Gospel Story Finder

To understand her influence, we need to look back to the refining, testing days of the pioneers, to her grandmothers.
Her paternal grandmother, Mary Goble, was thirteen years old when she came with her family to Utah from England. Her father drove a wagon which accompanied a pioneer handcart company.
Mary’s mother, sister, and brother all died on that terrible journey. Her feet were frozen, and later her toes were removed. Little Mary rode into the valley in the same wagon with the body of her mother.
Sister Hinckley’s maternal grandmother, Martha Elizabeth Evans, married George Paxman, the faithful son of a stake president. He knew carpentry, and they moved to Manti, Utah, where he worked on the temple there. They lived in a sod-roofed house and were happy companions sealed in the sacred covenants of the gospel.
Two months before their second child was born (Sister Hinckley’s mother), George Paxman was injured. He was setting in place the massive east doors of the temple. Perhaps one of the doors slipped a little and he strained to hold it in place.
Within the week he died an agonizing death as a result of internal injuries. Martha provided for her daughters by sewing for a living. She was a widow for sixty-two years, ever sweet, never losing faith. Her daughter’s daughter was to become the wife of an Apostle, a counselor to Presidents.
President Hinckley’s grandfather, Ira Nathanial Hinckley, lost his parents and was sent from Michigan to Springfield, Illinois, to live with his grandparents. As a teenager he walked to Nauvoo, Illinois, and met the Prophet Joseph Smith.
He traveled westward with the pioneers. During the U.S. Civil War he volunteered for service in the Union army guarding the transcontinental telegraph line. Later he was sent by Brigham Young to Cove Creek, Utah, where he built the fort that stands today.
On the trek west, Ira Hinckley stayed back for one season to plow the prairies and plant grain that he would not harvest. The harvest belonged to those who came afterward. The forebearers of Brother and Sister Hinckley planted fields of faith for those who followed them.
That spirit has come as a legacy to Brother Hinckley. He feels he does not own this legacy of faith but holds it in trust to protect and to increase for those who will come in the generations ahead. Worthy Saints would have it that way, earning blessings for their children and their children’s children. That “residual of faith,” as he calls it, is gathered from the influence of good people. It shows in both President and Sister Hinckley.
Brother Hinckley’s father, Bryant S. Hinckley, was one month old when Cove Fort was built. The family later moved to Fillmore, Utah, where Ira N. Hinckley was called to preside over the stake. Bryant S. Hinckley would follow in the footsteps of his father and preside over the Liberty Stake in Salt Lake City, then the largest stake in the Church with approximately fifteen thousand members. Gordon B. Hinckley would be the third generation to preside over a stake of Zion.
Bryant S. Hinckley received three gifts: a quick mind, a firm faith, and—something rare in those days—a good education.
He married and they had children. Then his wife died, leaving him with the little family to raise. At the time, he was president of Latter-day Saint Business College, and lovely Ada Bitner came to teach English and shorthand. She had gone to school in the east to learn a new type of shorthand and became the first in the area to teach the method. LeGrand Richards, a future Apostle, was one of her students. Another teacher at the school was young J. Reuben Clark, Jr., who would one day be counselor to Presidents.
Bryant and Ada were married, and the family increased. You do not say a “second” family or “another” family, for, as President Hinckley said, “We were all the same; it was one family.”
When Gordon was ordained a deacon and eligible to attend stake priesthood meeting, his father took the somewhat unwilling boy to his first meeting and, as a member of the stake presidency, went to the stand. Gordon stayed on the back row.
The congregation of men sang as the opening hymn “Praise to the Man.”
Praise to the man who communed with Jehovah
Jesus anointed that prophet and seer. …
Something happened! “There welled up in me an overwhelming conviction!” President Hinckley said later. A spirit of confirmation flowed into his heart, and a spirit of testimony affirmed to that boy deacon that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. He knew it! He knew it! He knew it as firmly as he knew that he lived! From that moment on he was armed with that “residual of faith.”
Later, when the faith of this bright university student was challenged by doubts (always a part of the education of the young members of the Church), the memory of that moment sustained him. Even today, more than sixty years later, he cannot tell of that experience without putting a finger under his glasses to prevent a tear from rolling down his cheek.
That is a lesson for the youth of the Church. If Brother Hinckley came from the university shaken a bit in faith, he reestablished it forever by responding to a call to serve a mission in England. He had plans to attend Columbia University, New York, for an advanced degree in journalism, for he had a talent with words. But that must wait.
It was during the Depression, and because of an unfavorable monetary exchange rate at that time, England was the most expensive mission in the world. He began his missionary work in Preston, where the early Apostles had opened the work. He served as assistant to Elder Joseph F. Merrill, a member of the Twelve and President of the European Missions. G. Homer Durham, who later was to be a President of the First Quorum of the Seventy, was one of Elder Hinckley’s companions.

