Gospel Story Finder

Full-time missionaries are expected to study the scriptures for an hour each day. In English, our Church uses the King James version of the Bible. In Spanish, our Church uses the Reina Valera. And it is a beautiful version, lyrical even. One day, my companion and I were studying a passage where the Spanish translation held a different meaning than the English translation. If you've studied another language, then you realize that some languages have a keener ability to express a certain nuance than others. In this particular case, the difference was substantial, and I wondered which version was closer to the original language. I decided to dig into the footnotes during my individual scripture study in order to solve the mystery. I did not find a complete answer that day, so subsequent study periods found me searching again and again. To no avail. Apparently, the clarification I needed was not to be found in English or Spanish. Yet I had no other printed sources available to aid my study. But I did have prayer.
Enos tells us, in Enos 1:10, that his prayer was answered with a "voice in his mind " And so it was with me! One brisk Spanish morning, as I neared the end of what had seemed to be another fruitless search for answers, I suddenly felt knowledge flow into my mind. It was as though a floodgate had been opened and pure intelligence poured in, clarifying the passages I had been studying for days. The insights came so quickly and with such depth that I struggled to assimilate the information. I remember closing my eyes and asking the Lord to "slow down" because I could not comprehend all that I was being taught at such an incredible speed. It is wonderful to know that God will provide answers to those who seek.

It seems like everybody is getting a tattoo these days, and at one point I wanted one too. A lot of my friends had tattoos, and I thought they made you look cool and tough. Thankfully, Heavenly Father reminded me through the Spirit who I really am and gave me the strength to respect my body.
One day a tattoo shop my friends talked highly about was having a big sale. At that time in my life, I’d made some mistakes that had hurt and wounded my spirit, but I believed that Heavenly Father still loved me and could heal me. Still, I didn’t think a cool tattoo was that bad. As I went down to the tattoo place, I contemplated where I wanted to place the snowboarder tattoo I was about to get. As I sat down in the tattoo shop, however, the Spirit brought other questions to my mind: “Why do I want something that would permanently alter my body just to fit in? Have I forgotten that my body is a temple?” (See 1 Corinthians 3:16–19.) The longer I sat, the more the Spirit prompted me that I was about to make a huge mistake. Fortunately, I couldn’t ignore what I was feeling, so I got up and left.
I’ve never looked back on that decision. I am grateful that Heavenly Father had not forgotten me and was willing to warn me through the Spirit. I know that Heavenly Father does care about all of us, no matter where we may be.

Down on the tip of England’s toe, 18-year-old Joanne Crocker of Helston Ward, tells of her teacher, Hugh Dunbar. “The day before one monthly meeting, his car wouldn’t go. He had the engine in pieces until 3:00 A.M. Then he snatched two hours of sleep and finished the job by 11:30 Saturday morning in time to begin picking up his class of seven by 12 noon. Then we drove 70 miles to the Plymouth stake centre. And this was only six months after open heart surgery.”

Joseph was an everyday Christian. He was concerned about the small things, the daily tasks of service and caring for others. Elder Lyman O. Littlefield was a thirteen-year-old boy who accompanied the camp of Zion when it went up to Missouri. He later narrated this incident of a small, yet personally significant act of service in the life of the Prophet. He said:

The journey was extremely toilsome for all, and the physical suffering, coupled with the knowledge of the persecutions endured by our brethren whom we were traveling to succor, caused me to lapse one day into a state of melancholy. As the camp was making ready to depart I sat tired and brooding by the roadside. The Prophet was the busiest man of the camp; and yet when he saw me, he turned from the great press of other duties to say a word of comfort to a child. Placing his hand upon my head, he said, “Is there no place for you, my boy? If not, we must make one.” This circumstance made an impression upon my mind which long lapse of time and cares of riper years have not effaced.

