Gospel Story Finder

Our ward had just been divided, so when the bishop asked to see me, I was sure I would receive a calling in the new ward. I had been working with the young women and loved them. They were so receptive to the gospel and such a joy to teach. Surely the Lord would allow me to continue teaching them.
To my surprise, the bishop said the Lord wanted me to teach in Primary instead. Surely he was mistaken! He assured me, however, that he had fasted and prayed and felt strongly about my calling. I loved children, but what did I know about teaching them?
For 15 years of marriage the only sadness my husband and I shared was that the Lord had not blessed us with children. Our efforts to adopt had also been fruitless because of our medical challenges.
Trusting the bishop, I accepted the call to teach in the Primary, but in my heart I struggled. I was angry with the Lord for leaving me childless, and I resented this new calling.
“Why, Lord, art Thou asking this of me?” I wondered. “In Thy wisdom, I have been deprived of children of my own. Why should I be asked to teach other people’s children?”
I prayed and struggled and wrestled with the Lord, pleading through my tears for understanding. Finally I decided that since I had accepted the calling, I had better stop feeling sorry for myself and do the best I could.
That is when the blessings came. I quickly learned to love the children, and they learned to love me. I found that their love was great enough to help me fill the emptiness in my life. Soon I couldn’t go down the hall at church without at least two children holding onto my hands and others stopping for a hug as I passed by. In turn, my husband was called as a Scout leader. Before long our home was full of children and teens.

I was baptised into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in my mid-20s in London, joining a host of new young single adult friends in my newfound faith. During the first sacrament meeting following my baptism, I was asked to come to the front of the chapel, and the congregation was invited to raise their hands as a sign of welcome to the ward and to the Church.
This was an unfamiliar practice to me. But I looked into those smiling faces, and I felt as if they were cheering me on, genuinely thrilled that I had discovered faith in Jesus Christ and a desire to follow Him. Many of my new friends had recently experienced this same welcome and transition into a life of faith.
A week later, I was invited to meet with the bishop. He had taken time to get to know me when I was being taught by the missionaries. He rocked back in his chair, thwacking a ruler into his palm, and told me that we were meeting because he had a calling for me. He had prayed—about me—and he told me the calling would be of benefit to me and my future service to the Lord in His Church. He extended the calling of assistant ward clerk. The reaction in my mind was, “Assistant ward clerk? Well, that is not me!” Fortunately, a little grace intervened, and I responded with a “thank you” and that I would endeavour to learn what was involved. I did not have a clue.
At church the next Sunday, I was asked to stand as my calling was announced. My ward family was invited to raise their hands if they agreed to sustain me. Comfortingly, I saw those same raised hands and smiling faces surrounding me in the congregation, reassuring me that these new friends would support me with their goodwill, patience, and faith.
The ward clerk I was to be “assisting” came straight to me at the end of the meeting and said, “Come on, Patrick. I’ll show you how this works.” Over the coming months, he did show me how everything worked, sitting side by side, often for hours—in the small clerk’s office. (To be clear, that’s a small office for clerks, not an office for small clerks.)
Other callings followed. My bishop kept a loving eye on me and eventually shared that he had felt prompted by the Lord to extend callings which would be stretching for me but, he trusted, not overwhelming. I came to see purpose and power in each calling I received, and with hindsight, the bishop’s inspiration came to make sense to me.

Our family was returning from a weekend getaway to Peace River, Alberta, Canada, about five hours north of our home in Edmonton. Darkness had long since descended on the northern landscape, and although the wind was blowing snow wildly across the road in front of us, all seemed peaceful and calm inside our van.
Suddenly an ominous warning light appeared on the dashboard. I had seen it only once before, years ago, and now I feared what was in store. I quickly turned off all unnecessary power, but the engine soon stalled. I knew we had traveled several kilometers since we had passed the last town, and it would be many more kilometers before we reached the next town. I could not even remember the last time we had encountered a vehicle going in either direction.
As we desperately considered our options, our 11-year-old son, Casson, said, “We need to pray—now!” Not three months before, Casson had been devastated by the loss of his younger brother, who had passed away from cancer. How many prayers had Casson sent up to heaven as he struggled to understand why he had lost his only brother?
My wife and I were not sure how fully he had understood our explanation that our prayers need to be aligned with Heavenly Father’s will and not necessarily with our own desires. Yet here he was, showing us that we needed to turn to Heavenly Father and continue to have faith in Him.
Not long after we had finished praying, the headlights of an approaching vehicle began to sparkle in our rearview mirror. Within seconds a long flatbed truck en route to Edmonton stopped in front of us.
As the driver and I approached each other, he asked in a thick French Canadian accent, “Do you have any children in that van?” When I told him yes, he said he had passed another stopped vehicle several miles back but had not pulled over because of the bad weather. However, as he had approached us, he felt a distinct impression that we had children who needed his help. As a result, he stopped.
Within a few minutes he had our vehicle winched onto his truck, and we were heading to Edmonton. It was a cold trip back, but we were warmed by the sweet confirmation that Heavenly Father does hear prayers. Sometimes the answers come in ways we don’t envision, and sometimes the answers are more powerful and direct than we can ever imagine. We just need to have faith and trust in the Lord.

