Gospel Story Finder

A project in Luputa, in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, is a great example. With a population exceeding 100,000, the town had no running water. Citizens had to walk long distances for sources of safe water. A mountain spring was discovered 18 miles (29 km) away, but townspeople could not access that water on a regular basis.
When our humanitarian missionaries learned about this challenge, they worked with the leaders of Luputa by supplying materials and training to pipe the water to the city. The people of Luputa spent three years digging a one-meter-deep trench through rock and jungle. By working together, the joyful day finally arrived when fresh, clean water was available to all in that village.

Michelle was born with VACTERL association with hydrocephalus. “This means she has a lot of health problems,” say her parents. “But when Michelle hears there is something to be done, she will find a way.”
When President Nelson asked the youth to help gather Israel in 2018, Michelle T. of Oregon, USA, paid close attention.1
Then she decided to answer the challenge.
Almost immediately, however, she faced obstacles. Michelle wanted to get started with indexing, yet even with her membership number handy, she couldn’t sign up. Not with her parents’ help, and not with her grandparents’ help (and they are very big family history pros!).
Even after going into the nearby family history center, things still weren’t working. This, by the way, is highly unusual! Normally it’s a fairly straightforward process. When the volunteers at the family history center finally got Michelle up and running, they looked at her and said, “You must be meant for great things in family history, because you’re facing a lot of opposition right from the start!”
She has indeed gone on to great things in family history. In fact, a video she shared during RootsTech 2021 ended up being the #1 watched video from the conference. She has an inspiring story to tell! And it’s only gotten more inspiring since then.
Michelle can’t speak, so she uses text on her phone to communicate.
At first, Michelle decided to do a batch or two of names each Sunday evening. She joined a video call with her grandparents so that they could help teach her the ropes.
“It was hard!” she says. “Cursive is hard!”
However, she was not going to be intimidated. Michelle kept at it. As she started learning more and getting better, she decided to set a goal for indexing 1,000 names in 2019.
After hitting that goal, she set a much more ambitious goal for 2020—especially after the pandemic hit and she had more time available. She was soon indexing as many as 1,000 names each month!
As she kept indexing, bit by bit Michelle began noticing something interesting in her life—things were just simply getting better.
“I started noticing differences in my life,” says Michelle. “I felt healthier. I was kinder to my family. I felt calmer and more peaceful. I was happier! I wanted to do more good things. I felt the Spirit so much stronger! Indexing wasn’t just helping me, it was helping others.”
Michelle enjoys sewing and baking for her family. “It’s so fun to see them enjoy all the things I help create,” she says.
One of the other good things that began happening was an increased ability to focus on her other spiritual goals. “I was reading the scriptures more, especially the Book of Mormon,” Michelle says. “I also started studying my Sunday church lessons each week before class so I could be prepared for the discussions. Learning about my family history has become very important to me along with visiting the temple.”
I began to feel so much peace.
Life can be hectic. Lots of stuff can get in the way! But Michelle has learned the blessings that come from carving out enough time to do family history work. “When I started indexing, I began to feel so much peace,” she explains. “Then my family started noticing the peace I felt and it started flowing into the rest of my family. Our whole home just felt more calm and peaceful, and it is amazing. Jesus Christ is the source of peace. By doing the work that I have been called to do, I received a blessing of peace, the type of peace only the Savior can give. The best part is being able to share that blessing with others.”
Michelle loves teaching others how to do family history.
Clearly, Michelle has felt the blessings firsthand of how indexing blesses her life. She also has a testimony of how her efforts can also bless many other lives on both sides of the veil.
One experience she likes to share to teach this point is that her grandmother had been looking for a specific ancestor for a long time, without any luck. Then a few years back, somebody indexed the name of this family member. That’s all it took for Michelle’s grandmother to be able to find this ancestor at last!
“That story really motivates me,” Michelle says. Small steps connect many dots and bless many lives.

At the beginning of 2007, my husband and I were called to produce a cultural celebration for the rededication of the temple. The event was to be held on November 3, a day before the rededication sessions.
Our aim was to involve as many youth as possible from the stakes in Tongatapu and to come up with a presentation that would spiritually prepare the Saints for the temple dedication the next day. The event would be broadcast and televised live to the outer islands as well as to Tongan stakes around the globe, so this was a mighty task.
During the week of the rededication, it rained heavily. At our final rehearsal, on November 2, the skies were overcast. I asked the youth to return to their homes and pray for good weather so they would be able to perform for Tonga and for those who would be watching via satellite, especially the prophet. That night it rained hard, and the next morning the weather was still foreboding.
On Saturday evening, 3,000 young people gathered at Teufaiva Stadium to hear from Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, who had been sent to rededicate the temple due to President Hinckley’s frail health. I will never forget the performance. Everything fell into place. The weather was perfect, the sound system that had malfunctioned earlier was excellent, and those young men and young women danced their hearts out.
We had witnessed a miracle. Heavenly Father heard the prayers of His children and kept the rain away. At the same time, we were able to set the tone for the temple dedication the next day, reminding members that eternal families are the treasure that lasts and that temples are built to bring such blessings to pass.

One day I was sitting in the kitchen, thinking about all of the areas in my life in which I wanted to improve: family history research, regular exercise, time with my children, home organization—the list was long. The more I thought, the longer the list seemed to get. Where should I start? I wondered.
I decided to group the list into categories: (1) prayer, scripture study, and journal-keeping; (2) homemaking, laundry, and meal-planning; (3) personal fitness; (4) family activities and time with my children; and (5) books of remembrance, personal histories, and family history research.
Feeling overwhelmed, I asked my husband, Dan, who was standing at the sink, for his opinion. I handed the list to him and asked if he would number the categories in order, starting with the most important.
He didn’t have to look at the list for long before he handed it back, with a big smile on his face. He had numbered the categories, but he had started with number two. At the bottom of the page he had written, “#1. Be nice to Dan.”
We laughed and hugged, and the sun broke out. That number one I could do! I was no longer worried about accomplishing so many things at once. That list became a lifelong reminder, tucked into my book of remembrance, to help me remember his premium priority in my life.

“One day in my early teens a remarkable boy gave me a copy of English poems with pages torn, worn, and soiled, but it changed my life. One verse was marked: ‘Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?’

“So wrote English poet Robert Browning decades before I read it that day and I took it personally, appropriate to my self-discovery, of hopeful idealism and firming philosophy.

