Gospel Story Finder

While in St. George for a stake conference, President Snow received a revelation in which the Lord reaffirmed that Church members should pay an honest tithing. President Snow felt so strongly about this inspired direction that despite his advanced age he vigorously taught the commandment in the stakes all that summer. He also asked the Quorum of the Twelve to teach the doctrine of full tithing payment at every opportunity. Over time, the Saints responded, eventually saving the Church from a crushing burden of debt.

Several years ago an investigator gave this testimonial about Joseph Smith. He said that the Word of Wisdom was the revelation that most attracted him to investigate the Church. “There is no possible way,” he said, “that Joseph Smith could have known what we now know in the medical world about the harmful effects of tobacco, alcohol, tea, and coffee. Yet this has all been substantiated by medical science.”
He said that this was the beginning of his earnest investigation of the gospel, for he reasoned that if Joseph Smith could be so accurate on a matter that medical science validated over a hundred years later, the rest of the teachings of the Church deserved investigation. He did so and is now a member of the Church.

I also remember a joint effort of my family with another friendly family. We provided care, comfort and food, for a relatively long period, to a single brother who had no family, and of whom it was being said was afflicted with a contagious disease. We found reasons to render a service to him instead of finding excuses to not come close to him. This act of love and service changed the life of this faithful member of the Church who now has raised a family.

On my knees, I recalled that I had felt that same terror a few months previously. I was studying the Bible on location in Israel for five months as part of the Brigham Young University’s study abroad program. As part of our program, we were expected to climb Mount Sinai. Being from the flat metropolis of Toronto, Canada, I hadn’t had much association with the wilderness, much less mountain climbing. I feared failure, and became more morose as the date of the climb approached.

All too soon the dreaded day descended upon me. Numbed by trepidation and a night of sleepless worry, I arose to meet the challenge.

We started our ascent at 2:00 A.M. so we could reach the summit by sunrise. It was a rugged two-and-a-half hour climb. I don’t think I could have made it without Tenney Sipherd.

“Follow me, Betty,” Tenney said as we departed the youth hostel at the foot of the mountain. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.”

How she helped! Tenney had a small flashlight, so we could find the trail in the dark. And every time the path got rocky, she would take my hand and lead me through. If I stumbled, she would pull me up. I grew to trust Tenney as we climbed the majestic peak in the dark.

Elated, we reached the top of Mount Sinai a few minutes before sunrise, and I blushed as my fellow students and friends applauded my victory over the rugged mountain. Taking a seat beside them, I watched in awe as the first rays of sunlight flashed over the horizon of the barren Sinai wilderness. Tears filled my eyes as the symbolism of the climb occurred to me.

All of us have mountains in our lives: mountains of trials, mountains of discouragement, mountains of temptations. And sometimes we cannot see where we are going, and sometimes the path is rough, and sometimes we stumble. But we must always remember that there is one who will take us by the hand and keep us on the right path and pick us up when we fall. We just have to follow his light. And that’s the Savior. As we rely on him, we learn to trust him. And trust leads to obedience.

Josh had only a few toys. But his friend, Joe, had a bedroom full of them! There were balls and trucks and games and books. But of all Joe’s toys, Josh liked the cement mixer best. It was a bright green truck with a yellow mixing drum on top. And whenever Josh went over to Joe’s after school, he chose to play with the green and yellow cement mixer.
“Do you want to play with my race cars?” Joe asked one afternoon when they had finished eating some gingersnaps and milk.
“No, thanks,” replied Josh, who was busily running the cement mixer around Joe’s bedroom carpet.
“Then how about a game of checkers, Josh?” his friend asked, getting the checker set out of his big toy box.
Josh only shook his head as he watched the mixer slowly spin on top of the truck.
“Let’s go outside and toss my new football,” suggested Joe.
“Maybe later,” Josh answered.
Finally, Joe chose a soda water truck and began to play beside Josh on the floor, until they could both smell roast beef and knew it was time for dinner.
Joe’s mother came in and said, “Dinner’s ready, Joe. If you clean up your toys now, Josh may call his mother and ask if he may stay for dinner.”
Joe and Josh began grabbing the toys on the floor and putting them in Joe’s toy box. Before they were finished, Josh noticed that the green and yellow cement mixer had fallen over the side of the toy box and was laying on the floor. He started to tell Joe, who was closing the box, but for some reason the words wouldn’t come. Joe closed the toy box and ran to wash his hands. “Call your mom while I’m washing up!” Joe called from the bathroom.
Josh was still sitting on the rug in Joe’s room. Almost before he knew it, he put on his coat and slipped the cement mixer inside of it.
Joe came back in, drying his hands on a towel. “Did you call your mom?” he asked, smiling at Josh.
Josh wiggled around on the floor. “Um, no, I didn’t because I remember that my mom told me to go straight home.”
“OK,” said Joe. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
When he arrived home, Josh didn’t stop and talk to his mother while she fixed dinner like he usually did. Instead, he ran up the stairs to his room.
Josh took the cement mixer truck out from under his coat and ran it along the floor by his bed. It still fascinated him to see the mixer going around and around on top. After he had run the truck around his room once more, Josh stopped. He didn’t seem to enjoy playing with the truck as he did before, and he had an unhappy feeling. In fact, Josh didn’t feel good at all. He wished he could go hide somewhere. He was feeling so bad by this time he didn’t notice his mother when she came into his room with some clean laundry.
“Why, Josh, I didn’t know you were here! I must have been downstairs when you came into the kitchen to talk to me. Did Joe give you that cement mixer? Isn’t it shiny!”
Josh swallowed hard. For a second, he almost said, “Yes, Joe gave me this cement mixer.” But somehow he knew that would only make him feel worse. So he looked down at the carpet and said very softly, “No, Mom, Joe didn’t give it to me. I saw it fall out of his toy box. And when he went into the other room, I put it under my coat and brought it home.”
Josh held his breath and waited for his mother to scold him. Imagine his surprise when she hugged him instead and said very quietly, “Josh, you know you did wrong by taking the cement mixer because it doesn’t belong to you. But you surely did the right thing to tell me the truth. You don’t feel very happy right now, do you, son?”
“No,” replied Josh, past a big lump in his throat.
“Well, I’ll tell you what we can do. After dinner, I’ll go over to Joe’s with you and you can give the cement mixer back and tell him you’re sorry. How would that be?”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that!” declared Josh. But then he looked into his mother’s eyes and heard himself say, “Maybe that would make me feel better.”
So, after dinner, Josh and his mother walked over to Joe’s house. Josh thought about not going in, but deep down inside he really wanted to talk to Joe, even though he felt scared. Josh made himself walk up to the door and ring the bell. When Joe answered, he said, “Here’s your cement mixer, Joe.”
“But I thought you were playing with it here this afternoon,” Joe said with a puzzled look on his face.
Josh swallowed hard. “I was, but when you were washing your hands, I put it under my coat and took it home. Now I want to tell you I’m sorry, and I’ll never do such a thing again.”
Joe looked at Josh for a long time. Then he took the cement mixer from Josh’s hand and said, “Well, that’s OK. I’m glad you brought it back.” He smiled and said, “We’re still friends. How about coming over tomorrow after school to play with my new football?”
Josh felt good again as he nodded his head and thought about how much fun that would be. After all, when you had a friend as great as Joe, who needed a green and yellow cement mixer!

