Gospel Story Finder

Experience #2
A young woman sought out my husband and me in a large crowd of people. Choking back the tears, she said, "President and Sister Bednar, I just want to tell you how much I love Ricks College. I haven't always been able to say that because I got into some trouble while I was a student at Ricks and was asked to leave. At that time I hated Ricks College. I wandered down the wrong path for a couple of years, but I'm attending institute classes where I live and am trying to come back into activity. I know now what I didn't know then. Ricks College is a special place."
A sower sows seed that lands in a stony place with little soil. When the seed starts to sprout and grow, it is without root and is scorched by the hot sun. The shallow, misshapen heart could represent this young woman who doesn't let the word of God take deep root in her heart. When the heat of temptation comes, she makes poor choices and turns her heart from the gospel.

Sometimes it can be lonely being the only Church member at her school. When she was a freshman, Franchesca felt very alone during the pandemic and didn’t have many friends. She was nervous to talk to her parents about it, but when she prayed, she felt prompted to tell them how she was feeling.
As a family, they decided to pray for her to be able to find friends she could count on. Miraculously, as soon as they finished their prayer, they heard a knock on their door. It turned out to be one of her friends from a different ward, and she brought cookies! Franchesca knew that Heavenly Father had heard their prayer.

One year after Mohamed Turay had joined the Church in Caldwell, Liberia, the 1989 war broke out. As rebels moved closer to Caldwell, he saw people in his community leaving. He had a dream in which a bomb fell near his home. Finally, after seeing an article in the newspaper describing how people were being beheaded, Mohamed knew he and his family were in danger and he resolved to flee Caldwell. Mohamed believed the dream was a warning from God. “It was a blessing for my family,” said Mohamed. “A serious blessing.”
“Come,” he told Abie, his wife. “Today, we’ll not sleep here.” Mohamed took Abie and their children to the border where they would be safe. But he had to return to Caldwell to make final arrangements for their departure. Just hours before rebels took the city, Mohamed managed to escape and join his family.
The Turay family resettled in Bo, Sierra Leone. Although there was no Church presence there, they were encouraged to stay and help establish a branch. They started a home group with only the five members of the Turay family. Not long after they started talking to people about the Church, missionaries arrived, and the first baptismal service was held in Bo. On that special day, 31 people were baptized in the Sewa River. Mohamed was soon called to preside over the new Bo Sierra Leone District. Under Mohamed’s leadership, one small branch eventually grew into four branches.
In 1991 war broke out again—this time in Sierra Leone—resulting in over a decade of famine and violence. “Rebels were killing civilians and the road to Freetown was blocked,” said Mohamed. There was not enough food to feed their children and Mohamed and Abie knew they needed the Lord’s help, so they knelt together in prayer. No sooner had they finished their prayer than a Church leader came to their door with a package containing enough money to provide a bag of rice to each family in the district. Their prayer was answered.
When the fighting reached Bo, Mohamed was targeted as a religious leader in the community. He was forced to separate from his family and to hide from the rebels until it was possible to get back to them. Once the family was reunited, they knew they had to leave. But where? How? As they were formulating their plan, a young man approached the family and asked where they were going. “We want to escape from here,” Mohamed said. “Follow me,” the young man answered. After following the young man through the bush for some time, he suddenly disappeared. “By the time we could wink our eyes, we couldn’t see him,” said Mohamed. “That was the greatest miracle, which we will never forget.”
They continued on their journey but they knew their safety depended on being able to travel through the dangerous territory without a sound. They worried that their baby’s crying would put them at risk, but, as Mohamed later recalled, “the angels sealed his mouth; he never cried.” They continued travelling through three more villages—an arduous trek through dangerous terrain—until they arrived at safety.
After the immediate danger had passed, Mohamed and Abie returned to Bo and joined the other Saints in looking out for one another. “Nearly every day, we used to go around and check on our members,” he said. “unity was built among the Church members.” In addition, food, blankets, clothing, and hygiene kits were provided by the fast offerings of Saints around the world—a gift that helped the Turay family recognize the value of their own tithes and fast offerings.
Following the war, the Saints in Bo helped rebuild their community. Abie worked in health clinics and shared her training in neonatal resuscitation with other professionals. In 2004, civic and tribal leaders attended a groundbreaking ceremony for the first Church-built chapel in Sierra Leone. Two years later, Mohamed was released after serving 14 years as a district president. In reflecting on this service, he said, “I know that the Lord had wanted to use me as an instrument in His hands to do His work.”

