Gospel Story Finder

Many of you have participated in treks to experience and appreciate the dramatic rescue of the Willie and Martin handcart companies. I first became aware of this rescue when I was a teenager. My mother gave me a book written by Orson F. Whitney, who would later be an Apostle. Elder Whitney’s book acquainted me with the heroic effort directed by Brigham Young to rescue the handcart companies. They had been overtaken by winter storms on the high plains of Wyoming. Some had died and many others were on the verge of death. Brigham Young became aware of their plight, and at the October 1856 general conference he instructed the Saints to drop everything and rescue those stranded on the plains.
The response was dramatic. Elder Whitney reported, “Brave men by their heroism—for it was at the peril of their own lives that they thus braved the wintry storms on the plains—immortalized themselves, and won the undying gratitude of hundreds who were undoubtedly saved by their timely action from perishing.”
One reason my mother had given me the book was Elder Whitney had made special mention of my great-grandfather David Patten Kimball, who had participated in the rescue when he was 17 years old. All the rescuers battled deep snow and freezing temperatures during much of the rescue of the handcart companies. At great personal sacrifice, David and his associates helped carry many of the pioneers across the freezing, ice-filled Sweetwater.
This true account greatly impressed me. I wanted to prove my devotion to the Lord through some dramatic act. However, in a visit with my grandfather, he explained that when President Brigham Young sent his father, David, and the other young men on their rescue mission, President Young instructed them to do everything they possibly could to save the handcart companies, even at the peril of their own lives. Their acts of bravery were specifically to “follow the prophet Brigham Young” and by so doing express their faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. My grandfather told me that consistent, faithful dedication to the counsel of a prophet is the real lesson I should learn from my great-grandfather’s service. As heroic as it was for David and his associates to help rescue the pioneers, it is also valiant today to follow the counsel of our prophet.
An often-told account from the Old Testament illustrates this principle. Naaman, a prominent leader in Syria, was afflicted with leprosy. He became aware that the prophet Elisha in Israel might be able to heal him. Elisha sent word by a messenger that Naaman should wash himself in the river Jordan seven times. Initially, Naaman was upset with this counsel. However, his servants said, “If the prophet had bid thee do some great thing, wouldest thou not have done it?” Then Naaman followed the counsel of the prophet Elisha, and he was made clean.
Like Naaman, you young priesthood holders might aspire to “do some great thing” or participate in something dramatic like the handcart rescue. However, your resolve should be to follow the counsel of the prophet. The First Presidency has reaffirmed its commitment to increasing the worthiness of young people who are recommended for missionary service. Keeping yourselves free from the sins of the world and meeting the high standards for missionary service should be one goal. Preparing yourselves to proclaim the gospel and rescue some of Heavenly Father’s children spiritually would be both significant and heroic. You can meet this challenge.

All eight of my great-grandparents joined the Church in Europe. They were very faithful in the Church. After that, some of my ancestors didn’t keep living the gospel. Because of this, my parents didn’t go to church very much when I was a child.
I loved my parents. They taught me very important lessons. I can’t thank them enough for our happy home. But even as a boy, I knew I was missing something because our family didn’t go to church very much. One day I rode a streetcar to a bookstore to find a book about the Church. I loved learning about the gospel.
When I learned about the Word of Wisdom, I realized my parents weren’t living the way it teaches us to live. But I wanted them to! So one day, I broke every bottle of alcohol in my home on the concrete floor! I thought my father would punish me, but he never said anything to me about it.
As I got older, I kept learning about the gospel. I began to understand Heavenly Father’s beautiful plan. I got baptized when I was 16 years old. At Christmastime, I often said to myself, “I don’t want one more Christmas present! I just want to be sealed to my parents in the temple.” I waited many years for that dream to come true. When my parents were over 80 years old, we were finally sealed as a family! I felt great joy that day. Each day, I still feel so happy that they were sealed together and that I was sealed to them.
“Pour out your heart to your Heavenly Father. Turn to Him for answers and for comfort.” —President Russell M. Nelson
See Primary manual, page 91.

As a young BYU student I learned a little something about staying on course when heading home. One Christmas Eve my brother and I left to drive home to Kansas. But early in our journey we learned that a huge snowstorm was heading our way, so we pulled out a map, identified a detour that would skirt the edge of the storm, and headed into parts unknown. Our creative navigating proved dangerous. Our new route was unfamiliar, and we still ran right into the blizzard. To make matters worse, late that night as we were creeping along in blinding snow on an obscure highway, our old Ford quit. We were stranded. And we had absolutely no idea where we were.

Eventually we caught a ride to the nearest town, where we found that we were still hours from home and marooned in Last Chance, Colorado. At that point there was only one thing to do. We called home for help. In the middle of the night our father left to come and rescue us. By the next afternoon we were all safely home.