by Barbara Balli
On January 11, 1975, at 1:35 P.M., I was on my way to the store near my home. I was walking on the sidewalk when a car traveling about 40 miles per hour went out of control and pinned me against a telephone pole. There just happened to be a policeman at the scene, and he immediately radioed for help. He then tried to help me, but my leg was so badly damaged that where he needed to apply the tourniquet there wasn’t any leg.
By the time I arrived at the hospital, I was listed as dead on arrival, but the doctors, working feverishly, managed to revive me. After a beautiful blessing by my bishop, I went into surgery. The doctor said my leg would probably have to be amputated, but an investigating officer at the scene of the accident found a four-inch piece of femur bone and rushed it to the hospital. When it was taken into the operating room, the decision to try to save my leg was made. Although I later lost my leg, I have a six-to-seven-inch stump that I wouldn’t have had if they had taken my leg right away.
After my accident many friends and relatives did many things for me and my family. People in the ward were so nice that they made it possible for my parents to be with me during the many months I was in the hospital. They brought meals and tended and cared and showed great love and concern for us.
The first thing I remember about Mutual was when the young people invited to the closing social the girls and boys who would be old enough to attend Mutual the next year. When they asked me, I was so surprised because I was still spending most of my time in the hospital, with only a few days at home between surgeries, and I was in a wheelchair. They said this wouldn’t matter, so all the kids helped me, and I went. It was really neat!
When it was time for me to start Mutual, I was called to be the second counselor of our first-year Beehive class, even though I was going to be in the hospital much of the time. That year my class really did a lot for me. I especially remember the time they taped a meeting they held at our bishop’s cabin because I was unable to attend. They also recorded the New Beginnings program and brought it up to the hospital where we all listened together.
I was out of the hospital and on crutches when the stake Beehive adviser asked me to take a part in the play “Apple Seeds.” That really made me feel like I was wanted and loved.
After nine months of pain and suffering and 34 surgeries trying to save my leg, the doctor recommended that my leg be amputated. With the help of my parents and my Heavenly Father, I decided to have it done. The date was September 24, 1975, and I was 12. When my class found out, they were wonderful. They said, “Oh, it won’t make any difference!”
While I was in the hospital for my 35th and final operation, my class would often bring lessons and cheery faces to make me happier. They would call me and include me in all their planning when I was unable to attend meetings. This way I knew all the fun things I was missing and really felt as if I wanted to hurry and get back in the swing of things.
About five months later our ward held a Bicentennial Spring Sing, and our class was asked to participate. I was included, of course! I had my prosthesis by then. The class really helped so I would look good on stage, and when we went off stage, down the front stairs, they all took them one at a time so I wouldn’t lag behind and be noticed. It looked like that was the way it should have been. They let me know I didn’t have to hesitate when asked to do things, and I learned that if I will try, I can do anything anyone else can do.
During the summer I asked one of my girl friends in the class if she would teach me how to ride a bike again, and she did. After falling down about six times and laughing each time, I finally got the hang of it. We still go on bike rides together, and it is really fun.
The closing social last year was a swimming party. I really didn’t want to go, but my mom and friends persuaded me to at least attend. When I got there, everyone was having so much fun, I couldn’t resist their coaxing; so I called my mom to bring my suit. After I removed my leg and got into my suit, the girls carried me to the pool. I had a great time, and everyone was so understanding and made me feel that I had nothing to be ashamed about.
This year I was called to be president of the second-year Beehive class. I only hope I can do a good job and help other people the way I have been helped.

Five years ago my husband, Bruce, became seriously ill when we were serving with the consecrated Saints in the Europe East Area. We returned home, and he passed away only a few weeks later. My life changed overnight. I was grieving and felt weak and vulnerable. I pled with the Lord to direct my path: “What would Thou have me do?”
A few weeks later, I was going through my mail when a small picture in a catalog caught my eye. As I looked closer, I realized it was an artist’s rendition of the Samaritan woman with Jesus at the well. At that moment the Spirit spoke clearly to me: “That is what you are supposed to do.” A loving Heavenly Father was inviting me to come to the Savior and learn.

One day I witnessed evidence of the Spirit and the courage to follow the counsel. It was in a second-grade elementary classroom. The student teacher held the children captive with her story-telling skills. In great detail, she told of a cross old man whose name was Mr. Black. In contrast, the account was given in similar detail of a Mr. Brown, who was kind and thoughtful and loved by everyone. At the conclusion of the story, the teacher asked the children, “How many of you would like to have Mr. Brown for a neighbor?” Every hand in the room was raised. Then, almost as an afterthought, she asked the question, “And is there anyone who would like to have Mr. Black for a neighbor?”

A little boy in a faded green shirt near the back of the room began to raise his hand, bringing a ripple of quiet amusement from the children. Hesitating only briefly, he looked around at his friends and still mustered the courage to hold his hand high and dare to stand alone in his difference. When called on for an explanation of his single vote, he spoke in a soft tone. “Well,” he said, “I’d like Mr. Black to be my neighbor because if he was my neighbor, my mom would make a cake for me to take to him, and then he wouldn’t be that way anymore.” A hush fell over the room. Everyone felt something wonderful that they couldn’t explain. A little child broke the silence like a benediction: “Oh . . . I wish I’d said that.”