Teenage siblings, Latoya and Cruzze Sanderson, recently found comfort and answers to their questions as they met with missionaries and attended sacrament meetings and youth classes and activities.
Cruzze says, “Who I am now compared to where I was is a huge blessing from Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. [At my baptism], after I came out of the water, I felt refreshed, like a weight was lifted off my shoulders.”

I have a nephew named Seth. When he was born, it was discovered that he had an extra chromosome, and that has made some aspects of life challenging. I remember his father wondering shortly after this discovery if he would be Seth’s only friend in life. Today, Seth has more friends than all of our family combined.
A few years ago as I arrived home from work, Laurie, my wife, met me at the front door to let me know that Seth, then our five-year-old nephew, was missing. Family and friends gathered nearby to search the neighborhood. Driving the speed limit was a real test that day; every stoplight seemed to turn red. Sitting at one stoplight, I glanced out the window and noticed golfers on the course. I remembered thinking how silly golf seemed at this moment in time, when I was desperately driving to join the search for Seth. I thought, “Wouldn’t everyone in Rexburg be willing to stop what they were doing and join the search if they just knew what was happening?” What was happening? Was Seth lost? Kidnapped? Hurt?
Shortly after I arrived and joined others in the search, I heard a joyful cheer come from down the road. Seth had been found in a neighbor’s home when the children living in that home had returned from school. What a tender sight to see my brother and his wife reunited with their son. Seth’s brief, dramatic disappearance (and life for that matter) has caused me to frequently reflect upon the worth of a soul and what really matters in life.

In February 1958, at age 17, I entered the United States Navy. I was assigned to an aircraft carrier, where I met Raymond Covington from Provo, Utah.
I thought Raymond was a bit strange—no smoking, no drinking, no cursing, no nothing. I asked him what he did for enjoyment. He said he did a lot of things, but mostly what he enjoyed was either starting or ending his day with one or two big milk shakes. So Raymond was given the nickname “Milkshake.”
At night, Raymond would tell me about his church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I was really quite interested, until he told me that if I joined his church, I could not hold the priesthood. That did not go over well with me. Seeing my agitation, Raymond expressed his feeling that perhaps one day the priesthood would be available to me.
As time went by I began to favor Raymond above all my friends because of the way he lived. After a while I found I had ceased to live the kind of life I had been living, and I wanted to do the right thing. He made me realize I didn’t have to curse or drink alcohol. I could make the choice to live a righteous life.
One day several of the guys were sitting on the deck gambling. One of them looked up at Raymond and said, “Milkshake! Say this curse word and you can have all the money in the pot.” I quickly counted the money and found the total to be two months’ pay. I figured since he and I were buddies, Raymond would give me half. But to my dismay, he would not curse. I pleaded with him, but he didn’t believe in that kind of talk. I knew then that to be a true Latter-day Saint was a sacred responsibility.
Raymond was discharged in June 1961, and I was discharged later that year. I often wondered what had happened to my old friend.
One day many years later, in 1990, while looking out the window of my home in the state of Washington in the United States, I spotted two nicely dressed young men. They were missionaries for the Church, and I invited them in. After talking with them a little while, I found out that Raymond’s hopes had come true: President Spencer W. Kimball had received a revelation in 1978 directing that all worthy males could receive the priesthood. I was elated. After receiving the missionary lessons, I agreed to be baptized.
About this time I told a neighbor, also a member of the Church, about my friendship with Raymond. I had no idea the neighbor would go to Utah and actually find Raymond. Two weeks later my old friend “Milkshake” drove more than 1,000 miles (1,600 kilometers) to speak at my baptism. He said he always knew I would join the Church.
In December 1997, I got a call from Raymond’s daughter, telling me he had passed away. I was saddened by the news, but I smile when I think of the reunion Rocky and his friend Milkshake will someday have on the other side of the veil.