I’ll never forget Christmas Eve in Last Chance, where we were immobilized by a problem largely of our own making and one we were unequipped to solve. That day our father did for us what we could not do for ourselves. Now, each one of us is on the path towards our eternal home. And for various reasons we all need rescue—rescue from loneliness and heartache, from despair and disillusionment, from the consequences of innocent mistakes and blatant sin.

Artur Tomaszewski could defend himself if the need arose. After all, he was the national jujitsu champion in his native Poland at age 17. But he believes the wisest course is always to seek peace first. That is what he was doing, in a way, when he won his greatest battle—the struggle to find truth.
As a young boy, Artur had studied the Bible and formed questions about his relationship to God and about God’s true Church. No one had answers to satisfy him. Finally, he prayed to God to show him which church was true.
Does this story sound familiar?
Both the answer Artur received and the way it came surprised him.
As a youth, he says, “I liked to study about different religions.” His study convinced him that the Church of Jesus Christ ought to be on the earth. Yet he could not find one that seemed to meet biblical criteria. He was even tempted at one point to wonder if God really existed, but the faith that lived inside him overcame that doubt. He knew that if anyone could provide answers, it would be God. There came a time when he was 18 that Artur prayed, specifically asking to be led to the true Church.
Not long afterward, while he was visiting at the home of his aunt, he saw a dusty book sitting on a shelf. It was titled the Book of Mormon. His aunt had received it from some sister missionaries, then had laid it aside and forgotten it.
Artur picked it up and put it back down three times, struggling over whether to read it. No, he would not; he believed only in the Bible. But this book said it was another testament of Jesus Christ. No, this Joseph Smith story at the beginning was too fantastic. But what if it was true? No, the story in the first 20 pages of the book was simply foreign to all he knew.
Still, what he had read stayed with him all week long. When he returned to his aunt’s house, planning to resume reading where he had left off, the book was gone!
It would be some time before Artur received his own copy of the Book of Mormon.
He introduced himself to missionaries on the street in Katowice. When they did not call him immediately as promised (this is a mistake Elder Tomaszewski the missionary does not make now), he decided to seek them out on a Sunday morning at the meetinghouse address on a flyer they had given him.
It happened to be a fast Sunday, and as members bore their testimonies, Artur felt the same feeling of peace and surety that had stayed with him after his first reading in the Book of Mormon. The feeling was so strong that he wanted to stand and bear his own testimony that the book was true, but he did not know if this would be permitted.
When the missionaries finally gave him his own copy of the Book of Mormon, they asked him solemnly if he would promise to read it and pray for an answer about its truthfulness. Artur laughed. He already knew he could get an answer from God.
He read and he prayed. The answer that came was so strong it seemed to be not only a feeling, but also “like light to my eyes,” giving great clarity to the truths he already knew from the Bible. He laughed out loud once more, wondering if the answer about the Church of Jesus Christ could really be this “clear and simple.” He had thought it might be some complicated thing. He prayed again to be sure and received the same strong answer, assuring him that God’s truths are plain, not complicated.
“When I found out it was true, I went home full of joy,” he recalls. But no one wanted to share the joy. His mother and two younger brothers were not interested. His father was antagonistic. After Artur’s baptism in 2002, he had almost no support from friends and acquaintances either, except within his branch.
Religious tradition is very strong in Poland. No one could understand why he wanted to leave the dominant faith. Still, he says, his parents’ teaching and example were very valuable in preparing him to find the truth. “I’m grateful they did what they knew how to do in teaching me.”
Being alone in living the gospel did not break down his faith. When he determined to serve a mission, he was willing to give up the jujitsu practices and competitions he loved—something that had been part of his life from childhood—to work and save money for a mission. Jujitsu, he says, was an art form for him. “I felt like a painter painting a picture when I practiced.” But working left him no time to practice.
Before leaving his hometown of Mystowice to serve as a missionary, Elder Tomaszewski left a challenge for his younger brother Patryk, who was also deeply involved in jujitsu. “If you want to find out why I’m doing this, why I’m giving up my sport, read the Book of Mormon and pray about it.”
Elder Tomaszewski says some of the qualities developed through the discipline of jujitsu have been helpful in the mission field: patience, humility, and the capacity for hard work.
What does he like most about missionary work?
“Often when I’m really tired, when I feel like I don’t have any strength left and maybe I’m lacking a little in faith, we knock on a door and find someone,” he says. Finding someone who wants to listen sometimes makes him so excited he can’t sleep.
And what has been his best day as a missionary?
The day he learned that his younger brother had taken his challenge to read and pray about the Book of Mormon. Patryk Tomaszewski also received a testimony. He was baptized in August 2004.
Now there are two Tomaszewskis to share the joy of the gospel.

