Gospel Story Finder

I want to tell you two personal stories to illustrate this process of discovery. The first goes all the way back to the fall of 1974, when I entered graduate school at Harvard. I was full of hope and ambition and energy and dreams, just as you are today. I was married, and already the father of a six-month-old daughter.

I had studied economics and political science as an undergraduate at Utah State University, had completed a master's in economics there, and still wanted more. But unlike most of those who seek the Ph.D., I had no desire for a career in academic research and teaching, or at least I didn't think I did. Consequently, I really did not know what I was going to do when I finished graduate school.

Sometime during my last year at Utah State, I was invited to appear as a panelist on a television program broadcast by KUED, Channel 7, in Salt Lake City. The theme of the program was "University Governance," and I was the token student member of the panel, having served as the editor of my college newspaper. Can you imagine an entire program being devoted to that topic-- university governance? One thing I can say with confidence: the programming on KUED has improved dramatically in the last thirty-seven years!

Well, anyway, we had an interesting, and (other than myself), a distinguished panel. The discussants included the provost of the University of Utah, the chairman of the state Board of Regents, and the state senator most responsible for funding higher education. A story the state senator told about growing up on an arid farm in southern Utah, and building a dam for irrigation, is the only thing I can remember about the panel's discussion.

He told of how his father would wake him up early in the morning, before it was light, to go outside to hitch up the horses. He would then drive the team out to work on the dam that they were building, so that they could have water to irrigate the alfalfa. Of course they were growing the alfalfa, so that they would have hay to feed the horses! This was a cycle that as a young farm boy he could not understand. He wondered why not just shoot the horses and sleep in!

I think this anecdote left such an impression on me because at the time I heard it I was struggling with a similar cycle that left me just as puzzled: the struggle to decide which graduate education to pursue and what career path to follow. For although I was excited to pursue Ph.D. studies, I could not connect that study to a career I was interested in. I could not understand why anyone would study hard to get good grades to get into graduate school, if the only purpose was to then study hard to get good grades to get a teaching position somewhere. Where, of course, one would then force some other poor soul to study hard to get good grades to get into graduate school! Like the state senator and the horses, I wondered why not just burn the books and sleep in! The answer to that riddle came about by accident. Two years into my graduate study at Harvard, I was working as a janitor to help support my family. One day I had a conversation with a classmate, Kim Clark, who is now president of BYU-Idaho. We discussed the work we were doing to make ends meet. Like me, Kim was supporting a wife and a young child. He told me that he had a job as a teaching fellow in the economics department, and that he taught the first year course in economics to Harvard College undergraduates. "Do they pay you for that?" I asked. "Sure," he said. In fact, it paid better than my janitor's job. So I asked him if he thought the economics department might use another teaching fellow. Kim graciously agreed to arrange an interview for me with the head teaching fellow, and I was given the job.

I will always be grateful to Kim for that kindness. In addition to improving our family's standard of living, that job opened the door to my career. I discovered the joy of teaching, and that teaching was the best way for me to learn. In fact, I found out that I could learn more about economics by teaching Harvard College undergraduates than I did from sitting in the lectures of my Nobel Prize-winning professors of economic theory. I became passionate about teaching because it enabled me to learn, and I was passionate about learning. I wasn't that good at it at first. But because I enjoyed teaching economics, I got better at it.

This insight: that I could learn most effectively by teaching others, and that I could become good at it because I enjoyed it: was an accident. I made this discovery in the process of simply trying to find a better way to support my family.

