Gospel Story Finder

During a visiting teaching visit, Martha, a member of our ward, told my wife and her companion never to come back again. She had decided to stop coming to church. One of the visiting teachers asked Martha if they could sing a hymn together this one last time, and she agreed. As they sang, something special happened. Little by little, the Spirit began to fill the room. Each of them felt it. Martha’s heart began to soften. With her eyes filled with tears, she expressed to her visiting teachers the feelings of her heart. At that moment, she realized that she knew that the gospel was true. She now thanked her visiting teachers and expressed a desire for them to return. From that day forward, she received them with joy.
Martha began to attend church with her young daughter. For years they attended regularly, with Martha never losing hope that her husband might eventually choose to join them. At last the day came when the Lord touched his heart, and he began to attend with them, as did their other daughter soon thereafter. This family began to feel the true joy that comes from having gospel blessings in their home. Martha has since served faithfully as our ward Relief Society president, and her husband has served well in several callings within the stake. All this began with the singing of a hymn, a small and simple thing that touched Martha’s heart.

The Contact Lens
So it was, in a much diminished but no less important way for me, when, on a rainy summer afternoon in 1958, I unwittingly traced the One Step into the Dark Pattern while tracting along a gravel road on a hillside above Baden, Switzerland. As we walked from home to home, I was suddenly laid low by a speck of dust in my right eye. I learned, as one who had worn brand-new contact lenses for only five days, that a mote feels like a beam. I quickly extracted the lens, cleaned it, and prepared to reinsert it. As I held my finger at the ready, a gust of wind swept the lens from my fingertip. My lens was gone with the wind, and I was aghast—and virtually blind, being plunged instantly into 20/600 vision in one eye, which had been miraculously corrected only a week earlier to 20/20.

Elder Neil Reading and I began to search on hands and knees in the wet gravel, sweeping an eight-foot radius about my point of loss; we searched unsuccessfully for twenty minutes. Half-blind and half-despairing, I suggested that while we were already in position, we should pray. I reasoned with the Lord, told him about my need to see; about our need to meet our three investigator families that evening; about my feeling that there was more to be gained by finding the lens than by my learning whatever I was to learn from the loss. As I concluded the prayer and stood up, I received one of those Joseph Smith “flashes of intelligence.” It surprised me, but I reacted at once. Explaining the plan to my startled companion, I stood on my feet in the same place I had stood earlier, squeezed out my left contact lens, and was plunged into the distorted virtual blindness of 20/600 vision. I had begun my step into the dark.

Assured that my companion was on his knees and at the ready, I put my left lens in my mouth, extracted it, and, mounting it on my finger some six inches from my face, I waited—but not for long. A slight breeze caught my left lens, and it was gone: my step into the dark was now complete. I stood stock-still, heart in throat, until Elder Reading said, “I see it. It’s still in the air.”

“Don’t lose it,” I pled.

“It’s still up,” he whispered, now 10 feet away. Then, from even further away, he exclaimed, “It’s starting to fall!”

“Keep your eye on it,” I pled again.

“I see it! I see it!” he said. There was a long pause and then, “Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!”

I braced.

“Oh my gosh,” he said, “it’s landed, and”—pause . . . pause . . . pause—“it’s landed almost right on top of the other lens!”

“You see the other lens?” I shouted.

“Yes, it’s right here!”

Unable to see a thing, I crawled over to him. Slowly, he planted in my palm, in order, my left and right lenses—my seer stones. I wet the lenses and, with my back to the wind and sheltered by my companion’s hovering frame, I implanted them: “And there was light, and it was good.” And we knelt, and full of gratitude I thanked our God for tender mercies. We pressed on to the next house, filled with wonder at a God who knows each sparrow’s fall and the exact whereabouts in Switzerland of Elder Cracroft’s right contact lens.