David soon discovered that he was the only member of the Church in his new school. With only a small number of students there, David knew he would get more attention from teachers because of the class size, but he didn’t want any special attention from his peers for being a Latter-day Saint.
“I was quiet about my beliefs at the beginning,” he says. “It was a new environment, and I was afraid I would be shunned and it would be hard to make friends.”
Then around his third year in the school, David remembered his priesthood lessons about letting his light shine.
“One time there was a big assembly at the school, and as I was looking around, it struck me that I was the only priesthood holder there,” he says. “The Lord had given me a responsibility, and I wasn’t doing enough.” He knew he had to make his membership in the Church known.
He decided to tell his friends about his standards and beliefs. He says it was harder to live his standards when he didn’t tell anyone about them, but when he made them known, it was easier to live them, and he even received support from his friends.

Mine has been the opportunity to meet many wonderful men and women in various parts of the world. A few of them have left an indelible impression upon me. I share with you a story I spoke of some years ago. I met a naval officer from a distant nation, a brilliant young man who had been brought to the United States for advanced training. Some of his associates in the United States Navy, whose behavior had attracted him, shared with him at his request their religious beliefs. He was not a Christian, but he was interested. They told him of the Savior of the world, of Jesus Christ born in Bethlehem, who gave his life for all mankind. They told him of the appearance of God, the Eternal Father, and the resurrected Lord to the boy Joseph Smith. They spoke of modern prophets. They taught him the gospel of the Master. The Spirit touched his heart, and he was baptized.
He was introduced to me just before he was to return to his native land. We spoke of these things, and then I said: “Your people are not Christians. What will happen when you return home a Christian, and, more particularly, a Mormon Christian?”
His face clouded, and he replied, “My family will be disappointed. They may cast me out and regard me as dead. As for my future and my career, all opportunity may be foreclosed against me.”
I asked, “Are you willing to pay so great a price for the gospel?”
His dark eyes, moistened by tears, shone from his handsome brown face as he answered, “It’s true, isn’t it?”
Ashamed at having asked the question, I responded, “Yes, it’s true.”
To which he replied, “Then what else matters?”
These are questions I should like to leave with you: “It’s true, isn’t it? Then what else really matters?”

Photographs by Sepi Hawaikirangi
When 118 youth from Auckland, New Zealand, and their leaders planned a four-day temple conference to the Hamilton New Zealand Temple, they had a simple but impressive goal: to perform as many baptisms for the dead as possible during their stay.
They began preparing for the trip many months in advance. As part of the preparation, young men and young women researched names from their family histories that they could bring with them to the temple.
All their preparation paid off in a big way. The youth and their leaders had a spiritual feast from the moment they arrived to when they set their sights back home four days later—not to mention all the blessings that came before and after the event because of their devotion to family history and temple worthiness.
In order to spend as much time at the temple as they could, they wanted to stay near the temple instead of making the two-hour drive each direction every day. So for the whole temple conference, youth and leaders stayed in dorm rooms near the temple.
Being that close to the temple was its own reward for the youth. Nichalahr U., a Laurel from the group, said, “I didn’t want to come home after the temple conference because I got used to waking up to the view of the temple and how peaceful it was to just turn and look at it standing in front of you.”
You can enjoy the blessing of seeing the temple each day by putting a picture of one in your room.
It wasn’t practical to have 62 young men and 56 young women all doing baptisms at once, so they decided instead to go to the temple in shifts. The youth were divided into five groups, and each group attended at least two shifts at the temple during the four days.
That might sound at first like there was a lot of downtime and waiting in between. But nothing could be further from the truth. When they weren’t in a shift doing baptisms, the youth headed into the community to do service projects. Sometimes they walked over a mile (1.61 km) to reach their destinations—at which point they’d begin the service project.
They helped out with cleaning, yard work, and anything else families and organizations needed. One youth group helped replant a marae, an outdoor public meeting place in the New Zealand culture.
The youth were also in charge of cooking their own meals, which led to another goal the youth made for the conference: to learn how to prepare and cook food from 72-hour kits. This, too, required a fair amount of planning. Each young man and young woman had a budget to plan and shop for ingredients.
Although the dorm rooms had large kitchens to use, the youth all whipped up their masterpiece meals on a gas stove outside. Those meals were put to good use too, since the youth needed a lot of energy to keep up with the schedule. The only way they could fit everything in was to wake up at 5:00 a.m. and keep going strong until bedtime.
Of course, this was a four-day youth conference, so there had to be at least a little recreational time! One fun event was a dance. Yet even here the dance became more meaningful than usual as a result of some visitors.
During the week, the youth had an unexpected treat when they met a group of Saints from New Caledonia (a group of islands in the southwest Pacific Ocean that belong to France) who were also visiting the temple. They quickly became friends and had the opportunity to sing hymns and also perform ordinances in the temple in English as well as French.
On the night of the dance, the Saints from New Caledonia came to visit these youth. As soon as they arrived, the youth from New Zealand danced joyfully in a circle around them to welcome them. They hugged each other in friendship formed over a shared love of temple work.
Not surprisingly, the highlight of the conference was the actual time in the temple. Mahonri K., a priest, researched and brought names from his own family to do proxy work for them. “I was excited to help my ancestors who had passed on through the veil by being baptized and receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost on their behalf,” he says. “My testimony of baptism has been largely strengthened.”
Throughout the week, the young men and young women felt a strong spiritual connection to the work. Sara M., a Mia Maid, said, “I now have a strong testimony of the gospel and the importance of temple work.”
From the beginning, their goal was to complete as many baptisms as possible to help their ancestors. They succeeded rather spectacularly. The 118 youth performed baptisms and confirmations for 3,542 people, many of whom were their ancestors.
By the time the young men and young women were ready to leave, their testimonies were strengthened and their hearts were filled with gratitude. The youth even invited the sisters who work in the temple laundry to their closing exercises so that the youth could sing a closing song to them in appreciation for their hard work. (Just imagine how much laundry needed to be washed during this temple conference!)
The youth will remember the spiritual experiences they had during this temple conference for the rest of their lives. “The feeling that I received throughout each baptism was pure and innocent,” says Caleb R., a priest. “I could feel the warm embrace of the Savior’s love.”
Throughout the temple conference the youth strengthened their ties with the Savior, with each other, and with their ancestors. After gaining such new enthusiasm for the work, their journey in family history is only getting started.

