Gospel Story Finder

Many years ago, my family happily awaited the birth of our son, Randolph “Ray” Gibson. But a routine ultrasound produced a sledgehammer to our hearts.

Ray was diagnosed with hypoplastic left heart syndrome (HLHS), which is a condition where the left side of the heart does not develop properly. Blood cannot circulate for the heart to function, and it is often fatal for the infant.

As our family processed this diagnosis, our friends and family offered prayers for us, family fasts, and outpourings of love and concern. We remained hopeful. Nevertheless, a follow-up test brought more discouraging news: Ray’s HLHS was extremely severe.

Compassionate medical professionals discussed our options with us. To terminate the pregnancy was not a decision we would consider. But we had to balance a wish for our son to live—however faint the odds—against pain he would suffer from attempts to repair his heart. Efforts to keep Ray alive would likely lead to a lifetime of suffering and to death at a very young age.

My wife, Kati, and I prayerfully made a very hard decision. We would greet our son into this world, keep him comfortable, and allow him to die peacefully. Our commitment to the gospel of Jesus Christ and our belief in the plan of salvation helped us make this choice. It was not easy watching our son grow in the womb, knowing his death would occur after birth. We also worried how our two-year-old would deal with meeting a baby brother and then attending his funeral a week later.

We were strengthened by the Lord’s declaration that “little children are holy, being sanctified through the atonement of Jesus Christ” (Doctrine and Covenants 74:7).

Kati and I can attest that the year in which we awaited Ray’s arrival helped us understand the true meaning of a husband and wife cleaving to each other (see Genesis 2:24 and Doctrine and Covenants 42:22). We clung to one another, allowing our love and trust to help us endure. We poured our hearts out to God, asking for strength to go on and to bless our family through this ordeal. Our marriage grew stronger.

Before Ray was born, we found out he was breech. The doctors worried that he would not survive the strain of normal birth, so they performed a C-section delivery. Minutes after the birth, I, along with my bishop and several others, gave Ray a priesthood blessing outside the operating room. During this chaotic, traumatic situation, I uttered several sentences and finished “in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” Ray was then washed, bundled, and taken to his family in the hospital room.

Ray lived for 24 hours and 16 minutes. Family and friends filled the hospital room during the day, holding Ray and loving him. It was a surreal experience—the only day we would have with our son. I treasured holding him, kissing him, and changing his diapers.

The next morning our son died. We held him and loved him fiercely in his final hour.