I don’t remember exactly what comment in seminary made me start crying. Maybe it was “You know, less-active members just didn’t search hard enough for answers,” or the consensus that they’d all been deceived. Maybe it was the comparison of former members to people in the mists of darkness (see 1 Nephi 8:23–24) or the implication that there was no hope for them unless they speedily returned to church.
One of these comments was the breaking point, and I burst into tears. I didn’t leave class; I just sat at my desk and cried.
I was 15 years old. My dad had left the Church 13 years before.
I wish I could say that one seminary class was the only time I heard comments like that, but discussions about less-active members seemed to be everywhere. Most of them weren’t flattering. Many people didn’t know that my dad stopped going to church a long time ago—they were careless, not cruel. But their comments were still deeply hurtful.
Some people were kind and inclusive, but I think we can be more thoughtful and sensitive in how we discuss those who are not active in the Church. To help us all consider how we speak about a topic that could be painful for some, here are a few questions to ask yourself about how you discuss disaffected members, along with some tips on how to be more sensitive.
I love and respect my dad. He’s one of the most honest, hardworking, and intelligent men I’ve ever met. To hear people speak negatively about less-active members is especially painful because my dad has good principles, morals, and values.
Tip: Remember that there are good people everywhere, whether they’re active or less-active members of the Church or not members at all. It can be easy to use us/them language and moralize the decision of others to stop believing or participating, but remember, we don’t know all the circumstances surrounding their choice to become less active.
Generalized comments assume that everyone sees the world exactly as we do, that everyone’s experiences have shaped their perspectives in the very same way, and that everyone comes from similar backgrounds. We need to remember that each one of us has a unique journey in mortality.
Tip: Keep an eye out for innocent but exclusionary questions. For example, in Young Women classes, we were often asked to share stories about how our lives were affected because our fathers held the priesthood. It only takes a little rewording to make a world of difference and include everyone. Perhaps it would have been better to ask something like, “How has your life been affected by the power of the priesthood?”
My dad’s been out of the Church for two decades now, and it’s not looking like it’ll change anytime soon. I still love and respect my dad. And while there are difficulties, I’m pretty content with how my family runs.
Tip: Having less-active loved ones is not nearly as uncommon as it used to be, and people have come a long way in their responses to all sorts of families and circumstances. We can be understanding and offer heartfelt responses that won’t minimize the person’s current experience.
When my seminary class discussed anything that had to do with the hereafter, from spirit prison to sealed couples being sorted into their degrees of glory together, my stomach started to do somersaults. I won’t lie—I do worry about where my family will fit in after death. I try to trust in the knowledge that God is good and that my dad is good, but right now, there’s a gap in our family’s eternal future. We simply don’t know what will happen.
Tip: Show empathy for others. Families with less-active members aren’t the only people who deal with this, but it can be emotionally taxing, especially in Church settings. When I share my concerns, I’m not looking for answers—I’m just looking for empathy, for someone to agree that this is hard sometimes.
I eventually realized that I could soften a negative discussion by piping up and saying, “Oh, I disagree. My dad is less active, and …” Almost immediately, people’s comments became kinder, and many even backtracked on their previous insensitive statements.
Tip: A good rule of thumb in Church discussions is to assume that no matter what you’re discussing, someone in your group has experienced it, is experiencing it, or will experience it—or they have a loved one who is going through it. Once people knew about my family situation, they were much gentler. They knew that, to me, this wasn’t just a conversation about less-active or disaffected members—this was about my father.
All of this boils down to what we already know and what we are taught: be empathetic and loving. Elder W. Craig Zwick, an emeritus General Authority Seventy, said: “The willingness to see through each other’s eyes will transform ‘corrupt communication’ into ‘minister[ing] grace.’ … It may not change or solve the problem, but the more important possibility may be whether ministering grace could change us.”1
Mortality means we all end up in unique circumstances. And whatever those circumstances are, we can always be accepting and kind to all. My family is a part of my unique mortal journey, and I love them as they are. But I do have hope that Heavenly Father will help everything work out for our eternal family in the end.

