Gospel Story Finder

Just three years ago, at this same time of year, I had this great principle demonstrated to me at the hands of the Lord in a very special way. The Portland Oregon East Stake has been developing a dairy farm over the past half dozen years or more. It is located on an island in the Columbia River and is one of the largest single-stake projects in the Church. This fact, coupled with the need to develop the project almost from scratch, has placed a heavy burden upon our people, both in time and in money.

With a new project, we had run in the red each year, but 1977 was to be our turnabout year. The final result depended upon harvesting about seventy-five acres of corn, which was to be made into silage for feed. Unseasonably, it had rained almost every day during the month of September, and by the first day of October, our scheduled harvest date, I knew the crop was in trouble. We have a very high water table on the island, and when the ground gets saturated with too much water we get so much mud our harvest equipment cannot get into the fields without sinking. Once the land is saturated, it takes about a month of dry weather to make the fields passable to vehicles. During the winter months and right up until June, the corn ground is entirely under water.

I visit the farm about once a week, so I keep a pair of rubber boots in my car. I drove to the farm that October day and decided to pull on my boots and walk down into the corn fields. I immediately found even the road turned to mud and puddles. In places the mud came near the top of my eighteen-inch-high boots, and I don’t really know why I continued walking. It was a dark gray, overcast day, and drops of rain were splashing in the open puddles everywhere. The farm crew told me they had taken a corn chopper down into the fields a few days earlier but had it down to the axles in mud somewhere in the long corn rows.

As I walked I noticed that the corn itself was a fine crop, with row after row ten to fourteen feet high. Now, I rarely get depressed, but I was feeling really low that day. I knew how hard everyone had worked and what it meant to lose that fine crop. I eventually came to the spot where the chopper had gone in, and looking way down the rows I saw it sunk deep into the mud. For some reason I decided to walk to the chopper, and as I entered the rows and splashed on through the mud and water, I was startled to hear a voice. I am sure that the voice came to me only in my mind, but I could hear the voice and admonition of President Kimball. He said softly, "Is any thing too hard for the Lord?" (Gen. 18:14.) Now, like you, I have heard him say that many times, but I did not fully focus upon it before this time. I smiled to myself as I walked and said, "Yes, President, I believe this mess may be too hard even for the Lord."

As I neared the chopper, I was impressed to climb up on it and upon doing so found my head was about two feet above seventy-five acres of that tall, splendid corn. As I looked about in discouragement, the voice seemed to come to me again, but this time in a more serious tone, "President, is there anything too hard for the Lord?" At once I felt ashamed of my attitude of depression, and soon I was no longer looking down but up into the sky. Before I realized it, I was talking, yes, pleading aloud with the Lord in faith. When I had finished, I had committed that crop and the harvesting of it into the hands of the Lord and had done so by the power of the priesthood of God. I recall that as I climbed down from the chopper, tears were still streaming from my eyes. I grew concerned as I slowly walked away considering what it was that I had just done. Yet I knew that I had done it in total faith, that there was a proper need, and that it was a righteous request of the Lord.

Because of the spiritual nature of my experience, I think I had decided not to tell anyone of it. But the very next Sunday I was sitting on the stand during one of our ward sacrament meetings. I was not scheduled to speak, but the bishop got up with about ten minutes remaining and said, "I feel President DeHaan has had a spiritual experience that he needs to share with us." I got up reluctantly, knowing what it was I had to relate. I did so and asked the congregation to join me with their faith. Now, we have Saints with great testimonies in our stake, and my experience spread rapidly throughout the wards. I learned several weeks later that members were even telling their nonmember friends to go ahead and plan picnics and outdoor activities, because even in Oregon it was not going to rain throughout October. On the day following my experience in the corn fields, the sun came out for the first time in nearly thirty days. Then the next day we had sun, and the day following that. Before long the temperature was back into the high seventies. Every day for the next three weeks the weather forecast called for rain, but each day no rain fell.