“Worn leather volumes containing William Shakespeare, William Wordsworth, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and Geoffrey Chaucer were passed into my hands by this boy who understood the grasp-and-reach theory. The public library provided me with ugly, stiff, practical new bindings of Charles Dickens and Robert Louis Stevenson and Ralph Waldo Emerson’s essay ‘Friendship.’

“I loved all these books unabashedly.

“This boy and I couldn’t understand everything we read, but it was so exhilarating trying to understand that it was like coming in with the tide. Stretching our minds in the reading and then struggling to say it back in our own words to each other kept our relationship going one swift summer and was the basis for a lifelong friendship.”

The storm was getting worse. Snow lashed Tulimaq’s face, and the wind whisked the whimpering huskies faster along the trail. Tulimaq could barely stand the cold any longer. His fingers tingled with pain as he clenched the sled, and his cheeks were numb from the cold.
Every winter since he could remember, thirteen-year-old Tulimaq and his father had made this trip across the Canadian Arctic to visit relatives. They had always started at sunrise and arrived at their destination before sunset. But they had never before been caught in such a fierce storm.
“We can’t go any farther today,” Tulimaq heard his father call, his voice muted by the wind. “We must stop here and wait for the storm to pass. Tulimaq, you must help me build an igloo.”
Tulimaq breathed a sigh of relief. He brought his dog team to a halt and crunched across the freshly fallen snow toward his father. His chance to help build an igloo had finally arrived.
Tulimaq eagerly helped his father search for the right kind of snow to build a snowhouse. They looked for snow that had fallen in a single storm and that was packed tightly into a snowbank. Snow that had fallen unevenly would be layered and would easily crack when lifted.
“Here is a perfect snowbank,” said Tulimaq’s father, pulling his long wooden rod out of the snow. “My stick tells me that this snow is tightly packed and that it fell when there was no wind. This is the snow we will use for our shelter.”
Tulimaq made the outline for the igloo. He tramped his heels deep into the packed snow until he had formed a circle twelve feet in diameter.
Next, using snow knives with blades two feet long, Tulimaq and his father cut thirty-five to forty blocks from the snowbank. Each block measured about two feet wide, three to four feet long, and six to eight inches thick. They were then carefully fitted together to make the walls of the snowhouse.
Tulimaq placed the largest blocks in the circle on their ends. His father pared down the top of each block with his knife to make the blocks on the next row slant slightly inward.
“Now that the first row is completed,” Father said, “I will stay inside the circle while you pass me the blocks. We must finish it before we get so cold that we cannot warm ourselves.”
Tulimaq quickly heaved the heavy blocks onto the wall. He placed them tightly against each other, leaving his father to pare them so that they fit exactly.
Little by little the snowhouse grew. The walls, by curving inward slightly, were forming a dome, and after nearly an hour, they were almost meeting at the top.
“Now for the last block,” said Tulimaq’s father. “I will cut a smoke hole in this one so that the air will circulate, then I’ll pare it to fit snugly.”
Tulimaq patted loose snow into the small cracks between the blocks, then hurried inside to help his father. Using blocks of snow cut from the floor of the igloo, they built an entrance tunnel leading to the hole that they had cut for the door. The tunnel would help keep the shelter warm.
“We must insulate our igloo well,” said Father. “The wind is strong and cold, and we may be here for several days. Run outside and bring in the lamp and the skins from my sled.”
Tulimaq knew that skins lining the ceiling and walls of the igloo would help to keep it warm. They would also prevent the walls from melting too much when the lamp warmed the air inside the igloo.
After Tulimaq and his father had lined the ceiling and walls with the skins, they leveled off an elevated area around the inside walls to serve as a bench. Finally Tulimaq’s father lit the lamp.
Now the igloo was warm and cozy. Air circulated through the hole in the roof, but very little heat escaped through the walls. Cold air passed through the walls from the outside, but slowly enough so that it was heated by the lamp.
Tulimaq gazed into the flickering light. He unzipped his parka and tossed his mittens onto the bench. His fingers were no longer tingling, nor were his cheeks numb from the cold. He was tired. But he was happy and proud that he had helped his father build a shelter from the storm.