“This one’s for Valerie,” I said with a grin, and held up the tiniest valentine in the whole package. It was just one small heart with “Have a heart—Be my valentine,” printed across it.
Mom looked at the valentine and asked, “Who’s Valerie?”
I scooted my chair a little closer to the kitchen table and wrote Valerie’s name on the back of the tiny card. “Oh, she’s a new girl in the class,” I mumbled. “At least, she was new a month ago.”
Mom took the valentine from me and looked at it again. “Why does Valerie get this one?”
I heaved a big sigh. “Mom, she’ll be lucky to get any valentines. I bet I’m the only kid in the whole class who gives her one.”
I reached for the valentine, but Mom held it back. “So if this is going to be her only valentine,” Mom asked, still holding the tiny heart, “why give her this one?”
“Well, after I picked out the cards for my friends and the rest of my class, that was the only one left.”
For a long time Mom didn’t say anything. She just looked down at the small valentine, with her lips pressed together. Finally she asked, “Don’t the kids like Valerie?”
I squirmed a little in my chair. “I didn’t say that they didn’t like her,” I answered. “I just said that nobody would be giving her a valentine. And they won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, Mom,” I moaned. “They just won’t. Valerie’s kind of different. Some kids just are.”
“Different? How?”
“Well,” I mumbled, “she doesn’t ever say anything. Even when Miss Willis talks to her, she just whispers or nods her head. And she’s not very cute. She always wears the same sweater, and most of the time her hair isn’t even combed. Bobby Richards says she has fleas.” Mom glared at me, so I added quickly, “But he’s just joking. She really doesn’t. She eats her lunch alone, and she—”
“So after everyone treats her like that,” Mom cut in, “you’re going to give her your very worst valentine?”
“Well, what’s wrong with that. Like I said, she’ll be lucky to get any.”
“Jared,” Mom sighed, “is that what Sister Hansen teaches you in Primary?”
“Aw, Mom, this is for school, not Primary,” I pointed out, trying to sound like I believed it. But I got a funny twitching inside, and I knew that Valerie’s valentine had a lot to do with Primary.
“Jared, if what you learn in Primary doesn’t help you in school, then what good is Primary? And what about everything that your dad and I have been trying to teach you all these years?”
I stared down at my hands and shrugged my shoulders.
For a long time we just sat there. Then Mom spoke quietly, “Have you wondered what it would be like to go to a new school and not have any friends? All the time you’d be thinking that there wasn’t a person in the whole world who liked you. And then on Valentine Day, when everyone else is expecting to get lots of valentines, you only get the tiny ones that nobody wanted to give to their friends. How would you like to be Valerie?”
“All right,” I mumbled, reaching for one of the nicer valentines in the package, “I was going to give this one to Brad, but I guess I can give it to Valerie if you want me to.”
Mom shook her head. “Don’t do it for me, Jared. Do it for Valerie.”
“All right,” I growled, “I’ll do it for Valerie.” I reached for a pencil so that I could write Valerie’s name on it.
“Wait,” Mom said suddenly. “Let’s give Valerie a special valentine.”
“This is a special valentine!” I protested, holding up the one I’d planned to give to Brad. “It’s the best one I have!”
“But there will be others like it. Let’s give her one that is the very best of all, one that will make her smile for the rest of the day.”
Before I could say another word, Mom headed for the cupboard and began pulling down flour and sugar and salt and other stuff.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“We are going to make a valentine for Valerie.”
“What do we need all that for?”
“This isn’t going to be just an ordinary valentine.”
At first all I did was watch, but soon my hands were covered with flour and sugar, and Mom and I were having a great time.
Mom and I mixed up a whole glob of dough. Then we rolled it out on the table and shaped it into a giant heart. Mom popped it into the oven, and I began getting out ingredients for the frosting. Then, when the giant heart came from the oven and was cool enough, we set to work, decorating it with white, red, and pink frosting and some jelly beans. We gave the heart a face, and across the face in fat red letters we wrote, “Have a heart” and “Be my very special valentine.”
When we were finished, I licked my lips and grinned. “Let’s eat it now,” I said.
“Don’t you dare!” Mom threatened, shaking her finger at me and trying hard not to laugh.
“But it’s too good to just give away—to anybody!” I exclaimed.
“It’s too good to keep!”
“But, Mom, I can’t give this to Valerie,” I objected. “What will everybody think? They’ll say that she’s my girlfriend.” I could feel my cheeks burning. “Even if I do want to be nice to her, I sure don’t want everybody saying that she’s my girlfriend.”
Mom thought for a minute. “Don’t tell anyone. When no one is looking, you can slip it into her envelope. She’ll know that someone in the class gave it to her. Just knowing that she has a friend, even if she doesn’t know who it is, will make all the difference in the world. And I can promise you that tomorrow Valerie will be the happiest girl in your whole class.”
The next morning, with Valerie’s valentine tucked in my backpack, I headed for school. All morning I kept the valentine hidden in my desk, waiting for a chance to slip the giant cookie into Valerie’s valentine envelope. But I never had a chance. Someone was always around.
Just when I’d given up hope, the lunch bell rang and everyone rushed to the cafeteria. I was alone! Snatching the valentine from inside my desk, I sneaked to the back of the room and slipped it into Valerie’s envelope. It barely fit. There were a few other valentines there, but they were just little ones like the one that I had planned to give her before Mom had talked to me. I was glad that Valerie would have at least one good valentine.
It wasn’t until the middle of the afternoon that Miss Willis let us start our valentine party. We played games and had cookies and punch before Miss Willis went to the back wall and took down each of the valentine envelopes and called us up one at a time to get them. Valerie’s was the second to the last. When Miss Willis took it down, she exclaimed, “Valerie surely has some heavy valentines in her envelope!”
Valerie shuffled shyly to the back of the room and took her envelope from Miss Willis. As soon as she felt how heavy it was, a smile tickled the corners of her lips. Everybody watched Valerie as she returned to her seat and sat down. At first she just left the envelope unopened in front of her. Then Martin Turner shouted, “Come on, Valerie, let’s see what’s inside.”
Valerie’s face turned red, and she ducked her head. She carefully opened the envelope and peeked inside. Then she slowly pulled out the giant valentine cookie that I had wrapped in red tissue paper. Everyone in the whole class was quiet and stared at the mysterious package. As Valerie pulled away the paper, her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.
“How beautiful!” Miss Willis exclaimed. “Who’s it from?”
Valerie searched for a name, but there wasn’t one. Finally she shrugged her shoulders.
“It’s a secret valentine.” Miss Willis smiled. “That’s the very best kind.”
Valerie nodded and smiled. Then suddenly she said, “Thank you, whoever you are. It’s the best valentine in the whole world!” She was absolutely glowing!
After school I ran all the way home. “She loved it!” I shouted as I charged through the front door and raced for the kitchen, where Mom was peeling potatoes. “Everybody loved it. They all said that it was the very best valentine they’d ever seen.”
Mom smiled. “And did she find out who gave it to her?”
I shook my head. “She never guessed, so she she thought we were all her friends. And shared it with the whole class. And she talked, Mom! And after school I saw her walking home with Amy and Sylvia and Tara. It was like magic.”
“And was she the happiest girl in the class?”
“The very happiest!” I grinned.
“And who was the happiest boy?” she teased.
I grinned. “Me, of course.” And I was.