I recall that about two weeks later I flew to Seattle, about two hundred miles to the north, on business. It rained very hard there all day, and as I made the return trip to Portland it rained all the way until we reached the Columbia River, which surrounds our farm. Miraculously, the clouds parted and the rain ceased. That day I cut a little weather map from the newspaper showing the rain ending at the river and put it on our refrigerator as a reminder to keep my faith. Three weeks after my original experience in the fields, I drove to the farm once again. I put on my boots and went back into the corn. This time the ground was soft but firming. That was on a Friday, and our fine farm crew was already making plans to begin the harvest on the following Monday.

That same day an acquaintance of mine from a local television station called. He said, "I understand the Mormons are developing a fine dairy farm on Sauvies Island." I answered in the affirmative, and he inquired, "Is there a story there?" I told him there was, but I knew he could never capture the real story. That very Monday, as we began our harvest, we had a camera crew on the farm for several hours, and we did get some fine publicity for the Church.

With the loyal assistance of many of the members, we worked day and night for the next five days. By the following Saturday, all of the freshly chopped corn was safely in our silage pits, and we finished covering it over with plastic. At last we had the feed needed to get us through the winter. Within an hour after having covered the crop, the heavens just seemed to open and commenced one of the heaviest and longest downpours I can remember. The fields from which the corn had just been removed were flooded and remained under water from that day until the following June. As I stood in the rain with feelings of gratitude that I’ll never be able to adequately describe, it seemed to me that the Lord had just saved it up until our spiritual understanding had been fulfilled.

For Morris Overstreet II, the LDS institute is a place to find answers to his gospel questions. He had only been a member of the Church for a year when he became concerned about being the only black member at the institute. “I wanted to know when and if the gospel was ever going to reach the black community,” Morris says. “Having grown up in a black community, I know they need it.” So Morris talked with Brother McMullin about his worry. “He helped me realize that just by being involved in the Church, I will have a great influence with the blacks around me. It’s made me realize I need to be doing the right things so that I can be an influence.” Morris leaves on a mission this year.

After graduating from high school, they both felt impressed to serve a mission—although neither of them had ever felt a desire to serve before.
Sister Dil had a “clear and direct” prompting to serve a mission when she received her patriarchal blessing. After some time, she decided to follow the prompting to serve, because “the Lord’s will is always the right way and the best option.” The call came, and she packed her bags to serve in New Zealand.

Third, sleep. Even this basic desire can be temporarily overridden by an even more important desire. As a young soldier in the Utah National Guard, I learned an example of this from a combat-seasoned officer.

In the early months of the Korean War, a Richfield Utah National Guard field artillery battery was called into active service. This battery, commanded by Captain Ray Cox, consisted of about 40 Mormon men. After additional training and reinforcement by reservists from elsewhere, they were sent to Korea, where they experienced some of the fiercest combat of that war. In one battle they had to repel a direct assault by hundreds of enemy infantry, the kind of attack that overran and destroyed other field artillery batteries.

What does this have to do with overcoming the desire for sleep? During one critical night, when enemy infantry had poured through the front lines and into the rear areas occupied by the artillery, the captain had the field telephone lines wired into his tent and ordered his numerous perimeter guards to phone him personally each hour on the hour all night long. This kept the guards awake, but it also meant that Captain Cox had scores of interruptions to his sleep. “How could you do that?” I asked him. His answer shows the power of an overriding desire.

“I knew that if we ever got home, I would be meeting the parents of those boys on the streets in our small town, and I didn’t want to face any of them if their son didn’t make it home because of anything I failed to do as his commander.”1

What an example of the power of an overriding desire on priorities and on actions! What a powerful example for all of us who are responsible for the welfare of others—parents, Church leaders, and teachers!

As a conclusion to that illustration, early in the morning following his nearly sleepless night, Captain Cox led his men in a counterattack on the enemy infantry. They took over 800 prisoners and suffered only two wounded. Cox was decorated for bravery, and his battery received a Presidential Unit Citation for its extraordinary heroism. And, like Helaman’s stripling warriors (see Alma 57:25–26), they all made it home.2

His love for children led him to organize the Eden School District. He helped build the log schoolhouse there and served as one of its first teachers. Richard became Weber County Commissioner and later served as a member of the Ogden City Council. As always, his work centered on helping children. Under his direction, more schools were built, educational standards were improved, and public health facilities were expanded.