We had all made a quick decision about who would be the best neighbor, but only one—just one—had a spirit within, the discernment that allowed him to see what might be.

I very much enjoyed your story titled “Opposite Reaction” (October 1991) about being honest. It reminded me of when I took some baseballs from the ballpark that didn’t belong to me. My best friend found out and encouraged me to return them, which I did. From that day on I never did it again. Thank you for helping me remember the great example my friend set.
Elder Homer John Howard IIPhilippines Quezon City Mission

Benjamin Ballam is the special spina bifida child of Michael and Laurie Ballam. He has been such a blessing to them and many others. Also spiritually precocious, Benjamin is a constant source of love and reassurance. Having had 17 surgeries, resilient Benjamin knows all about hospitals and doctors. Once, when an overwhelmed attendant became vocally upset—not at Benjamin, but over stressful circumstances—little three-year-old Benjamin exemplified the words of another Benjamin about our need to be childlike and “full of love” (Mosiah 3:19). Little Benjamin reached out, tenderly patted the irritated attendant, and said, “I love you anyway.” A similar episode occurred recently in an Israeli hospital, where little Benjamin, going through a necessary but very painful procedure, used the same loving words to reassure a physician. No wonder, brothers and sisters, in certain moments we feel children are our spiritual superiors.

“The gospel makes evil minded men good, and good men better and women and children better than they have ever been before.”
So said the prophet David O. McKay. To illustrate I would like to share with you a conversion story. The account concerns Louis Novak, a Lutheran minister, and his wife, Alice, and their two children, Kurt and Kristin. Reverend Novak and his wife had been born, baptized, raised, confirmed, and married in the Lutheran Church. It was with a sense of pride on the part of his parents and a sense of duty on his own part that he went through two Lutheran private colleges and a Lutheran theological graduate school to become a pastor in the American Lutheran Church. For nearly fourteen years he and his wife served in the Lutheran Church and endeavored to find truth and spiritual peace. During that period, from all external appearances, they were able to attain a level of income, style of life, social stratum, and educational prestige which left little to be desired. With such stability and high approval from family, friends, and supervisors, it could be said “they had it made.” Yet they were not satisfied. They had haunting insecurity in their souls that something very basic and important was missing in their lives. They could not be satisfied.
The soul that is honest in heart must search.
In Reverend Novak’s words, “As I look back on my life and experience, I realize my dissatisfaction stemmed from a number of areas. [First] I had a deep and negative reaction to my association with my fellow pastors. The strong and seemingly overwhelming stress on church politics, self-advancement, personal glory, financial achievement, and congregational statistics made me feel that true spirituality was seriously lacking.
“[Second] I had deep theological concerns—the order of worship service seemed cold, impersonal, and unimaginative. The great stress on salvation by grace and minimization on works was to me a scriptural contradiction. On contemplating scripture I found that the ‘works’ passages far exceeded the ‘grace’ passages.
“I found myself recoiling at the indifferent reaction of my church leadership to the virgin birth, the creation, the wide acceptance and use of loose translations of scripture and the general lack of response to basic Christian morals.
“Was God really dead, or had He gone into retirement and ceased to care about His creation? Why did He sink into strange and sudden silence with the last word in the Bible?”
On September 1, 1968, Reverend Novak and his family moved to Broomfield, Colorado, where he was made pastor of the Lutheran Church of Hope, a very prestigious and desirable assignment. From all outward appearances it left nothing to be desired, but there was something desperately wrong. Something was missing: there was a feeling of spiritual hollowness in his heart and it was shared equally by his wife, Alice.
Alice was a music educator and in Broomfield she had a number of Latter-day Saint students. She could not help but notice something very special about them. She reported to her husband that she had asked one of her Mormon students if Mormons were Christian. Of course, Reverend Novak knew well the Lutheran position that Mormons were non-Christian. The little Mormon girl boldly stated that Mormons most definitely were Christian.
Alice had been touched by the young girl’s testimony. Next came an invitation from the family of one of the piano students to attend the Broomfield Ward open house. The young student’s family had resisted because they did not think it appropriate to send such an invitation to a Lutheran pastor. But this little girl persisted to the point that the parents reluctantly consented.
On the appointed day Alice was unavailable to attend the open house and Reverend Novak was hosting a regional meeting of the Lutheran Church of Hope. As the time for the open house arrived he had a strange and overpowering urge to leave the Lutheran meeting and attend. He yielded.
As he entered the Latter-day Saint chapel he said he was met by a friendly and concerned gentleman who talked with him and stayed by his side for fully two hours, answering questions, and “just being supportive.”
The Reverend continues, “As the program began, a member of the Seventies made a presentation on the doctrine of the Church which I am sure was inspired by the Holy Spirit. I shall never forget it. From the chapel we were led to the baptismal font by a young priest who explained baptism according to the theology of the Latter-day Saints. This mature presentation by such a young man made a great impression, because I had seriously questioned the Lutheran theology of baptism for years. I sensed that what this young man said was true.
“We then went to the Relief Society room where we were given a beautiful and intelligent presentation. To hear a lovely woman give such a positive and strong testimony was heartwarming to me. We were then ushered into a seminary room to view the film Christ in America. I could hardly contain my excitement as so many of my questions regarding church history were suddenly answered.
“I was currently pursuing a doctorate in religion. Here I was, my doctorate nearly complete and the answers to my quest for the truth coming in the Latter-day Saint chapel! It was probably at this time, at the culmination of so much presented so well, that I was actually converted. I knew that this had to be the true church. My heart was ready but how could I become a part of it all? How hard it is to give up physical security and comfortable tradition. I purchased a Book of Mormon that day and went home elated. I remember telling Alice later, ‘There is something special there. I really felt good at that church. They have something I have never known before.’
“The summer of 1974, after I had received my doctorate, I was in spiritual turmoil. The ward open house remained a haunting reminder that something better was available. One evening the mother of one of the Mormon students called regarding a musical question. For the first time I bared my spiritual turmoil to a patient and understanding ear.
“Not long after this our family was invited to their family home evening. We came away so warmed; yet how impossible it seemed for us to make such a change. My job, security, comfortable life, social standing, family ties, house, pension—it all flooded through my mind. Yet how does one in the name of Jesus Christ preach and teach that which he knows is not true?
“Finally in the fall of 1974, although things were still going well at my parish, I knew in my heart that a change was necessary. I knew I was spiritually starved and I was even more concerned for the spiritual malnutrition of my family.
“And so it was that on October 25, 1974, an especially beautiful day in Colorado, as I left the University of Denver where I was pursuing a second doctorate, a strange and overpowering urge came upon me to go to the Colorado Mission home. I had memorized the address long before and so, although I had many other pressing matters on my agenda, my automobile seemed to refuse to go anywhere except to 709 Clarkson Street. I kept telling myself I merely wanted to drive by to see what the mission home looked like.
“I remember, however, that I did stop the car in front of the house, my intention being only to look the place over from the outside. I remember sitting there for a moment intending not to shut off the engine. But somehow the engine did shut off and I sat there and looked at my watch. It was noon—12:35 p.m.—and I told myself it was inappropriate to call on anyone during the lunch hour. But I remember getting out of the car. I remember standing on the sidewalk at the base of the steps thinking, ‘This is a nice place and I’ll just turn around now and go back to the car. I have no business here. After all, I am a Lutheran pastor.’
“But instead I labored up those steps. I must have rung the buzzer because the door opened. There stood a bright-eyed missionary. He invited me in. I said, ‘I really shouldn’t be here today. Besides, it’s lunch hour.’ He said, ‘We are through eating.’
“I almost panicked. Why was I here? How could I get out of this one? So I said, ‘I want you to know something. I am a Lutheran pastor and I’m here because I’m interested in all the world religions. So I thought I’d stop by and see what the Mormons are all about. I don’t want to take too much of your time because it is the noon hour.’ The young man explained again, ‘We are through eating.’ One thing led to another; all the while I was reminding them that I was a minister of the gospel and, therefore, not a good prospect.
“Somehow we spent an hour or two. I apologized upon leaving that I had taken so much time and wished them well, reminding them again that I was a Lutheran pastor and therefore not a prospect. As I drove away I had a warm feeling in my heart and yet a nagging fear that these good missionaries just might believe that I wasn’t a prospect!
“One day later the bright-eyed missionary telephoned me at my office in the Lutheran Church of Hope, of all places! How glad I was he called! During the conversation he asked if he and his companion could come over and meet my family. The next evening two missionaries came to our home and the process of our conversion continued to develop step by step, logically and without hesitation. On January 25, 1975, three months and five hours exactly from the time I rang the door bell at the Colorado Mission home, our family entered the waters of baptism at the Broomfield Ward Chapel. After half a lifetime of searching, finally our joy was full.
“Kurt and Kristin relished the new challenge and associations of the Church. They grew and matured beautifully. It was a joy to see them blossom as they learned the ways of Christ’s true church on earth. Alice and I equally relished the joy of having found the truth. Our hearts were finally at peace.”