How do you get back to feeling good again? I have a young grandson named Adam. When he was three, we were having a family gathering at our house. It had snowed, and we looked out and saw Adam in the front yard in his Sunday clothes, making designs in the snow with his feet. His mother went out and asked him to come in, but he refused. She reminded him that he was getting cold and that he was ruining his Sunday clothes. Still he was defiant and not feeling the Spirit at all.
Next I went out. He was walking up the street, blue with cold, and crying. “Adam,” I said, “would you like to hold Grandpa’s hand and walk back to the house with me?” He stuck his tongue out at me. Finally, his Aunt Becky went out and picked up Adam screaming and kicking and carried him back into the house.
A while later, Adam was wrapped in a blanket and was a cheerful little boy. I asked him, “Adam, what did you do to feel better?” Adam said, “I prayed.”

“What exactly is a …” I struggled to remember the word.
“Seder. It’s an important part of Passover. A ceremonial dinner on the first day of Passover to remind us of the struggles that Moses and the children of Israel had while they tried to leave Egypt,” Sarah explained.
Sarah and I walked down the halls of our high school, our usual chatter of movies, classes, and rehearsal schedules interrupted by the invitation to a formal dinner at her house. I had invited friends to Church activities many times, but this sudden turn of events unsettled me. I was the one who usually extended invitations to religious activities! I wasn’t expecting Sarah to invite me to one of hers!
“My mom said that your whole family could come if they want to. The normal service lasts for hours, but we’ll do the abridged version for you. There’s even this game that Alli can play. We hide matzo, and she has to find it.” I could see my little sister shrieking with laughter as she tore around the house, looking for the cracker-like bread.
“I’ll ask my mom,” I replied.
I had moved from Utah to Iowa when I was seven and was startled to find no members of the Church in my class at school. Where once I had found many Church friends at school, I now led a split sort of life with school friends on one hand and Church friends on the other. I had been able to balance the two separately for quite some time, but this invitation had upset that balance.
That night, I presented the idea to my mother, who was more than willing to accept Sarah’s invitation. My mother taught seminary, and with the school year drawing to a close, she was looking ahead to teaching the Old Testament, which contains the history of Passover.
Later that week, my family found ourselves settled around a table that was set as formally as one we might have had for a Christmas or birthday celebration. There were a few differences: a traditional plate that was ornately decorated with various scenes contained different foods to accompany each painting. Parsley and salt water, hard-boiled eggs, horseradish, and matzo each represented the pain, bitterness, and other experiences of the children of Israel. Throughout the meal, our families were able to discover various religious similarities and differences. I was really glad Sarah had invited me to this special occasion in her home.

Zachary found the shiny star the Sunday before Christmas. He asked Mommy, “Where does it go?”
“I think I know,” she said. “You see if you can find where it belongs.”
Zachary looked at the Christmas tree, but the star at the top was still there. “Do you know where this star goes?” he asked Daddy.
“I think I know,” Daddy said. “You see if you can find where it belongs.”
Zachary looked at Mommy’s ears, then said to himself, “It’s too big to be one of Mommy’s earrings.”
He asked his big brother, Keith, “Do you know where this star goes?”
“I think I know,” Keith told him. “You see if you can find where it belongs.”
“OK,” Zachary said. He closed his eyes tightly and thought. But he couldn’t think where the star belonged. He went to play with the nativity scene while he waited for family home evening to start. As he tried to stand the angel on top of the stable, he had an idea.
When family home evening started, Daddy asked, “Who has something to share with us?”
“I do,” said Zachary. He put the star on top of the stable in the nativity scene. “Here is where the star goes—above Baby Jesus.”

An unforgettable and frightening experience I once had with President Lee was when he invited me to come to his home to participate in giving a blessing to a very sick mutual friend. As we gathered with a few family members, President Lee asked me if I would anoint the brother’s head with consecrated oil. This I did humbly and in a spirit of inadequacy. I had never before had the opportunity of having this rich spiritual experience of having a prophet of God seal an anointing that I would pronounce. I recall with vividness even today President Lee’s sealing of this ordinance. It seemed to me he was struggling for words, direction, and guidance to give encouragement to this good brother. I had the feeling he wanted to promise him complete recovery and health from a serious malady, but the words didn’t come as he pronounced the sealing. It was evident as the seconds passed he was not only troubled but groping for direction that would be positive and rewarding, not only to the recipient but to others in the room who had grave concern over the individual’s health. President Lee never did promise health, strength, and recovery to this individual. He gave words of encouragement and touched on the basics of the total gospel plan, but the promise of healing was not forthcoming.

Immediately following this experience, President Lee took me aside in another room and said softly and in perfect mildness, “Marv, he’s not going to get better, is he?”

