Gospel Story Finder

Will recognized that just wanting to serve a mission wasn’t enough. He knew it was important to prepare. One thing he did was go to teaching appointments with the full-time missionaries. “When the missionaries asked me to respond to questions, words seemed to come that I didn’t know could help the investigator understand a bit more,” he says. “And a few of the investigators they were teaching—whom I helped teach—have recently been baptized. It’s been a blessing for me to see that.”

September 9—Today wasn’t the best. I didn’t have anyone to sit by at lunch. I missed an easy question on the geography quiz. Also our team lost at kickball. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever have any friends at this school.
I wish we hadn’t moved here. I don’t have anyone to talk to. That’s why I’m starting a journal. People in books always seem to have journals. I’ve heard stories from pioneers’ journals. I don’t know if I’ll ever do anything amazing, but it’s nice to talk to someone. Hope I can keep this up! Gotta go. Mom’s calling me for dinner.
P.S. I do feel a little better now.
I closed my journal and went to set the table.
The next day was just as bad. When I came home, I felt like I might explode. Instead I went to my room, opened my journal, and started writing. I dumped all those feelings out. I felt better this time too. After that, I wrote every few days. I wrote about everything. It was like I was writing my own book!
October 21—Guess what? I made a friend! Her name is Claire, and she’s new too. We both like board games, and we don’t like geography. I think I’m going to invite her over for family game night on Friday.
I love my journal. I like writing when I feel mad or worried because it makes me feel better. I also like writing about the good things that happen because then I can remember them.
Guess what else? I have a book report due next week. Wish me luck!
Little by little things started getting better. I still got picked last for kickball, but I had a few friends, and I joined the math team. I wrote about all of it. Soon I wasn’t writing just to complain, I was writing to a good friend—me!
And before I knew it, sixth grade was over. When I came home from the class party, I had quite a few signatures in my yearbook—all from new friends I had made. I pulled out my journal, plopped down on my bed, and wrote my last entry as a sixth grader.
June 15—Today was the last day of sixth grade. Next year I’ll be in seventh grade! I’m nervous about that, but I know I can write when I get scared or when I feel like everything is going wrong. I just went back and read my first entry again. It was so sad that I almost laughed! I’m glad I have it. It shows how much I’ve grown up this year! I’m glad I’m not so angry or sad anymore.
When we moved here, I felt like I would never be happy again. But now when I read my journal, I can see how much Heavenly Father has blessed me. He helped me make new friends and learn hard things. I wonder what’s going to happen next year!

A few years ago I conducted a mission tour. Some of the missionaries were struggling with obedience. That evening the mission president and I conducted interviews with some of the missionaries. The next morning the mission president commenced our zone conference by giving a masterful talk on integrity. I felt impressed to further speak on that subject. We observed that in a few moments we would be conducting additional interviews. We requested that the missionaries not play the game in which someone only discloses the truth if he is asked the perfect, pointed question. If they were men of integrity, they might say, “President, I don’t need any questions—I’ve made some mistakes, and I want to voluntarily disclose them. I want to be 100 percent honest.”

Well, you know what happened. The Spirit was there, and four missionaries from the night before privately stepped forward and said, “We have something else to disclose.”

One of them said, “I want to be an honest man.” That day he changed his foundation of sand for a granite foundation of integrity.

Trisha woke up feeling that something was different. She looked out the window and saw that the ground was covered with a thick blanket of new snow. Quickly she dressed and crossed the hall to wake up Janis. Though her sister was four years older, they were close friends. “Hurry up and get dressed,” she urged Janis. “It snowed during the night, and I can’t wait to build a snowman.”
Janis rubbed her eyes. “It’s too early to get up. Anyway, the snow will be there all day.” She started to turn over to go back to sleep.
“No, some of it will melt.” Trisha pulled on her sister’s arm. “Come on. Get up.”
Slowly Janis sat up in bed. She looked at Trisha and tried to frown but smiled instead. “I can tell you’re not going to let me alone,” she said. “And building a snowman is always a lot of fun.”
Trisha tried to skip breakfast, but Mother insisted they have warm food in their stomachs before going outdoors, so Trisha ate her oatmeal as fast as she could. Then she had to wait for Janis to finish. What if most of the snow is melted by the time we get outside? she worried. But when they left the house, there was still a lot of snow on the ground. Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she looked around.
“Where do you want to build the snowman?” Janis asked.
“Right here in the middle of the front yard. I want everyone in the whole neighborhood to see it.”
They began to scoop up armfuls of snow and heap it in the center of the front yard.
A half hour later, when they paused to rest, their snowman was beginning to take shape.
Trisha glanced toward the house next door. She was a little surprised to see her friend Marny standing at her bedroom window watching them.
She waved to Marny, and her friend waved back. Marny looked very unhappy. Ever since she’d become sick a month ago, she’d been cooped up in the house. Trisha knew that Marny wished she could be outside playing in the snow too. Trisha went over to visit her almost every day, but it wasn’t much fun for either of them—not the kind of fun they had when they played outdoors together.
Trisha wasn’t as happy while she and Janis built the rest of their snowman, because she kept thinking of Marny.
“He’s done,” Janis said after a while. “Of course he’ll need some finishing touches. I’ll go get what we need.”
“Wait!” Trisha burst out. “I know Marny would like to help us make this snowman. She can put on the finishing touches.”
Janis looked surprised. “But Marny’s sick. She can’t come out here.”
“No, but she can still help. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Trisha ran to Marny’s house and knocked on the front door. Marny’s mother opened it and smiled at Trisha.
“Marny’s upstairs,” she said. “She was wondering if you were coming over for a visit today.”
Trisha smiled back, then ran up to Marny’s room. When she left Marny’s house ten minutes later, she had all the things she needed to finish the snowman. There were blue buttons for his eyes, a big black button for his nose, a string of cranberries for his mouth, an old felt hat for his head, and a scarf for his neck.
“He looks almost alive,” said Janis.
“I think so, too,” Trisha agreed. She looked over at Marny’s bedroom window. Marny, of course, had been watching everything that they did, but now she wore a happy smile.

Rex: Let me tell you of one such miracle involving Moroni’s promise that happened to me when I was a missionary. After I had been serving for several weeks, bearing my testimony many times daily that I knew Joseph Smith had seen the Father and the Son, I began to ask myself such things as “How do you know? Do you really know, or are you just deceiving these people and yourself as well? You didn’t see it happen, and you don’t know anyone who did.”