When I was five years old, my mother bought me a pet turtle. One day I was outside playing with my turtle, watching it slowly crawl through the tall blades of grass. Suddenly a loud noise distracted me, and I looked away. When I looked back my turtle was gone!
I searched and searched, but I couldn’t find the turtle. Then I remembered that my mother had taught me that Heavenly Father answers our prayers. I knelt on the lawn and asked Heavenly Father to help me find my turtle.
I finished my prayer, opened my eyes, and looked down. I expected to see my turtle. But it wasn’t there. And no matter where I looked or how much I prayed, I never did find my turtle.
I told my mom what happened and asked if I could have a new turtle. She said yes, but when she went back to the pet store, they had no more turtles. She found out that all the turtles at the store, including mine, had been infected with a disease that could have made me and my family members very sick.
Now, many years later, I can see that it was a great blessing that I didn’t find my turtle. I know now that Heavenly Father answers all our prayers. He knows what is best for us. Sometimes the answer is, “Yes.” Sometimes the answer is, “No.” Often the answer is, “No, because I have something better for you. Just be patient.”

Several years ago, upon entering an electrical establishment, Elder James E. Talmage saw an impressive array of lamps, door chimes, and other electrical items. And “having chosen a lamp, [he] turned the switch to test the … light; but lo, there was no light. The attendant told [him] that the lamps were there as an exhibit only, but were not connected up.”

He reported, “I turned to the bells, but when I pressed a button I listened in vain for [a] responsive tinkle. And so with everything [else] in the shop—pleasing to look upon, some pieces artistic, all suggestive of usefulness, but, as displayed, they were [only] ornaments and nothing more, for they were not connected up.”

Upon leaving the shop Elder Talmage thought, “A burning candle … is worth more in terms of utility than the most elaborate of electroliers without the current.” Then a fitting parallel came to his mind of the “scriptural description of minds and souls darkened and deceived by outward appearances while devoid of spirituality: ‘Having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof’ (2 Tim. 3:5)” (Handbook of the Restoration [Independence, Mo.: Zion’s Printing and Publishing Co., 1944], pp. 389–90).

When the children were young, we enjoyed personal, intimate visits with them at their own bedsides or curled up before the fire. Later it was a joy to have them travel with me on Church and business trips throughout the state of Idaho and later throughout the nation. Sometimes these trips were a reward for achievement—our oldest son, Reed, was taken on a trip from Washington D.C., to the west coast when he became the first Eagle Scout in the stake. His achievement was followed a year later by that of his brother Mark. It was on a day during this trip with Reed that I was called to a position of leadership in the councils of the Church. The intimate conversation and experience of that day will remain a precious memory always.

3 Satan did not want people to join the Church. He tried to plant negative feelings and seeds of doubt in the hearts of the investigators. One such nonmember was Newel Knight, son of Joseph Knight, who had befriended the Prophet Joseph Smith.
4 Joseph asked Newel if he would say the prayer at a future meeting. Newel said that he would.
5 But Satan caused Newel to become so fearful that he refused to pray at the meeting, saying that he was afraid to pray out loud.
6 Newel told the Prophet that he would go into the woods later to pray alone. But after several unsuccessful attempts to pray in the woods, Newel felt an evil influence. He felt uneasy and went home.
7 Newel’s wife was worried about him, and she asked Joseph Smith to come and help her husband. Joseph Smith used his priesthood power to bless Newel and to cast out the evil spirit that had invaded Newel’s body. Newel recovered quickly, and a short time later he was baptized.

Kendra was alert for any opportunity to begin a gospel discussion. Like a lot of young people, her wallet was stuffed with pictures of everyone who’s ever been important to her. In front of all the others, she included a photo of the president of the Church and a picture of the Savior. When her friends would flip through her photos they’d ask if the kindly looking man in the first photo was her grandfather.

“Oh no,” she would explain. “He’s the president of our Church.” The next picture was of Christ. “I’m sure you recognize him,” she would say. “He’s my best friend.” It was a great conversation starter.