As I pondered this question, I immediately reflected upon an experience from my youth. This is a story I related to Elder Robert D. Hales shortly after my call to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and which he included in a Church magazine article he wrote about my life.1 Some of you may have heard this story, but many may not have.
When I was about 11 years old, my father and I went hiking on a hot summer day in the mountains near our home. As Dad hiked up the steep trail, I jumped from one large rock to another along the sides of the trail. Intending to climb one of the large rocks, I began to clamber to the top of it. As I did so, I was surprised when my dad grabbed me by my belt and quickly pulled me down, saying, “Don’t climb on that rock. Let’s just keep on the trail.”
Minutes later, as we looked down from higher up the trail, we were stunned as we saw a big rattlesnake basking in the sun on top of the very rock I had intended to climb.
Later, as we were driving home, I knew Dad was waiting for me to ask, “How did you know the snake was there?” So I asked, and my question led to a discussion about the Holy Ghost and how the Holy Ghost can help us. I have never forgotten what I learned that day.
Can you see how the Holy Ghost helped me? I am forever grateful that my father listened to the still, small voice of the Holy Ghost, as it may have saved my life.

Four years earlier, her family had left their home in an eastern city to join the Saints in Nauvoo, on the edge of the western frontier. The trip should have taken just a few days by river. But because many Black people were slaves in the United States at the time, Jane’s family frequently had to show papers proving their freedom. And some places had strict laws preventing people of color from traveling through the area—including charging up to $500 per person for passage.
Perhaps because of this outrageous fee or perhaps because of other prejudices, the riverboat crew refused to take Jane and her family members any farther. Undeterred, they left behind many of their possessions and set out on foot with whatever they could carry.
Jane’s family walked for more than 800 miles (1,287 km). They walked through humid days and pitch-black nights. Once they trudged through a forest, sleeping under the open sky. When they awoke, their clothes were white with frost.
“We walked until our shoes were worn out, and our feet became sore and cracked open and bled,” Jane recollected. “… We asked God the Eternal Father to heal our feet and our prayers were answered.”1
While enduring this hard journey, Jane sang hymns with her parents and siblings, praising God. Finally, after nearly three months of walking, they arrived in Nauvoo. Years later, when faithful Saints left to cross the plains, Jane was among the first pioneers to start walking the trail.

