Gospel Story Finder

When I was 14, I met two American missionaries. I was interested in hearing about the Book of Mormon, so we set an appointment for them to visit me. My entire family listened to the first discussion, but none of them were interested in continuing. I had felt something and sensed the message was true, so I asked my parents for permission to continue receiving the missionary discussions. They agreed, and when I was almost 15 years old, I entered the waters of baptism in the Godoy Cruz Branch, Mendoza Argentina District.
The next year I faced a great trial in my life: my parents separated. Thankfully, I had the Church during that difficult time and the support of excellent teachers, leaders, and friends. At about that same time, after being ordained a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood, I baptized my 11-year-old sister.
I worked full-time for the next few years, attending school in the evenings. When I was 19, I sent in my mission papers. I will always remember the day I received my call to the France Paris Mission. It was signed by President Joseph Fielding Smith, dated June 16, 1972, just weeks before he passed away.
After going through endless formalities to obtain a passport (I was underage, my parents were separated, and I was of military age), I was finally able to leave for my mission, a year and a half after completing my papers. I flew to Paris, France, with only my five years of high school French and without knowing any English. The zone conferences in my mission were in English. And I hadn’t been endowed yet because there were no temples in South America at that time.
One month after I began my service, President Willis D. Waite sent me with a young Frenchman, Jean Collin, to receive my endowment in the Swiss Temple. We traveled all night by train and spent three emotional and spiritual days there.
Six months into my mission, I had a special interview with my mission president during one of our mission conferences. In essence President Waite told me, “Elder Agüero, I’m going to give you an assignment. You have to learn English because when you return home you will be a member of a stake presidency, a mission president, and a leader in the Church. You will need English to communicate with the General Authorities.”
I laughed, perhaps because at the age of 20 I couldn’t see myself in these positions and because I came from a new stake in Argentina that was among only three that had been organized in the country.
He said, “Don’t laugh, Elder Agüero. I’m being serious.”
I felt the Spirit very strongly through this man, my leader, who then explained to me the way in which I was to fulfill this assignment.
He said, “From now on, you will speak only in English, every day, for half the day, with your companion.”
My companion received the same instructions in his interview, and we started doing so. It was extremely difficult for me at first, but later after much effort, I began to understand basic ideas. I prayed at night, crying many times out of frustration and helplessness because I wanted to be obedient to the task I had been given.
After some months and a few companions later, the miracle came. While a missionary was giving a beautiful talk in English during a zone conference, I suddenly began to understand every word. The miracle did not end there. Over time I came to serve as the mission’s financial secretary, which helped me read and write English. I tried to understand the language by reading Church News, the Ensign, and other English materials. Through these I was able to get a feeling for the English language, which is still with me today.
Shortly after I returned from my mission, my stake president asked me to interpret for Elder Hartman Rector Jr., then of the Seventy, who had come to Mendoza, Argentina, to preside over a stake conference. These marvelous opportunities have continued over the years. I interpreted for President Thomas S. Monson and other General Authorities during the 11 dedicatory sessions of the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple.
During four of those sessions, I read the dedicatory prayer in Spanish from the pulpit in the celestial room. My voice broke up several times because of my emotions; tears filled my eyes and flowed down my face. I was reading the inspired prayers and promises for my country from Heavenly Father, who lives and reveals His will, just as He did 12 years earlier through my mission president when I accepted the challenge to learn English.
I also interpreted for the prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley, during the four dedicatory sessions of the Montevideo Uruguay Temple and the four dedicatory sessions of the Asunción Paraguay Temple.
It’s difficult for me to explain how sacred those moments were for me when I stood alongside prophets, seers, and revelators in the Lord’s house. I felt somewhat like Peter, James, and John when they had the amazing experience of seeing Jesus transfigured. Peter expressed my feelings when he told Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here” (Matt. 17:4).
From these and other experiences, I learned how the Lord works in our lives. The price for good things is paid in advance by our patience, humility, and obedience, especially during trials. If you don’t give up during your trials or let frustration and discouragement overcome you, trials will refine you spiritually and prepare you for better things. You will see the fulfillment of beautiful miracles in your lives.

