Gospel Story Finder

Talented footballer, Jordan Taylor, from the Kawana Waters Ward in Queensland, Australia, was appointed the Wodonga Bulldog senior football coach in late 2020.
He, with his wife, Alyssa, moved to the Victorian border town of Wodonga, near the town of Finley, NSW where he grew up. It was there, years ago, that Jordan had chosen to serve a full-time mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and was assigned to the New Zealand Hamilton Mission.
Speaking of his decision to serve a mission, Jordan says, “I always knew that I wanted to do that, but at the same time, I had strong aspirations to make AFL [Australian Football League]. . . . I knew I wanted to give a little bit back to those who may not be as blessed as I am.”
The decision to put life plans on hold and to trust in the Lord and serve a mission is a familiar feeling for many members of the Church. Sometimes it means giving up opportunities to progress in areas they have dedicated themselves to during their teenage years.
“I think when you don’t get so absorbed in yourself, what’s good or bad in your own life, and you start thinking about others, it actually takes the weight off your own shoulders to some extent.
“On the mission, your sole focus is to help others. Whether it be by community service, English-speaking programs, or teaching some of our religious doctrines, it’s all about helping other people,” Jordan said.
His mission blessed him with many skills that have helped him propel his life and career forward.
“Teaching experiences on the mission and just being focused on Christ and others helped me as a coach. A mission is definitely a great prepper for a lot of different things—building relationships, getting to know people, teaching, and serving them.”
Since returning from his mission and finishing his B.Ed., Jordan has had experience as captain, vice-captain, gained his Level 1 AFL coaching accreditation and worked as a coach for private organisations.
“I’ve played under some really good coaches and have something I can offer within my playing and teaching experience,” he said. “I had coached some juniors, and this will be my first appointment as a senior coach.”

One winter’s night during a particularly nasty snowstorm, there was a serious automobile accident in a small Idaho town not far from the Utah border. A young child was critically injured. I was an air ambulance pilot in the Salt Lake City area and was dispatched in a fixed-wing aircraft to pick her up and bring her back to Salt Lake.
The closest airport to the accident was in Pocatello, Idaho. While it would take us only about 45 minutes to fly from Salt Lake City to Pocatello, it would take the ambulance crew nearly three hours to transport the girl from the accident site to Pocatello because of hazardous driving conditions. Even though the air transport team would arrive well before the ambulance crew, the doctor in charge wanted us there early to transfer the little girl from the ambulance to the airplane without any delay, getting her on her way to a major trauma center.
The weather was bad; these were the absolute minimum conditions we could land in. A small commuter airliner was also on approach to Pocatello, about 10 minutes ahead of us. I listened intently to the other pilot’s radio communications, knowing we would encounter the same conditions. His approach was routine, until he should have been able to see the runway. It wasn’t visible, however, and he had to give up the approach and go around.
Now it was our turn. I was very concerned—what if we couldn’t get in and had to return without the injured girl? I quickly said a silent prayer. I told Heavenly Father if He wanted us to pick up that little girl I would need His help.
I began the descent. It seemed to take forever. I couldn’t see a thing except gray cloud and snow blowing horizontally past the windshield. I was quickly approaching the point where, like the commuter airliner, I would have to break off the approach. I waited until the last possible instant, and then suddenly the runway lights came into view. They were dim but good enough. I reduced the power and landed and offered a silent prayer of gratitude for the miracle I had just experienced.
As I taxied to our parking spot, two things were obvious—the storm wasn’t going to let up, and the company that usually provided us with deicing service and a hangar to protect the aircraft from the weather had closed for the evening.
A few minutes later the commuter airliner landed safely. Immediately the control tower closed and the controllers went home. After the passengers and crew of the commuter plane left, the ground staff locked up the airport terminal building and went home too. My colleagues and I were left with no way to deice the airplane or to put it in a hangar, and the snow was beginning to fall even harder. There was a very real possibility we would not be able to leave until the next morning.
The transport team and I decided it would be best to wait and see what conditions were like when the ambulance arrived. As I looked out the plane’s window, I could see the snow starting to stick to the commuter airliner, parked not far from where we were. Knowing it would be unsafe to attempt a takeoff with any amount of snow or ice on our airplane, I went outside. The snow was falling very hard and beginning to stick to our wings. I walked around to where I would be out of view and offered another prayer.
Time seemed to pass very slowly that evening. Occasionally I would look out at the snow accumulating steadily on the commuter plane, but I avoided going outside again to check our own wings.
After nearly two hours the ambulance arrived with the little girl. I opened the cabin door and got out. The commuter plane was covered with snow and ice. I turned around to see what condition our plane was in. Although I had tried to have faith and be optimistic, I am ashamed to say I was astounded by what I saw. Tears of gratitude welled up in my eyes as I walked around the airplane. It was clean and dry—absolutely no snow or ice anywhere on it. It looked as if it had just come out of a heated hangar. The snow had also stopped falling, and visibility had improved to the point where it would be possible to take off.
Heavenly Father had provided the miracles we needed that night to get a little girl to the hospital. It was a very humble pilot who bowed his head in gratitude that evening for the great blessings he had received.
The flight back to Salt Lake was completely routine. Certainly my prayers and the prayers of that girl’s family and friends had been answered. I never did hear what the little girl’s final outcome was, but my testimony of the overwhelming love and compassion our Father in Heaven has for His children was strengthened that winter night.