Some years ago when Aldin Porter was president of the Boise North Stake, he dropped by the home of Glen Clayton, who was the Scoutmaster in his ward. Glen and his son were working together repairing a bicycle. President Porter stood and talked to them for a few minutes and then left. Several hours later he returned and the father and son were still working on the bike together. President Porter said, “Glen, with the wages you make per hour you could have bought a new bike, considering the time you have spent repairing this old one.”

Glen stood up and said, “I’m not repairing a bike, I’m training a boy!”

That year twenty-one boys achieved the rank of Eagle Scout in Glen’s troop. Impact teachers do not teach lessons, they teach souls.

I had a conversation once with a young man I cannot forget. His story of activity, complete inactivity, and a return to activity included the description of two classrooms. He said: “When I was about 15, I started to have a lot of questions about the Church. I thought maybe there would be a chance to talk about my questions at church, but it didn’t happen. In priesthood it seemed like most of the time everybody talked about the game the night before. Sunday School was about the same—maybe a little lesson thrown in during the last five minutes where the teacher asked questions, and it was kind of ‘guess-the-right-answer-from-the-manual-time.’”
Well, other things happened—late Saturday nights, a switch to an earlier meeting schedule—and soon the young man’s attendance dropped to nothing. Several years passed by until he found himself in church again. This time his face lit up as he described his Sunday School class:
“The teacher was this unimpressive-looking guy, but he was so excited about what he was teaching. He didn’t waste a minute. He asked important questions. Everyone had their scriptures. They looked up verses, shared ideas. They listened to each other. They talked about problems at school and how they fit in with the lesson. You could tell that the people in the class were all different, but they had one amazing thing in common—they were all interested in learning the gospel. After five minutes, I knew that this was a good place for me.”