Several years ago, I was following a conversation on social media between two of my former mission companions. These were men whom I loved and respected.
They were discussing questions they had about the Church and its doctrine. It soon became clear that they both had left the Church. It shocked and disturbed me. I had never heard of some of the things they were discussing. I felt like I had to know if these things had any merit. So I began looking into the arguments of those who had concerns about the Church.
Some of the things I read over the next two years led me to question everything about the Church. Some who go through this feel sad. They grieve for the loss of their faith. I became angry. I felt that the Church had deceived me. I wasn’t sure what was real or whom I could trust.
I had a difficult time going to church. I asked to be released from my calling. My relationship with my wife, Cheri, and my family was strained. I continued to go to church, but it was really just for show and to try and keep my family together. Life was a mess. I couldn’t feel the Spirit and questioned whether or not I had ever really felt the Holy Ghost.
When my oldest child, Kayson, was leaving on his mission, I cast a gloomy cloud over what should have been a joyous occasion. After two years, most of my family knew what I was going through. When they all went to the temple with Kayson for his first time, I was not there.
Through all of it, I felt so alone.

She and her father often take their dog, Wags, out for a walk. He’s one of her best friends too. “We rescued him from the pound. He was an abandoned pup, only twelve weeks old. His tail hasn’t stopped wagging since we first met. That’s why he’s named Wags.”

Juanito tried to brush the dirt off his torn shirt. “Why did I have to lose my temper again?” he muttered to himself.
As he made his way down the path, he could see his mother and sister gathering vegetables from the family garden behind the house. Nearby, his grandmother was sitting on a bench under an orange tree working busily on her nanduti (lace).
“Hola, Juanito!” his mother said as she walked toward the house with a basket full of vegetables. “Why are you so late today?”
“I’m sorry, Mama, I’ll try not to be late again,” replied Juanito. He turned away quickly and hurried into the house to change his clothes before she noticed his torn and dirty shirt.
“Oh, Juanito, you’ve been fighting again!” his mother said crossly when she saw his swollen cheek. “When will you learn that fighting is not the way to settle your problems? Come into the house and let me put some salve on your face while you tell me what happened this time.”
“We were playing soccer after school,” Juanito began, “when some older boys came along and started pushing everyone out of the game. Carlos and Pablo left, but I decided I would not be a coward. So each time they knocked me down I got up again. Then one time when the ball was not even near me, Roberto tripped me and I fell into a puddle of mud.”
“Oh, Juanito, I’m sorry,” sighed his mother.
“Roberto just stood there laughing at me and calling me names, and before I knew it I hit him. Then all the others were after me,” Juanito explained.
Mama only frowned as she applied salve to Juanito’s face. “There,” she said at last. “I’m finished. Now Juanito, I want you to promise me that you will not fight again. Fighting is not the way to settle a problem.”
“I’ll try, Mama, but it won’t be easy,” Juanito replied softly.
Soon after the family turned their attention to preparing the vegetables to be taken to market the next morning. As he worked, Juanito thought about Señor Benet, the village baker, who had asked Juanito to sell his bread in the market for him.
Early the next morning Juanito dressed in clean white clothes. He combed his hair carefully and hurried to Señor Benet’s shop. The basket of round flat bread was still fragrant and warm.
“I know you will do well, Juanito,” said Señor Benet.
“Thank you,” Juanito answered. “I’ll see you this evening with an empty basket,” he called as he hurried to catch up with his family.
When they reached the plaza, everyone was setting out their wares, but Juanito decided that he would make better sales if he moved through the crowd.
“Pan del dia (fresh bread)! Pan del dia!” he called as he walked along. By the time the sun had risen high in the sky, he had sold nearly half of the loaves.
It is hot, thought Juanito, wiping his forehead. I think I’ll rest in the shade for a few minutes.
“Hola, Juanito!” came a voice from the crowd. “What are you doing and what have you got there in your basket?”
Juanito looked up into the face of Roberto.
“I’m selling this bread for Señor Benet,” Juanito replied.
“Bread! Is that bread?” asked Roberto, picking up a round flat loaf. “It does not look like bread. See how it flies through the air like a bird!”
With a quick twist of his wrist, Roberto tossed the bread so that it floated down the street.
“Stop!” cried Juanito. “You must not do that!”
Roberto was laughing so hard he could not hear. He reached for another loaf and sent it sailing.
Clenching his fists, Juanito stepped toward him. Then he seemed to hear again his mother’s words, “Fighting is not the way to settle a problem.”
When Roberto reached for another loaf, Juanito paused a moment and then stepped back and began to laugh. His laugh was soft at first and then it grew louder and louder, until all those nearby began to stop to see what was happening.
Looking toward the crowd, Juanito said in a loud voice, “See this Roberto! He buys bread to throw away. Watch how he does it.”
Juanito picked up a loaf and handed it to Roberto. “Go ahead! Throw as many as you like. I will keep count, and you may pay me when you have finished.”
“Pay you?” muttered Roberto. “I’ll not pay …” he began. Then he noticed all the people who had gathered around them. “Oh, yes, of course,” he stammered. “Let me see—I owe you for three loaves.”
Roberto reached into his pocket and opened his wallet.
“Here is your money,” he said gruffly. Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
“Pan del dia! Pan del dia!” Juanito began to call again. Soon all the bread was gone, and he made his way to where his mother and father were waiting to go home.
“Such a fine salesman,” said Señor Benet when Juanito handed him the money. “From now on you will take all my bread to market.”
Juanito whistled as he hurried down the trail, listening to the coins he had earned jingle in his pocket. “Mama was right,” he said to himself. “Fighting is not the way to settle a problem—especially if I can let my head work instead of my fists!”

