Gospel Story Finder

Right after I was baptized and confirmed, my grandmother said, “You have the Holy Ghost now, and it’s important that you have a testimony of the prophet.” Soon I went to general conference for the first time—the October conference of 1949.
It was quite an adventure. I slept over at my grandparents’ house. I remember getting up very early on Saturday morning and riding the bus to downtown Salt Lake City with my grandmother. We walked over to Temple Square and stood in a line for a long, long time. When we got to the Tabernacle, we sat in the back corner.
Just before the meeting started, there was a hush and everybody stood up. Then President George Albert Smith (1870–1951) walked in. I could see President Smith and his counselors. I’ve never forgotten how I felt when I first saw the prophet. I felt something very, very special. I knew he was the Lord’s prophet.
That was a very important event. I feel the same way when I see the President of the Church now. I have served as a General Authority now with three Presidents of the Church. And when the President walks in, I still have that testimony: “He’s the prophet.”

One youth Sunday School teacher wondered how to help two young men with autism act for themselves. When she invited class members to share what they were learning, she worried that these two young men might refuse her invitation. But they didn’t. One stood to teach what he had learned and then invited his classmate with autism to help him. When the first began to struggle, his classmate stayed with him and whispered in his ear so that he could feel successful. They were both teaching that day. They were teaching what the Savior taught, but they were also teaching how the Savior taught. When the Savior taught, He acted out of love for the one He was teaching, just as this classmate did for his friend.5

I was happy that I eventually did get married in the temple, but sometimes I still felt like I didn’t fit in. I had a testimony, but I couldn’t figure out how to share it, and church classrooms felt like tests where my peers would see me fail. I thought that because most of them had the lives I wanted, they hadn’t stumbled as much as I had.

One day the bishop called me in and extended the call to teach elders quorum. I was surprised, since I had only been to elders quorum twice in the last year. Despite feeling incredibly anxious, I accepted the calling. On my first Sunday teaching, I found myself starting out with probably the strangest introduction they had ever heard:

“Hi, brothers, I’m Richard Monson. I never served a mission and I’ve been inactive most of my adult life. I haven’t attended elders quorum pretty much ever because I don’t feel like I belong or fit in. I won’t be able to answer all your questions, but I’m hoping that you will participate so we can learn together. If you’re OK with where I’m coming from, then we’ll get started.”

I realized that day that I could admit to others—and to myself—that even though I didn’t consider myself a “straight arrow” (someone who served a mission, was active all their lives, and hadn’t made serious mistakes), I was pointed in the same direction as they were, and that was what mattered. To my amazement, I found that more than one of these men whom I thought led perfect lives had made mistakes too. I think it reinforced the idea to all of us that perfection isn’t a requirement to bring value to the class or the Church as a whole.

While serving as a mission president I asked a missionary who was having difficulty developing the spirit of his calling to go for a drive. We drove far up into the hills. No one was near. After several hours he finally revealed the problem he had been hiding and his feeling of guilt. He was ashamed of what he had done. I listened. We talked it out. Then we watched a missionary virtually come to life with the spirit of his calling.

On July 27, 2013, after a long battle with Alzheimer’s disease, my life partner of 25 years passed away. Jay Eldredge was a world-renowned cardiologist. We had both served missions for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when we were younger but then distanced ourselves from the Church because of same-sex attraction.

Jay’s death, although not unexpected, was devastating. I felt heartbroken and lost and alone.

While driving home after making the funeral arrangements, I felt the influence of the Spirit overwhelm me so strongly that I had to pull over to the side of the road. I knew that God was speaking to me, calling me back to Him, but I was resistant. “Can’t you see that I’m suffering?” I said aloud. “I can’t face going back to church right now.”

But the more I protested, the more the Spirit pulled at me, inviting me back to church.

I was deeply worried about returning to church. I hadn’t been to a sacrament meeting in 25 years. Would they even accept me? Would I accept them? What would the bishop say? I felt anxious and unsettled and still heavy with grief.

But my testimony of the gospel had never wavered in all those years. Jay and I loved the Church and its guiding principles—namely, charity, mercy, and forgiveness. I knew that Christ was my Savior and that His Church was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I had known that since my conversion and baptism at the age of 14. I wasn’t about to deny that now.

Finally, after mustering the necessary courage, I called the Linwood Ward in New Jersey, USA, to find out what time sacrament meeting started.

As Sunday approached, the adversary put many obstacles in my path that could have easily prevented me from attending. How grateful I am that the Holy Ghost persisted.

I felt nervous as I entered the building, but the opening hymn in sacrament meeting reassured me that I was home again. The hymn “Come, Come, Ye Saints” (Hymns, no. 30) invited the Spirit so powerfully that tears flowed down my face. I knew in that instant that Heavenly Father was aware of me and the deep sadness I was feeling.

That hymn has become an unofficial anthem of sorts for the Church, but it has become my personal anthem as well.

“Come,” the hymn invites me. “Though hard to you this journey may appear, grace shall be as your day.”

My journey was hard. But grace did attend me as promised.

Bishop Darren Bird and the rest of the congregation were wonderful and welcoming. They accepted me as their brother in Christ.

The words of “Come, Come, Ye Saints” took on greater meaning to me, however, as I felt Heavenly Father directing me on how I should proceed.

We’ll find the place which God for us prepared,
Far away in the West,
Where none shall come to hurt or make afraid;
There the Saints will be blessed.

I went west and bought a home in Fountain Hills, Arizona, USA, where I met Bishop Jerry Olson. When I requested to meet with him and shook his hand, the Spirit impressed upon me that this man would help bring me back into full activity in the Church.

