Gospel Story Finder

When our bus rolled in, we didn’t realize Silver Lode was a town with a crisis. But then, our bus had a crisis too. And we didn’t exactly roll into town, either. We sputtered in and coasted to a very dead stop in front of the local Ben Franklin store.
We untangled ourselves from our Walkman headphones, bags of snacks, and the wadded-up jackets we used for pillows. One by one we stumbled on stiff legs off the Clark District school bus and into bright sunshine. “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” somebody muttered as we looked around.
“Okay, everybody, just listen up for a minute, please.” Mr. Watkins, our band director, stood in the shade of the narrow awning over the store window. He looked even more rumpled than usual, trying to tuck in the tails of his short-sleeved plaid shirt. “The driver’s gone in to phone the district garage. And then we’ll try to find a mechanic here in town. Go ahead and stretch and walk around, but please don’t go far, stay in groups of at least three, and be back here at the bus in 30 minutes.”
The director turned to talk to Vince and Betty Scholes, parents who had volunteered to chaperone our small high school jazz band for this trip to the Northwest Band Festival.
“Gee, a town this big and this exciting, and we only get 30 minutes.” Mike Forsgren’s voice bulldozed into my consciousness as I looked in the variety store window at faded displays of work clothing and school supplies. “I’d like to spend a couple of days, see a few shows, visit museums. Hey, Reed,” Mike raised his voice. “C’mon with Harrison and me and we’ll check this place out.”
Clint Reed is one of the most perfectly named people I know. He’s as thin as one—a reed, that is—and he plays the clarinet. Mike’s favorite line is “Hey Reed, step out from behind that thing so we can see you.” Mike, on the other hand, is beefy, with a reddish face and big hands that make his trumpet look like a toy.
So we flipped a coin to determine the direction and started off down the main drag of Silver Lode. Mike, Clint, and me, Josh Harrison, a very average-looking guitarist.
Like most of the towns we had passed in this part of the state, Silver Lode wasn’t much to look at. It was just off the interstate, small and narrow, squeezed on two sides by rolling, forested mountains. The hills were blighted here and there with rusted machinery and the yellow-brown streaks of mine dumps. The side streets held old homes, widely spaced among big old trees. The old main street, which used to be the highway, had a small city hall with an old war memorial in front, an appliance store, a shabby real estate office, a tavern. And half a block away, on the other side of the highway, the Bluebell Cafe.
Cafe. The word leaped out at three guys who were always hungry. As we approached, we could see a hand-painted sign in the window.
“We serve and cook with only pure, bottled water,” Mike read aloud as we stood in front of the cafe. Then, before we knew it, he was inside at the counter, ordering in his loudest voice, “A glass of your finest, pure, bottled water, please.”
They have good ice cream at the Bluebell, and we were just finishing our cones as we got back to the bus. When we were all gathered, Mr. Watkins told us the part for the bus wasn’t available anywhere nearby. Another bus was on the way, but we would have to spend the night in Silver Lode. The Scholeses were back at the motel we had passed when we left the freeway, arranging for rooms. “I’m sorry we’ll have to miss the first day of the festival,” Mr. Watkins said, “but at least we’re not scheduled to play until the second day.”
It took a while before the Scholeses got back, and lugging our suitcases and instruments to the motel was hot work. The motel sign touted free coffee and free cable TV. We had to share rooms, of course, and Mike and Clint and I opted to stay together. As we stood at the desk to get our keys, there was another hand-lettered sign: “Bottled water is available for drinking. Please ask clerk.”
“What’s with the bottled water in this town?” Mike asked.
“Well,” the clerk said, “about four months ago the state found heavy metals in the water here. The stuff leached into the water supply from all of the mine dumps and tailings.”
“Heavy metal! Whoa, that’s not for us,” Mike said, looking over his shoulder at me. He turned back to the clerk, leaned forward as if in confidence, and said quietly, “We’re into jazz ourselves.”
The clerk looked blank for a moment, gave a half smile, and went on. “Tap water’s fine for bathing and for brushing teeth and things like that. There’s no bacteria problem. But they don’t recommend drinking it until they hook us up to another source.”
We each got one free one-liter bottle and headed toward our room. It was small, but it would do for one night. Clint immediately turned on the TV and began channel surfing, while Mike grabbed the TV listing to see what was on today. “Hey,” he said, “at nine o’clock Carnal Killer is on. I’ve been wanting to see that.”
“What’s it rated?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“It’s rated R, but some guys I know saw it and said it was just for some language and a few scenes. It’s nothing you haven’t seen or heard before.”
“Face it,” Clint added, “it can’t be worse than the stuff we see and hear in the halls at school.”
What could I say? Clint was right. I had seen and heard some pretty raw stuff, and so far I still had a testimony. I was still planning on a mission. And I hadn’t killed anybody yet, or even committed any serious sins. So I didn’t argue. Clint and Mike went back to channel surfing, and I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth because my retainer had left my mouth tasting kind of foul.
The bathroom had glasses “sanitized for your convenience,” and I unwrapped one, got out my brush and paste, and brushed teeth and retainer. I rinsed several times, spit, and out of habit took a drink of water. Here in this mountain town it was cold and refreshing. Not until I went out and saw the bottle of water on the bed did I remember.
I groaned out loud in disgust. “I just realized, I drank the local water.”
“How was it?” Clint asked. “Did it taste more like mercury or lead?”
Mike sipped from an imaginary glass, gargled, and swallowed with a loud gulp. “I also detect iron, copper, and zinc, with overtones of trout. Obviously the finest stream water money can buy.”
Then Clint jumped in again. “With all of that metal in you, you’re probably a better conductor than Mr. Watkins.”
And so we laughed and joked all the way down to our practice session, crammed into the motel’s small lobby. The clerk really seemed to be enjoying it, except for the few times he had to give us the hand-across-the-throat signal to stop so he could answer the phone. Afterward, it was time for dinner, and as long as we stayed in groups and were back by dark, we had our choice of the Denny’s-type chain restaurant next door or the Bluebell, half a mile down the road. We chose the Bluebell because it was different. And thanks to Mike, we were known there.
In a booth with patched red Naugahyde seats and gray Formica tabletop, we studied the menus while our waitress poured water. Mike put his hand over his glass just as she was about to pour his, and he dumped about a cupful on the back of his hand before she could react. “I’m sorry,” Mike said, “but could I have your assurance that this is pure bottled water?”
I thought she would get mad, but Mike turned on his famous 500-watt smile, and she smiled back. “Believe me, this place would get shut down if we served tap water.”
The waitress finished pouring Mike’s water and reached for my glass when an idea hit me. I reached out and covered my glass too, and everybody shot me a quick this-could-get-old-in-a-hurry look. “Wait,” I said, “what if I don’t want bottled water. I tasted the tap water in this town earlier, and I liked it. One glass isn’t going to hurt me, is it?”
It was a slow night at the Bluebell, so I guess she had time to be patient with an obvious idiot. “No, I don’t suppose one glass will hurt you. Heck, you could drink a pitcherful and it wouldn’t kill you. But the metals build up in your body. It can’t get rid of them. I’ve got a five-year-old and a seven-year-old, and they tested high, so they need special treatments because those poisons are even harder on kids. I get tested tomorrow. Who knows what it’s done to me all these years.”
The Bluebell’s specialty is fried chicken, and it really was fine. Clint had the meatloaf to see if it was any better than his mom’s. “Maybe there’s no such thing as good meatloaf,” he said thoughtfully as we walked back to the motel.
In the distance, the motel’s sign was brighter in the dim light of dusk. Free Cable. Free Coffee. “That free coffee sounds kind of good, doesn’t it?” I said. “Maybe I’ll drink some of that free coffee while we watch the free cable.” Mike and Clint didn’t even bother to reply. They knew I didn’t drink coffee, and neither did they. It wasn’t even an issue.
An old pickup went by, spewing blue smoke, and there was the smell of diesel fumes from a tractor trailer rig idling nearby. “I know one thing,” I said as we stood outside the motel for a minute. “I’m going to drink cold tap water tonight. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t drunk it before. Besides, there are lots of pollutants around. I wouldn’t be taking in anything new.”
I stopped talking and looked first at Clint, then at Mike. Finally Mike rolled his eyes. “Okay, Guitar Boy, I get your message.”
Clint looked from Mike to me and back again. “What?”
“The movie, Carnal Killer,” Mike said with exaggerated patience. “We were talking about how it didn’t have anything we hadn’t already been exposed to in the halls at school. Now Guitar Boy here,”—he put a catcher’s mitt-sized fist on my arm and shoved—“is saying just because we’ve been exposed to some pollution, that doesn’t make it smart to take in more.”
“I remember reading for a report in a health class,” I said. “Those heavy metals stay in people’s tissues. And then I thought about the images and jokes and words I wish I didn’t remember, and how they settle in the brain.”
Clint didn’t say anything, just nodded. And we went to report in to Mr. Watkins.
I wish we had cable TV at home. Those old Mary Tyler Moore shows are kind of fun.

