyes caught sight of something in the splintered ruin. ‘The wedge,’ he muttered reproachfully. ‘The wedge I found in the south pasture.’ A glance told him why the tree had fallen. Growing, edge-up in the trunk, the wedge had prevented the limb fibers from knitting together as they should.”

On Easter weekend in 2004, when I lived in Utah, a very special person in my ward passed away. It was Sister Marjorie Hinckley, President Hinckley’s wife. My mom was asked to make a dessert to take to the family dinner after the funeral. We decided to make my two favorite cookie recipes. I wanted to help my mom make the cookies, so we worked hard. While we were making them, I had a wonderful, warm, happy feeling inside. It was the Spirit letting me know that what I was doing was right. My mom and I talked about how Jesus taught that when we serve others, we are really serving God.
The next morning we put all the cookies on a platter to take to the dinner. I put on my white shirt and tie to deliver the cookies. I hope they helped make the Hinckley family feel better.

My blood was boiling. These people clearly know nothing on this topic, I thought, peering down at the virtual shouting match playing out on my smartphone’s Twitter feed. I quickly crafted a perfect response to join the throng—certain that everyone would see how uninformed their opinions were when my tweet pointed out their ignorance. I was about to press send, thought clouds of contempt churning, when a still, small voice managed to pop into my head:
Would Christ say that?
My thumb paused, hovering over the “Tweet” button. My stomach sank.
No. No, He wouldn’t.
Then why would you?
I sighed, took a few deep breaths, and deleted the tweet. I felt awful. What had just come over me?

Not only do we lose the Spirit when choosing anger, but we lose the ability to see situations clearly. We can even lose the ability to act with reason. “[Intemperate anger] destroys wisdom and sound judgment. When we become upset, reason is suppressed, and anger rushes in. To make decisions while infuriated is as unwise and foolish as it is for a captain to put out to sea in a raging storm. Only injury and wreckage result from wrathful moments.”2 Just as I was on the verge of sending a tweet I wasn’t proud of, we can lose sight of who we truly are and who we’re trying to be when angry. It can become a vicious cycle if it isn’t curbed.

I’m so thankful for the whisperings of the Holy Ghost not to send my angry tweet that day. It may seem like an inconsequential example of restraint, but it taught me a lesson that I’ll never forget.

Let me share one of our family secrets, found in this family photo taken some years ago, before the advent of social media. Were this taken today, it likely would be posted, presenting a family of four lovely, color-coordinated, well-behaved boys enjoying a harmonious family photo opportunity together. Would you like the real story?

I still remember the phone call from my wife. “Gary, where are you? We’re here at the photographer’s outdoor studio. We’re all ready to shoot. It hasn’t been easy getting the boys all dressed, coordinated, and ready. Are you nearly here?”

Well, I had forgotten and hadn’t left the office yet! I was half an hour late, and things had not gone so well in my absence, bordering on chaos.

What had happened? Well, my oldest son had been running through the yard and had found an apple tree, picked some apples, and begun throwing them at the other boys. He hit our third son in the back with an apple and made him fall down, and so he started to cry.

Meanwhile, as that was happening, my second son sat down and his pants went up a little bit. The other kids saw that his socks were white athletic socks, not the church socks his mother had laid out for him to wear. She asked him, “Why didn’t you wear your church socks?”

He said, “Well, I don’t like them. They’re scratchy.”

And while she’s talking to him, our two-year-old son was running through the yard, tripped on something, fell down, and bloodied his nose. Now there is blood dripping onto his white turtleneck shirt, and it’s stained. This is when I showed up. The only way to salvage the picture was to reverse the turtleneck and put it on backward, hiding the blood stains from the camera.

As it turns out, while our oldest son was running around and throwing apples, he fell down and got a large grass stain on his knee. So, in the picture, his arm is strategically placed, covering up the grass stains.

As for our third son, we had to wait for 20 minutes so his eyes were no longer red from crying.

And, of course, the bloodstains are now on the back of our youngest son’s shirt.

Now, our second son has his hands placed strategically over the top of his white athletic socks so that everything matches.

As for me, I am now in the “doghouse” because it was my late arrival that was the trigger for all of this.

So, when you see this beautiful picture of our family and lament, “Why can’t we get things together and be a picture-perfect family like theirs?” you all know better!

In closing may I share one of the family practices that has produced joy and memories in our family. It is a tradition that has tied us together as a nuclear and an extended family.