I bought the first one several years ago in a drugstore in Alexandria, Virginia. At 77¢, it was the least pretentious bound notebook I could find. At the time, I didn’t know I was starting a journal. I only knew I needed a place to organize my thoughts.
Before then, I had written ideas on any convenient scrap of paper—on the backs of tithing slips, on church programs, in small spaces on calendars. As I lost those bits of paper, I lost my only record of my best insights. The time had come to make them more lasting.
From grade school through high school I had kept diaries, but the small, hand-size pages didn’t allow for long entries. And the word diary on the front seemed too lofty, like the record an explorer would keep of an Antarctic exploration. I wrote only the activities of my life in them, never my thoughts. (A typical entry: “Today I did horrible on my history test, but tonight Mike in my French class called me.”)
There was little emotional substance to those entries, but at least they were entries. Regrettably, as l attended college, I became “too busy” to keep a diary.
Therefore, when I bought the 77¢ notebook, I wasn’t thinking “diary” or “journal.” I was just tired of losing those insights that would make good Sunday School talks. As I wrote in that first notebook, I was fascinated by how easily words came. I began looking forward to writing in my notebook at night. Sometimes during the day I would write myself a note about ideas to record that night. Some mornings I awoke before dawn and wrote fervently for five minutes or even an hour, undisturbed by the need to get up and get dressed. Some nights I wrote several entries; some nights I wrote none.
I liked the inexpensive notebooks because I wasn’t afraid to make mistakes in them, or to write about the mistakes I made in living. I began setting aside time to write. I wrote in the same place—curled up on the sofa, by the lamp. I recorded in the margins events that were significant, such as a new car or the date of my cat’s vaccinations. The actual writing space was used to record my reactions to the day, my observations and conclusions.
It was only when I went back to the drugstore several months later to buy another notebook that I realized I was keeping a journal. I decided to give the series of notebooks a name: Janet. The first volume, Janet 1, hadn’t exactly assumed journal form, since I had dated few entries, and none mentioned daily activities and impressions. As I realized I was keeping a journal, I modified the format so that I would at least know what day each entry was written.
It became interesting, too, to note where I was each day I wrote. No matter where I went—on trips or to stay with nearby friends—I found that I was the same person, with the same personality.
When I was visiting a friend once, I realized the journal’s potential for encouraging spiritual and emotional growth. After hours of bantering with a philosophy student who wanted to argue about the gospel, I wrote a long entry about my beliefs. Putting it on paper was like testifying. That night, as I wrote with a purple felt-tipped pen, I realized how open and honest I was with my journal—probably more candid than I was with any friend. Because of my frustration with my ability to think and express myself I wrote: “My brain has been like a vacuum cleaner, sucking in all sorts of garbage and dirt. And gold dust. So I must empty the bag and sort out the particles one by one until only the gold dust is left.”
Writing out my ideas gave me a chance to analyze them. Sometimes, in writing, I realized that my attitudes were based on selfishness or faulty judgment. Other times I was glad to realize that my ideas were sound.
Sometimes I found myself laughing out loud at my reactions to the traumas of each day. Once on a bad day I wrote “PHOOEY” in letters 15 spaces high. It helped.
I started titling each entry. One of my favorite titles—and favorite entries—came when I was trying to develop greater faith. That title was “Doubt Creeps in and Janet Strikes Back.” Some titles reflect a calmer attitude. One in Janet 3, “On Days and Nights and Things I Love,” leads into a paragraph I love to reread:
“I love nights that are chilly and clear, when I can see the stars and talk aloud under them. And I love early mornings, being up, being alive, and being outside on a day that is only starting. I love new beginnings that are just getting organized. And clean sheets, clean nightgown, clean body, clean hair, and a reason to be happy. I love the world when my soul brims with hope.”
My soul doesn’t always brim with hope. Sometimes it brims with frustration. When that’s the case, I can look back to the rejuvenating entry I wrote that September night. I can find encouragement from another entry, written soon after that one: “When I can understand what I’m going through, I find that endurance becomes easier.”
Not every entry is profound or even interesting. But each, in its own way, traces my daily conversion to the gospel, my struggles with myself, and my delight with each line-upon-line discovery of living. Each helps the others assume clearer perspective. Not only does each entry reflect my life, but it affects and becomes part of my life.
It was during Janet 4, when my best friend moved, that I wrote: “I hurt too much to write.” And it was during Janet 5, after I had written a thoughtless letter that hurt a friend, that I wrote in my journal: “Through the many confusing voices that ring through my mind, one calming voice pervades and tells me the whole matter will be of no consequence.” After writing about that “calming voice,” I listened to it more carefully. The “voice” was right; when I later asked the friend to forgive me, he said he already had.
One day, when I felt that life was picking on me, I started what has become a tradition. I wrote an entry titled “Things I Am Thankful For.” It amazed me that day, as it still does, how varied and plentiful are my blessings, and how obscure and sometimes even humorous are my trials.
Through moves from one side of the United States to the other, through vacations, through each peak and plateau, the volumes of my journal have been a constant, a friend, tucked on a bookshelf or into a suitcase along with my copies of the scriptures. They have become a vehicle for working out personal answers for the curious challenges of each day.
I thought, at the beginning of the journal keeping, that I would neatly record my most profound thoughts, making them more accessible when I had to give sacrament meeting talks. Once or twice I have used a journal for that, but it’s far from the full benefit. The journal isn’t a reference book about my life, nor does it map my life. It isn’t a status chart; it’s a dynamic, if rough, artwork.
The Janet series is steaming ahead in its 15th volume. Some volumes span a year, and others a few months. I am the only person who has read all of them, and I may keep it that way—for a few decades, at least. The volumes have graduated from inexpensive notebooks to actual hardback books with blank pages. I have to confess—I bought a leather-bound journal last time (but it was on sale). And I did make quite a concession on the journal before that; it actually says “Journal” on the cover!

The second lesson was learned several years later when we were more financially secure. Our wedding anniversary was approaching, and I wanted to buy Mary a fancy coat to show my love and appreciation for our many happy years together. When I asked what she thought of the coat I had in mind, she replied with words that again penetrated my heart and mind. “Where would I wear it?” she asked. (At the time she was a ward Relief Society president helping to minister to needy families.)

Then she taught me an unforgettable lesson. She looked me in the eyes and sweetly asked, “Are you buying this for me or for you?” In other words, she was asking, “Is the purpose of this gift to show your love for me or to show me that you are a good provider or to prove something to the world?” I pondered her question and realized I was thinking less about her and our family and more about me.