Sometimes, Kendra took the initiative even further. One Thursday night, when investigators called to say they couldn’t make it to her home to meet with the missionaries, she decided not to let her missionary night go to waste. She and a girlfriend jumped into the car and headed for town, where they found some young people and convinced them to skip a movie and come meet the missionaries instead.

Kendra’s missionary vigor helped 11 people join Christ’s true church and acquainted many others with its teachings. And Kendra herself grew tremendously while on her “mission.” She says it was the happiest time of her life because she cared so much about other people.

At the close of one of her letters to me, Kendra expressed joy that her “mission” really hasn’t ever ended. I sustain her in that thought. Though our callings in life may seem to change occasionally, their purposes remain the same—to help each other return to our Father’s presence.

But however rugged the land looked going south, the wind-whipped, erosion-gutted cliffs and canyon wilderness of San Juan country to the east looked a lot tougher. Church leaders knew that taming that rough, unchartered corner of the territory would be difficult, but they nevertheless wanted to establish communities for the Church there. At the quarterly conference of the Parowan Stake in 1879, 250 people accepted the call by President John Taylor to establish the San Juan Mission. With 80 wagons and nearly 1,000 head of cattle and horses, they began to cut their way toward and through imposing, unexplored territory of snow-capped mountains and towering stone pinnacles.
Seeking the shortest route to San Juan, those first explorers overcame one obstacle after another but soon faced the largest and most intimidating barrier of all: the impassable gulf of the Colorado River gorge. Miraculously their weary scouts found a narrow slit in the canyon—a crevice running 2,000 feet (610 m) down the red cliffs to the Colorado River below. This lone, near-lethal “hole in the rock” seemed to offer the only possible passage to the eastern side.
For the most part, the slice in the sandstone was too narrow for horses and in some places too narrow even for a man or woman to pass through. Sheer drops of as much as 75 feet (23 m) would seem to have made it impossible for a mountain sheep, let alone loaded wagons. But the hardy Saints were not going to turn back, so with blasting powder and tools, working most of December 1879 and January 1880, they cut a precarious, primitive road into the face of the canyon precipice.
With this roadbed finished, such as it was, the task was now to get the first 40 wagons down the “hole.” The other wagons, waiting five miles (8 km) back at Fifty-Mile Spring, would follow later.
They organized themselves in such a way “that a dozen or more men could hang on behind the wagon” with long ropes to slow its descent. Then the wheels were brake-locked with chains, allowing them to slide but avoiding the catastrophe of the wheels actually rolling.
In one of the great moments of pioneer history, one by one the company took the wagons down the treacherous precipice. When they reached the canyon floor, they eagerly started to ferry across the river with a flatbed boat they had fashioned for that purpose. As it turned out, the Joseph Stanford Smith family was in the last wagon to descend that day.
Stanford Smith had systematically helped the preceding wagons down, but somehow the company apparently forgot that Brother Smith’s family would still need help as the tailenders. Deeply disturbed that he and his family seemed abandoned, Stanford moved his team, wagon, and family to the edge of the precipice. The team was placed in front and a third horse was hitched behind the wagon to the rear axle. The Smiths stood for a moment and looked down the treacherous hole. Stanford turned to his wife, Arabella, and said, “I am afraid we can’t make it.”
She replied, “But we’ve got to make it.”
He said, “If we only had a few men to hold the wagon back, we might make it.”
Replied his wife, “I’ll do the holding back.”
She laid a quilt on the ground, and there she placed her infant son in the care of her three-year-old, Roy, and five-year-old, Ada. “Hold little brother ’til papa comes for you,” she said. Then positioning herself behind the wagon, Belle Smith grasped the reins of the horse hitched to the back of the rig. Stanford started the team down the hole. The wagon lurched downward. With the first jolt the rear horse fell. Sister Smith raced after him and the wagon, pulling on the lines with all her strength and courage. She soon fell too, and as she was dragged along with the horse, a jagged rock cut a cruel gash in her leg from heel to hip. That gallant woman, with clothes torn and a grievous wound, hung on to those lines with all her might and faith the full length of the incline all the way to the river’s edge.
On reaching the bottom and almost in disbelief at their accomplishment, Stanford immediately raced the 2,000 feet (607 m) back up to the top of the cliff, fearful for the welfare of the children. When he climbed over the rim, there he saw them literally unmoved from their position. Carrying the baby, with the other two children clinging to him and to each other, he led them down the rocky crack to their anxious mother below. In the distance they saw five men moving toward them carrying chains and ropes. Realizing the plight the Smiths were in, these men were coming to help. Stanford called out, “Forget it, fellows. We managed fine. Belle here is all the help a fellow needs [to make this journey].”2

The idea was to find something to help build a bridge between Mormons and their non-Mormon friends. And what could be better than an evening of dramatic hilarity, asked the fun-loving youth of the Brisbane Stake in Australia. Of course, with the Australian bush country only miles away and with many tales of derring-do among men of the bush being heard every day, it did come as a bit of a surprise that the youth chose to put on a musical on the life of that fearless American damsel, Annie, in Annie Get Your Gun.
Perhaps it was because it gave the Brisbane Scouts, Venturers, and Explorers a chance to whoop and holler as they mimicked Buffalo Bill, Chief Sitting Bull, and others. The result: a show that ran a full week, played before 1,700 patrons, received newspaper and TV coverage, and attracted at least 600 nonmember friends. One of these, a prominent bank official, said, “Thank you for the opportunity of not only enjoying this show but of making some Mormon friends.”