I quickly marked the verses. I loved this story and continued to think about it. As a matter of fact, I hoped for a similar manifestation myself. I was doing family history research and had experienced many difficulties gathering information. Most of my relatives did not remember much about our ancestors, and many of the records documenting baptisms, marriages, and deaths had been destroyed during bombings of the Philippines in World War II.
I persevered, expecting some kind of great and dramatic event. I had heard many accounts of people doing family history and temple work receiving divine assistance through dreams or other sacred experiences and finding the information they sought.
But as I continued to search old records and visit graveyards, I had no dramatic experiences. No dreams came. I had no visits from the spirit world. And yet the way opened before me. One time at the local Family History Center, another patron left some microfilm out. When I examined it, I discovered it contained the 19th-century census records of my hometown. I was thrilled to discover that the records included lists of entire families, their birth and death dates, and their occupations.
Using the microfilm, I spent weeks reconstructing family relationships. Eventually I identified six generations on my father’s side. I was jubilant and showed my work to one of my relatives. “You are half my age,” she cried in astonishment, “and you know more about my grandfather than I do!”
But another challenge remained, for I had little information on my mother’s lineage. Her parents live on an island far to the south of us, many kilometers away, and I didn’t have the money to go there.
Then one day my mother surprised me by announcing, “Your grandfather wants all of us to come home for a reunion.”
“When?” I asked happily.
“As soon as possible.”
Fortunately, we were able to get the money to pay for our plane tickets. At the reunion I was able to obtain a great deal of information from my mother’s relatives, and I promptly submitted the names of 86 ancestors to the Manila Philippines Temple. My collection of names was modest compared to some, but I was very happy about it.
One radiant February morning I went to the Manila temple and was baptized for one ancestor after another. As I stood in the baptismal font, I kept hoping to see my ancestors or hear their voices. I returned to the temple on succeeding days to complete the work, still expecting to have some kind of spectacular experience. I also thought I might have a dream about my ancestors. Or perhaps the hearts of my nonmember relatives would be softened and they would want to know more about my research. Perhaps they would even be converted.
But none of these things happened. The days continued to go by in an ordinary fashion. I was disturbed and asked myself, Where are the blessings of the Lord? Where are the blessings He has promised those who help redeem the dead?
I went to the temple again a few nights later to attend an endowment session. While there, I gazed into the calm waters of the baptismal font. All of a sudden I realized something I had overlooked: Wasn’t the privilege of being baptized for my ancestors a wonderful blessing in itself? I thought of all the valuable records I had discovered during my research. Hadn’t the Lord prepared my way? Hadn’t I been able to accomplish more than I thought I could?
Then the scripture from the Old Testament flashed into my mind. The eyes of Elisha’s servant were opened, and he saw the army of the Lord. The Lord opened my eyes and gave me an understanding of the blessings I had received. As I left the temple that night, I felt nothing but gratitude.
I have learned that when we open our spiritual eyes, we see that blessings need not be dramatic; we see and are grateful for the simple manifestations of the Lord’s love in our lives. At times I still tend to forget this, but then I, too, offer the prayer of Elisha, “Lord, open my eyes that I may see.”