“Yuck,” I said, grimacing at the reflection of my silver braces. My friend Rachelle sighed. “You aren’t feeling sorry for yourself again, are you? Braces aren’t the end of the world.”
“But, Rachelle,” I exclaimed, “you heard what my dad said about Halloween. Since I got these stupid braces, he’s not letting me near candy. He says that I’ll just have to stay home tonight and help Mom pass it out to everyone else.”
Rachelle thought for a moment. “Why don’t you see if he’ll let you just dress up and come with us for the fun of it.”
“No thanks,” I replied. “It wouldn’t be the same. I guess it’ll be OK handing out goodies to the little kids. Some of them are really cute.”
“I’m going to the grocery store,” Mom called as she walked out the door. “Your dad is in the garage if you need anything.”
“OK,” I replied. Just then the phone in the kitchen rang. I hopped up and ran full tilt down the hallway. Just as I rounded the corner, I crashed into my little brother, Nathan, who was carrying Mom’s coupon box. Up in the air flew the box, and down on the floor we fell. It didn’t hurt us, but the once-organized coupons were scattered everywhere. “Oh no, Marta!” my brother exclaimed. “Mom’s going to be mad at you!”
“Well,” I retorted as the phone stopped ringing, “don’t just stand there looking at them. Help me get them back into the box.”
Quickly we gathered up the coupons. One for a free jewelry-cleaning at a local store caught my eye. “I have it!” I shouted. “I have it!” I stuffed the remaining coupons into the box and herded Nathan out the door. By this time Rachelle had joined me in the hallway. “Come on,” I said as I hurried into the kitchen for a pencil and paper. “I have the greatest idea for trick or treat.”
That evening everyone was dressed in their costumes. Nathan had chosen to be a pirate with a green face; Dad wore his usual scarecrow costume, and Mom was dressed as Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. They were really surprised when I entered the room as Little Red Riding Hood.
“Where are you going?” Dad asked. I opened my trick-or-treat bag, and he looked inside. “So that’s what’s been keeping you so busy. It looks like you’re going to have an interesting Halloween.”
Rachelle and I picked up our friends Bobbie and Linda and started out. I was so excited that I could hardly walk.
“I didn’t think that your parents would let you go,” Linda remarked.
Rachelle laughed. “Well, they changed their minds after Marta spilled the coupons all over the floor.”
There was no time for further explanation right then because we were already at the first house. Mrs. Perry, an elderly widow, lived there. “Oh my, what do we have here?” she exclaimed. When we shouted, “Trick or treat!” Mrs. Perry smiled and handed us each a small candy bar. Instead of taking mine, though, I gave her a small, hand-printed card. “What’s this?” she questioned. “A coupon good for one free lawn mowing? Is this some sort of trick?” “No,” I laughed. “Instead of tricking tonight, I’m treating. I’ll see you and your lawn next summer.”
Brother and Sister Marker lived next door to Mrs. Perry. Again, when we rang the doorbell and the Markers tried to give me a treat, I pulled a card from my sack and gave it to Sister Marker. She looked at it and laughed. “You have to be kidding! An evening of free baby-sitting all six of our children?” My friends chimed in, “Well, we’ll help her. Just give us a call when you need us.” Sister Marker laughed and waved as we went on.
That evening we delivered coupons for free bread, baby-sitting, and car and window washing. I say “we,” because my friends were really getting into it too. They even started turning down candy that they were offered! It was a lot of fun, and before we knew it, we were at the last house. I had saved a very special coupon for this one. The people who lived there had moved in just before school started. “Trick or treat!” we shouted when Mrs. Bybee answered our knock.
“Well, let me see if I can find any candy for you scary creatures,” she laughed, starting back into the house.
“No—wait,” I said. “We’re treating tonight. Is Crystal home?”
Mrs. Bybee looked at us hard. I knew that she was wondering why we wanted to see her daughter. You see, Crystal was born blind and with several other birth defects. Although she’s a year older than we are, she still has a hard time, and kids sometimes make fun of her. Slowly Crystal emerged from the room where she had been sitting. “Who is it, Mom?” she asked shyly.
“It’s Marta,” I told her. “And my friends Rachelle, Linda, and Bobbie are with me. We’re treating instead of tricking tonight, and we have something for you.”
I reached into my sack for the very last card and handed it to her. She felt it and asked, “What does it say?”
Rachelle spoke up this time. “It says, Crystal, that if you don’t mind, we’d like to come to your house every week and read with you.”
“Wouldn’t you like that?” asked Bobbie anxiously when Crystal didn’t answer right away. “We want to be your friends.”
“Oh yes!” she said. “Oh, please come!” She turned to her mother and said, “They really are my friends, aren’t they?”
“Yes, we are,” we exclaimed together. “And we’ll see you every week.”
Crystal and her mother stood on the steps of their porch and waved good-bye until we were out of sight.

In Caleb’s baby blessing, I assured him he had completed his mortal task by being born and that he would have a brief time to rest as part of our family before returning to his heavenly home.
Yet Caleb and his mother had different plans. They wanted to spend more time together and do a greater work. God had perfectly matched Caleb’s courage with April’s love and daring optimism. April purposefully chose hope and trust in the Lord. With God’s help, she turned what was a sorrowful circumstance into a sacred setting.
April celebrated everything about Caleb. She made him a birthday cake after his first week, cupcakes for his second week, and cookies for his third week. Every day was a once-in-a-lifetime event for our boy sent home from the hospital without hope. Caring for Caleb became a privilege for us.
Though Caleb’s body was misshapen and broken, his spirit was whole, noble, and great (see Abraham 3:22). Even his missing eye became a blessing, making it seem as if he was continually winking. His wink became his distinctive feature. People were drawn to him, especially children. They would often ask, “Where is his eye? What happened to him?” I would jokingly say he was a pirate. But April would explain that in our family, a wink meant “I love you.”
Caleb never spoke the words, but his wink communicated love. His perpetual wink felt like a heavenly message, bringing God’s love and Christ’s light into our lives.
In our family, a wink means “I love you.”

