Gospel Story Finder

Now, there are obviously some infantile inclinations we don’t encourage. Twenty-five years ago, my then-three-year-old grandson bit his five-year-old sister on the arm. My son-in-law, caring for the children that night, frantically taught his daughter all the lessons on forgiveness he could think of, concluding that her little brother probably didn’t even know what a bite on the arm felt like. That ill-conceived fatherly comment worked for about a minute, maybe a minute and a half, until there was a window-rattling cry from the children’s bedroom, where my granddaughter calmly called out, “He does now.”

There was an experience in my life which has often reminded me of the joy resulting from asking the question “What would the Savior do in this situation?”
I was among the first wave of Marines to go ashore in Japan after the signing of the peace treaty following World War II. Entering the devastated city of Nagasaki was one of the saddest experiences of my life. A large part of the city had been totally destroyed. Some of the dead had not yet been buried. As occupation troops, we set up headquarters and went to work.
The situation was very bleak, and a few of us wanted to give more. We went to our division chaplain and requested permission to help rebuild the Christian churches. Because of government restrictions during the war, these churches had almost ceased to function. Their few buildings were badly damaged. A group of us volunteered to repair and replaster these chapels during our off-duty time so they would be available for the holding of Christian services again.
We had no command of the language. All we could accomplish was the physical labor of repairing the buildings. We found the ministers who had been unable to serve during the war years and encouraged them to return to their pulpits. We had a tremendous experience with these people as they again experienced the freedom to practice their Christian beliefs.
An event occurred as we were leaving Nagasaki to return home that I will always remember. As we were boarding the train that would take us to our ships to return home, we were teased by a lot of the other Marines. They had their girlfriends with them saying good-bye to them. They laughed at us and indicated that we had missed the fun of being in Japan. We had just wasted our time laboring and plastering walls.
Just as they were at the height of their teasing, up over a little rise near the train station came about 200 of these great Japanese Christians from the churches we had repaired, singing “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” They came down and showered us with gifts. Then they all lined up along the railroad track, and as the train started down the tracks, we reached out and just touched their fingers as we left. We couldn’t speak; our emotions were too strong. But we were grateful that we could help in some small way in reestablishing Christianity in a nation after the war.

My name is Hunter Holton, and I am now seven years old. I live in Madison, Mississippi. My story started two years ago, when I was in kindergarten. A boy named Patrick was in my class. He was a little different from the rest of the kids. He went to special classes and was in our class for only a short time each day. He also ate lunch and went to recess with us.
I was always taught to be a friend to everyone, so I was Patrick’s friend. On the first day of school most of the kids stared at him. Then they started to make fun of him and didn’t want him to play with them. When I saw how upset he was, I walked over to him and asked if he wanted to play. Patrick smiled at me and put his arm around my back, and we went over to the playground and played.
When we went inside, I heard some of the kids say ugly stuff about Patrick and me playing together. So I turned to them and told them that it wasn’t nice to be that way. After school, I went home and thought about Patrick.
For the next week or so it was the same—I played with Patrick, and the others laughed at him. One day someone said, “Come and play with us, Hunter.” I went, and Patrick came too. They told Patrick that he couldn’t play with them, and he was so hurt that he started to cry. Then I said, “I can’t play, either.”
When they started to say some real ugly things to Patrick, I told them that they were very wrong to say those things and act the way they were. I also told them that we are supposed to act like Jesus Christ and that they weren’t acting like Him. I explained about loving everyone and treating people like the Savior treated people. They were soon playing with both of us, and we all became friends.
Patrick always went where I went and did as I did. I helped him with his schoolwork because I would finish mine first. My teachers told my mom what I had done for Patrick. She was pleased that I was trying to do what Jesus Christ would do. My teachers told Patrick to always follow me. Then they would know he was doing what he was supposed to do. This made me feel good inside.
The school leaders put Patrick in my first grade class so that he and I could have another year together. They felt like he still needed a friend he could depend on. When we got to the second grade, Patrick was not in my class. The school leaders had decided that he needed to learn to do things without me. Whenever Patrick sees me on the school playground, he comes over and gives me a hug, and all of us friends play together.

I feel privileged to be in Provo for the August 2017 commencement exercises of Brigham Young University. My dear wife, Diane, deeply wished that she could be here, but a long-planned family obligation prevented that. Diane and I met on this campus forty-six years ago. I had just returned from my mission to England and was resuming my studies here. Just a few weeks into the fall semester, I was asked by my mission president—who was still in England—to speak at his home ward in Bountiful. I had so recently returned from my mission that perhaps I was uncomfortable without a companion, so I called a young woman in my student ward whom I had seen but never met and asked her to accompany me. That first date turned into a courtship and then an engagement, and last month Diane and I celebrated our forty-fifth wedding anniversary. The year after our marriage we both received degrees from this institution—Diane while almost nine months pregnant. Coming back to where it all began is a profound privilege.

