Gospel Story Finder

Daily study of the scriptures is another important family activity. I remember when my son was seven years old. He was taking a shower one night during a storm when we lost the power in our home. My wife called to him and told him to hurry to finish his shower and to then take a candle and come slowly downstairs for our family prayer. She warned him to be careful to not drop the candle on the carpet because it could start a fire and the house could burn down. Several minutes later he came down the stairs struggling to hold the candle in one hand, and with his other arm he was carrying his scriptures. His mother asked him why he was bringing his scriptures. His answer to her was, “Mom, if the house burns down, I must save my scriptures!” We knew that our efforts to help him to love the scriptures had been planted in his heart forever.

When I was 11, I helped my ward build a new Church building. The members helped build them in those days—pounding nails, painting walls, and doing all sorts of things.
President David O. McKay was the ninth President of the Church and served from 1951 until 1970.
When I heard that President David O. McKay (1873–1970) would dedicate the building, I really wanted to be there. My parents said that I could go. I went early and sat on the front row.
I remember seeing President McKay up close. I saw the way he stood, how he talked to people, how he treated people. He had bright blue eyes and white hair. He looked like a prophet. When I heard him speak and say the dedicatory prayer, I knew in my heart that this was God’s prophet.
I had a powerful spiritual impression from Heavenly Father: “This is My prophet.” Heavenly Father was telling me through the Holy Ghost that President McKay was His prophet.
Once I knew that President McKay was God’s prophet, I knew that the Church was true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet. I knew that the Book of Mormon and the Restoration of the gospel were true. I also knew that all the prophets, from Joseph Smith to David O. McKay, were God’s prophets too.
Now every time a new prophet is called, I’ve had that same confirmation come from Heavenly Father: “This is My prophet.” It all started when I was a boy.

Even though I had been attending a preschool for three years to help me with my speech problems, when I started kindergarten, my family, friends, and schoolteachers still had a hard time understanding what I was saying. My parents were concerned. My family fasted for me, and my dad gave me a priesthood blessing. My speech didn’t improve overnight, but by the middle of the school year my teacher, my family, and my friends could understand me better. Heavenly Father blessed me and the people who worked with me. I could finally bear my testimony. I still have to take speech classes and work hard, but I know Heavenly Father hears and answers our prayers.

Let me tell you something I learned when I was about your age. I think I was about six or seven years old. My brother and I (we were about the same age) walked to the stake conference together. I can still go in that building in Brigham City and go back just under the balcony, and say, “I was sitting about there when it happened.”

What was it that happened? There was a man speaking at the pulpit, Elder George Albert Smith. He was a member of the Council of the Twelve at that time. I do not remember what he said, whether he was talking about the Word of Wisdom, or about repentance, or about baptism. But somehow while he was speaking it was fixed in my little-boy mind that there stood a servant of the Lord. I have never lost that testimony or that feeling. In my mind I came to know that he was an apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ.

My little friends, although I sit now in the Council of the Twelve, I have never lost that feeling about these men. Often when we meet in the Council, I look around the circle and know again that these are the apostles of the Lord Jesus Christ upon the earth. They are special witnesses of him.

When the missionaries came to the student council of the Olympus High School Seminary in Salt Lake City, Utah, and asked for some proselyting help, Lissa Naumann suggested that they use this method. She had been introduced to it in a Sunday School class and had been so impressed that ever since she had been giving away copies of the Book of Mormon to close friends, strangers she met on trips, and even customers at her part-time job. She was put in charge of the project along with Matt Carpenter, who handled publicity. Lissa got busy buying copies of the Book of Mormon, preparing instructional handouts and displays, and cutting out several hundred sheets of Book of Mormon-sized paper for testimonies. During part of each class period for three consecutive days, the spiritual representative in each class explained the program to the students, sold them copies of the Book of Mormon, provided paper, took their pictures, and gave them time to write their testimonies. It was suggested that each student prayerfully select a friend and write the testimony to him or her personally. The book could then be given in person or delivered by the missionaries. If any of the students did not feel they had any friends who would accept a book, they could address their testimony to “Dear Friend,” and the missionaries would see that an investigator received it.
Some 500 copies of the Book of Mormon were purchased under this program, and a number of people are being taught by the missionaries as a result. At the outset of the program, the council determined that if one person came to know that the Book of Mormon was true, the program would be a success. Bob’s conversion fulfilled that goal and caused some internal rejoicing in the hearts of seminary students as well as some very external whoops of joy in the seminary halls and classrooms. But Bob wasn’t really the only convert. A number of faithful young members of the Church gained a much stronger testimony of the Book of Mormon as they read through it in preparation for writing the letters to be placed in their gift copies.

