Gospel Story Finder

A man in a distant city was struggling to make a living, raise a family, and attend to his Church callings. His debts were piling up, there was discontent at home, and his children seemed to be misbehaving increasingly, with everyone going a different direction. Suddenly his job was threatened, and the pressures mounted.
About the time when he didn’t know if he could take any more, his teenage daughter, who had been noticing his frustration and pain, said, “Dad, as a family we can do anything. Hey, let’s work together! I have a wonderful job after school, and Bill has found a paper route. Besides, isn’t it about time we started to eat from our food supply in the basement?”
Well, the entire family caught the spirit. They concentrated their efforts. With time and the mutual support of one another, things did work out.

José Gonçalves da Silva suddenly awoke to people calling his name. It was dark, and he had no idea where he was.
“I was asleep when the bus rolled,” José recalls of the early-morning accident in January 2008. “Nobody could find me because I was in the back of the bus covered with luggage. Some of the brethren finally located me as they began to gather up the suitcases.”
When the bus driver lost control on a narrow stretch of winding road in southern Venezuela’s dense rain forest, José and other Latter-day Saints from Manaus, Brazil, were approximately halfway through their three-day trip to the Caracas Venezuela Temple. José suffered only minor injuries, but several brothers and sisters had to be hospitalized.
“It’s time you quit going to the temple,” concerned family members told José, who was 80 when the accident occurred. Undeterred, however, he declared: “I need to go to the temple. If the Lord allows it, I will return.”
He immediately began saving money for his fourth trip to Caracas, which he made in early 2009. For Brother Gonçalves da Silva, the 40-hour bus ride is easy compared to the three trips he previously made to the São Paulo Brazil Temple. For many years, the São Paulo Temple, located thousands of miles southeast of Manaus, was the closest temple to this city of two million people in the northern state of Amazonas. Then, in 2005, Manaus became part of the Caracas Venezuela Temple District.
During those years of traveling to São Paulo, “we would take a boat here in Manaus and spend four days getting to Pôrto Velho,” the capital of Rondônia State, José says. “Then we would take a four-day bus ride to São Paulo. My wife is not a member of the Church, and when I went to the temple for the first time in 1985, I went alone. I spent the night at the bus terminal in Pôrto Velho because I arrived late and there was no bus. The next morning I headed for São Paulo. It was a nice experience, but I arrived a little tired.”
He then spent three full days serving in the temple before making the eight-day return trip home. It takes him a year to save enough from his pension to cover the costs of traveling to the temple.
“It is a sacrifice to go, but it is worth it,” says Brother Gonçalves da Silva, who has done much vicarious work for his family. “I felt a special joy the day I was baptized for my father, when someone was baptized for my mother, and when I represented my father as my parents were sealed. It was a wonderful opportunity. All my brothers and sisters are gone now, but I have done the work for them during my temple trips.”
José believes that the sacrifice inherent in traveling so far to the temple will help Latter-day Saints in Manaus be grateful for the day a temple is dedicated there. “I am excited for that day,” he says.
Manaus had one small branch with 20 members when José joined the Church in 1980. Since then he has seen the Church blossom there to nearly 50,000 members living in eight stakes.
“When the announcement came in 2007 that a temple would be built in Manaus,” José says, “I wept for the great joy I felt, and I prayed that the Lord would allow me to live long enough to see the groundbreaking,” which occurred a year later. Now he prays that he will live to see the temple completed and his wife baptized so that they can be sealed.
“We don’t know when we will die, but we should be prepared and happy when that time comes,” Brother Gonçalves da Silva says. “I’m looking forward to returning to the presence of my Father in Heaven and my Savior, Jesus Christ. Being in the temple helps me prepare for that day.”

I would like to show you an image I made. This is an image of Demetrius Tillis.

I had the privilege of teaching and baptizing Demetri on my mission 27 years ago. I served in several other areas after meeting Demetri, and when I left my mission, I had lost contact with him and didn't know where he was. Demetri was special to me, and I have wondered many times over the years where he was and what was happening in his life. In recent years, I tried using social media and other online methods to find him. Each time, I came up blank. As I was preparing for this talk, he came to mind again. I tried again to find Demetri on Facebook. This time I found a Demetri Tillis Jr. in Milwaukee, where I served. He only recently joined Facebook. I sent him a message, and he replied. I learned that he was Demetri's son. I learned that Demetri passed away in 1997. His son sent me the picture I just showed you. After 27 years, I was able to make contact with his family 2 ½ weeks ago. I know that God knows Demetri. And I know that God knows me and sent me this tender mercy to let me know.

In this process of my preparation, I faced so many challenges—difficulties on documentation, in setting a date to go, and so on. During this time, the scriptures were a great source of comfort and assurance to me. Ether 12:6 says, “And now, I, Moroni, would speak somewhat concerning these things; I would show unto the world that faith is things which are hoped for and not seen; wherefore, dispute not because ye see not, for ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith.”
This verse gave me the courage and confidence needed for my family to look forward to being sealed together in the Lord’s house. Adding on to our courage, prayer with fasting gave us even more strength to calm all our storms and turbulences. Finally, we made it to the Taiwan Taipei Temple on the 5th of December 2017. That day was a day of joy and happiness to me, to witness our sealing as a family for time and all eternity.