Mabel Ann Morse Hakes, president of the Mesa Ward Relief Society for five years and counselor and then president of the Maricopa Stake Relief Society, was the Mesa representative to the Woman’s Suffrage Convention in Chicago in 1893. When one irate gentleman speaker said that “women have no business in public affairs; they should be home sewing buttons on shirts and darning their husband’s socks,” Ann arose and informed him, “Sir, you will be pleased to know that all of my husband’s buttons were on and the socks darned before I left home.”17

Shortly after coming home from my mission, I remembered what I learned from the wonderful people on my mission. I was hesitant at first, but I relied on the Savior to help me overcome my fears and start dating again. It took some time, but I eventually got engaged to my best friend from high school. He knew everything about me, including my fears and my experiences, and I was overjoyed to be with him.
But I was terrified. He was one of the kindest, most thoughtful people I knew, but I still worried that my marriage would fail as my parents’ did. My faith in an eternal marriage was faltering.

For years I had sent out packages of clothing at Christmas time to families whose need I had read about in a New York newspaper. I had also included some spiritually oriented reading material.
One holiday season my husband, Will, stopped to watch my preparations. “You’re spending a lot of money on postage,” he noted. “Wouldn’t it be a good idea if I drove into the city with the packages? Our station wagon would hold a lot of them.”
I was excited at the idea! If he did that, I could send heavy winter clothing, too expensive to mail, and also food. Happily I went about gathering all I could, while Will got maps of Manhattan, the Bronx, and Brooklyn, and began to locate and schedule the stops on his route.
Early the day before Christmas, Will and our teenage boys loaded the station wagon, packing it to the roof. The day was cold and grey, but the only concession to the weather Will would make was to wear a cap. He held an office job and rarely spent time out of doors, yet he was confident that he’d be warm enough.
As I watched him back the loaded car out of the driveway, I was assailed by sudden doubts. What if the car broke down? What if he got lost? Or chilled? He was going into some of the most crime-ridden sections of the city—what if he were assaulted?
Turning back toward the house, I noticed that snow was lazily drifting down—an added worry. I went into the house and knelt down to pray for Will’s safe journey. “Dear Heavenly Father,” I began, “Will has gone on an errand for me—.” Then I stopped. I had the sudden impression that I had said something wrong. The thought came, “No, he has gone on an errand for Me.”
I was taken back by the thought. I had been thinking too highly of myself in assuming that Will had gone just for me, and that his safety depended on my prayers. At that moment, I realized that delivering the packages was his service to God, and he would be protected.
I got up, determined not to worry about Will any more, and went on with my holiday preparations. The snow that had begun so lazily in the morning was a blizzard by lunch time. In the afternoon I tried to walk to a nearby store but had to turn back because of the drifts. If they were impassable here, what must the roads be like in the city?
Dinner time came. Still no word from Will. He had said that he’d call me. My resolve not to worry was getting harder and harder to maintain. In the evening, when our sons came in from shoveling snow, one of them asked, “Isn’t dad home yet? Where can he be?”
“Mom,” said the other, “he can’t still be delivering packages at this hour. No one would let him in. I don’t want to worry you, but—.”
“He’ll be all right,” I assured the boys, but I was beginning to panic in spite of myself. Resolutely I worked at wrapping gifts, trying to ignore the kitchen clock which was now creeping toward eleven P.M.
Then one of the boys yelled with relief, “Mom, dad’s car is turning into the driveway!”
Excitedly, I grabbed a coat and went to meet him. As Will got out of the car, I noticed that he wasn’t cold and exhausted as I had pictured he would be. He looked as though he had been outdoors for a pleasant half-hour, instead of just having spent fifteen hours on snow-clogged streets, driving around abandoned cars and lugging packages up unshoveled walks.
“I didn’t have a bit of trouble,” he assured me, “and I found every family.”
That evening I gave thanks for my husband’s safe journey and for my increased understanding of the Lord’s ways.

When dawn is just breaking in the meadow, the sunlight is golden and warm. Where there is light there is life, and all things seem to celebrate. A mayfly sips on nectar, a pewter silhouette on a green stem. A flower spreads her yellow skirt as if to dance. Stalks of grass bend with ripe seeds, full, plump, and heavy. A random, floating milkweed seed spins through the sky, pirouettes, and lands, a dainty ballerina on a satin stage. Like a child discovering his shadow for the first time, a grasshopper pauses to stare at his own giant image, then in a single, springing bound, flops away.

Intelligence
First is the quality of intelligence. Without opportunity for formal schooling, the Prophet was interested in almost every subject. In 1836 he was instrumental in bringing to the city of Kirtland, Ohio, where the Church was quartered, a Professor Seixas, a Hebrew scholar. The Prophet believed that the Church leaders should be familiar with the language. But how much Hebrew could you learn in 14 weeks, attending two or three nights a week? Only two students could read Hebrew with any degree of fluency afterward—Joseph Smith and Orson Pratt. The Prophet also appears to be the only one who publicly discussed various passages in the Bible from the Hebrew text.