When I was working in Lambda Delta Sigma, one of our national officers was a single girl named Diane. One of the young college women with whom Diane had been relating had a lot of problems, and she expressed her feelings to me like this: “Well, none of you have any problems. Diane is perfect and she has everything going for her.” As she said those words, I inwardly reflected on Diane’s life. She had lost her sister to cancer, and now her only living relatives were this sister’s two motherless children. Diane’s mother had passed away just a couple of years earlier, and her father had died when she was only a child. So Diane quit her job at the Church Office Building and took care of those preschool children full-time. She lost all her benefits, retirement, seniority—everything—in order to care for them. She mothered those children for a year and a half until her brother-in-law remarried and could again provide nurturing care for them in his own home. I thought, “This girl does not see at all what Diane is going through.” Sometimes we have a tendency to think, “I’m the only one that has a mountain to climb, the only one with a problem.” We need to know that others also have problems and that the purpose of this life is to be tested, to experience both joy and sorrow.

This same diligence and attitude was needed for the Laie Hawaii Temple—that journey which started in 1864 when the impression came to build a temple in Laie, then progressed the dream to 1865 and the buying of the property that we know on the North Shore, on to 1900 when President George Q. Cannon of the First Presidency prophesied a temple, coming toward the ultimate destination of 1915 when President Joseph F. Smith actually dedicated a temple site. Of that dedicatory prayer Elder Reed Smoot, who was present on that occasion, said:

“I have heard President Smith pray hundreds of times. He has thrilled my soul many times with his wonderful spirit of prayer and his supplications to our [H]eavenly Father. But never in all my life did I hear such a prayer. The very ground seemed to be sacred, and he seemed as if he were talking face to face with the Father. I cannot and never will forget it if I live a thousand years.”[18]

Six months later, on January 16, 1916, crews began construction. In two years of incredible industry, the interior of our temple was complete. By November of that year, pneumonia took President Smith’s life, but President Heber J. Grant, new Prophet of the Church, continued the work without interruption.

Finally, on November 27, 1919, we are a month away from that centennial moment, President Grant dedicated the Laie Temple during a four-hour session on Thanksgiving Day. “Four additional dedicatory sessions were held [for the benefit of] more than 1,200 additional Saints who wanted to attend.”[19]

“Before I joined the Church,” says Bernabé Pardo, another recent convert, “the only friends I had were people who would go out to drink. But now that I am a member, I have many friends—real friends. They invite me to read the Book of Mormon with them. They invite me over for family home evening. They serve each other. I have gone on service projects with them. My life is completely different now. I have received many, many blessings. I pay my tithing, and the Lord has blessed me.”