Now, back to the word lists. Which list would you put the word "boredom" under? How many of you would put it under A? How about B? Well, you are right there with everyone else who has ever responded to that question. So it goes without saying--the lifestyle most of us have chosen is boring. I think that is unfortunate. So what is the opposite of boredom? The best answer I know of comes from the classic Disney film, "Never Cry Wolf."

In this film a young biologist by the last name of Tyler was sent to the far northern reaches of Canada to determine if wolves were responsible for killing off the great caribou herds. To get to his desired destination, the Valley of the Black Stone, Tyler had to travel by plane. The only plane available was an old prop plane known as a De Havilland Beaver. In the film the plane was literally held together with duct tape and wire. The pilot, Rosie Little, was a real entrepreneur, always looking for a way to make extra money. During the flight as the plane was inching its way past tall, rugged mountains Rosie asks Tyler what it was in the Valley of the Black Stone he is looking for. "Is it gold?" he asked. "Silver?" Tyler's response was, "It is hard to say." Rosie's response was, "Well, we are prospectors up here, all scratching for gold, so we won't have to scratch anymore. But I will tell you, Tyler, the gold isn't in the ground. The real gold is south, in the States, sitting in front of the TV, bored to death, bored to death Tyler."
Right then the plane's engine begins to cough and sputter. Pretty soon you see the propeller begin to slow down and eventually stop completely. Very excitedly, Tyler asks Rosie, "What's going on?" Rosie's answer: "Boredom, Tyler, that's what's going on." You can imagine Tyler was anything but bored. Rosie asked the next question. "How do you deal with boredom, Tyler?" He then reached into a toolbox and pulled out a big crescent wrench, waved it in Tyler's face, and simply said–this is the key word–"Adventure. Adventure, Tyler." He then opened the door of the plane, stepped out onto the wing strut and began to hit the frozen fuel line with the wrench. Since this scene took place in the first 10 minutes of the film, they obviously survived.
But, the big word here is "adventure."