The music screamed from the radio, jerking me from my peaceful sleep. “Turn the radio down, Eric!” I bellowed.
I cracked open my eyes and watched my brother dance insanely in front of his dresser. His good left hand was clenched around an imaginary microphone, and his partially crippled right hand flapped as he twisted to the music.
“Eric!” I yelled again, and he turned toward me, gave me his sheepish grin—and turned up the radio. I lunged after him, and he bolted out the bedroom door, laughing as he ran. His straw-colored blond hair flapped as he ran, exhibiting more energy than I could ever match. I shut the door and climbed back in bed.
My brother Eric is a unique individual. He was born seven weeks prematurely and has had health problems his entire life. Two strokes, as a baby and at the age of two, left his right side partially paralyzed and destroyed a third of his brain.
When he was ten, he began having seizures, so we took him to a neurologist. After reviewing his CAT scans, the doctor came into the room expecting to see a drooling, severely retarded child. Instead, he met my brother, the electronics wizard and family clown. The doctor thought someone had accidentally switched scans. That’s because he didn’t know the miracle, my brother.
Eric’s brain damage left him with problems. He had a limited attention span and lacked many of the “normal” behavioral inhibitions. It was not uncommon to see him walk along and suddenly burst into an absurd song and dance. Those who didn’t know him thought, “Who is that?” But those who did know him thought, “That’s Eric.”
Eric was born a year and a half after I was. Our older brother, a headstrong toddler, demanded a lot of attention. Eric’s health problems also required a lot of my parents’ attention. As a result, my parents couldn’t give me as much attention as they, or I, would have liked. For years I resented Eric. “He’s a mistake,” I thought. “I’m really the youngest.” I tormented him and punched him and tried to make him miserable. But Eric always smiled at me and never hit me back.
One night I did something that made Eric cry, and when I did I felt like the lowest and the worst. Eric was watching TV. We had been fighting over something, so I started making fun of his disability. I never had before. I must have felt malicious. I made my hand look like his right hand, curled up and spastic, and I limped around and talked gibberish while I drooled.
The thing I remember most, as Eric started crying, was that he looked down at his crippled hand and hugged it to his chest. At that moment I wished the floor would swallow me, and I think I tasted what hell might be like.
Our relationship changed after that incident. As we grew older I tormented him less, and when I did, he fought back. We basically ignored each other until our family moved to California one summer.
When school started, Eric and I were the only people we knew at school, and we had to rely on each other. Instead of eating lunch by myself, I met Eric and we sat on the stone steps together. As we dug through our brown bags and munched ham sandwiches, I was surprised at the growing number of people who waved at, talked to, and sat down beside Eric. His cheery grin, relaxed attitude, and silly jokes soon had us in the middle of a noisy group of friends. Others saw in Eric what I had kept myself from seeing, and they showed me his strength, his dedication, his strange but hilarious sense of humor, and his amazing ability to shrug off pain.
One lunchtime Eric was a couple of minutes late. He spotted our group and sprinted across the sloping lawn, gripping his brown sack in his good left hand. His backpack bumped against him, his shirttail billowed, and his shoelaces straggled behind him. His weak right ankle tangled with his charging left foot, and he went down in a heap. He tried to catch himself, but his right arm crumpled and he plowed the grass with his face.
A couple of guys and I jumped up and ran to him. By the time we reached him, he was sitting up in the middle of his spilled backpack and smashed lunch. Dirt and grass smeared his nose and forehead, and he had a bloody scrape on his chin. He grinned up at us and said, “I hate it when that happens!”
One of the guys asked him incredulously, “Did you do that on purpose?”
Another example of his determination was when he joined the swim team. I had swum the year before and lettered in water polo. Eric decided he’d like to take a crack at competitive sports. He never missed a practice, even though he never placed higher than last in any meet. Sometimes he ended up in the wrong lane because his left side was so much stronger than his right, and he often worked up such momentum that he crashed into the concrete pool sides. But by the end of the season, he had halved his personal best time for the 50-meter freestyle.
Eric has been an example to me, even when I wouldn’t admit it. He taught me how to be tolerant of other people’s differences, how to overcome and overlook weakness, and how to find strength. He taught me to use what I have and to never give up. He showed me the value of being myself and how to love without condition.

My neighbour next door is an older lady and a widow. Sometimes I drop in to say hello, and she lets me play on her swing. She doesn’t have any family close by.
In the fall, she had a lot of maple leaves covering her yard. My mom and I went over and raked up many of them. Sometimes I take her homemade goodies, and at Eastertime, I painted and designed an Easter basket filled with goodies for her. I try to do little things for her to help her out. It’s a great feeling to help others.