When I was a freshman in high school, I developed the terrible habit of profanity. My friends used foul language and, while I resisted its attraction at first, I finally gave in to it. After about a year, just as I was turning 16, I developed the understanding that I had been committing a very serious sin. This understanding, inspired, I am sure, by the Holy Ghost working on my conscience, seemed to almost envelop me totally with a dark sense of guilt, and I decided to repent and put this sin away from me forever. Thus, I had fulfilled the first two steps toward repentance by recognizing my sin and, then, by feeling a deep sense of sorrow because of it.
I started an intense program of cleaning up my language, concentrating on steps three, four, and five of the repentance process. I began avoiding my especially profane acquaintances in favor of others, mostly Church members, and developed other words to express myself. I unthinkingly forgot occasionally, of course, but eventually got to where I could avoid speaking profanity altogether.
Then, after having successfully gotten the vile words out of my mouth, I went to work on getting them out of my mind. I prayed each morning for strength and reported my progress in my nightly prayers, always repeating my desire to receive a forgiveness of my sin. I told my friends of my efforts and asked their forgiveness of my former language. They were understanding and helpful.
And finally, having mastered my tongue and my mind, I felt I had completed every step necessary to be forgiven short of the final one, which is the forgiveness itself. But I had to wait awhile for that last step to be accomplished, just like I had to wait for my dry-cleaned pants. Then, one night, as I lay in bed after my prayers, the sweet sense of forgiveness I had been seeking came to me through the Spirit. I felt a great joy over my spiritual cleansing, far more profound than the relief I had felt over the physical cleaning of my favorite pants.
Now, about 15 years later, it is sometimes hard for me to believe that I ever used such foul language. I remember, certainly, that I did, but not with the pain I had felt earlier, because I know that I have been forgiven and that I have kept my forgiveness in force by never having fallen back into that same sin.

A major setback for the handcart company was an unusually early and heavy winter snow storm. The pioneers tried to shelter themselves from the storm, but their tents were useless in such bad weather. “It was very bad, because the people were weak, having been on small rations of food,” wrote Joseph. But, as the storm passed, a great shout arose from the camp. They caught sight of a wagon. Two men from Salt Lake City were bringing word that teams of horses and wagons and provisions were onto their way. “It was glorious news,” wrote Joseph, but news alone did not feed the hundred of hungry Saints or keep them warm in this hour of critical need.
“The next morning when we got up, the pioneers were hungry and cold. To rush them into the snow would be certain death to a great many of them, for we had not yet met the relief wagons, only the one wagon which passed us and went on the Martin Company.”
Joseph recorded in his diary that Captain Willie then decided to take Joseph with him to go in search of the relief wagons. The company would make a camp and try to shelter themselves as best they could. Each pioneer had been allowed a maximum of only eight kilograms of clothing and bedding to keep the handcart light. In the severe cold, it wasn’t enough. Many Saints were literally freezing.
“We started ahead in search of our brethren,” wrote Joseph, and they rode on old and tired mules for [eighteen kilometers] with the snow and bitter wind blowing in their faces all day. The next day they found a guidepost where they were directed to their rescuers, who had been delayed in the storm. “Great was their joy in seeing us for they had been searching for us for a long time.”
It was another day and a half of difficult traveling until Captain Willie and Joseph Elder could lead the rescuers back to the camp to help. They found the cold had taken a terrible toll.
Joseph recorded: “That was an awful day. Many can never forget the scenes they witnessed that day. Men, women and children weakened by cold and hunger, weeping, crying, and some even dying by the roadside. … Oh how my heart did quake and shudder at the awful scenes which surrounded me. The next morning we buried nine, all in one deep grave.”
The fate of the Willie Handcart Company would be remembered as one of the saddest trials of all those endured by Mormon pioneers. But with fresh supplies of food and clothing, the health of the group gradually improved and even the weather got better. “We continued a steady march and at last to our great joy we arrived at Great Salt Lake City on November 9, 1856.” But our of the 450 Saints who had started the trek, sixty-seven died along the way.