Before me sat a handsomely graying sixty-year-old man of slight yet dignified physique who had been making important editorial decisions for nearly forty years. Surely I was in the right place for an answer. As a twenty-one-year-old missionary, he had been associate editor of Great Britain’s respected mission publication, the Millennial Star. While walking down a Salt Lake City street after returning home, he decided on the moment to seek employment at KSL radio station. They hired him, and four years later he was named one of America’s best radio announcers.
At twenty-four years of age he began his great career as Tabernacle Choir commentator and author of his own “Spoken Word.” Six years later, the call came to be managing editor of the Improvement Era. Since that time he continued to grow in editorial stature. He authored numerous books, became a world-famous personality, was called at age thirty-two to the First Council of the Seventy and then at age forty-seven to the Council of the Twelve (in both quorums he was their youngest member when appointed). Wherever he went and whatever he did, his name only continued to rise higher and higher. Certainly this man could solve our little problem.
After he finished the letter he was dictating, he turned and said, “Please sit down and tell me what’s come up.” I did, and then as he leaned back in his chair he concurred about the seriousness of the problem. After talking about it for a few minutes, he came around from behind his desk, sat down beside me, and started to ask questions: “What do you think would happen if we did such-and-such?” I would respond, and then he’d ask, “What do you think if we did something else?” And so it went, until half a dozen possible courses were discussed.
Then he stood up and said, “I’m glad you came over because, no fooling, this is a serious matter, and it has some delicate overtones. The Lord bless you in your decision.”
Stunned by his decision to not make a decision, or was it confidence in a new staff member’s ability to handle the matter, I walked in silence to the door, his arm on my shoulder. He opened the door and took my hand to say good-bye and slowly said, “This is a very delicate and serious matter. You’ll make a good decision.”
As I left, thinking about what to do, I couldn’t help but recall the Prophet Joseph Smith’s great statement that he taught correct principles and then left the Saints to govern themselves.
It was so also with Elder Richard L. Evans. For forty-one years he taught the world correct principles through his beloved and widely quoted “Spoken Word.” Many great broadcasting executives and evangelical leaders of several nations have said that Elder Evans addressed the largest pulpit in the world. In fact, a statement issued by the Council of the Twelve at Elder Evans’ death said: “Numerous people, the world over, have happily boasted that ‘Richard Evans is my Church.’”
What kept listeners returning to hear his “message of depth and faith and freshness and inspiration” week after week? It was the correct principles that he so well articulated. He effused his great messages with hope—and confidence, as I discovered. Clothing the principles he discussed was his unmistakable spirit of optimism and conviction that mankind—every one of us—can really make the right decisions if we think seriously enough about what matters most in life. Then, like the Prophet Joseph Smith, Elder Evans left his listeners to govern themselves, to seek out alone the good in life and in religion.
No one need take space to say all the things that Elder Evans stood for—it would probably be an impossible task. Every listener and reader of the “Spoken Word” knows for himself the great themes of Richard L. Evans. Each of us has felt his own spirit move and revel in agreement as he read or heard the beautifully and succinctly phrased sentences. Each of us has sensed the remarkable breadth of this man’s outlook, his depth of understanding, his tolerance of others and their ways of life, his urbanity and cosmopolitanism (a term appropriately chosen by the First Presidency in a statement they issued about Elder Evans), his endless store of common-sense wisdom, and his probing perceptiveness.
But unknown to New Era readers is the great founding role that Elder Evans played in seeing that these same qualities were part of the New Era. About a year and a half ago when the First Presidency decided that there would be three new magazines, Elder Evans chairmaned the youth correlation committee, as one of his many assignments as a member of the Council of the Twelve. So, under the direction of the First Presidency, he was in charge of the new youth magazine.
His immediate concern was for a name. He asked for suggestions, wrote friends for lists of suggested titles, and composed a list himself. But that was not good enough: “The thing we must remember is that if this magazine is for youth then it must carry a name that they will respond to,” he said.
He whittled all proposed names down to about twenty-five and asked that a survey be taken at several large youth conferences. Their selection pleased him greatly—the New Era—because coincidentally, the First Presidency had also voiced their preference—the New Era.
After the name came the content. He called groups together in his search for ideas. The roster of those attending read like a Who’s Who in Church stature and contribution. He wrote letters far and wide asking for opinions, and he talked personally with many young people. It was so typical of him: calling in the experts, seeking the best wisdom available, not wanting to overlook any potential good idea from any source. When he was ready, he gave his counsel: “We must face up to the issues in the minds of our students. We must grapple with the anxious concerns of youth.” He personally directed the present “Q&A” format. “Take up the many interests and chief needs of youth—from dating to careers, and don’t neglect the arts.”
His counsel was far-ranging and varied. If you’re one of the many who have come to love the New Era, you should know that much of the basic direction was motivated by Elder Evans. He really did understand youth.
But more than understanding people, this greatly gifted man understood life, all facets of it. As a result, his sparkling intellect and endless interests carried him successfully into many fields. Can you imagine a man already enormously busy with heavy General Authority assignments and weekly conference trips, plus his weekly pressure for more than forty years to create a new and moving “Spoken Word,” also taking time to become so deeply involved in civic, educational, service, business, and other activities that he would achieve the following: (1) 1966–67 president of Rotary International (during that year he traveled worldwide speaking to service clubs); (2) president, University of Utah alumni, and three-term member of the University’s Board of Regents; (3) a member of the Utah State Board of Higher Education; (4) recipient at thirty-three of a Distinguished Service Award from the Salt Lake City Junior Chamber of Commerce, in 1961 of the George Washington Medal of the Freedom Foundation, and—in between and after—of literally dozens of honorary degrees and special honors; (5) two-term member of the Committee on Medicine and Religion for the American Medical Association; (6) member of the advisory council of the Civil War Centennial Commission; (7) weekly columnist for a New York newspaper syndicate, King Features; (8) at his death a director in about a dozen businesses, banks, and financial enterprises; and (9) of course, much more than space permits mentioning. His active and successful involvement in so many facets of life is staggering.
Elder Evans was not one to sit on the side and let life go by. In a day when people are being called to show their religious convictions by their actions, Elder Evans is a monument, an enduring example for all of us.
But now some remarkable facts. His father was killed in an accident when young Richard was only ten weeks old (he was born March 23, 1906 in Salt Lake City, the last of nine children). All his early life he missed a father’s counsel and arm. Then, even though he won scholastic, debating, and his high school’s distinguished service awards, and had been editor of the school paper, he put himself through college by “working all the time” in every job imaginable: raising and selling flowers, selling magazines and newspapers, having a paper route, dispensing sodas, driving trucks, surveying for the railroad, making syrup, collecting bad debts, selling woolens, working in printing shops, advertising, and writing! After his mission he received his degree in English, and a year later a masters degree in economics. At twenty-seven, after having established his course in life, he married Alice Thornley, and together they raised their four sons, whom he called “the joys of my life.”
But can you imagine a man so widely involved, so deeply committed—a writer, an editor, an announcer, a reader of countless thousands of pages of reports, compendiums, and books—denied the use of an eye? It was a handicap that he shouldered throughout his career. Few of us will know his extra difficulties in reading, in studying, in meeting all his deadlines—all the pressures were there! And still he accomplished, still he worked relentlessly onward, with knowledge that all of us have handicaps of one sort or another, all of us have difficulties. But it is not the excuses we give that count, but what we do that counts.
Long live the memory of Elder Richard L. Evans. May readers seek elsewhere the full and beautiful story of his life. But most of all, may we follow those same correct principles he lived and taught as a special witness and apostolic ambassador for the Lord Jesus Christ.
And then, “May peace be with you, this day and always.”