She was a convert of three years—a recently returned missionary who was never as happy as when she was firing up others with the story of her conversion. When I read the neatly typed version of her story, written at the request of her mission president’s wife, I was awed. And a little envious. Her testimony had developed intensively as she had studied the Book of Mormon, taught the gospel, and sought spiritual confirmation of truth. She hadn’t seen angels, but she had seen quiet miracles. The Lord had touched her life. She, in turn, had touched mine through sharing her story. I was raised in the Church; I admire the enthusiasm of converts.
Such experiences, I told her, ought to be reciprocal. “And so I ought to give you something of equal value in return,” I said. “But I don’t know what.” She tactfully declined my offer to let her read my poetry. (“I never touch the stuff,” she said.) “Why don’t you write your conversion story?” she suggested.
“But I’m not a convert.”
“So? Aren’t you converted?”
I sat down that night to start, dubiously. I reread her story and despaired of ever piecing together a conversion story from my lifetime of attending meetings and teaching Sunday School lessons. The pattern of my conversion wasn’t obvious, but the material was certainly handy—I had kept diaries and journals for years. But a conversion story? A look back through the journals showed that I had always been aware of the Church in my life. My ancestors were baptized in England and New England in the early decades of the Restoration and later crossed the plains. I remembered always being a Mormon.
Which was how I decided to start my story: I remember always being a Mormon. I told of growing up in the Church, of going to corn-feeds and Primary, of singing solos and telling my school friends about the Church. I told how no one needed to tell me when my grandmother died because I knew in my eight-year-old heart that it had happened. I told how all the relatives and seemingly half the town gathered for her funeral in the Rexburg, Idaho, Fourth Ward chapel.
As I reminisced, a theme began to emerge: as a child, I had learned the gospel by living it. Family and teachers had taught me to look to the Lord for strength. I had prayed since I was a child. This seemed ironic, because during my adolescence I had wondered if my prayers were correct and effective. Other people told of dramatic answers to prayers and of lengthy sessions of pleading with the Lord. My prayers, in contrast, were simple, short, and sometimes quite demanding and to the point. Yet I saw, by looking back through journals and memory, that I had always prayed, and that my prayers had always been heartfelt. When grandma died, I prayed. When I lost control of a horse I was riding, I prayed. When I was scared no one would dance with me, I prayed. When I was too terrified to play a piano solo in public, I prayed. Though not every prayer was answered immediately, all were answered.
I realized that looking to the Lord was a pattern of my life, part of me since I was a toddler. I recognized a strength I had questioned before, and I recognized the Lord’s hand in my life as never before.
As I wrote of my intense involvement in Church while I was in high school, I recalled that many of my friends had wanted to know what made my life different from theirs. Why did I spend so much time at church? Why were the Mormon kids so close? What was our 6:30 A.M. religion class about, anyway? I had told some friends about the gospel. One girl friend and her family were baptized a few weeks after I had timidly asked them, “What do you know about the Mormon church?” one night as we sat around their kitchen table after an orchestra excursion. Another friend gained a testimony of the Book of Mormon but did not have the faith at 15 to be baptized. Other friends went to Young Women meetings and to Church dances with me. A young man I met at a high school journalism conference joined the Church after we corresponded philosophically for three years. I had not converted him, but I had introduced him to the truth, and he had recognized it.
Before reviewing these incidents in my journals and writing them out for my conversion story, I had wondered if I were capable of being an effective member-missionary. “Every member a missionary” had rung guilty notes in my ears for years. Now I realized that I was a missionary—in my own way, with my own friends. Now, that knowledge gives me confidence in continuing to share the gospel gladly and openly.
I wrote next of times I had sought help from the Lord through his servants. I wrote of my high regard for one bishop in particular, of the blessing of knowing worthy men who regarded themselves as “the servant of all” (D&C 50:26). I had forgotten those men and the impact of their leadership. I had forgotten that from them came my first motivation to study the scriptures until the Lord’s words became a pattern for my thoughts.
I wrote how one morning while I was attending Brigham Young University I awoke feeling a need to know that my life had purpose. I prayed that as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve spoke at a devotional assembly that morning, his words would give me direction and motivation. The prayer was undeniably answered only hours later. That incident, too, I had not thought of for some time.
Throughout those events, I know the Lord was involved in my life. But, curiously, I had underestimated my ability to successfully live my religion. Writing my conversion story out—all eight typed pages of it—made me more appreciative of me. By reading my journal and writing my story, I understood myself better, and I saw my growth more clearly. I saw that even when I did not yet understand or accept all the principles of the gospel, I accepted the Lord. I wrote: Because I learned to pray as a child—taught by my grandmother, my mother, and uncounted teachers at church—I had a faith in prayer that carried me through periods of doubt. It was my prayers as a youngster that I recalled in my greatest need.
An even greater benefit has come since writing out my own Church history. “And when thou art converted,” Luke wrote, “strengthen thy brethren” (Luke 22:32). I gave a copy of my story to the friend who first shared her conversion story with me. (“It was pretty good,” she said. “You didn’t know you had it in you, did you?”) I have judiciously given it to a few other friends since, as we have shared experiences and encouragement. I share it with nonmember friends who want to learn more about the gospel. I wouldn’t give it to just anybody—too much in it is too private. The friends I share it with are strengthened, and that strengthens me. And now, with my conversion story written, signed, and dated, I am more than strengthened; I am a convert.