After that we had a serious, life-changing discussion about provident living, and both of us agreed that our money would be better spent in paying down our home mortgage and adding to our children’s education fund.

In his general conference address in April 2011, Elder Kent F. Richards relayed the following:
Thirteen-year-old Sherrie underwent a 14-hour operation for a tumor on her spinal cord. As she regained consciousness in the intensive care unit, she said: “Daddy, Aunt Cheryl is here, . . . and . . . Grandpa Norman . . . and Grandma Brown . . . are here. And Daddy, who is that standing beside you? . . . He looks like you, only taller. . . . He says he’s your brother, Jimmy.” Her uncle Jimmy had died at age 13 of cystic fibrosis.
“For nearly an hour, Sherrie . . . described her visitors, all deceased family members. Exhausted, she then fell asleep.”
Later she told her father, “Daddy, all of the children here in the intensive care unit have angels helping them.”

In 1988 I left my home in the southeastern African nation of Mozambique to seek education and work opportunities in what was then the German Democratic Republic. While in a store I met two missionaries who asked me if I had ever heard of Jesus Christ. I said that I had heard of Him but that I didn’t really know who He was. In fact, I had never before had a belief in God. The missionaries gave me a German Book of Mormon and asked me to read from it and to pray about it. Then, because I had never before seen anyone pray, they explained how.
After their visit I read and prayed as they had suggested. A marvelous feeling of peace entered into my heart. “What is this?” I wondered.
When the missionaries visited me again, they explained that the peace in my heart was the answer to my prayer. I knew then that the book was from God. Still, I was fearful about being baptized because I thought my father might no longer accept me as his son.
In 1991, when my work contract in Germany expired, I returned home to Mozambique. My country was at war, and the Church was not yet established there. Still, I was happy in the hope that one day the Church would come to my homeland and I could be baptized. Whenever anyone would invite me to attend a church, I would tell them I already had one.
“Which one?” they would ask.
“It doesn’t exist here,” I would answer. “But it will come.” Of that I was certain.
It was eight years before I found the Church again, but during all those years, I had a guide. When I left Germany, the branch president there subscribed to A Liahona (Portuguese) for me. Each month for eight years, A Liahona came to me. And each month for eight years, it encouraged me and gave me hope. Whenever I read it, I felt as if I were with other Latter-day Saints. The magazine oriented me, filled me with great emotion, brought humble words to me, and fed my spirit. Often in the Questions and Answers section, I found answers to my own questions. For eight years, A Liahona guided me.
Then one day in 1999, full-time missionaries walked into the post office where my brother works—the same post office where my copy of A Liahona always arrives. When my brother saw Elder Patrick Tedjamulia’s name tag, he recognized the name of the Church from my magazines and asked the elder who he was. My brother explained that he had a family member in the same church, and Elder Tedjamulia asked to meet me.
When my brother told me about meeting the missionaries, I was amazed. Could it really be that the Church was here in Mozambique?
I soon learned that it was true. Our government had recognized the Church in 1996.
It was marvelous to meet with the elders again. I remembered the things the missionaries had taught me in Germany, and I felt that same peace come into my heart.
In January 2000 I was finally baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It has been a great blessing to me. I feel the Lord’s Spirit in all the work of the Church.
How grateful I am for A Liahona. I am thankful that Heavenly Father provided a guide for me, so I could continue to believe and to have hope until I could find His Church again.

One special experience I remember was when I was going through a little rebellious period. It felt like I could see so many of my parents’ flaws, and I felt that they had no right to counsel me how to live my life. Although I lived worthy to go to the temple, I was questioning my father’s role as the head of our family. But when we went to the temple together to do baptisms and confirmations, I felt the presence of a sweet spirit. As my father laid his hands on my head to confirm me on behalf of people who had passed away, I felt the Spirit confirm to me that he was acting by the true authority of the priesthood. This made me realize that although my father was not perfect, he was still a good father and I was blessed to be his son. I felt I needed to repent of my rebelliousness and try to see the wisdom and love of his admonitions.