When our oldest children were ready to begin formal schooling, Sister Bateman and I decided that a father’s blessing would be given each to child and to the mother at the beginning of the school year. The family home evening preceding the start of school would be the occasion. We began the practice when Michael, our oldest son, turned five and was about to enter kindergarten. The practice continues to this day, although there is only one son at home. He is a student at BYU. When all the children were home, eight blessings were given on that special Monday evening.

The year Michael was about to enter the third grade holds special memories for us. During the summer he had participated in Little League baseball. He was a backup catcher and an outfielder on his team. For his age he had some athletic ability and was a good player. At the time he loved baseball. When we gathered together for family home evening just before the start of school, Michael announced to the family that he was too old for a father’s blessing. After all, he had completed his first season in Little League, he had played well, and blessings were for younger children.

Marilyn and I were stunned at first. We encouraged him by suggesting that a blessing would help him with his schoolwork. It would provide him with protection. It would help him in his relationships with his brothers, sisters, parents, and friends. But our encouragement, along with considerable coaxing and cajoling, failed. He was too old. Since Marilyn and I believe in agency and were not about to force a blessing on an eight-year-old, all of the children except Michael received a blessing that year.

The school year proceeded normally. Michael and the other children did well and the family enjoyed their associations together. As the following May arrived, it was time for Little League baseball to begin. Following the last day of school, Michael’s coach called a team practice. Michael’s anticipation could not have been greater. His dream was about to be realized. He was to be the starting catcher. The baseball diamond was located in the river bottoms not far from the mouth of Provo Canyon and a few blocks from our home. The boys and the coach walked to the field. Following the practice the boys and coach started for home. Michael and a friend decided to run on ahead of the coach and the other boys. In the process they had to cross University Avenue not far from the mouth of the canyon. As they approached the highway, Michael’s friend looked each way and noticed a car coming from the north. Michael failed to look and darted onto the highway just as a 16-year-old boy, out for his first drive in his brother’s car, came speeding out of the canyon.

I can’t imagine the fear that must have struck the young driver’s heart as he saw the small boy in front of him. The driver slammed on the brakes and swerved in an attempt to miss the boy. The side of the front fender and grill hit Michael and threw him down the highway, where he landed in a heap of broken bones.

Sister Bateman and I were visiting parents in American Fork when the police reached us by telephone with the news. We were told that Michael was in an ambulance on his way to the hospital and that he was in critical condition. Before leaving American Fork, I called a friend and asked him to meet us at the hospital to assist in giving Michael a blessing. The drive from American Fork to Provo was the longest 20 minutes of our lives. During the drive Marilyn and I prayed fervently, asking the Lord to preserve the life of our son and bless me with an understanding of the Lord’s will for him. In those 20 minutes we learned what it means to pray with “real intent” (Moroni 10:4).

As we parked the car by the door of the emergency room, we saw the police and a young man leaving the hospital. He was crying. The police recognized us and introduced us to the young man as the driver of the car. We put our arms around him and told him that we knew it was not his fault. We then entered the hospital to find Michael. We found him in a room with doctors and nurses feverishly attending to his needs. He had received a concussion and was irrational and crying for his mother. His scalp was laid back on his head, and the broken bones were obvious. My friend had arrived, and we asked if we could have two or three minutes with him alone before they took him to the operating room. They agreed. Again I prayed with all the fervency of my being that his life would be preserved and that the blessing would reflect the Lord’s will. My friend anointed and I sealed. As I laid my hands upon his head, a feeling of comfort and peace came over me. Words flowed and promises were made.

For the next four weeks Michael lay in a hospital bed with his head bandaged, his arm in a cast, and his leg in traction. Each Wednesday evening following the Little League game, his teammates would file into the hospital room and give Michael a rundown. Each week tears would well up in Michael’s eyes and run down his cheeks as he saw his teammates enter the room and heard the boys relive the game. He would have given anything to be able to participate. After four weeks Michael was put in a body cast that went from his chest to his toes. On two or three occasions we took him to a game to watch his friends play. Another four weeks passed, and the body cast was replaced with a cast from his hip to his toes. Two days before school was to begin the cast was removed, and Michael began the long process of exercising his leg to obtain full use again.