Emily peered through a rain-lashed cottage window at the storm raging outside. Gigantic waves were crashing right over the dunes that protected their little fishing resort from the Atlantic Ocean.
“Mama!” she cried, “Don’t you think we ought to get out of here? It’s a terrible storm!”
“Get away from that window,” her mother whispered from the couch. “If it breaks, you’ll be hurt by flying glass. I just can’t think what to do. My head hurts, and I feel so sick and cold. Pile another blanket on me, will you, dear?”
Emily did, then tried to think of what else she could do. The cottage was perched on a narrow strip of barrier beach separating Cape Cod from the ocean by about five miles of normally calm water. It could only be reached by a boat or by driving twenty miles from a coastal town. There was no electricity, telephones, or running water. This late fall weekend, Emily and her parents had driven out for one last visit to catch some sun and to close up the cottage for the winter. Emily’s dad had gone fishing in their boat before Emily or her mother were awake and wasn’t back yet. If he’d known how sick Mother is, Emily thought, he never would have gone.
Emily’s mom looked white and weak. “We’re the only ones on the beach today,” she said, her teeth chattering. “If we drove out, we’d be stranding your dad. Besides, if the storm is going to be severe, the coast guard will raise the storm flag. Look out the back window and see if it’s flying.”
Emily ran to the window that faced the mainland. She steadied the powerful binoculars on the window sash, focusing on the lighthouse and the Coast Guard station beside it. But the storm-warning flagpole wasn’t there. It must have been broken off by the wind, she thought.
As she stared through the binoculars, an enormous wave crashed upon the bank under the lighthouse. Great chunks of paving tore away and fell into the rolling sea.
“Mama!” she cried, terrified. “The flagpole is down, and the lighthouse banking is crumbling. The waves are awful!”
“Try the radio again,” her mother whispered.
Emily turned the dials of the battery radio again and again, trying to reach a station, but all she heard was static. The cottage smelled of damp wood, and it shook in the wind. The roar of the storm was unrelenting. She clutched Clover, her tiny white kitten, and tried not to cry. Her dad was out in this storm. What if his boat capsized?
Suddenly, as she stared out the window, Emily saw their car tossed into the air by a gigantic wave. “Mama, get up, get up,” she screamed. “The car is gone. We have to get out of here somehow!”
Her mother’s eyes were glazed now, and her lips were cracked. She tried to talk, then lay back and closed her eyes, instead.
Emily looked out the window again and could see nothing but water. The waves had beaten down most of the dunes and were reaching higher and higher. The roof of the house next door went floating past, tumbling end over end and finally breaking into pieces. “The Jenkins house is gone!”
But her mother was either asleep or unconscious. Emily began weeping with fear—great tearing sobs that shook her small frame and left her gasping for breath. “Heavenly Father, please help us!” she prayed.
Feeling a little more calm, she said aloud, “There must be something you can do. Think, Emily, think!”
As she looked around her for ideas, a thought slipped quietly into her mind. The old ship’s lantern! Maybe I could signal with it.
She ran into the tiny kitchen, pulled the stepladder over to the cupboard, and climbed up to get the big kerosene lantern that had once hung in a captain’s cabin on a clipper ship. Dad always kept it filled and trimmed for emergencies. It was sturdy and swung from a gimbal that kept it steady even in a high wind.
With trembling fingers she lit the lantern. Then she ran out to the back porch and looked for a place to hang it. The beam with the hook, the one that usually held her dad’s fishing boots, was too high for her to reach, so she raced back to the kitchen and dragged the stepladder out to the porch. Climbing up, holding the lantern carefully so that the kerosene in it wouldn’t spill, she hung it on the hook.
If anyone could see the light from across the raging waves, it would be the lookout in the Coast Guard station. But as Emily peered through the drenching sheets of rain, she thought, It’s not good enough. No one will know what the light means. I need something to make a signal with.
Searching the woodpile by the stove she found a small sheet of plywood. Frantic with haste, she scrambled up the ladder again and started passing the plywood back and forth across the glow of the lantern, creating three short, three long, three short intervals of light—SOS—over and over again. She tried to count out loud to keep it regular. The rain whipped her long brown hair around, sometimes stinging her eyes. Three short, three long, three short—would anyone notice? Could anyone even see such a tiny light across the miles of turbulence?
Soaked to the skin, shivering, and miserable, she kept on. Her arms trembled with fatigue. Her legs ached from trying to keep her balance in the howling wind.
Suddenly she heard a shrieking and rending above the constant roar of the storm and almost lost her balance. A whole house came sweeping by the porch, breaking up in front of her eyes. A refrigerator was flung into the air and landed almost at her feet. A propane gas tank went sailing by like a kite. The waves were now as high as the ground the cottage was on and pounding higher each minute. She could feel its timbers shaking. Numb with fear, she felt like a mechanical doll. Don’t think. Just keep moving the plywood.
Listen—what’s that? Over the roar of the wind, she heard the thrum of a powerful engine. Then she saw a searchlight coming closer, sometimes hidden by the surf, then reappearing. The Coast Guard must have seen her signal.
“Over here!” she called but knew that they couldn’t hear her. She didn’t dare stop signalling. What if the house blew down before they arrived? On and on she worked. Three short, three long, three short.
Then, miraculously, the boat was there. Voices shouted through the howling wind. Strong arms lifted her from the ladder and set her in the bow of the boat. “Check the house,” she heard someone cry.
“Clover, Clover,” Emily screamed when a wet ball of white fur was thrust into her arms. Soon her mother was carried out and placed in the bow under a canvas shelter. Engines roaring, the boat backed away from the cottage.
“You were great to signal like that,” one man shouted to Emily over the wind, wrestling the boat around to face the mainland. “We didn’t know anyone was out here. You’d better get under cover. We’re not out of this mess yet.”
Emily curled up close to her mother, whose eyes had fluttered open for only a moment while she was being rescued. Clover was buried under Emily’s arm, shivering and still frightened. Emily prayed for the man steering the boat—and for her father out somewhere in the storm.
Mountainous waves rose all around them. The boat reared and bucked and plunged. Emily glimpsed debris sweeping by—a chair, a green cooler, a door.
“There goes your house,” one of the men called. “There’s nothing left now but ocean—not even sand. We got you off just in time.”
“We’re almost there,” the pilot shouted many minutes later.
Emily peered over the canvas and saw a sight that she would never forget. Most of the boats anchored in the harbor were thrown up on shore, smashed and broken by the storm. The pier had been swept away, and the fish house was dangling over the water, swaying crazily in the wind, half its foundation gone.
Emily later remembered little of landing, thanking her rescuers, or riding to the hospital in a wailing ambulance. Sometime later, Uncle George gently shook her. “Wake up,” he said. “It’s time to go home.”
“Where’s Mom?” she asked sleepily. “Where’s Clover? Has Dad come back?”
“Your kitten’s in the car. Your mother’s in intensive care, and the doctor says that she’ll be fine. Your dad …” He shrugged and looked away. “He’s a good seaman. He’ll be OK.”
For five days and nights the storm raged. Emily’s mother finally came to stay with her at Uncle George’s, shaken and weak but a lot better.
On the fifth day, Emily’s father chugged into the harbor. He was starving, cold, and exhausted; his boat was badly damaged. He had thrown out sea anchors, he explained, and had miraculously ridden out the storm.
“You were so brave!” he told Emily, hugging her. “To think of signaling like that and staying with it so long! You must have been frightened.”
“I was,” she said, stroking Clover, “but I prayed.”
He held her close. “So did I.”

