Gospel Story Finder

I remember the occasion more than 70 years ago when, as a missionary, I was speaking in an open-air meeting in Hyde Park, London. As I was presenting my message, a heckler interrupted to say, “Why don’t you stay with the doctrine of the Bible which says in John, ‘God is a Spirit’?”

I opened my Bible to the verse he had quoted and read to him the entire verse:

“God is a Spirit: and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth” (John 4:24).

I said, “Of course God is a spirit, and so are you in the combination of spirit and body that makes of you a living being, and so am I.”

Each of us is a dual being of spiritual entity and physical entity. All know of the reality of death when the body dies, and each of us also knows that the spirit lives on as an individual entity and that at some time, under the divine plan made possible by the sacrifice of the Son of God, there will be a reunion of spirit and body. Jesus’s declaration that God is a spirit no more denies that He has a body than does the statement that I am a spirit while also having a body.

I do not equate my body with His in its refinement, in its capacity, in its beauty and radiance. His is eternal. Mine is mortal. But that only increases my reverence for Him. I worship Him “in spirit and in truth.”

One warm evening during the past summer months Sister Ashton and I enjoyed a professional baseball game. During the early part of the competition our attention was diverted from the action by a late arriver. As he walked by, he spotted me and asked, “Who’s losing?” I responded with, “Neither one.” Following my answer, I noticed that he glanced at the right-field scoreboard, saw the game wasn’t tied, and walked on, undoubtedly wondering about me.
Seconds after he made his way to a distant seat, Sister Ashton said, “He doesn’t know you very well, does he?” “What makes you say that?” I replied. She responded with, “If he did, he would know you don’t believe anyone is losing. Some are ahead and some are behind, but no one is losing. Isn’t that right?” I smiled in approval with a warm feeling inside.

In 1812 William Deere set out for England to buy woolen cloth for his tailor shop. As he waited for his ship to sail, he wrote a letter to his youngest child, eight-year-old John. “Take good care of your mother,” he wrote. It was the last word anyone had from him, for he died during the voyage.
Young John Deere and his sister and brothers helped their mother in the tailoring shop in Middlebury, Vermont. John didn’t forget his father’s last words. He bought thread, buttons, and hooks at the store and ran other errands for his mother. He polished her steel needles in a small, strawberry-shaped cushion filled with emery powder.
John saw how hard his mother worked to support them by making clothes for people, and he planned a surprise for her. In secret he got a job grinding bark for a tanner. It was hard work, but John was determined. His blue eyes sparkled as he stood at last before his mother, wearing his pay—a new suit of clothes and a pair of shoes!

It was after the couple’s marriage, in the late 1970s, that Elder Bednar received a long-hoped-for phone call. It was his father asking him to come home to California to perform a baptism—his own.
“I honestly believe that’s why I was born. Not to teach [my father], but to assist him in learning about the restored gospel,” Elder Bednar says.
His father was an honest, straightforward man. He attended church with young David all his life, coached the softball team, and took Scouts on trips. He supported Elder Bednar’s decision to serve a mission to Germany. He told his young son, “I’ll join this Church when I know it’s the right thing to do” (see Summit, 1997, 9–10).
The years since then have held many unforgettable moments, many from his experiences with Church callings. At age 30, Elder Bednar was called as a member of a stake presidency in Arkansas. He then served as a bishop, twice as a stake president, and later as a regional representative, Area Authority, and Area Authority Seventy.
On 1 October, President Gordon B. Hinckley extended an apostolic call to Elder Bednar, less than 24 hours before he was sustained by Church members throughout the world.
“I think I know better than anyone that within The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints there are literally hundreds and thousands of men better qualified, more able than I,” he says, “but I do know from whence the call has come. And so I’m honored to respond. I look forward to serving, and I’m anxious for the opportunity to be able to learn.”