As I began visiting with the bishop and embarking on this reconciliation with Heavenly Father, I witnessed many spiritual miracles. I was open with the bishop, for which he was grateful. He said that helped him better understand where I had been and where I was now in my relationship with God. He also lovingly informed me that this was the first time that he had had an opportunity to minister to someone with same-sex attraction, and he asked for my patience and forgiveness if he said or did anything to offend me throughout the process.

I thanked him for his honesty and said, “Well, this is my first time as well. We’ll learn together.”

Thus began a wonderful journey and friendship!

Soon I had an action plan on how to become a member again. I accepted the loving and prayerful counsel with a grateful heart and began the process.

Later, as I followed that counsel and worked hard to draw closer to Christ, I received the restoration of my priesthood and temple blessings and accepted a call to serve in the elders quorum. In the holy temple, as I communed with Heavenly Father, He showed me how much He loves all His children. I felt solace and a deep desire to please Him.

Months later, a new bishop was called, with whom I have also developed a loving friendship. Bishop Larry Radford knew of my circumstance and appreciated my service in the elders quorum, where he said I had served with love and devotion not only for the quorum but also—and more importantly—for God. His kind words and encouragement helped me feel that the Lord and my fellow Saints were pleased with my service.

I now faithfully serve as the ward clerk.

Having same-sex attraction and being an active member of the Church is not always easy. But as I put all my faith and trust in God, I can feel Him strengthening me. Critics will no doubt say that I’m not being true to who I am or that I’m disappointing the LGBT+ community.

I understand their frustration, and I obviously don’t have all the answers. I can only speak of my own experience. And that experience has taught me this: I am Heavenly Father’s son, a child of God. That’s the one and only label that matters to me. As a result, I try not to allow the world’s labels to define me. I fear that will limit my potential and eternal progression.

Satan is very clever. He knows that by using labels, he can divide us as a community and as a church.

With that perspective in mind, the choices I make are not based on my same-sex attraction but on how to be a true disciple of Christ with same-sex attraction. As Nephi said:

“O Lord, I have trusted in thee, and I will trust in thee forever. I will not put my trust in the arm of flesh. …
“… I know that God will give liberally to him that asketh. Yea, my God will give me, if I ask not amiss; therefore I will lift up my voice unto thee; yea, I will cry unto thee, my God, the rock of my righteousness. Behold, my voice shall forever ascend up unto thee, my rock and mine everlasting God” (2 Nephi 4:34–35).

Throughout my return, I felt the loving companionship of my leaders and fellow Saints, including active and less-active LGBT+ members. I found a place where I could thrive. I found among them the attributes of Christ that I had always associated with my faith: mercy, compassion, understanding, and, above all, love.

As I struggled along the path with my Savior, I felt comfort and peace as I turned to Him, knowing that I wasn’t walking that path alone. Several bishops were there beside me. Members of my quorum. Sisters in the ward. I even had a young man in the ward ask me if I would ordain him a priest. His kind invitation deeply moved me. He saw me as a man who holds the priesthood of God and who can exercise that priesthood in service to others.

These opportunities to serve and worship with my fellow Saints have lifted me and—along with the many blessings I’ve received from the Lord—helped me experience the love, understanding, and acceptance that I needed.

The Savior said, “I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you” (John 14:18). Those words are true. I needed comforting, and He came to me, more abundantly than I could have imagined.

I often suggest that people think honestly about their temptations. One individual who tried this approach realized the women depicted in pornography would not act that way in real life. He learned that the images he saw were enhanced using computer technology and did not represent reality. He further discovered that some of the actors indulged in alcohol or drugs to numb their feelings, allowing them to participate in degrading activities. Because of this man’s honest approach to pornography and his efforts to recognize it for what it is, its attraction diminished significantly. He was able to cultivate more fully his ability to distinguish good from evil (see Gen. 3:5; Moses 4:11).

Congratulations to the Figueroa sisters of Puerto Rico, 16-year-old identical triplets who were baptized not long ago. The missionaries had visited their home more than seven years ago but hadn’t returned. One day last year, Belen felt inspired to take a different route home from school, where she found other elders. She approached them and asked them to come teach her family.
They did, and soon Awilda, Belen, Cecilia, and Carmen (an older sister) were baptized.
They’re all active in the Trujillo Alto Ward and love seminary and Young Women.

When I was 17 years old, we lived on an island in southern Norway called Andabeløy. My father converted to the Church on Andabeløy, and I was baptized in the ocean there.
I was a fisherman by that time and was well experienced in handling a boat. My father put me in charge of our maritime taxi service used by area residents.
One day in 1941 we got a call from the doctor in Flekkefjord, to the north. A woman who lived about two hours away by boat needed immediate medical attention. Dr. Hoffman asked if I could take him to see her, but my parents were worried about a storm raging in the North Sea. We decided to pray, asking Heavenly Father what to do. We received an answer that I should proceed.
When I eased Tryg, my 31-foot (10 m) fishing boat, into the sea, the weather was bad and the waves were big. After picking up the doctor, I set out through the fjord into the open sea. We were to travel to a community just north of Lista, located on Norway’s rocky southern coastline—famous for stormy weather and shipwrecks.
I steered through the storm until we got to a rocky inlet, about 40 feet (12 m) across, which led to our destination. The waves, so high I could not control the boat through the inlet, were rushing into the inlet and crashing against the rocks.
“What should we do?” the doctor asked over the gale.
“We have to pray about it,” I replied.
I paused and prayed, asking Heavenly Father for direction. As soon as I had said amen, an answer came to me clearly. I suddenly recalled a story an old fisherman had told me. He had been fishing in this same area during a bad storm and couldn’t get to shore. As he waited out the storm, he noticed a pattern in the incoming waves. After three great big waves washed in, a short period of calm followed—long enough for him to enter the inlet.
I had fished many times in this area but had never noticed a wave pattern. Nevertheless, I brought the boat to the front of the inlet, where we waited and watched as three big waves came in. Sure enough, a sudden calm followed. I glided the boat forward over the smooth water of the inner bay and brought Dr. Hoffman safely to shore. He hurried to the ill woman while I waited in the boat, thankful Heavenly Father had answered my prayer.
When the doctor returned about an hour later, he declared, “We saved her life!”
Relieved by the news and the improving weather, I piloted the boat home without incident.
I bear witness that when we need help, we should pray. I know that Heavenly Father will answer.