A number of firsts occurred in 2008 for young women in the New Delhi India District. At the first ever Young Women camp in the district, young women built wood fires, cooked over open flames, slept in tents, and learned survival and camping skills while filling the air with friendly laughter.
“My favorite part of camp was talking to and getting to know the girls,” said Hanna Smith of the New Delhi First Branch. “I got to make friends with girls I had never met before.”
For many of the young women it was their first experience camping, and they learned the basics of outdoor survival and living. The girls also learned how to interpret maps and how to read and conduct music. Youth camp leaders taught a variety of other skills, including dancing, sewing, water safety, and glass painting. Cumorah Taylor, one of the young women in the district, said she felt more confident in her abilities after the camp ended.

Almost a year before, instead of looking forward to general conference and the holidays, I was figuring out how I would be able to take care of my family during the busy season ahead. I would have to plan all the upcoming activities and responsibilities around my radiation and chemotherapy treatments. Caring for myself while trying to maintain a normal life for my family and fulfill Church callings was difficult. I made it through cancer and everything else with Heavenly Father’s help.

The day we interviewed Talon Hobbs of Franklin, Idaho, it was easy to see why he loved his small family farm so much. The hill behind their fields glowed gold in the sun and was plastered against the dark green of the mountains. The sky was intense blue. The air was clean and crisp, with the drifting scents of fresh hay and distant animals. It was the kind of day that makes you want to stand still and enjoy where you are and what you are doing.
In fact, that is exactly the reason Talon gives for wanting to go into the family business. At 18, he has learned from his father how to do virtually every job on the farm. “My dad tells me what I need to get done, but I can choose what I do throughout the day. It’s really quiet. You’re not stressed. You get to have your quiet time. That’s what I really like about it.”
But it’s not easy work. There’s no such thing as procrastination when chores need to be done and animals cared for. “I figure you might as well get the worst job done first, then you get to do the easier ones. There is always something to do.”
And what about when it’s winter, when it’s 20º below with the snow blowing? Talon shrugs because he doesn’t really see that as the worst thing. “You just have to deal with it.” He goes on to explain how his parents will give their hired hands the day off on holidays such as Christmas. “We used to groan and moan about it when we were little, but now it’s our family tradition to be on the farm on Christmas Day doing the chores together.”
Ironically, the only way that Talon Hobbs will get to own part of the family farm and the outdoor life he craves is by getting more indoor learning. “I’ve always wanted to farm, even when I was little. I wanted to have some of my own animals, but Dad didn’t want me to get too tied down. He wanted to give us the opportunity to go to college. I plan to go into animal science. I’d like to take some plant science classes, and learn how to add to the farm and make it better. I’ll need to learn some small business management. I figure it’s better for me to take classes than struggle my whole life trying to figure it out.”
In the meantime Talon is getting ready for another kind of advanced education, his mission. Looking back, his mission preparation has been going on for years. He tells of meeting a girl just as they were starting high school and how he admired how she stood up for the gospel. He says, “I saw that she could be strong at that age, and her example made me realize that I also knew the Church is true. It made me think. Choosing to follow the Church may not always be the popular thing to do, but it’s always the best.”