Band class was ending. Miss Strand, my teacher, said, “Remember that chair tests are tomorrow.”
Miss Strand used chair tests to decide which order we sat in. Each band member played for the whole class, and the one who played each instrument the best sat “first chair” for that instrument.
But I wasn’t too worried. I had been first chair in the clarinets ever since I started playing last year. I had a perfect record.
“Are you nervous?” my friend Jason asked me. Jason had started learning the clarinet at the same time I had. He had always been second chair.
“Not really,” I answered.
“I’m going to go home and practice,” he said. “I’m not ready for the test yet.”
I don’t need to practice, I thought as we packed up our instruments. I’ve been first chair all year.
After school I did my homework and played with my friends. I didn’t even think about the test.
Before I knew it, I was in class the next day and Miss Strand was saying, “Let’s start the chair tests with the clarinets.”
I was a little nervous as I played—I wasn’t as prepared as I thought I was. But when I finished, I was sure that I would be first chair again.
When all of the clarinet players had finished, Miss Strand announced the test results.
“First chair: Jason. Second chair: Darcie …” Miss Strand continued, but I had stopped listening. I was second chair! I looked up at her in shock, and I realized she was waiting for me to move.
Slowly I switched chairs with Jason. I felt my face turning red, and I blinked hard to keep my tears back. My perfect record was gone!
“You did a good job,” Jason said. I just nodded. If I spoke, I was afraid I would burst into tears.
When I got home from school, I ran straight to my room and cried.
Mom came in and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Jason got first chair today,” I sobbed. “How am I supposed to be the best clarinet player now?”
Mom hugged me. “Did you practice last night?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
Mom looked at me and asked, “Do you think you would have played better if you had practiced?”
I nodded. Mom was right. I hadn’t practiced, but Jason had. He had been more prepared for the test.
Mom continued, “Even if you had practiced hard and still gotten second chair, that would be OK. Being in band is not about being the best; it’s about doing your best. You shouldn’t worry if you’re doing the best you can do.”
The next day Miss Strand started class by saying, “I want you all to know that I’m proud of you. You are all working hard so that our band can play beautiful music. Our band sounds great when everyone works hard together.”
Miss Strand’s words made me feel a little better about sitting second chair. I should want all the band members to do their best so the band can keep getting better and better, I thought.
I smiled at Jason. He looked happy to be first chair. I realized that I really wanted him to play well too.
It was OK if I was a not-so-perfect clarinetist. It didn’t matter where I sat as long as I was doing my best.

After spending most of the winter and spring on missionary journeys to Canada, “Elder Young,” as he was now often called, along with Heber C. Kimball, responded to the revelation the Prophet had received calling the Saints to gather at Kirtland. Apparently some of the others who gathered there had difficulty finding the right kind of employment or in getting paid on time, so, contrary to counsel, they went off to surrounding towns for the winter. But as Brigham later remembered, “I told them I had gathered to Kirtland because I was so directed by the Prophet of God, and I … was going to stay here and seek the things that pertained to the kingdom of God by listening to the teachings of his servants, and I should work for my brethren and trust in God and them that I would be paid.”9

I love to read books that show temples from around the world. When I had a friend ask me about temples, I knew that my explanation wasn’t enough to help her understand. So I brought my books on temples and showed her what the temple is, the purpose of the temple, and how thankful we are to visit the temple. I decided to invite her to church on Sunday, where the missionaries and Sunday School teachers could help her learn more.
Jessica A., age 18, Indonesia

One day following my shift at the Idaho Falls Idaho Temple, I volunteered to take two brethren to their car, which had stalled on the highway just south of Idaho Falls, Idaho, USA. A kindly couple had stopped during that bitter-cold December day and brought Brother Thompson and Brother Clark the remaining distance to the temple.
Brother Thompson was convinced that his car needed a new battery. I took him to purchase the battery at a nearby automotive shop, and because I had tools in my car, I agreed to change it.
Fortunately I had brought a new pair of gloves and my winter jacket. Pulling the car’s hood up, I prepared to remove the dead battery and replace it with the new one.
To change the battery, I had to disassemble and move several car parts, including the windshield washer reservoir. I soon found that my tools would not fit all of the metric-sized bolts and several screws would not even budge. I used different tools and tried different positions, but nothing moved. The temperature outside was around 5 degrees Fahrenheit (-15°C), and the semitrucks whizzing by created wind gusts that were bitter cold. I had reached a cold, frustrating impasse.
I turned to the only help available. I prayed earnestly, explaining my need to Heavenly Father and asking if He would either loosen the bolts and screws or help me find a way to do it. Finishing my prayer, I again grabbed a pair of pliers and grasped a resisting screw. It was already loose! Silently and fervently expressing thanks, I removed the screw and continued.
Soon I found a frustrating, resisting bolt deeper in the car. Again, completely stymied, I prayed more earnestly for help, doing so with growing trust. This time I felt directed to remove some deeper bolts first and then twist the battery brace, which I did. The resisting bolt moved easily. In a few moments I pulled out the old battery.
I slid the new battery in and with numb fingers reassembled all the parts as best as I could. I then reattached the electrical cables. Brother Thompson turned the key and smiled broadly as the engine started. I gratefully closed the hood. I had been outside for about an hour, and my lower legs and feet were numb as I stiffly stumbled into my car.
I followed Brother Thompson and Brother Clark home to ensure their safe arrival. As I drove, my car’s heater felt lovely, and my legs and feet slowly warmed. I thanked Heavenly Father profusely for His help. In return I was impressed to know that He had answered the prayer of these brethren by sending me as His servant. In His wonderful way He had provided for their need and reaffirmed my faith.