Siblings Suvarna and Sarala Katuka joined the Church in 1984 and later served missions.

Suvarna had joined the Church in Rajahmundry. He, along with five brothers and one sister, was baptized in 1984. On the day of his baptism, Suvarna was ordained a priest and set apart as the second counselor in the branch presidency. He was also promised in a blessing that if he remained faithful, he would be a “pillar of the Church in India.”

Suvarna’s sister Sarala also served a mission. Before she left, she introduced the gospel to her friend Swarupa. When Suvarna returned from his mission, he was blessed by his sister’s missionary work and married Swarupa. That small branch in Rajahmundry has now become a stake. Many returned missionaries from Rajahmundry have become leaders within the Church throughout India.

I met the children of Suvarna and Swarupa Katuka while teaching at BYU in 2014. Josh Katuka had recently finished serving a mission in Bangalore, India, and his sister Timnah had just received her call to the same mission. When I asked Timnah and Josh if they knew Raj Kumar, they said, “Yes, he’s our uncle!” Raj Kumar had married Sarala.

I am grateful to the Katukas for introducing me to several other pioneers as they helped me travel in India. Many of them trace their pioneer trail back to the love and example of the Katuka family. At one point, Suvarna and Swarupa had the opportunity to emigrate to Canada. But they turned it down because they felt that the Lord needed them to stay in India and build the kingdom of God there. Their devoted service has truly made them pillars of the Church.

We often don’t know the reach of a simple act of kindness. The Prophet Joseph Smith was a model of compassion and love. One day, a group of eight African Americans arrived at the Prophet’s home in Nauvoo. They had traveled from their home in Buffalo, New York, some 800 miles away, so they could be with the prophet of God and with the Saints. Although they were free, they were forced to hide from those who might mistake them for runaway slaves. They endured cold and hardship, wearing out shoes and then socks until they walked on bare feet all the way to the City of Joseph. When they arrived in Nauvoo, the Prophet welcomed them into his home and helped each of them find a place to stay.
But there was one, a girl named Jane, who did not have a place to go, and she wept, not knowing what to do.
“We won’t have tears here,” Joseph said to her. He turned to Emma and said, “Here’s a girl who says she [doesn’t have a] home. Don’t you think she has a home here?”
Emma agreed. From that day on, Jane lived as a member of the family.
Years after the Prophet’s Martyrdom and after she had joined the pioneers and made the long trek to Utah, Jane said that sometimes she would still “wake up in the middle of the night, and just think about Brother Joseph and Sister Emma and how good they [were] to me. Joseph Smith,” she said, “was the finest man I ever saw on Earth.”

As the memory slowly faded from her mind, Kari returned to the reality of the swing and the broad oak tree that spread overhead. For some reason she thought of the first time she had sat there. Her brother Thomas had hung the swing for her before he left on his mission. Thomas called her his “shadow,” and they shared many secrets as they were growing up. He left her one last secret the day they said good-bye.
He was dressed up in his new brown suit, ready to leave for the MTC. He leaned over her as she sat on the swing. The smell of his cologne mixed pleasantly with the aroma of the freshly cut hay that lined the fence across the lane.
“Kari,” Thomas said, looking intently at her, “There is nothing like swinging to put life into perspective.”
He spoke with the new authority his voice seemed to hold since the mission call.
“Tom, there you go again, talking way over my head. My ‘Dear Abby’ is going on his mission and leaving me with only a swing to talk to.”
Thomas held his tears of good-bye back as he stopped the swing and took Kari’s hands in his. Kari was surprised that his hands had grown as large as Father’s. He pulled her off the swing and gave her a hug. Kari could feel the newness of the brown suit.
“Just remember, little Sis—the higher you swing, the farther you see. Things look different when you can get above them.”

“Not now, Son, but let me tell you about an experience I had when I was around your age. My friends and I brought our dolls to school every day and played with them at recess. There was one girl, Ellen, who always made fun of us and called us babies. She said she hated dolls. One day there was a school activity at recess, so we couldn’t play with our dolls. When we went to get them after school, all their hair had been cut off and their clothes were torn. We were pretty sure Ellen had done it, because nobody remembered seeing her at the activity. We were ready to cut off her hair and tear her clothes to pieces.”
“Did you do it?”
“She’d gone home already, so we couldn’t do anything that day. My friends walked home with me, and all the way we planned how we’d get even with her the next day. We told my parents what had happened and what we were going to do.” She paused. “I’ll never forget how they looked at me.”
“Kind of like you looked at me?”
“Yes, I suppose so, Josh. Anyhow, Daddy told us the story of Jesus Christ wanting us to forgive seventy times seven, and Mother told us she knew that Ellen didn’t have a doll of her own—or much of anything else—because her dad had been out of work for a long time. She told us that we should take one of our nicest dolls and give it to Ellen and ask her to play with us.
“I didn’t want to do it, and neither did my friends, but after Mother talked to us some more about being an example, we decided to do it. We chose the nicest doll I had left, dressed it in pretty clothes, and took it to school the next morning. Ellen came in looking a little scared, but she came over to us and asked why we babies weren’t playing with our dolls.”
Mom wiped her eyes at the memory before continuing. “She backed away from us when we held out the doll.
“At first, she was suspicious and thought that we were trying to trick her. But when she saw that we meant it, she burst out crying. She told us that she’d never had a doll and that she was very sorry for what she’d done.
“We told her that we forgave her for what she’d done and that we wanted her to play with us from then on. And do you know what, Son?”
“What, Mom?”
“She became one of our very best friends.”