I responded to President Lee, “No. I could tell you wanted to promise this type of blessing, but it was apparently not to be.” I recall his final comment after we walked away from the family members: “The Lord has other plans, and he determines not only what we promise but what will happen.”

Please allow me to tell you a story about my family. As my wife, Karen, mentioned, we have been blessed with four sons and one daughter whom we love very, very, much. Our children are very close in age. When Clay, our youngest, was born, our four other children were ages two, three, four, and five. Karen was a very busy mother.

When Clay and Sid were two and four years old, our family was invited to a friend's home for a barbeque. It was held in their backyard which was nicely landscaped and contained a large swimming pool. As we were seated for dinner on the patio, Sid and Clay removed their sandals to dangle their feet in the water near the pool steps. Soon they started to argue and all too predictably Clay began to complain that Sid had done something to annoy him. Karen got up from her seat and went over to Sid and scolded him by whispering something in his ear.

Our visit with our hosts continued for a few more minutes when Karen suddenly jumped from her seat, and in what seemed like one sweeping movement, ran to the pool and then leaped in fully clothed. She scooped Clay from the bottom and brought him back to the pool's edge. Karen had our baby above the water's surface so fast that I am not sure if he even realized that breathing under water was going to be a problem.

Soon it was apparent that Clay was OK and not the least upset by his walk on the bottom of the pool. At this point, Karen turned to Sid and firmly demanded, "why didn't you help your brother?" Then, with all the frustration that a four-year old could muster, he glared at her and said, "You, told me not to touch him!"

Thump! went the backpack on the living room end table. “Put your bag in your room, Petey!” Mother said as she rounded the corner, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. Her smile faded as she noticed Peter’s somber face. “Are you OK?”
“I guess so.” Peter shrugged as he hung his coat on a hook by the door.
“Then why the glum face? Did you have a fight with Justin?”
“Well, no … It’s just that whenever I ask him to come to Primary with me, he says he’s too busy or has stuff to do or something. Why can’t I make him come? Primary is so cool!”
“Let’s sit down a minute,” Mother said, heading for the couch. She tossed the towel onto the end table next to Peter’s backpack. “Do you remember the eleventh article of faith?” she asked when they were seated. “I think that’s one you’ve already learned.”
“Hmmm, let me think.”
“‘We claim the privilege …’” she started him off.
“Oh, yeah! I remember now. That’s the one that says ‘how, where, or what they may.’”
“That’s right! It says, ‘We claim the privilege of worshiping Almighty God according to the dictates of our own conscience, and allow all men the same privilege, let them worship …’”
“‘how, where, or what they may!’” Peter finished proudly.
“That’s very good, Petey. But do you know what it means?”
Peter began to fidget on the couch.
Mother smiled thoughtfully. “Let me see if I can help. Remember last week, when Dad was out of town and we had that snowstorm?”
“Do I ever! We had to shovel the walks and driveway before school. It was a lot of work. And then the neighbor kids wanted to walk through the snow, so they tromped across our lawn, instead! What a waste of time!” Peter shook his head, remembering the footprints across the front lawn.
“Well, no it wasn’t,” Mother corrected gently. “Because our walks were clear, it was easy to get the car out to take you to school.”
“OK, OK.” Peter’s nose wrinkled slightly. “I still don’t get what that has to do with the eleventh article of faith—or Justin.”
“Well, we worked hard to clear a path in the snow—that’s what we wanted to do. It was important to us. But the neighborhood children chose to walk in the snow, instead—because that’s what was important to them. Right?”
“Right,” Peter said. “So what?”
“Well, you want Justin to go to Primary on Sunday because it’s important to you, right?”
“Oh. I think I get it,” Peter said slowly. “Even though I choose to go to Primary, that doesn’t mean that Justin has to, right?”
Mother smiled. “That’s right. Heavenly Father has given us a very precious gift called agency. It is the right to choose and act for ourselves. We can’t force someone to follow the same path we choose to follow. However, while you need to let Justin have his agency, it’s also very good for you to love him and be his friend. You can keep showing Justin the ‘clear path’ that’s important to you. And maybe—just maybe—he’ll want to follow it one day.”
As Peter grabbed his backpack and headed up the stairs, he turned and smiled. “I’m glad I have my agency so I can choose to go to Primary.”