Growing up along the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania, USA, young Emma Hale learned to navigate river waters and ride horses from her older brothers.1 Her mother, a Methodist, taught her from the Bible. According to family tradition, as a young girl Emma went to the nearby woods to pray out loud as she had been instructed in Sunday School. She called upon God to touch the heart of her father, who was not a believer. He happened to hear her words and experienced his own conversion.2

One day my family went sledding with my grammy and papa. We walked to an open area that was covered with several feet of fresh snow. It was really hard to walk in! My sister had a hard time walking in the snow, so my papa said, “Just walk in my footsteps.”
My sister and I started stepping in his footsteps. After a while I wanted to try to walk on my own for a bit. When I walked by myself in the snow, it was way harder!
Walking in my papa’s footsteps was easier because he already did the hard part of walking in the snow. I have a testimony that Jesus Christ already did the hardest part. If you walk in Jesus’s footsteps, your life will be easier too.

In June 1963, my husband, Gary, and I left the Cardston Alberta Temple and began our journey together as newlyweds in the gospel of Jesus Christ. All our possessions were stuffed in a few bags laid on the backseat of our little car as we drove to Clarkia, Idaho, USA.
Gary was to begin work watching for wildfires at the Anthony Peak lookout tower in the St. Joe National Forest. Five miles (8 km) by road and an additional three miles (5 km) by mountain trail, our first home together was a single room in a lookout tower 30 feet (9 m) above ground.
Before arriving in Clarkia, we visited President Larson, the president of a small branch in that area. We explained that for the next 70 days, we would be living in a lookout tower and would not be able to take a day off for Sunday worship services in his branch at St. Maries, Idaho.
Given our unique circumstances, President Larson shared inspired and helpful counsel: “Brother and Sister Coleman, you will be the Church in your little home on Anthony Peak. You have the priesthood, your covenants, your testimony, your scriptures, and your faith to do everything necessary to be faithful in the gospel. I authorize you to hold sacrament meeting each Sunday, where you may partake of the sacrament and give talks about the gospel. You will hold your priesthood meeting, your Relief Society meeting, Sunday School class, and family home evening. You are the Church!”
As we said goodbye to President Larson, we felt blessed to begin our family journey in our authorized two-person group of the Church on Anthony Peak. We held daily prayer, individually and as a couple. We each had a copy of the scriptures, and we had a Sunday School manual. Gary would teach priesthood meeting, and I would participate. I would teach Relief Society meeting, and he would participate. On the appropriate Sunday, we would hold fast and testimony meeting.
In this environment, we began our lifelong study of, and love for, the sacred Book of Mormon, which had played a significant role in Gary’s conversion in 1962. As we studied, we grew a special love for Nephi.
In the wilderness, Nephi says, “It came to pass that the Lord spake unto me” (1 Nephi 2:19). In like manner, Heavenly Father spoke to Gary and me on a hilltop in our forest wilderness.
We had all we needed.
I am grateful for guidance from a branch president in Idaho and for the counsel of ancient and modern prophets. Truly, as the Lord declared in Matthew 18:20, “Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.”

While I was performing the ordinances for Olga in the temple, one word kept coming to my mind: mission. But I was puzzled—I was busy raising three children by myself, and I couldn’t possibly go on a mission.
The answer came several months later. One day my cousin Renzo told me that Olga’s mother, my aunt Anita, had passed away. Suddenly I recalled that I had completed the temple work for Olga on a Tuesday, and her mother had passed away the following Friday. With great emotion, I felt impressed that Olga had been eager to receive her temple ordinances so she could welcome and teach her mother in the spirit world. Perhaps that was Olga’s mission.