As a Montana rancher for most of my 70 years, I treasure the parable of the good shepherd, found in John 10:1–18, for I have lived it. The following experiences were particularly powerful in bringing this parable to life.
In biblical times each shepherd vocally summoned his personal flock from the many herds pooled together into a nighttime sheepfold (see vv. 3–4). Likewise, whenever I move my sheep, I simply call, and they follow.
Years ago my spry 96-year-old neighbor, Alice, who also raised sheep, became ill during lambing season, so I offered to do her night lambing. When I entered her lambing shed my first night “on duty,” Alice’s nearly 100 ewes were peacefully bedded down for the night. Yet when I appeared, they immediately sensed a stranger in their midst. Terrified, they instantly sought safety by huddling together in a far corner (see v. 5).
This continued for several nights. No matter how quietly I entered, the sheep panicked and fled. I spoke soothingly to the newborn lambs and ewes as I tended them. By the fifth night they no longer stirred as I worked among them. They had come to recognize my voice and trust me.
Sometime later I told Alice I would feed her dozen or so bum lambs their bottles. (A bum lamb is one whose mother has died or cannot produce enough milk.) Imitating Alice, I called to her lambs, “Come, BaBa! Come, BaBa!” I expected the lambs to hungrily stampede me as they did her. But not a single lamb even glanced up. Alice then stepped out her kitchen door and called. Hearing her voice, they eagerly rushed toward her, clamoring for their milk.
Intrigued, Alice and I conducted an experiment. Standing in my corral, Alice mimicked my call: “Here, lamby, lamby! Here, lamby, lamby!” and received no response whatsoever. But when I called with the exact same words, my sheep quickly surrounded me. Even though the words we used to summon the sheep were identical, our unfamiliar voices went unheeded. The sheep loyally heard only their true shepherd (see v. 4).

“What’s a testimony?” I asked my mom one Sunday as we were getting ready for church. I knew it was fast Sunday, which meant that people would be “bearing their testimony,” and I wasn’t sure what a testimony was.
My sister Diana hurried by, and Mom asked her, “What do you think a testimony is, Diana?”
“I think it’s when the Holy Ghost tells you something is true,” she said. “We’ve been studying about Jesus in seminary. I have a testimony that Jesus loves me and died for me. It’s a good feeling inside to know that Jesus will help me when I have problems.”
“We can have a testimony of many things, Bryan,” Mom said. “Bearing a testimony means you tell why you know a gospel principle is true.”
“I have an idea, Bryan,” Mom said later as we were going into the chapel. “Why don’t you write down all the things that the people bear testimony of in sacrament meeting today?”
“I can help you spell the people’s names,” Daddy said. “Pretend that you are a secretary or reporter. It will help you learn what a testimony is.”
After the sacrament, Daddy handed me a piece of paper and a pencil. At the top he had written “Name, Testimony” and had drawn a big line underneath. I felt like a news reporter as I wrote down everything.
Brother Nielson talked about how his prayers had been answered that week, and I wrote “prayer” beside his name.
Brother Brown, who seemed like the oldest person in the ward, bore his testimony next. He told how a priesthood blessing had saved his sister’s life. Daddy showed me how to spell “priesthood.” I know that when I have a sick stomach or a really sore throat and Daddy gives me a blessing, I feel better immediately. Sometimes my stomach or throat still hurts, but I feel better. It’s like the feeling I have when I have a bad dream and Mom comes and holds me and tells me about Jesus. After she does this, the bad feeling goes away and I feel sleepy again. I think I have a testimony of priesthood blessings, just like Brother Brown.
Sister Hatty cried when she bore her testimony about how glad she was that families can be together forever. Daddy whispered to me that Sister Hatty’s father had died the week before. I couldn’t think what to write down as her testimony, so Daddy finally spelled out “resurrection” for me.
As I wrote the names and topics, a strange feeling began to grow in me.
“Daddy,” I whispered a few minutes later, “how old do you have to be to bear a testimony?”
“You can bear your testimony when you’re old enough to have a testimony,” Daddy whispered back.
“Can someone my age bear his testimony?” I finally whispered.
“If a person is old enough to know what a testimony is,” Daddy whispered back, “he can bear it. Children know things are true just like grownups.”
When Mitchell went up to bear his testimony, the funny feeling inside me grew bigger. Mitchell was still in elementary school, like me. Mitchell said he was glad that his older brother, Aaron, was serving a mission. Mitchell said he wanted to go on a mission, too, when he got older. I wrote down “mission” by Mitchell’s name and thought how wonderful it would be to be a missionary like Aaron. Mitchell said that missionaries bear their testimonies all the time.
It was then that I decided I wanted to bear my testimony. I wasn’t old enough to be a missionary, but I could tell what I believed in. Daddy smiled and gave me a hug when I whispered that I was going to bear my testimony.
When Sister Morris sat down, I took a deep breath and started walking to the front of the chapel. I felt really scared, and I wished I could run back to my seat beside Daddy. But the feeling that I wanted to bear my testimony kept me moving toward the front.
“I love Heavenly Father and Jesus,” I said shakily and very loudly. I paused, and I felt better. “I like to read the Book of Mormon. I get a good feeling when I read it, even when I don’t understand all of it. I like to pray. I know Heavenly Father answers my prayers.” The wonderful feeling had spread all over me, and I felt warm and safe, like when I am wrapped in Daddy’s strong arms.
I felt really good when I finished my testimony, and I quickly walked back to Mom and Daddy. Diana gave me a big hug as I squeezed in by her. I whispered to her, “A testimony is a really good feeling that makes you happy inside, Diana, just like you said.” Then I added, “Bearing your testimony makes the good feeling inside feel even better.”