Maria had been less active for more than 20 years. A few months ago, we spent a couple of hours with her in our home, exploring her family through census and other records. At one point she burst into tears exclaiming, “I’ve learned more about my family in two hours than I’ve known in my whole life!”
At the end of our time together, we introduced to her the Relatives Around Me feature of the FamilyTree app. It turned out that my husband and I both are distantly related to Maria. She burst into tears again, saying she had thought she was alone. She never knew she had family in the area. A few weeks later Maria met with our bishop. She is now working on preparing for the temple, and she has met many “new” cousins in our ward!
Carol Riner Everett, North Carolina, USA

Colonel Thomas Kane, a special representative of James Polk, president of the United States, visited the Latter-day Saint pioneers in 1846 while they camped in Iowa, preparing to cross the Missouri River. He had read newspaper articles about the Saints, describing how they had frequently been persecuted and driven from their homes. As he walked through the woods near the outskirts of the camp, he came upon a lone pioneer who was secretly praying. Thomas stood quietly listening to the man humbly express thanks for the restored gospel and petition for the Saints’ protection during their travels.
Thomas was very moved by this experience, and he became a lifelong friend of the Saints, although he never joined the Church.

When I was 30 years old, I began working for a retail group in France. One day the company president, a good man of another faith, called me into his office. His question startled me: “I just learned you are a priest in your church. Is that true?”
I replied, “Yes, that is correct. I hold the priesthood.”
Visibly intrigued by my response, he further inquired, “But did you study at a theological seminary?”
“Of course,” I answered, “between the ages of 14 and 18, and I studied seminary lessons nearly every day!” He almost fell off his chair.
To my great surprise, several weeks later he called me back to his office to offer me a managing director position in one of the group’s companies. I was astonished and expressed my concern that I was too young and inexperienced to hold such an important responsibility. With a benevolent smile, he said, “That may be true, but it doesn’t matter. I know your principles, and I know what you’ve learned in your church. I need you.”
He was right about what I had learned in the Church. The years that followed were challenging, and I don’t know if I could have had any success without the experience I acquired by serving in the Church from the time I was a young man.

In my early years as a BYU faculty member, I was anxious to make a research contribution to my discipline that would be of enduring value. At the time, my research focused on the study of the heat transfer and flow characteristics of liquid jets striking hot surfaces. Liquid jets offer the potential of the most effective heat removal of any cooling configuration. My research group had been studying through careful experiments the cooling effectiveness of liquid jets impinging against hot surfaces, and I was anxious to conceive an experimental program that would provide understanding into the detailed nature of the liquid flow of the problem.

Around that time I attended a research conference in Boston. I was seated in a lecture room of the conference venue listening to a technical presentation when an idea burst into my mind. I remember nothing about the presentation, but the impression came to me so powerfully that I remember to this day how the lecture room was configured, where I was seated in the room, and the impression that came. What was presented in my mind was a radically different experimental approach for studying the liquid flow directly under a liquid jet and in the very thin layer that forms. I returned from that conference and shared the impression with my PhD student, and we pursued that novel approach for the next several years. Using laser instrumentation, we imaged the flow in the jet as it struck a transparent plate and looked at it from the back side. Now I am confident that the idea came to me by the Holy Ghost.

The result of our work in that experimental effort didn’t change the world, but it did bring new understanding to a difficult problem, impacting both the academic knowledge and the industrial implementation of this cooling technique. I ask myself, “Why would God want to share that impression with me?” I believe it was, in part, to demonstrate to me early in my career that learning is always magnified by the Holy Ghost—to tutor me in the divine direction to “seek learning, even by study and also by faith.” I have witnessed this pattern repeatedly in my research activity at BYU. Most important, I have seen it manifest in my students as we have worked together.

During the concluding moments of the Nauvoo Temple Dedication, I remember President Gordon B. Hinckley saying something like this,
Walk with me down Parley's Street. I want to paint a picture. A family walking near a wagon, snow swirling in the wind, an icy river in front of them. A little girl walking beside her mother shivers and cries, "Mama, I'm cold. Why can't we go home? This was the picture that I saw. Can you see it too, the little family facing the icy river? Can you feel it?
It is a beautiful, tender picture of sacrifice, trust, faith, and love.
President Hinckley invited those present to walk into the picture, and though it was a sticky hot June day, to imagine that frigid day in February. And they did. As the session concluded more than 1000 members poured out of the Temple heading for Parley's St. and the river. They were joined by hundreds more, who had heard President Hinckley's invitation in other locations.
The Church News reported:
What unfolded on June 30, 2002, was like a spiritual snapshot, the capturing of a moment to remember forever: Members of the Church heeded a prophet's voice. The distance covered, approximately a mile, wasn't significant, but the walk itself was.
The crowd thinned as people took different routes. Some went through a grove of trees, some kept to the dusty footpaths . . . They eventually merged on Parley St. and continued their walk to the river's edge. . .
The reason so many took the walk was summed up by four year old Anna Jensen, who said she sings "Follow the Prophet" in Primary.[1]

I had occasion once to visit with a young man who shared a source of strength for him in turning away from the temptations of pornography. A bishop had once counseled him to consider his own feelings if ever he were to find his own father viewing such images, "How would you feel?" The young brother described the disappointment and sorrow he imagined would come if ever he found his father in such a setting.