Okay, here’s the scene. You’re the wide receiver for your high school football team. The team’s only been in existence for two years, and thanks largely to you, your team made it to the state finals. One more win, and you’re state champions.
Problem is, the final game is against a team that has won three state championships in the last six years. Their record this season is almost perfect. They’re known as one of the best teams in the state.
The game is close, and the fourth quarter ends in a tie, 14–14. The game goes into overtime. Each team will start on the ten-yard line and have four downs to score. Ball possession will go back and forth until someone doesn’t score.
The other team gets the ball first. They score a touchdown, plus the extra point. It’s 21–14. Now it’s your team’s turn. On the fourth down, your team scores. It’s 21–20. Everyone expects a kick for the extra point and another tie. But you have a plan. You talk to the quarterback, another receiver, and the coach. Together you decide to try for a two-point conversion. That will give your team 22 points, the win, and the state championship.
The ball is hiked. The quarterback looks for an opening. You’re in the end zone. The quarterback throws the ball. It’s an easy pass. If you catch it, the state championship is yours. If you drop it, you score nothing, and the other team wins.
You drop it!
Can’t you just taste the agony? But it really happened to Jake Brian. Jake was an 18-year-old senior at Fremont High School in Weber County, Utah. His team, the Silverwolves, made it to the state championship play-offs in only their second year but wound up losing to Salt Lake City’s Skyline Eagles after Jake’s dropped pass.
Was Jake devastated? Did it ruin his life? Does he sit in his room all the time and watch video of the game over and over, beating himself up for dropping that pass? No, he does not.
Jake is an accomplished athlete. Football wasn’t his first sport. It wasn’t even his second. Basketball and baseball occupied those two spots. But in his second year of playing football, he caught 73 passes for 1,155 yards and scored 16 touchdowns, besides leading his team to the state finals. Of course, Jake doesn’t take all the credit himself. He describes Olin Hannum as “probably the best quarterback in the state, and we had a really good offensive line.”
Still, some folks think Jake was one of the most important factors in the success of the team. Moments after Jake dropped the pass and was agonizing over the play, Coach Blaine Monkres told Jake, “You didn’t cost us the state championship. You’re the one that got us to the state finals!” Teammates made similar comments.
And so did the many cards and letters he got. Members of the community wrote to console him, and they focused on the great season he had, telling him one dropped pass didn’t cancel out everything he had already done. One letter writer said he had dropped a pass in a similar situation back in 1932, so he understood. People sent cookies and pies. Jake was flattered by all the attention, but he admits, “I was surprised so many people were thinking about me.”
So when all is said and done, is winning everything? “At times it seems like it is,” Jake says. “You always want to win, but it isn’t everything.” Jake has moved on. He is attending Snow College in Ephraim, Utah, where he has a partial scholarship to play football. After football season, he’ll be serving a mission.

A New Dawn(Deseret Book $7.95)Jack Weyland

In his delightful way, Jack Weyland brings another unforgettable character to life in his new novel. Dawn a prize-winning, eccentric graduate student and physicist, finds answers to problems that even Einstein couldn’t solve. But the harassment of news-hungry reporters sends her fleeing for cover. She hides behind a new identity at Brigham Young University, where she falls in love, finds a new faith and learns to cook spaghetti.

My classmates and I were stationed near Hannover. Every month or so our unit of about 300 people would get together. Usually there was a unit party, and everyone would be drinking and smoking—except me. I didn’t know it at first, but our commander-in-chief watched me during these parties.

One day he called me in and asked me why I didn’t smoke or drink. I was a little shy, and I told him that I just didn’t believe in it. I think I was the only one who didn’t smoke or drink in the whole outfit, and I was the only Latter-day Saint.

“There must be a specific reason why you don’t do that,” he continued questioning me. I told him it was better for the body to abstain from those things, and I tried to evade the question a little bit. When you’re 15, it’s not so easy when people laugh at you and say you’re not a man if you don’t smoke and drink. My fellow soldiers had made fun of me quite often, and my commander had heard that.

“You’re a Mormon, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that?” he asked.

“I’m a little shy,” I explained. “You’ve seen what kind of reaction the others have.”
“Well, that might change if you just tell them,” he replied.

One night we were all sitting at a big table at a party, and everyone was drinking, except me. I think I had a pop that I had bought downtown. My commanding officer was watching me again.
He stood and said, “Rahde, get up.” Then he said to the whole group, “I would like to inform you that Rahde is a Mormon. He doesn’t drink, and he doesn’t smoke. And I would like you to respect that. If I see anybody making fun of him because of that, I will put you in jail.”
I was shocked. I turned red because everyone was looking at me. Then he said, “From now on, Rahde, it is your job to take care of these men and see that when they go downtown and have too much to drink they find their way home.”

