Gospel Story Finder

One example of the challenges related to this financial crisis was experienced by Elder Parley P. Pratt, one of the great leaders of the Restoration. He was an original member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. In the early part of 1837, his dear wife, Thankful, died after delivering their first child. Parley and Thankful had been married almost 10 years, and her death devastated him.

A few months later, Elder Pratt found himself in one of the most difficult times the Church has experienced. In the midst of the national crisis, local economic issues—including land speculation and the struggles of a financial institution founded by Joseph Smith and other Church members—created discord and contention in Kirtland. Church leaders did not always make wise temporal decisions in their own lives. Parley suffered significant financial losses and for a time became disaffected with the Prophet Joseph.10 He wrote a stinging criticism to Joseph and spoke in opposition of him from the pulpit. At the same time, Parley said he continued to believe in the Book of Mormon and the Doctrine and Covenants.11

Elder Pratt had lost his wife, his land, and his home. Parley, without telling Joseph, left for Missouri. On the road there, he unexpectedly met fellow Apostles Thomas B. Marsh and David Patten returning to Kirtland. They felt a great need to have harmony restored to the Quorum and persuaded Parley to return with them. He realized that no one had lost more than Joseph Smith and his family.

Parley sought out the Prophet, wept, and confessed that what he had done was wrong. In the months after his wife, Thankful’s, death, Parley had been “under a dark cloud” and had been overcome by fears and frustrations.12 Joseph, knowing what it was like to struggle against opposition and temptation, “frankly forgave” Parley, praying for him and blessing him.13 Parley and others who remained faithful benefited from the Kirtland challenges. They increased in wisdom and became more noble and virtuous. The experience became part of their foundations of faith.

Hey, wanna buy a cool pen? It has four different colors.
Where’d you get it? How much do you want for it?
My dad gave it to me. You can have it for a dollar.
Dad did say I could spend part of my birthday money any way I wanted.
Do you know where he got that pen? He saw some kid drop it and grabbed it before the kid turned around. He bragged about it to me.
Later, at afternoon recess …
I don’t want anything that was stolen. Just give me my money back.
Too bad. I already spent the money on nachos for lunch.
What am I going to do with this?
… and it has four colors, and it was a birthday present …
Are you looking for this?
Maybe I lost a dollar, but I get to keep my self-respect.

This is a story of a young girl, living in New York, who before age three lost her father when his boat sank on a large lake. She, her mother, older brother, and younger sister moved to a new city in another state to live with her aunt and uncle. Sometime after the family arrived, missionaries and members of a newly organized religion came to their town with the glorious news of the Restoration of the gospel. They told a remarkable story of an angel delivering an ancient record to a young man named Joseph Smith, a record he had translated by the power of God. Two of the visitors, Oliver Cowdery and John Whitmer, had actually seen the engraved metal pages of the ancient record with their own eyes, and Whitmer witnessed he had held the golden plates in his own hands. This record had been recently published, and Brother Whitmer brought the book with him. The name of the book, of course, was the Book of Mormon.
When 12-year-old Mary heard the missionaries speak about the book, she had a special feeling in her heart. Even though the Book of Mormon was thick with many pages, Mary yearned to read it. When Brother Whitmer departed, he gave one precious copy of the book to Brother Isaac Morley, who was a friend of Mary’s uncle and a local leader in the new church.
Mary later recorded: “I went to [Brother Morley’s] house … and asked to see the Book; [he] put it in my hand, [and] as I looked at it, I felt such a desire to read it, that I could not refrain from asking him to let me take it home and read it. … He said … he had hardly had time to read a chapter in it himself, and but few of the brethren had even seen it, but I plead so earnestly for it, he finally said, ‘child, if you will bring this book home before breakfast tomorrow morning, you may take it.’”
Mary ran home and was so captured by the book that she stayed up nearly all night reading it. The next morning, when she returned the book, Brother Morley said, “I guess you did not read much in it” and “I don’t believe you can tell me one word of it.” Mary stood up straight and repeated from memory the first verse of the Book of Mormon. She then told him the story of the prophet Nephi. Mary later wrote, “He gazed at me in surprise, and said, ‘child, take this book home and finish it, I can wait.’”
A short time later, Mary finished reading the book and was the first person in her town to read the entire book. She knew it was true and that it came from Heavenly Father. As she looked to the book, she looked to the Lord.
One month later a special visitor came to her house. Here is what Mary wrote about her memorable encounter that day: “When [Joseph Smith] saw me he looked at me so earnestly. … After a moment or two he … gave me a great blessing … and made me a present of the book, and said he would give Brother Morley another [copy]. … We all felt that he was a man of God, for he spoke with power, and as one having authority.”
This young girl, Mary Elizabeth Rollins, saw many other miracles in her life and always kept her testimony of the Book of Mormon. This story has special meaning to me because she is my fourth-great-aunt. Through Mary’s example, along with other experiences in my life, I have learned that one is never too young to seek and receive a personal testimony of the Book of Mormon.