As the family gathered the next night for school blessings, is there any wonder as to who wanted the first blessing? A nine-year-old boy, a little older and a lot wiser, was first in line. Michael is not the only member of our family to learn from the experience. All of the other children have talked about the protection that may come through a father’s blessing. Over the years they have come to understand that accidents are not always prevented by priesthood blessings, but they have also learned that more than one type of protection is available through the priesthood. Today our grandchildren are recipients of priesthood blessings. The tradition is in its second generation. We hope that this practice, like the family, will prevail through the eternities.

On his return, Enoch taught at the Accra Missionary Training Centre for a couple of years as he contemplated his future. He had loved accounting in high school and had studied it with the intent of entering that profession. But about three years after his mission, he completed a data analytics certificate program from Coursera, offered by Google. That experience allowed him to see the critical role data plays in today’s economy in anticipating and solving problems. That vision motivated him to begin thinking of attending university to pursue a degree in data science. He applied for and got the sponsorship necessary to pursue a university education. Unfortunately, the global COVID-19 pandemic interrupted his plans, and he lost his sponsorship. Again, he endured his disappointment by casting his burdens upon the Lord.
Without the ability to continue his education at that time, Enoch pursued other interests. From the time he had mastered the piano, he had wanted to teach it, so he began doing so. In addition, he resumed his service to the Lord by working for FamilySearch out of the offices of the Africa West Area in Accra, Ghana. While working there, he met a senior sister missionary who was teaching a ukulele class. He had become acquainted and enamoured with the ukulele on his mission where his general love of music had drawn him towards it, so he joined with the class. Through his association with members of the class, they became aware of his desire to continue his education, so they helped him find new sponsors for attending university. Again, his love of music and his service to, and trust in, the Lord had brought him to the next step in his personal progress. With his sponsorship now secure, Enoch applied to, and was accepted at, BYU-Idaho where he is now studying data science.
Enoch reflects on his personal journey of perseverance and growth, and he gratefully acknowledges the value of that difficult period of his life when he struggled with questions that challenged his faith. Just as his ability to play his musical instruments came through perseverance, hard work, and struggles, learning here a little and there a little, so did his testimony grow line upon line, precept on precept. It was by persevering through his struggles that he discovered the joy of a personal relationship with his Saviour, and it is that relationship that has helped Enoch get to where he is today.

Aïolah and Evaline V.
Aïolah V. of France is a 12-year-old Beehive. So is her sister Evaline, who turns 13 in a month. “I’m glad my sister is here to help me move from Primary into Young Women,” Aïolah says.
One of their favorite things is Personal Progress, but when they read about one goal, they laughed. “Learn to play a musical instrument,” it said.
“We’ve been playing for years,” Evaline says. But then they talked with their mother. She helped them to see that they could use music to fulfill another goal: service.
Aïolah and Evaline are now preparing to perform in sacrament meetings and talent nights, give concerts for children and seniors, and accompany missionaries as they sing.
“Personal Progress is nice,” Evaline says. “It lets you do what you love and do new things too.”

Sometimes cities and nations bear special labels of identity. Such was a cold and very old city in eastern Canada. The missionaries called it “Stony Kingston.” There had been but one convert to the Church in six years, even though missionaries had been continuously assigned there during the entire interval. No one baptized in Kingston. Just ask any missionary who labored there. Time in Kingston was marked on the calendar like days in prison. A missionary transfer to another place—any place—would be uppermost in thoughts, even in dreams.
While I was praying about and pondering this sad dilemma, for my responsibility then as a mission president required that I pray and ponder about such things, my wife called to my attention an excerpt from the book, A Child’s Story of the Prophet Brigham Young, by Deta Petersen Neeley (Salt Lake City: Deseret News Press, 1959, p. 36). She read aloud that Brigham Young entered Kingston, Ontario, on a cold and snow-filled day. He labored there about thirty days and baptized forty-five souls. Here was the answer. If the missionary Brigham Young could accomplish this harvest, so could the missionaries of today.
Without providing an explanation, I withdrew the missionaries from Kingston, that the cycle of defeat might be broken. Then the carefully circulated word: “Soon a new city will be opened for missionary work, even the city where Brigham Young proselyted and baptized forty-five persons in thirty days.” The missionaries speculated as to the location. Their weekly letters pleaded for the assignment to this Shangri-la. More time passed. Then four carefully selected missionaries—two of them new, two of them experienced—were chosen for this high adventure. The members of the small branch pledged their support. The missionaries pledged their lives. The Lord honored both.
In the space of three months, Kingston became the most productive city of the Canadian Mission. The grey limestone buildings still stood, the city had not altered its appearance, the population remained constant. The change was one of attitude. The label of doubt yielded to the label of faith.