I’ll never forget the day I met my bishop after that lonely January night in my motel room. My friend who had given me the Book of Mormon helped me get in touch with him. When I met the bishop in his office before church, I told him about my past, and I was prepared for him to say that they didn’t need someone like me in their ward.
Instead, he invited me to go into sacrament meeting.
So I did. I was convinced that I had the word convict tattooed across my forehead and that when I walked in, everyone would shun me. But that didn’t happen. Instead, I found the most welcoming people I had ever encountered. The next Sunday, I came back. Not long after I began attending church, a counselor in the bishopric asked if I would speak about forgiveness in sacrament meeting.
“Me? Talk about forgiveness?” I asked. But when he affirmed that he meant it, I took on the assignment. When I spoke to the congregation, I was sure they would only see me as a former convict. But the longer I talked, the more confident I became, and afterward I was met with nothing but love from these members, who greeted me with a hug or a handshake. That day I truly felt what it was to “love thy neighbour as thyself” (Matthew 22:39).
More importantly, I finally understood that when the Savior suffered in the Garden of Gethsemane and bled from every pore (see Mosiah 3:7; Doctrine and Covenants 19:18–19), He was bleeding for me too. This was a turning point—even though I had accepted the truth of the Book of Mormon and had invited Jesus Christ into my life, I was convinced that I was not going to be invited to heaven. I could not be forgiven. His Atonement was for everyone else, but not for me—because of what I had done.
But in this moment, I realized that I could be forgiven. This knowledge helped me move forward with my life. After more meetings with the missionaries, I was baptized in March 2012—my first step on the covenant path. Although I previously wouldn’t have thought it possible, I was able to marry a wonderful woman from my ward. We were sealed in the Salt Lake Temple in June 2013.

I can remember making many goals to complete the Book of Mormon. I made many attempts but would slowly lose interest and then start over again later. It wasn’t until my first year in college that I truly “experimented upon the word” (see Alma 32:27). I began getting up at 6:30 every weekday morning and reading for half an hour. Because I had an allotted time, I didn’t feel anxious to be done.
I began looking forward to reading the scriptures. After I read, I felt happy and peaceful. My whole day was affected. I could more easily keep a prayer in my heart. The Spirit stayed closer than before. My worries did not disappear, but my days really were happier.
I realized I was gaining a testimony of the scriptures. I had no idea that obeying the commandment to read the scriptures would bring me so many blessings. I felt as though I had been let in on a secret that only scripture readers knew.
Before I started my experiment, I didn’t really understand why we are commanded to read the scriptures, but I had a little faith—faith enough to read for a short time every day. And, as Alma taught, I gained a testimony.

Several years ago I was assigned to reorganize a stake presidency. At the Sunday session of the conference, the wife of the newly called stake president related this story. She stated that she had been raised in a good Christian home. Her parents gathered their family together every day to read and study the Bible. As they read about the prophets of old, she asked her parents why there were no prophets on the earth today. They didn’t have an answer that satisfied her, nor did her teachers or her religious leaders.

One day, as a university student, she noticed two young men wearing white shirts and ties. She could read the name “Jesus Christ” on the black name tags they wore. She spoke to them and asked if they were ministers. “Yes, we are! We are missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

“Then may I ask you a question?” she said. “Does the Lord love the people today as much as He loved the people of olden times?”

“Yes, He does!” was their reply.

“Then why do we not have prophets on the earth today?”

Can you imagine the excitement of two young missionaries being asked a question like that? They said, We do. We do have prophets on the earth today. Can we tell you about them?”

Our message to the world is the same: We do have prophets on the earth today. This very afternoon, we will raise our hands to sustain President Gordon B. Hinckley, his counselors, and the Quorum of the Twelve as prophets, seers, and revelators. They are special witnesses of the name of Jesus Christ. In the document “The Living Christ: The Testimony of the Apostles,” they state: “We bear testimony, as His duly ordained Apostles—that Jesus is the Living Christ, the immortal Son of God. … He is the light, the life, and the hope of the world. His way is the path that leads to happiness in this life and eternal life in the world to come.” Brothers and sisters, if God loves us enough to send us prophets, then we need to love Him enough to follow them. Following the prophets will help protect us against the storms of life and lead us to Christ.

I was 24 years old when I first met Julio Martínez. At the time, I had great interest in meeting someone who could explain the purpose of life to me and help me understand why I felt such a void in my soul. Julio, age 87, was just such a person. He enjoyed extraordinary physical and mental health. He loved nature and was always in a wonderfully good humor. We spent many summer afternoons talking, and I came to admire him and his ideas. A philosopher who practiced what he taught, he became my mentor.
One day, two and a half years after we met, Julio told me he had been baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I was dismayed. How could a man as wise and experienced as he was make such a decision? I respected him, however, so I respected his choice. We continued to visit frequently, but I would turn the conversation to other matters whenever he began to talk about the Church.
In time I began to notice some changes in Julio. His eyes had a new glow, and he became kinder, less critical, and more humble. I didn’t understand what was prompting the changes, and I was afraid of losing the good friendship we already had. But still I remained unresponsive to his invitations to learn more about his church.
And so I ignored the Lord as He called to me. I believe He calls to each of us, often through other people, but we hear only if we have ears to hear—and only if we open our hearts. The Lord called to me several times, but my heart was closed.
Then on 20 August 1998, at Julio’s urging, I met with some of the Lord’s missionaries, Elders Martínez, Boyle, and Winward. For the first time, I recognized the voice that had been calling to me. The Spirit bore such witness that my heart was softened and I was humbled. With tears flowing down my cheeks, I asked myself over and over, How is it possible for the Savior to love us so deeply? How did He come to do what He did for us, for me?
Nine days later I was baptized. Thanks to Julio, my friend, I now know the love Jesus Christ has for us and the fellowship that is found in His Church. Julio became like a grandfather to me, and I rejoice to know that because of our Lord’s grace I found His eternal truth.