I dragged myself into the dark bedroom, tempted to collapse onto the bed and immediately drift to sleep. My eyes seemed to weigh me down, and my feet felt like lead. I wanted to crawl under my covers, but my desire for an answer to my prayer was greater. I knew I must once again approach the Lord.
I knelt at my bedside and silently pondered the things I was about to ask my Heavenly Father. Would He really answer me this time? Did I deserve to be answered? As I felt my faith wavering, I chose to focus my attention on the countless lessons I had learned in my life, instead of on my doubts. One scripture in particular stood out to me.
“But without faith it is impossible to please him: for he that cometh to God must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him” (Heb. 11:6).
I wanted to know that Joseph Smith was a real prophet. I wanted to know for myself that he truly saw Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ in the Sacred Grove. As a Latter-day Saint, I felt a strong testimony of Joseph Smith was a vital part of my foundation in the Church. I mustered all the faith I could find within my soul by focusing on the times the Lord had shown His hand in my life. I began asking Heavenly Father to help me really know what I had only believed all my life.
I knew the only way for me to receive this knowledge was by the Holy Ghost telling me it was true. I wasn’t sure I had received that type of communication. How would I know the Holy Ghost was talking to me? Would I hear a voice? Would I feel a burning in my bosom like the scriptures say? I didn’t know, but I continued to pray. I sat silently and tried to listen for the whisperings of the Spirit. I didn’t hear a voice, and I didn’t feel anything unusual. Discouraged, I crawled into bed and fell asleep, telling myself I would get my answer tomorrow night.
The obnoxious beep of my alarm clock rang in my ear at 5:30 the next morning. I reluctantly got up and started getting ready for seminary. Before I knew it, I was pulling into the church parking lot.
As I walked into my classroom, my teacher was pulling a television into the center of the room. I quickly took a seat on a cold, folding chair near the back. I had obviously missed the introduction to the video we were about to watch. However, once the movie started to play, I recognized it quickly. It was “The First Vision,” produced by the Church. I had seen it a number of times and thought I understood all there was to learn from it. But as I watched Joseph’s experience in the grove, something incredible happened to me. A powerful, peaceful feeling rested on me and I knew it was the Holy Ghost. The Spirit began to testify that what I was seeing really happened. I knew that Joseph Smith saw Heavenly Father and Jesus.
I was surprised. I was not expecting my answer to come that morning. I thought it would come while I was praying. The Spirit spoke to me, and I knew this was the answer I had been asking for. I’m very grateful for the way Heavenly Father answered my prayer. I now have a strong testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith. I know if I exercise faith by reading the scriptures and praying, I can receive personal revelation through the Holy Ghost.

We ought to remember we don’t dictate to God the timing of His answers to us and the content of what comes in response to our prayers. I learned this when I was about 16. I was in the pageant at Hill Cumorah. I lived in New Jersey at the time, and they had some of the youth from New Jersey and New York as participants. I thought I had a deep belief in the Prophet Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon and felt that they were true and that the First Vision was as he described it. I thought, “This is the perfect chance. I’ll go to the Sacred Grove one night after the performance and get the final confirmation I need there.”

So I did. I went there late one night. It was a beautiful summer evening. Nobody else was there—perfectly reverent and peaceful. And I prayed. I didn’t ask for anything specific. I just said, “Can I have some confirmation of my belief?” Really I wanted a testimony of my feeling about the Prophet and the Book of Mormon.

Nothing happened. I prayed a long time—I’m sure more than an hour. Nothing. I was really disappointed. I said, “What did I do wrong? Why didn’t the Lord answer me? Wasn’t it the perfect place, the perfect time? What should I have done that I didn’t do?”

Later, what I was looking for came, but it was at home in a quiet moment when I was reading the Book of Mormon. That witness from the Holy Ghost flooded over me, and I knew. I knew I knew. And when I looked back on the experience, I said, “Why didn’t He answer my prayer then? Why was it later?” I learned two important lessons from that:

First, you don’t have to be any place special for the Lord to answer your prayer. You don’t have to make a pilgrimage to Palmyra or Jerusalem or anything like that. He knows where you are. He knows your name. He can answer you right here, right now, any moment.

And second, you don’t dictate to God. You just don’t tell Him what and when. That comes according to His will and His timing and His wisdom. He loves us; He knows what’s best for us, and our job is to be open. Our job is always to be willing and ready to receive. Then He knows what’s best and when to answer us and how to answer us. So, after all is said and done, we still have to live by faith.