It was a long process for Sukardi of Indonesia and his family to find closure and hope following the 2004 tsunami that devastated the coasts of Southeast Asia.
“We thought it was the end of the world; it was unbelievable,” said Sukardi, looking back to December 26, 2004, the day a massive underwater earthquake struck off the coast of Indonesia, causing a tsunami that killed more than 225,000 people in 11 countries. “But we are alive, and we are together, and we are happy.”
Sukardi, like thousands of others, lost family members and friends, his home, land, and nearly his life. After being washed away with the tsunami, he managed to grab hold of a coconut tree and cling to it as he waited for the floodwaters to recede.
Joined by family members, each with similar survival stories, Sukardi now resides in a home built with the help of Latter-day Saint Charities, an arm of Church Humanitarian Services, as part of the Church’s efforts to assist tsunami survivors.
The Church’s emergency relief efforts during the months immediately following the tragedy provided commodities such as food, hygiene kits, medical supplies, and clothing. Because of members’ significant donations, the Church began planning longer-term relief. As part of that long-term effort, fishermen and carpenters were given jobs constructing more than 130 replacement fishing boats. Men were hired to use large, wide-tracked backhoes to help reconstruct the dikes around shrimp farms. Sewing machines, looms, hand tractors, and other tools were donated to encourage a return to self-sufficiency.
“All of the first year was focused on reestablishing livelihood and helping individuals get back to work,” said Brett Bass, director of Church Humanitarian Services. “Then we looked at our resources, identified the most pressing needs, and refocused our efforts on permanent reconstruction.”
The Church’s efforts included constructing community centers, homes, schools, medical clinics, and clean water systems—all made possible by a tremendous outpouring of humanitarian generosity. In the time of need, Church members from around the world contributed to help make these efforts possible.
The Church’s monumental efforts in Indonesia concluded in December 2007. Major projects included building 902 homes and 3 community centers, constructing 15 schools, building 3 fully equipped health clinics, rebuilding a hospital wing, and completing 24 village water projects.
Abdul Samad lived in a hastily constructed community barracks for two and a half years before he and his family moved into their new home. He lost his wife and her mother in the flood but now hopes to make life better for his remaining family, three daughters and a son.
Each of the 902 homes built and donated is 44 square meters. The hundreds of recipients frequently said they believe their homes were the best homes built, that they would pass them on to their children and grandchildren. They loved the colors used and the tile on the floors and expressed gratitude for having something solid and reliable in their lives again.
“When the earthquake hit and the tsunami followed, the first thing they did, if they were in their house, was run outside,” said Jeff McMurdo from International Organization for Migration, which partnered with the Church to build homes. “From the moment it started, they were running. So when they get the keys to a house, they are able to get some measure of closure to the whole tragedy of the tsunami experience.”
The Church continued rebuilding efforts by partnering with Islamic Relief and the Adventist Development and Relief Agency to build 15 schools, along with training new teachers and developing curriculum and education support systems.
Many of the area’s teachers were killed in the tsunami, creating a significant teacher shortage. Kamaruzzaman, a teacher from Banda Aceh, is one of just two surviving teachers from his school. With the loss of buildings, teachers, and children, the education system operated in a very makeshift fashion until these new schools were constructed.
“They have been going to a temporary building for school—a community hall where there are about 40 students in the room,” said Kamaruzzaman, who is now a head schoolmaster of a newly built school. “The students now have a better school that’s more helpful to learning. They now have a more hopeful future.”
Each school building was furnished with desks, whiteboards, and libraries to provide a quality learning environment for children. As more teachers became available, an emphasis was put on training and developing new curriculum.
Herliana, an education coordinator for Islamic Relief, said she is very proud to be a part of this project. “There were no schools; there were few trained teachers left,” she said. “This has been a great contribution to the communities. Together we are making a big difference in the lives of the children, teachers, parents, and families.”
Fauziah, an animated and smiling woman, is now a water operator for her small village near Bireuen in Aceh Provence. In this position, she keeps records and collects water-usage fees from those who use the community’s new water system.
In partnership with International Relief and Development, the Church completed 24 village water projects that consisted of renovating wells, installing storage tanks, improving sanitation, and upgrading delivery systems. These efforts are providing clean water to 20,000 people.
“Before, it was hard to get good water and it took a long time to go get it,” said Fauziah as she expressed gratitude to have access right outside her home. “Now our children will be healthier and will have a better future.”
Bath and laundry facilities were also built in the villages, and residents received training on how to take care of the facilities and keep them clean.
While each village also received personal hygiene training, the more elaborate efforts to improve healthcare moved forward with the completion of three fully equipped health clinics and the rebuilding of a hospital wing.
“This is much-needed,” said Syarman, a community leader in the Bireuen district, where access to medical care previously required a 15-kilometer walk. “Our people will be able to get needed medical assistance near their homes. It is better than before, and we are grateful.”
The Church also arranged training for doctors and medical staff and provided needed medical equipment.
For Bill and Linda Hamm of Anchorage, Alaska, USA, the work presented a personal challenge: they were called to serve as humanitarian service missionaries to oversee tsunami relief efforts in Indonesia. “We were exhilarated by the challenges and overwhelmed by the opportunity,” Brother Hamm said.
This opportunity was also extended to Jim and Karen Greding of Thousand Oaks, California, USA, a couple called to oversee the completion of the projects after Brother and Sister Hamm’s 18-month mission concluded. With the assignment to be present and to check on the work being done, these individuals acted as representatives not only of the Church, but also of the many individuals who made contributions.
“We were to oversee the quality of the work and to make sure the money allotted for projects was being used properly,” Sister Greding said. Church representatives were present at every stage of the process, an act that, combined with their funding methods, distinguished the Church from other organizations.
“We regarded our finances as sacred funds and made every effort to see these funds used efficiently and not be wasted,” said Bill Reynolds, director of field operations for tsunami relief. “Many organizations provide funding and wait to see what is happening through infrequent reports. We provided sequential funding that relied on benchmark expectations that we personally oversaw. The organizations we worked with knew that if we said we wanted something done and in a certain way, they needed to meet those expectations.”
The Church focused on helping Indonesia and its people take a simple step forward, a step away from tragedy and pain, a step toward reestablishing life. While these efforts played just a small part among the many individuals and organizations that offered aid to the tsunami victims, the missionaries were able to share their love, the love of the members, and the pure love of Christ.
“We were not permitted to proselyte, but we were representing the Lord and tried to share our testimonies through our work by being kind, polite, or simply by smiling,” Sister Hamm said. “Sometimes we had the opportunity to explain where the funds came from, and we told about our prophet and how he called for a 24-hour fast, with the money that would otherwise be spent on food to be donated to a special fund. I think the Spirit bore witness and they understood that there were individuals around the world who loved them.”
Evidences of the tsunami are still very much apparent, but the people have expressed gratitude for every effort that has been made on their behalf.
“This is simply an experience you can never forget, and anyone who travels to these areas will not be able to miss the evidences of destruction where the land became sea permanently, where so many lost their lives and loved ones,” Sister Greding said. “But many who were suspicious of Christians have changed their hearts. Some stared at us, but most in their limited English said to us, ‘Thank you, mister.’ We heard that often.”