Church ball was my chance to make up for being cut. Our ward team was the best church team I’d ever played on. Brother Sid Rogers was our priests adviser and coach.
During the season we went undefeated. The only team that came close to us—and we still beat them by seven points—was Jeremy James’s ward. They had a couple of decent players, but Jeremy was really the team.
In the stake tournament the championship game was between us and Jeremy’s ward. During warm-ups I watched Jeremy. He was a quiet, reserved kind of guy. And even though he was the best player on the team, he didn’t make a big deal of it. He passed the ball around and shouted encouragement to his teammates. And he was good. Oh, was he good!
The game was close throughout. We took the early lead when Joel Preston made a three-pointer. But Jeremy’s ward kept it close. Jeremy couldn’t miss, it seemed. When we double-teamed him, he managed to get the ball to a teammate who would score. It was frustrating. Things looked bleak when we went down six with two minutes to play.
Then we started battling back, finally taking a one-point lead with ten seconds to go. And we had the ball. But then I bobbled a pass and Jeremy stole it. He began driving toward the basket and drew up for a quick jumper from ten feet as I lunged to block the shot. He grimaced even before I hit him. It was as though he knew I was going to bat away his shot. As I reached my hand to swat the ball away, I slapped his forearm. The whistle blew, and the ref pointed at me.
Then something happened. Jeremy, still grimacing and shaking his head, intervened. “I traveled before I went up for the shot,” he explained, the disappointment and anguish heavy on his face.
Jeremy’s coach fired off the bench, a look of shock pinching his features. “Let the refs make the calls,” he hollered, turning to the officials. “I didn’t see the traveling. You didn’t see it, right?”
“If he said he traveled,” the ref said apologetically, nodding at Jeremy, “I can’t just ignore that. He called traveling on himself.”
Every eye was on Jeremy. Everybody was wondering what he was going to do. But more than anyone I knew what Jeremy would do. I had seen him sacrifice more than the last two points in a church ball game. I wanted him to stand by his call, but not so we could win. I suppose I wanted reaffirmed to me that someone could actually guard his integrity more intensely than he guarded his team’s chance to win.
Jeremy shrugged and shook his head. “I traveled.” Turning to his coach and teammates, he muttered a quiet, “I’m sorry.”
Jeremy’s coach, obviously frustrated, put his arm around Jeremy. Ever since my experience with Coach Angelo I had packed an annoying pocket of guilt in the pit of my stomach. Many times since I had reflected on the decisions I had made to earn a varsity spot. I had come to know that to experience the comfort of clear conscience sometimes demands the sting of public disapproval. As my team celebrated, I felt a deep-down empty sickness born of disappointment. For a moment I wondered what it would be like to lose on principle instead of winning in spite of it.
“We ought to play it over,” I blurted out. “That would be the fair thing to do. Jeremy would be hitting free throws right now if …” I stopped and glanced at Jeremy. I detected surprise in his look. “If we’re going to win,” I continued, “we ought to win without a questionable call at the end.”
“C’mon, Dave, we’ve got it won if the ref calls traveling on James,” Joel said.
It was now my turn to feel the pressure of the crowd. Then I remembered that Sunday afternoon when Coach Angelo “complimented” me by saying I went with the flow without making waves. He hadn’t meant to, but he had labeled me a coward.
“We can replay the last ten seconds of the game,” I explained. “This is a church game. We ought to do that. They get the ball where Jeremy stole it and we play from there.”
There were protests and arguments, each team struggling for the advantage. But the referees went along with my suggestion. We were ahead 68–67 with ten seconds on the clock.
Joel and I double-teamed Jeremy as he brought the ball up court. Jeremy made a move, and Joel slipped and fell. It was Jeremy and me, one on one. I knew I couldn’t foul him. My only chance was to block the shot. I expected the crucial moment to come under the basket as Jeremy drove the lane. But as soon as Jeremy reached the three-point line, he pulled up for a jump shot. The ball hit the bottom of the net as the buzzer blared.
Jeremy’s team went crazy, slapping high fives, hugging, laughing, and shouting. We stared in disbelief, and then my teammates turned away, some of them grumbling, all of them shunning me.
I made my way to the dressing room, more to be by myself than to shower or dress. Dropping down on the bench, I held my head in my hands. I had wanted to win. Yet there was a quiet, tranquil peace inside me. I had no regrets.
“Hey, Bluth.” I looked up to see Jeremy standing there. We stared at each other a moment before he spoke. “It was a good game. I just wanted to say thanks. I wasn’t sure … I just wanted you to know that …”
He smiled and shrugged, words escaping him. He swallowed and tried again. “Thanks for playing tough and hanging in there.”
Neither of us knew what to say after that. We both stood there silently. And then Jeremy held out his hand and I took it, feeling a lump squeeze into my throat. We shook hands firmly and looked into each other’s eyes, and I knew that between the two of us there was nothing more that needed to be said.

I heard Elder Matthew Cowley, a twentieth-century Apostle, tell the story of blessing a baby at the request of a Maori father in New Zealand. As he was about to begin, the baby’s father said, “While you are giving it a name, please give it its vision. It was born blind.”

“I was overwhelmed,” Elder Cowley said. “I was doubtful, but I knew that within that Polynesian there was the simple faith of a child, a faith not dimmed by psychology or any of the learning of men but a simple faith in God and the promises he had made through his Son Jesus Christ. I gave that child its name, and eventually I gathered enough courage to bless it with its vision.

“… I saw him a few months ago. He is now six or seven years old, running all over the place, and he can see as well as I can see this day.”

At home in a hidden-away corner, I have a small black walking stick with an imitation silver handle. It once belonged to a distant relative. Why do I keep it for a period now spanning more than 70 years? There is a special reason. As a small boy I participated in a Christmas pageant in our ward. I was privileged to be one of the three Wise Men. With a bandanna about my head, Mother’s piano bench cover draped over my shoulder, and the black cane in my hand, I spoke my assigned lines: “Where is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.” I vividly remember the feelings of my heart as the three of us “Wise Men” looked upward and saw a star, journeyed across the stage, found Mary with the young child Jesus, then fell down and worshipped Him and opened our treasures and presented gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

I especially liked the fact that we did not return to the evil Herod to betray the baby Jesus but obeyed God and departed another way.

The years have flown by, but the Christmas cane continues to occupy a special place in my home; and in my heart is a commitment to Christ.

Shortly after the passing of our beloved President Russell M. Nelson, our BYU academic vice president Justin Collings shared an experience of sitting next to a distinguished leader not of our faith who was visiting Church headquarters from overseas.

After this gentleman had heard President Oaks give some brief remarks, he turned to Vice President Collings and noted how impressed he was with the man who had just spoken.

Vice President Collings started to detail President Oaks’s background and professional accomplishments when this man interjected, as if Justin had missed the point: “No. He has a light. There is a light that shines from him. . . . He has a light that is different from anyone here.”