In Belfast, in quieter times, I had two roommates—girls of another faith whom I had met through a mutual friend. None of us had any extra money. Carol and Anne were both midwifery students, and I was saving for a postgraduate nursing course.
Our apartment was dismal, faded, and hard to bear, but we could find no other place within our means.
Nevertheless, Carol and Anne decided to call the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and offer to give a Christmas party for 12 needy children. Of course, I agreed to help with the work and the financing as did Carol’s sister Marian.
I had seen some of the miseries of the slums. The most appalling thing I remembered was a little girl in a torn summer dress sitting on the cold, windy sidewalk molding a lump of filthy clay because she had no other toy. I could not now find and help that child, but I could try to help some others.
Our Christmas tree was two feet high, decorated with nine small glass balls, one package of tinfoil icicles, and a star we had made from the foil inside a cracker box. The room was decorated with a few streamers and a dozen balloons. The food was simple—fried potatoes and sausages, grilled tomatoes, cookies, and orangeade. Fancy food is almost unknown to ghetto children, and we were afraid they would not eat anything unfamiliar. Besides, we couldn’t afford it. The 12 gifts were small and inexpensive: a string of plastic beads, a doll’s feeding set, a young child’s picture book, small toys and games. And, remembering the girl on the sidewalk, I bought a package of clay.
The children arrived semiclean and in their best rags. Eleven, twelve, thirteen! One of the girls had come with her toddler sister, who had refused to stay at home. That presented a problem.
In those days my annual project for the Relief Society bazaar was dressing little plastic dolls in sturdy clothes for girls to play with. Several such dolls were in my room. I quickly wrapped one of them in the last scrap of tissue paper for our extra guest and hurriedly put it under the tree.
Most of the children stood in a group at the door, but one determined boy about eight years old examined all the gifts through the paper.
“If you don’t mind, Missus,” he declared, “I’ll have this game of blow football for me and me mates.”
Carol smiled but was firm.
“We’re giving out the presents at the end of the party. Right now we’re going to play some games.”
We played their games; they played our games. We told stories; they related past experiences. We sang songs and grew decidedly tired of the children’s favorite, “Jingle Bells.”
“Last year,” announced the oldest girl, trying hard to be sophisticated in an ill-fitting sheath and high heels much too large, “I was to a party in the Linen Makers’ Hall. Hundreds of us there was, and a tree 30 feet high.”
“Was it grand, but?” asked a slightly envious voice.
“It wasn’t, for no one had time to talk with us like these good ladies are doing.”
We served the simple food, which first brought forth cries of delight and then the silence of serious eating.
“Ye’ve left food on your plate,” objected our blow football elf to his neighbor.
“I can’t eat it, but,” she replied, “for I’ve never had this much food on me plate at once.”
“Give it here, then, for ’tis a shame to waste good food.”
He ate several children’s leavings and then conceded defeat. He could not prevent a few scraps from going to waste.
We gave him the blow football game. We gave the 12-year-old, would-be sophisticate the plastic beads.
We gave the doll’s feeding set to a seven-year-old Raggedy Ann.
“It’s no use to me, Missus. I ain’t got a doll.”
So the Relief Society lost another plastic doll. This time it was wrapped in writing paper, and we pretended it had fallen behind the tree.
“Tis the best party I was ever at,” someone announced with satisfaction. “I felt right to home.”
“Indeed it was grand, Missus,” seconded another voice. “For whenever we’uns wanted something, one of you ladies was near.”
I thought then that I had learned something about giving, but I was shortly to learn more. The sophisticate, I noticed, had traded her beads for the clay, the clay for a toy car, the toy car for the baby’s picture book.
“Sure it’ll do,” she said, trying to rewrap it. The used cellophane tape wouldn’t stick.
“And would you have a bit of string, Missus? And a pencil, please?”
I produced them, wondering. She tied the parcel awkwardly, and in large uneven letters she printed on it “TOMMY.”
She saw me looking and she explained: “’Tis me wee brother, Missus. Nobody invited him to a party, and we can’t afford him no present.”
Ragged, messy little girl in your run-over, outsized high heels, I seem to remember that you are beautiful.