In March 1989 I was seriously ill in a hospital in Wismar, in what was then the German Democratic Republic. At the age of ninety-four, I felt completely helpless and had lost all desire to live. In my prayers, I constantly asked God to take me home.
Seeing my pain, my daughter visited me from Hamburg. On each visit, she tried to give me new hope, encouraging me to hold on. Eventually, she and my son-in-law checked me out of the hospital and brought me into their home.
I had always admired my daughter’s strength and confidence. When I asked about her strength, she said that it came from attending church every Sunday. She had joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints years before, but I had not felt any interest in her new religion. I didn’t want to abandon my Protestant church.
Now that I was in her home, my daughter began telling me about the Church and reading to me out of the scriptures. She also invited two lady missionaries to tell me more. I enjoyed the visits of these sweet sisters, and through our discussions I eventually gained a conviction that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is indeed the only true church.
So I let myself be baptized on 27 August 1989. There I was—ninety-four years old and born again!
The change I felt was immediate and wonderful. I knew that I would still have to suffer pain but that I could ask the Lord to help me stay faithful to the end. I also knew that our Heavenly Father knows when we will return to him. It was his will that I make the baptism covenant with him in this life.

Last Christmas, my mom’s whole family came to our house. We all wrote down things that we were going to give Christ for the next year. Then we went around and said what we had decided to give.
My grandma said she was going to read the Book of Mormon in four months. My grandma has not gone to church since she was nine and has only read parts of the Bible. We were all surprised. She said she wanted to read it because all of her kids and most of her grandkids had read it. She wanted to know why it was so important to us.
All of my aunts, uncles, and most of my cousins decided to read the Book of Mormon with her. I wasn’t sure if she was going to do it, but she is now starting the book of Alma. She really likes it. I feel happy when I read the Book of Mormon and know that my grandma is reading it as well.

Christy stood at the edge of the playground, looking at the slides and swing sets for someone to play with. A big group of kids shrieked as they chased each other around the field. Others swung from the monkey bars. A few girls giggled and whispered under a tree.
Christy wanted to run and swing and giggle too. But she felt too shy to walk up to a group of kids she didn’t know. So she kept standing there. Maybe someone would come ask her to play.
Christy’s family had just moved, and she didn’t really know anyone at her new school yet. As recess ticked by, no one came to play with her. It seemed like all the friends were taken.
How can I ever find a friend? she wondered.
The next day, Mrs. Godfrey asked a girl named Mia to sit with Christy at lunch. But Mia just talked to her friends who were sitting at the same table. Christy felt lonelier than ever. She wanted a real friend, someone who would play with her because they wanted to, not because they had to.
That night Christy prayed to Heavenly Father and asked Him to send her a real friend. Days went by. It seemed like her prayers weren’t working! She knew that Heavenly Father loved her, but it was hard not to worry.
Then one day at recess, Christy noticed a girl sitting on the ground alone. Her leg was bleeding, and it looked like she was crying.
Christy was nervous about talking to her, but she didn’t want her to cry alone. So she took a deep breath and walked over.
“Are you OK?”
“I hurt my knee,” the girl said, looking up and holding her leg.
“Do you want to go to the nurse?” Christy asked. “I’ll help you.”
Christy helped the girl get up and put an arm around her shoulder. Together they walked slowly to the nurse’s office.
Christy waited while they cleaned and bandaged the girl’s knee. Then they walked back to the playground.
“I’m Stacy,” the girl said. “What’s your name?”
“Christy.”
“Are you new?” Stacey asked.
Christy nodded.
“I’m new too,” Stacey said. “Want to jump rope with me?”
“Yeah!”
Soon the two girls were laughing and jumping rope together. Best of all, Christy had discovered the secret to finding a friend. It was just to be a friend. And Christy knew she could always do that!

Brad wants to be just like Nathan when it comes to serving in the Church, too. When they received the Aaronic Priesthood, Nathan started passing the sacrament. Brad also wanted to pass the sacrament, but the routes around the chapel didn’t allow enough room to maneuver his wheelchair.

Nathan worked with the bishop to change the routes. The new version assigned all of the front pews to Brad, which left plenty of room for his wheelchair. Then he and Brad started passing the sacrament together.