Years ago, I was studying and wasn’t doing well. For context, imagine taking the same exam over and over again every day for more than six months and failing every time. Day after day I worked on this project, and I thought I was doing well. Day after day I received feedback that my work was really poor. It became very discouraging. It seemed everything I tried wasn’t up to par, and I began to believe that I was not cut out for this work. I considered changing careers, and I wondered if I should quit.

Seeing this, my wife asked me if I would like to receive a priesthood blessing from our ministering brothers. As I sat for the blessing, an unexpected thing occurred. I didn’t hear what I wanted to hear. Instead, I knew the Lord was teaching me through the blessing. I remember two things from the blessing. First, I was told that I was blessed to have someone providing me with helpful, difficult, and experienced feedback so that I could learn and progress. Second, through His servant, the Lord admonished me to repeatedly and frequently thank my boss for helping me learn.

Brothers and sisters, I think it is often easier to see solutions that require others to change, but in this case I was being asked to change. I was being asked to develop the Christlike attributes of meekness and gratitude and to cultivate a heart that was willing to change.

The following day I walked into the office and received a disheartening evaluation of what I had done. At the end of the discussion, I decided to act in faith and express gratitude. I told my supervisor, “Thank you.” And I meant it, even though it was more difficult to say the words than I had hoped. I told him that I knew it was taking me a long time to learn this and that it must not be easy for him when others he had worked with had learned much more quickly. I told him that I would keep working at it, that I would learn it, and that I was grateful for his help.

I still remember him sitting in his chair looking at me and saying, “Yeah, sure,” and then turning back to his computer as if nothing had happened. But something significant had happened to me. I started to see my relationship with my boss differently. I felt strength and the hope that if I listened carefully, I could improve and learn well what I needed to do.

Eventually, with time and lots of practice, I gradually learned what I needed to. This impacted my life in incredible ways. Our work eventually received recognition, and it opened doors for important experiences that would happen later in my career.

Through this experience I learned how striving to develop meekness gave me the strength to persist. Reflecting on that point in my life, I realize that I was in the steep part of my learning curve. For many important things that we will do in this life, we must persist in order to get through the steep part of our learning curve.