Vice President Collings then explained to the man that President Oaks had recently become the most senior leader of the Church.

With a look of great satisfaction, the man nodded and said, “Then may God grant him long life, that he may live and shine a light for your people and for the world.”

* * *
It was three weeks after my parents had come. We were in a small park in town where there was a set of swings and some old distinguished-looking trees. We were sitting on the swings enjoying the early evening solitude. I was playing my guitar and singing.
“You know a lot of songs, Greg.”
“I learned most of them when we used to stage sit-ins. When you’re sitting around some administrator’s hallway, it’s nice to have something to do. Did I ever tell you that I went to Chicago?”
“How did you like it?” she asked eagerly.
“Like what?”
“Chicago, silly.”
“I wasn’t on a Boy Scout tour,” I snapped. I couldn’t believe that she didn’t know what we had done at Chicago. “Don’t you associate anything with Chicago?”
She wrinkled her nose, a sign I had learned to recognize as indicating deep concentration. “Carl Sandburg.”
That broke me up.
She climbed to the top of the slide, cleared her throat, and began reciting “Hog Butcher for the World.” After four lines she paused, wrinkled her nose, and confessed, “I forgot the rest.” For her finale she slid down the slide, and then turned to me and took a bow. “Ta da!” she sang.
I put my guitar down and motioned to the stairs. “After you,” I said. We both climbed the stairs. We sat up at the top of the slide. I put my arms around her and we went down the slide together, “making a train” as I had called it when I was four or five years old. We landed in a pile at the bottom of the slide. After we got untangled, I helped her up and we sat down on the merry-go-round.
“Debbie, we are crazy. You know that, don’t you?”
“Why?”
“You’re Miss Goody-two-shoes, and I’m your friendly neighborhood hippie.”
“You’re not, Greg. You’re just playing a part. The hair, the beard—it’s a costume. Underneath waiting to get out is a man like your father who will be an effective leader in the Church.”
“It’s not true. Somehow for me the Church never took.”
She took my guitar, retuned it, and began singing in clear tones, “Give Said the Little Stream.” When she got to the part, “There is something all can give,” she looked up and smiled at me. She pointed her finger at me and said, “The Church wants to join you.”
“Debbie, what are we going to do? We’ve fallen in love, but there’s no way we can both be happy. You told the Sunday School class that you weren’t going to settle for anything less than a temple marriage.”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
She thought a while before answering.
“Love was meant to last forever. But in this life, death robs us. First we see our parents sliding year by year. Lines of worry grow into deep ravines. They begin walking with a cane. Their fingers become gnarled by arthritis. Then someday they leave us. In a few years the same thing happens to us.”
The stillness of the night was occasionally disturbed by the sounds of the crowd at the high school game a few blocks away.
She continued. “But death is not the end. In the resurrection those broken bodies will become perfect. No more canes, no more arthritis. A man and a woman who have honored the promises made in the temple will experience the joys of marriage again. This time forever.” She touched my hand lightly. “I want that for my marriage.”
“But I won’t ever be able to go to the temple. Never.”
“I’ll get someone else then,” she whispered. It was as if the words had fought a long battle in order to escape from her lips.
“I thought you loved me,” I said.
“It’s more than that. I’m in love with you. There’s a difference.”
“And you’d toss everything we’ve got going for us into the air because of the Church?”
“Greg, I know Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. What else can I do?”
“Maybe you believe it sincerely, but you can’t know it.”
“Why not?”
“C’mon Debbie! This is the twentieth century. You can’t know anything is true. You’re in college. How can you swallow that now?”
She stood up. “And how can you sit through a fast and testimony meeting and not be moved. Why can’t you feel the influence of the Holy Ghost?”
We were standing up facing each other.
“I feel what can be recorded—sound, light, heat, taste, touch. That’s what we’ve got in this world.”
“No it isn’t. I know beyond any doubt that Joseph Smith was a prophet.”
“You can’t say that.”
“I am saying it, Greg.”
“That’s the same jazz I get from my parents every time I go home. I don’t want it from you.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s tearing us apart. I love you, Debbie. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. Except for your belief in the Church.”
“The things you respect in me are things that have come from my membership in the Church. Why are you fighting so hard?”
“Why? Welcome to the world! We’ve got problems to be solved. Our generation are the ones who have got to get it together before it’s too late. The Church may be all right, but it’s just not relevant in our day.”
“What problems?”
“Injustice, hate, pollution, poverty, wars! How does the Church propose to solve these problems?”
“If people would live the gospel of Jesus Christ, these problems would be solved.”
“Do you mean that the only thing you can suggest is for the whole world to join the Church? These are problems that won’t be solved by simple homespun ideas from Utah!”
“There’s a prophet of God in Utah. That’s worth more to me than some panel of experts predicting what the future will bring, or telling us that Christian ideals are old-fashioned, or that chastity is emotionally unhealthy. I’ve seen the gospel change the lives of people for the better. They pay their tithing and they get out of poverty. They have family home evenings and their love for each other increases. They live the Word of Wisdom and they are healthier. What program have you ever advocated that would touch people like that?”
It was the same argument we’d gone through before. “We’re not getting anywhere with this,” I said. “Let’s walk back to the car.”
I guess we both knew as we walked slowly to the car that we were breaking up. If we had loved each other less, maybe we could have gone on. But our love was too deep. Each disagreement brought pain. And if we married with our differences, we would live the same argument day after day.
Have I told you that when she laughed it was like the song of glass bells that ring with a gentle wind? And that she beat me at Ping-Pong eight consecutive games? And that she taught a Primary class for which she practiced the lessons on me? (“Greg, sit down and pretend you’re a four-year-old. Boys and girls, I’m going to tell you a story. What do you think about that?”) And that on one Saturday morning we got in my car and rode across the country roads, singing together? And that she talked me into taking her to the river to show her how to catch a fish with a spinner? (“Why would a fish want to eat a crummy piece of tin?”) And that her hair was like a halo around her face?
It was over.
On the way back to the dorm she tried again. “Greg, have you ever read the Book of Mormon?”
“I’ve read parts of it.”
“What parts?”
“The first few pages, until they start quoting Isaiah.”
“That’s all?”
“It’s a very confusing book.”
She gently rebuked me. “But aren’t you the college intellectual? The seeker of truth? And you’ve never read that little book?”
I pulled up to the dorm. “Not completely through, no.”
“Greg, I want you to read it this week.”
“It’s no good, Debbie. It won’t make any difference.”
“Greg, I want you to get a testimony so you can take me to the temple.”
“It won’t work. I’m not going to fake a belief even for that. Regardless of what I’m not, I am honest.”
“I know you won’t fake it, Greg.”
“Then why do you think it will make any difference?”
“There’s a promise with the book. You do your part and the Lord will do his. Greg, please read it and pray about it.”
I was worried about her. “Debbie, I don’t want to hurt you. If you believe in this, that’s great. But I don’t want to destroy your faith. If I read that book and nothing happens …”
“I know you, Greg. And, at least a little, I know my Father in heaven. It won’t fail. I know it.”
“For such a little girl you sure know a lot.”
“Will you read it?”
“Okay, I’ll read it.”
“And will you pray about it?”
“Debbie, I’m not even sure there’s a God.”
“There is. Ask him.”
“Okay, I’ll pray.”
“What will you pray for?”
“To know the right way, I guess.”
“No,” she said.
“No? What then?”
“Ask if the Book of Mormon is true.”
* * *
What can I say? If you’ve already got a testimony, you know what happened. And if you don’t, you’ll say I copped out because of her. At least that’s what my friends said when I told them about the Book of Mormon. If I could only make them see. But I can’t.
You know, it’s funny how a guy can grow up in the Church and escape a testimony of its truthfulness. I guess everyone must find out for himself the way Moroni said, by the power of the Holy Ghost.
Two weeks after it happened I walked into the foyer of the ward chapel. It was early Sunday morning before priesthood meeting. Brother Johnson was just walking out of the bishop’s office. When he saw me, he walked over and shook my hand.
“Hi there. I’m Brother Johnson. I don’t believe I’ve met you.”
“I’m Greg Jeffreys. I met you at the student open house. You walked up to me and said the same thing then.” I smiled and shook his hand.
“I did?”
“Yes, you did. But I had a beard and longer hair then.”
“Oh sure. You and Debbie have been going together.”
“Right. I need to talk to the bishop, Brother Johnson. I hope I can be advanced to an elder soon. I’ve got a date with Debbie at the temple.”