As the days went on, these misgivings bored into my soul more and more until they reached the point of an overwhelming obsession. I remembered Moroni’s great promise contained in chapter 10, verses 4 and 5. I had been urging other people to put that promise to the test; now I felt a great need to do the same for myself. And so I began reading the Book of Mormon once again, this time with more intensity, accompanied by prayers that always included a plea to know for a surety of the book’s veracity. The answer came within about a month and a half—not through a vision, nor a voice from the heavens, nor handwriting that suddenly appeared on the wall of our apartment. But for me it was just as surely a direct revelation, and therefore a miracle, as if it had taken one of these more dramatic forms.

It occurred one hot dusty afternoon in a suburb of Mexico City, Colonia Moctezuma. We had returned for the third visit—which in those days was devoted exclusively to the events of the Restoration—and our investigators were a widow and her fifteen-year-old daughter. Neither of them had shown any visible interest during our first two visits, and, quite frankly, I was surprised that they let us in the third time. About halfway through the visit, as I began to tell the story of the restoration of the Aaronic Priesthood by John the Baptist, an unmistakable divine presence came over me, literally consuming my entire being. It said to me, not exactly in words, but with a surety that I will never forget: “You know, this really happened. This same man, John the Baptist, who had baptized the Savior of the world, actually came down to this earth in the spring of 1829 and conferred upon Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery the same authority by which he personally, eighteen centuries before, had baptized the Savior of the world.”

It was one of the few times in my life when I know I received a direct message from my Heavenly Father. And it affected not only me; it also affected the way that I spoke to such an extent that our two investigators felt the same spirit that I felt. It reminded me of what Nephi tells us in verse 1 of his great valedictory chapter 33 in 2 Nephi: When a man speaks by the power of the Holy Ghost, the power of the Holy Ghost carries the truth of his message to those who hear him. I can tell you that on that afternoon in that home three conversions occurred—mine and those of the widow and her daughter. At the end of our discussion they both asked for baptism, which is something we had not yet suggested. And as for my own conversion, I knew that I had been given the assurance I had been seeking.

I have reflected on when and where in my life I began to truly partner with the Lord and to invite Him gratefully and intentionally into my daily life and decisions. It was about the time I left home.

Just after my seventeenth birthday, I moved from Burley, Idaho, to San Francisco to go to art school. I had graduated from high school early and was determined to head to the West Coast to go to school and work for Disney. I was living with fifty other girls from around the world in a large mansion that was considered student housing. There were various cultures and lifestyles.

After a few weeks, things felt dark, and I needed the Savior’s light. I sought for assurance that I was known and not just floating out there alone in the world. As I looked for comfort, I reached for my scriptures, and they fell open to the book of Joshua. I read, “Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.”11 Wherever I went, He would be with me. What a comfort that was and is to my soul!

I then looked for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the phone book (there were no cell phones or smartphones then). There were two listings. One of the church buildings was only several blocks from where I lived. That coming Sunday, I put on my church dress and shoes. I remember a few roommates asking me if I was going to a party.

“It’s a different type of party,” I responded. “I’m going to church.”

Some of those girls ended up taking the missionary discussions.

I walked downhill to a small white church building with palm trees outside and entered the lobby doors. I heard a familiar hymn playing softly: “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.”12 I was home. I knew this is what I wanted. I knew I wanted my Heavenly Father and Savior in my life more than anything or anyone else. And I began to “counsel with the Lord in all [of my] doings.”13 I invited Him into my life conversation.

In the words of Abraham, “I said in my heart: Thy servant has sought thee earnestly; now I have found thee.”14 He is always ready to be found, brothers and sisters. He did not abandon me, nor will He abandon you: “We have made a covenant with Him.”15

The Lord lovingly and patiently led me, but not to where I thought I would go. In fact, I went up to Sacramento and then on to Ricks College (now BYU–Idaho)—which was the last place I wanted to go! And the first place my mother had told me to go. And I loved it. I then came to this university. And, interestingly, in my senior year I received an internship and a job with a company that was eventually purchased by Disney. This career came at a time when I had Christ at the center of my life. Because my relationship with God was first, this opportunity gratefully fell into its proper place in my life.

Last February I saw this joy personified as I accompanied the missionaries in Santiago, Chile, to visit some of their converts. At the Basuare home, eight-year-old twin boys, Nicolas and Ignacio, met us at the door, dressed in white shirts and ties, just like missionaries. Their father had been baptized three weeks earlier, and the following week he baptized his wife and sons. We talked of their conversion. They shared their feelings of love for the missionaries and the joy they were experiencing in living the gospel and keeping the commandments. They proudly showed us the picture of the Santiago temple displayed in their living room, a symbol of their goal to become an eternal family one year from the date of their baptism.

I asked Nicolas if he would like to be a missionary when he grew up. He answered yes, and we shook hands on the promise that he would prepare for the day. Then I asked Ignacio the same question. He hesitated and replied, “I’m not sure I can make that promise. I’m only eight years old.” I persisted, “Nicolas made the promise. Wouldn’t you like to do the same?” He still hesitated and said, “I don’t know if I could be ready.” I could see I had taken on more than I could manage, so I said, “Perhaps you’d better talk this over with your father.”

He went to his father, who took him in his arms and said, “Ignacio, Jesus was a missionary. He walked the streets like Elder Sheets and his companion and made the people happy by teaching them to keep the commandments. Wouldn’t you like to be like Jesus?” “Yes, Papi, I would.” “Do you think if we work together, you can be ready to be a missionary when you are nineteen years old?” “I think so.” “Wouldn’t you like to make the promise to Elder Mickelsen that you will do that?” He came to me, and we shook hands to confirm the promise. I marveled that this young father, a convert of just three weeks, could be so sensitive in helping his family follow the Savior and how he emulated the missionaries in teaching his son. Their goal of becoming an eternal family will surely be reached under the guidance of this faithful father.