Then the bishop asked, "How would you feel if your own children saw you?"

What if we all followed such counsel when faced with temptations to tamper with this procreative power? Picture him, your son, with your spouse's eyes and your nose and that Stanford Burnham hairdo. Picture her, your daughter, with hair and a smile that says, "I'm here, love me."

Such pictures held in your mind's eye, "the eye of faith."[19] will aid you to turn away from other images and thoughts that would otherwise seek to divide you from the love you will share with an eternal companion. Satan desires that you burn isolated and alone in lust, separated from the children you could have here and in eternity. Remember that Elijah himself has come to help you turn your heart to the promises made to your children.

My dear wife, Irene, and I joined the Church 31 years ago when we were newly married. We had both grown up in Colombia, but a few months after our marriage, my career took us to live in Germany. We were very young and had great hopes and expectations; it was an especially exciting and happy time for us.
While I was concentrated on my career, Irene was feeling that we would receive some kind of message from heaven, without knowing how or when. So she started letting into our home all kinds of door-to-door salespeople with encyclopedias, vacuum cleaners, cookbooks, kitchen appliances, and so on, always waiting for that unique message.
One evening she told me that two young men in dark suits had knocked on our door and that she had felt a very clear and distinct impression to let them in. They had said that they wanted to talk to her about God but would come back again when I was also at home. Could this be the expected message?
They began to visit us, and with their guidance, we read in the scriptures and came to understand the crucial importance of Jesus Christ as our Savior and Redeemer. We soon regretted that we had been baptized as little babies, which had not been a conscious covenant. However, being baptized again would also mean becoming members of this new Church, so first we really needed to understand everything about it.
But how could we know if what the missionaries were telling us about the Book of Mormon, about Joseph Smith, and about the plan of salvation was actually all true? Well, we had understood from the words of the Lord that we could “know them by their fruits.”2 So, in a very systematic manner, we started examining the Church by looking for those fruits with the eyes of our very rational minds. What did we see? Well, we saw:
Friendly and happy people and wonderful families who understood that we are meant to feel joy in this life and not just suffering and misery.
A church that does not have a paid clergy but one in which members themselves accept assignments and responsibilities.
A church where Jesus Christ and families are at the center of everything, where members fast once a month and donate to help the poor and needy, where healthy habits are promoted, teaching us to abstain from harmful substances.
In addition:
We liked the emphasis on personal growth, on education, on hard work and self-reliance.
We learned about the remarkable humanitarian program.
And we were impressed by the general conferences, with the wonderful music and the profound spiritual principles shared there.
Seeing all this, we could find no fault in the Church. On the contrary, we liked everything we saw very much. However, we still could not decide to be baptized because we wanted to know everything before doing so.
But, even in our indecision, the Lord was patiently preparing us, He was molding us, and He was helping us to discover that we should learn to discern the truth not only through our rational minds but also through the very still and small voice of the Spirit, which speaks especially to our hearts.
That voice and the resulting feeling came one evening after 10 months of learning the gospel, when we read in Mosiah 18, “As ye are desirous to … bear one another’s burdens, … and comfort those that stand in need of comfort, … if this be the desire of your hearts, what have you against being baptized in the name of the Lord?”3
That passage from the Book of Mormon entered our hearts and souls, and we suddenly felt and knew that there was really no reason not to be baptized. We realized that the desires mentioned in these verses were also the wishes of our hearts and that those things were what really mattered. They were more important than understanding everything because we already knew enough. We had always relied on the guiding hand of a loving Heavenly Father and were confident that He would continue to guide us.
So, that same day, we set up a date for our baptism, and soon we were baptized, finally!

When I found out that our stake was going to produce a musical show I was filled with the desire to participate. I had been in many plays, but since becoming totally blind three years earlier, I had neglected my love of amateur acting. I was afraid that the directors would never use a blind actress, and I wondered if I would be able to handle the complex stage movements. But my desires overcame my fears, and I auditioned for a part in the show.
The audition went well, but even my very supportive husband warned me not to get too hopeful. To my surprise, I not only got the part I wanted, but one of the directors hadn’t even realized I was blind! Had I let my fears keep me from trying, I would have missed one of the most delightful experiences of my life.