Then I met the missionaries. They gave me a Book of Mormon, and I started to read it. When I read 3 Nephi 17, I was truly impressed by the way Jesus took the little children and prayed for them. I knew that this was the right way to pray.
I decided to read all the scriptures about Jesus Christ praying. In Luke 3:21, after John baptized Him, Jesus prayed to Heavenly Father and the heavens were opened. When I read that, I knew that I wanted to pray in a way that would open the heavens too.
Sometimes I feel tired and don’t feel like praying. But then I remember how Jesus prayed. I try to be honest and sincere in my prayer so that the heavens will be opened for me too.
Sometimes my prayers are short because I can’t find the words to express myself well. I just have a bunch of feelings inside, and I say, “Thou know what I’m trying to say. Please just help me.”
Sometimes when I pray to bless the food, I remember that even in that small prayer, the heavens can be opened. I try to forget about the world and connect with Heavenly Father. And in a very humble way, I say things that come from my heart.
When I feel peace and comfort, I know that the heavens are open to me.
After the missionaries taught my family about the gospel, my mother, sister, and I were baptized. But my father, my brother, and my other sister didn’t join the Church. I really wanted my father to be a member of the Church. I fasted, and every day I prayed for my father to accept the gospel and be baptized.
I knew that I needed to pray for my father, but I also knew I needed to wait for God’s answer. Sometimes He says, “No, not yet.” Eventually my father did listen and understand, and he was baptized.
If your mother or father isn’t a member of the Church yet, talk to your friend—your Father in Heaven. Ask for Him to touch your mother or father’s heart. Talk to Him humbly and honestly, in a sincere way. But then relax. He is in command. He knows how to do things. He knows your father and mother better than you do. He knows how to reach them.
Don’t worry. You have a friend. Pray with your heart, and Heavenly Father will listen to you. The heavens will be opened. He knows you, and He will bless you.

Being here with you in this setting reminds me of an experience from my youth.
At the college where I attended the students were organized into four groups or "Houses" as they were called.
Each was designated by name and color: Blyth (blue), Gannon (green), Ramage (red), the fourth being White.
A house captain was appointed to lead each group.
These were selected from students in their senior year who were to be the leader and provide an example for all the students assigned to that house.
A great deal of pride was associated with belonging to one's group, and whenever a student participated in a sporting activity, they would wear the color that identified the house they were representing. I was assigned to Ramage House.
The Housemaster of Ramage was Mr. Ben Burgess. He was a formidable individual standing over six feet tall.
Shortly after the commencement of my final year at the college, I was summoned to the office of Mr. Burgess.
Because of his reputation as a stern disciplinarian, it was with great trepidation that I walked the corridors to keep my appointment. My first knock on his office door was intentionally feeble. It was my hope that he would not hear me knocking and that I could return to the classroom without having to face whatever fate awaited me. As I stood, gazing at the sturdy wooden door, I concluded that this strategy would not succeed, so I knocked a second time more loudly than before.
The response came by way of Mr. Burgess's strong, deep voice inviting me to enter. Nervously, pushing the door open, I ventured into the room to be greeted with the words, "Ah, Johnson!"
Mr. Burgess then launched into a passionate address expressing his deep feelings about the honor of belonging to Ramage House. It was all rather overwhelming to the mind of a young student. He continued his discourse, declaring that this would be a year of glory and achievement for Ramage and that he had chosen me to be the House captain. He further informed me that it would be my duty to enthuse and motivate the other students to the greatest achievements ever recorded in the history of Ramage House.
I am confident that Sir Winston Churchill, the noted British statesman and orator, never delivered a more stirring speech. As I recall, I had no opportunity to respond or even express my willingness to accept his kind invitation. Mr. Burgess simply assumed that I would be honored to serve in such a privileged position. He indicated that I would be expected to lead by example, participating in all activities, beginning with the boxing tournament to be held in four weeks time.
My senses were dulled as I left his office that day. Was this really an honor, or had I simply been selected to be a sacrifice in furthering the cause of Ramage House?
The imagery evoked by Sir Winston Churchill in his epic speech following the evacuation of Dunkirk during the Second World War did not elude me. He declared:
"We shall fight them on the beaches ....we shall never surrender.....let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties....that men will say, this was their finest hour."
I considered the two possibilities that were open to me; One was to disobey Mr. Burgess, which I determined was inconceivable, or to participate in the boxing tournament.
I concluded that there was no way to escape. The latter was, I decided, the safer of the two options.
Shortly thereafter it was announced that Mr. Burgess was convening an assembly of all students belonging to Ramage House. On the day and at the appointed time the students gathered and Mr. Burgess repeated his stirring address, announced my appointment as house captain and my pending participation in the boxing tournament. He then invited others to indicate their willingness to participate. The response was not enthusiastic. This provided me with an opportunity to demonstrate my effectiveness in my newly assigned leadership role.
My attitude was not yet comparable with that of David, who, when he saw that the Israelites lacked the courage to face Goliath, uttered the words, "Is there not a cause?"1
Even though I was a reluctant enrollee, I was already gaining a feeling for the cause and developing a spark of dedication to duty.
Eventually, through encouragement, cajoling and coercion, we assembled a sufficient number of competitors to participate in the boxing tournament.
Several days after the meeting, at which my appointment was announced, I saw a growing group of students gathering around the college notice board. I walked over to see what had attracted their interest. Standing at the rear of the group and raising myself on the tip of my toes, I scanned the notices and saw one that was headed,
"The College Boxing Tournament."
Looking down the list of bouts I located my name and was dismayed to see that my opponent was a student named Mike Dewing. I knew him to be an amateur boxer with the Norwich Lads Club boxing team.
This further heightened my feelings of anxiety.
The day of the boxing tournament arrived and I traveled to college contemplating the possibilities, which were not very encouraging.
Each bout consisted of three rounds of three minutes each. All I could remember of my contest with Dewing was being hit in the face once and hitting something three times.
You can imagine my surprise when at the end of the fight the referee raised my right arm in the air, indicating that I had won the contest.
After returning to the changing room, Mike explained, that he had always found it difficult to fight against a south-paw.
I responded, "What is a south-paw?"
With a puzzled look on his face he replied,
"A boxer who leads with his right hand!"
Until that moment, he had believed that I had some previous boxing experience. Apparently my inner fears had not been transmitted to my outward appearance.
Mr. Burgess was elated with the outcome and Ramage House enjoyed an auspicious beginning for the new year.