I recall a few years ago I was supervising the missions in western Europe. We needed a mission president with a certain language proficiency. Several names were brought forward, but none of them seemed to be right. Then one of the Brethren remembered that he had met a man—I think it was in Korea—several years before. He was a member of the Church who was in the customs service. Somehow just the mention of that name and the Spirit confirmed it. He was called, by virtue of the time pressures, by telephone to preside over the mission. I visited him a few weeks later. He was living in Washington, D.C. He was within reach of the number one office in his category. His lifetime had been spent progressing through the ranks, thinking that perhaps one day he would stand at the head of that division. His senior officer had indicated that because of a health problem he would retire early and that this man was being recommended for that position. It was just at that time that the telephone call came.
I wanted to get acquainted with him and was invited to stay overnight. He brought me a message from his superior. The message was this: “Tell that Brother Packer of yours that you’re no missionary; I’ve worked with you for 30 years, and you haven’t converted me. Tell them they’re making a mistake. And you’re making a mistake. You’re a fool.” (I’m leaving out one word.) “If you will give up your retirement and all that you’ve reached for—why? Why would you do it?”
Simple answer: he’d been called. We live to know, in this church, that the response to a call does not depend on the testimony and witness of the one who delivers the call. It depends, rather, on the testimony and witness of the one who receives it.
It was very interesting. We were looking for a man who spoke French. It was not until after he was in the mission field, and we had some opportunities and responsibilities relating to some of the problems of some members we had in Spain, that we discovered that he wrote and spoke Spanish fluently. I suppose if we’d searched through the Church for a man who spoke French, spoke Spanish, and had had some diplomatic experience, particularly as it related to customs work, we would have gone afar in the world and not found him. Yet it was through the “chance” memory of one of the Brethren that he’d met a man a few years before in Korea who spoke French that he was found.

Lloyd, who is now studying law at Northern Illinois University in De Kalb, was not surprised by his father’s call as a General Authority. “All through his life he’s been very close to the Spirit.” One night Lloyd had asked to use the car to go to a party. He was getting ready to back out of the driveway when his father came out and asked him not to go, explaining that he felt impressed that it would not be wise. They learned later that another car had rolled off the road Lloyd would have taken, and felt the impression must have been a warning.

After graduation from college, my wife and I moved to Samoa, where we raised our children and worked to strengthen the Church and the community. My father, not a member of the Church, was actively involved in local business and community affairs. His motto was “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.” As my siblings and I discovered the gospel and lived it to the best of our abilities, he noticed the changes for good in our lives. In 1999, President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) stayed in my father’s home on his return from the groundbreaking of the Suva Fiji Temple. During that visit, the Spirit touched my father’s heart, and I was privileged to baptize him when he was 80 years old. He found great joy in the gospel and was unashamed and bold in sharing it with others during the last days of his life.

Members of the Samabula 1st Ward participated in a service project for the Harland Hostel for the Deaf in Fiji in March 2021.
A group of 20 volunteers spent three hours cleaning the hostel and playing with the children. They raked the yard, cut the grass, planted, and cleaned. They also repaired a washing machine.
“We wanted our members, especially our children, to see firsthand how children as young as five years old leave their homes and loved ones and live at the hostel just so they can have access to quality specialized education,” explained Eileen Swann, one of the participants.
The Harland Hostel for the Deaf has 26 children from ages five to 14. There is also a rented home for older boys and a hostel for older girls.
“The hostel is just five minutes away from our chapel where we meet each Sunday and we as members of the Church need to be aware of others in the community where we live,” said Swann.
“We need to know our community, know what services are available or how we can be of service to our community. When we look beyond our differences, we will find that we have a lot in common with others. In doing so we build resilient and tolerant communities and better citizens.”
Other participants expressed gratitude to see how happy the children were despite having a loss of hearing and being away from their families.

Many years ago, one of my best friends was in his very first class in law school. The teacher was a renowned intellectual to whom the students were paying close attention. During that lecture, she started to expose her views on religion—portraying it negatively. At a certain point, she even inferred that those “Mormon missionaries” you see in the streets were actually agents of a foreign government disguised as religious representatives. At that moment, my friend interrupted the lecture by raising his hand and saying, “Professor, I was one of those ‘agents’ in Portugal for two years.” He noticed that she was puzzled and confused. So he asked permission to explain, went to the blackboard, and started “sharing the gospel” with all present in that classroom.
He explained about the evidence of the existence of Heavenly Father, the creation of our spirits, the plans presented for us to come to this earth, the dispensations starting from Adam until Jesus Christ, and how His Church ended in apostasy. My friend taught about the Restoration through the Prophet Joseph Smith and bore his testimony—and then the class time ended. As a result of his approach, he received an apology from the teacher and he earned the respect of all his classmates that day. In fact, he was chosen to act as the class representative in the student body government and was later named to be the keynote speaker at their graduation a few years later.