When I was a very young bishop in 1950, there was a tap at my door, and a good German brother from Ogden, Utah, announced himself as Karl Guertler.
He said, “Are you Bishop Monson?”
I answered in the affirmative.
He said, “My brother and his wife and their family are coming from Germany. They are going to live in your ward. Will you come with me to see the apartment we have rented for them?”
On the way to that apartment, he told me he had not seen his brother for something like thirty years. Yet all through the holocaust of World War II, his brother, Hans Guertler, had been faithful to the Church—an officer in the Hamburg Branch.
I looked at that apartment. It was cold; it was dreary; the paint was peeling from the walls; the cupboards were bare. What an uninviting home for the Christmas season of the year! I worried about it and I prayed about it, and then in our ward welfare committee meeting we did something about it.
The group leader of the high priests said, “I am an electrician. Let’s put good appliances in that apartment.”
The group leader of the seventies said, “I am in the floor-covering business. Let’s install new floor coverings.”
The elders quorum president said, “I am a painter. Let’s paint that apartment.”
The Relief Society representative spoke up, “Did you say those cupboards were bare?” They were not bare very long with the Relief Society in action.
Then the young people, represented through the Aaronic priesthood general secretary, said, “Let’s put a Christmas tree in the home, and let’s go among our young people and gather gifts to place under the tree.”
You should have seen that Christmas scene when the Guertler family arrived from Germany in clothing that was tattered and with faces that were drawn by the rigors of war and ­deprivation! As they went into their apartment they saw what had been in actual fact a transformation—a ­beautiful home.
We spontaneously began singing, “Silent night! Holy night! All is calm, all is bright” (“Silent Night,” Hymns, 2002, no. 204). We sang in English; they sang in German.
At the conclusion of that hymn, Hans Guertler threw his arms around my neck, buried his face in my shoulder, and repeated over and over again those words which I shall never forget: “Mein Bruder, mein Bruder, mein Bruder.”
As we walked down the stairs that night—all of us who had participated in making Christmas come alive in the lives of this German ­family—we reflected upon the words of the Master: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:40).

I like scary movies. When a certain scary movie came out, I was really sad because it was the kind of movie that the prophet had said not to watch. I had promised myself and Heavenly Father that I would follow the prophet and not watch such movies. Then I had a chance to watch it. I remembered my promise and didn’t watch it, though it was hard not to. But it was worth it. I know that I will get many blessings for not watching that kind of movie. I’m choosing while I’m young to not watch any bad movies, and so it won’t be hard for me when I am older. It makes me feel good inside when I make right choices.

Four years ago I spoke in this setting about couples serving full-time missions. My prayer was that “the Holy Ghost [would] touch hearts, and somewhere a spouse … [would] quietly nudge his or her companion, and a moment of truth [—a moment of decision—would] occur.” One sister later wrote me about that experience. She said, “We were sitting in the comfort of our family room enjoying conference on television. … As you spoke, my heart was touched so deeply. I looked over at my husband, and he looked at me. That moment changed my life forever.”

Editor’s note: President Heber J. Grant’s life is a lesson in the power of practice and persistence. As an ungifted athlete, he worked so hard that he became the pitcher for a championship baseball team. While he was a bookkeeping student, classmates made fun of his writing. “Hentracks!” one boy said. “Lightning has struck the ink bottle,” jeered another. Heber vowed that someday he would teach penmanship, a prediction that came true. His calligraphy eventually won awards for excellence and gained national attention. In 1901, Elder Heber J. Grant, then serving as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, was called by the First Presidency to initiate missionary work in Japan.