In 1992, while serving as bishop of our ward in the Philippines, my father had a heart attack. He was rushed to the hospital from his office. When news came that he was in intensive care, my family was in great shock. Fear gripped our hearts. My father’s chances of survival were only marginal. My mother wept and asked all of us to pray.
I lost track of time after that—so many memories came flashing back. With tears on my face, I knelt to pray. My heart was so heavy, and my chest was ready to burst. I wanted to shout to ease the pain and remove the fear gripping me that day. Instead I simply prayed, “Please save my father.” It was a sincere prayer, meant to be heard.
That night I was allowed into the intensive-care unit. My father had slipped into a coma, and my mother and my siblings and I had to brace ourselves for the worst. It was a painful experience for our family. The future looked bleak and uncertain. As I silently bade him good-bye, I remembered our first family home evening. We had watched a Church film, Families Are Forever.
Before I went to bed that night, my earthly father silently returned to his Heavenly Father.
My father’s death, when I was 22, marked the beginning of hundreds of changes in my life. In his absence I learned that I had strengths I was unaware of. I’ve done more with my life than I otherwise might have because change and growth were thrust upon me.
When Heavenly Father didn’t grant my prayer, it never occurred to me that He hadn’t heard me. I know He was listening. He knew exactly what I was going through. He knew exactly what our family needed at the time, and that was what He gave us—strength to overcome the challenges of life, strength to face reality. He taught us how to face our trials with faith.
More than 15 years have passed since that painful day. I am still learning, and I am still growing in the gospel. I now have my own family, and I am so happy that we are sealed in the temple. I never take my eyes off the road my father marked for us.
Through the Atonement and Resurrection of Jesus Christ, I know that someday our family will be together again. I still have a long journey to go, but I’m happy to think that I will see my father at the end of that journey.