Our first son was stillborn in 2017. Nine months before the Durban South Africa Temple was dedicated in 2020, our second son was stillborn.
At the time, I felt like Hannah of the Old Testament. I “was in bitterness of soul, and prayed unto the Lord, and wept sore” (1 Samuel 1:10).
I felt helpless and angry, and I was in excruciating pain. I struggled emotionally, physically, and spiritually. Holding on to the rod felt like holding on to a thread that was gradually slipping from my hands. I was truly burning in “the furnace of affliction” (Isaiah 48:10).
I am so grateful that I received help and healing from my family, the scriptures, and prayer. I also received help from counselors. The culmination of my healing, however, came in the temple.
As I began serving in the temple, I began to be filled with increased light. I felt at home there. I also felt a deep assurance that the Lord loves me and is mindful of my struggles.
As I continued serving in the house of the Lord, I began to look at the names of my ancestors in a different way. They weren’t just names. I realized, for example, that one ancestor was a daughter, a mother, a grandmother, an aunt, a sister, a niece. Her passing must have been hard for surviving relatives. But the blessings offered this ancestor in the temple through sacred vicarious ordinances constitute a great and sweet joy that surpasses any pain her living relatives might have felt at her passing.
This understanding has blessed me as I have thought about our precious boys, the eternal nature of our spirits, and Heavenly Father’s plan of salvation. Losing our boys prompts me to do my best to live the gospel.
Some days are still harder than others. But holding on to my covenant promises makes those days easier.
To borrow the words of President Russell M. Nelson, “We miss our [sons] greatly. However, because of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, we do not worry about [them]. As we continue to honor our covenants with God, we live in anticipation of our being with [them] again.”1

I’m an average 16-year-old high school junior. I’m on the pom squad, I work in the mall, and I am on the Bishopric Youth Committee. I keep the Word of Wisdom, attend church regularly, and have a strong testimony. But there are some things I’ve never put a whole lot of emphasis on—like not swearing. I was always careful never to use the Lord’s name in vain, and I didn’t by any means swear as a regular course of conversation. But if I occasionally said a “bad” word, I never really stressed over it.
That was until this past summer when I became close friends with someone who was very careful never to swear. By just spending so much time with her I got in the habit of not swearing, which presented an interesting problem when school started again. My drama teacher gave a friend and me dialogue to learn for a forensics competition, dialogue that contained some profanity. So whenever my friend and I ran through it together, I modified my lines to avoid having to swear.
A few weeks later, we had to perform this dialogue in a school assembly. When we did, I modified my lines as I always had, and my friend delivered hers as they were printed. I didn’t think twice about it until I was talking to another nonmember friend later that day who told me something very interesting. After about the third word I had obviously changed, this person commented about how my church must mean a lot to me if I was going to go out of my way not to use profanity.
When she told me that, I was taken by surprise. I know everyone knows I’m LDS, and I know they watch to see how I live my life. But I didn’t think something like altering a few lines to eliminate bad language could have so much importance. My friend said what I had done really made an impression.
It also taught me that everything counts. Each commandment has a purpose and is important. I’d hate to think that someone’s connection or indirect introduction to the gospel of Jesus Christ was a negative one because of something I did. I now know more than ever that leading by example is a great way to share the precious truths I’ve been given.

As children living in Argentina, Andrea Veronica Muñoz and her older sister attended a Catholic school. They had never been exposed to other religious teachings until Andrea was nine years old. That’s when Latter-day Saint missionaries began teaching her family about the restored gospel.
Soon after the missionaries finished their lesson and left, Andrea’s mother explained that there was more than just one religion. Andrea asked her mother what church she thought best represented God. Her mother replied, “I think it is this one”—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, about which the missionaries had just taught them.
All her life, Andrea had always “wanted to please God,” so she worried about embracing a new faith. The feeling lasted only a few minutes, however, and was replaced by a desire to learn more about the Church.
The family was baptized, “and we started a new life,” Sister Spannaus said. “It was really wonderful the way our family life changed for all of us.”