The first real test of my young testimony came when I had to decide between going on a mission and playing basketball,” says Dean Reid Burgess. Brother Burgess had spent his freshman year playing basketball for the College of Southern Utah on scholarship.
It was 1965, the height of the war in Vietnam, and not every young man had the chance to serve a mission because of the United States military draft. But Brother Burgess had the chance and the choice. “It took a lot of prayer and a lot of fasting,” he says. “But I knew serving a mission was a real privilege, so I left school to serve.” While serving in the Brazilian Mission, Brother Burgess solidified his testimony of the restored gospel.
Upon returning home, he completed his education at Brigham Young University in business management and graduated in 1970. Some time later, he met Annette Christensen at a BYU student ward. “She was the Relief Society president, and I was the elders quorum president,” he says. “She was always busy serving in worthwhile and constructive ways.” They began dating and were later married in the Provo Utah Temple on 27 December 1973. They have five children and reside in Sandy, Utah.
Brother Burgess, 57, was born in Alpine, Utah, to Reid and Ethel King Burgess on 24 May 1946. He grew up working in the family-owned mercantile store and on their 20-acre (8-ha) farm. His parents taught him the value of family, hard work, and the principles of the gospel—the same values he has tried to teach his own children.
In 1997 Brother Burgess returned to Brazil, where he served as president of the Brazil Belo Horizonte East Mission. His other Church service includes counselor in stake presidencies, stake Young Men president, bishop, and high councilor; all told, he has served with the youth of the Church for more than 24 years.

When I was in the missionary training center preparing to go to Norway, President Dallin H. Oaks of the First Presidency came and spoke to us. He taught something simple that stayed with me my whole mission: “Focus on what you can do.”
What’s a Service Mission?
A few weeks after President Oaks’s talk, I was sent home to California for medical reasons. I was crushed. I finally felt like I was learning the language and was excited to enter the field.
I met with my stake president, and he asked me if I would like to serve a service mission.
A service mission? I had no idea what that even was.
I learned that service missionaries can choose from a variety of options of where, when, and how they’ll serve. Service missions focus on helping the missionary use their abilities in a way that will serve others.
A Good Option for Me
I decided a service mission was a good option for me to focus on my health and serve the Lord at the same time. Some of my assignments included:
Guiding tours as a docent in a museum.
Serving as a receptionist at the mission office.
Assisting at food banks and a Church camp.
Helping with wildfire disaster relief.
Serving in the temple.
My service mission allowed me to live at home and improve my health while serving. It was the mission I never expected, but I loved every minute. It helped me focus on what I can do and develop the abilities I had to bring good to the world.
Lifelong Lessons from My Mission
The simple yet powerful teaching from President Oaks impacted not only my mission but also my life. It changed my perspective. Instead of focusing on things that aren’t in my control, I now focus on bringing good into the world with the resources and talents I have. By focusing on the abilities we each have, we can change the world and those around us for good.

During World War II he had served in an infantry battalion in an area where constant combat covered the earth with blood, pain, and death. His squad was commanded by a sergeant who had earned the hatred of his men through extraordinary harshness. One terrible night a mortar shell exploded not far from the sergeant, critically wounding him. The commanding officer stopped a dilapidated truck that often passed by to pick up the wounded and dying and take them behind the lines to be cared for or buried.
The squad watched the fate of their dying leader from a distance. Not one went to help him. The officer asked for a volunteer to carry the man to the truck and accompany him behind the lines. No one volunteered.
Then, after something of a pause, Brother Thamas stepped forward. “Moved by compassion,” he told us, “I decided to carry the unfortunate fellow and go with him on his trip. I took care of him the best I could during his long and painful ride.
“I returned later in search of my squad. When I reached the front, I learned that fierce bombardment had wiped out a large number of men on the awful night of my departure. Not one man from my squad had survived apart from myself. And then I understood. I thanked God for having moved me to compassion. He saved my life and gave me a chance to hear the restored gospel.”

One of my haunting childhood memories begins with the howl of distant air-raid sirens that awaken me from sleep. Before long, another sound, the rattle and hum of propellers, gradually increases until it shakes the very air. Trained well by our mother, we children each grab our bag and run up the hill to a bomb shelter. As we hurry through the pitch-dark night, green and white flares drop from the sky to mark the targets for the bombers. Strangely enough, everyone calls these flares Christmas trees.
I am four years old, and I am a witness to a world at war.
Not far from where my family lived was the city of Dresden. Those who lived there witnessed perhaps a thousand times what I had seen. Massive firestorms, caused by thousands of tons of explosives, swept through Dresden, destroying more than 90 percent of the city and leaving little but rubble and ash in their wake.
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In a very short time, the city once nicknamed the “Jewel Box” was no more. Erich Kästner, a German author, wrote of the destruction, “In a thousand years was her beauty built, in one night was it utterly destroyed.”1 During my childhood I could not imagine how the destruction of a war our own people had started could ever be overcome. The world around us appeared totally hopeless and without any future.
Last year I had the opportunity to return to Dresden. Seventy years after the war, it is, once again, a “Jewel Box” of a city. The ruins have been cleared, and the city is restored and even improved.
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During my visit I saw the beautiful Lutheran church Frauenkirche, the Church of Our Lady. Originally built in the 1700s, it had been one of Dresden’s shining jewels, but the war reduced it to a pile of rubble. For many years it remained that way, until finally it was determined that the Frauenkirche would be rebuilt.

Stones from the destroyed church had been stored and cataloged and, when possible, were used in the reconstruction. Today you can see these fire-blackened stones pockmarking the outer walls. These “scars” are not only a reminder of the war history of this building but also a monument to hope—a magnificent symbol of man’s ability to create new life from ashes.