I live with my family in Bacolod City on the island of Negros, one of the many islands that make up the nation of the Philippines. Our home happens to be located near a rehabilitation center for people with disabilities.
I will never forget something that happened in 1992, when I was in the sixth grade. I had gone home for lunch, and I was in a hurry to get back to school. While crossing the street, I happened to notice some nursing students from one of the local professional schools. They were laughing. I wasn’t sure why until I saw him—the blind man. After I had crossed the street, he was almost at my side.
I had to wait there for the jeepney, a public transportation vehicle, to come. The blind man realized I was there and called out, “Friend, could you call a taxi for me?”
For some reason, I felt uncomfortable and embarrassed. I thought that if I helped him, the people across the street might make fun of me, too. Besides, I was afraid of him. In addition to being blind, he had other physical disabilities; he couldn’t seem to control one side of his body. I moved away from him slightly. Maybe he won’t hear me, I thought. Maybe he will decide he just imagined someone was here.
But it didn’t work. Even after I distanced myself from him, he knew I was still there. Over and over, he asked me to help him. I tried to be even quieter. If I could only stop breathing! I thought.
I was grateful when I saw the jeepney approaching. I got in quickly and left the blind man standing in the street. I told myself: Nobody knows about this. Nobody knows except me and that man, and he doesn’t even know who I am. But I knew I had acted very inconsiderately.
After I got to school, I couldn’t stop thinking about the blind man. I tried to concentrate on my lessons, but my mind was uneasy. Nobody knows. There’s no way he could ever recognize me.
When I went home, I decided to tell my mother what had happened. “Why did you let that opportunity pass?” she asked. “There is Someone who always knows. He expects us to help one another.”
Later I remembered my sister. She is mentally disabled. How would I feel if someone treated her like that? I cried as I remembered what I had done.
When I was in my first year of high school, I was given a chance to correct my mistake. As before, I was preparing to cross the street. I was really in a hurry because I could see an old friend on the opposite side. I wanted to catch up with her, and I called out to her.
To my surprise, I heard a voice behind me, a familiar voice. I looked back and saw the same blind man. He had heard me calling to my friend. Of course, he did not know I was the same person who had refused to help him once before. He asked again for my help.
I didn’t hesitate this time. I called a taxi for him and helped him get in. He thanked me briefly. When he was gone, I looked across the street. I had missed my friend, but I didn’t mind. I was happy that Heavenly Father had given me a second chance to help that man.
I’m in my third year of high school now, but I still remember what I learned from the blind man. I know that God loves all of us. And even if we think nobody can see the things we do, he always knows what choices we make—and he is always willing to help us make the right ones.

The last colorful rays of the setting sun had faded into the western horizon, and the dark of the night was beginning to settle down over the desert. My father and I were finishing our evening meal and making plans for the night and the next day.
Father was a large, strong man with a kind heart, and he was happy to have his oldest son with him on this trip. We were going to drive 500 sheep we had just purchased to their new home on the other side of the 85-mile-wide desert. In the desert there was little water, and the days would be hot and the nights cool. The plan was to drive the sheep in the cool of the night and allow them to rest during the heat of the day. We hoped that by doing this the sheep could go without water for three days. Arriving on the other side of the desert, they would be met by a wagon loaded with barrels of water for the thirsty sheep. Our own drinking water for the journey was carried in a ten-gallon milk can in the back of our Model T touring car.
My father was a gentle and considerate man, and he said to me, “I’ll drive the sheep tonight while you sleep. After you awaken in the morning, eat your breakfast, gather up our camp gear, pack it in the car, and then drive down the trail until you catch up with me and the sheep.”
Everything went as planned. Father drove the sheep through the night into the desolate area. When I awakened the next morning, I ate a hurried breakfast and packed the car. As I drove the Model T along the uncertain wagon trail in the desert, it was difficult to see signs of Father and the sheep, and their trail was especially hard to follow through some of the rocky areas. Still, everything went pretty well for the first few miles until there was a fork in the road. I wished Father were there to tell me which road to take. Finally, I decided to take the better road on the right. I drove along without incident for some miles until I came to a deep washout. There the road faded out completely.
Without a map or road signs, fear gripped my heart. I am lost! I thought. What shall I do? Then I remembered the words of my Scout leader: “If you are lost, stop and wait. Then give some kind of a warning signal.”
I took the old 44-40 rifle from the car and fired three quick shots into the air, praying that Father would hear; then I waited and prayed and waited some more.
After what seemed like such a long time, I saw Father in the distance, running toward me and waving his arms! It wasn’t long after that wonderful meeting until we were safely home with the sheep. How relieved and thankful I was for a father who cared and who could show me the right way to go.
I have taken many journeys since that one across the desert, some filled with hazards and important decisions. How grateful I am that we all have a real and loving Father, a Heavenly Father to whom we can call when there are two roads and no road signs to guide the way.