Mike is now 20. Last summer, he was home from his freshman year at BYU. His family, which had moved to Germantown, Tennessee, was planning a trip back to Virginia and North Carolina to visit friends.
One night the phone rang. It was Ira Spencer.
“We hear ya’ll are headed this way,” he told Mike. “Me and the boys are going to take the boat out as a family. Would you like to tag along and make a little money for your mission? Bring your dad, too, and we’ll show him what life’s like out on the water.”
And that’s how Mike and his father ended up on the War Cry, this time sailing out of Newport, Rhode Island. “The fishing’s better up north right now,” Duke explained. Dave Spencer, 18, (Ira’s son and Duke’s brother) and Duke’s nine-year-old son, Sam (nicknamed “Hambone”), rounded out the crew.
After walking along the same Newport streets that George Washington traveled, past clapboard cottages and governor’s mansions as old as the American colonies, and stopping for five grocery carts full of food, the crew made its way to the wharf, climbed over a neighboring ship’s deck, and finally set foot on the War Cry.
Mike started remembering. “First I noticed the smells—the salt water, the fish. Then I saw the hooks on all the doors, even on the refrigerator, to keep them closed when the ship rocks, then the iron rods you use to clamp pots and pans in place. Then I looked in the sleeping quarters and remembered the narrow, hard bunks that seemed like heaven when you got a chance to use them. Then Ira and my dad fired up the engines and I remembered the noise. You have to run the engines to run the generators, and you have to run the generators to operate the rest of the equipment, the radios, the fridge. After a while you get numb to it. But at first it seems like everyone’s deaf. You have to shout to be heard.”
Noise or no noise, everyone slept aboard ship that night. And they were up early the next morning, winding miles of iron cable onto the winches, inspecting and mending nets, pouring oil by the drum into oil tanks. Seventy-five dollar filters were removed and replaced. Weather reports and market prices were checked. Eighteen tons of ice, used to keep the fish fresh, were pumped into the hold.
By late afternoon, the War Cry was underway. Sam sat on the bow and waved at a lighthouse. With David and Mike he read names of other boats as the trawler passed them on its way to harvest the sea. The Captain Ralph, the Iron Horse, the Mikentodd, the Harry Glen. The Ramona, the Skylight, the Venus, and the Chief Wanchese. Soon the city was far behind, then the shore; then there was nothing but a flat horizon. The three young men were called inside for dinner, followed by stories, jokes, and laughter, followed by sleep.
The first “haulback” came in the dark of the night. A haulback means the net is full and it’s being pulled out of the water to be dumped on deck. When the captain calls, you’ve got about five minutes until the fish come in. Like zombies from some old horror movie, fathers and sons together rose from sleep, pulled on heavy boots and overalls, pulled on yellow sea bonnets, and stumbled outside into the mist.
“Sometimes the salt air revives you,” Dave said. “Sometimes all it does is give you a chill.” This time it did a little of both. Yawns were universal. But the work went on. With Ira in the wheelhouse keeping the War Cry on course, David, Mike, and Sam positioned 16-foot, two-by-ten deck boards to hold the catch in place. Duke pulled hydraulic levers to raise the dripping bundle out of the depths and position it over the deck. Brother Lee tugged a rope that opened the bottom of the net, spilling the squirming contents out into a flat, flapping pile.