Instead, I joined a neighborhood team with lots of friends. We had a great time the first year and were successful, but the second year the team struggled and sometimes lost focus on the game. I became frustrated. I put my best effort into every game, but we almost always lost.
After one very bad game, Coach Hashem, whose team was doing well, approached me on the football field. He asked me how things were going. I said, “Not so good.” I told him I missed my old teammates. Hashem coached with a great deal of skill and always seemed to get the most from his players.
“How would you like to be a guest player for our team when we go to the next tournament?” Hashem asked.
“I would really like that!” I responded excitedly.
“Great!” Hashem said, smiling. “I need to ask you one question though. Can you play on Sundays?” My stomach muscles tightened. I suddenly felt sick. I remembered what had happened that last time this question had been asked.
I looked at my mom. I looked at my dad. They too waited for my answer. I looked at Hashem.
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t play on Sundays,” I said. “Will that make a difference?”
Hashem stood there for a moment. He had seen the expression of hope on my face fade quickly as I had answered his question.
“No, that’s OK,” Hashem responded. “We probably won’t get to the Sunday finals. We’d love to have you play with us.”
Soon I started practicing with Hashem’s team. The team played with a great deal of intensity, and they welcomed me back. I loved playing with them.
We didn’t win all of our games at the tournament, but we all tried our hardest, and we had a good time. Soon I became a permanent member of Hashem’s team. Though they knew I didn’t play on Sundays, they still appreciated me for what I added to the team on the other game days.

Have you ever made a mistake? Have you ever felt sorry about something that you have done? Here is a true story of a responsible boy named Travis. He learned that being accountable for his actions by repenting made him feel good about himself.
1. Travis was having fun playing with Matt’s toys. He wished that they were his own.
2. I’ll borrow them, he thought, putting several toys into his pocket without asking Matt.
3. When Travis played with the toys in his bedroom at home, it wasn’t much fun.
4. His mother asked him why he was unhappy.
5. Travis told his mother that he had borrowed Matt’s toys without asking and that now he felt awful about it.
6. “It is wrong to take something that belongs to someone else,” said Travis’s mother. “What will make it right?”
7. “I’ll feel better if Matt has his toys back,” said Travis. “Will you take them to him for me?”
8. “No, I can’t repent for you,” Mother replied. “You are sorry, and you need to take the toys back yourself.”
9. “I’m afraid to tell Matt the truth. Maybe he’ll be mad at me.”
10. “Maybe he will,” said Mother, “but taking the toys back and telling Matt that you are sorry will take away the bad feeling that you have for your mistake.”
11. “Matt, here are your toys. I’m sorry that I took them without asking,” said Travis. “I won’t do it again.”
12. “I’m glad that you brought them back,” said Matt. “You really are a good friend.”
13. “I’m glad that I told the truth and made things right,” Travis said with a smile.