In many ways, Ricardo has already begun his missionary service. “He was an example to me because he always went to church,” says Ricardo’s grandmother, Mavila Ruiz Cárdenas. For several years she had listened to the missionaries who came to visit with the family. And all the while Ricardo was there: sitting in and listening to the discussions, faithfully attending church each Sunday, even teaching his grandmother the hymns.
When he was eight years old and attending church by himself, he had not felt prepared for baptism. But, says Ricardo, “when my grandmother said she was ready to be baptized, then I was sure I was ready also.” So when Ricardo was 10, he and his grandmother were baptized on the same day.

When I was a young man, I was a home teacher to a very old sister. She taught me from her life experience.

When she was a little girl, President Brigham Young came to Brigham City, a great event in the town named after him. To honor him, the Primary children, all dressed in white, were lined up along the road coming into town, each with a basket of flowers to spread before the carriage of the President of the Church.

Something displeased her. Instead of throwing her blossoms, she kicked a rock in front of the carriage, saying, “He ain’t one bit better than my Grandpa Lovelund.” That was overheard, and she was severely scolded.

I am very sure that President Brigham Young would be the first to agree with little Janie Steed. He would not consider himself to be worth more than Grandpa Lovelund or any other worthy member of the Church.

“What a day,” Tyler thought as he finished reading his basketball book and got out of bed to kneel for his evening prayer.
“You did a good job today,” Alicia told him as she peeked her head into his room on her way to bed. Tyler was glad she said it, but he didn’t feel he had made any big decision. Sure, he had made a good choice, but it came so naturally that it didn’t really feel like much of a choice at all.
The day had started out like a normal Saturday. Tyler walked a block to the neighborhood playground where there were always kids to play with. Some days he played soccer, some days he played basketball, and other days he just played tag.
When Tyler got to the park, he saw a few boys huddled in the little red clubhouse near the jungle gym.
When Tyler crawled inside, he saw Anthony, Marcus, and Stephen—all boys he had played with before. He started talking with them about things like video games and what their Halloween costumes were going to be.
Then Anthony pulled out a folded-up piece of paper. “Hey, guys. Look at this picture of a girl I took from one of my dad’s magazines,” he said.
Marcus and Stephen moved behind Anthony to see the picture. Tyler didn’t move.
“Whoa!” Marcus said. His eyes got as big as marbles.
Stephen’s cheeks turned red. He slapped his hand over his open mouth and started to laugh. Anthony and Marcus laughed too.
A chill ran up Tyler’s back. He knew the picture was something he should not look at. He turned toward the door and crawled out of the clubhouse.
Anthony crawled out after him.
“Tyler, come look at this!” Anthony said.
“No,” Tyler answered. “I don’t look at those kinds of pictures.”
“Why not?” Anthony said. His voice was so loud Tyler could hear it echo off the hills behind the playground. “Are you scared?”
The other boys laughed.
Anthony ran toward Tyler. As he got closer, Tyler saw Anthony’s hand moving upward. Tyler closed his eyes. He felt the paper brush against his face.
“Come on, look!” Anthony said as he laughed. “Look!”
Tyler jerked his head away from the paper. It didn’t matter to him how much he was teased or how much the other boys laughed. He knew he should not look.
So he ran.
Tyler ran from one side of the playground to the other, but Anthony was right behind him, holding up the picture and laughing.
Because Tyler’s home was nearby, he knew the best way to get Anthony to stop chasing him was to run home. As Tyler began to run home, he saw something he had not noticed before. His sister, Alicia, was standing by the swings. As he ran past her, she turned toward Anthony.
“Leave him alone!” she yelled. Anthony, who was already slowing down, stopped and walked back to the playground.
When Tyler ran through his front door, he made his way to the living room and crashed on the couch. Alicia walked in a few minutes later. “Don’t worry about those guys,” she said. “You did great.”
As Tyler lay in bed thinking about what had happened to him that day, he started to realize why not looking at the picture had been an easy choice for him. Tyler had already learned that he should not look at immodest pictures. Maybe today was the first time anyone had tried to show him a bad picture, but he had already made up his mind a long time ago.