In [everyone’s] conscience lies that spirit, that determination to measure up to the stature of true potential. But the way is rugged, and the course is [challenging]. So discovered John Helander from Göteborg, Sweden. John is handicapped, in that it is difficult for him to coordinate his motions.
At a youth conference in Kungsbacka, Sweden, John took part in a running race. He had no chance to win. Rather, his was the opportunity to be humiliated.
What a race it was! Struggling, surging, pressing, the runners bolted far beyond John. There was wonderment among the spectators. Who was this runner who lagged so far behind? The participants on their second lap of this two-lap race passed John while he was but halfway through the first lap. Tension mounted as the runners pressed toward the tape. Who would win? Who would place second? Then came the final burst of speed; the tape was broken. The crowd cheered; the winner was proclaimed.
The race was over—or was it? Who is this contestant who continues to run when the race is ended? He crosses the finish line on but his first lap. Doesn’t the foolish lad know he has lost? Ever onward he struggles, the only participant now on the track. Every eye is on this valiant runner. He makes the final turn and moves toward the finish line. There is awe; there is admiration. As John approaches the finish line, the audience, as one, rises to its feet. Stumbling, falling, exhausted but victorious, John Helander breaks the newly tightened tape. The cheering echoes for miles.

A short time ago, in the Salt Lake Temple, we had such an experience. A young couple came to the temple. They had come from Sri Lanka to have their family sealed in the temple. They were a beautiful young couple with two beautiful children. The wife was to receive her own endowment, and then the family would be sealed. Before the endowment, the temple president and matron give instructions to those who are there for the first time.
We did that on this day. It was so beautiful. We were both touched by the young couple. With tears in their eyes, they expressed deep gratitude for the privilege of being in Salt Lake City in the Salt Lake Temple. This had always been a far-off dream. Following the instruction period, Sister Walker said to me, "Do you have any idea who is performing the sealing today?" I said, "I really don't." She said, "Why don't you call upstairs and ask?" So I did. I was told that no one had yet been assigned. And then Sister Walker said to me, "Why don't you go do it?" Now, brethren, this is evidence of the fact that some of our greatest inspiration will come from the women in our lives.
When the time came, we went upstairs to the sealing rooms. They brought this beautiful young couple in, and with tears running down their cheeks, they received the eternal ordinance that joined them together forever. Then, they brought the little four-year-old boy in. He was dressed in white and was the picture of reverence. His arms were folded, and he didn't make a peep. We had to have him step up and stand on the cushion at the side of the altar so he could put his little hand on top of his parents while the sealing took place. And then they brought his little sister in, eight months old, screaming at the top of her lungs. She had been away from her mother for more than two hours, and even her mother could not console her. She continued to scream, and so we proceeded by sitting her on the altar with her back turned to me. Her grandmother forcibly held her little hand on top of her brother's hand so that I could perform the sealing.
This little girl continued to scream until I came to the point where I said, "And I seal you" (naming her), "to your father," (naming him), "and to your mother" (naming her). Instantly, she stopped crying. She turned around and stared at me with big, beautiful, dark eyes. She remained completely silent until I said "amen," and then a huge smile came across her face. You know, I am convinced that that little girl physically had no idea what was happening in her life. She was too young. But spiritually, she knew. The Lord had taught her. Is it any wonder why He says, "Unless you become as a little child, ye cannot enter the kingdom of God." Her heart was pure, and the Lord had granted her a kind of understanding that transcends our mortal knowledge. Glimpse of eternity.