The three other elders and I were excited to visit Nikko shrine, one of the best-known tourist attractions in Japan. We thrilled at the sculptured gardens, waterfalls, gently arched bridges, and carved stone monuments.
In the town near the shrine, we entered a curio shop which was set back from the road. The shop had apparently seen better days and was now overlooked by most tourists who favored the modern shops along the thoroughfare.
As we chatted with the owner, we found that the shop had been operated by his family for more than three generations. Many interesting objects attracted our attention. As we browsed, the owner brought over a guest book and asked us to sign it. He said that his grandfather had started the “sign-in” tradition almost a hundred years ago and that there were now several large volumes of signatures from foreigners who had visited the shop.
After we signed our names, he proudly showed us some of the signatures of royalty and of other famous personalities. He added that he wanted to share with us the most prized signature he possessed. Our new-found friend excitedly opened one of the older volumes and pointed to a signature: Heber J. Grant!
The signature was beautiful, with full, exact strokes. President Grant had given his address as simply “Salt Lake City, Utah,” and had written the date alongside. I don’t remember the date he wrote (our visit to the shop took place in 1974), but it was sometime during the period when President Grant presided over the Japanese Mission, probably around 1903.
From the experience, I learned of President Grant’s desire to become an accomplished penman and of the pursuit for excellence which he incorporated into every facet of his life. It was an unusual testimony to me of the importance of striving for perfection, and the lesson is one I will never forget.
Even though the shop owner (at that point) knew nothing about President Heber J. Grant or about missionaries and their mission, among the thousands of signatures included in his guest register, the most prized was the signature of a president of the Church!

To close my talk, I would like to share an experience of mine with you.
When I was a young teaching assistant at the university, I had a beautiful experience that taught me such a great lesson that I can still recall that experience vividly, even now.
At our university at that time, we used to give a physical test to a whole school every spring. One year, I was supervising a 50m running test. We had students line up with a group of eight, had them start running, and timed their running.
One day, after I finished the test of the big group of students, a small group came to the test. Among them, one student came up to me and asked me if his friend can run the very last. Not understanding his intention, I looked at his friend who was standing beside him. Looking at him, I instantly recognized the situation. He was blind. There, I accepted their request, and let this blind student run at the end.
After all other students finished with the running test, that student came up with his blind friend. Although we did not know what to do, we watched carefully what they were doing. As we watched them, this student took the hand of the blind student and had him stand in the middle of the start line. He then went over to the goal line, turned around, and started to make a big clap, extending his arms wide. We watched the moment that the blind student, standing on the start line, started running. As he took off, the stopwatch started. The blind student certainly could not run fast; however, he masterly completed running 50m and run into his friend’s outstretched arms.
They have taught me an important lesson; that is, we all need the help of someone to make a goal.
In our daily lives, of course, there are things that we must do by ourselves. However, there are things that we cannot deal with by ourselves. And that is to reach the goal of eternal life. We need the help of someone who is special. The savior, Jesus Christ is the one and His atonement becomes a great help to us. Except for the Lord, no one can accomplish this work. Only Jesus Christ, our savior, can atone for our sins. Through His atonement, we are cleansed, healed, forgiven, and strengthened.

I have three younger sisters and a baby brother who can get restless during sacrament meeting. One Christmas I asked for Mormonad cards. I put them in a little photo album that would fit into my purse, so I could take them to church with me. When my sisters start to get noisy, I pull out the Mormonads and they look at the pictures quietly. I also plan to add pictures of the temple, my family, and Jesus with little children.
Olivia Q., 14, California, USA

Later, while at Santa Maria University in Valparaiso, Jorge met Carmen Gloria Valenzuela. “When I saw her for the first time, I knew I was going to marry her,” he recalls. “It was very strange, because I already had my mission call, and she was not a member.” Within a few weeks she was taking the missionary discussions, and he baptized her before leaving to serve in the Chile Concepción Mission.
Jorge and Carmen corresponded during his mission, began a courtship afterward, and were married on June 26, 1982, in the São Paulo Brazil Temple. They are the parents of five children.

Many years ago I was teaching released-time seminary. Life was good. I was married to a wonderful woman. We had been blessed with four small children. I was blessed to study and teach from the scriptures every day.

I came home from school one day to discover we were expecting child number five. There was good news and bad news. The good news was the blessing of another child. The bad news was that my wife got extremely ill during pregnancies. I knew it was going to be a rough road ahead. It seemed that everything that could go wrong did go wrong during the first three months of Debbie’s pregnancy. This included the following:

1. Debbie was sick with morning sickness. She was in bed for more than four weeks and couldn’t even sit up.
2. I had taken a leave of absence from teaching seminary to get my doctoral degree. I was back in graduate school carrying fifteen credit hours.
3. I was attempting to fill the role of mother while Debbie was ill. This included cleaning the house, doing laundry, fixing meals, tending kids, running errands, fulfilling nursemaid duties, and so on.
4. The dishwasher broke. I had no money to repair it. Dishes were done by hand.
5. Jana got an ear infection. She couldn’t hear me. I had to take her to the doctor.
6. I had to “farm out” the two youngest girls—ages two and four—during the day for different ward members to tend.
7. Because of all of the turmoil, I was up five to six times each night helping Debbie and consoling the children.
8. Jeremy, then age six, was throwing rocks at an icicle on the front of the house and broke the large picture window in the living room.
9. Jeremy also was chasing Jana and bumped a shelf of figurines. They crashed to the floor. My wife asked, “What was that?” I said, “Oh, nothing, dear.” The pile of pieces remained in a box for weeks awaiting the day when I would have time to glue them back together—which never happened.
10. Julie, age two, became ill. I took her to the doctor.
11. I had to take Debbie to the hospital several times for intravenous hydration. With all the vomiting, she got dehydrated regularly.
12. I was always at least 500 pages behind in my reading.
13. I was supposed to be doing a literature search for my dissertation.
14. I was serving as elders quorum president. Many hours of service were required.
15. Other things happened. A wind came up and blew the screen door right off the front of our house. It was lying out in the driveway.
16. I was in an education class in which I had to practice giving individualized intelligence tests. I tested most of the kids in the neighborhood. I began to doubt my own intelligence.
17. The straw that broke the camel’s back, I think, was that our scruffy little mongrel dog named Fluffy began her breeding cycle. We had no fence. It seemed as if we had male dog visitors from everywhere, all enamored with Fluffy.