The March day felt almost like summer as Raybell walked down the quiet country road. Her parents had gone to dinner the night before and had brought her two fortune cookies that she carried in a paper bag. She wanted to give one to her best friend, Linda.
Raybell looked out over the fields that were just beginning to turn green and thought how very quiet and empty her little farming town was. The sun felt warm on her head and shoulders, and a meadowlark broke the lonely silence with its call from the telephone lines.
Raybell hurried up the long walkway to Linda’s house and knocked on the door. She waited and then knocked again. The house was silent. Maybe Linda’s family had gone into town. Raybell sat on the steps and waited for about ten minutes, though it seemed longer. Finally she got up and wandered across the road to the church, a white building with pine trees in front. She sat down on the church steps where she had a view of Linda’s house. She could also see Judy’s house across the field, and she began to think about what had happened after Primary one day last month.
Now Raybell sat on the steps in the warm sunshine and remembered the feelings of that day. Judy hadn’t spoken to her in the last month, but she had never been very friendly. Raybell looked across the field at Judy’s run-down house, surrounded by old, broken-down cars.
Raybell looked again at Judy’s old house. She looked at the paper sack sitting on the steps with the two fortune cookies in it. She picked it up and climbed through the fence into the damp, plowed field.
As Raybell approached the house, she saw Judy sitting on her rickety front steps wearing an old army shirt and baggy pants. She watched Raybell with a hostile expression, and Raybell wished she hadn’t come. She tried to smile.
“My mom and dad went out to eat last night—”
“So?” Judy said.
“Well, they brought these fortune cookies, and I thought we could open them and read our fortunes.” Judy’s expression was puzzled but not angry. “Judy, I’m really sorry about putting snow in your boots.” She stood there not knowing what else to say.
“What do I care if my boots are wet? It doesn’t bother me,” Judy said.
“Well, I’m sorry anyway. I’d hate it if my boots were all wet inside. I guess I’m not as tough as you.”
Judy shrugged her shoulders. “So are you going to give me one of those fortune cookies or not?”
“Oh, sure.” Raybell sat down on the steps and handed a cookie to Judy. They broke the cookies in half and read the slips of paper. “What does yours say?” Raybell asked.
Judy sat up very straight. “It says I will be rich and famous one day. How about yours?”
“‘You are a good leader and should consider politics or business,’” Raybell read. They both laughed.
Judy took a bite of her cookie. “I prefer chocolate cookies, but they’re not bad.”
“Me too,” Raybell said. They both laughed again. Raybell munched her cookie and thought that the spring sunshine felt even warmer here on Judy’s steps.

One of my haunting childhood memories begins with the howl of distant air-raid sirens that awaken me from sleep. Before long, another sound, the rattle and hum of propellers, gradually increases until it shakes the very air. Trained well by our mother, we children each grab our bag and run up the hill to a bomb shelter. As we hurry through the pitch-dark night, green and white flares drop from the sky to mark the targets for the bombers. Strangely enough, everyone calls these flares Christmas trees.
I am four years old, and I am a witness to a world at war.
Not far from where my family lived was the city of Dresden. Those who lived there witnessed perhaps a thousand times what I had seen. Massive firestorms, caused by thousands of tons of explosives, swept through Dresden, destroying more than 90 percent of the city and leaving little but rubble and ash in their wake.
UniversalImagesGroup/Universal Images Group/Getty Images
In a very short time, the city once nicknamed the “Jewel Box” was no more. Erich Kästner, a German author, wrote of the destruction, “In a thousand years was her beauty built, in one night was it utterly destroyed.”1 During my childhood I could not imagine how the destruction of a war our own people had started could ever be overcome. The world around us appeared totally hopeless and without any future.
Last year I had the opportunity to return to Dresden. Seventy years after the war, it is, once again, a “Jewel Box” of a city. The ruins have been cleared, and the city is restored and even improved.
Bettmann/Bettmann/Getty Images
During my visit I saw the beautiful Lutheran church Frauenkirche, the Church of Our Lady. Originally built in the 1700s, it had been one of Dresden’s shining jewels, but the war reduced it to a pile of rubble. For many years it remained that way, until finally it was determined that the Frauenkirche would be rebuilt.

Stones from the destroyed church had been stored and cataloged and, when possible, were used in the reconstruction. Today you can see these fire-blackened stones pockmarking the outer walls. These “scars” are not only a reminder of the war history of this building but also a monument to hope—a magnificent symbol of man’s ability to create new life from ashes.