Two years ago my wife and I visited some of these sites. Two experiences come to mind that have relevance to this search for balance. In Jackson County we sat on the lawn within the boundaries of the future Jackson County temple. It was sunset. We were alone. We talked of history. We talked of prophecies of the future. But we remember most the sweet, peaceful, spiritual witness that Jesus Christ stands at the head of this Church and that Joseph Smith is what he claimed to be, a prophet of God. No amount of historical research alone can bring to pass that spiritual witness. It comes only when we become attuned and learn to recognize spiritual things. However, the spiritual witness was intensified by our knowledge of what has happened and what will happen there. That evening we found the elusive balance.

When President Russell M. Nelson was sustained as the new prophet, I wondered how I would ever feel as much love for him as I felt for President Monson! But Heavenly Father knew the desire of my heart, which is to develop as much love for each of the men He calls to lead His Church. And I believe that He wanted me to continue to have experiences that would allow me to do that.
Soon after he was called, President Nelson sent Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles to meet with the youth of Haiti. I was happy at the idea of going to see him. I wanted to know for certain if he was truly called of God.
After a long journey, I arrived in my country’s capital and took my seat in the building Elder Renlund was meeting us in. When he entered the room, I felt a gentle warmth fill my chest. He began his talk by saying that it was President Russell M. Nelson who had sent him to visit us. In that moment I knew that God knew that we needed to feel the love and support of the new prophet, and He allowed us to have that opportunity.
When Elder Renlund asked for a volunteer to read the introduction of the Book of Mormon to the group, I felt the Spirit so strongly—I stood up without even being aware of what I was doing. I walked up to the stand and stood close to the Apostle to read. My heart instantly began beating so quickly, and I cannot even articulate in words the strength of the Spirit I felt. It was like God’s presence was in the room, and it was an incredible feeling to experience. At that moment, all my questions and doubts flew away. I knew that Elder Renlund was truly an Apostle called of God. I felt a great love for him—and for the prophet who had sent him to speak to us.

I had planned to go to Europe since I was old enough to find it on a map. I had expectations: taste apple strudel, see the Mona Lisa, ride in a Venetian gondola. I certainly wasn’t planning on sharing the gospel, so I’m not sure why I decided at the last minute to throw an extra Book of Mormon into my bulging suitcase.
I had listened to talks on missionary work since I was a little girl, lining my dolls on the couch in their Sunday best so they could watch general conference with me. The thing is, I was born and raised in Utah where the greatest missionary opportunity I’d ever taken advantage of was bringing International Barbie to my conference couch party. In my world surrounded by Church members, it was easy to label everyone else as “non-Mormon.”
In the few weeks before my trip, my life had turned into a hurricane. The most difficult finals week I’d ever faced in school seemed to rip up an entire semester of hard work. I was swept into a whirlwind relationship with a guy I didn’t know how I felt about, and I watched my older brother get married and move away. I’d been so busy, my spiritual health was battered. I fooled myself into thinking somehow my trip to Europe would dissolve all my problems and snap my life back into perspective.
Instead, I found myself on a tour surrounded by 50 people who came to Europe to have a nonstop drinking and drug party. Luckily they all seemed to realize I preferred strudel to beer and left me alone.
When I met Jason, he had those “I am a Canadian” patches attached prominently to all his clothing and luggage. He was nice but seemed to want to party like everyone else. I listened to The Sound of Music soundtrack on my headphones, wrote postcards to my boyfriend, and ignored everyone around me.
It didn’t take long for me to realize Jason was not quite what I had expected. He wasn’t drinking with the others and even seemed interested in religion. He was curious about my beliefs and discussed his Catholic upbringing with me.
By the end of the tour, my view of Jason was altered enough for me to dare to give him that Book of Mormon I’d packed. On our last night in London I scribbled my testimony inside the book. I wasn’t sure Jason would read the book, but I was so wrapped up in myself, I didn’t give it a lot of thought. His road to salvation led back to Canada, 2,000 miles (3,200 km) away.
When I returned home, my anxious boyfriend was waiting at the airport with an armful of flowers. I had to fight the urge to turn and run back on the plane. None of my difficult choices had gone away. I felt I was drowning.
Then I got an e-mail from Jason. Much to my surprise, he was reading the Book of Mormon, attending church, and taking the missionary discussions—despite his family’s hostility toward his efforts.
Jason and I began to e-mail every day. As we became closer friends, we talked more and more about the gospel. Seeing Jason’s faith grow gave my testimony fresh perspective. Jason’s e-mails helped pull me out of my despair and gave me courage to fix what was wrong in my life. As I reached out to help him learn about the gospel, I was really helping myself. I broke up with my boyfriend, began earnestly studying my scriptures, and prayed with more sincerity than I ever had before.
Jason came to visit several times, once over general conference weekend. We watched all the sessions together. I liked watching how attentively he soaked in every talk. Sitting next to someone I would have labeled a “non-Mormon” made me realize how inappropriate it is to define someone by something they’re not. I wasn’t a non-Catholic or a non-Canadian to Jason. I was his friend.
Over the Thanksgiving break I watched Jason’s determined face enter the waters of baptism and come up smiling. I felt peace and knew that he and I didn’t end up on the same European tour by chance. We were meant to be friends.
I offered Jason a Book of Mormon, yes, but he is more than a gold star on my chart of successful missionary experiences. He is an example to me of how the gospel should be the shining star in my life no matter what obstacles I face.
Jason told me, “I didn’t ask the Lord to send me help, but He knew in my heart I wasn’t happy. He decided to help me by crossing my path with yours.”
Heavenly Father knew I needed help just as much as Jason did. We had something valuable to offer each other. I’m grateful Heavenly Father crossed Jason’s and my paths because we formed a friendship that will help us both make it to our heavenly home.