From that minute on, I had a lot of groups that wanted me to go with them. They took me to their beer joints, and said, “No drinks for Heinz. He doesn’t drink, and he has to take us home.

I didn’t have to mention anything anymore. I had more friends that way than I would have had any other way. Nothing could have done more good for me than this frankness, as my wise commanding officer had sensed. It was a testimony to me that the others trusted me so much that whenever something came up, they always asked me to go with them, and they protected me.

I kept getting the feeling that I should try using conference talks for family home evening lessons. At first I resisted. My kids are young, the talks are hard for them to understand, and I wasn’t sure there would be any kid-friendly subjects. But I knew I had to at least try.
Using general conference talks has not only completely transformed our family home evenings for my children, but we’ve had some great gospel discussions. Interspersed within total chaos, there have been small miraculous moments of family bliss.
Jessie Christensen, Utah, USA

Sabita Thapa was born and raised in the country of Nepal, a small country between China and India. She had a blissful childhood and grew up in a very big family, surrounded by many extended family members.
As she grew up to be a teenager, there were divisions in ancestral properties, which gave her father the opportunity to build the family a beautiful and comfortable home.
Her father decided to try his hand at a new business. In the course of time, he had a very big loss in his business. Sadly, they had to sell their beautiful home and move out. In the coming days, her family faced many hardships and difficulties due to financial instability.
“While everybody around us seemed to be so happy and successful, my family and I went through many difficult times,” said Sister Isaac.
When Sabita was 15, she started to search for true happiness. She started to search for God, beginning to pray sincerely to know who God is. She asked many questions such as, “Does He love me?” and “Does He love my family?” She wanted to know Him and wanted to be happy.
Sabita said, “God did hear my prayers.”
In 1995, her father happened to meet a missionary from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In 1994, the Church and missionaries had just entered Nepal during the same time she was searching for the truth. The missionaries went to their home and invited them to church.
“The day I stepped into the Lord’s Church was the turning point in my life. I have not looked back since then”, Sister Isaac declared.
She was taught about the true and living God and His plan of salvation. She has received peace, joy and happiness and knows this is where she belongs. She said she has sincerely and faithfully attended all her church meetings.
Sabita testified, “I know God is mindful of our needs. He knows us personally and he answers our prayers as we sincerely seek him. As I look back, I understand what has happened in my life was not by chance. I had to go through these trials, so that I would sincerely seek for him. Did I find Him? Yes, indeed.”
Sabita and her older sister Usha joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but the rest of the family members did not. Did joining the Church mean she did not have any more hardships? Certainly not, but it helped her to know that trials and hardships are a part of life. It helped her to face them and overcome them.

May I conclude with the story of a 73-year-old widow whom we met during our trip to the Philippines:
When the earthquake struck the island of Bohol, the home that she and her late husband had worked so hard to build crumbled to the ground, killing her daughter and grandson. Now alone, she needs to work to support herself. She has started taking in laundry (which she does by hand) and has to go up and down a good-sized hill several times a day to fetch water. When we visited her, she was still living in a tent.
These are her words: “Elder, I accept everything that the Lord has asked me to pass through. I have no hard feelings. I treasure my temple recommend and keep it under my pillow. Please know that I pay a full tithing on my meager income from doing laundry. No matter what happens, I will always pay tithing.”

In the spring of 1945, I was on Okinawa as a frightened, barely adequate infantry replacement, concerned with victory to be sure, but very much concerned with selfish survival. Japanese artillery pieces had tried for several days without success to hit the little plateau our mortar squad was on. Then one evening they dropped three shells on us; they had finally found the range and we knew it, and they surely knew it. Since one of those shells fell just several feet from my foxhole, I was stimulated to intense prayer, full of promises. Strangely, no more shells fell near us that evening—at the very time when more shells should have been fired for effect. The Lord that night blessed me and others. But suppose He also told me to be of good cheer, for not only would I live, but one day (just a few ridges away) I would preach the gospel to an LDS chapel full of members! Could I have managed that perspective? Probably not. Yet that is what happened in 1973, 28 years later, as I was privileged to go back to that—for me—sacred spot. Sugar cane has since covered the little plateau but not my poignant memories of Okinawa, that bloodiest battle in the Pacific.