As I pondered the history of Dresden and marveled at the ingenuity and resolve of those who restored what had been so completely destroyed, I felt the sweet influence of the Holy Spirit. Surely, I thought, if man can take the ruins, rubble, and remains of a broken city and rebuild an awe-inspiring structure that rises toward the heavens, how much more capable is our Almighty Father to restore His children who have fallen, struggled, or become lost?
It matters not how completely ruined our lives may seem. It matters not how scarlet our sins, how deep our bitterness, how lonely, abandoned, or broken our hearts may be. Even those who are without hope, who live in despair, who have betrayed trust, surrendered their integrity, or turned away from God can be rebuilt. Save those rare sons of perdition, there is no life so shattered that it cannot be restored.
The joyous news of the gospel is this: because of the eternal plan of happiness provided by our loving Heavenly Father and through the infinite sacrifice of Jesus the Christ, we can not only be redeemed from our fallen state and restored to purity, but we can also transcend mortal imagination and become heirs of eternal life and partakers of God’s indescribable glory.
During the Savior’s ministry, the religious leaders of His day disapproved of Jesus spending time with people they had labeled “sinners.”
Perhaps to them it looked like He was tolerating or even condoning sinful behavior. Perhaps they believed that the best way to help sinners repent was by condemning, ridiculing, and shaming them.
When the Savior perceived what the Pharisees and scribes were thinking, He told a story:
“What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?
“And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing.”2
Over the centuries, this parable has traditionally been interpreted as a call to action for us to bring back the lost sheep and to reach out to those who are lost. While this is certainly appropriate and good, I wonder if there is more to it.
Is it possible that Jesus’s purpose, first and foremost, was to teach about the work of the Good Shepherd?
Is it possible that He was testifying of God’s love for His wayward children?
Is it possible that the Savior’s message was that God is fully aware of those who are lost—and that He will find them, that He will reach out to them, and that He will rescue them?
If that is so, what must the sheep do to qualify for this divine help?
Does the sheep need to know how to use a complicated sextant to calculate its coordinates? Does it need to be able to use a GPS to define its position? Does it have to have the expertise to create an app that will call for help? Does the sheep need endorsements by a sponsor before the Good Shepherd will come to the rescue?
No. Certainly not! The sheep is worthy of divine rescue simply because it is loved by the Good Shepherd.
To me, the parable of the lost sheep is one of the most hopeful passages in all of scripture.
Our Savior, the Good Shepherd, knows and loves us. He knows and loves you.
He knows when you are lost, and He knows where you are. He knows your grief. Your silent pleadings. Your fears. Your tears.
It matters not how you became lost—whether because of your own poor choices or because of circumstances beyond your control.
What matters is that you are His child. And He loves you. He loves His children.
Because He loves you, He will find you. He will place you upon His shoulders, rejoicing. And when He brings you home, He will say to one and all, “Rejoice with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost.”3
But, you might be thinking, what is the catch? Surely I have to do more than simply wait to be rescued.
While our loving Father desires that all of His children return to Him, He will force no one to heaven.4 God will not rescue us against our will.
So what must we do?
His invitation is simple:
“Turn … to me.”5
“Come unto me.”6
“Draw near unto me and I will draw near unto you.”7
This is how we show Him that we want to be rescued.
It requires a little faith. But do not despair. If you cannot muster faith right now, begin with hope.
If you cannot say you know God is there, you can hope that He is. You can desire to believe.8 That is enough to start.
Then, acting on that hope, reach out to Heavenly Father. God will extend His love toward you, and His work of rescue and transformation will begin.
Over time, you will recognize His hand in your life. You will feel His love. And the desire to walk in His light and follow His way will grow with every step of faith you take.
We call these steps of faith “obedience.”
That is not a popular word these days. But obedience is a cherished concept in the gospel of Jesus Christ because we know that “through the Atonement of Christ, all mankind may be saved, by obedience to the laws and ordinances of the Gospel.”9
As we increase in faith, we also must increase in faithfulness. Earlier I quoted a German author who lamented the destruction of Dresden. He also penned the phrase “Es gibt nichts Gutes, ausser: Man tut es.” For those who do not speak the celestial language, this is translated as “There is nothing good unless you do it.”10
You and I may speak most eloquently of spiritual things. We may impress people with our keen intellectual interpretation of religious topics. We may rhapsodize about religion and “dream of [our] mansion above.”11 But if our faith does not change the way we live—if our beliefs do not influence our daily decisions—our religion is vain, and our faith, if not dead, is certainly not well and is in danger of eventually flatlining.12
Obedience is the lifeblood of faith. It is by obedience that we gather light into our souls.
But sometimes I think we misunderstand obedience. We may see obedience as an end in itself, rather than a means to an end. Or we may pound the metaphorical hammer of obedience against the iron anvil of the commandments in an effort to shape those we love, through constant heating and repeated battering, into holier, heavenly matter.
No doubt about it, there are times when we need a stern call to repentance. Certainly, there are some who may be reached only in this manner.
But perhaps there is a different metaphor that can explain why we obey the commandments of God. Maybe obedience is not so much the process of bending, twisting, and pounding our souls into something we are not. Instead, it is the process by which we discover what we truly are made of.
We are created by the Almighty God. He is our Heavenly Father. We are literally His spirit children. We are made of supernal material most precious and highly refined, and thus we carry within ourselves the substance of divinity.
Here on earth, however, our thoughts and actions become encumbered with that which is corrupt, unholy, and impure. The dust and filth of the world stain our souls, making it difficult to recognize and remember our birthright and purpose.
But all this cannot change who we truly are. The fundamental divinity of our nature remains. And the moment we choose to incline our hearts to our beloved Savior and set foot upon the path of discipleship, something miraculous happens. The love of God fills our hearts, the light of truth fills our minds, we start to lose the desire to sin, and we do not want to walk any longer in darkness.13
We come to see obedience not as a punishment but as a liberating path to our divine destiny. And gradually, the corruption, dust, and limitations of this earth begin to fall away. Eventually, the priceless, eternal spirit of the heavenly being within us is revealed, and a radiance of goodness becomes our nature.
My dear brothers and sisters, my dear friends, I testify that God sees us as we truly are—and He sees us worthy of rescue.
You may feel that your life is in ruins. You may have sinned. You may be afraid, angry, grieving, or tortured by doubt. But just as the Good Shepherd finds His lost sheep, if you will only lift up your heart to the Savior of the world, He will find you.
He will rescue you.
He will lift you up and place you on His shoulders.
He will carry you home.
If mortal hands can transform rubble and ruins into a beautiful house of worship, then we can have confidence and trust that our loving Heavenly Father can and will rebuild us. His plan is to build us into something far greater than what we were—far greater than what we can ever imagine. With each step of faith on the path of discipleship, we grow into the beings of eternal glory and infinite joy we were designed to become.
This is my testimony, my blessing, and my humble prayer in the sacred name of our Master, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