A true story from the USA.
“Why don’t we go to church anymore?”
Sadie had asked her parents this question several times. Usually her mom just shook her head and looked almost as sad as Sadie felt. “There are a lot of reasons,” she would say at last. Sadie didn’t understand.
Just before her family had stopped going to church, her parents had let her be baptized. Sadie was happy about that, but she wished her parents would take her to church even if they didn’t want to stay. She really missed going to Primary.
Her family still did fun things together. In the fall, they hiked in the mountains. They had picnics at the park and played frisbee. They went to the play her older brother was in.
In December she and her family took plates of treats to friends and neighbors. They decorated the Christmas tree together. They spent a Saturday sledding in the snow and came home for hot chocolate and homemade donuts.
Sadie liked doing these things, but she missed going to church more than ever. She missed singing Christmas hymns and listening to talks about the birth of Jesus Christ.
This year Christmas was on Sunday. Her friend told her that the Primary was singing in sacrament meeting on Christmas morning. Sadie loved to sing.
“Can we go to church just this Sunday?” Sadie asked her parents. “Please? The Primary is singing, and I want to be there.”
Her parents looked at each other, then back at Sadie. “I’m sorry,” Dad said, “but we can’t. Not this year.”
Sadie held onto the hope that her family might go back to church someday, but that didn’t help her this Christmas.
On Christmas morning, Sadie felt the familiar excitement of gathering around the Christmas tree and opening presents with her family. She thought about how much she loved her parents and big brother and knew that they loved her.
Mom made their favorite breakfast—chocolate-chip pancakes piled high with whipped cream. "Best breakfast ever," her brother said after having two full plates. Everyone agreed.
After she helped clean up, Sadie went to her room. She thought about the Primary children singing in church and did her best not to be sad that she wasn’t there.
Sadie looked around her room for something to do. Her eyes landed on a box of colored pencils. Suddenly she had an idea. Even if she couldn’t go to church right now, maybe she could still bring Jesus into her day.
She found a piece of paper and started drawing a picture of the Nativity scene—baby Jesus in the manger, Mary and Joseph watching over him, and shepherds gathered around them all. She sang “Away in a Manger” to herself as she drew.
When she finished her picture, she took it to the kitchen and used a magnet to put it on the refrigerator door. Her parents and older brother didn’t say anything, but they did smile.
Sadie felt good. She couldn’t change how her family felt about going to church. But she could still keep Christ and Christmas in her heart.

Like many young men in the Church, I had my own excuses for not reading the Book of Mormon: summer skies, winter sports, other reading, and a bit of laziness. And when I did start to read, I could not get past the fourth chapter of First Nephi. The shock of reading Nephi’s account of how he decapitated Laban delayed my further reading of the Book of Mormon until I was well into my fifteenth year. I simply could not reconcile what seemed an act of cruelty with my idea of what a gentleman was.
When I was fifteen I was called as a building missionary. The president of the Swedish Mission at the time, Alvin W. Fletcher, knew what to do with a young man whose testimony needed strengthening.
When I left for this mission, I promised myself that I would read the standard works of the Church before returning home. After several months at the Cubbangen Chapel, south of Stockholm, and an interlude at Tampere, Finland, I was transferred to Turku where, after finishing the Bible, I felt ready to grapple with the Book of Mormon.
I don’t remember much about the city, just what I saw on the daily walks back and forth to the building site in the bitter cold. Because the Book of Mormon kept me in such suspense, I couldn’t think of much else. I was eager to get home from work every day to continue my reading. This was the first time I had really hungered and thirsted for the word of the Lord. Lying on my bed night after night in a room in the meeting house, reading the words of Nephi and the other Book of Mormon prophets, I received a testimony from God that the book was true.
My favorite part of the Book of Mormon was—and still is—Third Nephi. Many times, while reading of how the resurrected Christ taught the Nephites his gospel, I have felt as if I were actually there in his presence. And for me, nothing else in the scriptures equals chapter nineteen of Third Nephi, which documents how Jesus poured out his heart to his Father in behalf of his disciples. More than once I have wept while reading it.
Now I thank God that a just man named Nephi, who at first shrank from the Lord’s command to kill Laban, obeyed God and brought about his righteous purposes. Had it not been for Nephi and the subsequent keepers of the sacred record, I could never have discovered the goodness of God in that matchless volume of scripture, the Book of Mormon.

I remember I learned a lesson one evening in a little country ward in Idaho while I was traveling for the University of Idaho. I traveled that wonderful state for eight years. I’ve been to every town and hamlet in the state. It was not uncommon for me to be away for two weeks. Then I’d go home, and as a stake officer, I would take a bath, change clothes, and be gone again. My wife used to say, “Well, when you’re home you’re gone.” Once when this happened, one of my little girls came to the door, waved, and said, “Come again, Daddy.”

I used to miss my family, and this particular time I was in Pocatello, Idaho, on Sunday. I got thinking about my family, so far away, and I thought, “Well, I’ll just run down to Whitney and see if I can attend sacrament service and renew my acquaintance with some of the wonderful people there.” So I drove down and arrived just as the meeting was about ready to start and the bishop was going into the church.

He invited me in with him. He had the custom of going up on the stand and sitting there ten minutes before the meeting started so he could see the people come in. He’d have his counselors down at the door. And as I sat there, I watched these groups come in. There were family groups with father, mother, children, and I knew practically all of them. I knew all of the parents and could identify the children by association.

Well, the meeting got started, and the counselor was conducting. He called on me to say a few words. And while sitting there, I’d been thinking, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could be home every Sunday and go to church with your family? Just think what a joy it would be.” Well, as he introduced me, he said, “Brothers and sisters, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we all had a job like Brother Benson? He’s traveling this great state of Idaho all the time. He’s always on a trip.” I thought, “Yes, how true to life. Distant pastures usually look greener.”

I hope we can be happy where we are, be grateful for our blessings—now—here, accept the challenge that is ours and make the most of it, and don’t be envious of others.

When I became a priest in the Windsor Ward, London Ontario Stake, our Young Men’s president, Brother Sandor, encouraged us to pass the sacrament and perform baptisms as a way to exercise our priesthood. In one Sunday lesson, he also taught us about giving blessings. He said, “You must be bold enough to say what the Spirit prompts you to say, but be humble enough not to make up your own words!”
Not long after that lesson, a young convert in our ward was sustained as a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, and Brother Sandor asked me to be the “voice” in the ordination. I was scared. I had never laid my hands on anybody’s head before, and I felt so inadequate. But then the Spirit reassured me that it would be fine for me to do it, and I was reminded of what my Young Men’s president had taught us.
The young man to be ordained sat down in the chair, and I stood directly behind him. When we were all ready Brother Sandor guided me through the ordinance prayer and I repeated every word he said. After we had finished the ordination and said, “… and we wish to pronounce a blessing on your head at this time …” Brother Sandor looked at me and indicated that I was on my own.
At that point, the priesthood entirely changed its meaning for me. It was no longer just a title, but the actual authority to act in God’s name, and I was giving that authority to someone else. I paused and waited for the Spirit to whisper to me what I was to say. It is difficult for me to describe the feelings I had that day during the blessing, but I can say that I now have a stronger testimony that the power of the priesthood is real.