Jerrison had made certain he read his English assignment: Ernest Hemingway’s “The Short, Happy Life of Francis Macomber.”
With any luck, Jerrison figured Mr. Hammel shouldn’t call on him to respond to the story about a man who wounded a lion in Africa, then ran from the beast’s charge—leaving guide and gun bearer to deal with it until later finding his courage again. There were over 30 students in the class. Three or four would be sufficient for enough discussion to do the Hemingway story justice, then move smoothly to the next author. At least that had been the pattern of Mr. Hammel’s literature challenges in past English classes here at Churchill High School.
But the law of averages wouldn’t prevail, Jer reasoned, because Mr. Hammel now suspected he was LDS. Jer was the only active Church member in his school, and his family was one of the few LDS families in the entire eastern Canada community. And hadn’t Jer just had the courage, or the gumption, or the gall, or whatever you call it, to disagree with the teacher just the week before? At issue was the presence or absence of deity in Mark Twain’s “The Mysterious Stranger” and whether there was any hope for an afterlife. Lars Hammel had been quite adamant about that. Jer had never seen his teacher so unyielding on any point. Perhaps Mr. Hammel deserved his reputation as an unrelenting atheist.
“Miss Cromar,” came Mr. Hammel’s inquisition, “What did you think of the lion incident in Hemingway’s Mr. Macomber?”
Dana smiled awkwardly. “He, well, he ran away from the lion. He was a coward.”
But Mr. Hammel would not let Dana off so easily. “Why is that being a coward, Miss Cromar? Wouldn’t any of us run from a lion suddenly charging directly at us from the tall grass? And wouldn’t we expect a professional guide who makes his living at this sort of thing to have the skills necessary for dispatching the creature?”
It wasn’t normal conversation, thought Jer. But then what English teacher speaks normally? Even a sympathetic one?
“I, I guess so, Mr. Hammel.”
“You’re easy to get along with, are you not?” The teacher looked down at her from his oak desk.
“Yes, yes,” she agreed.
“And Mr. Allred, do you concur with Dana here?”
“Macomber ran away. He was a nerd. Even his wife thought so.”
Mr. Hammel paused thoughtfully. “Well, let us see what Mr. Broman has to say about Mr. Macomber’s temporary lack of courage.”
Jerrison felt too tall in his seat now. He ran large hands through his dark hair. His mouth groped to synchronize with precisely the right words. “Relatively speaking, I don’t think the man was as much of a coward as some might think,” Jer heard himself say.
“Eh? Intriguing thought here. Why do you say that, Mr. Broman?”
“Well, he chose to go on the lion hunt. He didn’t have to go on a safari like that. And no one forced him to shoot at the lion, or wound it in the first place. And he did finally overcome his fears.”
Mr. Hammel waited. “And is that all there is to it, Mr. Broman?”
“It’s just that this is only an example of one-time courage. Physical courage.” Jer found that it came out easily. But then, “His greatest fault might have been talking so much about the whole thing.” Jer felt all eyes on him now, and he turned his heavy thumbs up above the desk. “I’ve seen greater examples of true courage in everyday life than shooting a lion, anyway.”
“An example, please?”
“Well, my aunt …” Did Jer have to go into all this?
“Your aunt?” It was true what they said about Mr. Hammel. Couldn’t he see that this matter was becoming more than Jer had intended it to be?
“I guess some would think she didn’t have much to live for each day. Robert, her husband, left her, and she has a Down’s Syndrome baby, and she has to work nights …”
“Is she not remarriageable?” Mr. Hammel said evenly. The class tittered.
“Not much chance of getting remarried right away. Not to just anyone, right now.” Jer squirmed.
“I see, Mr. Broman. And tell me, how would you compare this item of literature with what you read of Twain’s ‘Stranger’?”
“I liked Hemingway better. I like to read about courage.” Now he was warming up. “At least if it’s real courage. And if the author tries to honestly discover the full meaning of courage, not just an outside veneer.”
“Mm, Mr. Broman. Could you please see me after class? I’d like to talk with you privately if you don’t mind.”
When Jerrison appeared at the long oaken desk, Mr. Hammel was smiling only faintly. “I’m intrigued with your definition of courage,” he said. “Tell me more about your aunt, Aunt …”
“We call her Ren, Rennie.”
“Your Aunt Rennie. You say she has courage.”
“Every day. The child—and her job. They’re her lions.”
“And she handles this without lashing out at the world?”
“Ren … doesn’t usually talk about it.”
Mr. Hammel frowned. “Yet, what choice does she have?”
“She’s always smiling. But she knows Becky will always be dependent on her.” Jer felt an impatience stealing over himself now.
“Then there’s no reason to smile?”
“Some might say that.”
The teacher turned his head. For several minutes he did not speak.
Jer was about to say something, maybe “See you tomorrow” or now that he thought of it, a clever “Who’s next, Thoreau?” But then it didn’t seem so clever, and he heard Mr. Hammel speaking, low at first, then with more voice.
“Your aunt is a remarkable woman,” he said at last. “I know someone like her.”
“Who is that?” Jer said softly.
“Not really important. But you have not yet told me what it is that gives your aunt her courage.”
“First,” Jer said, “you must tell me your background. What is your feeling about God. Do you agree with Mr. Twain?”
“Yes, I see. That is a hard point. I don’t know. Jerrison, I would like to meet with you tomorrow, or the next day, after the last class.”
“Wednesday? I think I could do that. Right after school?”
The next day Jer thought he noticed a change in Mr. Hammel’s mood. The man appeared brisk and abrupt. He stood talking to another teacher, something about sophomores and assignments. “I’m in charge of the 10th graders’ get-acquainted party,” he was saying. “These kids are so glum these days about helping the new ones. Can’t get the haves to mix in and include the have-nots. No compassion.”
When the other teacher walked away, the two just stood there. Jerrison waited. Finally, Mr. Hammel looked directly into Jerrison’s eyes. “What is it that gives this woman the strength, as you say, to fight lions … every day?” He said it as a statement, not a question.
“Are you certain you want to know?” Jer asked.
“Yes, I would not have asked a year ago, or perhaps even a month ago. No, certainly, not even a month ago. Before I knew you. Now, go on, tell me.”
“The same thing which enabled Daniel to subdue his lions, the ones in the den.” Jer had not managed any eloquence. But he had said it.
Mr. Hammel studied him. “You are a Mormon, are you not?” he broke the silence.
“Yes.”
“And you … you’re saying …” he broke it off. “Yes, I see what you are saying. It is very clear.”
Two days later, Mr. Hammel again asked Jer to remain for a few minutes following class. “Mr. Broman.” His voice seemed again aloof and piercing. “I have a special assignment for you. For extra credit, of course. Would you write me a story about courage. What it means to have courage? Compare it with Mr. Macomber, if you will.”
That night, Jer struggled with the assignment. What did Mr. Hammel want from him? He had told him how he felt. What else could he say? He asked his father about it. “What do you regard as courage, Dad? True courage? It’s an English assignment.”
His father seemed slightly puzzled. Jer tried to help, without putting any words in his father’s mouth.
“Let’s put it like this. Is a man a coward for running away from a charging lion?”
“Yes, I think so. But wasn’t there anyone around to stand up to the lion?”
“The guide. An Englishman stopped the animal a few feet away. Stood there and pumped lead into a roaring lion.”
“I’d say that was an act requiring some courage. But who attacked whom in the first place?”
“The American. He shot the lion. Macomber. He hit it in the flank with a bad shot.”
“Oh. Sounds like the lion had a bit of courage himself, eh?”
“I told Mr. Hammel that there are many greater acts of courage, if an author wants to write about courage.”
“You said that?”
“Yes. I told him about Rennie.”
“You did?”
“I think she has courage.”
“You know what, Jer? I think you’ve got it. Courage.”
Later that night, on the assigned paper, Jer wrote:
“Many of us think of courage as a single act of dramatic proportions, with the world watching, reporters ready to describe in detail the slaying of the lion in our lives. But if the world was watching to give us a badge or a compliment, giving life our best wouldn’t be that difficult. The real test comes in rising to meet the challenge every day, and again, with no fanfare, when you are alone, and you know what you ought to do, and determine to do it with your full zeal and strength.”
On Friday Mr. Hammel asked Jerrison what grade he thought his paper deserved.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I wrote it because that’s the way I feel. Not for a grade. It’s the way my aunt is.”
“That’s why I’m giving you an A,” Mr. Hammel said. “For courage. And your aunt … I’m giving her an A, too.”
“I’ll tell her that.”
“Oh, and a … tell her I’d like to test her courage—helping me with the backward ones at the class get-together coming up. I haven’t reached them in a dozen years. Maybe your aunt can give me some clues. Anything.”
“And the baby?” Jer asked.
“My mother. Put up with me. I guess she’s got the courage to put up with your aunt’s baby for one afternoon.”