“That was the greatest dream of my life.” When Britton says this, he’s not talking about playing in the biggest game of college basketball. He’s not describing how he felt knowing millions of sports fans were watching him. Rather, he is talking about a brief, unexpected encounter he had with the First Presidency shortly after the finals.

Back in Salt Lake City, Ute players were presenting a signed basketball to the First Presidency when an assistant coach suggested Britton discuss with them his decision to serve a mission. Before Britton knew what was happening, he found himself alone with the First Presidency in President Hinckley’s office.

“I was totally stuttering,” says Britton. “I said, ‘Going on a mission has been a tough decision, and I guess I already know what the right thing to do is, but it would be nice to hear what you’d say.’ Then President Hinckley smiled at me and said, ‘Well, what do you think I’m going to say?’”

“President Monson explained that I had been a highly touted freshman, that I had been pressured to stay, and that some people were saying I could represent the Church in other ways. Then right away President Hinckley stood up, took my hand, looked me in the eye, and said very clearly, ‘You go on a mission and the Lord will bless you.’ It was an awesome feeling.”

Not long after, Britton had a final talk with his father and his coach, then announced his decision to serve. “It just felt right; I just felt good about the decision,” Britton explains.

“When I was seven, I was like any other seven-year-old,” says Brennah Kahaunani Payne. “I went to school, went to church on Sunday, and lost teeth.” But then Brennah was in a terrible car accident. She had to stay in the hospital for six months and have nine surgeries.
Many people helped Brennah in the hospital—doctors, nurses, and even a schoolteacher. Brennah thinks her hospital stay was like a “little mission.” She gave pass-along cards to several people to tell them about the Church. And she tried to comfort other children whenever she could.

Even though I was at school, I asked for my call to be sent to my parents’ home in Tempe, Arizona. When the envelope arrived, my dad set up a conference call, so there was my family in Tempe, Tucson, and Mesa. We all sang the hymn “I’ll Go Where You Want Me to Go,” and I was definitely wondering where that would be. But as soon as my mom read I was going to Asunción, Paraguay, I felt an overwhelming peace and comfort. I haven’t had a moment’s worry since. I know that’s where the Lord wants me to go, 100 percent. And this time as I go to serve, I don’t have to worry—I can talk about the gospel with everyone I meet.

Some decisions are choices between doing something or doing nothing. I heard an example of this kind of choice at a stake conference in the United States many years ago.
The setting was a beautiful college campus. A crowd of young students was seated on the grass. The speaker who described this circumstance said they were watching a handsome tree squirrel with a large, bushy tail playing around the base of a beautiful hardwood tree. Sometimes it was on the ground, sometimes up and down and around the trunk. But why would that familiar sight attract a crowd of students?
Stretched out prone on the grass nearby was an Irish setter. He was the object of the students’ interest, and the squirrel was the object of his. Each time the squirrel was momentarily out of sight circling the tree, the setter would quietly creep forward a few inches and then resume his apparently indifferent posture. This was what held the students’ interest. Silent and immobile, their eyes were riveted on the event whose outcome was increasingly obvious.
Finally, the setter was close enough to bound at the squirrel and catch it in his mouth. A gasp of horror arose, and the crowd of students surged forward and wrested the little animal away from the dog, but it was too late. The squirrel was dead.
Anyone in that crowd could have warned the squirrel at any time by waving his or her arms or crying out, but none did. They just watched while the inevitable outcome got closer and closer. No one asked, “Where will this lead?” When the predictable occurred, all rushed to prevent the outcome, but it was too late. Tearful regret was all they could offer.
That true story is a parable of sorts. It applies to things we see in our own lives and in lives and circumstances around us. As we see threats creeping up on persons or things we love, we have the choice of speaking or acting or remaining silent. It is well to ask ourselves, “Where will this lead?” Where the consequences are immediate and serious, we cannot afford to do nothing. We must sound appropriate warnings or support appropriate preventive efforts while there is still time.

Thompson remembered from his boyhood in Norway speeding down mountains on skis. Why can’t mail be delivered this way, he reasoned.