Before being called as an Area Seventy, I faced one of the most challenging phases of my faith journey. Financial difficulties left us unable to purchase food, prompting the sale of all our possessions. Witnessing my wife part with cherished mementos from her grandmother and mother was particularly poignant. Since our car was out of gas, I was walking through our town in search of a pawnshop.
While walking, I remembered a conversation with a very good friend undergoing his own profound challenges. In my attempt to help, I advised him to cultivate gratitude. His response struck a chord: “In order for me to be grateful, I have to think of someone who is going through worse hardships than I am! It is very hard to find someone like that.”
I resonated deeply with his sentiment, feeling emotionally trapped amid my wife’s suffering and my children’s sadness. Despite having placed my trust in the Savior. He had told me: “Thou art mine”1. He had chosen me with His promises of making me a “special people unto himself”2 and “to make [me] high above all nations which he hath made”3. I had adhered faithfully to practices of tithing, fasting, prayer, and temple worship, the promised windows of heaven4 remained closed, and I felt abandoned.
In moments of heightened affliction, I adopted the practice of posing two fundamental questions to the divine: “O Lord, what is thy wish that I do? What is thy wish that I should learn?” Almost immediately, a thought surfaced: “And it came to pass that he built an altar of stones, and made an offering unto the Lord, and gave thanks unto the Lord our God.”5
This prompted a contemplation of the plight of Lehi, who, through no fault of his own, was compelled to abandon his home, leaving behind his possessions, including “his house, and the land of his inheritance, and his gold, and his silver, and his precious things, and took nothing with him.”6 Having spent his entire life in Jerusalem, leaving behind lifelong dreams and the fruits of his labor, Lehi faced a seemingly insurmountable challenge. Yet, gratitude was the principle by which he lived and sought salvation. “Great and marvelous are thy works, O Lord God Almighty!”7
For Lehi, gratitude was not contingent on circumstances; it was a decision with a specific focus: Jesus Christ. And so, I gratefully discovered, “If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.”8
In the midst of my own trials, I internalized the practice of building altars of gratitude daily through prayer. My aim was to be grateful without comparison, expectation, or dependence on external circumstances—a profound shift in perspective.
At the beginning of each prayer, I intentionally directed my thoughts toward the life and mission of my Savior. The process was transformative. The more earnestly I expressed gratitude, the more the Spirit bore witness to the truths of mercy and grace. Through this practice, I gained a testimony of the “intent of this last sacrifice”9 of my Savior and that his “bowels are filled with compassion towards (us)”10.
He perfectly knew me in His mercy. As my gratitude found expression, my faith deepened, and my soul rejoiced. I came to understand that these daily altars of gratitude were paving the way to the throne of grace.11. We were blessed both materially and spiritually in the days that followed. But, for everything I’ve been through, I wouldn’t want to trade places with any king. My trials led me to draw closer to and to know my Savior Jesus Christ. He lives!

I guess everybody at some time longs to feel important and to do something that will be remembered by the people of the world—something that will change the course of history and become legendary because of its momentous impact on society. At least that’s the way I felt when I was a teenager.
Of course, I could dream of being rich and famous, or of making a major scientific discovery, or of being the first woman on the moon or in the White House, but somehow I knew those things were not within the realms of probability. At least not for me.
I was not exactly what you might call an outstanding person. I don’t really remember standing out in anything, except maybe the rain. I was a great follower, but never a leader. I knew I’d never be class valedictorian or win any contests or talent shows, and I was too uncoordinated in sports to excel. It’s not that I didn’t try or didn’t care. I was just shy and lacked self-confidence. So how could a person like me possibly make a difference?
I asked my mother what she thought. She said getting through the school year without getting any C’s on my report card would certainly make a difference when it came time for me to go to college. I knew she was right, but that wasn’t the kind of thing I had in mind. I thought of rewriting the school constitution or taking a petition around for people to sign, but I couldn’t think of what to change in the constitution or what to petition for.
When I finally started to run out of ideas and hope, I turned to the Lord. I asked him to help me find something that wouldn’t take any special talents or qualifications, but would help me feel I was making a worthwhile contribution. Nothing earth-shattering just something suited to my capabilities.
It wasn’t long afterwards that I got this genius idea. It was so right for me that I knew it had to be inspired—I never would have thought of it myself. The idea was that I should get to know people’s names—everyone that I came in contact with on a regular basis—and greet them by name whenever I saw them.
I started with my own neighborhood and learned the names of everyone—even the children and pets. Then I went on to memorize the names of all my ward members. When I had successfully completed that, I started on my high school.
It was a big school in a large city and it took me quite a while, but I did it. I didn’t pay any attention to racial or clique boundaries. At first I felt a little strange saying hello and calling people by name that I didn’t even know, and I embarrassed myself quite a few times by accidentally calling people by the wrong name, but I got better at it as time went on.
It became a game to see how many new names I could learn in a day. Once in a while I got some puzzled looks and some questions like, “Are you trying to win an election or something?” But for the most part, everyone acted like they really appreciated it.
Did it make a difference? I think so. Once Brother Barton, the oldest man in the ward said to me, “Young lady, I think you are the only young person in this ward who knows my name. It sure is nice when you speak to me and remember who I am.” Then one day at school I found an anonymous note stuck into my locker that said, “Thanks for saying hi to me today. I’m new at school and I didn’t think anyone even knew my name. Thanks for making me feel welcome.” I even got to like some of the people I’d previously thought were unfriendly or snobbish. When I started being nice to them and calling them by name, they were usually very nice in return.
The greatest difference it made, though, was in me. My whole attitude changed. I didn’t feel average or ordinary anymore. I felt that I was a special person who was doing something worthwhile because I was helping others. I could see them light up inside whenever I said their name and greeted them with a smile. It may have made only a small difference to them, but with the Lord’s help, it made a big difference to me.