In September 2020, with the declining health of our parents and the instability of the COVID-19 pandemic, we relocated my sweet 83-year-old parents from their home of 45 years in Las Vegas, Nevada, to Cedar Hills, Utah, to be closer to family, making it easier for us to help care for them.
As you can imagine, this move was difficult for them on many levels. Residing in Las Vegas for most of their married years, they enjoyed their independence and the relationships they built there. They owned a lovely home and prided themselves on having an open door when family passed through. Giving up home ownership after 66 years and downsizing into a small rental home in a new state was challenging. Now they had to say goodbye to everything familiar to them, including friends they’d shared years of memories and experiences with and people they’d grown close to while serving in various callings.
At the time of the move, Church meetings were held remotely. Our parents worried how they would be able to get to know the people of their new ward when there was no opportunity to go to church and build new friendships. How could they possibly feel at home in these circumstances?
We found them a small rental home in a neighborhood in the Cedar Hills Sixth Ward, unaware of what a special place it would turn out to be.
Because we had simplified their belongings for the move and didn’t need assistance with moving bulky items, we hadn’t contacted the ward leadership to announce their arrival. That didn’t matter. Within five minutes of our pulling in with the moving van, neighbors arrived at the door, gloves on, asking how they could help. Homemade muffins were delivered and cold drinks offered to our family members helping with the move.
On Thursday of that week, members of the Relief Society presidency visited to introduce themselves and welcome our parents to the ward. On Sunday the bishop came to meet them and inquire whether they needed anything. He spent almost an hour with them, genuinely getting to know them and asking if they’d be willing to take ministering assignments.
Within two weeks of their arrival, they had ministering brothers and sisters assigned to them and were contacted by both. They also received ministering assignments and were introduced to their assigned families. Even with Mom’s late-stage dementia, her ministering companion made the effort to invite her and bring her along as they visited the sisters they were assigned to. The ministering brothers were consistent, loving, and genuine. They immediately found a commonality with roots from Wyoming, and my parents felt loved from the first visit.
Later that month the youth of the ward secretly covered their front door with notes of welcome and love. The first week of November, some deacons asked if they could come by and meet Mom and Dad. About seven young men and their leaders spent time with them, introducing themselves through get-to-know-you topics such as favorite foods, where they went to school, and what they did for after-school activities. The deacons followed up by asking our parents questions about how things were when they grew up and how they met.
These youth continued to come by at least monthly, sometimes just to drop off a treat or to check in. They caroled at Christmastime and brought a lovely holiday basket of food and treats. Because of these simple kindnesses, Dad could call the boys by name when he saw them and had a sense of familiarity with the ward, even though they weren’t able to meet in person for Sunday meetings.
A girl in the ward was invited in her home evening to say hello to someone new, and she chose Mom and Dad. She proceeded to build a relationship with them, coming over almost every day with a treat or to drop off a flower she had picked from her yard.
Our parents were asked to create a short video introducing themselves that was shown at the ward Christmas party. Every time there was a ward activity or gathering, our parents were reminded and offered a ride by someone. Special treats and hand-colored cards were delivered on their birthdays and holidays, and kind neighbors shoveled their driveway, sprayed the lawn for dandelions, and pulled their trash cans in every week. The ward members made a special effort to call them by name, recognized them at the grocery store, and helped them feel like they belonged.
Just four months after moving into this new ward, Dad fell and broke his hip while visiting a family member in St. George in southern Utah. This accident required surgery and an extended stay in a care facility 250 miles (400 km) from his new home. When we told his ministering brother about the incident, he immediately contacted the Primary president, who started a letter-writing and picture-coloring campaign with the Primary children and other ward members. They sent him mail and coloring pages almost every day. The abundance of attention led the workers at the St. George nursing home to ask if he was some sort of celebrity, as they had never had a patient receive so much mail. Since this was during the height of COVID, he couldn’t have visitors, so this daily written interaction was a gift of service beyond description.
With Mom’s dementia, one activity she was drawn to was sweeping. A kind neighbor recognized this and allowed her to come and sweep around them as they pulled bushes from their front yard, all the while making Mom feel like she was the one providing the service.
Dad was invited to participate in the ward choir and made to feel he was a valued addition. At age 84, he was called to work in the Young Men organization as a specialist with the deacons, gaining a feeling of relevance and contribution.
After only a year, they felt at home, that they mattered, that they could still make a difference. They were never made to feel like they were a burden or just “another renter” in the neighborhood. My heart is full as I contemplate the Lord’s words in Matthew 25:40: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” Well done, Cedar Hills Sixth Ward!