Paul Hanks gripped the handle of his canvas duffel bag with a sweaty hand and listened to his mother repeat the instructions that she had been drilling into him all week.
“Now, your bus will get to Cheyenne in the middle of the night, and you’ll have to change bus stations there. Just go outside the depot, look across the street, and you’ll be able to see the other depot. Go over there and buy your ticket right away, even though you’ll probably have a couple of hours before your bus leaves, and—”
“You’ll get to Grandma and Grandpa’s in the middle of the morning!” Paul’s two little sisters, who had heard the speech as many times as he had, finished their mother’s sentence in shrill unison.
“Maybe you should send them, too, Rose,” Paul’s father said with a chuckle. “It’s just a bus trip. He’ll be fine.”
“Sure, Mom,” Paul reassured her. “I remember how the rest of us did it when Dad couldn’t go a couple years ago. I’ll be OK.” Then, thoughtfully, he added what he’d been thinking ever since he’d found out that he’d be going to Wyoming by himself for the summer. “You know, I wish I was going by covered wagon or pulling a handcart. All the challenges are gone now. I’m going to be doing in a few hours what the pioneers spent most of a summer doing—and some of them died in the effort.”
“No challenges!” his mother exclaimed. “I’m worried to death about turning a twelve-year-old boy over to an impersonal bus company, and you’re looking for challenges! I suppose you want to hunt buffalo too!”
Paul grinned. “Well, it might keep me from getting bored.”
Before he could continue, a big silver bus pulled up to the curb, and a voice over a loudspeaker announced that it was the bus to Cheyenne and that it was ready to board. Paul hurriedly hugged his sisters and father, gave his mother a quick kiss, and, hopping that he looked more confident than he felt, boarded the bus. As it pulled out of the depot, he waved from a window seat, then settled back to watch the prairie whiz by.
Paul was sound asleep when the bus reached Cheyenne, and the driver had to wake him. But Paul managed to retrieve the big suitcase that he had checked, and he struggled across the street with it and his duffel bag. He bought his ticket, checked his suitcase again, then bought some cookies and a can of pop from a vending machine. He was glad to go back to sleep again on the bus when he was finally headed north.
Paul was tired of sleeping, tired of sitting, and tired of reading, when the bus pulled into a small rural town in northern Wyoming at midmorning. He was glad to see Grandma and Grandpa Hanks waiting for him. They loaded Paul’s baggage into the back of a battered pickup and, amid lots of hugs and questions about his trip and the family, had him sit between them on the seat.
“We have one stop to make before we go home,” Grandpa told Paul. “If you’re going to be my best hand for the summer, you need some irrigation boots and a shovel.”
“That’s great,” Paul agreed. “I’d love to have my own shovel, but not those hot, heavy rubber boots. I brought a couple pairs of old sneakers. I’ll just use those.”
“But your feet will be wet and muddy all the time,” Grandma protested.
“Now you sound like Mom.” Paul grinned. “A little mud never hurt anyone.”
It was after lunch before Paul and Grandpa Hanks left the house to irrigate.
“You drive,” Grandpa told him as they neared the pickup.
“Me? Oh boy!” Paul climbed in proudly, then found it wasn’t as easy as it looked to work the clutch on the old pickup and back up smoothly. He killed the engine a time or two and jerked the pickup so much that Grandpa had to hold his hat with one hand and the dashboard with the other. Maybe it’s a good thing that the pioneers had horses, Paul thought.
“By the time your father was your age, he could drive everything on the place,” Grandpa said. “Why, I started him guiding the truck across the field while I fed hay to the cows off the back of it when he was only eight years old. When we got to the end of the field, he just turned off the ignition key and waited for me to turn the truck around and start us back. It was a proud day when he could reach the brake and the clutch pedals without getting off the seat and when he could shift gears without taking his eyes off the road. You turn here.”
Paul turned the pickup at the head of a grassy field and stopped beside the dam in the irrigation ditch.
“Whew!” he gasped. “That was fun. I’m too young to drive at home. I wish I could live in the country all the time.”
“We’ll see how you feel about that in a few weeks,” Grandpa replied. “Now let’s walk down the field and see if the water has run all the way through.”
Paul took his new shovel and followed Grandpa down the field. He helped reset the irrigation dam twenty rows from the last setting and learned to carefully shovel cutouts. They had to be just so—too deep, and the turbulent water would wash away the sides of the ditch; too shallow, and the feeble stream of water wouldn’t reach the end of the field. After only a few minutes of digging, the shovel handle had made blisters on Paul’s hands. He was hot and thirsty, and there were two more fields to irrigate before chore time. By the time they had finished irrigating, Paul could almost drive the pickup without it jerking.
Grandpa proudly pointed out the various crops that they passed: a new variety of field corn that was supposed to produce superior silage, a field of alfalfa for hay, a field of oats, and a small field of winter wheat. “Wheat for man, and corn for the ox, and oats for the horse,” Grandpa said, quoting the Word of Wisdom scripture that was familiar to Paul too.
“It’ll be a good crop,” Grandpa said, “if the irrigation water just holds out. We’ll have to make the most of what we have.” He pointed out one field where the water that ran through it would be used on the field below it. “Every drop counts.”
Besides irrigating, the chores that Paul was to help with included feeding a few pigs and a couple calves (Grandma tended the chickens), calling the saddle horses in from pasture for grain, watering the stock, and milking and feeding the milk cow. But when Grandpa saw Paul’s broken blisters, he decided to wait a few days to see if Paul remembered how to milk.
When Grandpa asked the blessing at suppertime, he said, “Father in Heaven, we thank Thee for this fine young man who has come to brighten our days and ease our way …”
That night as Paul settled onto the fluffy feather pillow and cool, smooth sheets with the moonlit tree-limb pattern on them, he decided that he had had enough challenges for one day.
In the next few days the blisters on his hands turned into calluses as Paul followed Grandpa and helped irrigate and rode horseback to move a dozen heifers to a different pasture. He carried heavy buckets for Grandma and still found plenty of time to watch the baby chicks and play with a litter of kittens.
On Saturday afternoon, when he and Grandpa went to make the second irrigation settings of the day, Paul counted the rows to where he thought he should move the dam.
“Not there,” Grandpa told him. “Go more than twice as far.” When he saw that Paul didn’t understand, he explained. “Tomorrow is Sunday. If we spread the water farther, it can run over twice as long. We can leave it safely until early Monday. We’ve labored our six days. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a day of rest.”
They were on the last field, setting long sets with small, shallow cutouts, when Paul heard a splash, a sickening snap, and a cry of pain. He turned in time to see Grandpa sliding in the mud with one leg in an unnatural position under him. Paul ran quickly to him. “Grandpa, are you all right?”
Grandpa grimaced and gasped in pain. “My leg is broken. You’ll have to go for help. Tell your grandma to call for the county ambulance—and don’t you let her get all upset! Tell her I’m going to be fine. Looks like you’ll have to do chores by yourself. Can you do it?”
Paul nodded.
“Now go—and be careful.”
Paul put his shovel over his shoulder and ran toward the pickup. At least we can call the paramedics, he thought. What would I have done on the prairie in a handcart company?
As he drove away, Paul realized that the work he had learned to do would now matter very much. He got help for Grandpa, and the family managed the chores until the ambulance came and Grandpa was taken care of. Paul discovered that the “challenges” he had wished for were real enough, and that he was glad to have a warm bed, modern help, and the chance to serve when he was needed.