Instantly the sorting began. It takes quite an eye to be able to pick out and size the different types of flounder, and the talent of a Dr. J. to consistently flip them into the right basket. For Mike and Dave, it was an old routine. Like a power forward, Dave worked with both hands, flinging fish over his shoulders without looking up, shoveling trash fish between his legs. Like a center fighting for rebounds, Mike preferred to work close to the basket, loading it with one type of fish, then pulling up another basket to start all over again. For Sam, the sorting time was an adventure. He would waddle nearly knee-deep in fish, mud, and seaweed, picking out lobsters, crabs, and scallops, isolating them in special pails of their own. He was the guard on the team, carefully selecting his shots, working from the outside, calling for help when he needed it like an open man calls for a pass.
Brother Lee was amazed at the entire operation. “I felt totally outclassed. These guys were real pros, and I felt like a rookie in his first training camp.” But like any eager player would, he made up for inexperience with hustle.
To make the analogy complete, Duke would have been a player-coach, offering advice and assistance, jumping in to do some sorting himself as necessary. And Ira would, of course, have been the team owner, reassuring others with his presence, keeping the entire operation in order. (It was his boat, after all.)
Soon another net had been hauled back and sorted. Then another, then another, then another, then another. At what point today blurred into tomorrow blurred into the next day and the next, nobody was quite sure. The sun went down; the sun came up. Meals, at first looked forward to as a break in the monotony, finally became part of the routine.
“We ate snacks instead of lunch and took cat naps instead of sleeping,” Mike said. “You know, I really loved this when I was 16, but I’d forgotten how dead-bone tired you get. My back is starting to kill me.”
Then he looked over at his father. “We don’t get to spend a lot of time together,” Mike said. “I’m sure this is difficult work for him. He’s more the type who would rather teach or be in an office. But it’s helped him understand what I went through. He’s already told me that.”
And Brother Lee, an oral pathologist and dental educator, agreed. “I’ve never worked so hard in all of my life. Even the two-a-day workouts when I played college football are pale by comparison. But if it helps me understand my son, it’s worth it. This time on the boat is something we’ll always share.”
Later that day, Mike and his father were seated on an old plank next to each other, opening scallops, tossing the shells overboard. The shells would skip as they hit the water, then sink, spinning shiny white loops as they drifted out of sight. The conversation was pleasant, intimate. They talked of school. They talked of the other Lees back home. They talked about Mike becoming an elder soon, about his going on a mission. They talked about another fisherman, from Galilee, of how he called Peter, Andrew, James, and John to leave their nets and cast for the souls of men.
All around Mike and his father were the sounds, the smells, and the ocean. In this realm of rust and motion, of motors and commotion, they had found a moment of peace.
The first fistful of ice hit Sam softly on the shoulder.
“Hey,” he shouted, but he could see Dave coming. Soon Sam had a handful of his own, and the great ice fight was on, with both uncle and nephew flinging pieces of frozen water at each other. It was a short-lived battle. Sam ended up with ice down his chest, but he got a hug from Dave in return.