In 1991 I received my patriarchal blessing and was instructed that I should be concerned about my deceased relatives and dedicate myself to them. I set a goal to do this, which led to daily discussions with my parents, who were not members of the Church. I often asked questions about my family, but my mother could tell me only about my grandparents.
One day my mother told me that Uncle Gilberto, my father’s brother, had suffered a heart attack. “I know he would love to talk with you,” my mother said. “He has a great memory, and he could give you a great deal of information about the family.”
When I called him at the nursing home where he was staying, his wife answered and told me that my uncle was doing poorly and couldn’t talk. I gave her my best wishes and told her that I would pray for them and their family.
The next day I called the nursing home again. To my surprise, my uncle answered the telephone.
“Uncle Gilberto!” I said. “I called to tell you that I have prayed fervently for your recovery and that I love you.”
“Thank you very much, Bibi,” he replied. “I woke up this morning feeling much better. Tell me what’s going on with you.”
I told him of my eagerness to know the names of family members who were from Arabia and Lebanon. My mother was right about my uncle’s memory. He knew names, dates, and places for four generations on my father’s side of the family.
When I hung up the phone, I felt that our conversation would be the last one we would share in this life. I was right. But the Lord had blessed us both so that I could obtain information I needed to unite our family—both now and in the eternities.

In Belfast, in quieter times, I had two roommates—girls of another faith whom I had met through a mutual friend. None of us had any extra money. Carol and Anne were both midwifery students, and I was saving for a postgraduate nursing course.
Our apartment was dismal, faded, and hard to bear, but we could find no other place within our means.
Nevertheless, Carol and Anne decided to call the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and offer to give a Christmas party for 12 needy children. Of course, I agreed to help with the work and the financing as did Carol’s sister Marian.
I had seen some of the miseries of the slums. The most appalling thing I remembered was a little girl in a torn summer dress sitting on the cold, windy sidewalk molding a lump of filthy clay because she had no other toy. I could not now find and help that child, but I could try to help some others.
Our Christmas tree was two feet high, decorated with nine small glass balls, one package of tinfoil icicles, and a star we had made from the foil inside a cracker box. The room was decorated with a few streamers and a dozen balloons. The food was simple—fried potatoes and sausages, grilled tomatoes, cookies, and orangeade. Fancy food is almost unknown to ghetto children, and we were afraid they would not eat anything unfamiliar.
Besides, we couldn’t afford it. The 12 gifts were small and inexpensive: a string of plastic beads, a doll’s feeding set, a young child’s picture book, small toys and games. And, remembering the girl on the sidewalk, I bought a package of clay.
The children arrived semiclean and in their best rags. Eleven, twelve, thirteen! One of the girls had come with her toddler sister, who had refused to stay at home. That presented a problem.
In those days my annual project for the Relief Society bazaar was dressing little plastic dolls in sturdy clothes for girls to play with. Several such dolls were in my room. I quickly wrapped one of them in the last scrap of tissue paper for our extra guest and hurriedly put it under the tree.
Most of the children stood in a group at the door, but one determined boy about eight years old examined all the gifts through the paper.
“If you don’t mind, Missus,” he declared, “I’ll have this game of blow football for me and me mates.”
Carol smiled but was firm.
“We’re giving out the presents at the end of the party. Right now we’re going to play some games.”
We played their games; they played our games. We told stories; they related past experiences. We sang songs and grew decidedly tired of the children’s favorite, “Jingle Bells.”
“Last year,” announced the oldest girl, trying hard to be sophisticated in an ill-fitting sheath and high heels much too large, “I was to a party in the Linen Makers’ Hall. Hundreds of us there was, and a tree 30 feet high.”
“Was it grand, but?” asked a slightly envious voice.
“It wasn’t, for no one had time to talk with us like these good ladies are doing.”
We served the simple food, which first brought forth cries of delight and then the silence of serious eating.
“Ye’ve left food on your plate,” objected our blow football elf to his neighbor.
“I can’t eat it, but,” she replied, “for I’ve never had this much food on me plate at once.”
“Give it here, then, for tis a shame to waste good food.”
He ate several children’s leavings and then conceded defeat.
He could not prevent a few scraps from going to waste. We gave him the blow football game. We gave the 12-year-old, would-be sophisticate the plastic beads.
We gave the doll’s feeding set to a seven-year-old Raggedy Ann.
“It’s no use to me, Missus. I ain’t got a doll.”
So the Relief Society lost another plastic doll. This time it was wrapped in writing paper, and we pretended it had fallen behind the tree. “Tis the best party I was ever at,” someone announced with satisfaction.
“I felt right to home.”
“Indeed it was grand, Missus,” seconded another voice. “For whenever we’uns wanted something, one of you ladies was near.”
I thought then that I had learned something about giving, but I was shortly to learn more.
The sophisticate I noticed, had traded her beads for the clay, the clay for a toy car, the toy car for the baby’s picture book.
“Sure it’ll do,” she said, trying to rewrap it. The used cellophane tape wouldn’t stick.
“And would you have a bit of string, Missus? And a pencil, please?” I produced them, wondering.
She tied the parcel awkwardly, and in large uneven letters she printed on it “TOMMY.”
She saw me looking and she explained: “Tis me wee brother, Missus. Nobody invited him to a party, and we can’t afford him no present.”
Ragged, messy little girl in your run-over, outsized high heels, I seem to remember that you are beautiful.