This is my friend Aisha, from Tonga. She joined the Church when she was 13, even though her father was opposed to the idea. She worked hard in high school to show her dad how responsible she was, but he passed away before he could see her graduate with honors.
She wanted to serve a mission. That fell through.
She wanted to be sealed to her family. That fell through, too.
Even when her plans completely fall apart, Aisha has a heart of gratitude, because God has other things planned for her. He’s shaping her into what He wants. She loves giving thanks to God.

The bell rang out across the playground. Recess was over. Alvin put away his basketball and walked to the classroom.
“Please sit down and take out your math books,” his teacher, Mrs. Hall, said.
Alvin slid into his seat and reached into his school bag. Then he heard a knock on the classroom door. Mrs. Hall answered it and started talking with another teacher.
Just a few desks over, Blake and Jared started whispering.
“Pssst! Look what I found!”
“Whoa!”
“Wanna try it after school?”
What’s going on? Alvin wondered.
He could just barely see Blake and Jared out of the corner of his eye. It looked like one of them was pulling a little plastic bag out of his pocket.
Wait, were those drugs?!
Alvin’s heart beat faster. His parents had talked with him and his siblings about drugs before. He knew that drugs were against the Word of Wisdom and that they could hurt your body and brain. He also knew it was dangerous to take medicine that wasn’t yours.
What should I do? Alvin thought. He glanced around. Those drugs could hurt someone! None of the other kids seemed to be paying attention. Should I tell someone? Or just pretend I didn’t see it?
Alvin had trouble concentrating during math. He couldn’t focus during reading time. By lunchtime, he felt like a rock was sitting in his stomach.
“Are you OK?” his friend Mitch asked.
Alvin shrugged.
“What’s going on? Tell us,” his friend Hazel said.
So Alvin told them about what he had seen. “I think I need to tell Mrs. Hall.”
“But what if they find out it was you?” Mitch said. “They might be really mad at you.”
Alvin agreed. But the yucky feeling in his stomach wouldn’t go away. Finally he made a decision. He was going to tell their teacher.
“I’ll go with you,” Hazel said.
Alvin and Hazel found Mrs. Hall in her classroom.
“Mrs. Hall?” Alvin asked. “Can we talk with you in private?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Hall said. “How can I help you?”
“Um … ,” Alvin said. Mrs. Hall smiled kindly. That made him feel brave. “I saw Blake and Jared with drugs in class today. I felt like I needed to tell you.”
“You did the right thing,” Mrs. Hall said. “You can always come talk to me when you see a problem. I’ll take care of it.”
Alvin let out a big sigh. The heavy feeling had disappeared.
That afternoon, the principal’s assistant came to their room and called Blake and Jared to come out in the hall.
The boys didn’t come back to class for three days.
When they finally came back, Alvin was nervous to see them again.
What if they figured out I was the one who told the teacher? he thought. What if they’re really mad at me?
But they just sat and joked with each other, like usual.
“Where have you been?” another classmate asked them.
“Oh … uh … we got caught with something bad at school,” Blake said. “So we got sent home.”
Everyone kept talking, and eventually Alvin relaxed. He was glad he’d spoken up about the drugs to help keep others safe. He wanted to make good choices to keep his body safe and healthy.