I will use a personal experience to illustrate my message.
At the end of the 1980s, our young family was made up of my wife, Mônica, two of our four children, and me. We lived in São Paulo, Brazil, I worked for a good company, I had finished my university studies, and I had recently been released as bishop of the ward where we had lived. Life was good, and everything seemed to be as it should be—until one day an old friend came to visit us.
At the conclusion of his visit, he made a comment and asked a question that unsettled my convictions. He said, “Carlos, everything seems to be going well for you, your family, your career, and your service in the Church, but—” and then came the question, “if you continue to live as you are living, will the blessings promised in your patriarchal blessing be fulfilled?”
I had never thought about my patriarchal blessing in this way. I read it from time to time but never with the intent of looking toward the blessings promised in the future and evaluating how I was living in the present.
After his visit, I turned my attention to my patriarchal blessing, wondering, “If we continue to live as we are living, will the promised blessings be fulfilled?” After some pondering, I had the feeling that some changes were necessary, particularly in relation to my education and profession.
It was not a decision between what was right and wrong but between what was good and what was better, as Elder Dallin H. Oaks taught us when he said: “As we consider various choices, we should remember that it is not enough that something is good. Other choices are better, and still others are best” (“Good, Better, Best,” Ensign or Liahona, Nov. 2007, 104–5).
How then can we ensure that we are making the best decision?
Here are some principles that I have learned.
Making decisions that can impact our lives and those we love without having the broader vision of their consequences can bring some risks. However, if we project the possible consequences of these decisions into the future, we can see with greater clarity the best path to take in the present.
Understanding who we are, why we are here, and what the Lord expects from us in this life will help give us the broader vision we need.
We can find examples in the scriptures in which having a broader vision gave clarity regarding which path to take.
Moses spoke with the Lord face-to-face, learned about the plan of salvation, and thereby better understood his role as the prophet of the gathering of Israel.
“And God spake unto Moses, saying: Behold, I am the Lord God Almighty. …
“… And I will show thee the workmanship of mine hands. …
“And I have a work for thee, Moses, my son” (Moses 1:3–4, 6).
With this understanding, Moses was able to endure many years of tribulation in the desert and lead Israel back to its home.
Lehi, the great prophet of the Book of Mormon, dreamed a dream, and in his visions he learned of his mission to lead his family to a promised land.
“And it came to pass that the Lord commanded my father, even in a dream, that he should take his family and depart into the wilderness.
“… And he left his house, and the land of his inheritance, and his gold, and his silver, and his precious things” (1 Nephi 2:2, 4).
Lehi remained faithful to this vision in spite of the difficulties of travel and having to leave behind a comfortable life in Jerusalem.
The Prophet Joseph Smith is another great example. Through many revelations, beginning with the First Vision, he was able to complete his mission of restoring all things (see Joseph Smith—History 1:1–26).
And what about us? What does the Lord expect from each of us?
We do not need to see an angel to obtain understanding. We have the scriptures, the temple, living prophets, our patriarchal blessings, inspired leaders, and, above all, the right to receive personal revelation to guide our decisions.
The best paths in life are rarely the easiest. Often, it is exactly the opposite. We can look to the examples of the prophets I have just mentioned.
Moses, Lehi, and Joseph Smith did not have easy journeys in spite of the fact that their decisions were correct.
Are we willing to pay the price for our decisions? Are we prepared to leave our comfort zones to reach a better place?
Returning to the experience with my patriarchal blessing, I came to the conclusion at that time that I should seek additional education and apply for a scholarship from an American university. If I were selected, I would have to leave my job, sell everything we had, and come to live in the United States as a scholarship student for two years.
Tests such as the TOEFL and GMAT became the first challenges to be overcome. It took three long years of preparation, many “nos,” and some “maybes” before I was accepted at a university. I still remember the telephone call I received at the end of the third year from the person responsible for scholarships.
He said, “Carlos, I have some good news and some bad news for you. The good news is that you are among the three finalists this year.” There was only one opening at that time. “The bad news is that one of the other candidates is the son of someone important, the other is the son of someone else important, and then there is you.”
I quickly responded, “And I … I am a son of God.”
Happily, earthly parentage was not a deciding factor, and I was accepted that year, in 1992.
We are children of Almighty God. He is our Father, He loves us, and He has a plan for us. We are not here in this life just to waste our time, grow old, and die. God wants us to grow and achieve our potential.
In the words of President Thomas S. Monson: “Each of you, single or married, regardless of age, has the opportunity to learn and to grow. Expand your knowledge, both intellectual and spiritual, to the full stature of your divine potential” (“The Mighty Strength of the Relief Society,” Ensign, Nov. 1997, 95).
Lehi made more than a few attempts to help Laman and Lemuel understand the importance of the change they were making. The fact that they did not share their father’s vision caused them to murmur during the journey. Nephi, on the other hand, sought the Lord in order to see what his father had seen.
“And it came to pass after I, Nephi, having heard all the words of my father, concerning the things which he saw in a vision, … I … was desirous also that I might see, and hear, and know of these things, by the power of the Holy Ghost” (1 Nephi 10:17).
With this vision, Nephi was able not only to overcome the challenges of the journey but also to lead his family when it became necessary.
It is very likely that when we decide to take a certain path, the people we love will be affected, and some will even share with us the results of this choice. Ideally, they should be able to see what we see and share our same convictions. This is not always possible, but when it occurs, the journey is much easier.
In the personal experience I have used as an illustration, I undoubtedly needed the support of my wife. The children were still young and did not have much of a say, but my wife’s support was essential. I remember that, at first, Mônica and I needed to carefully discuss the change in plans until she felt comfortable and also became committed. This shared vision caused her not only to support the change but also to become an essential part in its success.
I know that the Lord has a plan for us in this life. He knows us. He knows what is best for us. Just because things are going well does not mean that we should not from time to time consider whether there might be something better. If we continue to live as we are living, will the promised blessings be fulfilled?
God lives. He is our Father. The Savior Jesus Christ lives, and I know that through His atoning sacrifice we can find the strength to overcome our daily challenges. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I will never forget the events of that day. The symptoms came suddenly: cold sweats, a racing heartbeat and, eventually, unconsciousness. As I regained some awareness, I sensed a profound spiritual presence surrounding me. Confused and desperate, I called for help, only to feel lost and disoriented. Then something extraordinary happened.
When the paramedics arrived, one of them called me by name—a stranger who radiated calm and love, unlike anyone I had encountered before. The other paramedic stood in the shadows, his presence darker and less comforting. As I lay there, caught between life and death, I heard a clear voice in my mind: “I gave you the wisdom and it’s time for you to use it.” I realised I was experiencing something divine.
The first paramedic, whom I now believe was an angel, reassured me, his presence filling me with peace. I prayed earnestly, confessing my struggles and seeking repentance. Every time I mentioned the greatness of Jesus Christ, the angel smiled, his joy and love enveloping me. Meanwhile, the second paramedic growled, but the angel silenced him with a single look.
The angel asked if I wanted to “go home.” Though confused, I understood this as a spiritual call to return to the life I had been given and to change my ways. As the ambulance ascended through a dark, symbolic path, I felt my heart align with Heavenly Father’s will. The angel revealed his name as Mark, a connection that deepened my faith in the scriptures I had been studying.
After arriving at the hospital, I was diagnosed with cardiac vasospasm and pericarditis—serious conditions that could have been fatal. The doctors called my survival fortunate, but I knew it was a miracle. At that moment, I understood that Heavenly Father had intervened to guide me back to Him.
Since that day, my life has transformed. I have committed myself to living according to God’s commandments and have found peace and purpose in the gospel. I now know that Heavenly Father’s love is infinite, His patience unending, and His guidance constant.