“At the beginning of middle school, I met another member of the Church who was very spiritually strong. He was an Aaronic Priesthood holder and seemed like a good example of someone who lived the gospel. We became good friends and talked a lot about the Church. As we got older, his self-worth and ability to uphold his standards started to deteriorate. Though we were still somewhat friends, he associated with others who were not very good influences. I would hear him curse frequently and joke about immorality and other inappropriate things. Several of his friends were atheists and would talk rudely about ‘Mormonism.’ Later, he became addicted to tea and, at age 13, got a girlfriend.
“I didn’t know what to do. I tried telling him in a friendly way of my concern for him several times, but he brushed me aside. Still I didn’t give up. I upheld my standards and tried to be an example for him. I didn’t want to stop being his friend, but as things got really bad, that path started looking better and better. Eventually, I got on my knees several times in prayer for his safety.
“Then his father got a job in another state. This upcoming move caused my friend’s eyes to be opened to all he had done. All I had tried to tell him for three years, he suddenly understood. During the next few weeks, he worked hard to undo his past as much as he could. When I spoke to him, he thanked me for my example and willingness to not give up on him. He was the happiest he had been in years and truly understood what it means to be a Latter-day Saint.
“For any friend who falters, I think it’s best to alert him of his actions. But if, like my friend, he won’t listen, don’t give up. This is probably when he’ll need a real friend the most. Keep your standards, even if he tempts you to do otherwise. Pray for him. I know that you can gain strength through this, and that you won’t be alone in your efforts. It’s easy to feel weak and out of place when we stand for good. But through the weak, the Lord will do a mighty work.”
Collin Z., 16, Wyoming, USA

I remember my daughter as she was growing up had a constant feeling in her mind that the second coming was just around the corner and she would not live to adulthood or have the privilege of raising children. It was interesting as this feeling of insecurity constantly bothered her. We were unaware that in Family Night as we spoke of the Second Coming and as she listened to the daily news about the cold war and the A bomb, she was internalizing this in a way that she was afraid. She would even go to the extent of saving food and putting it in a drawer. This was her way of implementing the food storage program. It was not uncommon for her mother while cleaning her room to find a chicken leg or wing stuffed in one of the dresser drawers.

“Megan! Your shoes are on my side of the room!” Mia said with a huff.
“Well, your scriptures are on my side,” Megan said.
Mom poked her head into the room. “Girls, I don’t hear much cleaning going on in here. You can’t go to the park until your room is clean.”
“But this is all Megan’s mess!” Mia said. “It’s not fair that I have to clean it up.”
“It’s not all mine!” Megan said.
“Ugh.” Mia crossed her arms. “I wish I had my own room. Why do I have to share with Megan? Michael gets one all to himself!”
Mom sighed. “You know we don’t have another room. Michael’s older. That’s why he gets his own.”
“Well, at least make her keep her stuff off my side.” Mia drew an imaginary line with her finger down the middle of the room. “See? That’s your side, Megan. This is my side.”
“Hmm,” Mom said. “Maybe we could put up a curtain to divide the room. Would that help you two get along?”
Mia grinned. “Yeah!”
The next day, Mom sewed some fabric into a curtain. It was purple with a checkered pattern on it. She even sewed a ribbon with dangly beads across the bottom. Later Mia and Megan helped Dad hang the curtain up with a piece of wire. It stretched all the way across the room.
Mia clapped her hands in excitement. “Finally! It’s just like having my own room!”
She pulled out her crayons to color a picture. But after a few minutes, she got bored. She wondered what Megan was doing on the other side of the curtain. They usually colored together. It felt kind of lonely to do it by herself.
That night Mia knelt down to say her bedtime prayer. She thanked Heavenly Father for her home and for her family. That made her feel a little sad. She liked having her own space, but she missed playing with Megan.
Mia climbed into bed. But she couldn’t fall asleep. She turned over on her side. She could see Megan’s head through the little gap between the curtain and the wall.
“Megan?” she whispered. “Are you awake?”
“Yeah,” Megan whispered back.
“What if we made a little mailbox?” Mia asked. “To leave notes for each other.”
“Good idea,” Megan said. “Can we do it tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Mia closed her eyes with a smile. “Good night, Megan.”
“Good night, Mia.”
The next day, Mia found a little box. She put it between both of their sides of the room. Then she wrote a note and stuck it inside: Megan, do you want to play with my stuffed animals? Love, Mia.
Megan picked up the note and read it. “I’d love to!”
All week, Mia and Megan left notes for each other in their mailbox. And they played with each other every day. Sometimes they played on Mia’s side. Sometimes they played on Megan’s side. But they always had fun together.
“You know,” Mia told Megan one day, “I’m not sure we need this curtain after all.”
“Yeah,” Megan said. “It kind of gets in the way.”
Dad helped them take the curtain down.
“I’m glad you’ve learned to get along,” he said.
Mia smiled at Megan. “Me too.”