I think possibly I have told this experience that I had myself. I saw a young man when I was stake president; he was a very able young man; he had been trained in agriculture, and we needed an agricultural adviser in our welfare committee. He wasn’t active in the Church. I knew that he wasn’t keeping the Word of Wisdom, but I called and asked him to go to lunch with me one day; and as we sat and talked, I told him what I wanted of him. I said, “You are the best prepared, able young man to do this job. We need you, and you need activity.”
We talked for some time, and he said, “Well, President Tanner, you know that I don’t keep the Word of Wisdom.”
I said, “Well, you can, can’t you?” Probably that wasn’t fair.
And he said, “President, that is a different approach. My bishop came to me last month and asked me if I would take a job in the ward. I told him that I wasn’t keeping the Word of Wisdom. And he said, ‘Well, we will get somebody else.’”
So I talked with him for a little while longer, and I said, “Listen, brother, you need activity in the Church, but we need you, we really need you.”
After we had talked a little while, he said, “Do you mean that if I took a position like this I couldn’t even have a cup of coffee?”
I said, “Yes, that is exactly what I mean. Any leader must be a leader, and you must be an example. If you were taken into a stake committee, we would expect you to live the gospel the way a man should live it.”
He said, “Well, then, I shall have to think it over.”
I said, “You think it over. But remember, you need activity, and we need you.”
He said, “Well, I will let you know.”
He didn’t call me the next day. He didn’t call me the next day, and he didn’t call me the next day, and he didn’t call me the next day—and he didn’t call me the sixth day. And I thought, well, he doesn’t want to admit that he can’t keep the Word of Wisdom.
On the eighth day he called me. He said, “President Tanner, do you still want me to do that job?”
I said, “Yes, that is the reason I called you and talked to you about it the other day.”
He said, “Then I will do it, and on your terms.”
And he did it, and he did it on my terms. He was a single man, but he was thirty-some years of age. He came into activity, and there was a young woman who was stake president of the Mutual, a very fine young woman, and he met her and became very well acquainted with her and fell in love with her and married her.
And then he became a bishop and then he became a high councilor and then he became a member of the stake presidency. You know, it has given me a great deal of satisfaction to know that that young man became active, and his family is active. He has children now that are active.

Bishop Benson told how he was prompted by the Holy Ghost to check on Sister Henderson during the week. Sister Henderson was a widow who lived about two kilometers up a dirt road off the main highway into town. When the bishop went to see her, he found her furnace had broken down. She didn’t have a telephone and was no longer able to drive, so she had prayed to Heavenly Father for help. The still, small voice had told her all would be well.

Later, Christopher’s Primary teacher, Sister Woolett, gave a lesson about the Holy Ghost. She told about when the still, small voice warned her to check on her sleeping baby. When she did, everything seemed all right.
But as she turned to leave, the voice again told her to check on her little boy. This time she went over to the crib and looked closely at him. There, next to him, was a large, jagged piece of glass. A framed picture that had been hanging above the crib had fallen. Most of the glass and the frame were behind the crib, but the large, jagged piece had fallen next to her sleeping son.
Sister Woolett also related an incident from the lesson manual about one of the prophets being warned of danger by the still, small voice.