I was at an all-time low. When you are at the bottom, there is no more bottom. I was drowning, being pulled down by an overwhelming whirlpool of duties that I couldn’t keep up with. And in the process I hadn’t opened a book of scripture in more than four weeks. Prior to all of this I had committed to teach an adult evening class on the Book of Mormon. It was too much. I felt I couldn’t do it, but I was committed.

So the night before the class was to begin, I found myself preparing during the only quiet time available: between midnight and 2 a.m. After about an hour of study I suddenly stopped. Something was different—very different. It took a few moments for me to realize what was happening. Then it came to me like a revelation from heaven. For the first time in four weeks I wasn’t depressed. It was also the first time in four weeks that I had immersed myself in scripture study. Because of the tailspin of life I had found myself in, I felt I had no time to study the scriptures. I was barely surviving day to day. I felt it was impossible to allot any time for scripture study.

I submit to you that the following words of President Spencer W. Kimball are true:

There are blessings that come from immersing ourselves in the scriptures. The distance narrows between ourselves and our Father in Heaven. Our spirituality shines brighter. We love more intensely those whom we should love. It is much easier to follow counsel. The lessons of life are learned more readily and surely. [“Men of Example,” address to religious educators, Temple Square Assembly Hall, 12 September 1975, 2; included in Charge to Religious Educators, 3d ed. (Salt Lake City: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 1994), 23]

I witnessed the blessing of immersing myself in the scriptures. I testify that the light from the Book of Mormon helped chase darkness from me. I acknowledge that scripture study alone cannot resolve all despair and depression, but I do know that when I was finally compelled “to act” and “not to be acted upon” (see 2 Nephi 2:26), it was the keystone—the Book of Mormon—that led me back to the Cornerstone, Jesus Christ (see Ephesians 2:20).

Angie Miller is on the volleyball and softball teams. She can encourage the younger students to keep trying even though it can get discouraging. “When I started playing volleyball, I wasn’t very good. I sat on the bench a lot. Then things started clicking. I wouldn’t have the good friends I have now if I had quit. I used to be so shy. People in church helped me a lot. I’m not so self-conscious about what everyone thinks of me now.”

Kalik was ten weeks old—old enough to do a little exploring on his own. His parents were away hunting, and his brothers and sisters were playing a game of nip-the-tail. Now a breeze had brought a new scent to Kalik’s nose, one he had never smelled before.
The wolf pup knew the scent of spruce trees and of caribou just over the hill. He knew the way flowers smelled and the way the world smelled when it rained. But his nose had never told him about this new thing. It was a wet smell, like water lilies. But there was a flesh odor also.
What is it? Kalik wondered. He had to find out. His big feet padded softly on the forest floor, and his pointed ears and skinny tail stuck straight up in the air. His ears would bring sounds of friends or foes, but his tail told him nothing. It was just there, like a twig.
Kalik tilted his nose in the air to better catch the strange scent. Following this invisible air trail was not easy. At times, the little wolf lost the scent. Then he circled until he found it again.
Suddenly Kalik saw something by a small pond. It was a strange and unfamiliar creature, and it was crouching and staring at the pup with bulging eyes.
Kalik advanced cautiously. The “thing” continued to stare. Kalik’s nose touched it—and BOING! The creature gave a great leap.
Kalik was so startled, he tumbled backward in a somersault. Scrambling to his feet, he saw that the thing-that-leaped had landed right next to the pond. All at once it went, “Haaa-rumph!” and hopped another foot or two.
In the meantime, a lone wolf was watching both Kalik and the frog. He was a large male from a distant pack, and he was hungry. He wanted that frog and had no intention of letting Kalik frighten it away. He crouched, ready to spring.
Kalik walked up to the frog and stuck out a paw. Does it want to play? he wondered. He touched it ever so lightly, and once again was startled when the frog leaped away. Up-up-up went the frog … and it came down with a plop! into the water.
Kalik was captivated by this new interest in his life. He watched the frog swim to a lily pad and climb on top of it.
Kalik neither heard nor smelled the older wolf. One minute he was observing the creature that leaped and the next, he was sprawled on his back. The great dark figure had pinned him down, snarling fiercely. The stranger snapped at Kalik angrily, and the young wolf fought back as best he could. But he was no match for his opponent. He was fighting a valiant but losing battle.
It might have gone badly for Kalik, had not his parents rushed to the scene. Their keen ears and noses told them of trouble. Without hesitation they raced to the defense of Kalik. There was a short, fierce battle, then the strange wolf realized he couldn’t win and fled. He hadn’t really wanted to fight. All he really wanted was that frog, and there were, after all, other frogs in other ponds.
After Kalik’s parents had sniffed him over to make sure he was all right, the three wolves started back to the den. But Kalik turned once to see if the thing were still there. He spied it resting on the lily pad.
The frog shifted a bit, as if to make himself more comfortable. Then he went, “Haaa-rumph!” again. All seemed to be well in his world too.