Each of us remembers with affection the teachers of our youth. I think it amusing that my elementary school music teacher was a Miss Sharp. She had the capacity to infuse within her pupils a love for music and taught us to identify musical instruments and their sounds. I well recall the influence of a Miss Ruth Crow who taught the subject of health. Though these were depression times, she ensured that each sixth-grade student had a dental health chart. She personally checked each pupil for dental health and made certain that through public or private resources, no child went without proper dental care. As Miss Burkhaus, who taught geography, rolled down the maps of the world and with her pointer marked the capital cities of nations and the distinctive features of each country, language, and culture, little did I anticipate or dream that one day I would visit these lands and peoples.

Sam was a computer science major from Utah who had always felt it was best to marry someone born and raised in the Church—that way both sets of grandparents would be LDS. Then he met Charly—a liberated rich girl from the East who was planning to spend her life laughing at people’s beliefs. Her father was Sam’s father’s boss, and so Sam agreed to take her out—once. But what starts out as a disaster (“You never told me how much your father is paying you to take me out.” “Not enough.”) ends up in a marathon Ferris wheel ride—and the beginning of an entertaining and engrossing love story.
Charly’s conversion; her and Sam’s courtship, temple marriage, and semester in a broken down BYU basement apartment, and their first few years together in South Dakota (“where fall lasts two days”) are told with the unpredictable humor that Brother Weyland is known for. Charly’s struggles to become a good Mormon wife (“If you want me to, I’ll learn to make plastic grapes in Relief Society”) are matched by Sam’s efforts to overcome his pride (“I could believe that the Savior could forgive past sins—but I wasn’t sure I could”). How each succeeds gives the novel some of its most memorable and sensitive moments.
Charly’s death (which Brother Weyland introduces in the opening paragraph of the book) is a moving climax to the story. As Charly weakens, Sam agonizes: “This thing that to us was such a great tragedy, what was it to [the Savior], who saw beyond the grave? Did he understand the depths of my sorrow?”
Then Sam answers his own question: “I remembered the raising of Lazarus—Mary and Martha weeping for the loss of their dear brother. … Jesus was certain that in five minutes Lazarus would come forth. What if he had turned to Mary and told her not to cry and that everything would be okay? What if he had treated lightly her sorrow?
“Instead he wept.
“He hept because they wept and because he shared their sorrow. He wept because he loved them, and whatever grief they carried, he shared it with them.
“He would not leave me comfortless because he loves me, and he loves Charly. He wept because he loves us.”

Let me share with you a time of waiting upon the Lord in our family. We asked our teenage children to be home by 9:30 on a Saturday night. There would be an envelope waiting. One of the children read aloud, over the signature of the First Presidency, a mission call for our family. Suddenly everything changed—the future of the football team, the dance company, violin and piano lessons, lawn jobs, friends, and dreams. There were tears.