Several years ago, I attended a work seminar, and I noticed that some of the seminar leaders would fold their arms and bow their heads before eating lunch. These people are usually so nice, I thought to myself. Why are they in such a bad mood whenever they sit down to eat?
I quickly learned that they were praying—not sulking—and I couldn’t help but ask more questions about their faith. They were overwhelmingly kind and had such a unique spirit about them, and I yearned to know more. I learned that they were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and we quickly accepted their invitation to attend church with them.
Due to his autism, my younger son was afraid of being in large groups and meeting new people, but the ward welcomed us with open arms and did everything they could to accommodate our needs. The members set aside a special room at the back of the chapel just for my son, and they fulfilled our request to avoid making eye contact with him until he felt more at ease. Even when one of my children would disrupt sacrament meeting, we were treated with the utmost respect and kindness.
I saw my sons unfold in the warmth of the ward’s embrace. They quickly made new friends, and my sons even started to attend Primary classes on days that I was unable to attend church.
We were eventually baptized, a memory that still brings tears to my eyes. At the baptismal service, the ward members—understanding my children’s fear of crowds—tiptoed into the back of the room after the boys had been seated to avoid frightening them. Afterward, we were offered a mountain of congratulatory sweets, and the love in the room was so palpable that my sons remarked, “I want to be baptized again!”
I have nothing but gratitude in my heart when I think about the deep love demonstrated by the members in our ward—a love that ultimately allowed us to find the light of the gospel. The ward perfectly encapsulated what it means to have our “hearts knit together in unity and in love one towards another” (Mosiah 18:21). My family was truly blessed by the kindness of these welcoming Latter-day Saints.
It’s now been two years since my sons and I were baptized. Both of my sons have been ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood, and I’ve seen an incredible change in their demeanors.
I’m grateful for the many caring individuals who accepted my family and who helped my sons overcome their fears through the power of love. I’m grateful for the gospel of Jesus Christ, through which even the deepest wounds of prejudice can be healed. And above all, I’m grateful for a loving Heavenly Father, who prepared a way for my family to find peace and belonging, even when I couldn’t see what that path would be.
I’ve learned that as we make room for our differences, we make room for greater love. Each of us is a beloved child of heavenly parents, and as we remember this truth, we can all—no matter where we are or who we are—become one in Christ (see Doctrine and Covenants 38:27).

A short time before his 24th birthday, President Heber J. Grant accepted a call from President John Taylor to preside over the Tooele Stake. He said the appointment came as a great surprise to him, and he had many feelings of inadequacy, particularly in the area of public speaking. About his first speaking assignment, he said:

I remember preaching and telling everything I could think of, and some of it over twice, and [I] ran out of ideas in seven minutes and a half by the watch. . . .
The next Sunday I did not do any better. I ran out of ideas in six or seven minutes. The next Sunday I did the same.

This continued. There are no accounts to indicate whether the Saints in Tooele were really that disappointed, but obviously President Grant felt great distress. Then, in the little town of Vernon, he later recounted:

I got up to make my little speech of five, six or seven minutes, and I talked for forty-five minutes, with as much freedom and as much of the Spirit of the Lord as I have ever enjoyed in preaching the gospel, during the forty years that have passed since then. I could not restrain the tears of gratitude which I shed that night, as I knelt down and thanked God for the rich outpouring of his Holy Spirit.