“This time you’re racing the clock.” The P.E. instructor held up his stopwatch. I lined up with the rest of the class on the university track. I tucked my standard, authorized T-shirt into my standard, authorized gym trunks, attempting to camouflage the spare tire around my waist, that although unauthorized, had become quite standard.
“Ready!” the instructor called.
The semester was just beginning. This was a pretest—11 laps equaling a mile-and-a-half run to assess our present fitness levels.
“Get set!” Again the voice sounded. I leaned forward. When this fitness appraisal is finished, I thought to myself, I just hope I’m still fit enough to stand up.
“Go!” The whistle blew.
Like a herd of animals scared by the sound, our group lurched forward and stampeded down the track. After only one lap the herd sorted itself into two distinct groups: them and me.
After two more laps I was so far behind I appeared to be leading the pack. “Just keep plugging, Brad,” I psyched myself. “Remember tortoise and the hare—tortoise and the hare—tortoise and the hare.”
The group whizzed by me again. I noticed the lead runner. He was good. I admired his form. I studied his stride. I reflected on his reflexes. I wanted to trip him. Runners like Ken Williams make coaches proud and tortoises envious.
I staggered ahead. By lap six, Ken was finished and probably showering. By lap eight the rest of the herd had completed the run and were headed to the watering trough as well. The instructor might have forgotten I was still running except for the sounds of wheezing and gasping he heard as I endured to the end. Oh, the indignity of it all, I thought. I wished I were a tortoise with a shell to hide under.
Lap nine: My rubbery legs were protesting.
Lap ten: My stomach was threatening a revolutionary uprising.
Lap eleven: This class was supposed to be teaching me fitness for life, but right then, death looked like an enticing alternative. I crossed the finish line. My heart sank into my left tennis shoe, partly because of the ordeal, but mostly because of the embarrassing time announced too loudly by the instructor.
“You’ve got a lot of work to do this semester,” the bored teacher proclaimed as he walked away.
He was right. In the 12 weeks that followed I ran almost every day, and the only thing that kept me from being as bored as he, was memorization. It was an idea Dad gave me to keep my mind off my tortured legs and sagging arches. So with each of my daily 11 laps I memorized the corresponding article of faith. (Just don’t ask me to recite numbers 12 and 13. Shortly I moved into the scriptures. You know, “Run and not be weary …”
The semester passed. “We’ll have our final run next Tuesday,” the instructor declared. “Final next Tuesday,” I wrote in my notes. “Wait!” I was horrified. “I’ll be in Nevada next Tuesday!”
After class I tried to explain. “I’m in this play, see … this musical, and we’ll be performing in Las Vegas on Monday night.”
“So?” the instructor intoned. “It doesn’t matter where you are on Monday night as long as you are here on Tuesday morning.” He seemed as mechanical and cold as the stopwatch hanging from his neck. “If you want a grade, you’ll be here.” Discussion ended.
Tuesday morning came. Sure enough, I was there—physically, at least. I left Las Vegas immediately after the curtain call and drove all night long. I arrived in town with only minutes to change into track clothes. My body screamed, “You should be in bed!”
“No,” my mind replied, “You should be in a mental institution for not being in bed.” My spirit was unwilling and my flesh was weak. But there I was.
“We’ll run in two groups,” the instructor shouted.” So everybody gets a partner to count your laps and record your time.” Williams, the name next to Wilcox on the roll, became my partner.
“Great,” I thought sarcastically, “the tortoise and the hare.” Remembering his performance during the pretest months ago, I already knew it would be easy to count Ken’s laps. My partner lined up with the first group.
“Good luck,” I muttered through a near yawn. The whistle blew. Just as the other partners did for their runners, I kept track of Ken’s laps. Just as the other partners did for their runners, I held up a corresponding number of fingers as he passed. Just as the other partners did for their runners, I yelled encouraging words. Then, well ahead of other partners and their runners, I recorded Ken’s amazing time.
Hardly pausing, Ken circled the track for a leisurely cool-down. He breathed heavily. His muscled frame gleamed with sweat.
“Second group to your mark!” the instructor shouted. Some of the “jocks” who had already finished running began slipping out. They had just completed the last requirement of the semester and certainly didn’t plan to spend any extra time following up on this “partner” business.
Ken came toward me. I suggested, “Hey, you don’t have to stay. I can count my own laps.”
“It’s okay,” he said.
“Don’t feel obliged,” I tried again. “Some of the others are leaving and the instructor doesn’t care. Just go ahead and shower.”
“No,” Ken flopped on some nearby bleachers, “I’m kind of tired. I’ll just sit here for a minute and count your laps.”
“I’m afraid it’ll take more than a minute,” I warned.
“Second group ready!” the instructor called. “Get set,” the whistle blew.
We charged forward. Now’s your chance to prove you’ve worked hard during the semester, I reminded myself. Now’s the time to make those hours and laps pay off. Come on now. “We believe in God the Eternal Father …” I recited silently as I ran. It helped.
Lap two passed. Lap three passed. Already I was wavering.
You’re pacing yourself too fast, I panicked. But this is the pace I’d kept for weeks.
Lap four: “We believe the first four principles and ordinances of the gospel are … are … are what?” My head started spinning. The long night’s drive was showing up. I was slowing up.
“Adrenaline!” I demanded of my body. “Sorry,” my sleepless self yawned. “You left it in Las Vegas.”
I swayed and tottered like a sleepwalker. I was exhausted.
Lap five: “We believe … we believe …” I can’t do it, I thought. My head throbbed in rhythm with my pounding heart. My strength was gone.
Just as the other partners did for their runners, Ken held up his fifth finger as I passed. Just as the other partners did for their runners, Ken yelled, “You can do it!” or some such nonsense. Then, noticing my distress, Ken Williams did something very unlike all the other partners on the sidelines. Ken started to run and caught up with me. Loping along at my right, he offered the tail of his T-shirt.
“What’re you doing?” I gasped.
Again Ken extended the shirttail. Without further question I reached over into his lane and grabbed it. Then Ken began to run, forcing me to keep up. He was still sweating from his own final test, and now he was exerting himself again.
“By love serve ye one another” (Gal. 5:13). It was one of the scriptures I had memorized while running on that very track.
Lap six: “Come on,” he urged.
Lap seven: “Run, Brad, keep it up.” He wasn’t shouting from the sidelines. He was encouraging me step for step.
Lap eight, nine, and ten: Ken didn’t just pace me for a while. He ran with me to the end. He gave me the shirt off his back and went the extra mile, literally.
My drained body finally drooped across the finish line. I wanted a gold medal. Under the circumstances my time wasn’t that much better than the pretest taken months earlier, but I wanted a gold medal. I wanted it for Ken.
Mosiah 4:15: “Teach them to love one another and to serve one another.” I had memorized that one, too. I memorized it; Ken lived it.
“Thanks,” I coughed, when I finally felt that I could talk at all.
“No problem,” Ken panted.
Still leaning heavily on his shoulder, I clutched my aching side. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” he said.
“Verily I say unto you, insomuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matt. 25:40). I memorized that or I had learned it in Mutual activities when we used to clean widows’ yards and go to the stake welfare farm because our advisers insisted. We quoted it in seminary, also, when we subbed for Santa and donated money to help foreign seminary students because we knew we should.
“Ken,” my chest was heaving. “I’d never have made it without you. Thanks.”
“It’s okay,” he smiled. “I wanted to help.”
No adviser insisted. No seminary teacher told him he should. I wasn’t a welfare assignment. I wasn’t a home teaching obligation. There was no space on the elders quorum roll where Ken could report his extra-mile laps and get the credit he deserved. Ken helped me because he wanted to.
“Want to”—“have to.” On paper the difference between these two phrases is minimal. Each one even has the same number of letters. But on a fieldhouse track, in a ward, neighborhood, school, or elsewhere, the difference between “want to” and “have to” is continents wide.
It was quite a lesson Ken taught me a few semesters back as we ran together on the fieldhouse track. He probably doesn’t remember now. He probably didn’t even realize it then, but the exercise he showed me, this exercise called willing service, has been particularly good for my heart.