“This is far enough, Mom. You can drop me off here,” Jill said to her mother as they pulled up to the gates of Cannondale Heights. “I’ll just walk the rest of the way. I need the exercise.”
“Sorry I couldn’t have Jeeves bring you ’round in the limo,” Jill’s mother said in her best Harvard accent. “But he had to take your father to the airport to catch the Concorde for the summit meeting.”
Jill hadn’t fooled her mother for a second. She never could. It was all too obvious that she didn’t want to be seen pulling up to Courtney Pennington’s palatial mansion in the family’s clunky old blue-or-grey-or-whatever-color-it-used-to-be Impala. Jill was five-foot-eight and not just thin; she was skinny. She ate all the time to gain weight, and now she was telling her mother she needed to walk for exercise on a cold, dark night? She felt guilty about the pretense, so she leaned over and gave her mom an extra big hug, momentarily catching her thick brown hair on the button of her mother’s jacket.
“Have a good time,” her mother said with a smile as Jill jumped out of “Sherman.” That was the affectionate nickname the family had given the car because of its resemblance to a tank.
The night was chilly and as Jill began walking up the hill to the Pennington’s driveway, she wished she would have stayed a little longer in her mother’s soft, warm, cinnamon-smelling embrace.
The huge wrought-iron gate that guarded what looked like a very long lane automatically swung open as soon as Jill neared it. She looked around before entering and noticed she’d crossed through an electric beam that must have alerted whoever was looking at her through a small T.V. camera mounted on the gatepost. “I can’t believe this,” she said to herself. “The Pennington place is unreal!”
Jill thought about the situation as she continued through the gate and up the long, tree-lined drive. Courtney Pennington was the new girl in the ward. She was in Jill’s Mia Maid class but hadn’t immediately drawn a lot of attention because she was quiet—the nice kind of quiet, where you know she’s shy rather than stuck-up. She had long blond hair that was probably curly or wavy, but she kept it pulled back in a braid or a ponytail all the time so it was hard to tell. She dressed well but not flashy, and no one even realized she was rich until one day they saw her hop into a very large, very shiny Mercedes that had come for her after church. The windows were tinted, so no one could see the driver.
Courtney became a sort of enigma after that. No one wanted to be rude and ask too many questions, but everyone in the class was curious about her. They hadn’t ever seen the rest of her family, although one day she showed them a picture she carried in her wallet. The miniportrait revealed one of the best looking brothers they’d ever seen, and two incredibly handsome parents.
The girls just about fell over when she gave their adviser a home address that had to be located in prestigious Cannondale Heights.
They were ecstatic when Courtney offered to host the Mia Maid class party they were planning. Most of them had never even driven through Cannondale Heights, let alone visited one of the elaborate estates there. They couldn’t wait to see what life was like in the lap of luxury.
Courtney, whom Jill had befriended the very first day by offering her half of the candy bar she usually carried in her purse, had asked Jill to come by, see her home, and help plan the party from there. Jill had jumped at the chance.
And now she was standing in front of the Pennington’s massive brass door. What if a butler answers? she wondered. What would you say to a butler? “Good evening. I have come to visit with Miss Courtney. She is expecting me.” Could she say that with a straight face? How about, “Yo! Butle me in!” Or “Beam me up, butler!” The possibilities were endless. She couldn’t help but giggle.
She was relieved when Courtney opened the door just as Jill was reaching for the carved ivory knocker. “I’m so glad you’re here! You’re just in time,” Courtney bubbled, surprising Jill with her enthusiasm. “My parents are on their way out, and I want them to meet you before they go.”
“She wants them to meet me?” Jill thought as Courtney led her through a marble-floored entry and down a wood-paneled hall. She’d heard that Courtney’s father was a very powerful movie executive, and she was sure he met famous movie stars every day. Why would he want to meet some insignificant, skinny kid from the ward?
Courtney opened the door to a room that seemed to be all glass and garden. There were huge bouquets of fresh flowers blooming everywhere. On the other side of the room stood Courtney’s parents, silhouetted against a giant window through which city lights sparkled below.
“You must be Jill,” said a dazzling blond lady, all dressed in gold and black velvet. Could that be Courtney’s mom? Nobody’s mom dressed like that! Most moms Jill knew dressed in sweats or jeans, except on Sundays when they pulled out their flowered dresses.
“Of course that’s Jill,” Courtney’s father answered before Jill could say anything. “It’s so good to get to know Courtney’s friends. C’mon babe, we’ve got to get going—they won’t hold the premiere—not even for me!” he said as he began striding toward the door. He was the only man Jill had ever met who you could actually say “strode.” The tall man in the tuxedo gave the impression that he would never merely walk.
Courtney reached out to give her mother a hug, but only caught her hand as she hurried out behind her husband. “Watch the nails, hon,” Mrs. Pennington said as she quickly drew away. “Monique just did them today. Have a good time.” And they were gone. All that remained was the spicy scent of Mrs. Pennington’s expensive perfume.
“Well, those are my parents,” Courtney said, almost apologetically. “They’re always off somewhere. I wish it was off to church sometimes, but you’ve probably noticed they’re not big on attendance. They haven’t been for a long time.”
“I wasn’t sure if they were members or not,” Jill responded honestly. Then she quickly added, “It’s good they are.”
“Well, I guess you can say they’re members,” Courtney continued. “Dad joined the Church so Mom would marry him, but he never really got into it. Mom’s not into it much anymore either, but at least they’re nice about letting me go.”
“That’s not bad,” Jill said philosophically. She was beginning to wonder about the girl with the beautiful house and glamorous parents. “My parents have to wrestle with us half the time to get us to church. I think it’s good you try so hard to come on your own. I don’t see how you do it.”
“I don’t see how I can’t,” Courtney responded, a small smile crossing her face. “A long time ago I realized that I felt things at church I couldn’t feel anywhere else. The things they taught me there I couldn’t learn anywhere else, and I’ve been a lot of places. Now that I’m older and understand a little more about how the Spirit works, I don’t want to do anything that would separate me from it—like not going to church. I need all the spiritual help I can get. I don’t have a family like yours to teach me and help me learn. I envy you that.”
“Courtney envies me?” Jill thought. “That’s really funny.” And the humor in it grew as Courtney took her from room to room, showing her possible places for the party. The house was amazing. The Persian rugs and rich polished floors were such a contrast to the matted shag and scuffed linoleum in Jill’s house. There were about ten bedrooms—more than half of them guest rooms. They were so different from the bedrooms at Jill’s, where three bedrooms accommodated a family of nine. Two of the rooms were shared by three kids each. And Jill’s older brother Matt slept on the sofa bed in the living room, tormenting the littler kids by tickling them when they crossed through the room to the kitchen at night to get a drink. Oh, and then there were the Pennington’s “recreation rooms.”
“How about if we go swimming in the indoor pool?” Jill suggested when they’d returned to the glass-and-flower room to do the actual planning.
“I thought about that, but Dad said the insurance risk was too high to have a bunch of kids whose parents we don’t know swimming there,” Courtney answered.
“No problem then. Maybe we can get a film and watch it in that neat theater?”
“I don’t think dad would want us fooling with his equipment,” Courtney said.
“That’s all right.” Jill tried again. “I noticed you have a huge kitchen. Maybe we could make some goodies in there. Everybody likes food—especially me. And we could make enough to take to the homeless in the park the next day.
“I think Mom would have a heart attack if we tarnished her copper kitchen stuff,” Courtney said. At this point, she was getting embarrassed.
“Well, we can always just come over and talk girl talk right here,” Jill said, not wanting to disappoint Courtney anymore.
“We can always just come over and talk girl talk!” screeched a Munchkin-like voice that pierced them from every direction. It startled Jill so badly she thought she jumped ten feet in the air. Suddenly, from a slit in the ceiling above a huge white and gold fireplace, a movie screen started descending. When it stopped, a video of their little planning session, played at double speed backwards, started flashing across the screen, their voices screeching in those weird Munchkin tones.
“Selwyn, you dog!” Courtney yelled as she jumped up and ran across the room to a control panel that was neatly concealed behind a tapestry on the wall. She hurriedly flicked a switch that killed the sound.
“It’s my stupid big brother,” Courtney stuttered on the verge of tears. “He takes his video camera everywhere, and he films everything. Then he edits them in weird ways and shows them to everybody. He makes me so mad!”
The girls stood there motionless for a few minutes, watching their images flicker bizarrely across the silent screen.
“Hey—I’ve got a great idea!” Jill said, regaining her composure. “This is a beautiful place, but you’d probably like to get out once in a while. You’ve never been to any of our houses. Why don’t we have the Mia Maid party at mine? Mom will help us make cinnamon rolls. Oh, and Matt has a priests quorum activity that night, so we won’t have competition for the living room. As a matter of fact, I bet Matt would take Selwyn with him, if he wants to go.”
“He’d probably like that,” Courtney said slowly. “He doesn’t have many friends. But do you think your mom would mind?”
“My mom mind? Are you kidding? She loves having people in the house—all over the house,” Jill said, walking over to the golden phone she’d noticed on a desk against the wall. “I’ll call her right now, and we can make plans over there. What’s the exact address of this place so I can have her come right up to the front door and get us?”

Sister Zoe Campbell, 24 years old, is the first young-adult sister in Scotland to undertake a service mission for the Church. She was set apart by her stake president, Lee Mcleman, in June 2021.
Sister Campbell will be serving in Aberdeen for the next 18 months.
She will be busy working with the local nuns, cooking food each week for those in the city who struggle with poverty. She is also involved with the Care Hub in Aberdeen, which works with the homeless providing food, clothing, and cooked meals. She is also signed up to work with the British Heart Foundation in its charity shop.
Zoe is not a teaching missionary but, by her example, she is teaching how to serve as Christ served, reaching out to those who need a little help. She looks forward to the wonderful opportunities for her 18-month mission to be filled with service in the City of Aberdeen.