A number of years ago, when I first came to this campus, I was called to be a bishop of a student ward. One day a young man walked into my office—a young man I had never seen or met before. He was obviously distraught. He paced back and forth in front of my desk, finally stopped, then looked at me and asked, “Are you Bishop Daines?”

I said, “Yes, I am.”

He then said, “I want you to excommunicate me.”

I said, “Well, we’d better talk.”

So he closed the door, and for the next two hours I heard the story of the most disturbed, distorted life I had ever heard of before or since. For the first and only time in my life, I felt as I visited with this young man that if I had ever met somebody who was a lost soul, this was one of them. One of his transgressions was that of homosexuality. He was a student at the university, and at the time the recommended procedure was to visit with either Elder Mark E. Petersen or Elder Spencer W. Kimball of the Council of the Twelve. We were assigned to visit with Elder Kimball. What a profoundly instructive experience that was for me.

As we talked with Elder Kimball, he heard the same story I had heard. His response, however, was different. He looked at that young man and asked him three questions.

Calling him by name, he first asked, “Would you like to be forgiven of all of your sins and transgressions?”

The young man said yes.

The second question was, “Would you like all of the blessings the Lord has in store for you?”

The young man said yes, he would.

The third question was, “Would you like to be married in the temple for time and all eternity and have a family and raise them up unto the Lord?”

The young man broke down and said, “I would.”

Then Elder Kimball gave this simple but profound advice. He said, “Then let me tell you how to do it. You get up in the morning, you fall to your knees, and you ask God for strength to live clean for one day. Then when you go to bed at night, you fall to your knees and express gratitude for the strength to have been clean for that one day. You get up on the second day and you do the same thing. You fall to your knees and you ask for strength. You go to bed at night and you express gratitude. And two days will become a week, and a week will become a month, and a month will become six months, and six months will become a year. However long it takes, you can be forgiven.”

The interesting sequel is that for the next three months Elder Kimball called this young bishop in Provo to ask how his friend was doing. He cared enough that he made those phone calls.