That same spirit drew others to the Book of Mormon as it was being printed. Thomas Marsh, a former printer’s apprentice, had tried to find his place in other churches, but none of them seemed to preach the gospel he found in the Bible. He believed that a new church would soon arise that would teach restored truth.
That summer, Thomas felt led by the Spirit to travel hundreds of miles from his home in Boston to western New York. He stayed in the area three months before turning toward home, uncertain why he had traveled so far. At a stop along the way back, however, his host asked if he had heard about Joseph Smith’s “golden book.” Thomas told the woman he had not and felt compelled to learn more.
She told him he should talk to Martin Harris and directed him to Palmyra. Thomas went there immediately and found Martin at Grandin’s printshop. The printer gave him 16 pages of the Book of Mormon, and Thomas took them back to Boston, eager to share the first taste of this new faith with his wife, Elizabeth.
Elizabeth read the pages, and she too believed they were the work of God.10

Let me share a more recent example of the value of pondering. President Hinckley was in the Mexican colonies visiting the Saints. While riding back from those colonies, he was pondering how far away the temples were from the people. He thought how wonderful it would be for the Saints if we could take the temples to them, rather than having them traveling so far to get to a temple. Into his mind came the idea of a small temple design that was less costly and simpler than traditional temples. President Hinckley took out a small piece of paper, and sketched out what he saw in his mind’s eye; what we now refer to as the “small temple design.”