I would like to say something about the last wagon in each of the long wagon trains that toiled slowly over the plains, up mountain defiles, down steep, narrow canyons, and out into the valley floor that was to be home—this last wagon: last, because the ox team that pulled it was the smallest and leanest and weakest, and had the tenderest feet of any in the train; it was slow starting, and slow moving; last, because worn and creaking, it took more time to fix and to grease, for young Jimmy generally had trouble in getting the wagon jack under the “ex”; last, because its wind-rent cover was old and patched and took hours to mend and tie up to keep out the storm; last, because the wife, heavy with child, must rest till the very moment of starting; last, because sickly little Bill, the last born, poorly nourished, must be washed and coaxed to eat the rough food, all they had; last, because with all his tasks—helping little Bill, cooking and cleaning up the breaksfast,—Mother was not able to help much—Father took a little longer to yoke his cattle and to gird himself for the day’s labor; last, because his morning prayers took a few more minutes than the others spent—he had so many blessings to thank the Lord for and some special blessings to ask the Lord to grant, blessings of health and strength, especially for his wife, and for little Bill, and for the rest, and then the blessings for himself that his own courage would not fail, but most of all for the blessing of faith, faith in God and in the Brethren who sometimes seemed so far away. For they were out in front where the air was clear and clean and where they had unbroken vision of the blue vault of heaven. The Brethren had really visioned the glory of the Lord, who walked near them, put his thoughts into their minds; his spirit guided and directed them, petitioned thereto by the thousands of Saints who were back in Winter Quarters, back in Iowa, back in the States, and beyond, even across the waters, for the faithful poured out their souls in fervent prayer to Almighty God that the Brethren should be inspired. The Saints buoyed up the Brethren out in front with encouragement, with praise, and sometimes even with adulation. Knowing the Brethren were prophets of God, the Saints gave them full confidence, daily, almost hourly, expressed. The Brethren lived in a world of commendation from friends and the tried and true Saints. Rarely was their word or their act questioned by the faithful Saints. This was as it should be and had to be to carry out the Lord’s purposes.

But back in the last wagon, not always could they see the Brethren way out in front, and the blue heaven was often shut out from their sight by heavy, dense clouds of the dust of the earth. Yet day after day, they of the last wagon pressed forward, worn and tired, footsore, sometimes almost disheartened, borne up by their faith that God loved them, that the restored gospel was true, and that the Lord led and directed the Brethren out in front. Sometimes, they in the last wagon glimpsed, for an instant, when faith surged strongest, the glories of a celestial world, but it seemed so far away, and the vision so quickly vanished, because want and weariness and heartache and sometimes discouragement were always pressing so near. When the vision faded, their hearts sank. But they prayed again and pushed on, with little praise, with not too much encouragement, and never with adulation. For there was nearly always something wrong with the last wagon or with its team—the off ox was a little lame in the right front shoulder; the hub of the left front wheel was often hot; the tire of the hind wheel on the same side was loose. So corrective counsel, sometimes strong reproof, was the rule, because the wagon must not delay the whole train.

But yet in the last wagon there was devotion and loyalty and integrity, and above and beyond everything else, faith in the Brethren and in God’s power and goodness. For had not the Lord said that “not even a sparrow falleth unnoticed by the Father, and were they not of more value than sparrows?” And then they had their testimony burning always like an eternal fire on a holy altar, that the restored gospel was true, and that Joseph was a prophet of God, and that Brigham was Joseph’s chosen successor.