“C’mon, Benjy, cut me a slice,” my little brother, Jake, whispered to me as we hid in the bushes and looked down at Mom’s peach pie.
I looked over at my friend Jared who was kneeling next to Jake. His eyes were locked onto the peach pie. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, took out my pocketknife, and pushed the blade into the flaky crust sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. Slowly I carved a jagged line across the pie.
“You don’t think we’ll get caught, do you?” Jared whispered as I handed him a piece of pie dripping with yellow peach filling.
I shook my head, not a bit sure; but I didn’t want Jared and Jake to know that. “No,” I rasped. “No one will ever know. Mom made five pies that she asked us to deliver. She probably won’t remember that we were supposed to give a pie to Brother Piper.
In no time at all we were licking the last of the stickiness from our fingers.
“I think my stomach’s going to bust,” Jake moaned. “I’ve never eaten so much pie in my life.”
“I wish we hadn’t eaten it so fast,” Jared complained. “It doesn’t taste as good when you have to eat a huge piece of pie in three bites.”
“Yeah,” Jake moaned again, rubbing his stomach. “I feel kind of sick.”
I nodded, feeling sick, too, but it wasn’t just because we had eaten a whole pie. Deep inside I knew that the main reason that I felt sick was that we had eaten a stolen pie. As I looked at the empty pie pan, I wished that we had taken the pie to Brother Piper.
We all stumbled from the bushes and headed for home, with the pie plate hidden under my shirt.
Mom was in the family room when we slipped into the house and tiptoed to the kitchen. We washed the pan and slipped it into the cupboard. Then we dashed for the door.
“Oh, Benjy,” Mom called out just as we reached the front door, “Did you deliver the pies?”
I gulped and caught my breath. “Everybody was happy to get your pies, Mom.”
“And what did Brother Piper say?” she asked excitedly. “It’s his birthday today. I’ve been promising him a peach pie for weeks. He didn’t think I’d remember.”
“You promised Brother Piper a peach pie?” Jake asked.
Mom nodded and smiled. “I’ll have to call him later this afternoon and wish him a happy birthday.”
“I thought you said she’d never know!” Jake accused me as we tromped down the front steps.
“Yeah,” Jared whined, “we’ll be caught for sure. Now what are we going to do?”
“How was I supposed to know it was Brother Piper’s birthday?” I snapped. “Besides, it was your idea too.”
“We have to get another pie,” Jake said.
“Yeah,” I mumbled, “and before Mom calls Brother Piper.”
“I know!” Jared spoke up. “My mom’s at a Primary meeting. Let’s go to my place and make a pie.”
‘We don’t know anything about making pies,” Jake said.
“Well, we’ll have to learn!” I spouted.
“What do we do first?” Jake asked as we crowded around Jared’s kitchen table.
“I’ve watched Mom a few times. All we have to do is make the crust, fill it full of fruit, and throw it in the oven.”
“But how do we make the crust?” Jake asked.
“Get me a bowl and some flour and shortening,” I growled. “Do I have to do everything? We just mix it up, roll it out, and slap it into a pie pan.”
While Jared poured in the flour and Jake scraped in gobs of shortening, I took a wooden spoon and tried to mix the two ingredients together. It was a lot harder than I had thought.
“It doesn’t mix too well, does it?” Jake commented.
“Maybe it needs some water. Pour in some water,” I ordered.
“It looks better than when we started,” Jared said a few minutes later, “but it still doesn’t look much like piecrust.”
“It’s not piecrust,” I snapped. “Not yet. It’s just dough. Maybe if we roll it out, it’ll look better. It’s when Mom rolls hers out that it really looks like a piecrust.”
The dough kept falling apart and lumping into gobs, but we kept at it, pounding it with our fists, poking it with our spoons, and squeezing it with our fingers. When we finally got it into the pie pan, there were still a few bumpy spots, and the edges were kind of ragged.
“Now what do we do for the insides?” Jake asked.
“Do you have some peaches?”
Jared slapped the flour from his hands and looked in the pantry. He came back with a big can of peach halves. “Will these do?” he asked.
I nodded. “They’ll have to do.”
We spooned the peach halves onto the crust, then drank all the juice. We couldn’t make one big piece of dough for the top crust, so we put on a lot of little pieces and pinched them together.
“It doesn’t look much like one of Mom’s pies,” Jake mumbled.
Jared nodded. “It needs something.”
“Cinnamon and sugar!” I proclaimed, grinning. “Mom always puts cinnamon and sugar on top.”
Jake grabbed the sugar, and Jared grabbed the cinnamon, and they both began to sprinkle.
“Is that enough?” Jared asked.
I shook my head. “This pie needs lots of cinnamon and sugar to cover up the bad places.”
It was late in the afternoon when we finally pulled the pie from the oven.
“It doesn’t look exactly like the one Mom made,” Jake said.
“It doesn’t look like anything anyone would want to eat, either,” Jared said.
“Maybe Brother Piper doesn’t know a good pie from a bad one,” Jake said.
“He probably doesn’t,” I commented hopefully. “He likes brussels sprouts. Anybody that can eat brussels sprouts can eat this pie.”
“Maybe we’d better cover it with a napkin,” Jared said. “We can hand it to him and leave before he sees it. He’ll just think that your mom had a bad day. Anybody can make a lousy pie once in a while.”
The pie was still warm when we dragged our feet up Brother Piper’s walk. I swallowed hard as I rang the bell. Jared and Jake crowded behind me.
“Well, hello, boys.”
“We brought you a pie,” I burst out, pushing the pie into his hands. “Mom wanted us to bring you a pie.”
“Well, how nice of her, Benjy. She said that she was going to make me one, but I thought that she’d forget. You don’t know how much I love your mom’s pies.”
We started to go.
“Don’t leave, boys. Come in and have a piece of pie with me.”
“Well, we really”—I was getting a sickening twitch in my stomach—“We … uh … don’t want to eat your pie.”
“Oh, of course you do. Everybody wants some of your mom’s pie.”
Before we knew it, we were sitting at Brother Piper’s table. After he pulled the napkin off the pie, he just stared at it. Then he looked at us and back at the pie.
“Everybody has a bad day,” Jake said. “You can’t make a perfect pie every time. Not even Mom.”
Brother Piper shrugged and took a knife to the pie. The whole top of it crumbled into a hundred pieces as soon as the knife touched it. Brother Piper glanced over at us, but we didn’t look up. We kept staring at the pie. The peaches were all shriveled and brown, and the crust was too doughy in some places and too floury in others.
We all tried to eat some of it, but it was no use. Looking at it was bad enough—eating it was impossible. Even Brother Piper put down his fork and took a big drink of water. “Did your mother really make this pie?” he finally asked, poking at the stuff on his plate.
I knew that I couldn’t lie about it. I didn’t even want to. “Mom made you one, but we ate it. When we found out afterward that it was your birthday and that Mom was going to call you, we made you this one. Are you going to tell her?”
Brother Piper laughed. “You did bring me a pie. Was the first pie pretty good?”
We nodded glumly as I added, “But it was no fun eating a stolen pie. It just made us sick.”
“Well, I’ll just tell your mom that she made a great pie. After all, she did, didn’t she?”
I nodded and looked down. “We’re sorry, Brother Piper. It won’t happen again, honest.” Jared and Jake nodded their heads in agreement.
A few minutes later we shuffled into my kitchen. Mom smiled when we walked in. “I saved you something,” she announced. “You know how you’ve always wanted your very own pie?”
We nodded.
She walked over to the counter and picked up a big, beautiful peach pie. “I made this one just for you,” she said.
I could feel my stomach do flip-flops. The last thing that I wanted was another piece of pie. I looked at Jared and Jake, and they looked back at me. Their faces seemed a little green.
“Mom,” I said, holding my stomach, “I don’t think we’ll eat it, if it’s all right with you. But,” I added quickly, “Brother Piper would love one of your pies.”
“But he’s already had one of my pies. I thought that you liked my pies,” she said, looking a little hurt.
“We do like your pies, Mom. In fact, we ate Brother Piper’s pie.”
“But it didn’t taste very good,” Jake chimed in. “It wasn’t your fault,” he added quickly. “It’s just that stolen pies don’t taste very good.”
“Yeah,” I said, “so we’d better take this one to Brother Piper. The one we made for him was awful.”
“You made Brother Piper a pie?”
Jared shook his head. “I’m not sure you’d call it a pie. It looked more like a bad disease.”
“But we learned a lot,” I spoke up. “From now on, when you ask us to take a pie to someone, you can be sure we’ll do it. And that’s a promise.”