I watched Cynthia prance across the playground, followed by three girls who wanted to be popular, like her. Cynthia’s earrings were long and silvery. She wore pink lipstick and bracelets that sounded like chimes.
I had to admit, I was jealous. Cynthia was pretty—and pretty snobby. My friends and I sat on the grass at recess, pointing out every snobby thing she did.
One day, Cynthia wasn’t at school. When I got home, Mom asked, “Do you know Cynthia Harper?”
“Yes. Why?” I asked.
“She had an accident yesterday.”
“Really? What happened?”
“Both of Cynthia’s parents were at work. She forgot her house key, so she tried to open a basement window. She slipped and pushed her arm through the glass.”
I gasped. “Will she be OK?”
“I think so,” Mom said. “She had to have surgery. Mrs. Keller was the one who found her.”
I shuddered thinking about the accident. Then I realized something. “Did you say Mrs. Keller found her?” The Kellers lived on our street.
Mom nodded. “Cynthia’s family lives in the green house.”
I knew Cynthia lived nearby, but I didn’t know she was my neighbor!
The next day, I told my friends about what happened to Cynthia.
“Serves her right,” Caroline said.
I thought about how unhappy Cynthia must be. “No, it doesn’t,” I said. “My mom said she’ll have to wear a cast all summer. She’s lucky she can even move her fingers.”
“Sorry,” Caroline mumbled.
After school that day, I went to my room. My eyes fell on a pair of tiny earrings I had gotten for my birthday that I hadn’t worn yet. An idea came to me. Maybe I could give them to Cynthia.
“What are you thinking?” I asked myself. “She doesn’t know you, and she’d never wear earrings like that.”
But before I knew what I was doing, I was carrying a get-well card and the earrings up the street to the green house.
Cynthia’s mom answered the door. “Is Cynthia here?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“She’s right here.” Her mom smiled, and I looked inside to see Cynthia sitting on the couch.
“I’m Kim,” I said. “I live up the street.”
Cynthia smiled. “Hi.”
“I heard about what happened, and I hope you feel better soon.” I gave her the card and earrings and held my breath, waiting for her reaction.
Her eyes lit up. “Thank you! You are so nice!” she exclaimed.
“Um, are you … feeling better?” I stammered.
Cynthia nodded. “It hurts a little. But I’m OK.” She held out her arm so I could see her pink cast.
“Well, see you later,” I said as I hurried out the door.
I skipped all the way home. I knew I had been brave and that I had done the right thing. But most of all, I knew I had been wrong about Cynthia. She wasn’t snobby—my friends and I had been the snobs.
Cynthia and I didn’t become best friends, but every time we saw each other in the hall or at recess we smiled and said hi. A few weeks later, school ended and I moved away. Knowing I had been wrong about Cynthia helped me not to judge others at my new school. Making friends was easier when I remembered that being nice could start with me.

Heredia, Costa Rica: Drunk, he broke his back in a car accident. He begged the Lord for another chance at life.
When he left his friend’s wedding, Carlos Barrera was drunk. But he drove anyway—and ended up wrecking his car and breaking his spinal column in three places. “My whole life passed before me,” he says. “‘Give me another chance,’ I begged the Lord.” Now he knows that his petition was answered.
Carlos had been baptized when he was seventeen, but unlike his Latter-day Saint friends, he didn’t go on a mission. While they were gone, he made new friends—people with bad habits. “I began to smoke and drink. I’d been active until then—was even an elder—and my conscience got to me. From then on, my life was awful.”
He married Haydee, a nonmember. “We were always missing something in our lives,” he says. Then he lost his job. Problems mounted. “I started going around with an even worse crowd, people who took drugs, whose lives were filled with things of the world.”
“Instead of becoming more united during that time of trial,” says Haydee, “we became separated emotionally.”
Missionaries and Church members frequently came to encourage him, and he even went back to church once. “But I couldn’t stand being there because of my conscience,” he says.
Finally he got a good job as a radio operator for the police department. But he still hadn’t found peace. “I attended my wife’s church with her and the girls, looking for what I was missing, but I never found it. I talked with the priests there, begging with tears for help, but they didn’t know how.” Haydee listened to the missionary discussions but didn’t want to be baptized.
Then, in November 1986, came that accident in which Carlos broke his back. Luckily, his operations were successful: he wasn’t paralyzed. “I saw that I could walk again, that Heavenly Father had listened to my prayer, even though I had been drunk. How was that possible? I knew my life had some purpose; I prayed that he would help me.” From that moment, he never drank alcohol again.
In February two sister missionaries came to meet this less-active family they had on their list. “Their timing was perfect!” says Carlos. “If they’d come before or after that moment, my heart might not have been ready, and I might have missed the opportunity again. I put on a tough front, telling them I didn’t think I would come back to Church. But inside I was crying for help.”
The sisters kept coming, and they taught Carlos and Haydee all of the discussions again. Haydee gained a testimony and was baptized in March—just four months after Carlos’s accident. Carlos stopped smoking and began attending church with Haydee and their two daughters. Now he teaches the elders quorum and she teaches Primary.
“It’s been a complete, total change,” says Haydee. “Now, thanks to our Father in Heaven, here we are as a family in the Church! If we weren’t in the Church, perhaps we wouldn’t be together. Who knows what would have happened to us!” (See “They Didn’t Go by Accident.”)