When the train moved forward in the early morning sun and the oxen with a swinging pull that almost broke the tongue got that last wagon on the move, the dust in the still morning air hung heavy over the road. Each wagon from the first stirred up its own cloud, till when the last wagon swung into line, that dust was dense and suffocating. It covered the last wagon and all that was in it; it clung to clothes; it blackened faces; it filled eyes already sore, and ears. The wife, soon to be a mother, could hardly catch her breath in the heavy, choking dust, for even in the pure air she breathed hard from her burden. Each jolt of the wagon, for those ahead had made wagon ruts almost “ex” deep, wrung from her clenched lips a half-groan she did her best to keep from the ears of the anxious, solicitous husband plodding slowly along, guiding and goading the poor dumb cattle, themselves weary from the long trek. So through the long day of jolting and discomfort and sometimes pain, sometimes panting for breath, the mother, anxious only that the unborn babe should not be injured, rode, for she could not walk; and the children walked, for the load was too heavy and big for them to ride; and the father walked sturdily alongside and prayed.

When in the evening the last wagon creaked slowly into its place in the circle corral, and the Brethren came to inquire how the day had gone with the mother, then joy leaped in their hearts, for had not the Brethren remembered them? New hope was born, weariness fled, fresh will to do was enkindled; gratitude to God was poured out for their knowledge of the truth, for their testimony that God lived, that Jesus was the Christ, that Joseph was a prophet, that Brigham was his ordained successor, and that for the righteous a crown of glory awaited that should be theirs during the eternities of the life to come. Then they would join in the songs and dancing in the camp, making the camp’s gaiety their own, as much as Mother’s condition would permit.

Then the morning came when from out that last wagon floated the la-la of the newborn babe, and mother love made a shrine, and Father bowed in reverence before it. But the train must move on. So out into the dust and dirt the last wagon moved again, swaying and jolting, while Mother eased as best she could each pain-giving jolt so no harm might be done her, that she might be strong to feed the little one, bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh. Who will dare to say that angels did not cluster round and guard her and ease her rude bed, for she had given another choice spirit its mortal body that it might work out its God-given destiny?

My mother was one of those babes so born in 1848, ninety-nine years ago.

Another morning came, when courageous little Bill, who, with a hero’s heart, had trudged through long days of hot sun and through miles of soggy mud in the rain, his little body drenched, little Bill, weak and wan, must be crowded in to ride with Mother, for he was sick from a heavy cold. Months before, on that cold winter’s night when they had fled Nauvoo for their lives to escape the fiendish wrath of a wild mob, Bill became dangerously ill with pneumonia, which left him with weak lungs. This old illness now returned. He grew worse and worse. The elders came and prayed he might get well. But the Lord wanted little Bill with him. So a few mornings later a weeping mother and a grief-stricken father and that last wagon swung into place in the line, leaving beside the road, under some scrub brush a little mound, unmarked save for heaped-up rocks to keep out the wolves, a mound that covered another martyr to the cause of truth.

So through dust and dirt, dirt and dust, during the long hours, the longer days—that grew into weeks and then into months, they crept along till, passing down through its portals, the valley welcomed them to rest and home. The cattle dropped to their sides, wearied almost to death; nor moved they without goading, for they too sensed they had come to the journey’s end.

That evening was the last of the great trek, the mightiest trek that history records since Israel’s flight from Egypt, and as the sun sank below the mountain peaks of the west and the eastern crags were bathed in an amethyst glow that was a living light, while the western mountainsides were clothed in shadows of the rich blue of the deep sea, they of the last wagon, and of the wagon before them, and of the one before that, and so to the very front wagon of the train, these all sank to their knees in the joy of their souls, thanking God that at last they were in Zion. “Zion, Zion, lovely Zion, beautiful Zion, Zion, City of our God.” They knew there was a God, for only he could have brought them triumphant, militant, through all the scorn, the ridicule, the slander, the tarrings and featherings, the whippings, the burnings, the plunderings, the murderings, the ravishings of wives and daughters, that had been their lot, the lot of their people since Joseph visioned the Father and the Son.