Pat met Jeffrey Holland between her junior and senior year at high school. With a twinkle in her eye, she expressed much more of that sweet relationship than was spoken. “And that continues to be the best thing that has ever happened to me,” she said enthusiastically. “He continually amazes me, and it’s a wonderful privilege and blessing to be his wife.” Feeling the joy and happiness that she was expressing made it difficult to realize that she had ever had youthful feelings of discouragement or fear.
Speaking of their early friendship, she recalled that when he left for his mission, they so wanted to have a “forever kind of love.” Together they decided that they would do three things that would unite them even in his absence: (1) Read the scriptures every day. (2) Fast once a week. (3) Pray really often. “These have become habits that we have continued to this day,” she said humbly and gratefully, thinking of the far-reaching rewards of that early decision that kept them close while they were far away.

In family home evenings or in Sunday School, we would practice lines that would help us stand up to peer pressure. I couldn’t wait to use these lines. For example, I imagined hanging out with my friends. Someone would pull out some alcohol and pass it around. The beer can would be handed to me, and all eyes would be looking in my direction. The pressure would mount. I would stand up and say, “No! I am a Mormon, and I don’t drink!” All the kids would be in awe. No amount of their persuasion would convince me. Soon the party would disperse, and someone special in the crowd would tell me I had impressed him so much with my firm stance that he wanted to learn more about my church. Angels would sing praises, and I would be filled with light.

When I moved away from home and started my life as an adult, I needed to find a lot of answers. I particularly struggled to know how to understand my relationship with the priesthood as a woman. I heard contradictory statements from friends, ward members, and online sources. I felt confused and unsatisfied by the answers that others gave me to explain the role of women in the Church.

The question kept coming back to me: I know that God loves me equally, but how can I feel equal to men when I have a different role? I couldn’t help but feel like having a different role meant having a lesser role. Dwelling on these questions felt like starting up the mountain at 1:00 a.m. I couldn’t see the answer yet, and searching felt dark, cold, and discouraging.

In the October 2019 general conference, President Russell M. Nelson issued an invitation, specifically directed to the women of the Church: “I entreat you to study prayerfully all the truths you can find about priesthood power.” He encouraged us to understand how we could have the same access to priesthood power as a man could. Here was a prophetic invitation to ask my questions and then devote time to studying them. President Nelson promised that as we did so prayerfully, our ability to draw upon priesthood power in our lives would increase.

Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has said: “Asking questions isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s a precursor of growth. God commands us to seek answers to our questions and asks only that we seek ‘with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ’ [Moroni 10:4].”

Understanding that I could have faith and have questions was key for me as I began to search for an answer. It helped me remember what I did know: God loves me; He speaks through His prophets; He wants me to feel joy. By starting my search based on this foundation, I was able to turn to good sources that I had already gained a testimony of. Specifically, there were talks by President Nelson, President Dallin H. Oaks, and other General Authorities that all taught the same truths and helped me understand how God feels about me.