With so much to see and do at The Ranch, it’s hard to say what was the most memorable part of this youth conference. Perhaps it was Thursday evening’s spiritual activity. It began with an invitation after dinner to take a hayride to a meadow for homemade peach cobbler and whipped cream. It was a perfect day: billowy clouds in a beautiful blue sky. When the young men and women arrived at the meadow, they enjoyed running around in the knee-high grass. And the tall pine trees on the hills that circled the meadow were surpassed only by the spirit of togetherness shared by the youth and adult leaders. When they finished eating, everyone sang songs. Suddenly, three men dressed in white came walking down the hill. As previously planned by the adults, but unknown to the youth, these three men represented the Three Nephites (see 3 Ne. 28).

“It was breathtaking, watching those white figures walk down from the hill,” said Sharon Frazier. “At first, we were all quiet, not knowing what to think. And then we started to sing, ‘I am a Child of God’ as they came closer. They told us that we are a choice generation, and very special spirits reserved especially for this time period.”

The youth were split up in groups, each accompanied by one of the three guests. Each group discussed a beatitude from the Sermon on the Mount (see Matt. 5), then discussed a particular question. One of the questions was, “If you could change something, what would it be?” Norma Nerdin, 15, said, “I’m going to make my Church habits more steady. You know, things like prayer and scripture study. And I need to talk about my problems more. Everybody has difficulties. It’s important that we let others know when we are having a hard time.” Norma said that it was a moment she would remember forever.

Heather Baxter, 16, was in another group. Her question was, “What would make you happy?” “I would want to have a pure testimony,” she said. “If someone asked me if I knew the Church was true, I would be able to know for sure and answer them without having any doubts.

And that’s what it was all about at The Ranch: doing rather than just talking. The results were service rendered and lots of smiles, and a feeling that the high point of Idaho is really at a small ranch outside of Freedom.

David Whitmer lived outside the Church for 50 years following his excommunication—never to return but never to deny his testimony. As the last surviving Witness, he was often interviewed—and often misquoted. To one man who claimed that David had recanted his testimony, he declared:
“That he may understand me now, if he did not then; and that the world may know the truth, I wish now, standing as it were, in the very sunset of life, and in the fear of God, once for all to make this public statement:
“That I have never at any time denied that testimony or any part thereof, which has so long since been published with that Book, as one of the three witnesses.”8
A year before his death in Richmond, Missouri, David responded to two encyclopedias that claimed he and the other Witnesses had denied their testimonies of the Book of Mormon.
He declared: “I will say once more to all mankind, that I have never at any time denied that testimony or any part thereof. I also testify to the world, that neither Oliver Cowdery or Martin Harris ever at any time denied their testimony. They both died affirming the truth of the divine authenticity of the Book of Mormon.”9
Three days before David died, on January 25, 1888, he called his family and his doctor to his bedside. “Doctor, do you consider that I am in my right mind?” he asked. His doctor replied, “Yes, you are in your right mind.”
Then David turned to his family and said: “I want to give you my dying testimony. You must be faithful in Christ. I want to say to you all that the Bible and the record of the Nephites, the Book of Mormon, are true, so you can say that you have heard me bear my testimony on my deathbed.”10

It was an important occasion. The president-elect of the United States, Dwight D. Eisenhower, had assembled his cabinet members for their first meeting. He greeted his new advisers warmly, smiling broadly as he chatted and shook hands.
But when everyone was seated, his smile gave way to seriousness. He turned to his Secretary of Agriculture. The incoming administration had great need for divine inspiration, the president said. Because of that, he was asking Ezra Taft Benson to open the cabinet meeting with prayer.
Even though he was taken by surprise, Ezra Taft Benson was a man used to praying, both in public and private. He offered a beautiful, sincere prayer, and it became a tradition to begin all cabinet meetings with an appeal to the Lord.
That was in January 1953.