We went from room to room that night wiping wet cheeks and rubbing backs. In our seventeen-year-old son’s room we found him ramrod straight on the edge of his bed looking across to his bulletin board, where there were pictures of his football team, his brother on a mission, his family, the prophet, and Jesus Christ.

By morning all eyes were dry, and sitting on the second row in sacrament meeting, we sang, “I’ll go where [and when and how and why] you want me to go, dear Lord.” 27 We waited to find out where that would be. We waited as we put our lives in order, shifted vision, adjusted expectations, and squared our shoulders. We watched through each new step, through the living of it, and through what was hard and what was wonderful, until years later each child, in his or her own way, said, “Everything that is good in our lives is because we served.”

Just a couple of months ago I too was great to my friends, but when I came home, I would pick fights over the littlest subjects with my parents. I began to be depressed with my actions. I love my parents very much, and I wanted to find a solution to my problem. I found that prayer, scripture reading, attending and really taking Church meetings to heart, and speaking to my parents about my problem soon led me to the path back to being the real daughter of God that I should have been all along. I’m not perfect yet, but then again, neither is any of us. So just keep trying!
Laura Kim Wright, 17Franklin, Indiana

One day while serving in the Texas Fort Worth Mission, my companion and I finished visiting some investigators and then realized we didn’t have a dinner appointment. We decided to stop at one of the many nearby fast-food restaurants.
When I stepped to the cash register, an employee took my order and asked me my name so she could call me over the loudspeaker when my meal was ready. “Elder García,” I replied.
The woman did not seem to understand my English. Again she asked me my name. To avoid any further misunderstanding, I pointed to my name tag, which bore my name and the name of the Church in Spanish.
As I turned to sit with my companion and wait for my order, I happened to notice the name she had written. Instead of writing my name, she had written, “Jesucristo.” Maybe she made the mistake because the Savior’s name stands out on the Church’s logo. Or maybe she just wasn’t paying attention.
Each time I remember this simple experience, I feel a firm desire to have people think of Jesus Christ when they see me—not because of a name tag but because I am bearing His name by doing the things He taught us to do.

When the Murray Utah West Stake decided to make hygiene kits as part of their youth conference, Amy Woodland, of the 13th Ward, was one of those asked to collect and organize supplies for her ward.
She says of the experience, “When I was asked to help with my youth conference and gather items for a humanitarian project, I sat down with my mom and talked about how I was going to organize the project and get all the items I could. I started by passing out flyers that told what items we needed and took them to each house in my neighborhood. I also went into priesthood meetings, Relief Society, Primary, Young Men, and Young Women to announce the items needed.
“Before I knew it, I had people dropping items off at my house, calling me to find out more about the humanitarian project, and giving me money to purchase supplies that we needed the most. Then, when youth conference came around, we had tons of items that other girls had collected from other wards in the stake.
“Being able to participate in this project was amazing! It felt so good knowing that these hygiene kits were sent out to children, adults, and families who were really in need of them. Service is something that really should be spread throughout the world. It has helped me want to serve others more. I learned that by serving others we are serving Heavenly Father.”

Joseph felt that if he went there, he would probably be killed, so on June 23, 1855, he rowed across the Mississippi River to avoid arrest. In a letter, Emma pleaded with him to return and surrender. Joseph also learned that some of the Saints were calling him a coward for leaving. “If my life is of no value to my friends,” he said, “it is of none to myself.” He returned to Nauvoo, and on Monday, June 24, he and the others charged in the case went to Carthage to surrender.

When they got to Carthage, they were released on bail until a circuit court judge could hear the case. Joseph and Hyrum went to talk to Governor Ford. While there, they were re-arrested on charges of treason.

Joseph and Hyrum were again jailed; John Taylor and Willard Richards went with them.

On June 27, 1844, shortly after 5:00 P.M., a mob rushed up the jail stairs to the room where the prisoners were being held. The culprits tried to break through the door, but were unable to. Shooting through the door, they hit Hyrum, who fell, saying, “I am a dead man.”

Joseph went to the window where he was shot twice from inside the building and twice more from outside. He fell out of the window to the ground and died. John Taylor was shot four times and lay under a bed, severely wounded. Willard Richards was not injured during the shooting.

After the martyrdom, John Taylor wrote, “Joseph Smith, the Prophet and Seer of the Lord, has done more, save Jesus only, for the salvation of men in this world, than any other man that ever lived in it. … He lived great, and he died great in the eyes of God and his people; and like most of the Lord’s anointed in ancient times, has sealed his mission and his works with his own blood. …” (D&C 135:3).