Years ago my adventurous son Jeff and I found ourselves on an old bus bouncing along on a dirt road in Central America at 1:00 a.m. We took the early, early bus because it was the only bus that day. A half hour later, the driver stopped for two missionaries. When they got on, we asked them where in the world they were going so early. Zone conference! And they were determined to do whatever it took to get there. At 2:00 a.m. two more elders boarded the bus and enthusiastically hugged their fellow missionaries. This scene repeated itself every half hour as the bus climbed the remote mountain road. By 5:00 a.m. we had 16 of the Lord’s finest as fellow passengers and were basking in the Spirit they brought on board.
Suddenly we screeched to a halt. A massive mud slide had buried the road. Jeff said, “What do we do now, Dad?” Our friends Stan, Eric, and Allan had the same concern. Just then the zone leader shouted, “Let’s go, elders. Nothing is going to stop us!” And they scrambled off the bus! We looked at each other and said, “Follow the elders,” and we all sloshed through the mud slide, trying to keep up with the missionaries. There happened to be a truck on the other side, so we all hopped aboard. After a mile we were stopped by yet another mud slide. Once again the elders plowed through, with the rest of us close behind. But this time there was no truck. Boldly the zone leader said, “We will be where we are supposed to be even if we have to walk the rest of the way.” Years later, Jeff told me how those missionaries and this photo inspired and motivated him tremendously as he served the Lord in Argentina.
Although we overcame the mud slides, we were all spotted with mud. The missionaries were somewhat nervous about standing before their president on zone conference day when he and his wife would be carefully checking their appearance.
As you and I slosh through the mud slides of life, we can’t help getting a few mud spots on us along the way either. And we don’t want to stand before the Lord looking muddy.
When the Savior appeared in ancient America, He said, “Repent, all ye ends of the earth, and come unto me and be baptized in my name, that ye may be sanctified by the reception of the Holy Ghost, that ye may stand spotless before me at the last day” (3 Nephi 27:20).
Alma warns us about some of the ways we become spotted with mud: “For our words will condemn us, yea, all our works will condemn us; we shall not be found spotless; and our thoughts will also condemn us” (Alma 12:14).
Alma also said:
“Ye cannot be saved; for there can no man be saved except his garments are washed white; yea, his garments must be purified until they are cleansed from all stain. …
“… How will any of you feel, if ye shall stand before the bar of God, having your garments stained with blood and all manner of filthiness?” (Alma 5:21–22).
He also tells us about “all the holy prophets, whose garments are cleansed and are spotless, pure and white” (Alma 5:24).
He then asks us how we are doing as we cross through the mud slides of life: “Have ye walked, keeping yourselves blameless before God? Could ye say, if ye were called to die at this time, … that your garments have been cleansed and made white through the blood of Christ?” (Alma 5:27).
Because of repentance and the Atonement of Jesus Christ, our garments can be spotless, pure, fair, and white. Moroni pleads, “O then ye unbelieving, turn ye unto the Lord; cry mightily unto the Father in the name of Jesus, that perhaps ye may be found spotless, pure, fair, and white, having been cleansed by the blood of the Lamb, at that great and last day” (Mormon 9:6).
In 1 Samuel we read, “Look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature; … for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7).
The Nephites were looking on the outward appearance of the Lamanites, for Jacob declared, “Wherefore, a commandment I give unto you, which is the word of God, that ye revile no more against them because of the darkness of their skins” (Jacob 3:9).
Our Father knows and loves His children all over the world, from Boston to Okinawa, from San Antonio to Spain, from Italy to Costa Rica. In Ghana, President Gordon B. Hinckley recently thanked the Lord “for the brotherhood that exists among us, that neither color of skin nor land of birth can separate us as Thy sons and daughters” (Accra Ghana Temple dedicatory prayer, in “Brotherhood Exists,” Church News, Jan. 17, 2004, 11).
We invite men and women everywhere, whatever language or culture, to “come unto [Christ] and partake of his goodness; and he denieth none that come unto him, black and white, bond and free, male and female; … [for] all are alike unto God” (2 Nephi 26:33).
We come to this world in many colors, shapes, sizes, and circumstances. We don’t have to be rich, tall, thin, brilliant, or beautiful to be saved in the kingdom of God—only pure. We need to be obedient to the Lord Jesus Christ and keep His commandments. And we can all choose to do that regardless of where we live or what we look like.
When the four sons of Mosiah taught the gospel to the wild, ferocious Lamanites, a mighty change of heart occurred:
“As many of the Lamanites as believed in their preaching, and were converted unto the Lord, never did fall away.
“For they became a righteous people; they did lay down the weapons of their rebellion, that they did not fight against God any more, neither against any of their brethren” (Alma 23:6–7).
Today many of their descendants are reading about this in their own copies of the Book of Mormon and are choosing to follow Christ. I love meeting the children of Lehi in spotless white in the numerous temples in the Mexico South Area, where I am currently serving. I feel as President Gordon B. Hinckley did at the dedication of the Guatemala City temple:
“Thou kind and gracious Father, our hearts swell with gratitude for thy remembrance of the sons and daughters of Lehi, the many generations of our fathers and mothers who suffered so greatly and who walked for so long in darkness. Thou hast heard their cries and seen their tears. Now there will be opened to them the gates of salvation and eternal life” (Guatemala City Guatemala Temple dedicatory prayer, in “Their Cries Heard, Their Tears Seen,” Church News, Dec. 23, 1984, 4).
I have seen humble descendants of Lehi come down from the mountains to that temple and openly weep as they stood there in awe. One gave me an abrazo and asked me to take that hug of love, appreciation, and brotherhood back to all those beloved missionaries who brought them the gospel and to all the Saints whose tithing faithfulness has brought temple blessings within reach. Because of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, we can all stand spotless, pure, and white before the Lord.
With great gratitude I lift my voice with Nephi: “And we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children [and our grandchildren] may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins” (2 Nephi 25:26).
My wife and I love this scripture so much that she painted it on a wall in our living room, below a beautiful white porcelain Christus. They are a constant reminder for us to live Christ-centered lives.
One day our son was reading the scriptures with his family. Our seven-year-old grandson Clatie read, “‘And we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ’—Hey, that’s what Granny and Grandpa have on their wall!” Now that’s one of his favorite scriptures.
On another occasion we were at the visitors’ center on Temple Square with these same grandchildren. Two-year-old Ashley was tired and wanted to leave. Sister Mask asked her if she wanted to see a big Jesus like the one on our wall. She asked, “Is He as big as me?” “Even bigger,” Sister Mask replied. When that tiny, little girl looked up at the majestic Christus, she ran and stood at the feet and gazed up reverently for several minutes. When her father indicated it was time to go, she said, “No, no, Daddy. He loves me and wants to give me hugs!”
The road of life is strewn with spiritual mud slides. Whatever our sins and imperfections, may we attack them with the same missionary zeal that those elders attacked their mud slides. And may we thank our Father daily for sending us His Son, Jesus Christ, to forgive us our mud spots so that we may stand spotless before Him. Ashley was right. He does love us and will say to us at that great day, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant: … enter thou into the joy of thy lord” (Matthew 25:21).
I bear witness that He lives and He loves us. He is our Savior and our Redeemer. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Let me tell you about a young Laurel president who explained it this way: “‘You see,’ she said, ‘I was called to be a class president of 17 girls, and the bishop said I was responsible for them. I was scared to death. I didn’t even know for sure where they were. Then he told me to decide on my counselors and reminded me of the need to pray and ask the Lord. I wondered how it worked—how would I know who the Lord wanted?’ …
“‘I wrote 17 names on a piece of paper. Then I prayed about those names. … I kept thinking and praying and [crossing off names] until the third day. With only two names remaining, I had a strong feeling that I knew who Heavenly Father wanted. That’s how it works’” (Ardeth G. Kapp, “Yes, You Are Old Enough, Girls,” New Era, May 1974, p. 14).