Missionaries, who were confined to their homes like everyone else, soon received smartphones and access to social media platforms that allowed them to connect with people responding to a Facebook ad published on the Africa South Area Facebook pages titled “Where Can I Turn for Peace?”
Very soon after the ad ran, Elder Gava and his companion were given a stack of names and phone numbers from people who had responded to the advert, indicating that they were interested in meeting with the missionaries and finding out more about the Church. They were asked to contact each person. As they looked through the names and numbers, both missionaries were impressed to call a particular woman. She answered in a very low voice, but after they had introduced themselves, she almost screamed with happiness. “Thank you so much for reaching out to me!” she said. “Thank you for calling at the right time.”
As the conversation progressed, the elders learned that this woman was then lying in a hospital bed having just suffered a stillbirth. “She was saying she was so hurt . . . like there was a deep hole in her heart,” he said. “At the time we called her, she needed someone to be there with her, but, unfortunately, she was alone. That sister became one of our good friends and we started teaching her online.”
Elder Gava says this experience taught him how the Spirit works in our lives and how it can move us to talk to people who need us, at the time they need us. He also learnt another lesson: the importance of the proper use of technology in missionary work. He realised that technology can be used to reach out to our Heavenly Father’s children.
On Elder Gava’s mission he saw these two channels working together: the Holy Ghost was the heavenly channel, bringing a message from heaven to the missionaries; and technology was the earthly channel, bringing that message from the missionaries to their brothers and sisters.

A few years ago, Sister Joyce Audrey Evans, a young mother in Belfast, Northern Ireland, was having trouble with a pregnancy. She went to the hospital, where one of the nurses told her she would probably lose the baby. Sister Evans replied, “But I can’t give up. … You have to give me hope.” Sister Evans later recalled, “I couldn’t give up hope until all reason for hope was gone. It was something I owed to my unborn child.”

Three days later she had a miscarriage. She wrote: “For one long moment, I felt nothing. Then a profound feeling of peace flowed through me. With the peace came understanding. I knew now why I couldn’t give up hope in spite of all the circumstances: you either live in hope or you live in despair. Without hope, you cannot endure to the end. I had looked for an answer to prayers and was not disappointed; I was healed in body and rewarded with a spirit of peace. Never before had I felt so close to my Heavenly Father; never before had I felt such peace. …

“The miracle of peace was not the only blessing to come from this experience. Some weeks later, I fell to thinking about the child I had lost. The Spirit brought to my mind the words from Genesis 4:25: ‘And she bare a son, and called his name Seth: For God, said she, hath appointed me another seed. …’

“A few months later I became pregnant again. When my son was born, he was declared to be ‘perfect.’” He was named Evan Seth.

Recently a stake president shared with me a tender story demonstrating the power of the council system in building up the Church. He said that both the Relief Society and the priesthood had been working with a family in their stake but had failed to make progress with the parents. Primary leaders found the answer. Permission was given by the parents for their young daughter to attend Primary. Their one condition was that she had to want to go badly enough to get there on her own. Rides to church could not be provided. Because she had to go through a rough part of town, the ward council saw to it that someone would drive along beside her as she rode an old bicycle to church. Through summer heat, through rain and even snow, she persisted in going to church. One young man, who with his family was assigned to escort her on a snowy morning, was so touched as he watched the commitment of this little girl pedaling through the snow and cold that he decided to serve a full-time mission, citing this experience as the turning point in his life. At Christmastime, a family in the ward gave this faithful little girl a new 10-speed bicycle. This so touched the parents that they too began attending church. In May 1999 this young girl was baptized. What made the baptism even more special was that it was performed by the newest priest in the ward, her recently activated father.

I recently attended the funeral for one of my boyhood friends. This brother was genetically challenged from birth. He could understand concepts quite well but could not read or write. His speech was limited to a very few identifiable words, along with a jargon all of his own. Some in our group could recognize a few words he spoke. However, we could usually tell from the tone of his words whether he was expressing his concerns or his great capacity to love. Much of Lynn’s early life was spent in a special school away from home. He spent his summers and many holidays at home with his family. For the past 17 years, Lynn, who outlived all of his family, lived in a care center where his many needs could best be met.
Upon Lynn’s death, one of his special friends arranged a funeral to be held in the meetinghouse we attended as boys. Present at the funeral were his dear friends, the staff from the care center, a few ward members who remembered him from many years ago, and about a dozen boyhood friends and their families. Several brethren who had stayed close to Lynn during his long, often lonesome stay at the care center offered tender remarks.
All of our memories were refreshed during the course of the service. One friend recalled that on one occasion our Sunday School teacher invited us to bear our testimonies in class. As he sequentially called upon us, he passed over Lynn, perhaps feeling he could not respond with understanding. With all the righteous indignation Lynn could muster, he let the teacher know he expected his opportunity to express himself. Though we didn’t understand much of what he said, we felt his love and the depth of a great spirit tragically locked in a body that could not fully function. The spirit in that class was very strong!
As the staff and the special friends from the care center expressed their unconditional love, it was very evident that Lynn, in his humble way, had reached out and touched their lives. During the course of the funeral, it was apparent that at least three of our boyhood friends and their families had reached out to minister to Lynn in ways that included regular visits, long automobile rides, invitations to dinners on special occasions, and birthday parties.
When the stories and recollections were complete, we all realized that our physically challenged, loving angel of a friend had given us and the wonderful compassionate families who reached out so often in love, far more of real value than he had ever received.