“Mom!” Claire pulled on her mother’s arm as they approached the church. “A girl who just went in is wearing my yellow dress!”
“Is she?” Mom said. “I suppose her mother got it from the exchange table at the Relief Society activity last week.”
“You took my yellow dress to the clothing exchange? I still wear that dress! It’s my favorite!” She pointed to the two butterfly-shaped barrettes in her hair. “I even bought these just to go with that dress!”
“I’m sorry, honey. I haven’t seen you wear that dress in a long time, so I thought you had outgrown it. I’ll be sure to check with you next time before I take any more of your things.”
“But what about this time?” Claire asked. “Tell that girl I want my dress back.”
Mom frowned. “Isn’t she part of that new family? I don’t think they have much money for clothes right now. Let’s think about this.”
Claire was angry as she sat in the chapel. “Why can’t we just get the dress back?” she wondered. “It’s my dress.”
During the sacrament Claire started thinking about Jesus. She had promised to always remember Him. “What would Jesus do?” she asked herself. “I don’t remember Him saying anything about clothes in the scriptures.”
When Sister Baxter got up to talk, she read a scripture that mentioned lilies. Then Claire heard the word clothe. Surprised, she looked up the verse. It read: “Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?”1 Claire leaned back on the bench to think. “So there is something about clothing in the scriptures. Maybe Heavenly Father knew that the new girl needed a dress. Mom said her family didn’t have a lot of money. But why my dress? And why my yellow one?”
Claire was still upset when she went to Primary opening exercises. And to make matters worse, the girl in her yellow dress sat right in front of her. Claire tried not to look.
During sharing time, Brother Mason’s class taught about Jesus’s Crucifixion. As she listened, Claire felt terrible about the way Jesus had been treated. Then Mark told a story that really made her sit up and take notice.
“Jesus had a special coat with no seams,” Mark explained. “The soldiers didn’t want to tear it up to share it, so they cast lots to decide who would get the coat.”2
“So Jesus did have some nice clothes,” Claire thought. “He knows how it feels to have somebody take our clothes.” She listened carefully to see what Jesus would do.
“In spite of how the soldiers had treated him, Jesus prayed for them,” Brother Mason said. “He prayed, ‘Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.’”3
“Forgive them?” Claire looked at the girl in the yellow dress. “Does that mean I have to forgive Mom for giving away my dress without asking?” But Claire didn’t feel like forgiving. “If I forgive her, I’ll never get my dress back.” Claire looked at the picture of Jesus. “But I want to do what Jesus would do.” She felt torn and realized that she needed help. She bowed her head and offered a silent prayer. “Please take the bad feeling out of my heart and help me to forgive,” she prayed. She looked at the girl with the yellow dress. “You didn’t know you were taking my favorite dress,” she thought. “I’m not angry at you.” She thought of Mom. “And you didn’t even know I still wanted it. There’s really nothing to forgive.”
Claire was surprised that deep down inside she meant every word. She went to class with a lighter heart. When the new girl was introduced as Megan, Claire invited Megan to sit by her. As the lesson began, she was surprised to hear yet another scripture about clothing. “‘Him that taketh away thy cloke forbid not to take thy coat also.’4 What does that mean to us?” Sister Rawlins asked.
“It means there’s something more I need to do,” Claire thought. “But what? I don’t have a coat to go with the dress, do I?” She pondered the question, and by the end of class she had an answer. After the closing prayer, she turned to Megan. “I love your dress,” she said.
Megan smiled. “Thanks. Yellow is my favorite color.”
“Mine too. And I have something that would go perfectly with that dress.” She pulled the two butterfly barrettes out of her hair. “Here,” she said, holding them out. “I want you to have these.”
Megan gasped and carefully took them out of Claire’s hand. “Thank you,” she said, clipping them into her hair. “You are so nice. I’m glad we moved here. Can I give you something in exchange?” She held out a woven bracelet. “I made it myself,” she said. “It’s a friendship bracelet.” Claire beamed. She was still smiling when she got into the car to go home.
“Well,” Mom said, “should we discuss the problem with the yellow dress now?”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Claire said. “It’s been exchanged.”
“For what?”
Claire paused a moment, searching for the right words. “Well, when I was finally able to give it away, I got a happy heart in exchange.”
Mom nodded. “I’m so proud of you,” she said.
“And I got something else too.”
“What?”
Claire glanced down at the yellow bracelet around her wrist. “A new friend.”

Who can forget the evil attacks of September 11, 2001, on various U.S. locations? Such events remind us how quickly our feelings of peace and safety can be destroyed.