Heber J. Grant’s story, however, does not end there; you need to hear about the next Sunday. He explained:

I went to Grantsville, the largest ward in the Tooele stake of Zion, and I approached the Lord with much the same attitude as Oliver Cowdery when he told the Lord, “I want to translate.” . . . But, failing, he was later told, he did not study it out, and he did not pray about it, and he did not do his share. I told the Lord I would like to talk again to the Saints [as I had done in Vernon]. I got up and talked for five minutes, and I sweat as freely, I believe, as if I had been dipped in a creek, and I ran out of ideas completely. I made as complete a “fizzle,” so to speak, of my talk, as a mortal could make. [Heber J. Grant, “Significant Counsel to the Young People of the Church,” Improvement Era, August 1921, 870–71; see also Preston Nibley, The Presidents of the Church (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1974), 224–26]

President Grant later wrote of his humble prayers that followed that meeting. He wrote:

I asked God to forgive me for not remembering that men can not preach the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ with power, with force, and with inspiration only as they are blessed with power which comes from God. [Grant, “Significant Counsel,” 871–72; see also Nibley, Presidents, 226]

In 1978, following the priesthood revelation, I was called by President James E. Faust, then president of the Church’s International Mission, to accompany Elder Ted Cannon on a fact-finding mission through West Africa. Although numerous groups of people in Ghana and Nigeria expressed interest in the Church at the time, total membership was less than one hundred. West African membership today totals more than 70,000, and stakes exist throughout the region.

May I illustrate with two examples.

Four weeks prior to Elder Cannon’s and my trip to West Africa in July 1978, fifty letters were sent to members and nonmembers in the various countries apprising them of our visit and asking them to meet us at the airport upon arrival. During a four-week period we visited eight cities in four countries. With the exception of one city, no one received a letter in time to meet us. Toward the end of the trip, we arrived in Calabar, Nigeria, on a Friday afternoon, needing the services of a previously identified member to help us find approximately fifteen congregations in the southeastern part of the country. Each congregation had adopted the name of our Church, and the leaders had written asking for information and missionaries.

The member, Ime Eduok, was not at the airport or at the hotel. Brother Cannon and I checked in and went to our room not knowing where or how to find Brother Eduok in a city of one million. The next two days were a critical part of the trip, and Brother Eduok was the only one who could help us. We knelt in prayer and asked the Lord to guide us to him. We returned to the lobby and asked the desk clerk if she knew Mr. Eduok. She did not. Within a few minutes a large number of Nigerians had gathered around us discussing our plight but lacking the information needed. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see a large man standing next to me who said: “Did I hear you say Ime Eduok? He is my employee. I just entered the hotel to buy a newspaper on my way home from work. Ime will be leaving the firm in fifteen minutes. I do not know where he lives. If he leaves the office before you arrive, it is unlikely that you will find him before Monday.” The man hurriedly put us in a taxi and gave the driver directions. We arrived at the business just as Ime Eduok was locking the door. Brother Eduok guided us to each congregation during the Saturday and Sunday that followed. Many people in those congregations are now members of the Church, and information gleaned from them formed an important part of the report given to the First Presidency upon our return.

Story 1: 100 Percent Responsibility in the Distribution Center

In 1983 a few partners and I started a new ­company that taught time-management seminars and created and sold day planners.

For corporate seminars, we sent our consultants to the client’s headquarters, where they taught at the corporate training facilities. Prior to the seminar, two employees in our distribution center would prepare and ship several boxes of training materials, such as the day planners, binders, and forms. Also included was a participant’s seminar guidebook of around a hundred pages with quotes, fill-in-the blanks, graphs, and illustrations.

The two distribution center employees would normally send the seminar shipment ten days before the seminar. At the time that the following incident occurred, we were teaching around 250 seminars each month. With so many seminar shipments, these two employees would often commit errors, such as not shipping sufficient quantities or omitting certain materials or not shipping on time. This became an irritating and often embarrassing frustration for the consultants.

When these problems occurred, the seminar division would file a complaint with me, as the distribution center was one of my responsibilities. When I spoke with these two employees about errors and system improvements, they never wanted to accept responsibility for the errors. They would blame others, saying things like, “It’s not our fault. The seminar division filled out the Seminar Supplies Request form incorrectly, and we sent the shipment exactly according to their specifications. It’s their fault. You can’t blame us!” Or they might say, “We shipped it on time, but the freight company delivered it late. You can’t blame us!” Another excuse was, “The binder subsidiary packaged the individual seminar kits with errors, and we shipped the kits as they were given to us. It’s their fault.” It seemed these two employees were never responsible for the errors, and so the errors continued.

Then something critical happened. The director of training for a large multinational corporation attended one of our seminars and was so thrilled with it that she invited us to teach a pilot seminar to its fifty or so top executives. On the day of the seminar, our consultant arrived and opened the boxes of materials and discovered that the seminar guidebooks were missing. Without the seminar guidebooks, how would the participants follow along and take notes? Their training director was panic-stricken. Our consultant did the best he could by making sure each participant was given a pad of paper on which to take notes throughout the day, and the seminar turned out reasonably well, even without the guidebooks.