A few years ago, our little family went through what many families face in this fallen world. Our youngest son, Tanner Christian Lund, contracted cancer. He was an incredible soul, as nine-year-olds tend to be. He was hilariously mischievous and, at the same time, stunningly spiritually aware. Imp and angel, naughty and nice. When he was little and was every day bewildering us with his shenanigans, we wondered if he was going to grow up to be the prophet or a bank robber. Either way, it seemed that he was going to leave a mark on the world.

And then he became desperately ill. Over the next three years, modern medicine employed heroic measures, including two bone marrow transplants, where he caught pneumonia, requiring him to spend 10 weeks unconscious on a ventilator. Miraculously, he recovered for a short time, but then his cancer returned.

Shortly before he passed away, Tanner’s disease had invaded his bones, and even with strong pain medicines, still he hurt. He could barely get out of bed. One Sunday morning, his mom, Kalleen, came into his room to check on him before the family left for church. She was surprised to see that he had somehow gotten himself dressed and was sitting on the edge of his bed, painfully struggling to button his shirt. Kalleen sat down by him. “Tanner,” she said, “are you sure you are strong enough to go to church? Maybe you should stay home and rest today.”

He stared at the floor. He was a deacon. He had a quorum. And he had an assignment.

“I’m supposed to pass the sacrament today.”

“Well, I’m sure someone could do that for you.”

“Yes,” he said, “but … I see how people look at me when I pass the sacrament. I think it helps them.”

So Kalleen helped him button his shirt and tie his tie, and they drove to church. Clearly, something important was happening.

I came to church from an earlier meeting and so was surprised to see Tanner sitting on the deacons’ row. Kalleen quietly told me why he was there and what he had said: “It helps people.”

And so I watched as the deacons stepped to the sacrament table. He leaned gently against another deacon as the priests passed them the bread trays. And then Tanner shuffled to his appointed place and took hold of the end of the pew to steady himself as he presented the sacrament.

It seemed that every eye in the chapel was on him, moved by his struggle as he did his simple part. Somehow Tanner expressed a silent sermon as he solemnly, haltingly moved from row to row—his bald head moist with perspiration—representing the Savior in the way that deacons do. His once indomitable deacon’s body was itself a little bruised, broken, and torn, willingly suffering to serve by bearing the emblems of the Savior’s Atonement into our lives.

Seeing how he had come to think about being a deacon made us think differently too—about the sacrament, about the Savior, and about deacons and teachers and priests.

I wonder at the unspoken miracle that had impelled him that morning to respond so bravely to that still, small call to serve, and about the strength and capacities of all of our emergent youth as they push themselves to respond to a prophet’s call to enlist in God’s battalions and join in the work of salvation and exaltation.

Whenever the family of Joseph Smith, Sr., saw their father feel for the eyeglasses he carried in his vest pocket they knew it was time for the evening devotional; by custom, each day in their home ended with song, prayer, and Bible reading. Father Smith conducted, read from the Bible, and prayed. However, shortly after the initial visits of Moroni to the young Prophet Joseph in September 1823, these family gatherings took on according to the Prophet’s mother an exceptional aspect. She wrote:
“From this time forth, Joseph continued to receive instructions from the Lord, and we continued to get the children together every evening, for the purpose of listening while he [told us] of the same. I presume our family presented an aspect as [unusual] as any that ever lived upon the face of the earth—all seated in a circle, father, mother, sons, and daughters, and giving the most profound attention to a boy, eighteen years of age. …
“During our evening conversations, Joseph would occasionally give us some of the most amusing recitals [reports] that could be imagined. He would describe the ancient inhabitants of this continent, their dress, mode of traveling, and the animals upon which they rode; their cities, their buildings, with every particular; their mode of warfare; and also their religious worship. This he would do with as much ease, seemingly, as if he had spent his whole life with them.”