As I pondered the history of Dresden and marveled at the ingenuity and resolve of those who restored what had been so completely destroyed, I felt the sweet influence of the Holy Spirit. Surely, I thought, if man can take the ruins, rubble, and remains of a broken city and rebuild an awe-inspiring structure that rises toward the heavens, how much more capable is our Almighty Father to restore His children who have fallen, struggled, or become lost?
It matters not how completely ruined our lives may seem. It matters not how scarlet our sins, how deep our bitterness, how lonely, abandoned, or broken our hearts may be. Even those who are without hope, who live in despair, who have betrayed trust, surrendered their integrity, or turned away from God can be rebuilt. Save those rare sons of perdition, there is no life so shattered that it cannot be restored.
The joyous news of the gospel is this: because of the eternal plan of happiness provided by our loving Heavenly Father and through the infinite sacrifice of Jesus the Christ, we can not only be redeemed from our fallen state and restored to purity, but we can also transcend mortal imagination and become heirs of eternal life and partakers of God’s indescribable glory.
During the Savior’s ministry, the religious leaders of His day disapproved of Jesus spending time with people they had labeled “sinners.”
Perhaps to them it looked like He was tolerating or even condoning sinful behavior. Perhaps they believed that the best way to help sinners repent was by condemning, ridiculing, and shaming them.
When the Savior perceived what the Pharisees and scribes were thinking, He told a story:
“What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?
“And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing.”2
Over the centuries, this parable has traditionally been interpreted as a call to action for us to bring back the lost sheep and to reach out to those who are lost. While this is certainly appropriate and good, I wonder if there is more to it.
Is it possible that Jesus’s purpose, first and foremost, was to teach about the work of the Good Shepherd?
Is it possible that He was testifying of God’s love for His wayward children?
Is it possible that the Savior’s message was that God is fully aware of those who are lost—and that He will find them, that He will reach out to them, and that He will rescue them?
If that is so, what must the sheep do to qualify for this divine help?
Does the sheep need to know how to use a complicated sextant to calculate its coordinates? Does it need to be able to use a GPS to define its position? Does it have to have the expertise to create an app that will call for help? Does the sheep need endorsements by a sponsor before the Good Shepherd will come to the rescue?
No. Certainly not! The sheep is worthy of divine rescue simply because it is loved by the Good Shepherd.
To me, the parable of the lost sheep is one of the most hopeful passages in all of scripture.
Our Savior, the Good Shepherd, knows and loves us. He knows and loves you.
He knows when you are lost, and He knows where you are. He knows your grief. Your silent pleadings. Your fears. Your tears.
It matters not how you became lost—whether because of your own poor choices or because of circumstances beyond your control.
What matters is that you are His child. And He loves you. He loves His children.
Because He loves you, He will find you. He will place you upon His shoulders, rejoicing. And when He brings you home, He will say to one and all, “Rejoice with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost.”3
But, you might be thinking, what is the catch? Surely I have to do more than simply wait to be rescued.
While our loving Father desires that all of His children return to Him, He will force no one to heaven.4 God will not rescue us against our will.
So what must we do?
His invitation is simple:
“Turn … to me.”5
“Come unto me.”6
“Draw near unto me and I will draw near unto you.”7
This is how we show Him that we want to be rescued.
It requires a little faith. But do not despair. If you cannot muster faith right now, begin with hope.
If you cannot say you know God is there, you can hope that He is. You can desire to believe.8 That is enough to start.
Then, acting on that hope, reach out to Heavenly Father. God will extend His love toward you, and His work of rescue and transformation will begin.
Over time, you will recognize His hand in your life. You will feel His love. And the desire to walk in His light and follow His way will grow with every step of faith you take.
We call these steps of faith “obedience.”
That is not a popular word these days. But obedience is a cherished concept in the gospel of Jesus Christ because we know that “through the Atonement of Christ, all mankind may be saved, by obedience to the laws and ordinances of the Gospel.”9
As we increase in faith, we also must increase in faithfulness. Earlier I quoted a German author who lamented the destruction of Dresden. He also penned the phrase “Es gibt nichts Gutes, ausser: Man tut es.” For those who do not speak the celestial language, this is translated as “There is nothing good unless you do it.”10
You and I may speak most eloquently of spiritual things. We may impress people with our keen intellectual interpretation of religious topics. We may rhapsodize about religion and “dream of [our] mansion above.”11 But if our faith does not change the way we live—if our beliefs do not influence our daily decisions—our religion is vain, and our faith, if not dead, is certainly not well and is in danger of eventually flatlining.12
Obedience is the lifeblood of faith. It is by obedience that we gather light into our souls.
But sometimes I think we misunderstand obedience. We may see obedience as an end in itself, rather than a means to an end. Or we may pound the metaphorical hammer of obedience against the iron anvil of the commandments in an effort to shape those we love, through constant heating and repeated battering, into holier, heavenly matter.
No doubt about it, there are times when we need a stern call to repentance. Certainly, there are some who may be reached only in this manner.
But perhaps there is a different metaphor that can explain why we obey the commandments of God. Maybe obedience is not so much the process of bending, twisting, and pounding our souls into something we are not. Instead, it is the process by which we discover what we truly are made of.
We are created by the Almighty God. He is our Heavenly Father. We are literally His spirit children. We are made of supernal material most precious and highly refined, and thus we carry within ourselves the substance of divinity.
Here on earth, however, our thoughts and actions become encumbered with that which is corrupt, unholy, and impure. The dust and filth of the world stain our souls, making it difficult to recognize and remember our birthright and purpose.
But all this cannot change who we truly are. The fundamental divinity of our nature remains. And the moment we choose to incline our hearts to our beloved Savior and set foot upon the path of discipleship, something miraculous happens. The love of God fills our hearts, the light of truth fills our minds, we start to lose the desire to sin, and we do not want to walk any longer in darkness.13
We come to see obedience not as a punishment but as a liberating path to our divine destiny. And gradually, the corruption, dust, and limitations of this earth begin to fall away. Eventually, the priceless, eternal spirit of the heavenly being within us is revealed, and a radiance of goodness becomes our nature.
My dear brothers and sisters, my dear friends, I testify that God sees us as we truly are—and He sees us worthy of rescue.
You may feel that your life is in ruins. You may have sinned. You may be afraid, angry, grieving, or tortured by doubt. But just as the Good Shepherd finds His lost sheep, if you will only lift up your heart to the Savior of the world, He will find you.
He will rescue you.
He will lift you up and place you on His shoulders.
He will carry you home.
If mortal hands can transform rubble and ruins into a beautiful house of worship, then we can have confidence and trust that our loving Heavenly Father can and will rebuild us. His plan is to build us into something far greater than what we were—far greater than what we can ever imagine. With each step of faith on the path of discipleship, we grow into the beings of eternal glory and infinite joy we were designed to become.
This is my testimony, my blessing, and my humble prayer in the sacred name of our Master, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