Extremely embarrassed and angry, their training director called our seminar division and said, “You will never teach here again! How could you have made such an embarrassing and inexcusable error with our pilot seminar?”

An upset senior vice president of our seminar division called me and said, “This is the last straw. We are about to lose a million-dollar account because of the distribution center’s errors. We simply can’t tolerate any more errors!”

As one of the owners of the company, I couldn’t tolerate such errors either. At the same time, I did not want to see these two breadwinners fired. After pondering possible solutions, I decided to implement an incentive system to motivate these two men to be more careful. For each seminar shipped correctly, they would receive one additional dollar, or a possibility of an extra $250 each month—hopefully enough to focus their attention on quality. However, if they made one error, a one-dollar penalty wasn’t much of a loss. I therefore decided to also include two $100 bonuses for no errors. With the first error they not only lost one dollar but also the first $100 bonus. If they made a second error, they lost the second $100 bonus.

I also told these employees, “If there is an error, you will lose your bonus, regardless of where that error originates. You are 100 percent responsible for that shipment.”

“Well, that’s not fair,” they responded. “What happens if the seminar division fills out the Seminar Supplies Request form incorrectly and, not knowing, we send the shipment with ‘their’ errors?”

I said, “You will lose your bonus. You are 100 percent responsible for that shipment’s success.”

“That’s not fair! What happens if we send the shipment on time but the freight company delivers it late?”

“You will lose your bonus. You are 100 percent responsible.”

“That’s not fair! What happens if the binder division commits errors in prepackaging the individual seminar kits? You can’t blame us for their mistakes!”

“You will lose your bonus,” I once again responded. “You are 100 percent responsible for that shipment’s success. Do you understand?”

“That isn’t fair!!”

“Well, it may not seem fair, but that’s life. You will lose your bonus.”

What I did was eliminate the anti-­responsibility list as an option for them. They now understood that they could no longer blame others, make excuses, or justify errors—even when they were right and it was someone else’s fault!

What happened next was fascinating to observe. When they would receive an order from the seminar division, they would call the seminar division to review the form item by item. They took responsibility for correcting any errors committed by the seminar division. They began to read the freight company’s documents to make sure the correct delivery date was entered. They began to mark the cardboard shipping boxes “one of seven,” “two of seven,” etc., with each box’s contents written on the outside of the box. They began sending shipments three or four days ­earlier than they had in their previous routine. A few days before the seminar they would call the client company to verify receipt of the shipment and the contents. If they had somehow omitted any materials, they had three or four extra days now to send missing items by express shipment. Errors finally stopped happening, and the employees began to earn their bonuses month after month. It was a life-changing experience for them to learn firsthand the power, control, and reward of being 100 percent responsible.

What these two employees learned is that when they blamed someone else, they were surrendering control of the shipment’s success to ­others—such as the seminar division or the freight company. They learned that excuses keep you from taking control of your life. They learned that it is self-defeating to blame others, make excuses, or justify mistakes—even when you are right! The moment you do any of these self-defeating things, you lose control over the positive outcomes you are seeking in life.

As I matured and grew out of my tomboy stage I realized that instead of wanting to be a stripling warrior, I was going to marry one. And thanks to the word, at an early age I set a standard for my self, and with consistent nourishment of the word I was constantly reminded of and held true to my standard. And the wait has truly been worth it because I have found my beloved stripling warrior and on the 5th of August I will marry him, the love of my life in the SLC temple (picture). That's what the word does for me. It sets standards for me to live by.

“When I first learnt about the Church, I had no idea of a temple. At church, they always talked about it but there were no regular temple visits, because the closest temple was in South Africa, about a four-hour drive away. Two years later, a missionary couple from Utah took the initiative of taking members to the temple every fortnight. I was the first one to attend, along with the Relief Society president.
“After my first temple visit, I was a little confused but at the same time I wanted to learn more. From that time the branch started to make regular visits to the temple, and I always made sure I went along with the group.
“As a single widowed mother, I learned that I could be sealed to my deceased spouse for time and eternity. That gave me peace and comfort and reminded me of what the missionaries had taught me—that families can be together forever.
“Being sealed to my deceased family members was one of the most memorable, comforting, and peaceful experiences I have ever had.
“Visiting the temple regularly has also helped motivate me to do family history work for my deceased family members. These things have strengthened my faith and given me a stronger testimony about our Heavenly Father and His compassionate love.