On the day the Indianapolis sailed toward Leyte, I enlisted in the United States Navy. At the Naval Training Station near San Diego, California, I endured the extreme discipline of boot camp and the intense training for combat.
At last our first liberty came, and we were advised that all those who could swim could now take the navy bus to San Diego, while those sailors who could not were to remain for swimming training. How pleased I was that I could swim and had done so for many years. Then came an unexpected order. We who answered that we could swim were marched away—not to the waiting bus, but rather to the base swimming pool. We assembled at the pool’s deep end, were told to undress, and then were commanded to jump in one at a time and swim the length of the pool. Most accomplished the feat with little effort and anticipated eagerly the bus ride to San Diego. But there were men who had been untruthful, who had answered they could swim when in reality they could not. For them, the petty officers waited until they were about to go under the water for the second or third time before proffering a bamboo pole to tow them to safety. The lesson learned? Tell the truth. It could ultimately save your life if you were in harm’s way.

Commit yourself to serve your companion. One of the surest ways to develop love for someone else is to serve in very personal ways. Two companions who had had some difficulties in getting along discovered this principle when one of them became ill and had to be in bed for a day. Elder Blake did everything he could to help care for his sick companion. Elder Waite was especially surprised when he woke up and found that during the time that he was running a fever and sleeping, Elder Blake had cleaned and shined his shoes and also made sure that everything was in order in their apartment. “I began to realize,” said Elder Waite, “that I needed to do more to be of service to my companion. Appreciation for each other and a real friendship began to develop from that day on.”

Whenever he was in New England, Brigham was anxious to visit and teach his many relatives there. In October, after he had returned to Kirtland, his cousin Willard Richards, who had read the Book of Mormon, visited him:
“I invited him to make his home at my house, which he did, and investigated thoroughly the principles and doctrines set forth by the Prophet and Elders of the Church. Dec. 31st, he requested baptism at my hands, which ordinance I administered to him in the presence of Elder Heber C. Kimball and others, who had spent the afternoon in cutting the ice to prepare for the ceremony.”16

Young Spencer Kimball spent many hours helping his father on the family farm. He tramped hay, planted seeds, weeded the garden, and painted the barn and house.
And every day young Spencer milked the cows. There were no milking machines in those days, and it took him quite a while to finish this chore.
3. Spencer liked to learn. He decided to use his “milking time” to memorize many of his favorite scriptures. Neighbors often joked about those cows being the most spiritual cows in the area!
4. He memorized hymns the same way. He copied the words from Church hymns onto small pieces of paper and sang to the cows while he milked them.
5. Spencer W. Kimball learned at a young age to be dedicated to the gospel and to seek after righteousness. He was well prepared to become the twelfth President of the Church.

This early morning boat launch is such a time. The stars have faded, but dawn has yet to tint the eastern horizon. On Tarawa, Kiribati’s most populous atoll (a low coral island encircling a lagoon), the few electric lights have long since blinked out. And with no wind to move the waters of Tarawa’s lagoon, the small, five-meter craft seems frozen in place, embraced on all sides by silent anticipation.
At the craft’s helm, Tune (pronounced toon-AY) gazes intently ahead. His 16-year-old friend and ward member, Moretekai Ataia, is at the bow, watching the water carefully. Though their destination, Abaiang Atoll, is several hours away, they are alert. Shoals extend right and left, and Tune must maneuver the boat safely between them until he passes the reef at the mouth of the lagoon. Once into the deep water of the ocean, he can increase his speed and steer directly toward Abaiang.
Moving into the lush landscape, they follow a familiar path to their destination—a maneaba (meeting place) in a clearing near the home of an elderly couple named Tamton and Taake Ruata. This maneaba serves as the meetinghouse for the Tabontibike-Abaiang Branch of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Tune has brought Moretekai with him today to visit Tamton and Taake and other members of the Church on Abaiang.
The Saints in Kiribati have great respect for the priesthood, and wherever Tune goes on Abaiang, he is received with gladness. It soon becomes apparent it wasn’t whim that brought him to Abaiang. He was drawn to the island by prayer—reeled in like one of his tuna. He thought he was just visiting, perhaps finding an excuse to go fishing. But the real reason he came was to give Aritaake Moutu a priesthood blessing.
“Ever since I joined the Church, I’ve depended on priesthood blessings,” Sister Moutu says. “I had a problem with one of my legs before I joined the Church. Now whenever it gives me trouble, I ask for a blessing, and I’m always healed. This morning I was praying for someone to come and give me a blessing because my husband is not on the island to give me one.” She smiles at Tune. “That’s why you came.”
“It’s always like that,” Tune says. “She lives on this isolated island in the middle of nowhere. She and her family have their challenges. There are few jobs; most people live off what they can grow and get from the sea. There are no doctors or nurses on Abaiang. The Saints here depend a lot on the Lord. And the Lord takes care of them.”
“Yes, we have our challenges,” Sister Moutu says, “even after joining the Church. But we don’t notice them as much now.”
It is time to return to Tarawa. Tune knows he needs to get back before the tide pulls too much water out of Tarawa’s lagoon, leaving parts of it too shallow for his outboard motor. But before he and Moretekai leave, Tune gives Aritaake the priesthood blessing she prayed for.