A few months ago, I was standing in a hall when Elder Neil L. Andersen walked by. I had just been called as a new General Authority. Likely sensing my feelings of inadequacy, he smiled and said, “Well, there looks like a man who has no idea what he is doing.”
And I thought, “There is a true prophet and seer.”
Elder Andersen then whispered, “Don’t worry, Elder Shumway. It gets better—in five or six years.”

I think of Levi Savage, a member of the Willie handcart company. After expressing his concern that the handcart company was leaving too late in the season, Levi nonetheless supported the decision of the captain and the other Saints. He assumed leadership for 100 persons in the company, and worked tirelessly to aid them. In the difficult river crossings, he was often the first in the water and the last one out. A fellow traveler said of him: "No man worked harder than he to alleviate the suffering which he had foreseen."[4]

Here is someone who makes me very happy. This is my grandson Keenan. A few days before Easter, my husband and I talked to Keenan and his parents through Zoom. In his four-year-old excited way, Keenan urgently said, “Gramma, Gramma, Grampa, Grampa, I need to tell you something.” He had just participated in a stake Primary activity and was frustrated he hadn’t been able to share an important comment that was on the forefront of his mind. Bursting with the importance of his message, he said, “Jesus hanged up so we can be together forever.” In his beautiful, childlike way, Keenan had shared his testimony that Christ suffered on the cross so we can be happy. Then, Keenan continued, “Nobody runs away.”

Keenan’s statement makes me incredibly happy because he knows about Heavenly Father’s plan of happiness for us. We know “men are, that they might have joy,” [1] yet sometimes we might not be feeling the joy.

Recently three generations of a family were grieving at the death of a five-year-old boy. He died accidentally while with his family on a vacation. I was granted the opportunity to watch once again how the Lord blesses the faithful with relief and the strength to endure.
I watched the way the Lord made their great burden lighter. I was with them as the Lord’s covenant servant—as you will be often in your life—“to mourn with those that mourn … and comfort those that stand in need of comfort.”
Because I knew that was true, I was pleased and at peace when the grandparents invited me to meet with them and the parents of the little boy before the funeral.
I prayed to know how I could help the Lord comfort them. They sat down with me in our living room. I had warmed the room on a cold night with a small fire in the fireplace.
I had felt to tell them that I loved them. I told them that I had felt the Lord’s love for them. In just a few words I tried to tell them that I mourned for them but that only the Lord knew and could experience perfectly their pain and grief.
After saying those few words, I felt impressed to listen with love while they talked about their feelings.
In the hour we sat together, they spoke far more than I did. I could feel in their voices and see in their eyes that the Holy Ghost was touching them. In words of simple testimony, they spoke of what happened and how they felt. The Holy Ghost had already given them the peace that comes with the hope of eternal life, when their son, who died without sin, could be theirs forever.
When I gave them each a priesthood blessing, I gave thanks for the influence of the Holy Ghost that was there. The Comforter had come, bringing hope, courage, and increased strength for all of us.
That night, I saw demonstrated how the Lord works with us to lighten the loads of His people. You remember in the Book of Mormon when His people were nearly crushed by the burdens placed upon their backs by fierce taskmasters.
The father and the mother of the little boy bore witness of the Savior that evening in my living room. The Holy Ghost came, and all were comforted. The parents were strengthened. The burden of grief did not disappear, but they were made able to bear the sorrow. Their faith increased. And their strength will continue to grow as they ask for it and live for it.

When I was 15, I was invited to live with a Latter-day Saint family. Their daughter, slightly older than I, took me to Mutual. Everyone there welcomed me and paid attention to me. For the first time in my young life, people treated me with love and kindness.
I was introduced to the missionaries, who began teaching me. Soon I realized that I had a loving Heavenly Father, who had protected me throughout my life. I accepted the gospel and was baptized on Christmas Eve 1978. That evening I received my first and still most cherished Christmas gift: membership in the Lord’s Church.

Just a few months ago, I graduated from college. The day I put on the cap and gown, I felt excited, happy, grateful, and so incredibly nervous. I remember feeling confused and fearful of what lay ahead in my future. It wasn’t until a few weeks later when I was listening to a conference talk and thinking about what the speaker was saying that I felt the power of the Spirit. It was an overwhelming feeling of comfort and direction. I immediately wrote down in my journal the thoughts that were coming to me, and now I look to those words whenever I feel doubt. That journal entry has become a source of comfort for me because it feels as if it came straight from God.