When I was 11, I started doing yard work for Grandpa. Either he would pick me up in his white Dodge Dart or I would ride my Schwinn Stingray across the overpass to his house. At first all I did was mow his lawn, but later I started pruning, planting, and working the compost pile. When we worked in the garden, Grandpa always wore a pair of brown trousers stained with paint and grass. He cinched the trousers high on his waist with a ragged belt that was too long, and tried to keep his plaid shirt tucked into them. On his head sat a mesh golf cap, and in his hand he carried his working cane, a dull-colored hardwood cane my sister Kris had bought in Salt Lake City, as a Christmas gift for him one year.
The handle of the cane was curved like the wood on Mom’s bentwood rocker, but rougher, and the shaft disappeared into a round rubber toe like the kind used on crutches. This cane was not as stiff as Grandpa’s first cane, nor as elegant as his second, but it was more useful than both of them. He not only used it around the house for opening cupboards or reaching for the phone book, but outside as a garden tool.
When he needed to water a dry spot out between the pine trees, he would hobble through the grass, pulling the hose along behind him with his cane. In early spring, after I had pruned his fruit trees, he held the discarded limbs in place with his cane while I tightened the twine around them. And over Memorial Day weekend we planted his garden together: I dug the furrows and bent low to plant the seeds, and he followed behind, pushing the soil over the seeds with the handle of his cane, then tamping the soil until it was firm. Later in the summer, he would hold the clambering delphinium stocks away from the fence while I tied them to stakes. And in October he would sit patiently under his pear tree in a chair, staring into the boughs, pointing with his cane to a piece of fruit I had missed.
After a few years, during which it was used for virtually everything, the cane was all scratches and dents. Part of the handle had splintered badly, then worn smooth again so that I could feel a slight depression when I held the cane. The upper part of the bow was discolored from being held so much, and near the rubber toe were splashes of paint and grease. When Grandpa first got this cane I didn’t like it much—there was nothing distinctive about it—but after years of constant use it developed a personality. It didn’t protect or dazzle, but it served well.

One of the most discouraging parts of my mission was four months I spent in Tulancingo, Mexico. The work was difficult. Day after day my companion and I spent long hours tracting. The people were generally hostile, and no one seemed interested in listening to us.
Finally, we found two men who seemed very interested in our message. Our efforts seemed at last to be paying off, and I knew these men would be great assets to Tulancingo’s struggling branch. But when these men both decided not to accept baptism, I was devastated and began to wonder if I was accomplishing anything of value by serving a mission.
About this time a 12-year-old girl came to Tulancingo to visit a family in the branch. She became interested in the Church and asked us to teach her the discussions. She seemed to accept everything we said. A short time later her father came for a visit and gave permission for her to be baptized.
But this baptism did little to lessen the disappointment I felt regarding the men who had failed to join the Church. I had hoped they would help to build up the Church in this area. Because the girl was so young and the only member in her family, I didn’t think there was much chance that she would remain active. She left Tulancingo a few days after her baptism, and I lost contact with her. In fact, I completely forgot about her.
It has been more than 30 years since my mission, and not long ago I unexpectedly received the following letter:
Dear Brother Cooper,
My name is J. Jovita Pérez Acosta. I was baptized December 1, 1965, in Tulancingo. I always thought I would very much like to thank you for having brought the gospel into my life.
About a year ago I moved into a new ward and [met a man who] knew you and knew your address. So I have now taken advantage of the situation to send greetings and tell you a little about my life in the gospel.
When you taught me the gospel, I was 12 years old and was spending the summer in Tulancingo. I remember clearly the day that I heard the history of Joseph Smith. I felt that it was true, and that same night I knelt for the first time in my life and prayed as you had taught me. On that occasion I learned how to talk with my Heavenly Father.
My mother was angry with my father because of my baptism, and they sent me to live at a Catholic boarding school. There was no member of the Church in all the area. I didn’t even have a Book of Mormon. But I continued to pray, and the seed that you planted in my heart began to germinate.
One day, analyzing my religious situation, I felt that Heavenly Father was not pleased with me. I was confused. I told Him that I wanted to belong only to His church. I asked that He would help me be a good daughter to Him. A little while after this, I felt impelled to write to the [LDS] Church school in Mexico City to ask that I might be enrolled there. I was accepted. It was then that my testimony began to form.
Seven years later my three younger sisters joined the Church, and they also went to live at the Church school. My mother had us attend her church during the summers; but even so, we read the scriptures, and we began to have family home evenings. Ten years after my baptism, my mother and my youngest brother were baptized. A year later my father was baptized. We were the first member family in our town and in all the towns roundabout. The nearest church was four hours away. My parents would travel every two weeks to go to the church services there.
During this period I became very ill and went to live for some months with my parents. We had family home evening every week. My mother would invite almost everyone around, and we would have about 30 attend.
One day I called the mission home in Mexico City to ask that missionaries be sent, and this was how the first branch was born in all that region. My father was the branch president, and my mother was the Relief Society president. Now there are many branches in the other towns, and they have been formed into two districts.
My youngest sister converted the man who is now her husband, and they both served missions. He is a bishop in Ciudad Juarez, and they have five children. Two of my nephews and a niece have also served missions. My oldest son returned last year from his mission, and my daughter is presently serving in Washington, D.C. My youngest son leaves next month to serve a mission in Mexico.
In all, my parents have 26 grandchildren who are members of the Church. As you can see, one of the little seeds you planted many years ago has been transformed into a tree, and it is giving fruit and producing seeds for new trees. Isn’t it glorious? When my oldest son left for his mission, I told him that all he had to do was plant with love in the vineyard of the Lord. Perhaps he would never see the tree grow and produce fruit, but the Lord would.
The gospel has given me much happiness, and without it, I don’t know what my life would be. I know that Jesus Christ is my redeemer and that His work will move forward, blessing the families of the earth.
Your sister in the faith,Jovita Pérez
As I read this letter, I was filled with joy and amazement. I now realize that perhaps the most important thing I accomplished on my mission was something that had seemed almost insignificant and that had occurred at a time of great discouragement.
What this sister said about planting with love in the Lord’s vineyard is very true. Many missionaries will never be aware of all of the results of their labors. But if we spend our lives doing all the good we can, without wondering and worrying about the consequences, we will find the true joy of the gospel.