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

My parents, Apparecido and Mercedes, came from different religious backgrounds, but their life experiences prepared them to accept the restored gospel.
My father was raised in a good family but not religious. Nevertheless, as a young man he was interested in religion. He read the Bible, attended Bible classes, and studied the life of Jesus Christ. His studies caused him to have great interest in both the Savior’s gospel and the family, leaving him with a desire to marry someone of like mind.
By contrast, my mother came from a deeply religious family. They embraced gospel principles, attended church services, and faithfully practiced their religion. Growing up in that environment, my mother became the type of person who never missed a church meeting.
And so, after my parents married and my three brothers and I came along, they did their best to raise us within the light of their knowledge of gospel principles. One day my aunt, who was an inactive member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, said to my father, “You have four boys, dear. If you really want to raise a family centered in Christ and have God in your family, you need to go to my church.”
My father heard what she said, but he didn’t take any action until the day the full-time missionaries tracted in our neighborhood, knocked on our door, and began teaching us. He quickly realized that they represented the church my aunt had encouraged him to investigate.
One of the things that initially interested my parents in the restored gospel of Jesus Christ is the importance the Church places on the family and the teaching that “much of God’s work of salvation and exaltation is accomplished through the family.” Before they were baptized, my parents were so impressed with what they were learning that they invited neighbors to join them for the missionary lessons.
As they met with the missionaries, and continued studying the gospel after their baptism, my parents learned of ways “to bring up [their] children in light and truth” and how to spiritually “set in order [their] own house” (Doctrine and Covenants 93:40, 43).
They learned that “the family is central to the Creator’s plan for the eternal destiny of His children” and that “happiness in family life is most likely to be achieved when founded upon the teachings of the Lord Jesus Christ.”
They learned that “successful marriages and families are established and maintained on principles of faith, prayer, repentance, forgiveness, respect, love, compassion, work, and wholesome recreational activities.”
They learned that families can be eternal and that the “same sociality which exists among us here will exist among us there, only it will be coupled with eternal glory” (Doctrine and Covenants 130:2).
And they learned that “the ultimate purpose of every teaching, every activity in the Church is that parents and their children are happy at home, sealed in an eternal marriage, and linked to their generations.”
With that knowledge, they desired to be sealed as a forever family.
After my parents were baptized, they practiced what they were learning, moving from the world to the gospel kingdom. They worked to unite our family by having home evening and family scripture study, faithfully attending Church meetings, and doing family history work. With those efforts toward unity, they hoped to create a family centered on the plan of salvation with an eye toward eternity.
In 1965, the year my parents were baptized, the closest temple to São Paulo, Brazil, was in Mesa, Arizona, almost 6,000 miles (9,650 km) away. Travel was too expensive for our family, so my parents had to wait until the dedication of the São Paulo Brazil Temple in 1978 before they could receive their temple ordinances and be sealed. At that time, I was serving a mission in Rio de Janeiro.