In 2015, I was doing proxy baptisms in the São Paulo Brazil Temple. While I was there, a man asked me if I was preparing to serve a mission. I said I hoped to serve someday. Then he said, “I think you need to prepare to serve a mission and speak French.”
I thought to myself, “Why French? I’m from Brazil. How will I serve a French-speaking mission?” Nevertheless, because of that experience in the temple, I started studying French.
A few months later, I was at a bus terminal in São Paulo reading the Book of Mormon in French. When the woman next to me saw the book’s cover, she started speaking to me in French. I had been studying the language for only a few months, but I understood her perfectly!
To my surprise, she knew about the Book of Mormon because she had met the missionaries in Paris, where she lived. She asked me many questions about the Nephites and the Savior’s visit to the Americas. Inexplicably, I was able to speak to her as if I were speaking in my native language. I gladly gave her my Book of Mormon.
At the beginning of 2020, I went to England to study English through an exchange program. I met a girl there from Morocco. Her questions about why I didn’t drink alcohol led to a discussion about the Word of Wisdom, the Church, and the Book of Mormon. I showed her my Book of Mormon in French, and I was again able to answer questions about the gospel in French.
I realized that people need to know about the gospel and this special book in their own language and that I could use the Book of Mormon to be an instrument in God’s hands to help others.
Inaê Leandro (right) with one of her companions, Sister Wongsin Elisaia, while serving on Temple Square in Salt Lake City, Utah.
Later, when I opened my mission call, I learned I was going to Temple Square in Salt Lake City, speaking Portuguese.
“Really?” I thought. “Everyone there already knows about the Church, and they don’t even speak French in Utah.”
When I told my family, my father asked, “You are leaving your high school teaching job, your home, your career—everything—for a mission? How much will they pay you?” He was surprised when I told him I would pay for my mission myself.
At first, I didn’t know why I was called to Utah, but Heavenly Father knew where I needed to be. At Temple Square, I quickly learned that if you know 10 languages—or only 2 or 3—you can teach in all 10 languages there. My companions and I gave tours in Spanish, Portuguese, and English at Temple Square and at the Humanitarian Center at Welfare Square. We also taught online in different languages through the ComeuntoChrist.org website.
I have experienced the gift of tongues for myself. When we have the desire and the enthusiasm to learn a language, and if we work hard, God blesses us in miraculous ways that help us speak and understand.
“When we have the desire and the enthusiasm to learn a language, and if we work hard,” says Inaê, “God blesses us in ways that help us speak and understand.”
I love reading the Book of Mormon in other languages. Doing so helps my language skills and grows my testimony and understanding of gospel principles.
Whenever I called home on preparation day, I shared details about mission successes and experiences. I focused on what I had in common with family members, and they shared their travels and things that were happening at home. They even told me how they fed the full-time missionaries pizza because they had heard stories of nice people in Salt Lake City taking care of my companion and me.
It has been 16 years since my mother passed away. That was a difficult day, but I know that families can be eternal. I know I will see my mother again. I know she will recognize me as her daughter. Many people don’t have this knowledge.
That’s why I served a mission. That’s why I learned new languages. And that’s why I still try to help others find gospel answers for themselves.

After a couple of years, we graduated from advertising packets to telephone directories. During several summers, we loaded up our station wagon with books and children. The days were hot, the hours were long, some streets were hard to find, some addresses couldn’t be found, the books were heavy, some driveways were long and went uphill, some dogs were mean; but we had fun. Sometimes two children would go to a home, one to play with the dog and the other to take the books.
One summer one of the boys broke his foot while on the job. Within a few days he realized that he didn’t want to be left out of the summer work; besides he loved to ski. Soon he was in the back of the station wagon unwrapping the books and giving directions to the children as to how many books were to go to each house.
At the end of a day’s work, there were stories to tell, experiences to laugh at, accomplishments to brag about—and no one had any trouble sleeping. Yes, we were having fun and experiencing a sense of accomplishment.