Adding to our joy, Elder Snow was assigned to Warrnambool as his first area. I decided to send him an account of how our family joined the Church there. Here is an excerpt of what I shared:
Your great-grandfather Frederick Michael Wilhelm Meurs was born in Holland in 1926. He was one of 12 children. His mother was a devout Catholic who took her children to mass each Sunday. Fred attended Catholic schools and developed deep faith in Jesus Christ and a love for the scriptures.
Your great-grandmother Lois Ellen Meurs was also born in 1926 in Warrnambool. She had two brothers, Ralph and David, and was raised in a faithful Methodist home. She admired her parents’ charitable service and developed a strong Christian faith.
Fred and Lois were married in Warrnambool in January 1954. Julie was born later that year, and Peter (me) in December 1956.
In their early marriage, Fred and Lois wanted unity in their faith. They attended both the Catholic and Methodist churches and studied the New Testament together. As they read, they wrote down many questions—about the nature of the Godhead, resurrection, priesthood authority, the Church’s structure, and baptism by immersion.
They sought answers from local religious leaders, but most said those matters were “mysteries” or struggled to respond. Their search for truth led them to visit several Christian churches in Warrnambool. Still unsatisfied, they turned to God in prayer, asking Him to send them answers.
At that time, Elder Jones (from Utah) and Elder Erickson (from Canada) had been sent by President Thomas S. Bingham to open missionary work in Warrnambool. Local ministers warned townsfolk not to speak with them, claiming they would “brainwash your children.”
Elder Jones and Elder Erickson faithfully knocked on doors for three months and experienced total rejection. They were discouraged and depressed. Their faith was wavering. They wrote to President Bingham and asked to be transferred out of Warrnambool.
Eventually, a letter arrived from President Bingham. After prayerful consideration, he wrote, he had the strongest impression that there were people in Warrnambool ready to receive the restored Church. He encouraged them to go back to work and to visit places they had not been before.
The elders received the letter around the same time that Fred and Lois were praying for answers. A few days later, they knocked on the Meurs family’s front door at 68 Jamieson Street, Warrnambool. Lois answered, and the elders said they had a special message about Jesus Christ and His Church to share.
Lois replied, “We have been praying for you to come—but you can’t come in just now. Our children (two-year-old Julie and six-month-old Peter) have chickenpox, and they might infect you.” She asked them to return in a week.
Lois told Fred about the visit, and they continued to pray that the missionaries wouldn’t forget to come back. They didn’t know who they were dealing with!
Elder Jones and Elder Erickson returned the following week and began teaching Lois and Fred. As they taught, they answered every question on Fred and Lois’s long list. They explained the nature of God, priesthood authority, the Resurrection and life after death, the purpose of life, developing faith, and the ordinances of baptism and the sacrament.
Fred and Lois opened their scriptures—already marked from their earlier study—and found confirmation for everything the missionaries were teaching.
Years later, when I was called as an Area Seventy, I spoke with Elder Bruce Jones about this experience. He told me that their time in Warrnambool, up to the point of meeting my parents, had been a great trial of his faith. But teaching Fred and Lois and having them respond with confirming scriptures from the New Testament rekindled his faith and became a turning point in his life.
Lois and Fred were baptized and confirmed on 5 July 1957—just three weeks after meeting the missionaries. Soon other families joined the Church, and the new branch began holding meetings in the Meurs home on Jamieson Street.