Deep in the Gran Chaco—the sparsely settled, arid wilderness that covers much of northwestern Paraguay—is Nivoclé Boquerón, a settlement of about forty Latter-day Saint families. These members, Nivoclé Indians, have nicknamed their village La Abundancia (“Bountiful”). Most speak only the Nivoclé language; some also speak a little Spanish. They have moved here from Mistolar, a larger, more remote settlement of LDS Nivoclé Indians. (See Elder Ted E. Brewerton, “Mistolar: Spiritual Oasis,” Tambuli, September 1990, page 10.) Missionary couples have helped the group in La Abundancia dig a water hole at each end of the village. The missionary couples are also teaching them to raise goats and to plant and harvest crops—enough to subsist on, and some extra to sell.
The branch meets in a one-room wooden chapel, lit by kerosene lanterns. Almost every evening, there’s something going on there, usually a seminary class that turns into choir practice later on in the evening. Both youths and adults participate in the choir, singing the hymns in beautiful four-part harmony without a piano.
Outside the meetinghouse is a homemade baptismal font. There’s an area where the boys play fútbol. There’s also a garden, a few trees, and a small cemetery.
Buried in that cemetery is Ireneo Arenas, the baby son of Jorge Arenas and his wife Rosa. In August 1989, Jorge and Rosa left Mistolar with their three young children and accompanied two other families on the journey of over 2100 kilometers by bus to the Buenos Aires Temple. “When we left Mistolar, the baby was sick with a cold,” says Jorge. “By the time we arrived in Buenos Aires, he was much worse. It was very cold. We went to the temple and were sealed as a family. The baby was still sick.”
When they returned to Paraguay, they decided to stay in La Abundancia, rather than traveling several more hours to Mistolar. The baby continued to get worse. “There was nothing we could do for him,” says Jorge. Five days later, the baby died.
“As I held my son, I was thinking how grateful I was that we had just been sealed in the temple. I know that he is with our Heavenly Father and that we will be with him again someday. Now we are trying to keep all the commandments of our Heavenly Father, because we are thinking of our baby.”
Jorge and Rosa have settled in La Abundancia. Formerly a branch president, Jorge is now in the elders quorum presidency and is assistant choir director and seminary teacher. They have three daughters: Dominga, 9; Basílica, 7; and Marivel, 2.
“When the missionaries first taught me the gospel,” he says, “I felt something that I thought was the Holy Spirit. I have felt that spirit often, especially when I am reading the Book of Mormon. Jesus Christ came to our ancestors here in the Americas. For a time, they obeyed the commandments. But later, they rejected them. I want to serve wherever I am called in the Church, because I know that as we serve in the Church, the Lord will bless us. I know that Jesus Christ died for us. He was resurrected for us. And he forgives us of our sins. I know that he lives.”

Merry Christmas, Grandma and Grandpa, my two favorite missionaries!
Love,
Abby
Eight-year-old Abby was underlining the word love when her brother, Zac, marched into the living room. “What are you doing?” he asked, peering over her shoulder.
“Finishing my Christmas card for Grandma and Grandpa. Are you done with yours?” Abby looked up at six-year-old Zac as he dropped a fistful of crayons onto the table.
Zac shook his head. “I don’t really want to make a card for them.”
“Why not?” Abby asked, surprised.
Zac shrugged. “I don’t know. It was strange not having them here for Thanksgiving. I missed Grandpa’s great stories about the turkey hunts he used to go on with his dad. And it didn’t seem the same without Grandma serving her secret-recipe pumpkin pie.”
Abby nodded. “It’s been three months since Grandpa and Grandma left on their mission. We’ve never gone that long without seeing them. I miss them too.”
“I always thought that if people loved you, they wouldn’t want to leave you.”
Abby glanced around the living room at the four red knit stockings hung on the mantelpiece, the garland strung around the kitchen doorway, and the colored lights blinking brightly on the Christmas tree. Suddenly her gaze became fixed on the nativity scene placed on a small wooden table in the corner of the room.
“Come with me,” Abby said, gently tugging Zac’s sleeve. She led him over to the small table. “Isn’t this beautiful?”
“Sure,” Zac said with a puzzled look on his face.
Abby carefully picked up two shepherd figures and three small white sheep from the manger scene. She set them on the floor beside her. “Zac, what if an angel hadn’t appeared to the shepherds, telling them Jesus was born?”
“Abby,” Zac said, upset, “the manger doesn’t look right without the shepherds and the sheep.”
“I know,” Abby said softly. “Help me put these back in place.”
She pressed the two shepherds into his hands. “The shepherds knew about Jesus because someone told them. But, Zac,” she added as he placed the shepherds close to the manger, “there are a lot of people who don’t know about Jesus.”
Zac ran his fingers over the top of the stable. “And Grandma and Grandpa are going to find some and teach them about Him.”
“That’s right. Think what a special Christmas this will be for the families Grandma and Grandpa are teaching the gospel to.”
“I still miss them,” Zac said, almost in a whisper.
“Me too,” Abby agreed.
Zac scooped up his crayons. “See you later,” he said.
“Where are you going?” Abby asked.
“I want to make my Christmas card for Grandma and Grandpa.”
“Show it to me when you’re finished, OK?” Abby called as her brother disappeared around the corner. Her gaze returned to the nativity scene. She smiled and gently touched the small star above the manger. “Merry Christmas, Grandma and Grandpa.”

I will begin with an image that has haunted me for years. During my time as a graduate student at Columbia University, I served in the presidency of the New York Stake Young Women organization. One summer I was working on girls’ camp. I had a funny little car, bought on a shoestring and dedicated to the Lord’s service—it was called a Gremlin. Most of you are probably too young to even remember that model, but it did have four wheels and was put together with spit and glue. One of my assignments for camp was the apples, lots of apples. I headed out to Hunt’s Point Market, which was quite a distance, to get the apples. Upon arriving, I simply opened the hatchback and said, “Fill ’er up.”