Raking leaves wasn’t as easy as Shannon had thought it would be. And it wasn’t as much fun as it looked. The rake was taller than she was and was hard to hold.
“Do you want me to help you?” her mother asked.
“No, thank you,” said Shannon. “I want to do it by myself to surprise Dad.”
The autumn air was crisp like the crunchy leaves crackling under her feet. But the sun shone brightly, and feeling hot from the exercise, she took off her sweater.
“Would you like a glass of lemonade?” Mom asked.
This time Shannon said yes.
“Dad will be pleased with your surprise.”
“I know.” Shannon finished her drink and hurried back outside. She wanted to be done before Dad got home.
She raked and raked and raked. Finally there was only a giant pile of colored leaves in the middle of the yard. She could hardly wait to show her surprise to Dad.
Mom called to her from the kitchen window. “Guess who I hear driving up.”
Shannon ran around the house and down the sidewalk to greet her father. A sudden gust of wind almost swept her off her feet, but Dad caught her and gave her a big hug. “I’d better hang on to you,” he said, laughing. “I don’t want my favorite daughter to blow away.”
“Come to the backyard,” she said, pulling him along. I have a surprise for you.”
Just before they got there, Shannon said, “Now close your eyes and don’t open them until I say so.” She led him the rest of the way, going slowly so that he wouldn’t trip. “My pile of leaves!” she cried. “It’s gone everywhere!”
Dad opened his eyes. “Don’t feel bad, honey,” he said after she had told him what had happened. “It was a wonderful surprise.”
“How could it be wonderful when it’s not there anymore?”
“Well, a pile of leaves isn’t really the surprise—it’s knowing that a special little girl worked very hard to do something nice for her dad. The wind can’t blow that away, no matter how hard it tries.”
Shannon brightened up. “Really?”
“Really,” Dad said and kissed her forehead. “I bet the two of us could rake up these leaves again in no time if we did it together.”
Shannon smiled. “I’ll get the rake.”

Martin’s Cove holds special meaning for Jashley Simpson of Afton, Wyoming. To her, this spot is marked by sorrow for the trials of the people who died here. But it is also a place of joy, for it was here in the Sweetwater River that Jashley was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Not very many people are baptized in rivers anymore, and Jashley probably wouldn’t have been, either, if the baptismal font in her stake center had not been under repair. As her eighth birthday neared, she and her parents, Evan and Beverly Simpson, realized that they had to find an alternative place for her baptism.
About a month before Jashley’s birthday, on May 12, 1997, her mother was reading an article in the Church News about the new visitors’ center at Martin’s Cove. Suddenly, the idea came to her that Jashley should be baptized there. At first, it seemed like an impossible thought, but as her mother lay awake at night, pondering the idea, it felt more and more like it was what Heavenly Father wanted them to do. She shared the idea with Jashley’s father, bishop of the Afton Third Ward, Afton Wyoming Stake, and he thought it was a great idea.
They made many phone calls but were unable to reach Brother Carvel Jackson, director of the center, to make arrangements in time for Jashley’s birthday. So the Simpsons just decided to take the eight-hour drive and visit the center on that day, hoping that things would work out when they got there. If nothing else, they would go on the short handcart trek organized by the visitors’ center.
Jashley’s five sisters—Bethany (16), Amory (14), Emily (11), Kelsey (5), and Courtney (3)—as well as both sets of grandparents came to spend this special day with the birthday girl. Jashley was particularly excited that her mother’s parents, Grandma and Grandpa Gibson, were able to come. They were not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and Jashley looked forward to sharing part of its history with them.
Upon the family’s arrival at the center, they were finally able to speak with Brother Jackson, who gladly helped them find an ideal spot for the baptism. But first they took the handcart trek! Grandma Simpson and Grandma Gibson waited at the visitors’ center as the rest of the family loaded up handcarts and set out on the two-mile hike to the actual Cove.
As they climbed the trail, the wind blew fiercely around them. It was a hard trek but fun, even when Jashley fell on a cactus! Everyone enjoyed reading the plaques that described the journey of the handcart companies. They pushed the handcarts up one mile to the opening of the cove area. There they had to abandon their carts and hike up one more mile to the cove itself. Then they hiked the mile back to their handcarts, and completed the remaining two and a half miles of the loop trail back to the visitors’ center.
After the trek, the family prepared for the baptism. The place Brother Jackson had suggested was a beautiful spot on the Sweetwater River with Devil’s Gate in the background. However, everyone worried that the strong wind would affect the baptismal service. When no one was watching, Jashley bowed her head and closed her eyes and whispered a prayer to Heavenly Father that the wind would stop blowing just long enough for her to be baptized. Heavenly Father answered her prayer. The wind was completely still.
Jashley and her father were also surprised at how warm the water was. She had been concerned that the water would be icy cold from the melting snow in the mountains. In every prayer she had made for the last month, she had asked Heavenly Father to make the water “sort of warm.” Her prayers were answered once again, and the water temperature was just right.
The baptismal service was beautiful. Jashley’s father baptized her while her Grandpa Simpson and Elder Erickson, a missionary from Star Valley, acted as the witnesses. Afterward she saved some of the water from the river in a special old-fashioned glass jar with a clamp and rubber seal. She said that being baptized was wonderful; it made her feel “really clean.” She wrote in her journal all the way home about the exciting events of the day.
This day was definitely one to remember for Jashley and her family. Martin’s Cove had a special spirit that touched them all. Even Grandma and Grandpa Gibson were very impressed.
Whenever Jashley thinks of her baptism day, she remembers the faith and courage of those men and women. She will honor them and try to be like them, for she has truly experienced their story “in her bones.”