I’ve talked to a lot of people about depression, and the majority of them say that the nighttime is when their depression is at its worst. For me, it has always been the morning. The prospect of facing a new and unknown day has always discouraged me. I recently had one of those mornings.
I heard my alarm go off at 6 a.m. How I hated, how I loathed that beeping sound. I naturally pressed the snooze button. I’m not sure why I always did; I never slept for the 15 minutes the alarm delayed. I just sort of stared at the ceiling, trying to postpone the inevitable. The alarm went off with that same dreadful beeping at 6:15. I reached over and turned the alarm off. I sat up, not ready to face the day. I slowly and sluggishly climbed into the shower. When I finished and went back to my room, I sat down on my bed again, trying not to feel the awful despair and gloom that was threatening to overwhelm me.
I glanced over at the alarm clock to check the time: 6:36 a.m. I stared. Something stirred in my memory. 6:36? I recalled an often-shared scripture in seminary, Doctrine and Covenants 6:36. I opened my scripture to the reference: “Look unto me in every thought; doubt not, fear not.” Tears welled up in my eyes. How could I have no doubts or fears when I was in such turmoil? I read verse 34 in the same chapter: “Therefore, fear not, little flock; do good; let earth and hell combine against you, for if ye are built upon my rock, they cannot prevail.”
I was openly weeping, but now with a sliver of hope. It surely felt like earth and hell were combined against me, but now it also felt like I had a mighty fortress on my side to defend me from their attacks. I gradually came out of my stupor with the words of Doctrine and Covenants 6:36 echoing in my mind. I was able to face that day with more courage than I had before. That day, I had no fear. I had no doubt that Heavenly Father was aware of me, and that He was protecting me and guiding me that day.
I am eternally grateful to my Heavenly Father for bringing that scripture to my remembrance that wonderful morning. Every morning when I see the numbers 6:36 flashing from my clock, I offer a prayer of gratitude. He will be with us every step of the way. Life will not always be perfect, but we need never fear what the adversary can do because we have the greatest protection on our side.

I was baptized on 17 November 1996 in Samara, Russia. Immediately after my baptism, I was filled with the desire to serve a full-time mission and bring souls to Jesus Christ. Eagerly I waited for a year to pass so I could talk to my branch president about a mission.
When the time came, I had the necessary interviews and filled out the missionary recommendation forms. Then I realized I had a problem. Although I had lived in Russia for two years, I was a citizen of Armenia. I had not yet served in the Armenian army, which I was obligated to do.
I began fasting and praying that God would open a way for me to serve a mission. In March 1998 I was drafted into the army and had to return to Armenia. I trusted in God, knowing that He loved me and wanted me to be obedient.
While I was in the Armenian army, I kept the covenants I had made and lived the Word of Wisdom. I often bore my testimony to the other soldiers, and I prayed throughout the day. I fasted and asked Heavenly Father to protect me. And I also asked that I might be able to serve a full-time mission as soon as possible.
After two and a half months in the army, I became ill and was admitted to the hospital. When the doctors examined me, I was surprised to learn I had a heart disease—an illness they believed I had had since childhood. It was now affecting my lungs, liver, and spleen. My body swelled, and I looked as if I had gained considerable weight.
The diagnosis meant I might be released from the army, but the reality of a serious illness scared me. All I could do was trust God to help me.
After I had been in the hospital for a month, an Armenian member of the Church, Brother Ararat, unexpectedly visited me there. He and two missionaries gave me a priesthood blessing.
Three weeks later I was released from the army. Before long I was feeling strong enough to serve a mission.
Now I needed my military release papers. I fasted and prayed. When I rose from my knees, I had my answer. I would rely on the Lord.
Days passed. Whenever I would inquire about my military papers, the officials would say, “Don’t expect them this year. It is not possible.” Still I trusted in the Lord and waited. Finally on 15 December I received word: “Come in and get your papers; they are ready.”
My next problem was getting a passport. The end of the year is a difficult time to secure one, and I was told I could not expect a passport until June. Again I prayed. And again I felt inspired to be patient and rely on the Lord.
And so I trusted, believed, and waited—but not for too long. On 5 January 1999, I received my passport, and on 7 January, my visa. I could begin my missionary service.
All I needed to do now was complete my interviews, finish some paperwork, and receive the required medical examination. Although I felt well, I feared that my heart disease might prevent me from serving. The doctor who examined me knew my medical history and ordered a test of my heart. When he looked at the results, he blurted out in surprise, “You are completely healthy! There is no sign of heart disease. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life!”
I smiled and said, “I believe in God. I received a blessing from bearers of His priesthood and was healed.”
Soon I was called to serve in the Russia Moscow South Mission. I know God lives. I know He performs miracles now just as He did anciently. And I know He blesses us when we exercise faith in Him.