He returned home to Salt Lake City and subsequently challenged the Presiding Bishopric to set about aggressively building more temples following this small design. In one meeting he quipped: “I would like to see 100 temples operating before I die.” Well, that meant the Presiding Bishopric had to build a lot of temples, because we only had about half that many at the time. The Presiding Bishopric responded by vigorously ramping up the work and, in a relatively few short years, they hired more professionals, divided the department, went vigorously to work building these temples. They met and actually exceeded the prophet’s challenge. President Hinckley’s goal of 100 operating temples before the year 2000 was surpassed. Today, the work continues under the direction of an inspired temple-building prophet of the Lord. We now have 124 operating temples in the world.

The Liahona (Spanish) helped bring about a complete change in my life. Prior to my baptism into the LDS church 15 years ago, I was a practicing Catholic. I was active in that church’s lay organization, serving at the national level and representing the organization at many international conventions.
My two sons, Jaime and Bernardo, were the first family members to make contact with the Church. They tried to discuss its teachings with me on several occasions, but, indignantly, I said I was not about to change my religion.
One day, out of curiosity, I picked up a copy of the Liahona that they left on a table. As I read the first article, by President Spencer W. Kimball, I felt as though I had been touched by a ray of light. His message gave me something I had hungered for all my life. Within a week, I met with the missionaries, and I was later baptized by my son, Jaime (now a bishop).
My wife has not chosen to be baptized yet. However, she supports me and loves the local church members. Patiently, I wait for the day when we can be sealed together in the temple.
Reading my first Liahona those many years ago not only brought change in my life, it also brought peace in my heart.
Jaime Rey GalvisAlhambra Ward, Bogotá Colombia Stake

When I was a little girl, my father sat at the foot of my bed at night and taught my sister and me that we had lived with our Heavenly Father before the world was, that we had made a choice to obey God’s commandments and to reject Satan. He taught us that Satan rejoices when we disobey Father. I made a determination then as a very young child that I wanted my Heavenly Father to rejoice over me, not Satan. That commitment has had a very powerful effect on my life.

In the Fall of 2002 Sister Kinghorn and I were flying to New York to visit our son and his family. Seated next to us on our flight out of Salt Lake City was a man, not a member of our Church, who had been visiting family in the Salt Lake City area. Sister Kinghorn, who has always been braver, more outgoing, and social than I, engaged him in conversation. When he came to the realization that we were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints he immediately made it very clear that he knew “all” he wanted to know about our Church and wasn’t interested in knowing anymore. I then asked him if he was an active member of another church. He proudly stated that he was a lay-minster in the Episcopal Church. I looked at him, smiled, and spent the rest of our flight telling him about my experiences working in New York and the wonderful interactions I had with the clergy and volunteers at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. I thanked him for their goodness and kind service that they rendered to me. As we exited the plane he turned to us, right in the middle of the jet-way, and said “thank you, as soon as I get home I am going to call my minster and tell him that I met a Mormon who appreciated the good work of the faithful members of our church.” We shook hands and went our separate ways.

When a fire swept through Santa Barbara, California, and destroyed over 500 homes and businesses, the Young Women in the stake were on hand to help clean up the ashes.
At least 14 LDS homes burned, including that of Young Women president Bobbi Boden. In the six inches of rubble that had once been her two-story home, the young women donned air masks and gloves, then with shovels and sifters began searching for Sister Boden’s wedding ring. They found an heirloom ring that had been in the family for over a century.
The young women spent many hours helping LDS and non-LDS members alike rebuild their lives and homes. “It really makes you realize that earthly things aren’t very permanent,” they agreed.

But I am reminded of a story told to me by a friend of mine who is an area authority of the Church in the northeast. He reported a conversation with a district judge in New York City who, on being asked why that illustrious, but oft-maligned city was beginning to actually look a little better, responded that it was because they were enforcing the anti-spitting laws. My friend was surprised by the response and asked what that had to do with the general decline in crime and other positive indicators of improvement. The judge replied that they had discovered that if they enforced the little things that were actually enforceable—anti-spitting, anti-jaywalking, and other seemingly rather insignificant ordinances—then general respect for the city and its moral authority seemed to improve. What were a few years ago actual pockets of anarchy in urban life have now become much more orderly—and here is the important point—thus giving city dwellers more freedom (conversation with Elder Robert S. Wood, April 29, 1998).