And there is a higher interpretation of the principle of peace. The Savior is the Prince of Peace. Great interpretations have been given to that title. One of the finest that I have ever heard in my life was by President Lee. President Joseph Fielding Smith had just died. President Lee was now the brand-new prophet. His first major meeting as the prophet was in Mexico at an area conference down there. His first press conference as prophet was there, and President Lee was asked a trap question.

Now there are all kinds of trap questions. A trap question is a question to which you can’t say yes and you can’t say no. The traditional trap question is, “Have you stopped beating your wife?” You can’t say “Yes, I’ve stopped” or “No, I haven’t stopped.” Whatever you say, you’re wrong.

President Joseph F. Smith, back at the turn of the century, in Washington, D.C., was asked a trap question by reporters. That question was, “Are you a prophet of God?” If he said yes, they were going to say, “Well, prophesy something for us, tell us something important that’s going to happen. Any earthquakes coming up?” Whatever he said, they were going to ridicule him. They had it all planned. If he said “No, I’m not a prophet,” they would say, “Well, the Mormon prophet says he’s not a prophet.” They would ridicule him yes or no. His inspired answer, when they pulled that trap question on him, was, “I am so sustained by the members of the Church.” They couldn’t do anything with that, and he gained their understanding.

Now back to President Lee in Mexico City. Hostile, foreign, international, sophisticated reporters pulled a political question on him. “What is your position with regard to the Vietnam involvement—the Vietnam War?” Some of you may not remember that particular time in history. It was a hot political issue, the Hawks against the Doves—there was an element of patriotism. Our government and our leaders of the nation were involved and said, “We should be there.” But there was a growing opposition to it. It has since been reconciled to the satisfaction of some, not to the satisfaction of others. But, at that point, if President Lee said, “I’m in favor of being there,” they would headline it, “How strange, a religious leader in favor of war.” If President Lee said, “I’m against it,” they would say, “How strange, a religious leader who pretends to support his government—it is one of their articles of faith—is against his own government.”

Either way it was a difficult question. President Lee’s answer was classic. It was inspiration from the Lord. It was a higher interpretation. He said, “We, together with the entire Christian world, abhor wars.” Then he said, “The Savior, however, said that in the world there would be tribulations. He said, ‘In me ye might have peace’” (John 16:33). Then President Lee went on to say, “The Savior said, ‘Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you’’” (John 14:27). It’s even more beautiful in Spanish: “La paz os dejo, mi paz os doy; no como el mundo la da, yo os la doy. No se turbe vuestro corazón, ni tenga miedo.” It’s more poetic in Spanish. (I just had to do that for the returned missionaries from Latin America.)

President Lee went on to say, “The Savior was not talking about the kind of peace that you can win with armies and navies and bombs and rockets. He was talking about the kind of peace a person can have in his own heart, no matter what kind of tribulations there may be in the world.” He so won the understanding and sympathy of those worldly reporters that they gave good coverage to the conference, and excellent coverage to President Lee as a religious leader. They learned from him—they learned the higher interpretation.

Recently in South America, a lady missionary, who impressed me greatly, told me the story of her conversion to the LDS Church and her missionary call. Before coming on her mission she was a nurse. Her roommate was a Mormon girl. The nurse liked the girl’s habits, was very pleased with her character and personality, and so she decided to study the LDS religion. The Mormon girl got two missionaries to teach the nurse the gospel.

When the nurse’s parents heard that she was favorably inclined toward the Mormon religion, they thoroughly opposed her actions. They forbade her to join the Church, telling her that if she did she would be disinherited.

The Holy Ghost had borne witness to her so strongly that the Church of Jesus Christ was the true church that she asked the missionaries to baptize her even against the wishes of her parents, whom she loved dearly. It grieved her when her father and mother told her not to return home.

After joining the Church, she had a very strong desire to go on a mission and so she decided to work and save the money. It took her three or four years’ time to save approximately $3,000. She was called to labor in South America, where she is doing an outstanding job in taking the gospel of Jesus Christ to the people of that land. When she returns home, she hopes to regain the love and favor of her parents.