One day in August 1989, I was doing my chores when my mother asked me to join her in listening to a message from two sister missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Even though I was only 12 years old, I was interested in what they said. The missionaries asked me to pray about the Book of Mormon and the principles they had taught us. I said I would.
When the sisters returned to give another lesson, my mother had lost interest. But with her permission, I continued to listen to them. The sisters always reminded me to pray and ask Heavenly Father if the things they were teaching me were true. I took this seriously and prayed constantly, but nothing happened.
I attended church twice and liked it very much, but I was still not sure of its truthfulness. I told the sisters I could not be baptized because I had not received an answer of any kind. The sisters merely repeated their invitation to be baptized and asked me to pray with greater fervor.
Again I accepted their challenge and prayed fervently for an entire week. Perhaps because I was so young, I expected to receive a glorious manifestation, such as a dream or a visitation from an angel. Nothing like this happened. Sunday came, and I told myself this was the last time I would go to church.
That day I attended all three meetings, starting with priesthood meeting. Then I went to Gospel Essentials class and finally to sacrament meeting. Right in the middle of sacrament meeting, something indescribably wonderful happened. Something began to burn inside my heart, and I was overcome by a feeling of certainty unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was a simple feeling, but it was clear and sure. It reached deep into my soul and penetrated my whole being. By the end of the meeting, I was a different person. I went to tell the sisters I was ready to be baptized.
I know Heavenly Father hears our prayers when we pray with real intent. He knows us individually, and He knows when the time is right to answer our prayers.

I am reminded of one sister I knew who had married a prospective elder, and their life rolled along. She became conscious of some of her lady friends whose husbands always went with them to Church affairs, sang in the choir together, went to the temple together, and seemed to be happy and content with life. She began to nag her husband: “Why can’t you treat me like other men treat their wives? Why don’t you become more active in the Church?”

It happened that they lived in an active ward where fellowshiping was almost an obsession, and sure enough, the day came when this inactive man caught the total spirit and received much joy in his family and Church activity. The woman who had been so unhappy before was now unhappy with his new dedication and upbraided him: “Why do you have to give all your time and thought to Church work? Why can’t you be like other men are and treat me to a little fun and pleasure?” Her constant nagging finally wore him down, and he reverted again to the inactive status.

Several years ago, I was basically an atheist.
I had been born Catholic, but from my teenage years until I was 25, I felt as though there was a spiritual gap inside of me. I tried attending different churches, but none of them could quite fill the gap. I decided after a while that it would be easier to give up believing in God than it would be to keep trying to find the right church.
I first learned about the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith from a TV program about people who buy and sell antiques and other valuable collectible items. Someone in the episode I was watching had brought a very old copy of the Book of Mormon to sell.
As an expert explained what gave the book value, she told a little bit about the history of the Church and the book. The expert told the host, “This is by far the most valuable book you’ve ever had me appraise.”
I was impressed by the book and the story, so I decided to learn more.
I did some research, and the more I learned about Joseph Smith, the more I respected him and related to him.
I too had been searching for truth and didn’t know where to find it.
I too had attended countless churches in search of the right one and hadn’t found it.
As I was scrolling Facebook later, an ad popped up for a page called “Come unto Christ.” I didn’t think much of it. However, something drew me in, and I soon found myself putting my phone number into the site.
A few months later, I received a phone call from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I didn’t answer.
After a quick Google search, I decided to call the number back. The missionaries who answered explained that they’d gotten my information from the Come unto Christ website, and suddenly everything was clear. I’d unknowingly signed up for information from the very Church that I had been learning about.
I started meeting with missionaries and learning more. The spiritual hole inside of me started to be filled. Around the time I was deciding to get baptized, some Christian friends invited me to one of their church campouts.
During the final sermon on the last day of camp, I prayed for God to confirm to me that the Book of Mormon was true. At that exact moment, a student who was studying to be a pastor pulled out the Book of Mormon and said, “Why don’t we read from this book? This book is all about Jesus Christ and is in line with the Bible.” The crowd went silent. I am convinced that this was an answer to my prayer.
After hearing from that student, I felt the Spirit confirm to me that this book is another testament of Jesus Christ. I was baptized soon after.
Since joining the Church, the spiritual hole inside of me has been filled, and my testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon has only continued to grow.
Heavenly Father has helped me know, through prayer and His Spirit, that this is Jesus Christ’s Church. Honestly, I wish I could’ve known about the Church when I was younger. I love this Church. It truly is the Church of Jesus Christ on the earth today.