Five years ago, at the end of the summer of 2020, my family was eager to attend a niece’s wedding festivities. Because of the COVID-19 lockdown, it had been about five months since we’d seen our family members or done anything exciting outside of our home or yard!

On our way to the wedding reception, we stopped to see the home improvement projects some family members had been working on all summer. Most exciting to two of my sons (who were then ages thirteen and sixteen) was the giant zip line that had been installed in the yard. Now this is no small backyard zip line. It runs down the slope of the mountainside on which our family members live and stands about twenty feet off the ground!

My sister-in-law handed the boys helmets and a harness and gave them instructions at the launching platform. I could see that they weren’t really paying close attention to her—partly because they were so excited but also because they’d ridden zip lines at Scout camp before and didn’t think they needed to listen. However, on the first ride down the zip line, one of them sat in the harness backward, which led to an awkward and uncomfortable ride, if you get my drift.

As they raced back to the platform to ride a second time, the boys were arguing about when and how hard the other should pull the rope—one is cautious, the other is not. I was standing at the platform focused on trying to get them to quit squabbling and to pay attention to how they sat in the harness. With all of the commotion, none of us noticed that my younger son had failed to clip his harness to the zip line before his brother pulled the rope. It wasn’t until he neared the end of the line that he realized the only thing connecting him to the zip line was his own grip.

When you hit the end of a zip line, there can be a pretty violent impact and rebound effect because of the force and the speed at which you’re going. Though my son hung on as tightly as he could, his adolescent arm strength was no match for the impact. He slipped down the rope like Icarus falling from the sky6 and fell silently to the ground. All of the worst thoughts I could think of filled my head as I ran screaming over to where he lay motionless. Miraculously, he had landed on some pretty soft ground. Other than having a rope burn on his hands and having the wind knocked out of him, he was unhurt.

As I have reflected on this experience, I have thought about how the boys had everything they needed to have a safe and enjoyable time on the zip line. They had safety equipment, clear instructions, and supervision, yet distractions and a false sense of security prevented their safety and success.

This story took place in Canada.
Dieter wanted to listen to general conference. He tried to sit still. He tried to listen to the talks. But having autism made it hard for him to focus. He wiggled on the couch. He played with his toys. He ran around.
Then he looked over at Dad. Dad was sitting quietly and listening to the speakers. Dieter wanted to be like him. So he got out his art supplies. Maybe coloring a picture would help him sit quietly.
While he colored, Dieter listened to Elder Jeffrey R. Holland speak. Elder Holland told a story about Jesus. Jesus asked a rich young man to give all his money to the poor.*
Dieter wanted to help people who didn’t have enough money too. And he had an idea.
“Mom, I want to paint an owl,” Dieter said. “Can you draw one for me?”
“Sure,” Mom said. She drew an owl.
Dieter dipped his paintbrush into some paint. He painted the owl’s wings first. He made some feathers brown and some feathers orange. As he painted, he listened to the other talks. Even when all the talks were over, Dieter kept working. He wanted the owl to be perfect.
At last Dieter was done. He showed the owl to Mom.
“It looks great!” Mom said. “Should we hang it up?”
Dieter shook his head no. “I want to sell it and give the money to help people who don’t have enough money. Like they talked about in conference.”
Mom smiled. “Let’s see what we can do.”
She posted a picture of Dieter’s painting to sell online. Mom wrote that said Dieter would give the money to a shelter for people without homes.
The next day, Dieter and Mom checked the post. Dieter couldn’t believe it! Lots of people wanted to buy his picture. He was glad so many people wanted to help.
A restaurant in Dieter’s city asked to buy the painting. They said they would pay 10 times more than Dieter and Mom had asked for! Other stores asked him for paintings too. Dieter had more work to do!
Mom traced more animals, and Dieter got out his paints. He painted a wolf, a lion, and an orca. He liked the orca the best. He named it “Otis the Orca.” A grocery store near his house bought it. The next time Dieter went to the store, he saw it hanging on the wall!
“Look, Mom!” Dieter pointed to the painting.
“Wow!” Mom said. “Now whenever we come here, we can remember how your talents helped people.”
Dieter was proud that people liked his paintings. But he was even happier that he could help others. He was glad he had listened during general conference.
Dieter made paintings to sell because he wanted to help people. How could you help others?
Illustrations by Natalie Campbell