My first encounter with preaching the gospel was also exciting. In a park near my office in Bogotá, I saw a multitude, and since I had some time, I went down to see what was happening. My surprise was great when I saw the missionaries with displays about the Church and with copies of the Book of Mormon. They recognized me and asked me to stand in the middle of the park with a banner saying, “Be happy; be a Mormon.” I stood for a while in that place. I was a Mormon, but at that moment I was not so happy! But I started to feel better about my ability as a missionary, losing my fear to talk with people about the Church. I let go of my own restrictions—so many “don’ts”—and realized that this is the Church of love and service, of sacrifice and blessings, of happiness and eternal life. My message to the missionaries, to the people that are investigating the Church at this time, and to the members is, “Don’t give up; continue looking for the best results in this wonderful work.”

Growing up, Sue was just part of the gang until the gang started going a direction she did not care to follow. Her upbringing in the Church gave her a different perspective than her friends.
“In my sophomore year, my friends started doing awful things that would make me cry for them. I just wanted to shake them and ask, ‘What are you doing?’ but you can’t. It was frustrating. I started saying to myself, ‘Hey, Sue, no one is going to stick with you through this. You’re on your own.’”
That’s when she decided to make her own choices and possibly lead her friends in the right direction as well. Her bishop, Allen Dance of the Snoqualmie Valley Ward, noticed her ability to bring people up to a higher level. “Sue has always been a magnet towards the good. She has pulled up the weak in our ward and in the school. She goes out of her way to be friends to people who need a friend. As a result of her example, others have been affected.”

Illustration by David Habben
I learned about the power and blessings of the priesthood at an unfortunate time. A few years ago, when my little brother was 14, he wrecked on his motorcycle and snapped his leg in half. My dad called and told me they were taking him to the hospital. I had a sick feeling in my stomach as I rushed to the hospital. When I got there, I saw one of my uncles. He told me how bad the accident was.
Fearing what I would see, I opened the door where my brother was and stepped into the room. I took one step, closed my eyes, and was instantly at peace. Just as I will never forget the sick feeling I had, I will never forget the feeling of peace and comfort that came over me. I recognized the feeling—it was the Spirit.
I then heard my father speaking. He and my uncle were giving my brother a priesthood blessing. He humbly blessed his son in the name of Jesus Christ to be OK, to heal, to have his leg work properly again.
After the blessing, everyone was quiet for a while. I knew at that moment that I had to live worthy to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood and be able to perform blessings for my future children.
When we gathered in the hall outside my brother’s room, my parents started to discuss what they should do. They debated whether to leave Mexico to take him to a doctor in the United States or to have the surgery performed here. Whatever option they felt was best for my brother, I knew he had already received the best attention he could receive. He had received a blessing by two men holding the priesthood, so no matter what my parents decided, my brother was going to be fine.
They decided to stay in Mexico for the operation. Doctors put a plate and 10 screws into my brother’s leg. It healed well, and a few months later he joined a soccer team. The blessing was fulfilled just as my dad had said.
I know the priesthood is the power and authority of God given to men. What a great gift He has given us.

Sister Darcee Benge, a missionary in the Hawaii Honolulu Mission, wrote us about how she learned that her prayers were being answered. She wrote, “I have always believed that God was there, but like you, I felt that he had never answered my prayers. It wasn’t until later that I realized he had been answering my prayers all along. When I prayed about big decisions in my life like college and a mission, I was waiting for a force through my body and a voice saying, ‘Yes, do this!’ That never happened to me. As the days went by, situations would arise that encouraged me and made my decisions easier to make. When the time came to make a final decision, I felt good about what I was doing, and it seemed like a good idea. I have had many prayers answered in this way. I just didn’t realize it until later. Another thing I have to remember is that what I want isn’t always what God wants for me. I have to trust in his ways.”