Heading upstate, I had to travel a number of cloverleafs in order to make a switch in direction. On the side of the highway just to the right as I entered the interstate on-ramp, I caught a glimpse of a young woman hitchhiker standing with a sign. The sign said, “Anywhere.” I quickly passed by. While my father was famous for picking up almost any stray and bringing it home, I had never stopped for a hitchhiker before in my life, especially not in New York. At that moment, however, something prompted me to reenter the cloverleaf and come back around. I thought to myself, “If she is still there, I will pick her up.” Being honest, I was hoping that she would be gone, but she wasn’t. So I stopped. She opened the car door and got in. She was unkempt, odoriferous, and very interesting. I was not sure how old she was. She was young, but clearly old beyond her years. Thinking to break the ensuing silence I said, “Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” she responded.

I motioned, and reaching to the back of the car she grabbed an apple. It’s all I had, a car full of apples. She ate quickly and put the core on the dashboard by wedging it tightly against the windshield. Usually I am pretty good at conversation, but not this time: “Yes,” “No,” or no answer at all.

I finally said, “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere,” she said.

Somewhat stumped, even irritated, I said, “Are you still hungry?”

She reached for another apple until there were five apple cores lined up against my dashboard, pressed against the window.

“Two can play this game,” I thought, so in silence I paid the tolls and we made our way upstate. As I was about to turn off the freeway onto a little road where our camp was located, I said, “I’m about to turn off the main freeway. Would you like to get out?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m going to a camp with some young women, and I’ll just have to drop you off there.”

Looking straight ahead, she responded without feeling, “Fine.”

I turned off, and we traveled on. As my car pulled into camp, those young women surrounded us. They were so happy to see us, and I, needless to say, was happy to see them. As my passenger got out, there were some surprised young women. “Who is she?” “Where did she come from?” “What is she doing here?” Talking for a moment, I suggested that she may want to go out to the mailbox by the road. Perhaps somebody would pick her up there and she could be on her way to anywhere. The day passed. We had lunch and went about all the things you do at girls’ camp. Just before dinner, one of our young women came to me and said, “Sister Mouritsen, what are we going do with . . . with . . . it?”

“What do you mean, it?”

Pointing, she said, “What are we going to do with her?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “What do you think we should do with her?”

“I think we should invite her to dinner.”

Wow, I wish I’d thought of that, but I didn’t. It took a little Mia Maid to do that.

“Let’s go out together,” I said, “and we’ll invite her in.”

Hand in hand, we walked to the mailbox by the roadside. She came in and had dinner with us and stayed the entire week. I must admit that I was somewhat anxious, thinking it was a bit of a risk. I didn’t know who she was or where she’d come from or what she might have. But those young women embraced her in a most marvelous way. I saw her at the waterfront; I saw her in the craft tent; I saw her around the fireside. I watched her all week long. When camp was over, I said to her, “Can I take you some where?”

And she said, “Anywhere.”

“Well, I’m headed back to New York City.”

“I don’t want to go there,” she snapped. “Just let me off on the freeway.”

We got in my car—minus the apples—made our way to the freeway, and I let her off.

This is the image that haunts me. I watched her disappear in my rearview mirror as she stood on the roadside posting her clumsily written sign, “Anywhere.” Over the years, that image has come to mind many, many times.

Returning to my earlier story, one day my secretary rang in and said, “There’s a young woman with a baby here to see you. She said it won’t do any good to give you her name. You won’t know her by name.”

I welcomed her in, and she sat at my table holding a beautiful baby girl.

“Do you recognize me?” she said.

“No, I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

“I have known you were here, but I haven’t quite known what to say. I’m the young woman you picked up on the highway in New York City some years ago. Although angry and hardened, I was touched by what I heard and saw and felt at girls’ camp.”

She continued to explain that it had been a horrible life for her, including a long history of abuse at a very young age. Finally, she thought, “There’s got to be something better than this out there.”

So she ran. As you might expect, a young woman of her age with no resources ended up in desperate places. That is when I found her and she found me on the New York freeway.

“When I left girls’ camp, I stole a dollar. Now I know that all I had to do was ask and you would have given money to me, or anyone would have given it to me. But I stole a dollar. (By this time we were both in tears.) When you drove off and left me on the freeway, I had time to think, as it was several hours before somebody picked me up. I went to the very next city and found a telephone book. I thumbed through the Yellow Pages until I found The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I rang up the number. I wanted to see if what you folks said was really true. A pleasant woman answered the phone, and I asked for the bishop. I’d heard you use that term, bishop, at camp,” she said.

“He isn’t home right now,” was the response, “but I’d be happy to have him call you back.”

“I don’t have a telephone number. I’ll call him back.”

And she did.

What happened next is a true miracle. This good family took in this waif and made her a member of their family. They cared for her and taught her and loved her. Eventually she joined the Church, she met a returned missionary, and they married. He was now a student at BYU. She came that day with baby in hand, a newly adopted baby, to extend an invitation.

“I would like to invite you to the blessing of our baby. Can you come?”

And I said, “Anytime.”