Why can everyone hear the still, small voice but me? Christopher wondered again. He knew that after his baptism almost two years ago, he was given the gift of the Holy Ghost when he was confirmed. So why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me?
“How was Primary?” Mom asked as Christopher and his two younger sisters climbed into the car. Jill and Michelle started telling about their lessons and the songs they learned in singing time. Christopher stared sadly at the floor.
“What was your lesson about, Christopher?” Dad asked.
A tear rolled down Christopher’s cheek. “The Holy Ghost,” he replied softly. Sensing that something was wrong, Jill and Michelle quit chattering.
“Maybe we could talk about this a little more when we get in the house,” Mom said as they turned into the driveway.
Later Mom and Dad invited Christopher to come to their room. “Christopher,” Mom said, “can you tell us what’s bothering you?”
Christopher looked down. He didn’t want his parents to know the Holy Ghost didn’t talk to him. They probably heard the still, small voice all the time.
“Listen,” Dad said, putting his arm around Christopher, “we can tell you’re upset, and we’d like to help.”
Christopher felt tears ready to spill from his eyes. “Mom, Dad,” he said in a shaky voice, “why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me? I’ve always tried to do what’s right. I know I make mistakes—like the time I spilled the red punch on the new carpet and said Jill did it so I wouldn’t get in trouble. But I did finally tell the truth. Do you have to be perfect like the bishop or Brother Johnson or Sister Woolett to have the Holy Ghost speak to you?”
Mom and Dad looked a little surprised. “Christopher,” Mom said, “the only perfect person to ever live on the earth is Jesus Christ. Everyone makes mistakes. Why don’t you think the Holy Ghost speaks to you?”
“I’ve never heard the still, small voice,” Christopher replied.
“Hearing a voice isn’t the only way the Holy Ghost can communicate with you,” Mom said. “Often it’s what you feel, not what you hear. Don’t you remember the good feeling you had after you prayed and asked Heavenly Father to forgive you for blaming your sister for the carpet stain? That feeling was from the Holy Ghost.”
“It was?”
“Or how about the time we were reading the scriptures,” Dad added, “and you suddenly understood what Jesus Christ was talking about in the parable of the wheat and the tares. That was the Holy Ghost teaching you.”
“I never thought about it that way before!” Christopher was starting to feel a lot better.
“And,” Mom said, “remember when you got lost last summer and you prayed for help? After you prayed, you felt calm and knew you should sit on the nearest bench and let us find you. That calm, reassuring feeling helping you know what to do was the Holy Ghost.”
Christopher smiled. Now he understood. The Holy Ghost had been talking to him—even if he didn’t hear the still, small voice with his ears! Now he said excitedly, “What about last week when I gave my talk in Primary? I’d studied it really hard, but when I got up, I had forgotten it. Then I said a silent prayer, and suddenly I could remember my talk. That was the Holy Ghost, too, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “Helping you remember is also a part of the gift of the Holy Ghost.”
“All those times the Holy Ghost really was talking to me!” The warm feeling in Christopher’s heart helped him know it was true.

He glanced at the clock—still 20 minutes to go. He started looking for ways to make the time speed up. He folded up his class handout. Pretty soon he started swinging his feet back and forth. Just as he was about to see how long he could hold his breath, Jayson heard something amazing. “I made a big mistake,” Sister Simmons said.
“When I was 12 years old I had some friends who used bad language,” Sister Simmons said, “and I noticed that whenever I got mad a swear word would pop into my head. I wasn’t worried, because I knew that I wouldn’t actually say the words. But one day I got mad during recess and took the Lord’s name in vain. I felt so sad! I couldn’t believe that I had crossed the line between words in my head and words in my mouth.”
Jayson sat up straight, the clock forgotten. Sister Simmons told how she had talked with her parents that night and asked her father for a priesthood blessing. The bad words didn’t go away immediately, but as she crowded them out with good thoughts, they came less often. After a while, they went away completely.

When I was a mission president in South Africa in 2005, I felt a very strong prompting by the Spirit to move our Norwegian missionary, Elder Joseph Henriksen, all the way across the mission—in between normal transfer dates—to replace a missionary who needed to have surgery. I had just interviewed Elder Henriksen in Queenstown, a two-hour flight plus a two-hour drive away from Cape Town, and on the flight home the Spirit kept telling me that he was the one who needed to move into the Strand Branch and replace the elder needing surgery.
As soon as we returned to the mission home, I called Elder Henriksen and asked him to pack his bags. . . . We picked him up [the next day] and talked to him about his new area, where they hadn’t had a baptism for 18 months. I explained to Elder Henriksen that he was the one the Lord had selected to be there and to make a difference in that branch. We introduced him to his new companion, who drove him another hour to Strand, a beautiful beach area on the Atlantic Ocean, about 50 miles south of Cape Town.
The first week in his new area, Elder Henriksen was thumbing through the area book and found a referral that hadn’t been contacted in the seaside town of Hermanus, another hour south of Strand, but in their assigned area. There was a small branch in Hermanus with about twenty active members, but he and his companion were the closest missionaries. Not wanting to waste time, but feeling prompted to contact the referral, he and his companion looked up the addresses of all the members in Hermanus so they could visit them as well as contacting the referral. Then they set aside a day to visit Hermanus.
When that day came, Elder Henriksen and his companion taught a first lesson in the home they were referred to, then began visiting the members. They knocked on the door of a member lady who expressed great surprise at seeing elders at her door. “I didn’t think we had missionaries in Hermanus anymore!” she exclaimed. Then she told them it was the greatest day of her life. She had just received in the mail a 300-year history of her ancestors. She was excited to be able to do temple work for hundreds of family members who had gone on before. Then she told them that her only problem was that she couldn’t understand any of it because it was written in Norwegian.
Elder Henriksen looked at her, smiled and said, “I’m Norwegian!” What a tender mercy for the Lord to inspire a mission president to suddenly transfer the only Norwegian missionary on the African continent to the area where this dear sister lived and needed a Norwegian translator. While he served there, he was able to visit her once a week and complete the translation. This experience strengthened the faith of everyone involved.