In 1975 Janelle Griffin was a sophomore at Woods Cross High School in Bountiful, Utah. An assigned paper on the population explosion started a chain of events that eventually led to a sound filmstrip called “Very Much Alive.”

Janelle and her father, Dr. Glen Griffin, now members of the Val Verda 10th Ward (Bountiful Utah Val Verda Stake), went through the family photos and selected some good slides. These were matched with an anti-abortion story-script that Janelle and her father wrote. The resulting slide presentation, emphasizing the sanctity of human life, was used in the Career Day event at school by Dr. Griffin, a nationally-known pediatrician and author.

The slide presentation was enthusiastically applauded by students and teachers. Refinements and revisions followed. A sound track was recorded on cassette tape. Some who saw the presentation suggested that every LDS youth should see “Very Much Alive.”

After they had seen it, the Presiding Bishopric agreed. Many revisions and refinements followed, and then followed distribution in 17 languages to all the Church. As word got around, copies were purchased by other churches and by anti-abortion groups.

Now another edition of “Very Much Alive” has been prepared. Entitled “Very Much Alive—Worldwide Edition,” this filmstrip contains no mention of religion and is being used in many schools as part of their approved curriculum libraries.

Countless lives have been touched and others will yet be touched for good because of a filmstrip that had its beginning in a homework assignment to a Latter-day Saint girl in Bountiful.

Babies’ lives have been spared. Unwed parents have been influenced to make wise choices. Adoptive parents have rejoiced to have infants placed in their homes.

At the top of Mr. Gellért, high above the magnificent city of Budapest, Hungary, two sister missionaries search for a secluded spot in a grove of trees where they can be alone and unobserved.
They open their scriptures and bring out a typewritten copy of a prayer—the apostolic blessing, newly translated into the Hungarian language, that Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve pronounced on Hungary in April 1987. It was here on Mt. Gellért—overlooking the Danube River, with the hills of Buda on one side and the plains of Pest on the other—that Elder Nelson originally gave this prayer, asking the Lord to pour out his blessings upon the nation and its people. Now, kneeling reverently among the trees, the sisters quietly review the prayer aloud in their own tongue. Overhead, a warm breeze gently stirs the leaves, and the bright sun shines in a cloudless sky. For a few moments, the sisters are enveloped in a spirit of warmth and peace.

When I turned 15 years old, I received a learner’s permit, which allowed me to drive a car if one of my parents was with me. When my father asked if I would like to go for a drive, I was thrilled.
He drove a few miles to the outskirts of town to a long, straight, two-lane road that few people used—I should note, likely the only place he would have felt safe. He pulled over on the shoulder of the road, and we switched seats. He gave me some coaching and then told me, “Ease out onto the road and just drive until I tell you to stop.”
I followed his orders exactly. But after about 60 seconds, he said, “Son, pull the car over. You’re making me nauseous. You are swerving all over the road.” He asked, “What are you looking at?”
With some exasperation, I said, “I’m looking at the road.”
Then he said this: “I’m watching your eyes, and you are looking only at what is right in front of the hood of the car. If you look only at what is directly in front of you, you will never drive straight.” Then he emphasized, “Look down the road. That will help you drive straight.”
As a 15-year-old, I thought that was a good driving lesson. I have since realized that that was a great life lesson as well. Focusing on the things that are most important—especially those things “down the road,” those eternal things—is a key to maneuvering through this life.

My mom told my brother and me that if we would read two issues of the Friend from cover to cover she would let us pick something from our school book order. I read the November and December 2005 issues. When I was looking through the book order to choose a book, I saw some Christmas books that I knew my little sister Emmalie would like. Christmas was just a few weeks away. I asked my mom if I could choose those books and give them to my sister for Christmas. My mom said that would be very generous and something that Jesus would do. It felt good to see my sister’s face when she unwrapped her books on Christmas. I made someone else happy, and I think that’s what Jesus would do.

Seven-year-old Craig Parker of Spanish Fork, Utah, gained a testimony of the role of prayer in the repentance process. One day while he was playing, he said a word that he knew was wrong. He felt very bad afterward. “In our home and at church I have learned about Jesus, and I know that He would not want me to say that word.”
Craig decided to kneel and pray for forgiveness. “I folded my arms and told Heavenly Father I was sorry for saying that word. I felt better after praying. I knew that Heavenly Father forgave me, and I have never said that word again.”