I met the angel who would become my wife at an institute party the second night I was home from my mission. Although Shelley and I grew up in Canada several hundred miles apart and had never met before, we got to know each other well over the following months. When I had proposed three times and been turned down because she was committed to serving a mission, she finally accepted my proposal after I promised her that we would serve missions together after raising a family. She accepted an engagement ring on December 22, 1976.
But in the days that followed, both of us felt unsettled—not about marrying each other but about the ring. Let me explain.
In the weeks leading up to our engagement, Shelley and I had spent significant time talking about how we wanted to raise our family and what we wanted our marriage to be like. One of the things at the center of that discussion was our determination to always follow the prophet.
Two months before we were engaged, we listened to lots of talks at the October 1976 general conference reinforcing the principles of self-reliance. This was a topic that President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) and others had been consistently teaching for several years. Both Shelley and I had grown up knowing the importance of growing a garden, having a supply of food, and being generally prepared. But in that general conference, the theme of preparation seemed especially prevalent. Some speakers made reference to the Teton Dam flood that had occurred in June. Among them was Barbara B. Smith (1922–2010), the Relief Society general president, who emphasized the importance of self-reliance—specifically, acquiring a year’s supply of food, as was counseled at the time.1 President Kimball, in the closing session of the conference, reminded Latter-day Saints of the scripture in Luke 6:46, where the Savior says, “Why call ye me, Lord, Lord, and do not the things which I say?” President Kimball then exhorted the Saints to let the messages of conference follow them into their “homes and … future lives.”2
After our engagement, as Shelley and I contemplated the beginning of our marriage and family life, these messages were ringing in our ears. Unbeknownst to each other, both of us were thinking about how to start home storage for our family. To obey the counsel of that time, we needed to start acquiring a year’s supply of food. But how were we supposed to do it? We were students—and would be for years to come—and didn’t have a lot of money. The Holy Ghost gave both of us, separately, the same answer: we needed to sell the engagement ring.
But how was I supposed to ask Shelley to do that? I had just given her the ring. What would she think about my asking her to sell it so we could buy some oats and flour and rice? Meanwhile, she was worrying too. What would I think, she wondered, if she were to approach me about selling the ring I had picked out for her? Would it hurt my feelings?
But the prompting each of us had felt was too strong to ignore, and the more each of us thought about it, the more glaring that diamond ring became. When Shelley raised the subject a few days after Christmas, I was relieved that she had arrived at the same conclusion I had. In many ways, it was a tremendous confirmation to both of us about the choice of whom we were going to marry. To know that our priorities and values were in sync with the other’s and with the prophet of God was tremendously reassuring. I was so grateful for her willingness to make such a sacrifice to follow the prophet.
Please don’t misunderstand me and please don’t sell your rings! Buying or wearing an engagement ring isn’t wrong. In fact, our married children all have lovely and appropriate rings. There are many ways we can follow the prophets and apostles and apply their counsel to our personal lives. But because the Spirit had directed us to follow the prophet by selling our engagement ring, in our case the choice was between keeping the ring and following the prophet. This helped us establish two patterns in our home from the very beginning: following the prophet and following the personal, spiritual promptings we received.
The jewelry store where I had purchased the ring was closed for about a week following Christmas, but at the first opportunity after it reopened, I went to talk to the jeweler. I fully expected him to refuse to offer me a refund; after all, the ring had been worn and was considered used. I prepared myself for this reaction and expected to have to sell the ring secondhand at a significant loss. But to my amazement, the jeweler’s heart was softened. I walked out with cash in hand—and my mouth hanging open in astonishment at how the Lord had opened the way for us to be obedient.
Not everyone received our decision so well. When our friends—including those who were members of the Church—learned what we had done and saw the small leather band I’d fashioned for Shelley to wear, they told us we were crazy. Other women Shelley’s age couldn’t believe she’d been willing to do what she had done. Very few were encouraging or supportive.
Shelley was strong and knew that she would be OK no matter what people thought; she had confidence in knowing that she was following the prophet. And that was more important than anything else. But the Lord provided us with a tender mercy in the form of two friends who helped us feel that we weren’t alone.
My friend Bob and I had introduced Fran to the Church in high school. All three of us later served missions, and after Fran returned from her mission, she and Bob became engaged. When they came to share their good news with Shelley and me, we learned that instead of buying an engagement ring, they had also decided to use the funds to buy food storage. It was interesting to all four of us that the Spirit had directed us to do similar things. Our commitment to following the Holy Ghost and the living prophet added a new dimension to our friendship, which has lasted more than 40 years.
Shelley and I began buying basic foods for our home storage in January 1977 and continued to purchase bit by bit until we were married in April of that year. Prior to our wedding, we stored the food at my parents’ home.
Shelley wore the leather band as a wedding ring for a long time while I finished undergraduate studies and then dental school. Over the course of pursuing education, our family moved many times. We became accustomed to lugging buckets of wheat from apartment to apartment, house to house, and city to city. Our friends started to avoid us every time we moved, but in later years, we felt profound gratitude for having followed the counsel of Church leaders.
When I graduated from dental school and began a dental practice, Shelley and I had two children and literally no funds. Gratefully, we were able to live on part of what we had acquired in food storage just before our marriage. Our obedience to prophetic counsel blessed our lives again more than a decade after we were married, when I had completed more schooling and was in an orthodontic residency. We were again out of money, and instead of paying for groceries with credit cards or borrowed funds, we were blessed to be able to feed our family (which now included four children) from our supply.
In the years since, we have been blessed in many other ways by heeding the prophetic word. We have learned not to question the validity of what the prophets and apostles teach or to wonder if it makes sense. We have learned that by acting—and acting immediately—on their counsel, our lives are blessed.
Some might call our actions blind obedience. But we have the Lord’s personal promise that the prophets will never lead us astray.3 Knowing this helps us hear their voices as we would hear His own (see D&C 1:38).
We’ve also learned that living prophets typically invite us to do things; they don’t often use words like command or exhort. Their way is kind and gentle, but that doesn’t give us an excuse not to follow. When Shelley and I have taken invitations as commandments, we have always been blessed.
We have also learned to discern their direction by listening for such phrases as “I’ve been pondering …” or “Something that has been on my mind is …” or “I feel to tell you …” or “Let me offer some counsel about …” or “It would be my hope that …” These and similar phrases are clues to help us know what is on the minds and in the hearts of the Lord’s anointed servants.
One other thing that helps us hear the Lord’s voice as we listen to prophets and apostles is to pay especially close attention when they quote other prophets or apostles. The Lord has taught that He will establish His word by the mouth of two or three witnesses (see 2 Corinthians 13:1; D&C 6:28).
Because the message of self-reliance was repeated so many times in that general conference before we got engaged, my wife and I felt that the message was particularly pertinent for us at that time. We were inspired to follow that counsel in a visible way. However, following the prophet isn’t always about outward displays of devotion; often our obedience manifests itself in smaller, more personal ways. Regardless of whether others know about our obedience or not, the Lord does. And He will bless us for our obedience and open ways to make it possible.
Today Shelley wears a more traditional wedding band, but she has kept her little leather one as a keepsake all these years. To us it is a symbol of our early decision to make always following the prophet’s counsel an integral part of our family life. Now as we watch our children raise their children, we are grateful that faithfully following the Lord’s prophet, President Thomas S. Monson, is part of their family life as well. To us this obedience is a wonderful legacy and is as tangible a token of covenant keeping as an engagement ring might have been.