But the Lord was much more interested in who I was becoming. Sometimes becoming requires discomfort. It requires loneliness, sacrifice, and sometimes becoming requires heartbreak. For many years, life felt full. Busy. Beautiful. And absolutely normal. But then in 2020, everything changed.

My Sione passed away during the COVID-19 pandemic while we were locked out of our home in Tonga. Our daughter, Lose, was serving her mission in San Jose, California, and my two younger children were adjusting to a new life in Utah. One moment, I was a wife building a future with my eternal companion. And the next moment, I was a widow trying to figure out how to breathe again. There are no words strong enough to describe that kind of loss.

In the middle of that heartbreak, I came to understand that testimony is not built only in moments of success. It is built in moments when all you can do is hold onto the Savior. And when my world fell apart, those truths became my lifeline.

There were days after Sione passed away when I honestly did not know how I would continue. I remember one particular moment very clearly. The day after Sione’s burial, I had to turn in the final paper for my master’s degree. I remember sitting there staring at my computer, wondering what I could possibly write. Nothing came. My mind was exhausted. My heart was broken.

During the month Sione was in the hospital, I struggled to attend Zoom group calls. I struggled to complete quizzes and assignments. Most days, I was surviving on three to four hours of sleep, going back and forth between home and the hospital, praying for a miracle, trying to be strong for my kids while quietly falling apart inside.

I was fasting almost every single day, barely giving myself enough time to eat a small bite before beginning another fast. And yet, somehow, with the Lord’s help, I kept moving forward one small step at a time. But the hardest moment came after the burial. The house felt quiet. The future felt uncertain. And I remember thinking, “I do not know if I can do this.”

Not long after Sione passed away, I remember receiving a phone call from Elder Gary E. Stevenson. During that conversation, he reminded me of a truth that I have carried deeply in my heart ever since — that the Lord would consecrate my afflictions for my gain.

At the time, I could not fully understand how something so painful could ever become part of God’s plan for my growth. But over time, I began to see the Lord’s hand in ways I could not recognize in the middle of my grief. Through Jesus Christ, we really can do hard things. Not because we are strong on our own. But because He strengthens us. In the midst of trials and tribulations, grief and heartache, the Lord again prevailed in His own way.

I was able to finish my paper and graduate with my Master of Business Administration. At the time, all I could see was pain and uncertainty. But the Lord could see who I was becoming. And once again, He was helping me become. This led me to opportunities that have blessed not only my life, but also my children and those I love dearly.

When I was a boy, my family had a small farm with cows and fields. Growing up on a farm was hard work.
One hot summer day, my brother and I were working in the field. The wind was blowing hard, and there was a lot of dust in the air. I had bad allergies, and the dust from the hay sometimes made me sick. My eyes were watering. It was hard to breathe. My nose even started to bleed because I’d rubbed it so much.
When my mother came out to the field and saw me, she told me to come inside the house. She had me lie on the couch with a wet cloth on my face. A few minutes later, she came back with two farmers. They were wearing overalls covered in hay dust.
The farmers were members of our ward. They placed their hands on my head and started to give me a blessing. My dad wasn’t a member of the Church then, so he didn’t hold the priesthood. But I’ll never forget the feeling I had as those other good men blessed me. It was warm, peaceful, and calming. And I didn’t feel so sick anymore.
Later in life, I realized that feeling was the Holy Ghost. The Holy Ghost is sometimes called the Comforter. I like that name because it was the Holy Ghost that brought me comfort. It made me feel better on the outside and on the inside.

As a young man of Primary and Aaronic Priesthood age, I attended church in the grand old St. George Tabernacle, construction for which had begun in 1863. During very lengthy sermons I would amuse myself by gazing about the building, admiring the marvelous pioneer craftsmanship that had built that striking facility. Did you know, by the way, that there are 184 clusters of grapes carved into the ceiling cornice of that building? (Some of those sermons were really long!) But most of all I enjoyed counting the window panes—2,244 of them—because I grew up on the story of Peter Neilson.
In the course of constructing that tabernacle, the local brethren ordered the glass for the windows from New York and had it shipped around the cape to California. But a bill of $800 was due and payable before the panes could be picked up and delivered to St. George. Brother David H. Cannon, later to preside over the St. George Temple being built at the same time, was charged with the responsibility of raising the needed funds. After painstaking effort, the entire community, giving virtually everything they had to these two monumental building projects, had been able to come up with only $200 cash. On sheer faith Brother Cannon committed a team of freighters to prepare to leave for California to get the glass. He continued to pray that the enormous balance of $600 would somehow be forthcoming before their departure.
Living in nearby Washington, Utah, was Peter Neilson, a Danish immigrant who had been saving for years to add on to his modest two-room adobe home. On the eve of the freighters’ departure for California, Peter spent a sleepless night in that tiny house. He thought of his conversion in far-off Denmark and his subsequent gathering with the Saints in America. After coming west he had settled and struggled to make a living in Sanpete. And then, just as some prosperity seemed imminent there, he answered the call to uproot and go to the Cotton Mission, bolstering the pathetic and sagging efforts of the alkali-soiled, malaria-plagued, flood-bedeviled settlers of Dixie. As he lay in bed that night contemplating his years in the Church, he weighed the sacrifices asked of him against the wonderful blessings he had received. Somewhere in those private hours he made a decision.
Some say it was a dream, others say an impression, still others simply a call to duty. However the direction came, Peter Neilson arose before dawn on the morning the teams were to leave for California. With only a candle and the light of the gospel to aid him, Peter brought out of a secret hiding place $600 in gold coins. His wife, Karen, aroused by the predawn bustling, asked why he was up so early. He said only that he had to walk quickly the seven miles to St. George to give $600 to Brother David H. Cannon.
As the first light of morning fell on the beautiful red cliffs of southern Utah, a knock came at Brother Cannon’s door. There stood Peter Neilson, holding a red bandanna which sagged under the weight it carried. “Good morning, David,” said Peter. “I hope I am not too late. You will know what to do with this money.”
With that he turned on his heel and retraced his steps back to Washington, back to a faithful and unquestioning wife, and back to a small two-room adobe house that remained just two rooms for the rest of his life. (See Andrew Karl Larson, Red Hills of November, 1957, 311–13.)