After my experiences over the past few years, I think I understand what Paul might have felt. Like Paul, I now have a “thorn” that slows me, and like him I have prayed countless times for it to be taken away.
As I lay on the operating table, the surgeon’s voice broke through the fog of anesthesia, firm yet gentle: “Stacy, move your left arm. Now your left leg.” He repeated the request, but as my mind desperately sent signals to my body, nothing happened. My left side remained unresponsive, lifeless. In that moment, the fear that had loomed over me—of being paralyzed after brain surgery—became my reality. I remember thinking, “This is it; the risk I dreaded has come true.”
As I fully awakened, I told the surgeon I was trying to move, just as I had for the past 49 years. But my body, once so familiar, was now foreign and terrifying, refusing to obey.
Weeks in hospital rehabilitation turned into months, and months into years of grueling physical therapy. I needed help with nearly every movement. The sadness I felt during those years was overwhelming, far greater than anything I had ever experienced. It wasn’t just the physical weight of my new reality that crushed my spirit—it was the emotional toll. It was like I had been walking down a clear, well-worn path for nearly 50 years, only to find it suddenly overgrown with thick roots and towering trees. The way forward was obscured, and navigating it seemed impossible. Each day brought a new battle with sadness, fear, and anger as I fought to regain even a fraction of the physical ability I had once taken for granted.
Eighteen months after the surgery, my husband and I were invited to speak at a religious conference. The topic? “What accessing the grace of Jesus Christ daily looks like.” As we prepared, we immersed ourselves in studying Christ’s grace and how it operates in our lives. Grace, as defined in the Bible Dictionary, is “divine means of help or strength, given through the bounteous mercy and love of Jesus Christ.”
One week before the conference, I went on a bike ride with a friend. I rode my recumbent trike, which gives me the freedom to move, while she pedaled beside me on her bicycle. We talked as we rode, and as usual I cried. Sadness had become my constant companion, something the medical world might label as situational depression. I opened up to my friend about how lost I felt, about the overwhelming sadness that shadowed my days.
She asked me a question that has stayed with me ever since: “Stacy, what exactly are you sad about? What do you feel like you’ve lost?” I didn’t have an answer. I knew I was sad about my loss of movement, fearful that I would never regain my strength or the ability to do the things I once could. But the source of my sadness remained elusive.
A few days before the conference, the answer I had been searching for came to me, seemingly out of nowhere. I woke up in the middle of the night, a time when my anxious thoughts usually kept me company. But that night, a phrase echoed in my mind: “Graceful—full of grace.” As I drifted back to sleep, I thought to myself, “Yes, that’s a good point. Being graceful means being full of His grace. I’ll include that in my presentation.”
When I woke again in the morning, the same phrase was there, clear and insistent: “Graceful—full of grace.” I realized then that this message wasn’t just for the people at the conference—it was for me. That was the source of my sadness. That was what I had lost: my physical gracefulness.
As a young girl, I had been a ballerina, dancing through much of my adolescence and into college. I had never thought of myself as graceful, but years of training had ingrained in me a certain physical poise—a way of standing, moving, and balancing. Even after I stopped dancing, that grace remained. And now, in the quiet of those early morning hours, the Lord was redefining the word for me. I no longer needed the physical grace I once had. I had His grace to lean on in my moments of weakness. His grace was sufficient to help me smile, to shift my focus from my limitations to His strength.
Heaven’s message to me was clear: “You no longer need to rely on the physical grace you’ve learned. My strength is made perfect in your weakness.”
Graceful.
It’s a word I now carry with me, not as a reminder of what I’ve lost but of what I’ve gained. It’s not about my grace anymore—it’s about Christ’s grace, filling my heart and mind.
Graceful. It’s a word I now carry with me, not as a reminder of what I’ve lost but of what I’ve gained.
At the conference, I found myself in a room packed with people, needing to cross to the other side. There was no clear aisle, no easy path to navigate. As I stood up, I whispered to myself, “Graceful.” His grace, not mine. That simple word gave me the courage to move, to weave through the crowd without fear.
The more I let go of my old grace and embraced His, the easier life became. I found the strength to do what I could never do alone. His grace allowed me to see myself as a beloved daughter of God, to give my all, knowing He would fill in the gaps where I couldn’t. His grace brought gratitude even for my weaknesses.
I still wrestle with frustration and fear every day. My “thorn” hasn’t been removed. But now when those dark thoughts creep in, I have a powerful tool: the Savior’s grace. I repeat the word graceful to myself and move forward with Him. I don’t know when or how physical healing will come, but I trust that He knows, and that’s enough.
Like Paul, I am grateful for my infirmity because it has opened my eyes to see Him more clearly in my life. I place my trust in Him, and in return He gives me peace and joy and the assurance that He will deliver me.
The author lives in Utah.