Before you ask, let me tell you the answer is no. I am not a Mormon. Okay, I am basically a mild-mannered, clean-cut guy who happens to be named Jared. Yeah, I know. There are a lot of Mormon boys named Jared. But as far as I know, the Mormon church doesn’t have a monopoly on clean-living guys named Jared. Just because I’m not a Mormon doesn’t mean I don’t like them.
Take Oscar Whitman, for example. Oscar is a Mormon. He’s a witty, athletic, clean-cut kid like me, and that’s probably why he became my best friend, despite the fact he’s a Mormon.
I first met Osc in sophomore English—he sat behind me—and we got to know each other so well in football (he ran, I blocked) and in basketball (he shot, I rebounded) that by the end of our sophomore year, we were best friends.
The first year I knew him, he never said two words about church stuff. And I wouldn’t have known he was a Mormon if he hadn’t refused to join a bunch of us for some Sunday hoops.
“Sunday basketball wouldn’t go over too well with my dad,” Osc told me. “He’s the bishop of my ward.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You’re a Mormon?”
“Yeah, is that bad?”
“No, it’s just that, well, I never figured you were one of them, that’s all.”
Osc just smiled.
One afternoon about two weeks ago, Osc and I were eating lunch together in the cafeteria. Just before we finished, he said, “Hey, Jared, I talked to Carol Lunt yesterday at church.”
“Carol Lunt?” I nearly choked. “You mean she’s Mormon too?” Carol Lunt, the most beautiful girl in the junior class, occupied the seat in front of me in math. For three months I had been trying to get up enough courage to ask her out.
“Yeah, she’s one of us. Anyway, I thought you might be interested because we were talking about you.”
“Great. I suppose you told her what a terrible heathen I am, right?”
He smiled and shook his head. “No, instead of telling her the truth about you, I told her a bunch of baloney about what a clean-cut, hard-working, nice dude you are. And you know what was really weird? I think she believed everything I said.”
My stomach, or maybe it was my heart, turned a back flip.
“Anyway,” Osc continued, “I told her she and Marie Allen—you know Marie, don’t you?—ought to go out with some of us sometime.”
“And what’d she do, throw up right then and there?”
“No, she said it sounded like fun. You want me to go ahead and set it up? I mean, can you handle going out with a bunch of Mormons?”
“Well, I’m already used to you, and I suppose I can put up with a couple more for a few hours—especially if one of them is Carol Lunt.”
Osc and Carol planned the big event. They weren’t letting me in on anything. All Osc would say was that it was going to be “steak night” so I should bring extra money and “not dress like a slob.”
Saturday night, Osc picked each of us up and drove us to the Porter House, the largest, most popular steak restaurant in town. As we pulled into its parking lot, the aroma of charbroiled beef wafted into my open window and made my mouth water. It was going to be a great night.
Osc and I both ordered the Porter House special. Carol wanted filet mignon, and Marie ordered salisbury steak. After the waitress had taken our orders, Marie said, “Did you hear what Brother Craig did at Mutual last week?” Osc and Carol shook their heads. “He found out that last month it was the teachers from the Fourth Ward who started playing basketball in the cultural hall before our Relief Society was finished.”
Osc and Carol listened with interest, but I had no idea what Marie was talking about. She was speaking English, but most of it didn’t make a bit of sense to me.
“Well,” she continued, “one of their basketballs bounced right onto the table that held all the cakes the women had made in their cake-decorating lesson and smashed almost all of them.”
“Oh, man,” said Osc, “I bet Sister Hansen went nuts.”
Marie nodded. “She tried to make the boys stop, but they just grabbed the ball and ran out of the cultural hall, tracking frosting all over the building.”
“So that’s where all that mess came from,” said Carol.
“Right,” nodded Marie.
Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Wait a minute; wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Will somebody please explain what in the world you’re talking about?”
“Church stuff, Jared,” said Osc.
“I figured that much, but I never knew Mormons had nuns and monks.”
“Huh?” we said in unison.
“Nuns and monks. You know, sisters and brothers.”
Marie giggled and Carol tried to hide her grin behind her napkin.
“Don’t be such a Gentile,” said Osc. “We’re talking about people in our ward. Mormons call each other brother and sister. Like Carol, she’s Sister Lunt. Marie is Sister Allen, and to them I’m Brother Whitman. Understand?”
“Okay, I get it,” I said. “But I don’t understand what a bunch of teachers were doing in a cultural hall playing basketball. Imagine what would happen if some faculty members got caught dribbling a basketball in the school auditorium?”
Osc sighed. “A cultural hall is a Mormon gym.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. And teachers aren’t teachers. They’re 14- and 15-year-old guys who have the Aaronic Priesthood.”
“Give me a break. High school guys have the priesthood in your church?”
“Sure,” said Osc. “I’m a priest.”
“Oh, really, Father Whitman? Where’s your collar?”
“Come on, Jared. Not a Catholic priest. It’s different with Mormons.” He looked at Carol who was biting her lower lip to keep from laughing. “Sister Lunt, would you mind translating our Mormon talk for Jared tonight? I’m not getting through to him.”
“Sure, Brother Whitman, I’ll be glad to.”
Our dinner arrived and interrupted the conversation. It took us nearly an hour to work our way through the steaks, baked potatoes, salads, and vegetables. But dinner was fantastic, and not because I was sitting in front of the largest and most delicious steak I had ever seen. Osc, Carol, and Marie were great company, too, even if they were Mormons.
While the waitress was clearing away the remains of our feast, Marie and Carol excused themselves so they could go make themselves even more beautiful for part two of the double date.
“Great meal, Osc. This is a blast,” I said, after they’d left.
“Hey, what else could you expect from your best friend?”
“So what’s next,” I inquired.
Osc slid a toothpick into his mouth. “I told you this was a steak night, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, and we’ve had our steaks. Now what?”
“Another steak,” was his reply.
“No way, man. I can’t eat another bite. I thought we’d be going to a movie or something.”
He shook his head. “Nope. Carol and I planned this. It’s steak night all the way.”
When the girls came back, we paid our bill, left the restaurant, and drove until we came to a large building. “This is the place, guys,” said Osc, as he pulled into the crowded parking lot.
I couldn’t believe it. These guys had led me into a Mormon trap! “Hold it,” I said. “I’m not going to church with you. Osc, you said this was going to be a steak night.”
“Yeah, a steak dinner and a stake dance. This building is a stake—s-t-a-k-e—center, Jared, and there’s a dance here tonight.”
“Oh, a dance.” I blushed for doubting my friends. “Sorry I panicked, but I figured you guys were dragging me to some sort of religious revival. Let me guess. The dance is in the cultural hall.”
Osc chuckled and Carol said, “Very good, Jared. You’re finally getting the hang of Mormon-talk.”
I wasn’t sure what to expect from my first Mormon dance. Waltzes, maybe. Or if it was really wild, a square dance. But the music coming through the door of the cultural hall sounded familiar enough, and the few kids I saw in the lobby looked like regular kids.
On the inside, though, it didn’t look like any dance I’d ever seen before. The first thing I noticed were the lights—they were still on. They weren’t glaring bright, but they were on. And the music was different too. At most school dances, the music’s loud enough to pry the floorboards loose; this music was loud, but not enough to melt anybody’s eardrums.
As it turned out, we danced every dance that night, and I had the time of my life. After it was over, Osc drove us all home. When he got to my house, the first stop, he parked the car, turned around from the front seat, handed Carol a shopping bag, and said, “Go ahead, Carol.”
She reached into the bag and pulled out two packages, each wrapped in the Sunday comics. “These are mementos of tonight,” she said, handing one to Marie and one to me.
“The finishing touch on steak night,” Osc added. “And yours has something special inside, Jared. You just can’t open it until you get home.”
I said good night and went inside. I went straight to my bedroom and opened the package. Inside was an aluminum tent stake with “Steak-Stake Night” written on one side in light red nail polish and “Group Date #1” written on the other side. Also in the wrapping was a navy-blue paperback book, the Book of Mormon. I propped the stake up among the trophies on top of my dresser and flopped down on my bed to look at the book my friends had given me.
Pasted inside the front cover was a photo of the three of them taken at one of those instant photo booths. Under the photo was a message Osc had written:
Dear Jared,
This book contains the precious truths of the gospel of Jesus Christ, and it’s a book that each one of us has studied and read. We know it’s true, and we know its principles are the keys to happiness, not only in this life, but in the life to come. As your friends, we hope you’ll read it, think about it, and pray about it. If some parts are difficult to understand, we’ll be glad to explain them to you or find someone who can. We know if you’ll read and pray about this book, you’ll learn for yourself that it’s true.
Your Mormon friends,Oscar, Carol, and Marie
I closed the book and lay on my bed thinking about the three of them. Oscar, Carol, and Marie were special people, some of the best I’d ever known. I wondered what made them that way. Whatever it was, I was glad to have friends like them, friends who cared enough about me to share something that was obviously very important to them.
It was getting late, so I put the Book of Mormon on my desk and started getting ready for bed. Tomorrow I’d start reading that book to see if I could find out what makes it—and my friends—so special.