In January of 1856, Thompson set out on his first mail run from Placerville, California, on the western slope of the Sierras, to Carson Valley on the east side, nearly one hundred miles away. To travel on top of the snow, he wore ten-foot-long, twenty-five-pound runners that he had whittled himself. Observers and Thompson both called them Norwegian snowshoes.

His first winter trip might have been Thompson’s last, because at one point he mistakenly trusted a snowbridge across a chasm. It had seemed firm and solidly frozen, but when he reached the center, it began to pull away from the cliff behind him. Fortunately, he managed to grab a tough pine root on the cliff ahead just as the bridge collapsed and fell into the rocky abyss below. He thanked God and vowed he would never make that mistake again.

As he went on, he had to judge correctly the safety of the icy crust of fifty-foot drifts. He kept his bearings by observing trees, wind direction, rock and mountain formations. When nighttime came, he stayed on course by observing the stars. He slept warmly at night by setting a stump afire, hollowing a cave in a snowdrift facing the fire, and lining the cave with pine boughs.

It took three days’ travel for the longer, steeper climbs of the eastward crossing and two days to return to California. When the citizens of Placerville, California, heard Thompson’s High Sierra whoops as he skimmed down the last slope carrying mail from Carson Valley, they cheered. “Snowshoe Thompson!” they shouted, and the name “Snowshoe” was born.