The sections in the Doctrine and Covenants mentioned by President Nelson (sections 84 and 107) gave me another starting point. I could lean on the testimony I had already gained of the scriptures to support my fledgling understanding of truths about the role and value of women in God’s plan. I felt grateful for trusted family members, friends, and ward leaders who offered their thoughts and let me bounce ideas off them. It helped me the most when they would point me to other helpful resources that I could read for myself instead of giving me their opinions.

I spent many hours reading and praying. Prayer helped me keep my eyes on Heavenly Father; I felt His love for me through the process of asking Him questions. Through my studies, here are just a few of the truths I learned:
I have direct access to the power of God as I keep my covenants.
I am given authority from God to act in my calling when I am set apart by someone with the proper priesthood authority.
I received a gift of God’s priesthood power when I was endowed in the temple and a knowledge of how to draw upon that power.
I can experience exaltation and return to live with God someday if I keep His commandments (see Doctrine and Covenants 25:15).

I received peace and clarity as I searched for answers to my question. While I can communicate some of the truths I learned and my process for coming to an answer, the full answer was impressed upon my soul in a way that is difficult to explain. I refer to the experience of learning these truths as a sacred struggle. As I dedicated time to pray about my questions and wrestle with them, I created space for God to teach me.

What started as an area of confusion and darkness led to specific, quiet experiences with God as the Spirit distilled knowledge or increased my patience. I have faith as I approach other questions that I can work with my Heavenly Father to feel more peace and confidence in His plan. Now I try to support those around me in their sacred struggles so that they can come to know eternal truths by the spirit of revelation.

I should like to give you another example. One of our most respected community-minded citizens began to act as though his feelings had been hurt and to stay away from socials where, in the past, he had gone and taken a most active part. People started accusing him of being a sorehead, a poor sport, antisocial, etc., and even evaded him whenever possible. Later, a medical diagnosis showed he was suffering from a brain tumor, which had been the cause of his lack of interest in activities that he had previously attended and even sponsored.

Stepping out of the car into the raw January drizzle, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Ashes of the portable trailer classroom that had housed my high school’s seminary classes smoldered at my feet.
We had been studying the Doctrine and Covenants in our released-time seminary program, learning of the persecutions the early Latter-day Saints had endured. I never skipped seminary class, but I wasn’t always there in spirit. Occasionally I didn’t listen to the lessons and sometimes dreaded going to class. But I didn’t realize how attached I was to seminary until I saw our meeting place destroyed.
That frigid morning I trudged through the thick mud surrounding the trailer’s remains to where a dozen mourners stood silently. The stunned students carefully nudged the smoking desks as if they were dead animals. They spoke quietly, if they spoke at all. Most just stared intently at the damage as if it were one of those computer-generated, three-dimensional posters.
A rusty old pickup thundering down the road shattered the stillness. It slowed as it passed the rubble. “H-A-A-A-A-A-A-A!” screamed the stubbly-faced senior, craning his head out of the passenger-side window. “So much for your Mor-man temple!”
The seminary students shuddered as the words reached out and slapped them in the face with some invisible hand.
I wandered over to where our seminary teacher, Brother Shields, stood beside a fallen filing cabinet. He wore faded blue jeans, a paint-splotched sweatshirt, and an expression that couldn’t hide his pain. He hardly resembled the man who filled our little seminary with his wide grins and optimism.
“I’m … sorry,” I squeaked, not knowing what else to say, my thoughts still knots of confusion.
Brother Shields raised his eyes in my direction, then frowned. “This was the journal of my trip,” he sighed, flipping through the blackened pages. “To Jerusalem.”

Brigham was the ninth child of the family. His mother was not well, and all the children learned to work in the home as well as on the farm. Later in his life Brigham said that as a boy he had “no opportunity for letters,” but “I had the privilege of picking up brush, chopping down trees, rolling logs and working among the roots, getting my shins, feet and toes bruised. I learned how to make bread, wash the dishes, milk cows and make butter. … Those are about all the advantages I gained in my youth. I learned how to economize, for my father had to do it.”
When Brigham was fourteen, a great sorrow came to him. His mother, for whom he had felt a special love and closeness, died. It brought sadness in another way too, for Brigham was “farmed out” among the neighbors, and he missed being at home almost as much as he missed his mother.