I was a 13-year-old Latter-day Saint young woman living in Gilbert, Arizona, and each year our stake held its yearly girls’ camp in the mountains of Prescott, Arizona.
That year, at the beginning of camp, our leaders gave us each a small spiral notebook. On the inside cover of each was written our name, the name of the camp, and “Summer of ’76.” On the first page of the notebook was the heading, “I hope, I wish, I dream.”
We were instructed to write in this notebook our hopes, our wishes, and our dreams for the future. We were also told to put our notebooks somewhere safe. Our leaders hoped that when we were grown up, we would take our notebooks out and see what our dreams had been and if we had achieved them.
I took our leaders’ words to heart. I filled page after page with my hopes for the future. When I came home from camp that year, I unpacked my suitcase and took out the little spiral notebook and set it carefully inside my hope chest.
Years went by, and I gave little thought to the notebook. Over the next 20 years, I went through many moves. I transferred the contents of my hope chest to a cardboard box, which I labeled “Mementos,” and that box followed me wherever I went.
One day, 20 years from the day that I wrote in that notebook at camp, I walked into my garage and saw the box labeled “Mementos.” I decided to get it down and see what was inside. I began pulling out items. Then I came across the little spiral notebook. I opened it to the first page and read, “I hope, I wish, I dream.”
I began to read and ponder what I had written—of my desire to be married to a good man in the temple and my desire to have a big family and a happy home. I had written of my desire to keep the commandments. I continued reading about how important it was for me to not compromise my principles and to keep the light of the gospel in my life.
I paused for a moment from my reading and thought about how my life had turned out. I had not compromised my principles. I had married a good man in the temple. We had three children at that time. We were a happy family, and we taught our children the gospel. All that I had read had come true or was coming true.
I then went on to read of a more specific dream I had. The last sentence I had written was, “I want to write a book.”
After reading this, I found myself standing perfectly still, in awe. Then my heart began pounding, and I smiled as my entire being was filled with a warm tingly feeling. I closed the little notebook and held it close to me. A publishing company had just accepted my manuscript for publication.
I received a strong testimony that day of the power of goal setting. I received a testimony that our Heavenly Father loves us and will help us in achieving our hopes, our wishes, and our dreams. I believe that when I was 13, I knew what I wanted to do in my life, and I knew what Heavenly Father wanted me to do. I believe in the importance of setting righteous goals now and not compromising your principles. If you do set righteous goals, they will become reality.

We had lived in Hawaii for two years with my husband, their father, who was a student pastor in a small church. But the children had been subject to such constant extreme physical abuse because their father believed “the blueness of a wound cleanseth away evil” (Prov. 20:30) that I could not stand it. As their punishments worsened, I knew that part of my duty as a mother was to protect them from such treatment. So after much soul-searching and prayer, I knew I had no choice but to leave him and make a new and better life for them. My own parents were in the mid-West, but I could not go home. Not only was it a matter of finances, but my father had recently suffered a major stroke and was in no condition to have small children around. I didn’t know a soul in or near the Bay area, and I never felt more alone in my life. Only the fact that the children needed me kept me going.