Our oldest son and his wife, who were expecting their first child, lived three blocks from the World Trade Center in New York City when the first plane crashed into the North Tower. They went to the roof of their apartment building and were horrified as they watched what they thought was some kind of terrible accident. Then they witnessed the second plane crash into the South Tower. They immediately realized that this was no accident and believed lower Manhattan was under attack. When the South Tower collapsed, their apartment building was engulfed in the dust cloud that rained down over lower Manhattan.

Confused about what they had witnessed and concerned about further attacks, they made their way to a safer area and then to the Manhattan stake Church building at Lincoln Center. When they arrived, they found that dozens of other members in lower Manhattan had made the same decision to gather at the stake center. They called to let us know where they were. I was relieved that they were safe but not surprised at their location. Modern revelation teaches that the stakes of Zion are a defense and “a refuge from the storm, and from wrath when it shall be poured out without mixture upon the whole earth.”2

They could not return to their apartment for over a week and were devastated by the loss of innocent lives, but they suffered no permanent damage.

The story of Helen Keller is something of a parable suggesting how divine love can transform a willing soul. Helen was born in the state of Alabama in the United States in 1880. When just 19 months old, she suffered an undiagnosed illness that left her both deaf and blind. She was extremely intelligent and became frustrated as she tried to understand and make sense of her surroundings. When Helen felt the moving lips of family members and realized that they used their mouths to speak, “she flew into a rage [because] she was unable to join in the conversation.” By the time Helen was six, her need to communicate and her frustration grew so intense that her “outbursts occurred daily, sometimes hourly.”

Helen’s parents hired a teacher for their daughter, a woman named Anne Sullivan. Just as we have in Jesus Christ one who understands our infirmities, Anne Sullivan had struggled with her own serious hardships and understood Helen’s infirmities. At age five, Anne had contracted a disease that caused painful scarring of the cornea and left her mostly blind. When Anne was eight, her mother died; her father abandoned her and her younger brother, Jimmie; and they were sent to a “poor house,” where conditions were so deplorable that Jimmie died after only three months. Through her own dogged persistence, Anne gained entry to the Perkins School for the Blind and vision impaired, where she succeeded brilliantly. A surgical operation gave her improved vision so that she was able to read print. When Helen Keller’s father contacted the Perkins School seeking someone to become a teacher for his daughter, Anne Sullivan was selected.

It was not a pleasant experience at the beginning. Helen “hit, pinched and kicked her teacher and knocked out one of her teeth. [Anne] finally gained control by moving with [Helen] into a small cottage on the Kellers’ property. Through patience and firm consistency, she finally won the child’s heart and trust.” Similarly, as we come to trust rather than resist our divine Teacher, He can work with us to enlighten and lift us to a new reality.

To help Helen learn words, Anne would spell the names of familiar objects with her finger on the palm of Helen’s hand. “[Helen] enjoyed this ‘finger play,’ but she didn’t understand until the famous moment when [Anne] spelled ‘w-a-t-e-r’ while pumping water over [Helen’s] hand. [Helen] later wrote:
“‘Suddenly I felt a misty consciousness as of something forgotten … and somehow the mystery of language was revealed to me. I knew then that “w-a-t-e-r” meant the wonderful cool something that was flowing over my hand. That living word awakened my soul, gave it light, hope, joy, set it free! … Everything had a name, and each name gave birth to a new thought. As we returned to the house[,] every object … I touched seemed to quiver with life.’”

As Helen Keller grew to adulthood, she became known for her love of language, her skill as a writer, and her eloquence as a public speaker.

In a movie depicting the life of Helen Keller, her parents are portrayed as satisfied with Anne Sullivan’s work once she has domesticated their wild daughter to the extent that Helen will sit politely at dinner, eat normally, and fold her napkin at the end of the meal. But Anne knew Helen was capable of much, much more and that she had significant contributions to make. Even so, we may be quite content with what we have done in our lives and that we simply are what we are, while our Savior comprehends a glorious potential that we perceive only “through a glass, darkly.” Each of us can experience the ecstasy of divine potential unfolding within us, much like the joy Helen Keller felt when words came to life, giving light to her soul and setting it free. Each of us can love and serve God and be empowered to bless our fellowman. “As it is written, Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.”

Let me just share with you a message that is very meaningful. It has to do with a brother who fell in love with a beautiful young lady, took her to the temple, was sealed to her for time and all eternity. And then he became careless, fell into serious transgression, and was excommunicated from the Church. A divorce followed. Later on, his former spouse applied for a cancellation of her temple sealing to him so that she could be sealed to another, and he was contacted to see if he consented to or objected to the cancellation. In reply, he wrote a longhand letter, of several pages, that began by saying:

“Yes, I do consent. Why? Because I want to see my former wife obtain the happiness that she’s entitled to.” For quite a few paragraphs he lauded the virtues of his former spouse. He then said, “Why did I do what I did to her and to our son? Only because I became careless, and listened to the voice of the tempter, and he took over.” He then said, “I do not feel I can ever be forgiven of what I have done to my wife and son.” He ended with the statement, “A brokenhearted man” and signed his name to it.

Another time the words “Parents have a sacred duty to rear their children in love and righteousness, to provide for their physical and spiritual needs” weighed heavily on my mind. Our family members loved and had a good time with each other, but I felt that we were far from our spiritual potential. The words of the proclamation inspired my wife, Juanita, and me to begin having a family testimony meeting on fast Sunday after church. Unfortunately, our first attempt did little to provide for our children’s spiritual needs. None of them really wanted to be there. Several children complained about how hungry they were, and our youngest asked several times, “When is this going to be over?” Still, we persevered, and after a few months the complaining stopped and we started feeling the Spirit more. This family testimony meeting became a precious time to share sacred truths and to help us “rear [our] children in love and righteousness.”

Elder Zivic was born on December 19, 1948, to Latter-day Saint parents Sergio Jorge Zivic and Eleonora Zalewski Zivic in Buenos Aires, Argentina. As a 15-year-old runner, he ranked second nationally in his age group in the 800 meters. His greatest desire was to compete in the Olympics, and his coach, a former Olympic decathlete, believed he could do it—if he would only give up his reluctance to compete on Sundays.
“I had to choose,” says Elder Zivic. “In the end I felt competing wasn’t what the Lord wanted for me.”