Let me share with you the account of a lifelong friend, now departed from mortality. His name was Leonard. He was not a member of the Church, although his wife and children were. His wife served as a Primary president; his son served an honorable mission. His daughter and his son married companions in solemn ceremonies and had families of their own.

Everyone who knew Leonard liked him, as did I. He supported his wife and children in their Church assignments. He attended many Church-sponsored events with them. He lived a good and a clean life, even a life of service and kindness. His family, and indeed many others, wondered why Leonard had gone through mortality without the blessings the gospel brings to its members.

In Leonard’s advanced years, his health declined. Eventually he was hospitalized, and life was ebbing away. In what turned out to be my last conversation with Leonard, he said, “Tom, I’ve known you since you were a boy. I feel persuaded to explain to you why I have never joined the Church.” He then related an experience of his parents which took place many, many years before. Reluctantly, the family had reached a point where they felt it was necessary to sell their farm, and an offer had been received. Then a neighboring farmer asked that the farm be sold to him instead—although at a lesser price—adding, “We’ve been such close friends. This way, if I own the property, I’ll be able to watch over it.” At length Leonard’s parents agreed, and the farm was sold. The buyer—even the neighbor—held a responsible position in the Church, and the trust this implied helped to persuade the family to sell to him, even though they did not realize as much money from the sale as they would have if they had sold to the first interested buyer. Not long after the sale was made, the neighbor sold both his own farm and the farm acquired from Leonard’s family in a combined parcel which maximized the value and hence the selling price. The long-asked question of why Leonard had never joined the Church had been answered. He always felt that his family had been deceived by the neighbor.

He confided to me following our conversation that he felt a great burden had at last been lifted as he prepared to meet his Maker. The tragedy is that a hidden wedge had kept Leonard from soaring to greater heights.

I’ve known great love in my marriage, with my children, and as the president of the Relief Society, and I grew up in a loving family who looked forward to the occasional visits of one of my mother’s older cousins whom we called Aunt Lillian. She had been a teacher in the public school system for more than thirty years. We were entranced as we listened to her tell of the problems she had as a teacher with disruptive students and of those in the school system who made a great impact for good upon the life she lived alone.

One day she invited me to her apartment to help her entertain the young daughter of a schoolteacher friend. Everything was meticulously prepared for us—the food she served and all of her surroundings. Her thoughtful ways evidenced a life-style of noble living. I was deeply impressed with the love she showed both of us that day, and it continued year after year for me.

When she was seventy years old, she bought her first car, a beautiful, brand-new blue Plymouth, and she took driving lessons. When she got her license, she decided to drive to California to visit her sister and invited me to go along to keep her company. I was then about twelve years old. I was so excited. I’d only been to Wyoming and felt that if I went to California, I’d become a world traveler. However, because she was such an inexperienced driver, I saw very little other than the road and other cars and was frightened most of the time. But we arrived safely and enjoyed our time with the family members I hadn’t known before.

She always gave so much of herself to make me happy. This giving continued on through my growing years and even when I married. Doug and I decided to name our second daughter after her. Her love was showered upon me and upon all my children. At Christmastime she would bring them lovely gifts. She knew the value of good books and beautiful flowers and people. She often tended my children and gave them a love for these things. All those years I was the recipient of her love. And the day came when I was able to have her with us, do for her, and ease some of her lonely hours. I received so much—more love and enrichment to my life because of her.

That, you see, is what love is. It is the investiture, the immersing ourselves in the lives of others and watching that change us and our surroundings.