My father had an idea that his boys ought to learn to work, and so he bought a five-acre farm which eventually grew to include more than 30 acres. We lived there in the summer and returned to the city when school started.
We had a large orchard, and the trees had to be pruned each spring. We learned a great truth—that you could pretty well determine the kind of fruit you would pick in September by the way you pruned in February. Further, we learned that new, young wood produces the best fruit. That has many applications in life.

About the time we began meeting with the missionaries, Monina’s energy began to decrease, and strange bumps started appearing all over her body. Her arthritis flared up as it never had before. We sought medical help, but none of the tests gave us any answers. As the months passed, her health deteriorated to the point that she needed additional medical attention. In December, Monina flew to the Philippines to meet with doctors there. I stayed in Saipan so I could continue to work and care for our teenage son.

Before she left, Monina told me that she wanted to be baptized when she returned to Saipan. She also asked me to continue meeting with the missionaries even though she would be missing some of the lessons. I promised her that Mark and I would do so.

During her time in the Philippines, we talked regularly so that I could hear about her doctor visits and she could hear what we were learning about the gospel. My wife reported that she was feeling less and less pain every day, and I was glad that the medical attention was working. In early January 2008, I purchased a plane ticket so I could go visit her, but she felt certain that she would be back in Saipan soon and that there was no need to waste money on the trip. She told me she loved and missed our son and me but assured me everything would be all right.

Three days later she died suddenly. The cause: undetected leukemia. Mark and I were stunned—and heartbroken. We immediately traveled to the Philippines for the funeral and then returned to Saipan. This was the most difficult time of our lives.

The sorrow I felt was profound, so much so that I found it hard to get out of bed each morning. One particularly difficult day, Mark reminded me of something the missionaries had taught our family. He said, "Dad, don’t cry too much. Mom is in a place of God. She is in the spirit world." How grateful I felt that a just God had provided a way for Monina to continue to learn about the gospel, that everyone who has ever lived will have a chance to either accept or reject the gospel of Jesus Christ—either in this life or the next.

As I continued to learn the teachings of Jesus Christ, I realized that Heavenly Father had provided much more than that: He also made it possible for her to receive essential ordinances like baptism. Before my wife left for the Philippines, she and I had started talking about being baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Even though she wasn’t able to be baptized in this life, Heavenly Father had not left us without hope.

At the October 1856 general conference, President Brigham Young (1801–77) announced that handcart pioneers were still crossing the plains and that everyone was to help gather supplies for them immediately. Lucy Meserve Smith wrote that women “stripped off their petticoats [large underskirts], stockings, and every thing they could spare, right there in the Tabernacle, and piled [them] into the wagons.”

As the rescued pioneers began to arrive in Salt Lake City, Lucy wrote, “I never took more … pleasure in any labor I ever performed in my life, such a unanimity of feeling prevailed. I only had to go into a store and make my wants known; if it was cloth, it was measured off without charge.”4

Photograph from Getty Images
When we moved from the United States to Vietnam, my husband and I were determined to never miss church. After a year, we hadn’t missed a single Sunday meeting, but we were frequently late and often missed the sacrament. Our sacrament meeting started at 8:30 a.m. With three little children, getting ready for church on time often seemed impossible.
As a family we decided that we needed to arrive consistently on time for church and partake of the sacrament. It was a struggle, but we made it to church on time four Sundays in a row. I noticed the difference our efforts made. We had more spiritual experiences during the week.
The following Sunday, however, we woke up late. It was already 7:30 a.m. I told my husband that it was hopeless, but then I thought about how we would be blessed if we did our best to get ready anyway. So, we hustled!
By the time we got to church, we were 20 minutes late. I felt that we had failed. We heard singing when we walked in, and when I opened the door, someone was going up to the stand to pray.
“Was that the opening hymn?” I whispered to the missionary standing by the door.
“Yes,” he said. “We started late today.”
I was stunned. I thought we had fallen short again, but we arrived at church just in time! Tears streamed down my face as I felt Heavenly Father’s love for my little family and me.
Later we learned that when the missionaries had arrived at church that Sunday, they realized that no one had brought bread for the sacrament. No store was nearby, and bread can be hard to find in Vietnam. After a momentary panic, the elders remembered they had bread at home.
A few days earlier, the elders had come to our home for dinner. That evening, I had prepared homemade bread for them. Church had started late Sunday morning because the elders ran home to get the bread I had made for them!
God sees our efforts as we strive to keep His commandments. Although we sometimes fall short, He loves us and will prepare ways for us to succeed—even when it is just to get to church on time.