I have a friend who prays every day to meet someone who is prepared to receive the gospel. He carries a copy of the Book of Mormon. One night before a short trip, he decided to carry a pass-along card instead. But in the morning, a spiritual impression came: “Take a Book of Mormon with you.” He put one in his bag.
A woman he knew sat next to him on the plane, and he wondered, Is this the one I should share the gospel with? She rode with him again on the return trip. Now he thought, How should I talk to her about the gospel?
But then she started asking him questions. She asked him about the Book of Mormon. He explained that it was scripture, another witness of Jesus Christ, translated by the Prophet Joseph Smith. She seemed interested. So he reached into his bag and said, “I was impressed to bring this book with me. I think it is for you.”
She began to read it. As they parted, she said, “You and I need to have more conversations about this.” What my friend could not know, but that God knew, was that she was looking for a church to go to. God knew she had watched my friend and wondered about how his church made him so happy. God knew she would ask about the Book of Mormon, and He knew she would be willing to be taught by the missionaries. She was prepared. So was my friend. And you and I can be prepared too.

More than 50 years ago during World War II, I had an experience. Our bomber crew had been trained at Langley Field, Virginia, to use the latest invention—radar. We were ordered to the West Coast and then on to the Pacific.

We were transported on a freight train with boxcars fitted with narrow bedsprings that could be pulled down from the wall at night. There were no dining cars. Instead, camp kitchens were set up in boxcars with dirt floors.

We were dressed in light-colored summer uniforms. The baggage car got sidetracked, so we had no change of clothing during the six-day trip. It was very hot crossing Texas and Arizona. Smoke and cinders from the engine made it very uncomfortable. There was no way to bathe or wash our uniforms. We rolled into Los Angeles one morning—a grubby-looking outfit—and were told to return to the train that evening.

We thought first of food. The 10 of us in our crew pooled our money and headed for the best restaurant we could find.

It was crowded, and so we joined a long line waiting to be seated. I was first, just behind some well-dressed women. Even without turning around, the stately woman in front of me soon became aware that we were there.

She turned and looked at us. Then she turned and looked me over from head to toe. There I stood in that sweaty, dirty, sooty, wrinkled uniform. She said in a tone of disgust, “My, what untidy men!” All eyes turned to us.

No doubt she wished we were not there; I shared her wish. I felt as dirty as I was, uncomfortable, and ashamed.

Later, when I began a serious study of the scriptures, I noticed references to being spiritually clean. One verse says, “Ye would be more miserable to dwell with a holy and just God, under a consciousness of your filthiness before him, than ye would to dwell with the damned souls in hell.”

I could understand that. I remembered how I felt that day in Los Angeles. I reasoned that to be spiritually unclean would bring shame and humiliation immeasurably more intense than I felt then. I found references—there are at least eight of them—which say that no unclean thing can enter the presence of God. While I realized those references had little to do with dirty clothes or soiled hands, I decided I wanted to stay spiritually clean.

Incidentally, that day we went canoeing in Griffith Park. We were horsing around and, of course, tipped over. We got to shore all right, and in due time the sun dried us out. By the time we returned to the train, we were really quite presentable.

I learned that when I didn’t live as I ought to, getting myself spiritually clean was not as easy as taking a shower or putting on clean clothing or falling out of a canoe.

I learned about the great plan of happiness, that we are on earth to be tested. We will all make mistakes. The Apostle John taught, “If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us.” Fortunately he added, “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” I paid particular attention to that word cleanse.

I thought that repentance, like soap, should be used frequently. I found that when I apologized for mistakes, things were better. But for serious mistakes, an apology was not enough—sometimes not even possible. While these mistakes were, for the most part, not major ones, the spiritual pain called guilt invariably set in. Sooner or later they must be resolved, but I didn’t know what to do. That happens when you break something that you alone can’t fix.

Among you young people are those who are “vexed,” as Peter said, “with the filthy conversation of the wicked.” Some of you joke about standards and see no need to change behavior. You tell yourselves it doesn’t matter because “everybody’s doing it.”