Fourteen days ago, I looked down on the Salt Lake Valley from the window of an airplane as it circled around to the international airport. I could pick out familiar spots on the ground: my old high school, my grandma’s neighborhood, a park my family had gone to once or twice. A wave of nostalgia hit me like I’d never felt before, and even the sight of Redwood Road almost brought tears to my eyes. Seeing the Jordan River Temple actually did. At 8:00 that evening, my plane touched down and I stepped onto home soil for the first time in two years.
Like all homecomings, mine was bittersweet. I spent two years as a missionary for the Church in the Scotland/Ireland Mission, speaking Mandarin Chinese. The call was unique, and not a day went by that wasn’t similarly special. My mission took me to soaring heights, but also to lows I never thought I’d experience. It filled my life with a wide range of color and emotion I hadn’t thought possible, things I figured were exclusive for other people, but not for me. It felt like I’d spent my whole life playing a video game, and suddenly I’d been dropped straight into it for real.
The day I arrived in the mission field, I found a question staring me in the face everywhere I looked: Why did you come? Companions, the mission president, and ward members all asked us why we came on a mission. I had a good, general response to it. But, for whatever reason, maybe because I repeated it so much, those words began to sound hollow. So, I began to question, and one day, not too long into my mission, I woke up with the scary realization that I honestly had no idea why I had come.
Serving a mission had always been in my future. It was something I’d planned on and even enthusiastically looked forward to for my entire life. And yet somehow I didn’t understand fully what a mission would entail. I’d have to talk to people? Teach them? Why did something so basic come as such a shock to me? Was I really prepared for this? How did I get here? Why had I come?
It wasn’t until a few months later I was posed a different question, which put everything into perspective.
“Why do you stay?”
That was a more immediate question, so it required a more immediate answer. Rather than looking deep into the past for a reason I wasn’t sure was there, I could look at myself in the here and now and decide. Why did I stay today? Why would I stay tomorrow? Well, for one thing, I couldn’t well give up on something I’d just started. The work was anything but comfortable, but I didn’t feel so out of place as I sometimes had back home. I knew I was accomplishing something, even if I wasn’t sure what it was. But there was something more than that. As I pondered, I realized that throughout all of the ups and downs and lefts and rights, the highs and lows and every shade of color you can imagine, there was one thing underpinning it all. It was the grace of Jesus Christ.
Grace lifts us, fills us, and makes us more than anything we could ever be. It is the love of Jesus Christ taking effect in our lives, and it is always available to us. It is the way spoken of by Nephi when he said, “I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them” (1 Nephi 3:7).
That is why Christ promises us, “I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me” (John 14:6).
Without Christ, we would be left to ourselves, but with Him, we will far exceed what we think is our vast potential. Growth is never easy nor smooth, but even on the nausea-inducing roller-coaster called life, I found the sweet symphony of grace consecrating all of those experiences, the good and the bad, so even amidst the uncertainty I could say I enjoyed the ride.
That is why I went on my mission, and why I stayed; nothing else has taught me so much of the Savior and allowed me so much unfettered access to His divine power and love. Christ is real. He lives, He loves each of us, and He is with us in ways we cannot even imagine. Trust in Him, hold fast to His teachings, live by His words, and even in the darkest of night, life will carry a special glimmer that you cannot find anywhere else. That is so necessary in missionary life, but oh so much more vital in our daily lives.
“Therefore, fear not, little flock; do good; let earth and hell combine against you, for if ye are built upon my rock, they cannot prevail.” (Doctrine and Covenants 6:34).

Sister Clark and I know this promise is true. In October 2004, Elder David A. Bednar was sustained as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles; BYU-Idaho needed a new president. One of my colleagues, also a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, stopped me at school and asked if I would be interested in the president’s job at BYU-Idaho. I said, “If President Hinckley asked me to do it, I would do it. But I don’t think it makes sense professionally.”
As soon as I said those words, I got a sick feeling in my stomach, and the Spirit whispered to me, “Wrong answer!” I went home and told Sue, and she looked at me and said, “Well, we better think about that.” From that moment until the phone call from President Gordon B. Hinckley on May 25, 2005, Sue and I had a marvelous experience. Little by little the Lord changed our hearts. Through the power of the Holy Ghost, the Lord educated our desires to want what He wanted. [19] It happened! By the time President Hinckley called us, we really wanted to come here. We are so grateful that the Lord in His mercy changed our hearts so that we could come to BYU-Idaho.

“After keeping record of my time spent on social media for the first week, I was a little shocked at the amount of time I spent on my phone. It was definitely a good idea for me to use some of that time for the Book of Mormon, especially because diligently reading scriptures is not one of my strengths.
“Ironically, one of the first days I read my scriptures in the morning was a terrible day. However, I knew that reading scriptures would only improve my life, so I kept reading.
“I think the greatest impact from reading every day was that I felt much more in tune with the Spirit. I was able to make decisions much easier. I felt more love for the people around me and an increased desire to serve. When I read my scriptures in the morning, the day went so much better. When I read at night, I slept well. I would strongly recommend that everyone try this. What a difference it makes!”
Bryn C., 18, Utah, USA