Thirty-eight years ago this month, Dean and I, then newlyweds, traveled to New Mexico to visit my parents. While there, my father took us on a day trip into the mountains in the northern part of the state. In the afternoon, we encountered a car stranded on the roadside with a flat tire. The driver told my father that his spare was also flat and he needed a ride to the nearest town to get the tire fixed. My father, seeing the man’s family inside the car, said to him, “You’ll never be able to get to town and back before dark. But listen, you have the same size wheel as mine. Take my spare, and the next time you come to Albuquerque, bring it back to me.”
The stranger, shocked by the offer, said, “But you don’t even know me.”
Daddy’s response, typical for him, was, “You’re an honest man, aren’t you? You’ll bring the tire back.”
A few weeks later I asked my dad about the spare tire. He told me that it had been returned.

But sometimes there is no one like President Monson, no home teacher, no caring sister available to minister in time of need. In those situations I have come to find solace and direction from the Comforter, another role of the Holy Ghost (see D&C 36:2).
Our grandson Quinton was born with multiple birth defects and lived three weeks short of a year, during which time he was in and out of the hospital. Sister Jensen and I were living in Argentina at that time. We truly wanted to be there with our children to comfort them and be comforted by them. This was our grandchild, whom we loved and wanted to be near. We could only pray, and we did so fervently!
Sister Jensen and I were on a mission tour when we received word Quinton had died. We stood in the hallway of a meetinghouse and hugged and comforted each other. I witness to you that assurances came to us from the Holy Ghost, a peace which passes all understanding and continues to this day (see Philippians 4:7). We also witnessed the unspeakable gift of the Holy Ghost in the lives of our son and daughter-in-law and their children, who to this day speak of that time with such faith, peace, and comfort.

Illustration by Stephen Sitton
Touchdown! The phrase seemed so familiar to me. I would hear it in my thoughts, dreams, and, most important, on the football field. I was what you would call a football fanatic. Nearly every inch of my wall donned a poster of something football-related. If you saw me at the park with my friends, I would be playing football. As I got bigger and stronger, so did my love for the game.
When I entered high school, my football career started to consume me. Mutual? Nah. I was lifting weights with my football buddies. Youth conference? A little bit. But I missed half of what many called a life-changing experience because I was set on training with the team. Family? We lived in the same house, but I felt that my team was my family.
Because of these choices, I started to stray. I would go through the motions to make my mom happy, but when I sat in sacrament meeting taking the holy emblems of our Savior’s atoning sacrifice, my mind just wasn’t in the right place. I had become a glory-obsessed athlete. My dream was to play in the big game under the Friday night lights.
During the summer, we had rigorous workouts—running in the 110-degree heat (43º C), lifting weights for hours, running up and down the bleachers, and overall just exhausting ourselves. Then my back began to hurt. Eventually the pain I brushed aside became something that required medical attention. I took medications, but they didn’t help, so it was suggested that I get an MRI scan. One week later I received a call from my doctor. I was hurt worse than I had thought. It was apparent that my football career was over, and I did nothing but mourn my loss.
I joined the swim team to stay in shape. I was the biggest person out there, at 6?3? (191 cm) and 215 pounds (98 kg). I was also by far the slowest swimmer. It was a humbling experience. While on the team, I had fun and met new people, but I still felt empty. I felt as if there were a part of my heart that would never be filled again. I talked with many people and heard their experiences, but they were all just stories to me. I was lost in the thoughts of my broken heart.
I attended seminary, but I would end up just going and sitting in class, sending text messages to my friends, complaining about everything from not playing football to being hungry. Then one day the seminary teacher told us to take out our hymnbooks for an activity. I flipped through the pages and came across “How Firm a Foundation” (Hymns, no. 85). I read through the fifth verse, which says:
When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie,
My grace, all sufficient, shall be thy supply.
The flame shall not hurt thee; I only design …
Thy dross to consume and thy gold to refine.
As I read this, I realized that God had allowed these trials to come in order to strengthen me. I went home and prayed and realized that I had been so foolish to forget God and forget how blessed I am, even without football. I had wonderful friends, a wonderful family, and, most important, faith in my Heavenly Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.
It took me a long time to realize that with my faith fully set on God, putting Him before everything, I can never lose. After these experiences, I could walk out of sacrament meeting, cleansed through the sacrament and with my sights set on a mission, and look back at the end of my football career and ask myself, “Is this a loss or a win?” Sounds like an eternal victory to me.