I had never thought much about my testimony. I liked to go to church, and the gospel wasn’t hard to live, so I basically took it for granted the Church was true.
When I was almost 21, I decided to go on a mission. But in my interview with the stake president the conversation took an unanticipated turn.
“Lara, do you support the leaders of the Church?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you know that Ezra Taft Benson is a true prophet of God?”
“I think so.”
“Do you know he is a prophet of God?” he asked again.
“I believe he is,” I responded, a little confused at the repetition of the question.
Then he said, “Belief is a beginning. But do you know that Ezra Taft Benson is a true prophet of God called to lead us in this day?”
This time I caught the wording. I could feel my face get hot. I felt helpless. Did this mean I couldn’t go on a mission? No. But he told me to be most effective on a mission, I needed a testimony of “I knows.”
I left the stake president’s office that day a little embarrassed, but determined to know that President Ezra Taft Benson is a true prophet of God, to know that the Book of Mormon is truly another testament of Jesus Christ, to know that Christ died for me. I would have to do the intense studying and praying that my stake president had done. And for the next three months I did.
By the time I entered the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah, I felt good saying “I know.” But it was in the MTC that I got my strongest witness that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God and that he did restore Christ’s church to the earth. That’s when I truly “knew,” and I was thrilled to be an “I know” missionary.

My stake was excited that the Palmyra New York Temple dedication was going to be broadcast at our stake center. The members seemed abuzz with anticipation. I was looking forward to it too, but for some reason I kept procrastinating getting my ticket.
Finally, on the day of the dedication, I talked to one of the counselors in the bishopric to get my ticket. He handed me a ticket, and without looking at it, I put it in my purse. During sacrament meeting, announcements were made about the dedication, but I tuned them out because I already had my ticket.
I went home that day and got lost in other activities. About 15 minutes before the dedication was to begin, I decided I should probably leave. I felt prepared as I put my white handkerchief in my purse and even double-checked to make sure my ticket was still there.
My family had left earlier to get good seats, warning me that I should come soon. I had planned to drive with them but hadn’t been ready, so I decided to go separately.
As I pulled into the church parking lot, I was surprised at how full it was. It was packed with cars, but there wasn’t a person in sight. At first I feared I was late, but I looked at my watch and I had five minutes before the dedication was to start.
I walked up the steps to the church and tried the door. It was locked. I was puzzled but remembered hearing somewhere that they were letting people in only through certain doors. I wasn’t sure which doors, so I decided to try them all. I went around the church, pulling at the doors, rattling them slightly, trying in frustration to open them.
As I approached the last set of doors, I felt my heart quicken. I tried the door, but it too was locked. I peered into the lobby, which was empty. The doors to the chapel were closed. I realized sadly that everyone was already inside, and I was alone outside—looking in.
As I walked dejectedly back to the car, I decided to double-check the time of the dedication. I fished through my purse until I found the ticket and saw that I had the time right. Anger ran through me at being locked out. Why wasn’t I able to go inside? I was missing this historic event!
I turned over the ticket and was surprised to see writing on the back. I read it with curiosity. Clearly printed was the instruction to be seated 30 minutes before the dedication started.
Why hadn’t I seen that before? I had never read the back of my ticket. I had placed it in my purse as soon as I received it. I hadn’t prepared in one of the simplest ways possible. As I sat in the car, too sad to move, I realized I was like one of the five foolish virgins in the parable of the ten virgins. I was left outside the wedding ceremony with a lamp that was out of oil, while the others were inside with the bridegroom.
Whenever I had read that story in Matthew 25, I wondered how the five women had been so foolish. I always thought that purchasing enough oil was such a simple thing to do. I knew the oil and lamps represented our testimonies and the Holy Spirit’s guidance (see D&C 45:57). I had thought I was prepared to attend the temple dedication, yet I wasn’t inside listening to the prophet.
Alone in the parking lot, I realized that having a ticket wasn’t enough. We have more to do than simply be present on the day Christ comes. We need to be prepared in every way, constantly filling our lamps, not just thinking we have enough oil.
As I drove back home, tears stung my eyes. It hurt to be alone, knowing that family and friends were inside being uplifted and I wasn’t able to go in with them. I promised myself that from then on I would do all I could to be prepared with plenty of oil. I want to be part of the joyful wedding party instead of being one of the unprepared locked outside.