It all started with the surprise gift Dad brought home to his three daughters. Peering inside a chirping cardboard box, we girls squealed with delight. Baby ducklings! We couldn’t wait to reach in and grab one. We jostled Dad so much, he almost dropped the box.
“Take it easy, girls!” he chuckled. “There’s one for each of you!”
I was surprised at how tiny that little duckling felt in my hand. In my gentle clasp, its warm body felt like the size of a quarter, and it weighed about as much too.
“Wow, it’s so light!” I exclaimed. “No wonder baby ducks can float!”
Dad laughed again as he walked off to join Mom in the kitchen. Dad was big on surprises, especially the ones that made his family smile. That’s when I remembered the wading pool. It would be the perfect home for our new ducks.
“Nora, get that old plastic pool out of the garage,” I ordered my sister.
With our backyard hose pumping clear, cool water into the pool, we began to examine our ducks and set about to name them. Mine had a little speck of brown on his rounded bill and ridiculously giant webbed feet.
Suddenly I remembered my friends. They would laugh at how enthusiastic I was over these new pets. Then I realized my friends wouldn’t be by for the next few days. Their parents had given them permission to go camping in the nearby mountains. Bike riding on an old dirt trail, choosing a campsite, pitching a tent. They’d have a ton of fun and be home the next day, laughing and talking about their campout. My mom hadn’t given me permission. She said I was too young!
With the wading pool full, we girls gathered around, greatly anticipating this moment. We set our flapping, quacking birds on the water and ZOOM, right to the bottom. All three sank!
We plunged our hands into the pool and rescued the poor choking birds. What had gone wrong? We weren’t asking them to do something difficult, like swim. All they had to do was float. Isn’t that easy for a duck?
“What happened?” my sister wondered.
“Maybe we surprised them!”
We all agreed it was like babies when they learn how to walk. They just have to fall sometimes. We agreed to give it another try.
“One, two, three, go!”
Plunk! Plunk! Plunk! straight down like balls of lead.
Fortunately for the ducklings, none of us had the heart to follow through on our theory that they just needed practice. When Nora suggested we use the blow dryer on their feathers, we all scrambled into the house. Gently, my two sisters aired out the poor birds with my pink blow dryer while I looked up the phone number from the name on the cardboard box.
“Hello, sir? We’re the ones that just bought—well, our dad just bought—three little ducklings. Yes, sir. Well, there is a problem with our ducks. You see, we prefer our ducks to float.”
What this man had to say was an eye-opener for me. I didn’t realize I had learned quite so much until I heard myself explain it to Nora and Suzy: “You see, the downy feathers do not repel water. They soak it right up. We have to wait another week or two for their bodies to make the waxy oil that will waterproof their feathers.”
“But that’s not true,” Nora argued. “I’ve seen baby ducks follow their mother on the river. They were just a few days old.”
“The man explained that to me. When ducks are born, the mother wraps her wings around the babies to keep them warm. The oil from the mother’s wings rubs off onto her babies. With their mother, they can stay afloat. On their own, they need to get a little older before they’re safe in the water.”
That’s when my brain trailed off to the mountains somewhere, thinking about my friends in their tent. Maybe Mom just wanted to keep me under her wings for a little while longer. I stroked my duckling’s tiny back with one finger.
“We’ll keep you out of the pool for now, little one,” I promised him. Then, as an afterthought, I added, “Do you miss your mom?”

When he was a mission president, age 32, in Toronto, Canada, he woke one morning and felt a strong impression to visit a small branch up north. It was a change of plans and a quite a drive so he had to hurry. He arrived just after the meeting started and went in and sat down on the backbench. The branch president said to the congregation, we have a surprise, President Monson is with us today. We are going to ask him to come sit on the stand. So he began the walk to the front.
Unknown to him was the plight of one of his missionaries assigned to the branch. He had been out only a few months and was so discouraged he had decided to go home. In his mind, he and his companion had no investigators, no one was listening to them, the members were not helping; no one cared about him or even knew he was there. He had determined it was pointless to stay. He had packed his bag, slipped it under his bed intending to leave just after church and catch the train west.
So Mission President Monson is walking up to the front and feels impressed to stop—just for a second—and pat that new elder on the back. Then he leaned over and whispered in his ear, “The Lord loves you. He loves you for how hard you are trying and so do I.” And then he went up and sat on the stand.
That young elder didn’t go home. He stayed and became a great missionary. “I knew that he loved me,” the missionary has said. “That’s what I needed.” And he points to that moment when President Monson, prompted by the spirit—as he always is—had heard the voice of the spirit say, “Stop, say something.” And he did.