Three years later, in 1823, Joseph was no longer so sure. He no longer felt as righteous as he once had. Part of Joseph’s uncertainty may have been because he was just seventeen and still figuring things out. Part of it may have been because he felt like he was hanging out with the wrong crowd. In fairness, three years earlier the Lord had commanded Joseph not to attend any of the then-existing churches. Consequently, Joseph mingled with “all kinds of society” and was left to “all kinds of temptations.” He felt condemned for his weaknesses and imperfections and worried that he was now “offensive in the sight of God.”
One night, 200 years ago last Thursday, Joseph decided to pray before going to bed. He wanted to be forgiven of his sins. He wanted to know that God still approved of him. Because his first prayer had been answered so dramatically with a visit from God the Father and His Son Jesus Christ, Joseph had complete confidence that he would be visited by them again. Instead, something unexpected happened. The little room that Joseph shared with his brothers got brighter and brighter until Joseph could see the figure of an angelic man floating near him in the air. The man introduced himself as Moroni, a long-dead prophet who had buried a gospel record engraved on gold plates. He said Joseph would translate this record, and by doing so would bring about the restoration of the priesthood in fulfillment of biblical prophecy.
Now this strikes me as far more than Joseph asked for. I think he wanted something like the revelation he received earlier: “Joseph, thy sins are forgiven thee.” Instead, he got three separate visitations by a previously unheard-of angel with instructions about digging up an ancient record, prophecies about his name being had for good and evil among all nations, and warnings about the wicked burning as stubble. To me, this doesn’t sound like a very comforting message.
Joseph couldn’t have known then what millions of readers know now: The Book of Mormon that he was about to translate would answer the very questions he prayed about. Could he be forgiven of his sins? How can we know that God approves of us? Is it possible to become better people? Who gets to be saved? How does that happen?

My siblings and I always wanted a horse. When I was about 9 or 10 years old, my dad bought a beautiful black mare. We named her Yancy. We were so excited to have this horse, but she hadn’t been trained to be ridden. We were too young to do all the hard work it takes to train a horse, so my dad asked a friend who knew a lot about horses to help train Yancy.
We often went to the pasture to see Yancy. We couldn’t wait for the day we could ride her. But no matter how hard anyone tried, no one could train Yancy. She was too stubborn. We were never able to ride her.
One day my dad’s friend tried to ride her in a parade. As Yancy and her rider were going down the road, Yancy bucked the rider off and started to run through the city. Yancy ran so wildly that she cut her leg on a fire hydrant. I chased after Yancy and found her lying in the street in pain.
I was sad. We loved Yancy. If she had been obedient to the trainer, she could have become a happy horse with a wonderful life. But Yancy wouldn’t listen to and follow her master. Instead she was now injured and lying in the middle of the street.
Yancy’s story taught me of the blessings that come when we follow the Master, our Savior Jesus Christ. When we are kind and gentle and humble, we can be happy as we let the Savior lead us.

When I was a young boy, about 12 years old, I loved to play baseball. The only piece of athletic equipment that we had around our house was an old baseball mitt. We didn’t have footballs in those days. We didn’t have a lot of other things. I thought the great moment in my life would be that I would be playing baseball for the New York Yankees, and this was back in the days when the Yankees were a great team. I would be playing for them in the World Series, the games tied 3 and 3. Now in the deciding game, guess who would get up to bat? As I stood at the plate, the pitcher would pitch the ball exactly where I’d want it, I’d knock it out of Yankee Stadium, and I would become the hero of the World Series. I thought that would be the great moment of my life. But I want you to know that that isn’t true.

A few years ago I sat in the Los Angeles Temple in a little sealing room with my wife, Ruby. We had our sons there with their wives—they’d been married just for a short time—and our sweet daughter was kneeling at the altar, holding the hand of the young man she was to be sealed to. And as I looked around the room, I then realized that this was the great moment of my life because I had in that room everything that was precious to me—everything. My wife was there, my eternal sweetheart and companion. Our three children were there with their eternal companions. And I thought, David, in your youth you had things all wrong. You thought some worldly event of some kind might be the great event of your life. But now I was witnessing that great event. I was there, I was feeling it, I felt a part of it, and I knew in that little white sealing room—clean, sweet, pure in that room—with all of my family there, that this was the great moment of my life.