Roger: In my work-related travels, I heard a humble man relate a story about an experience that changed his marriage and how he viewed his wife. In the culture where he lives, like many places in the world, respect and kindness, including expressions of love by a man for his wife, are withheld because women are considered subservient to men. However, while he was attending a priesthood leadership meeting the presiding general authority told the brethren that men who honor the priesthood also honor their wives. He exhorted each of them to be a "good priesthood man" and go home and tell his wife how much he loved her. He wanted to be obedient, but culturally he was conflicted. When he arrived at his house, he looked for his wife. He found her in the kitchen preparing dinner. He was earlier than she had expected and was surprised to see him. She apologized of not having his food ready and started scurrying to avoid offending him. He tried to tell her he loved her, but could not get the words to come. He left her in the kitchen and walked around the house trying to gather his courage. Finally, he went back to the kitchen, called his wife's name and said, "I love you." She was startled and asked him if he were alright. He replied, "Our leaders told us that 'good priesthood men' tell their wives they love them. I want to be a good priesthood man, and I love you!" He said that experience changed the way they thought about each other, how they spoke to each other, and how they treated each other. Humility, obedience, and expressions of love, followed by our actions can change our marriage relationships.

Some years ago a colleague of mine, who was a devout member of another Christian denomination, was curious about our beliefs. As I answered questions that touched on the plan of salvation, we read together about the Apostle Paul, who stated on Mars Hill in Athens that “we are the offspring of God.” After a moment of reflection, he asked, “Do you realize the implications of these passages?”

I thought I did, but I soon realized he had picked up on something quite profound.

He said, “It looks like the Apostle Paul is addressing nonmembers of the Church here and referring to them as the literal offspring of God. I have always thought of ‘children of God’ as only referring to those who accept Jesus Christ as their personal Savior, but this makes me wonder if there isn’t more to this.”

Although he declined my invitation to meet with the full-time missionaries, he did do considerable research on his own and concluded that the doctrine of the premortal existence had once been part of his religious tradition and that of many others. This actually made him more committed to his own faith. I learned from him, and later confirmed on my own, that the doctrine of a premortal existence was a common theme that was widely taught and written about by early Christian theologians and scholars until a council in A.D. 543, when it was branded as heresy (see Brent L. Top, The Life Before [Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1988], 15–19).

How blessed we are to have this plain and precious truth not only restored in our day but also elaborated upon by modern revelation in ways that provide direction and meaning to our lives as we consider our divine nature and destiny.

Chelsea’s prayers and hard work paid off. In their second season, the Oak Hills Neighborhood Theater put on A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which Chelsea shortened and simplified for the children. The production went so well that the group was invited to participate in the Utah Shakespearean Festival’s Elementary Shakespeare Showcase in Cedar City, Utah.
“It was the best thing that could have happened to these wonderful, talented children,” says Chelsea.

I own a T-shirt that, for a long time, I never wore. It was one of my favorite shirts, but it lay folded in my dresser drawer. The shirt fit all right, but it was what was written on it that scared me. Just three letters—BYU.
There’s absolutely no reason for me to fear those letters. They stand for Brigham Young University, and I love Brigham Young University. Few people in Florida where I lived had ever heard of BYU. But I felt that if I wore my BYU T-shirt, I’d bump into someone who happened to know what it stood for. “BYU. Oh, that’s a Mormon school. She must be Mormon.” And they’d watch me. “So that’s how Mormons behave.”
That’s when I would panic. I could imagine the thoughts that would arise if I were wearing that shirt and I cut in front of another car. What if I acted rude to a sales clerk or seemed snobby to someone I didn’t know? What would they think?
“Those Mormons. They think they own the world. They’re so stuck up.” Sure, it would be unfair. Just because I’m not on my best behavior doesn’t mean all members of my church are bad. The fact that one LDS person makes headlines for doing something bad doesn’t mean all LDS people are bad, but the people who read the paper don’t stop to think about that. If I’m the only Latter-day Saint the sales clerk ever meets, I’m the standard she’ll use to judge the rest.
The idea was entirely too scary. I didn’t want to be the one who kept another person from investigating the truth because I had provided a poor example. This fear kept my Cougar-blue BYU shirt unworn for a long time.
During that time I tried to muster my courage. I knew the impression I gave while wearing my BYU shirt didn’t have to be a bad one. I could help someone have a favorable impression just as easily as an unfavorable one. Why not try it?
One day I pulled the shirt with the blue and white insignia from my drawer. As I stretched it over my head, a transformation took place. I no longer felt like one more stranger at the mall. I felt like a missionary. I was a different person that day. I waited politely and let others pull in front of me. I smiled and acted friendly to everyone, whether I knew them or not.
I was paying for a dress when a sample of the blessings that come to missionaries came to me. “You went to BYU?” the cashier asked. Before I could answer, she continued, “Me too, but that was four years ago. I married out of the Church when I came home on Christmas break, and I haven’t been back to church since.” We exchanged phone numbers. I wrote down the address of the church and the meeting times, and she promised to look for me on Sunday.
At home that afternoon, I washed my shirt, dried and folded it, and placed it in my drawer on top of the stack. I knew I would wear it again soon.