Upon his arrival in the mission field, a new missionary sat with me as we discussed his duties and responsibilities and the discipline they would require of him. As I outlined what was expected of him, he stopped me: “Just a minute, President Backman. There’s something you ought to know. I’m stupid.”

Being determined to demonstrate to him the great capacity for service he possessed as a son of God, and to awaken in him a realization of his unique mission on earth, I assigned him to a senior companion who really worked him hard, pressing him to learn, grow, and serve, despite his professed weakness. In addition, I kept pressuring him to the point that his district leader wrote me in a report that the new missionary intended to punch me in the nose the next time I toured the mission.

Within weeks my wife and I made a final tour of the mission before we were released. I took the opportunity to sit down privately with each missionary so I could express my love and confidence in him. The new missionary’s turn came. I closed the door of the room behind him, removed the glasses I was wearing, and said, “If it will make you feel any better, elder, go right ahead and punch me in the nose.” For a moment, I thought he was going to do what he had threatened to do. Instead, he fell into my arms crying. I then had one of those precious moments when I shared with him my knowledge and understanding of his divine potential and his capacity to love and serve his fellow beings. As we concluded our discussion, I remarked that if he wanted to make me happy, he would come to my office in Salt Lake City in about two years and tell me he had finished his mission.

We had been home from our mission about two years when I looked up from my office desk one morning to see a grinning face peering through the door. It was my missionary. Without any word of greeting , he declared, “President, I finished my mission!”

I was so proud of him!

Illustration by Joshua Dennis
I joined the Church before my 21st birthday. I felt a strong desire to serve a mission, but I was in difficult circumstances. Because my father had left us, I was financially supporting my mother and three younger brothers. Almost all my money went to my family. At that time you needed at least £500 (U.S. $660) before applying for a mission. After two years of saving, I still had only £250.
Financial setbacks occurred one after another. My younger brother got into trouble and was fined £240. My family was asking me to lend him the money—almost all I had. It seemed like a choice between a mission and my brother, even though he promised to pay me back when he could. I wrestled with it and sought counsel from my bishop. He advised me to help my brother. I followed his advice and paid the fine. I knew it was the right thing to do, but I was desperate to be able to go on a mission.
I thought it would take years to save the money again, but through humble prayer, I received impressions about the future. The Spirit told me not to expect my brother to pay me back and that I would go on my mission the following year. It had taken two years to save the money I’d given to my brother, but the Lord was telling me I would have twice that by the end of the year.
I was doubtful but continued on, and every week for the next 10 weeks, a miracle occurred. A young single adult in the ward heard how I had given away my mission fund and gave me £100 for my mission. The next week another young adult gave me £100 for the same reason. I was humbled and started to repent for my unbelief.
Later, my employer was asking for voluntary redundancies (a financial incentive to employees who voluntarily resign). I volunteered but did not expect to be let go, as they had invested a lot of money in my training. My manager asked why I wanted to be laid off, so I explained about my mission. He gave me a pay raise backdated for several weeks and accepted my submission for redundancy. He also gave me a bonus in my leaving package.
I found temporary work, which turned into a full-time job after two weeks. They also offered me weekend overtime. I accepted every Saturday. I submitted my mission papers shortly thereafter and was called to serve in the England London Bristol Mission. I had saved £2,500 in less than a year. I literally received 10 times the amount I had given away. In Luke 6:38 it reads: “Give, and it shall be given unto you; good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and running over, shall men give into your bosom. For with the same measure that ye mete withal it shall be measured to you again.”
I know I was blessed for my obedience and faith in following my bishop’s counsel.

One of my students wrote of her service to 93-year-old Alma Nielson:

Alma lives alone, is 93 years old, and is nearly . . . blind. His wife died just one year ago, and his son, his nearest relative, is 65 years old and lives in Salt Lake. . . . A month ago I started taking a tape recorder with me [on my daily] visits with Alma and recording the stories he told me, without him knowing. I had hoped to transcribe the tapes in time to present them to him in book form for Christmas, with copies for his grandchildren. As the semester drew to a close, I realized that the time required to prepare the history before Christmas was much greater than the time I had available, since I work in addition to going to school. This final provided a way not only for me to complete the work but to solicit the help of my group members in making the book look good and flow well. . . . [We] took the book over to Alma yesterday and read it to him. He cried. He is very excited to be able to pass these stories on to his grandchildren.

I grew up as a Christian. Even though my family was never religious, my father always taught me to act upon what I know to be true.
In my early teen years I went through many trials. Back surgery, my parents’ divorce, my mother’s illness, and caring for a younger sister left me bitter and cynical. Then a few months before I turned 15, I came into contact with missionaries. Elder Johnson and Elder Chadwick taught me about the gospel.
I read the Book of Mormon, but I didn’t want to make the changes the elders asked me to. I told them the changes were too much and almost told them to leave me alone. I looked up as I spoke those words and met Elder Chadwick’s eye. A single tear rolled down his cheek, and I have never felt so ashamed. I told them I would call them the next day.
I went home from church and finished reading the Book of Mormon for the first time. Then I knelt down, which I had never done before, and asked God if it was true. I’d never asked God a question before. I was so afraid of changing. After I said “amen,” a feeling of calm and peace came over me. I knew I had a Heavenly Father who loved me, I knew the Book of Mormon was true, and I knew I could change.
Ten days later I was baptized. Both of my parents came to my baptism. Although I’m still the only member in my family, I have faith that one day they too will kneel and ask God. I’m reading the Book of Mormon for the eighth time now, and it’s as wonderful as the first time. I know that the Book of Mormon is true. It has the power to change people.