I wanted to save more tadpoles, so Dad and I went to the creek near General Vallejo’s old historic adobe place. There wasn’t much water left in the creek, just puddles with tadpoles in them. When the water dried up, they would die—unless we rescued them. Dad and I caught hundreds of those tadpoles in our jars and took them to the lake. Dad said that God wouldn’t waste time creating anything He didn’t love. The least we could do was respect His creations and help whenever, wherever, and whatever we could—tadpoles included!
One day while we were taking tadpoles out of the creek, Dad looked troubled. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I’m worried about Eddie Porter,” Dad replied. Dad was Brother Porter’s home teacher, and he and his companion could never get Brother Porter to let them into his home. “He doesn’t come to church,” Dad said. “He’s getting old, lives alone, and has a lot of problems. He seems depressed most of the time, and I think he believes that God has given up on him.”
Dad scooped out three tadpoles and dumped them into a pail of water. “He never says much when Brother Phillips and I talk to him at the door. Just nods and says he has things to do. But last month when we stopped by, he had moved. Where, I don’t know.” Dad looked up the creek bed as if he hoped he might spot Brother Porter coming out of the heat rising from the rocks like a thin, wavy wall. “I doubt he moved out of town, because he has lived here all his life,” Dad continued. “I’ve got to find him, Matt.”
“Why, Dad?” I was confused. “If Brother Porter wants to be alone, why worry about it?”
“He’s my responsibility, son,” Dad explained. “And I feel that he’s in real need. Brother Phillips is out of town for a couple of months, so I’ll try to find Brother Porter on my own.” Dad smiled at me. “Unless, of course, you’d like to help.”
“But what about these tadpoles, Dad? If we don’t get them moved, they’ll die. They want to be helped. Brother Porter doesn’t.”
“They have enough water to last a few more weeks. But I don’t know if Eddie Porter has the same amount of willpower,” Dad said. “Besides,” he added in a voice that made me look straight at him, “like you and me, Brother Porter is a child of God. The scriptures teach us that the Savior spent His entire life loving, lifting, and healing others. These little critters are important, but what is more important than all these tadpoles?”
“Brother Porter?” I guessed.
For the next two weeks, Dad and I were like detectives. We searched for clues, asked questions, and talked to people. But most of all we prayed that Heavenly Father would lead us to the right house.
Then one evening Dad and I walked up to a little old place, kind of jammed between two warehouses near the canal. Dad knocked on the rusty screen door, and we waited.
We were about to leave when the door opened. The old man standing behind the screen seemed like a ghost—kind of there and not there at the same time. He had whiskers and wore rumpled, worn-out clothes.
“Brother Porter,” Dad said.
The old man’s eyes looked sad and surprised, maybe even angry. “How did you find me?” he asked.
Dad smiled. “It wasn’t easy, Eddie. It’s taken us two weeks.”
Brother Porter looked at me. I guess I was nervous because my voice was shaky. “Hi, Brother Porter.”
Brother Porter looked back up at Dad. “Why?” he said. “Why did you want to find me? I’ve never—”
“Because you’re important, Brother Porter,” I said. “You’re a child of God. He loves you. And so do we. Yep, we do.” I said it again because he looked so surprised. It was quiet for a little bit, so I said, “Dad and I were saving tadpoles from the creek that’s drying up, but Dad wanted to start looking for you instead. You’re more important than all the tadpoles that ever hatched. Mom thinks so, too.” I held out a lunch bag. “She made some cookies for you.”
Brother Porter turned away from us. I thought he was still mad at us for bothering him, but when he turned back, he was crying. He pushed open the door. “Won’t you come in?” Dad didn’t say anything. He was crying, too.
We went inside, and Dad squeezed my hand. Suddenly I knew how important Eddie Porter—and everyone else—was. Jesus wouldn’t have spent His whole life helping others if it weren’t so.
The tadpoles could wait. They would be all right. Dad and I needed to make sure that Brother Porter would be all right first.

When Noah moved here, his new friends helped him adjust to life on the island. Now, as the oldest in the group, he’s helping them get used to life in Young Men. “I was worried about being accepted and getting to know the others,” Noah said about starting Young Men. “Going to the activities really helped.” Noah’s favorite Primary song is about the army of Helaman, and that’s how he sees the priesthood quorum—as being together, united.
His advice? “Be yourself.”

For a long time in Primary, I wanted to go inside the temple and do baptisms for the dead. So when I became a Beehive, I couldn’t wait to get started. The first time I went was on my 12th birthday. My dad took me to the Ogden Utah Temple, where we did the baptisms and confirmations. I felt the Spirit so strongly, and I didn’t want the feeling to leave.
I decided that for a Personal Progress experience, I wanted to do my family history. A kind sister from my ward taught me how to use the FamilySearch program. I then searched for names with my mom, and every time I saw a green arrow pointing to the temple, I squealed with delight—it meant we’d found another name to submit to the temple for temple work!
My mother and I just went to the temple to do six of the baptisms. Temple workers said they had more names for us to do if we’d like to do them. I was overjoyed! My mom and I did at least 12 baptisms each. I felt the Spirit and always will when I go to the temple.

With life somewhat back to normal, Peyton was eager to play sports again, especially basketball. “I really wanted to play, but I didn’t know if my back could handle it. I knew I had to take my question to God. I prayed a lot. Then I started having dreams about playing basketball and getting hit and becoming paralyzed during a high school game. At first I just brushed it off, but I kept having them. Then I started having dreams about me being a dad in a wheelchair.
“I decided I shouldn’t play basketball because one day I wanted to be able to play and do stuff with my kids. I felt like I was following a prompting.”