I have always been interested in animals and birds and when I was a little boy and the other children wanted to play cowboy, I wanted to go on safari to Africa and would pretend I was hunting the wild animals.
When I learned to read, I found books about birds and animals and came to know much about them. By the time I was in my teens I could identify most of the African animals. I could tell a klipspringer from an impala, or a gemsbok from a wildebeest.
I always wanted to go to Africa and see the animals, and finally that opportunity came. Sister Packer and I were assigned to tour the South Africa Mission with President and Sister Howard Badger. We had a very strenuous schedule and had dedicated eight chapels in seven days, scattered across that broad continent.
President Badger was vague about the schedule for September 10th. (That happens to be my birthday.) We were in Rhodesia, planning, I thought, to return to Johannesburg, South Africa. But he had other plans, and we landed at Victoria Falls.
“There is a game reserve some distance from here,” he explained, “and I have rented a car, and tomorrow, your birthday, we are going to spend seeing the African animals.”
Now I might explain that the game reserves in Africa are unusual. The people are put in cages, and the animals are left to run free. That is, there are compounds where the park visitors check in at night and are locked behind high fences until after daylight. They are allowed to drive about, but no one is allowed out of his car.
We arrived in the park in the late afternoon. By some mistake, there were not enough cabins for all the visitors, and they were all taken when we arrived. The head ranger indicated that they had a cabin in an isolated area about eight miles from the compound and we could spend the night there.
Because of a delay in getting our evening meal, it was long after dark when we left the compound. We found the turnoff and had gone up the narrow road just a short distance when the engine stalled. We found a flashlight and I stepped out to check under the hood, thinking that there must be a loose connection or something. As the light flashed on the dusty road, the first thing I saw was lion tracks!
Back in the car, we determined to content ourselves with spending the night there! Fortunately, however, an hour or two later we were rescued by the driver of a gas truck who had left the compound late because of a problem. We awakened the head ranger and in due time we were settled in our cabin. In the morning they brought us back to the compound.
We had no automobile, and without telephones there was no way to get a replacement until late in the day. We faced the disappointment of sitting around the compound all day. Our one day in the park was ruined and, for me, the dream of a lifetime was gone.
I talked with a young ranger, and he was surprised that I knew many of the African birds. Then he volunteered to rescue us.
“We are building a new lookout over a water hole about twenty miles from the compound,” he said. “It is not quite finished, but it is safe. I will take you out there with a lunch, and when your car comes late this afternoon we will bring it out to you. You may see as many animals, or even more, than if you were driving around.”
On the way to the lookout he volunteered to show us some lions. He turned off through the brush and before long located a group of seventeen lions all sprawled out asleep and drove right up among them.
We stopped at a water hole to watch the animals come to drink. It was very dry that season and there was not much water, really just muddy spots. When the elephants stepped into the soft mud, the water would seep into the depression and the animals would drink from the elephant tracks.
The antelope, particularly, were very nervous. They would approach the mud hole, only to turn and run away in great fright. I could see there were no lions about and asked the guide why they didn’t drink. His answer, and this is the lesson, was “Crocodiles.”
I knew he must be joking and asked him seriously, “What is the problem?” The answer again: “Crocodiles.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “There are no crocodiles out there. Anyone can see that.”
I thought he was having some fun at the expense of his foreign game expert, and finally I asked him to tell us the truth. Now I remind you that I was not uninformed. I had read many books. Besides, anyone would know that you can’t hide a crocodile in an elephant track.
He could tell I did not believe him and determined, I suppose, to teach me a lesson. We drove to another location where the car was on an embankment above the muddy hole where we could look down. “There,” he said. “See for yourself.”
I couldn’t see anything except the mud, a little water, and the nervous animals in the distance. Then all at once I saw it!—a large crocodile, settled in the mud, waiting for some unsuspecting animal to get thirsty enough to come for a drink.
Suddenly I became a believer! When he could see I was willing to listen, he continued with the lesson. “There are crocodiles all over the park,” he said, “not just in the rivers. We don’t have any water without a crocodile somewhere near it, and you’d better count on it.”
The guide was kinder to me than I deserved. My “know-it-all” challenge to his first statement, “crocodiles,” might have brought an invitation, “Well, go out and see for yourself!”
I could see for myself that there were no crocodiles. I was so sure of myself I think I might have walked out just to see what was there. Such an arrogant approach could have been fatal! But he was patient enough to teach me.

When I served as president of the Canadian Mission, headquartered in Toronto, one missionary came to our mission without some of the talents of others, yet he devotedly plunged into his missionary labors. The work was difficult for him; however, he valiantly struggled to be his best self.
At a zone conference, with a General Authority attending, the missionaries had not done too well in a scripture quiz conducted by the visitor. The visitor, with a little sarcasm, commented, “Why, I don’t believe this group knows even the names of the basic missionary pamphlets and their authors.”
Well, that was the proverbial “straw” that broke the camel’s back. I spoke up: “I think they do know them.”
“Well, we will see,” he said, and then he had the missionaries stand. In making a selection of a missionary to prove the point, none of the bright-appearing, experienced, polished missionaries was selected, but rather my new missionary, who had a hard time gaining knowledge of such things, was singled out. My heart literally sank. I looked at the pleading expression on the elder’s face; I knew that he was paralyzed with fear. How I prayed—oh, how I prayed: “Heavenly Father, come to his rescue.” And He did. After a long pause, the visitor said, “Who authored the pamphlet The Plan of Salvation?”
After what seemed like an eternity, the trembling missionary responded, “John Morgan.”
“Who wrote Which Church Is Right?”
Again the pause, and then the reply, “Mark E. Petersen.”
“How about The Lord’s Tenth?”
“James E. Talmage wrote that one,” came the response.
And so it went through the list of missionary pamphlets we used. Finally came the question, “Is there another pamphlet?”
“Yes. It’s called After Baptism, What?”
“Who wrote it?”
Without hesitation the missionary answered, “The name of the author isn’t shown in the pamphlet, but my mission president told me it was written by Elder Mark E. Petersen by assignment from President David O. McKay.”
But what about the missionary? He completed an honorable mission and returned to his home in the West. Later he was called to serve as the bishop of his ward. Every year I receive a Christmas card from him and his wife and family. He always signs his name and then adds this comment, “From your best missionary.”