Uncle Jack had been a police officer most of his life. His job was to help people who needed help. He used his radio to hear about people in trouble, his police car to get there in a hurry, and his badge to tell people he was a friend. He also used his fast legs, strong arms, and quick mind to come to the rescue.
Lots of people counted on Uncle Jack.
When Uncle Jack became a grandpa, he decided to put away his radio, his police car, and his badge and do something less dangerous. He didn’t like giving up his trusty aids, but he decided there were other ways to help people. So he began working as a security guard. His job was to make sure the school buses were kept safe at night. He counted each bus as it came back after its long day of carrying children to and from school. Then he parked all the buses in a huge building. Even though he didn’t need his radio, his fast car, or his badge to keep the buses safe, he did miss his old aids. Now the only aid he really needed was his big flashlight.
Because he cared about the children who would ride the buses to school the next morning, he walked around the building each night with his bright light, checking every door to make sure no one could break in and cause problems.
One cold night after Uncle Jack finished his job and got in his car to drive home, he heard the Holy Ghost whisper in his mind, “Go back into the building.” But Uncle Jack thought, I have a long ride home. I’m hungry and tired, and I’d have to turn off the security alarm before I could open the giant door.
He decided to keep driving.
About two blocks farther, he heard the voice again. This time it wasn’t a whisper. “Go back into the building.” But Uncle Jack kept driving.
About three blocks farther, he heard the voice for the third time. This time it was loud! Uncle Jack turned the car around, drove to the giant door, and left his car headlights shining on it. Then he turned off the alarm and began raising the heavy door.
As the door went up, the car lights shone brightly on a small boy standing alone in the darkness of the building. As Uncle Jack walked closer, he could see that the boy’s face was streaked with tears.
He was a five-year-old who had fallen asleep in the back of the bus, and no one had noticed. “I prayed that someone would help me,” the boy said. “I prayed and prayed.”
“Heavenly Father heard your prayer,” Uncle Jack told him. “I used to get messages over the police radio in my car, but this time Heavenly Father sent me a message through the Holy Ghost.”
Uncle Jack helped the lost boy find his parents, and everyone was safe and warm at home that night.
Even though he no longer had a fast car, a badge, or a radio to receive messages on, Uncle Jack was still helping people. The Holy Ghost had become his most important aid.

As my wife, Nuria, and I were taught the restored gospel of Jesus Christ in 1982 by missionaries, they asked me the following question: “Do you believe there are true prophets on Earth today?” I had never been asked that question before. As I started thinking of what I knew of true prophets, a scripture came to my mind. “Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves” (Matthew 7:15).
I thought, if God warns me of false prophets, then that means that there must be true prophets. My response to the missionaries was, “Yes, there are true prophets on earth.” A warm feeling came to my heart when I said that, and I felt that it was true. The Holy Ghost was testifying in my heart that it was true. I just did not know it at the time. The smiling and loving faces of the missionaries also confirmed to me that it was the right answer. Then they asked an inspired question, “If there are true prophets on earth now, where are they?” I could not think of an answer, for I had never heard any living person call himself a prophet.
It was at that point that they taught us about Joseph Smith and the Restoration of the gospel. In Matthew 7:16 we read, “Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles?” Along with the Restoration, the elders spoke of the Book of Mormon, as a true fruit of the Restoration.
I’ve since come to know that the Book of Mormon is the word of God and a second witness, with the Holy Bible, of Jesus Christ. Nuria and I were subsequently baptized. We had fasted and prayed to confirm in our hearts that Joseph Smith indeed was a true prophet, that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the Lord’s true Church on earth, and that His desire for Nuria and me was that we be baptized.
We continued attending Church and learning the gospel from study and by faith. We gradually grew in our conversion and in a stronger faith in Jesus Christ. I knew then, and I know now, of the truths of the divine role of our Savior Jesus Christ and of His true Church on earth.
Once we heard the words of our Savior Jesus Christ through His living prophets, we acted quickly and obeyed. The Holy Ghost then confirmed to us the truthfulness of those words and of our obedience. Our good choices have led to blessings and direction in life from Jesus Christ.

Now I will close with my testimony. I was not raised in the LDS Church, but like Nephi of old, I was raised by goodly parents. My mother and father honored God and taught my three brothers and me to do the same. My mother, now a widow, still sets the example for me by attending Catholic mass seven days a week. In my 42 years of life, my mom has always been a constant source of spiritual strength for me.

While I was at West Point as an undergraduate, I came across the Book of Mormon. I read it as a skeptic, in an attempt to prove it wrong. Halfway through that sacred text, I came across Alma 32 and the experiment. Recall that Alma compares the Book of Mormon to a seed and explains that if a person performs the experiment of reading and praying over the Book of Mormon, he or she can find out through the witness of the Holy Spirit if it is true.

I took the experiment, my heart was softened, and the Spirit bore testimony to me that the Book of Mormon is the word of God. With this knowledge, it was confirmed to me that the Bible is also the word of God, for the Book of Mormon testifies of it. Joseph Smith was an actual prophet, for he translated the work. The Lord’s Church has been restored on earth in these latter days. And most important, the Book of Mormon clearly testifies that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the Living God.

It has been over 20 years since I felt the still, small voice testify to me that the Book of Mormon is the word of God. I have felt that testimony many times between then and now.