Through all these difficult experiences, I kept praying, and I could feel the comfort I was promised by the Spirit in a priesthood blessing I had received. One day I dared to ask the question, in prayer, “Why do I feel so alone?” And I received an answer or, rather, a promise—that I would make new friends, friends who would understand me.
And I did! I made new friends, some who aren’t members of the Church but who still respect and love me. I also made friends in the Church who have become like family to me.

The second lesson was learned several years later when we were more financially secure. Our wedding anniversary was approaching, and I wanted to buy Mary a fancy coat to show my love and appreciation for our many happy years together. When I asked what she thought of the coat I had in mind, she replied with words that again penetrated my heart and mind. “Where would I wear it?” she asked. (At the time she was a ward Relief Society president helping to minister to needy families.)

Then she taught me an unforgettable lesson. She looked me in the eyes and sweetly asked, “Are you buying this for me or for you?” In other words, she was asking, “Is the purpose of this gift to show your love for me or to show me that you are a good provider or to prove something to the world?” I pondered her question and realized I was thinking less about her and our family and more about me.

After that we had a serious, life-changing discussion about provident living, and both of us agreed that our money would be better spent in paying down our home mortgage and adding to our children’s education fund.

“Utah School for the Blind”—I turned my car into the school’s driveway and glanced at my watch. I had had trouble finding the address, and I was late for an appointment at 12:00 to meet with Scott Jeppson from American Fork, Utah. He had recently been awarded the Eagle badge, an outstanding achievement and an especially remarkable one for him. Scott was born with an eye disease called glaucoma, and by the time he was twelve, due to the glaucoma and a list of other medical complications, he was totally blind.
Scott was waiting at the edge of the parking lot when I drove in. The first thing I noticed about him was his smile. He had the biggest, brightest smile I’d ever seen. After shaking hands with him and introducing myself, I apologized for being late.
“I got lost,” I explained.
“Well, that’s okay,” he said. “That happens to me a lot, too. If we hurry we might still be able to get some lunch.”
Scott led me across the campus as fast as I could walk. I didn’t understand how he could go so quickly when he couldn’t see until I realized that he had every square foot of the place memorized. After lunch we followed Scott’s regular schedule: reading class, swimming, and history. Scott reads using the Braille system and by using a machine called an opticon. The opticon converts regular printed material into vibrations in the shape of letters that are read with a single finger.
After the classes were over, I got a chance to talk casually with Scott as we sat on the grass in the sun. There was a group of students playing softball below us. The game was the same as regular softball except the ball had an electronic beeper in it.
I asked about the problems he’d had adjusting to his handicap.
“It took a lot of adjustment,” he said. “I just do the things I need to do first—pray, study the scriptures, and attend church. I’ve also been blessed with a good family and friends. I can work out most of the problems, and if I can’t work them out, I can get a lot of help.
“I also believe that I’m the only person who can make me happy. I work out the problems, just like anyone else, and I try to smile through discouragement.”
Scott holds the office of a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. He helps prepare and bless the sacrament. He gives talks, using notes in braille, and goes home teaching. In Scouting, since he has earned his Eagle, he is now working toward Scouting’s next higher awards, the Palms.
Last summer Scott and 17 other members of his stake went on a three-day handcart trek. The first day they pushed their carts 26 miles. The second day turkeys were turned loose. The members of the companies were blindfolded and told to catch them. Scott caught the turkey for his group.
On the last day of his trip each one went out by himself.
“That gave me a chance to think,” Scott said. “I had a lot to think about—about reaching goals, about what kind of member of the Church I was. I needed to take everything further. I needed to take what I was further. I realized the only thing stopping me was myself.”
It was over a year ago when first met Scott. He’s 17 now. Scott has changed in a year. He’s grown. His goals for the future include a temple marriage, missionary work, college, and a career in teaching. “I’ll find a way to reach my goals,” he said, smiling. “After all, you’re the only person who can make you happy.”
Scott’s smile? It has changed too. It’s even bigger.

One evident blessing that immediately showered me during this project was the immense peace I felt—not only during the session but also in my life in general. To share a bit of my story, a few weeks before our pilot recording, I was still reeling from the aftermath of Typhoon Kristine. Our house was flooded, and many of our belongings were damaged beyond repair. Chaos and uncertainty surrounded me, leaving me restless and worried.

Despite all this, I never once hesitated to attend the recording session, knowing that I would be edified and strengthened as I gave my best efforts. Throughout the session, we enjoyed what we would consider as among the happiest times of our lives. We worked hard, but it didn’t feel like work: we laughed, joked around, and helped each other while recording the songs in Tagalog. Truly, the Lord is in the minute details of our lives. He knew I needed to step back and experience the peace His music offers, shared with wonderful people.