I’m reminded of a war long ago in which three young men were hit by an enemy attack. One was slightly injured, one was critically injured, and the other was killed. For many years, the least injured of the three agonized over why he was spared. He argued with himself about it until he had convinced himself he had sinned somehow by surviving. His feelings of guilt nearly consumed him.
Not until 40 years later, when his own son came home from another war seriously wounded, did the father accept and feel gratitude for having survived the earlier war. Because he was a survivor, he had experienced the same trauma his son was going through. Now he could empathize with and help his son.
Serving his son in this unique way, he finally found peace. He said, “My only regret is that I have been looking backward all these years, instead of looking ahead to the future.” He had blamed himself for something he could not control. And that constant self-blame had prevented him from enjoying life as much as he might have. Now the past was a blessing to him and a great help to his son.

I became more and more uncomfortable during our first member-missionary Sunday School class while the teacher talked about the importance of the work.
“Every member a missionary,” he reminded us, and then he continued: “Eighty percent of the convert baptisms in our mission come from member referrals. One part of the threefold mission of the Church is to proclaim the gospel to every nation, kindred, tongue, and people. Brothers and sisters, we need to learn to open our mouths and share the gospel!”
His words weren’t new to me; I had heard them many times and believed them to be true. So why was I feeling uncomfortable? Why was I too nervous to give a nonmember a copy of the Book of Mormon, share my testimony with someone, or invite someone to meet the missionaries? Feeling discouraged after that first class, I tried to understand why I felt afraid to give a copy of the Book of Mormon to a nonmember, to share my testimony of the gospel, and to the invite nonmember friends and neighbors to meet with the missionaries. In examining my fears I took the first step toward a remarkable change in my life. As I studied the scriptures and words of living prophets and prayed to the Lord, my fear turned to confidence. By the end of that six-week class, I had given away seven copies of the Book of Mormon, shared my testimony with two nonmembers, and invited neighbors into our home to meet the missionaries. Here’s how I faced my fears and dealt with them.

I was sitting behind two teenage girls on a bus. One of them was upset because her parents couldn’t afford to buy a dress she had wanted. She didn’t really like her second choice.
“Then Mom was upset because I didn’t say thank you,” she complained. “I don’t know what she expected me to say thank you for!”
Ungrateful child, I thought.
Not long after that, I began pondering the promise of “a blessing that there shall not be room enough to receive it” (3 Ne. 24:10). Although I had been paying my tithing and fulfilling my other obligations, I did not feel overwhelmed with blessings. In fact, I felt that I had little to be grateful for.
Suddenly, my experience on the bus flashed through my mind. I, too, had been an ungrateful child. First as a trickle and then increasing to a torrent, there came to me a powerful awareness of the blessings I had received. From tiny everyday blessings to the great blessing of the Atonement, the gifts God had given me were both abundant and wondrous. The windows of heaven had been open all the time. I just hadn’t noticed. My soul filled with such gratitude that I felt physically unable to bear it.
That night I understood for the first time that when gratitude fills our hearts, there is no room for unhappiness. Happiness, I decided, does not depend on obtaining all the desires of our hearts. In large measure, happiness depends on our ability to feel gratitude for the abundance we already have.