Many years ago when we lived at a different location, Merlene said she wanted a rock garden. On a particular Saturday I went out into the field that was right behind our home and decided that if I dug a hole six feet deep, six feet wide, and six feet across, the dirt from that hole should be enough to provide her with a hill whereon we could place rocks and beautiful flowers in the corner of our yard.
To begin with, as I started digging the hole, I could throw the dirt, each shovelful, over my shoulder, over the fence, and into the corner where Merlene wanted the rock garden. As the hole got deeper and I became more tired, I would have to throw the dirt up on the side of the hole. Then I would climb out of the hole and throw the dirt onto the pile across the fence. As the hole became even deeper, I finally had to lower a bucket into the hole, fill the bucket, and lift it out, and pour it on the hill over the fence.
As I started the hole, Lawrence, our three-year-old, began to gather his little friends around. There must have been 15 or 20 little friends watching me dig the hole. When I got deep enough in the hole to use a bucket to lift the dirt out, I said to Lawrence and his little buddies, “If you’ll pull the bucket filled with dirt out of the hole and dump it on the shoulder of the hole each time I fill it so that I will not have to climb out, when I get finished with this hole, I’ll give it to you.” Now a hole isn’t much of a prize for an adult, but for three- or four-year-old boys, a deep hole with a little trench leading down into it is a great prize. So they began to assist me.
After doing this work for a few minutes, Lawrence said to me, “Dad, why are you lifting the dirt out of the hole, then climbing out of the hole and throwing it over the fence onto that pile of dirt?” I said, “Lawrence, your mother wants a rock garden in that corner, so I came out here to get enough dirt to build the hill for her rock garden. What your mother really wants me to do, that is what I do.” Then Lawrence turned to his little buddies and said, “Our mom is our leader.”

After receiving an invitation to “come and see,” I attended The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for the first time at the age of 26. I had recently separated from my first husband. I had a three-year-old boy. And I felt powerless with fear. When I entered the building, I was filled with warmth as I perceived the faith and joy of the people surrounding me. It was truly “a refuge from the storm.” Three weeks later, I made the baptismal covenant with Heavenly Father and started my journey as a disciple of Christ, although my life has not been perfect along that journey.
For me to receive those eternal blessings, many physical and spiritual elements had to be in place. The gospel of Jesus Christ had been restored and preached; that meetinghouse had been built and maintained; there was an ecclesiastical structure, from the prophet to local leaders; and a branch filled by covenant members was ready to embrace me and my son as we were brought to the Savior, “nourished by the good word of God,” and given opportunities to serve.

Now, a year after her son’s death, Jesusita was still living in San Marcos. On the first Sunday in July 1916, the Saints held a testimony meeting, and each member of the branch bore witness of the gospel and the hope it gave them. Then, on July 17, the anniversary of the killings, they met together again to remember the martyrs. They sang a hymn about the Second Coming of Jesus Christ, and Casimiro Gutierrez read a chapter from the New Testament. Another branch member compared Rafael and Vicente to the martyr Stephen, who died for his testimony of Christ.6
Jesusita remained a pillar of faith for her family. “Our sorrows have been grievous,” she wrote in a letter, “but our faith is strong, and we will never forsake this religion.”7

Healed the captain’s steward on a journey back to North America.