“C’mon, Benjy, cut me a slice,” my little brother, Jake, whispered to me as we hid in the bushes and looked down at Mom’s peach pie.
I looked over at my friend Jared who was kneeling next to Jake. His eyes were locked onto the peach pie. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, took out my pocketknife, and pushed the blade into the flaky crust sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. Slowly I carved a jagged line across the pie.
“You don’t think we’ll get caught, do you?” Jared whispered as I handed him a piece of pie dripping with yellow peach filling.
I shook my head, not a bit sure; but I didn’t want Jared and Jake to know that. “No,” I rasped. “No one will ever know. Mom made five pies that she asked us to deliver. She probably won’t remember that we were supposed to give a pie to Brother Piper.
In no time at all we were licking the last of the stickiness from our fingers.
“I think my stomach’s going to bust,” Jake moaned. “I’ve never eaten so much pie in my life.”
“I wish we hadn’t eaten it so fast,” Jared complained. “It doesn’t taste as good when you have to eat a huge piece of pie in three bites.”
“Yeah,” Jake moaned again, rubbing his stomach. “I feel kind of sick.”
I nodded, feeling sick, too, but it wasn’t just because we had eaten a whole pie. Deep inside I knew that the main reason that I felt sick was that we had eaten a stolen pie. As I looked at the empty pie pan, I wished that we had taken the pie to Brother Piper.
We all stumbled from the bushes and headed for home, with the pie plate hidden under my shirt.
Mom was in the family room when we slipped into the house and tiptoed to the kitchen. We washed the pan and slipped it into the cupboard. Then we dashed for the door.
“Oh, Benjy,” Mom called out just as we reached the front door, “Did you deliver the pies?”
I gulped and caught my breath. “Everybody was happy to get your pies, Mom.”
“And what did Brother Piper say?” she asked excitedly. “It’s his birthday today. I’ve been promising him a peach pie for weeks. He didn’t think I’d remember.”
“You promised Brother Piper a peach pie?” Jake asked.
Mom nodded and smiled. “I’ll have to call him later this afternoon and wish him a happy birthday.”
“I thought you said she’d never know!” Jake accused me as we tromped down the front steps.
“Yeah,” Jared whined, “we’ll be caught for sure. Now what are we going to do?”
“How was I supposed to know it was Brother Piper’s birthday?” I snapped. “Besides, it was your idea too.”
“We have to get another pie,” Jake said.
“Yeah,” I mumbled, “and before Mom calls Brother Piper.”
“I know!” Jared spoke up. “My mom’s at a Primary meeting. Let’s go to my place and make a pie.”
‘We don’t know anything about making pies,” Jake said.
“Well, we’ll have to learn!” I spouted.
“What do we do first?” Jake asked as we crowded around Jared’s kitchen table.
“I’ve watched Mom a few times. All we have to do is make the crust, fill it full of fruit, and throw it in the oven.”
“But how do we make the crust?” Jake asked.
“Get me a bowl and some flour and shortening,” I growled. “Do I have to do everything? We just mix it up, roll it out, and slap it into a pie pan.”
While Jared poured in the flour and Jake scraped in gobs of shortening, I took a wooden spoon and tried to mix the two ingredients together. It was a lot harder than I had thought.
“It doesn’t mix too well, does it?” Jake commented.
“Maybe it needs some water. Pour in some water,” I ordered.
“It looks better than when we started,” Jared said a few minutes later, “but it still doesn’t look much like piecrust.”
“It’s not piecrust,” I snapped. “Not yet. It’s just dough. Maybe if we roll it out, it’ll look better. It’s when Mom rolls hers out that it really looks like a piecrust.”
The dough kept falling apart and lumping into gobs, but we kept at it, pounding it with our fists, poking it with our spoons, and squeezing it with our fingers. When we finally got it into the pie pan, there were still a few bumpy spots, and the edges were kind of ragged.
“Now what do we do for the insides?” Jake asked.
“Do you have some peaches?”
Jared slapped the flour from his hands and looked in the pantry. He came back with a big can of peach halves. “Will these do?” he asked.
I nodded. “They’ll have to do.”
We spooned the peach halves onto the crust, then drank all the juice. We couldn’t make one big piece of dough for the top crust, so we put on a lot of little pieces and pinched them together.
“It doesn’t look much like one of Mom’s pies,” Jake mumbled.
Jared nodded. “It needs something.”
“Cinnamon and sugar!” I proclaimed, grinning. “Mom always puts cinnamon and sugar on top.”
Jake grabbed the sugar, and Jared grabbed the cinnamon, and they both began to sprinkle.
“Is that enough?” Jared asked.
I shook my head. “This pie needs lots of cinnamon and sugar to cover up the bad places.”
It was late in the afternoon when we finally pulled the pie from the oven.
“It doesn’t look exactly like the one Mom made,” Jake said.
“It doesn’t look like anything anyone would want to eat, either,” Jared said.
“Maybe Brother Piper doesn’t know a good pie from a bad one,” Jake said.
“He probably doesn’t,” I commented hopefully. “He likes brussels sprouts. Anybody that can eat brussels sprouts can eat this pie.”
“Maybe we’d better cover it with a napkin,” Jared said. “We can hand it to him and leave before he sees it. He’ll just think that your mom had a bad day. Anybody can make a lousy pie once in a while.”
The pie was still warm when we dragged our feet up Brother Piper’s walk. I swallowed hard as I rang the bell. Jared and Jake crowded behind me.
“Well, hello, boys.”
“We brought you a pie,” I burst out, pushing the pie into his hands. “Mom wanted us to bring you a pie.”
“Well, how nice of her, Benjy. She said that she was going to make me one, but I thought that she’d forget. You don’t know how much I love your mom’s pies.”
We started to go.
“Don’t leave, boys. Come in and have a piece of pie with me.”
“Well, we really”—I was getting a sickening twitch in my stomach—“We … uh … don’t want to eat your pie.”
“Oh, of course you do. Everybody wants some of your mom’s pie.”
Before we knew it, we were sitting at Brother Piper’s table. After he pulled the napkin off the pie, he just stared at it. Then he looked at us and back at the pie.
“Everybody has a bad day,” Jake said. “You can’t make a perfect pie every time. Not even Mom.”
Brother Piper shrugged and took a knife to the pie. The whole top of it crumbled into a hundred pieces as soon as the knife touched it. Brother Piper glanced over at us, but we didn’t look up. We kept staring at the pie. The peaches were all shriveled and brown, and the crust was too doughy in some places and too floury in others.
We all tried to eat some of it, but it was no use. Looking at it was bad enough—eating it was impossible. Even Brother Piper put down his fork and took a big drink of water. “Did your mother really make this pie?” he finally asked, poking at the stuff on his plate.
I knew that I couldn’t lie about it. I didn’t even want to. “Mom made you one, but we ate it. When we found out afterward that it was your birthday and that Mom was going to call you, we made you this one. Are you going to tell her?”
Brother Piper laughed. “You did bring me a pie. Was the first pie pretty good?”
We nodded glumly as I added, “But it was no fun eating a stolen pie. It just made us sick.”
“Well, I’ll just tell your mom that she made a great pie. After all, she did, didn’t she?”
I nodded and looked down. “We’re sorry, Brother Piper. It won’t happen again, honest.” Jared and Jake nodded their heads in agreement.
A few minutes later we shuffled into my kitchen. Mom smiled when we walked in. “I saved you something,” she announced. “You know how you’ve always wanted your very own pie?”
We nodded.
She walked over to the counter and picked up a big, beautiful peach pie. “I made this one just for you,” she said.
I could feel my stomach do flip-flops. The last thing that I wanted was another piece of pie. I looked at Jared and Jake, and they looked back at me. Their faces seemed a little green.
“Mom,” I said, holding my stomach, “I don’t think we’ll eat it, if it’s all right with you. But,” I added quickly, “Brother Piper would love one of your pies.”
“But he’s already had one of my pies. I thought that you liked my pies,” she said, looking a little hurt.
“We do like your pies, Mom. In fact, we ate Brother Piper’s pie.”
“But it didn’t taste very good,” Jake chimed in. “It wasn’t your fault,” he added quickly. “It’s just that stolen pies don’t taste very good.”
“Yeah,” I said, “so we’d better take this one to Brother Piper. The one we made for him was awful.”
“You made Brother Piper a pie?”
Jared shook his head. “I’m not sure you’d call it a pie. It looked more like a bad disease.”
“But we learned a lot,” I spoke up. “From now on, when you ask us to take a pie to someone, you can be sure we’ll do it. And that’s a promise.”