Ten years ago as my wife, Kathy, and I were living in São Paulo, Brazil, President David Marriott was presiding over the Brazil São Paulo Interlagos Mission. He and his wife, Neill, and their sons Will, Wesley, and Trace lived near us. They had left their home, their business, and many in their family to respond to a call from the prophet to serve a mission.
President Marriott called me one afternoon. Their precious, righteous 21-year-old daughter, Georgia, a senior in violin performance at Indiana University, had been hit by a truck while riding her bicycle home after a Church meeting. On first report, Georgia was doing well. Hours later her condition dramatically worsened.
Family and friends began fasting and praying for a miracle for Georgia. Her mother flew through the night from Brazil. Arriving in Indiana the next day, she was met by her older children, who tearfully explained that they had been with Georgia as she passed away.
I watched the Marriott family at the time of this experience and in the months and years that followed. They wept, they prayed, they spoke of Georgia, they felt immense pain and sadness, but their faith did not falter. In this morning’s session, we heard of similar faith in the beautiful lives of the Bowen and Wilberger families.1
I began with the story of the Marriott family. Last week Kathy and I joined them at Georgia’s grave. Ten years have passed. Family and friends spoke of the love and memories they have of Georgia. There were white helium balloons to celebrate her life. Amid tears, Georgia’s mother tenderly spoke of the increased faith and understanding she has received, and Georgia’s father quietly told me of the promised witness that has come to him.

When our family was still young and growing, Sister Funk and I were looking for a larger home in another stake. In February of that year, we learned our bishop would be moving soon. We both received strong impressions that we should stay in our current ward, so we modified our search. In March, after returning from a vacation, we had decided to buy a new home under construction in our ward. As Sister Funk talked to the homebuilder on a Thursday morning, she learned the house we wanted had been sold while we were gone. She was very disappointed. That evening, I was called as the new bishop of our ward. The next day Sister Funk found the same model of house in a different neighborhood in our ward and we promptly bought it.

The year after we moved into our new home, our stake and ward were divided and the first house ended up in the other stake. Another year later, I was called as the stake president of the stake where we lived and served for ten years in that calling. Those opportunities may not have come if the Lord had not guided us to be where we could be of service.

The arrival of the Hamilton New Zealand Temple in 1958 stirred a realisation amongst the Saints in Australia that this may be their only chance to make sacred covenants with the Lord. When my father announced that we as a family needed to go to the temple, my mother asked how that was even possible—they had no money and, in his spare time, he was still building the house they were living in. I was two years old then and my brother was recently born.
With unwavering faith, my father set about planning the trip by boat. He did not know how, and had no detailed plans, but he felt an assurance and a hope that the Lord would provide. My father cashed in a life insurance policy, and though we still didn’t have enough money to return, we sailed.
After my family entered the holy temple and were sealed to each other for time and all eternity, my father, once again, set about exercising his faith. He managed to get a job to earn money to live and to return to Australia. Some may say he was delusional, but years later my father and mother declared that this act of faith brought power and direction to their lives.

I remember a missionary in Japan who bore his testimony in one of our meetings. It was before the days of the language training missions. Japanese had been extremely difficult for him, so much so that his mission president thought he should be transferred to an English-speaking mission. The elder said, as he stood on his feet, “The Lord had called me to Japan, and I knew I had to have the language to do the work. I fasted all of one day and prayed through the night. I fasted the second day and again pleaded with the Lord for help because I knew that somehow with his help I could do it. The next day, something seemed to break. The shadows of my mind lifted. I could understand as I had never understood before. And now it seems that Japanese is a language I learned a long time ago that is coming back to me.”

The branch in Plzen had only seven members. Later that year, Jirí was ordained a deacon and then a priest. The following year, when the Communists prohibited Church activity and closed the mission, 18-year-old Jirí and others tried to keep the branch alive. At age 20, Jirí became a counselor in the branch presidency. “We always tried to meet in the largest numbers possible in members’ apartments, but pressure from the secret police became so strong—it was very hard.”

In 2020, my cancer unexpectedly returned! After the initial crying from us all, I felt calm. I had another wonderful blessing and could feel peace. I play the piano, and playing songs helped me get through it.
I love the April 2020 General Conference talk from President Nelson called Hear Him.1 Playing and listening to music is a way I Hear Him. I prayed to Heavenly Father and said I didn‘t mind having chemo as long as I suited being bald.
The cancer went, which was a surprise, and a nurse who was an atheist said, “You know I don‘t believe in God, but someone is watching over you”. I‘d spoken to them all during my treatment about members fasting and praying.
In June 2022, the cancer had returned for the third time in 4 places! I‘ve never been an anxious person but waiting for the result was horrible. My husband and I hugged and cried yet again. We said a prayer to ask Heavenly Father to help us get through it. Another talk from President Nelson came to mind. It was Let God Prevail.2
This time the monthly chemotherapy has affected me psychologically. I‘m a strong-willed person and I‘ve never said, “Why me?”. Instead, I ask the Lord what I need to learn. My prayers have never been as heartfelt. Yes, sometimes I cry out during the night when I‘m so fatigued with my chemo. We have a picture of Christ on our bedroom wall, and when I‘m awake during the night I ask for His help. I have the words ‘Let God Prevail‘ in my mind every day. Whenever my husband is stressed about his business, he knows I‘m going to smile and he says, “Let God Prevail.”
Although we‘re going through these trials, and I still have down days where I cry and feel hopeless, most days I Let God Prevail and feel at peace. I‘m still serving as our Ward Relief Society President, and blessed to be able to help the members with their trials in their lives.
Let us not put off praying and asking for help getting through challenges in our lives. The Lord is there, waiting for us to ask for help- “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).