In the early days of his mission in Great Britain, a young Elder Gordon B. Hinckley felt considerable discouragement. President Hinckley’s biographer, Sheri Dew, has written:
“After he had taken as much as he felt he could, Elder Hinckley wrote his father that he wasn’t getting anywhere with missionary work, and that he couldn’t see the point in wasting his time and his father’s money. Responding as both father and stake president, Bryant Hinckley sent a reply that was brief and to the point: ‘Dear Gordon, I have your recent letter. I have only one suggestion: forget yourself and go to work.’
“Earlier that day [Elder Hinckley] and his companion had studied the promise recorded in the Gospels: ‘For whosoever will save his life shall lose it; but whosoever shall lose his life for my sake and the gospel’s, the same shall save it’ (Mark 8:35).
“That scripture, combined with his father’s counsel, seared his soul. With the letter in hand, he went into his upstairs bedroom at 15 Wadham Road and got on his knees. As he poured out his heart to the Lord, he promised that he would try to forget himself and lose himself in the Lord’s service. Many years later [President Hinckley] indicated the significance of that series of events: ‘That July day in 1933 was my day of decision. A new light came into my life and a new joy into my heart. The fog of England seemed to lift, and I saw the sunlight. Everything good that has happened to me since then I can trace back to the decision I made that day in Preston’” (Go Forward with Faith, 64).
Elder Gordon B. Hinckley, had “decided to decide.”

When I was a college freshman, I would go with my roommate to visit her 98-year-old great-great-uncle, whom we affectionately called Uncle Joe. He lived alone and was lonely, so we tried to visit him as often as possible. During our visits he would tell us stories about when he lived in Mexico and in several border towns in Arizona, including Nogales.
When my roommate temporarily moved back home, I felt prompted to continue visiting Uncle Joe. He became a close friend, and I visited him until he passed away a year and a half later. I was sad to lose my friend but grateful for the valuable time we had spent together.
As I read this entry, I realized that the Joseph Kleinman who had helped my great-grandmother was Uncle Joe! I felt the Spirit whisper that I had been inspired to continue visiting Uncle Joe as a small thank-you for the kindness he had shown to my great-grandmother and her family.

My parents made family time a priority when my two sisters and I were children. Now that we’re adults, this continues as part of our family culture. The time we spend together is fun and filled with traditions such as races and games, with events including a tortilla toss and bubble-blowing competition.
Growing up, I gained confidence spending time with my family and felt I was vital. I felt my contributions were wanted and needed. However, shortly after I returned from my mission, spending time together changed. The reason: my older sister married a few months before I returned home.
I was happy for her and excited to have a brother for the first time. But I noticed my parents started to treat my younger sister and me differently. I felt that because I was not married, I was pushed aside and treated like a child. Eventually, I spoke with my parents about the changes in our family. We concluded that our individual situations have nothing to do with our worth. Everyone is essential in our family, regardless of age, gender, financial situation, talents, or marital status.
My mind opened to the idea that our Heavenly Father loves and appreciates us as individuals. Heavenly Father wants us to establish and nurture strong family relationships, but our individual worth does not come from our family. Because we are beloved children of God and part of His family, our worth is infinite and eternal. Jesus Christ demonstrated this by giving His life for each of us. (See Doctrine and Covenants 18:10–11.)

“I can remember lying on the floor in my room and crying in the dark, wondering why God made me a ‘dumb child,’” writes 16-year-old Vanessa Wright, of Belmont, Massachusetts, who has struggled most of her life with severe dyslexia. “I was angry inside and very mad at life.”
“But my family saved me,” she continues. Vanessa has an older brother David, an older sister Loree, and parents John and Laraine Wright. “They comforted me night after night while I cried myself to sleep. They prayed with me, we studied the scriptures together, and most important of all they taught me that I am a daughter of Heavenly Father who loves me.
“They also said that everyone has challenges in life, and it is how we deal with them that is the true test,” she says.
“Who would ever have thought that now, in tenth grade, I would be the class president at an all-girls private school? My struggle with a learning disability is going to be with me all my life, but thanks to my family I am a fighter now, and I will not give up. Knowing that the Lord loves me and that my family is behind me, I feel like I can do anything.”
Now that’s inspiring.

Some years ago I was traveling in the Rosario Argentina Mission up in the northern part of Argentina. As we were traveling along the road, we passed a large herd of cattle being moved. The herd was moving peaceably and without difficulty. The herd was quiet. There were no dogs. Out in front leading the herd were three gauchos on horseback, each about fifteen or twenty yards apart. These three horsemen were slumped forward in their saddles, completely relaxed, confident that the herd would follow them. At the rear of the herd was a single rider bringing up the rear. He, too, was slumped forward in his saddle as if he were sleeping. The whole herd moved peacefully, quietly, and was subdued. From that experience it seemed obvious to me that leadership is about three-fourths show-the-way and about one-fourth follow-up.