When I was a young boy, my parents received a gift that became fascinating to my younger brother David and me. The gift was a miniature model of the golden plates the Prophet Joseph Smith received from the angel Moroni. As I recall, the model plates had 10 or so metal pages with words written on them. However, those pages weren’t what caught our attention.
We had been raised hearing the stories of the Restoration. We knew of and had sung in Primary about golden plates hidden deep in a mountainside and delivered by the angel Moroni to Joseph Smith. As the curiosity of our young minds stirred, there was one thing we really wanted to see: what was written on the small section of the model plates securely sealed with two small metal bands?
The plates sat on an end table for several days before our curiosity got the best of us. Although we clearly understood that these were not the actual plates Moroni had delivered, we wanted to view the sealed portion. So on several occasions, my brother and I tried using butter knives, old spoons, and anything else we could imagine to pry apart the sealed portion of the plates just enough to see what they contained—but not enough to break the small bands. We were at least smart enough not to leave a trace of our mischievous boyhood curiosity. To our disappointment and frustration, these attempts to “pry at the plates” were always unsuccessful.
I still don’t know what—if anything—was hidden under that sealed portion. But the embarrassing part of our story is that to this day, I have no idea what was written on the portion of the metal pages that was meant to be read. I can only imagine that these pages contained stories of the Restoration and testimonies of Joseph Smith and the Three and Eight Witnesses, who saw the actual plates Moroni delivered.
Knowing the diligent nature of my younger brother, I imagine it very likely that he read all the words written on the model plates in our parents’ home. I, however, ignored those plain and precious truths and instead exerted my effort searching for those things that were not meant to be revealed.

Such was my experience as pertains to President George H. Watson, who today serves as first counselor in the Naperville Illinois Stake presidency.
Brother Watson wrote a letter to me, never mailed, dated 3 October 1978, which tells of his conversion to the Church and of his baptism, which took place in the summer of 1959 in eastern Canada, where I served as the mission president at that time. I did not receive this letter until this past year, when it was carried to me by Elder John E. Fowler, who discovered its existence while visiting with the Watson family following a stake conference in Naperville. Both Brother Watson and I have some modest reluctance in sharing with you his private letter, but feeling the impression that the account would help to encourage many of you brethren participating in this worldwide priesthood meeting this evening, we shall do so.
I will conclude by reading President Watson’s own words. He wrote:
“Dear Elder Monson:
“This is a letter out of the blue. Its purpose is to thank you for the letters you wrote some twenty years ago—one to me and the other about me—and to let you know the effect they had on my life.
“My name is George Watson. In 1957, at the age of twenty-one, I emigrated from Ireland, where I had grown up, to Canada. The main purpose of going to Canada was to put together sufficient money to do postgraduate work at London University.
“The firm for which I worked was in Niagara Falls, and I found a room at the ridiculously inexpensive cost of $6.00 per week. The only drawback was that I had to drive the landlady—age seventy-three—to church each Sunday in St. Catharines, Ontario.
“I soon found this chore to be very annoying, as she used the twenty-five-minute drive to try to get me to see the missionaries from her church. I resisted this very effectively for better than a year, until one day she told me that there were two young ladies coming to supper, and would I care to join them. It is very difficult to be rude to lady missionaries!
“I did a great deal of thinking over the next few months and decided that although what eleven sets of missionaries were telling me felt right, I would have to give up too much, besides which I was fed up running my landlady to church. In order to stop her asking for the ride, I decided to take her half an hour late on the next Sunday and to go in and sit with her in an open-neck shirt, sneakers, and sports slacks. I thought this would embarrass her and she would not ask me again.
“My plan worked perfectly, except that she was not annoyed at being late, and I made as much impact as a damp squid. We arrived just as the Sunday School was splitting for class. I would not go into class and spent my time talking to a very fine man who was crippled and who ‘understood’ me. As I was to return to Ireland eight days later (July 1959), he suggested that I should join the Church on the Saturday before I left. He was to call and confirm this during the week, but I effectively countered this by not answering the phone all week. On Sunday, after a sleepless night, I phoned him to apologize and was baptized in Hamilton virtually on the way to the airport—knowing that I would never meet any Mormons in Ireland and that the Church would lose track of me.
“I have no idea, President Monson, where you found my address in Ireland, but on the Friday after I returned, I had a letter from you welcoming me into the Church, and on Sunday at 9:00 a.m. there was a knock on the door and a President Lynn stood on the doorstep saying he had had a letter from President Monson in Toronto asking him to watch over me.
“The next few months or years were traumatic. Three meetings on a Sunday were entirely unreasonable; no way would I speak in front of that group; they can’t expect more than 10 percent. Even more traumatic, my girlfriend set out to show me how ridiculous I was. She ended up being baptized.
“We now live in Illinois with three wonderful children. I often sit and ponder why the Lord has blessed us so greatly. We have all had reason to feel His sustaining hand in difficult times.
“Although it is unlikely that we will ever meet, I would like to very sincerely thank you for taking the trouble to write those two letters. They have completely changed the course of our lives. I am grateful for the knowledge of the Savior’s purpose in coming to earth, my relationship to Him, and what He expects of me. The courage and steadfastness of Joseph Smith, the Prophet, and the knowledge that he imparted to us will always be a source of inspiration to me. I am thrilled at the opportunity of serving in the Lord’s Church.
“May the Lord continue to bless you in His work, and thank you for the effect you have had on my life.”
“[signed] George Watson”
This past Christmas, when George Watson and his beloved Chloe came to Salt Lake City to visit two of their children and a son-in-law, they came to my office, that we might formally meet. They expressed their testimonies and again conveyed their thanks for all who had participated in this human drama, this miracle in our time. Tears flowed, prayers were offered, and gratitude conveyed.
It was an appropriate season of the year for our visit together, when all Christendom pauses for a brief moment and remembers Him—even Jesus Christ—who died that we might have eternal life. He who notes the fall of the sparrow surely orchestrated the search-and-rescue mission that brought the Watson family to His fold. May we ever be found in His service and on His errand is my humble prayer, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.