But that doesn’t work because you, by nature, are good. How many times have you heard someone say, after doing some generous or heroic deed or simply helping others, how good it made them feel? Like any natural feeling or emotion, that reaction is inborn in you. Surely you have experienced that yourself! Happiness is inseparably connected with decent, clean behavior.

The prophet Alma bluntly told his wayward son that because he transgressed he was “in a state contrary to the nature of happiness” and that “wickedness never was happiness.” Those who don’t know how to erase mistakes often feel cornered and rebellious and lose themselves in unworthy living. If you travel with transgressors, you will suffer much more than I did in that restaurant.

Most mistakes you can repair yourself, alone, through prayerful repentance. The more serious ones require help. Without help, you are like one who can’t or doesn’t wash or bathe or put on clean clothes. The path you need to follow is in the scriptures. Read them and your faith in Christ will grow. Listen to those who know the gospel.

You will learn about the Fall of man, about the purpose of life, about good and evil, about temptations and repentance, about how the Spirit works. Read what Alma said of his repentance: “I could remember my pains no more; yea, I was harrowed up by the memory of my sins no more.”

Hear the Lord say, “Behold, he who has repented of his sins, the same is forgiven, and I, the Lord, remember them no more.” Doctrine can change behavior quicker than talking about behavior will.

It was through reading the scriptures, and listening, that I could understand, at least in part, the power of the Atonement. Can you imagine how I felt when finally I could see that if I followed whatever conditions the Redeemer had set, I need never endure the agony of being spiritually unclean? Imagine the consoling, liberating, exalting feeling that will come to you when you see the reality of the Atonement and the practical everyday value of it to you individually.

You need not know everything before the power of the Atonement will work for you. Have faith in Christ; it begins to work the day you ask! The scripture speaks of “obedience to the laws and ordinances of the Gospel.” We all pretty well know what it means to obey laws. But how are we to obey ordinances?

Generally we understand that, conditioned upon repentance, the ordinance of baptism washes our sins away. Some wonder if they were baptized too soon. If only they could be baptized now and have a clean start. But that is not necessary! Through the ordinance of the sacrament, you renew the covenants made at baptism. When you meet all of the conditions of repentance, however difficult, you may be forgiven and your transgressions will trouble your mind no more.

President Joseph F. Smith was six years old when his father, Hyrum, was killed in Carthage Jail. Joseph crossed the plains with his widowed mother. At age 15 he was called on a mission to Hawaii. He felt lost and alone and said: “I was very much oppressed. … I was almost naked and entirely friendless, except the friendship of a poor, benighted … people. I felt as if I was so debased in my condition of poverty, lack of intelligence and knowledge, just a boy, that I hardly dared look [anyone] in the face.”

While pondering his plight, the young elder had a dream, “a literal thing; … a reality.” He dreamed he was on a journey rushing as fast as he possibly could.

He carried a small bundle. Finally he came to a wonderful mansion, his destination. As he approached, he saw a notice, “Bath.” He turned aside quickly, went in, and washed himself clean. He opened his little bundle and found clean, white clothing—“a thing,” he said, “I had not seen for a long time.” He put them on and rushed to the door of the mansion.

“I knocked,” he said, “and the door opened, and the man who stood there was the Prophet Joseph Smith. He looked at me a little reprovingly, and the first words he said [were]: ‘Joseph, you are late.’ … I took confidence and said:

“‘Yes, but I am clean—I am clean!’” And so it can be with you.

I say to you again that a knowledge of the principles and doctrines of the gospel will affect your behavior more than talking about behavior.

I have used the Atonement as one of many examples. In the gospel of Jesus Christ are values on which to build a happy life.

I give you my testimony that our Father in Heaven lives. The Atonement of Christ can bless your life. If only I could tell you what the Atonement means to me. I once tried to express it in writing and close with these lines:

In ancient times the cry “Unclean!”
Would warn of lepers near.
“Unclean! Unclean!” the words rang out;
Then all drew back in fear,
Lest by the touch of lepers’ hands
They, too, would lepers be.
There was no cure in ancient times,
Just hopeless agony.
No soap, no balm, no medicine
Could stay disease or pain.
There was no salve, no cleansing bath,
To make them well again.
But there was One, the record shows,
Whose touch could make them pure;
Could ease their awful suffering,
Their rotting flesh restore.
His coming long had been foretold.
Signs would precede His birth.
A Son of God to woman born,
With power to cleanse the earth.
The day He made ten lepers whole,
The day He made them clean,
Well symbolized His ministry
And what His life would mean.
However great that miracle,
This was not why He came.
He came to rescue every soul
From death, from sin, from shame.
For greater miracles, He said,
His servants yet would do,
To rescue every living soul,
Not just heal up the few.
Though we’re redeemed from mortal death,
We still can’t enter in
Unless we’re clean, cleansed every whit,
From every mortal sin.
What must be done to make us clean
We cannot do alone.
The law, to be a law, requires
A pure one must atone.
He taught that justice will be stayed
Till mercy’s claim be heard
If we repent and are baptized
And live by every word. …
If we could only understand
All we have heard and seen,
We’d know there is no greater gift
Than those two words—“Washed clean!”
In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Emily Partridge, daughter of the first bishop of the Church in this dispensation, remembered leaving their comfortable home in Painesville, Ohio, to move to Jackson County, Missouri, in 1831 when she was just seven years old.3 Not long after, her family was driven from their home by the mob and had to relocate in Clay County. She described how they eventually found an “old log cabin that had been used for a stable. … There was one large room, and a leanto, but that was not of much use, as the floor was nearly all torn up, and the rats and rattlesnakes were too thick for comfort. There was a large fireplace in the one habitable room, and blankets were hung up a few feet back from the fire and the two families, fifteen or sixteen in number, were gathered inside of those blankets to keep from freezing for the weather was extremely cold, so cold that the ink would freeze in the pen as father sat writing close to the fire.”4

The family later moved to Illinois. Emily summarized their experience: “Times were hard and we were very destitute, having been robbed and driven from our homes and possessions so many times, and having had much sickness.”5

On a spring morning in 1845, Willard Richards, an Apostle of the Church, his wife Jenetta, and their son Heber John went to Lucien Foster’s gallery in Nauvoo, Illinois, to have their photograph taken.
Photography was a new invention, and the visit to the gallery must have been an exciting adventure for the Richards family. The resulting family portrait, shown above, would eventually become priceless to Willard and Heber John because, four months later, Jenetta died suddenly.
More than one hundred and fifty years later, it is still priceless as part of the collection of photographs housed in the Museum of Church History and Art, Salt Lake City, Utah.

Henry, now 16, returned with his mother and younger sister, Mary Jane, 4, to Nauvoo. An older sister, Maria, stayed behind to work for the Bettses.
Henry, weak himself from the summer sickness, returned to St. Louis for his sister. He earned his passage downriver and back on riverboats. On the trip down he was an assistant fireman, carrying firewood and loading and unloading freight.
On the boat trip back to Nauvoo, Henry was third cook and “had the cabin dishes to wash, they being brought down to me by the cabin boys.” He liked the job because he could eat the leftover food, which was better than he usually ate. Some plates of food came to him “untouched,” so instead of dumping the food overboard as ordered, he let other cabin boys eat it.
Henry, big for his age, joined the Nauvoo Legion. He “enrolled in a Captain Black’s Company” when unfriendly neighbors began harrassing the Mormons in and around Nauvoo. Officers gave this teenager “something of a gun” and he “sometimes was scouting all night and took delight therein, even at times when the mob was expected every hour.”
Early in 1846, when Henry was 17, the Saints had to leave Nauvoo. For the wagon trek across Iowa, Jonathan C. Wright hired Henry to be a chore boy and drive an ox team. Henry liked this job, except for Brother Wright’s restriction that Henry walk his horses but never run or race them.
While Henry was camped with the Wrights at Council Bluffs, Iowa, a United States army recruiter arrived. “I had told my comrades that he would not get a man,” Henry said. But President Brigham Young called a meeting in a brush-covered bowery and asked that 500 men enlist for the Mexican War. Henry felt impressed to answer the call, so he joined the army. Mr. Wright, upset at losing his hired hand, “was wrathy and said that I could not go.” But Henry went. He was not yet 18 as required by the government, “but as I had nearly got my growth in height I passed without difficulty.” Besides, nobody asked him his age.
The next summer, when he was 18, he entered the Great Salt Lake Valley just behind the 1847 pioneers. Wanting to rejoin his family, he returned east with Brigham Young’s company late that same year to the Winter Quarters area.
Henry and his family came west three years later, in 1850, and became Utah pioneers. He married and lived at Union Fort, Fillmore, and Fairview, Utah. During his adult years he was a farmer, teacher, and shoemaker.

Some years ago a wonderful young man named Curtis was called to serve a mission. He was the kind of missionary every mission president prays for. He was focused and worked hard. At one point he was assigned a missionary companion who was immature, socially awkward, and not particularly enthusiastic about getting the work done.

One day, while they were riding their bicycles, Curtis looked back and saw that his companion had inexplicably gotten off his bike and was walking. Silently, Curtis expressed his frustration to God; what a chore it was to be saddled with a companion he had to drag around in order to accomplish anything. Moments later, Curtis had a profound impression, as if God were saying to him, “You know, Curtis, compared to me, the two of you aren’t all that different.” Curtis learned that he needed to be patient with an imperfect companion who nonetheless was trying in his own way.