Last year, my Primary teacher asked us to pray for a girl in our class who hadn’t come to church. I decided to remember her in my personal prayers too. I prayed for her all year, even though I didn’t know her. I reminded my family to include her during family prayer too. I was so happy because that friend came to Primary on Christmas Sunday! She is now my friend and comes to church sometimes. I know Heavenly Father heard those prayers.
Campbell D., age 5, California, USA

A number of years ago I was ordained a bishop and set apart to preside over a campus ward. As I was endowed with the powers and keys that pertained to that function, I was given the responsibilities of a common judge in Israel. From the very beginning this was the part of the calling that I faced with the greatest apprehension, but I soon learned it was also the area in which I could provide the greatest service.
As a judge, I was responsible to hear confessions of ward members who had transgressed to such a degree that their membership in or fellowship with the Church might be brought into question. This happened, I am sorry to say, far too frequently. One of my friends asked me at that time if the students had lots of problems. I replied, halfway truthfully, that they had only a few problems—over and over. But it was precisely this “over and over” that troubled me, because not only did many ward members suffer from serious transgression, but certain of them repeated the same transgression even after coming to their bishop to try to get things resolved.
At first this fact astonished me. These students would gather up the courage to come to me and admit that they had committed acts of transgression. And I think that they were sincere in their desire to change their lives. Some of them were racked with pain and misery, and it was rare that tears were not shed by the time our interview had ended. But all too often, sometimes even within a day or two, they were back in even greater anguish to confess that they had repeated their sin.
As we would discuss the principle of repentance, I found that they were generally quite knowledgeable. Many of them could repeat lists of steps that should be taken, and many of them put a good deal of emphasis on forgiving themselves. But clearly something was lacking, for their sorrow, though genuine, did not lead to change. It was, as Paul put it, “the sorrow of the world [that] worketh death.” What they needed was “godly sorrow [that] worketh repentance to salvation.” (2 Cor. 7:10.)
It was in a simple context—that of reviewing the Articles of Faith with a new member of the Church—that I finally discovered the error in my counseling. I found that I had been dealing with the second principle of the gospel before treating the first. That is, I had placed repentance before faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. This may not seem to be a dramatic insight, but it was for me and for my ward members whom I counseled. For we rediscovered the fact that repentance is a dead and useless principle unless it is preceded by faith in Jesus Christ. The reason behind this statement is very clear: because of our imperfections, we are incapable of paying the debt of sin. Thus, without the grace and mercy of Christ, that debt cannot be paid.
What I and my ward members had failed to do was to plead with the Lord that he might “have mercy and apply the atoning blood of Christ that we might receive forgiveness of our sins.” Instead, we had suffered the sorrow of the world that leads only to death.

While studying at Brigham Young University as a young, single returned missionary, I attended a priesthood session of general conference in the Tabernacle on Temple Square. President Ezra Taft Benson, then-President of the Church, urged every returned missionary to take marriage seriously and make it a top priority in his life. After the session, I knew I had been called to repentance and needed to act on the prophet’s counsel.
Thus, I decided to go to my home country, Brazil, to find a wife. Before leaving for Brazil on a two-month internship, I called my mom and some friends on the phone and came up with a list of about 10 young women—each of them a potential wife.
While in Brazil, after much pondering and prayer, I met, dated, got engaged to, and set a date to marry one of the young women on the list. It was not record-breaking time for students in Provo, Utah, to date and become engaged, but it was fast by Brazil standards.
A few months later, I married Elaine. She is the love of my life and a choice blessing.
I am not suggesting that everyone should make a similar list, but I am suggesting—maybe more than suggesting—that we always act when our living prophets speak.

Later, as 18-year-old Moisés prepared for his mission, his family continued to face temporal challenges. He doubted his decision to leave and told his mother he wanted to stay home to help her.
“If you really want to help me,” she told him, “go and serve the Lord.”
Kneeling by his cot at the close of his first day in the Mexico Hermosillo Mission, Moisés felt that the Lord was pleased with his decision. He credits his mission for the growth of his testimony of the restored gospel.