We must have been a pathetic sight—me in my Hawaiian loose-fitting dress with wilted flower necklaces still around my neck, and three blurry-eyed, very tired children, the oldest one barely five. It was 2:30 A.M., and the huge San Francisco airport was nearly empty. I felt totally lost and so alone.
I approached a man at one of the service counters and asked how far it was to town. He told me that the last bus was just about to leave, and if I hurried, I might still be able to catch it. He helped me with our luggage, and stopped the bus just as it prepared to leave. I didn’t even have time to thank him before we were whisked away.
The station at the end of the line was dark and closed, and as the other passengers on the bus quickly scattered into the night, the empty bus pulled out to wherever it was going, and left me with three small children, four suitcases, and two small trunks, standing on a sidewalk somewhere in San Francisco.
I was beginning to show signs of panic when a custodian came out of the bus station, locking the door behind him. I asked him if there was some place I could use a telephone to call a cab, or if he knew of a hotel nearby. Blessedly, he knew of a clean little hotel about six blocks away, and he offered to obtain a furniture dolly from the building to take my luggage to the hotel. By 4 A.M. with the children in bed, I sank into an exhausted sleep.
We spent the next two days just relaxing—as much as I could relax under the circumstances. We ate at a nearby restaurant and spent a lot of time at a little park two blocks from the hotel. The children ran and played without a care in the world. I was thankful that they were too young to realize the situation we were in.
On my third day, I knew that decisions had to be made. I didn’t know what area of town would be suitable to live in, I didn’t know where to begin to look for work, and I didn’t know what to do with the children while I worked. I certainly could not pick out a name from an ad in the newspaper and feel safe about leaving the little ones with them. I only knew that if we stayed in the hotel much longer, my money would be gone and then I’d have worse problems.
I telephoned three different ministers of the particular church I had been associated with, and assured each that I was not asking for money, only advice. Each man asked me the same question: “Are you a member of our faith?” I answered honestly that I was so bitter and confused at the moment that I wasn’t sure what faith I had, if any. And each one of the three gave me the same response; they couldn’t help me because they had too many of their own people to take care of. My bitterness grew deeper, and I wondered where I could turn for help.
When I had left Hawaii, some friends saw us off. One of them happened to be an inactive Mormon, and when he said goodbye, he added, “If you ever get in a bind and need help, call my church. They’ll help you.”
I knew absolutely nothing of Mormons except that they had a fine Tabernacle Choir. I did not like the idea of begging for help, least of all help from some strange church that I’d never even visited; but I was desperate, and there seemed no other choice. In searching the telephone book, I found an endless number of Mormon churches and listings, so I picked one that was called a mission home. I thought that a mission home would be more apt to be compassionate. A young elder answered the phone, and I told him pretty much the same thing I had told the three ministers: that I did not need money, but I was in desperate need of advice. His reply was that he was quite new to the area and he himself could not help me, but if I would give him my name and phone number, he would have someone else call me. I hung up, half-suspecting never to hear from them again.
To my surprise, within ten minutes I received a call from a lovely lady who listened to my story and then agreed that I could use some assistance. She told me to get all my luggage together, call a taxi, and meet her in thirty minutes at the Berkeley bus terminal. After she described her car and what she would be wearing, she added, “By the way, are you a member of the Church?”
“Here it comes again,” I thought cynically, but into the phone I simply said, “No, I’m not.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied, “I just wondered. See you in half an hour.”
I hurried my things together, cleaned up the children, checked out of the hotel, and headed for Berkeley. I was surprised, and a bit suspicious, at the woman’s willingness to help a total stranger, but at this point I was willing to take advantage of any offer.
Her first move was to treat us to lunch. Then I learned that she was the wife of a man named O. Leslie Stone, a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy who was then the stake president there. She got us settled into a boarding house and promised to get me the names of some potential babysitters. All this, in spite of the fact that I emphasized to her my strong bitterness toward churches of any kind, and my intention to stay that way. I couldn’t get over it!
She didn’t seem to care that I was so antagonistic, nor did she try to convert me or criticize me. She even seemed to act as though I was doing her a favor by letting her help me. A Bible verse kept echoing through my mind: “By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.” (John 13:35.)
Over the next few days, Sister Stone came every day. She did, indeed, find me a babysitter, a woman from her church. Also she helped me find and get moved into a small, furnished apartment, and she gave me the name of a man to see about a temporary job. Still she didn’t preach to me. It amazed me; and still that same scripture kept flitting in and out of my thoughts, “if ye have love one to another.”
In the apartment I rented, I found a small Mormon book entitled, Articles of Faith, by James E. Talmage. I never knew if Sister Stone secretly placed it there, or if it had been left by the former tenant. At any rate, I began reading it after the children were in bed at night; not because I was interested, but because there was nothing else to do.
During those first few weeks, not a Saturday went by that Sister Stone didn’t stop and ask if we would like to go to church with her on Sunday. When I would politely refuse, she never pushed the issue; but still she regularly asked. At the same time, I became more and more engrossed in the book. I had never heard of such things as I found in that book, though I had studied the Bible faithfully most of my life. Much of what I read I either wondered about or outright disagreed with, so I started jotting down notes of such items as I came across it.
One Saturday when Sister Stone came by, I still refused to go to church with her, but I did tell her that I had some questions about it, and that if she would send her pastor to talk to me I’d discuss them with him. In just a few days I was visited by a man named Marvin Turner and his wife, who said they were stake missionaries and had come to answer my questions. Almost defiantly I brought out my written questions, seven pages in all, and told them that if they could answer them I would listen to whatever they wanted to teach me. Brother Turner’s response was that he did not have all the answers, but he knew that through the Church he could find me logical, reasonable answers. Through the patience and tenderness of the Turners, I finally reached the time when I was willing to pray about the truthfulness of those things that they taught me. I consented to go to church with them. Some time later, I was baptized. However, when I moved to southern California, I lost track of my new friends. I remarried and had other children.
That was many years ago. Now I sit in sacrament meeting and watch while one of my sons passes the sacrament and another one blesses it; I watch the faith and testimonies of each of the children grow; and my thoughts turn toward people who have joined the church as a result of different ones spreading the gospel; and I think too of our kindred dead who have had their baptisms and endowments and sealings done through our genealogy work.
Ultimately my thoughts turn toward a gracious Sister Stone and a sharing, loving Turner family somewhere among the vast number of Saints who, I have no doubt, are still serving the Lord through loving and caring. I ask myself how I can ever repay those people who cared so much for someone so rebellious long ago. And the answer comes to me loud and clear: “Go, and do thou likewise.” (Luke 10:37.)

When I was six years old, my parents divorced. Though I continued to live with my mom, my dad was still present in my life after the separation. I stayed at his house on weekends and for one day in the middle of the week.
Despite his efforts to be a good father, when I was seven, he betrayed my trust in a very serious way. This breach of trust marked the beginning of a growing distance between us. When he called the house, I would avoid answering the phone. When I was older, I demanded that I be able to choose when I went to stay at my dad’s house, rather than be forced to go when the custody order mandated me.
When I was in high school, visits gradually became a lot less frequent. I saw him only two or three times a month. When I went to college, the space between calls grew, until I would talk to him about once a semester. My relationship with my dad had become more of a formality than a true parent-child connection.
During my second year of college, I decided to talk to him about the incident from my childhood that I felt had damaged our relationship so many years ago. I hoped for closure, forgiveness, and a chance to start over. I e-mailed him my thoughts and waited for a reply.
Some time later I received his e-mail in reply. Before I read my father’s response, I prayed and asked Heavenly Father that His Spirit be with me as I read the e-mail. This was such an important moment in my life—I was about to see what my dad had to say and what direction our relationship would take. I was scared and felt very alone.
Indeed I was alone, sitting in my room with my computer. I needed support. I continued to pray to Heavenly Father and felt His Spirit. At last I had the courage to read.
My dad replied with a very short e-mail in which he denied any memory of what I was saying and said that it was a really bad time for him to discuss our past.
The way he dismissed something that was so important to me and didn’t seem to want any sort of reconciliation hurt me deeply. I felt deserted by my father, racked with grief over the troubled relationship we had had for more than a decade.
As I sat in my chair sobbing, I felt the Spirit around me. I had never felt my Heavenly Father’s presence so strongly. I literally felt “encircled about eternally in the arms of his love” (2 Nephi 1:15). I felt reassured and loved as I sat crying.
My relationship with my earthly father may have been lacking, but my Heavenly Father was with me. His presence is strong in my life. I know He loves me, cares for me, and will always want a relationship with me. I know that He is my Father. And He is not going anywhere.