When Elder Snow left England to return to Nauvoo, Illinois, he brought a large group of newly baptized members with him. They all booked passage on the ship Swanton and prepared for the long journey to North America.

Although the captain of the Swanton was not unkind to the Latter-day Saints on his ship, he wasn’t exactly friendly either. He usually distanced himself from them. But after about two weeks at sea, something happened. The captain’s steward was badly injured in an accident. No one expected the steward to live through the night.

But one of the faithful sisters who had been attending to the dying sailor had a suggestion. She told the steward that Elder Lorenzo Snow could give him a blessing and that it might save his life. The steward—who was working to support his wife and two children back in Germany—eagerly agreed.

In the middle of the night, Elder Snow was awakened and asked to come to the dying man’s room. When he arrived, he met the captain of the ship. The captain thanked him for coming but expressed the hopelessness of the situation. Elder Snow could see that the captain had been crying.

He went into the room, laid his hands upon the steward’s head, and gave him a priesthood blessing. Immediately after Elder Snow finished the blessing, the man sat up and got out of bed. The steward was completely healed, and he returned to his duties the next day.

The healing of the steward changed things on board the Swanton. The captain began to spend as much time with the Saints as he could spare, and he even studied the gospel and attended Church meetings. The other sailors were just as impressed. When the ship reached its destination, the crew lovingly bid the Saints farewell. Through the power of the priesthood, not only was a man’s life saved, but several others were also given a glimpse of God’s power and love. The steward and many members of the crew were eventually baptized.

At age 27 and as the mother of three, I was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis, an autoimmune disease that destroys the joints over time. My life careened out of control physically and mentally. I turned to God for help in regaining the mental stability and excellent health I had previously taken for granted.

I sought help from a psychologist for my anxiety. I worked with a rheumatologist on which medications to take and used natural solutions as well. I never gave up. After many years and much anguish, my health improved physically and mentally.

I remember one afternoon hiking past a sea of wildflowers to a mountain lake. With tears rolling down my face, I thanked God for the blessing of my physical body and my ability to engage in an activity I thought was lost to me. There’s no cure for my condition, and the disease has taken a visible toll on my body. But hiking and exercising have become my passions, and I never take my health for granted.

Despite my physical limitations, I recently served a senior mission with my husband in Washington, USA (which is a hiking mecca!). I’m thankful to have served throughout my life in almost every Church calling available.

In Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of the Congo, President Bokolo shares how he and his family joined the Church in France. One day, as he was reading his patriarchal blessing, the Spirit inspired Brother Bokolo to return with his family to the DR Congo. Brother Bokolo knew they would face many challenges if they returned. And their church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, was not yet established in Kinshasa.
Yet, in faith, as have many others, the Bokolos followed the Lord’s Spirit. In Kinshasa, they ministered to and blessed those around them, overcame challenges, received spiritual and temporal blessings. Today, they rejoice in having a house of the Lord in their country.