Several years ago, we lived in the suburbs of Brisbane in Queensland, Australia. On one beautiful Sunday afternoon, we decided to take our family out to a known footpath that would lead up to the Brisbane Temple. We drove with our five young children to the Brisbane CBD where the large Brisbane River winds through its center. At one point, the river has carved out beautiful and dramatic cliffs. Wonderful for rappelling and climbing, the Kangaroo Point Cliffs are a famous attraction right in Brisbane’s busy downtown waterway.
We drove down the hill toward the water’s edge and parked near the base of these cliffs. Then we pleasantly strolled through a park over to the side of the cliffs where a paved footpath was built to lead those from the bottom of the cliffs to the top. As we made our way there, our eyes wandered to what lay across the wide river: a stunning view of skyscrapers and high rises. We followed those along with our eyes until the buildings dipped down and gave way to a brush of trees and bamboo directly opposite us. We knew that brush made up the Brisbane Botanical Gardens.
Taking in deep breaths of the vegetation drenched in a recent shower, we turned to our object, and maneuvered around the railing of the path to begin what we anticipated to be a spiritual and happy time together.
We had taken only a few steps onto the trail when a blaring electric guitar, and muffled talking over a microphone, sounded. Startled, we looked back in the direction of the sound, only to see the dense brush of the botanical gardens across the river. It occurred to us that in the amphitheater of the gardens, hidden from view, a concert was starting.
As we took more steps, drums and yells echoed across the water and bounced loudly off the nearby cliffs. Rounding a bend, we slowly ascended the first switchback. Deep screams and growls from the amphitheater began to cloud our thinking and made it difficult to have conversation. But, with good faith and optimism we determined to cheerfully go on—perhaps, wishfully thinking the heavy metal concert would end soon.
On we pressed, but as we did, so did the concert. We continued through several more switchbacks. The deafening sounds of the concert continued. I began to feel annoyance, even frustration. Why was this happening? How could other’s choices have this much influence and distraction over mine?
The trail was now getting steeper and we gripped the metal railing for support. As we went up, the volume of the concert also seemed to climb. It now became difficult to think of anything else. Occasionally, after traversing steep sections, we would pause to catch our breath and have a look at the views. The skyline was beginning to grey against the lowering sun.
Our eyes penetrated the dark and deep water that was now so far below. A memory came to my mind: another day we had floated that river together on a hot afternoon. The guide of our tour boat had taught us about the danger of the river due to bull sharks that swam up from the nearby harbor. Because of the ocean’s backflows, that dark river water was actually salty.
Up again we went. Tired from both the climbing and the jarring music, our optimism was fading. We tried to enjoy each other and the hike, but the screams and language worsened with each of the rock band’s numbers. Now, unable to hear each other, we quietly hiked along with our children. The views were beautiful, but the noises seemed to block the Spirit and any feelings of peace. Our pleasant time together was being ruined.
Presently, a thought came to me: “Isn’t this life? Is this not the vision of Lehi?” I considered the screeching heavy metal which seemed to be mocking us all the way. I looked again at the deep and dangerous river and glanced up at the “great and spacious” buildings on the other side. I felt the “rod” there, cold in my hands, protecting me and my family from a great fall (see 1 Nephi 8).
Several more minutes went by. I guess these thoughts were consoling me. Life is not meant to be perfect. Maybe its imperfections are the very things we need to become perfect.
I watched my tennis shoes plant on each narrow step. And then one of the most empowering, and loving impressions came over me: this music may be annoying, the yells were too, but they were not stopping us from putting one foot in front of another. Nor were the voices and sways of the world. They, in themselves had absolutely no power, because we were giving them none. We were free to act for ourselves!
I began to hike with a new determination.
How many times since have I heard the screams of close family members and friends walking and laughing away from the Church and into forbidden roads, beckoning me to follow? How many temptations, burdens, or feelings have I experienced which made the way difficult to see or the gospel extremely hard to focus on? At times, these noises have even blocked my ability to feel the Spirit.
But no matter the racket, how heavy the burden, or how dark or confusing the feeling, nothing has been successful in stopping me from walking step-by-step with the Lord back to His house. Exercising faith and repentance, we constantly move forward.
As dusk settled on us that evening in Brisbane, we all smiled together for a photo while shouts and guitars swirled in our ears. But in the background of that photo stood the temple. We had made it!