As President Uchtdorf spoke, my mind drifted to a time I met an unassuming member of the Church who was willing to lift wherever he was standing.
In 1985, I was stationed as a U.S. Army officer in a small town in Germany. I had served a mission in Germany 10 years previously. Upon arriving in 1983 as a soldier with my wife, Debra, and two young daughters, we began attending a serviceman’s branch of about 100 members strong. After two years, we decided to immerse ourselves fully into the German culture and began attending the small Bad Kreuznach Branch, which had about 12 members.
About the second week after we began attending, we noticed a new man there. He was in his mid-40s, and we learned that he was the high councilor assigned to our branch. He wasn’t there to conduct stake business, just to visit. We spoke for some time after church, and when we said goodbye, I figured we would next see him again in perhaps six months.
The next week, the high councilor was there again. I learned he lived about an hour away from our small town. During the remainder of his calling as a high councilor, he came to our branch two or three times a month. He was friendly, low-keyed, and encouraging. He always spoke with each member of the branch. And, with a branch that small, he was often asked to speak from the pulpit. Impressed with his dedication, in my mind I nicknamed him “the Faithful High Councilor.”
One Sunday he came to the branch services in the morning and then returned at 6:00 p.m. to attend a baptism. In between, he had gone to another branch. I have to admit that the thought actually crossed my mind, “What did he do to upset the stake president? Why else would he have been assigned to the smallest and most remote branch in the stake?” Maybe he wasn’t really the intelligent, humble, and likeable man I thought him to be. Maybe he didn’t like his home ward and used this assignment to get away. I couldn’t figure it out, so I just accepted it.
Several weeks after this baptism, I returned home after midnight on a Sunday morning. I had been training near the border between East and West Germany, and it had taken me three and a half hours to get home. I was exhausted when I walked in the door. My wife, Debra, was still up. She told me that “the Faithful High Councilor” had called. He wanted to meet with me. I asked, “Before or after church?” Church started at 10:00 a.m. I was hoping it was after church so I could sleep until 8:30.
“Before,” she said.
“9:30?”
“No. He has to go somewhere else on stake business. He wants you to meet him at his office in Frankfurt. He said to go to Gate 5.”
“What time?” I asked.
“Six,” she responded.
Now I was upset. It was already 12:30 a.m. In order to make the appointment at 6:00, I would have to get up at 4:30. That meant less than four hours of sleep. What was I going to do? I didn’t even have a phone number to call him the next morning to tell him I wouldn’t be meeting him. I dropped my clothes next to the bed and lay down without setting the alarm clock. As I lay there, these thoughts went through my mind:
If I didn’t meet “the Faithful High Councilor,” what would happen? If I didn’t show up at his office, I was sure he would make productive use of his time. The next time I spoke to him and explained why I hadn’t met him, he would respond, “Of course you made the right decision. I would never have asked you to come if I had known you were getting home so late. We can take care of that business now.” And besides, I wasn’t really a member of the branch. Sure, our records were there and we attended every week, but we were foreigners, spoke some pretty atrocious German, and would be moving in five or six months.
My conscience was almost clear. A few more minutes and I could drift off to sleep. Then I remembered the nickname I had given him and all the times “the Faithful High Councilor” had come to the branch since we had been attending. He came to that baptism late on a Sunday night. He came to a branch activity in the middle of the week. He always spoke to all the members and encouraged and inspired them. He never seemed judgmental or indifferent. He was respectful of the branch president and of his efforts. If he was disappointed in being assigned to this little branch, he certainly never showed it.
I got up and walked over to the dresser where my alarm clock sat. I set the alarm for 4:30 a.m. In deciding to meet “the Faithful High Councilor,” I was not concerned about what he would say or think if I did not. After all, I would probably never see or hear of him again after we moved. I decided to get up in less than four hours and drive 50 miles (80 km) to his office because I truly respected him for what he was, “the Faithful High Councilor.” I decided to follow his example.
I pulled my car up to Gate 5 at 6:00 a.m. that Sunday morning to be greeted by a security guard with a machine gun. He eyed my American Armed Forces license plate. He may have wondered if I was lost. Had “the Faithful High Councilor” decided not to show up? Not more than two minutes later, though, his car pulled up next to mine. He said, “Good morning, Don. Let’s go into my office.” The guard opened the gate and let us pass.
After some small talk and showing me around his office building, he came to the point of the meeting. He said he was calling me to serve as the councilor to the branch president. Not the first or second counselor—the only counselor. Before my arrival, there had been only two priesthood holders in the branch, and they had traded off every few years between being branch president and elders quorum president.
I accepted the call and served until I left three months later to attend a two-month training in the United States.
My memories of that time in my life faded as I leaned forward in my seat and refocused my attention on President Uchtdorf’s voice coming over the speaker system. I was truly impressed by the implications of his message. Unlike other times when I’ve wondered about the correlation between a speaker’s words and the speaker’s personal actions (in business, in the military, and, yes, even some talks I have heard in church), I had no doubt about President Uchtdorf‘s message. It wasn’t just the fact that President Uchtdorf’s accent reminded me of Germany and my experience with “the Faithful High Councilor.” It was the fact that President Uchtdorf was “the Faithful High Councilor.” The industrial complex we met at that early Sunday morning was the Frankfurt International Airport, where he was Chief Pilot for Lufthansa German Airlines.