Gospel Story Finder

When I was about 17, I began to feel I couldn’t relate to people at church anymore. Around the same time, my parents divorced and stopped attending church. I still went, but I had lost faith in eternal marriage. When I met Kristian,* it wasn’t hard to turn my back on the Church and walk away. So I did.

We lived together for almost four years before we split up. I wanted to start going to church again, but I was afraid everybody would ask all sorts of questions. I went to visit my sister. In her ward no one knew me or how long I’d been away from the Church, and during my stay I started going to church again. I continued going in my own ward when I returned home. The first Sunday I was really scared, but people were just happy I was there.

I knew I had to choose a side; I couldn’t keep walking with one foot on the Lord’s side and one on the world’s. I started meeting with my bishop. He has helped me understand the Atonement. It’s been a long road of repentance—at times a very difficult one. I’m still in progress, and I still have a lot of things to learn, but I’m happier now. I know I chose the right when I decided to come back to the Church. It was about making up my mind about what I felt and what I knew was right and then just going for it.

I was sitting on the curb of some dirt road on the edge of town—somewhere in the middle of Argentina. I was a missionary, and this was my first area. My companion was doing an interview, and rather than waste my time I figured I would sit down and study the missionary discussions.
Just as I opened the fifth discussion, I noticed a little boy running playfully across the street like he was being chased. What was he running from? I wondered. What could be so terrible? Then I spotted the dreaded assailant coming from behind. It was a girl. He must have been considering the dreadful things that might happen if she ever caught up with him. Yuck!
Just in the nick of time, the boy saw me. Surely she wouldn’t dare follow him over by an American in a suit. He was right. Pretty soon it was just me, an empty street, and a ten-year-old boy hiding behind my coat.
Suddenly we were in the middle of a gospel discussion as he snatched the fifth discussion out of my hands and read the title. “Living a Christlike life,” he said. I’m not sure what he said after that, but I could see the wheels turning inside. I imagined his question was something like, “Who are you guys, anyway?”
I tried to brush him off with some shallow explanation of what a missionary is, only to be humbled by his profound response. In an attempt to summarize everything I had said, he replied, “¿Ustedes son amigos de Jesucristo?” or “You are friends of Jesus Christ?”
“Yes,” I answered as he ran off to play, unaware of the effect he had had on me.
I couldn’t get his voice out of my head. “¿Ustedes son amigos de Jesucristo?” There was something about the way he said it in Spanish. Did he mean it as a mere statement of fact or an actual question?
Am I a friend of Jesus Christ? I thought. What is a friend of Jesus Christ? A friend to Christ? A friend like Christ?
One morning I stumbled across a passage in the Doctrine and Covenants where the Prophet Joseph Smith records the salutation to be read in the School of the Prophets:
“Art thou a brother or brethren? I salute you in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, in token or remembrance of the everlasting covenant, in which covenant I receive you to fellowship, in a determination that is fixed, immovable, and unchangeable, to be your friend and brother through the grace of God in the bonds of love, to walk in all the commandments of God blameless, in thanksgiving, forever and ever. Amen” (D&C 88:133).
I’ve never found a better definition of what a friend should be. These were brethren who had a determination to be friends, and this prayer explained what that meant. Some of the qualities that impressed me are determined, fixed, immovable, unchangeable, loving, obedient, blameless. I realized that if these were the requirements to be a friend of Jesus Christ, then I wasn’t qualified.
Christ set the perfect example of what it means to be a friend. He asks us to qualify as his friends and receive the blessings that he has made possible. In John 15:14 he said, “Ye are my friends, if ye do whatsoever I command you.” The preceding verse reads, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13).
This is no ordinary friend.
“You are friends of Jesus Christ?” was what the young boy said. All of us need to decide in our own lives if those words are a statement of fact or a probing question.

Six-year-old Jason rode down the street on his new red bicycle. It was the first time he had ridden his bicycle without his eleven-year-old brother, Ray, riding along beside him. Jason grinned as he thought about his big brother. Ray wa fun to be with. But now Ray had gone on an errand for Mother, so Jason was riding by himself.

“'Aaaa!' he called as he pedaled past his mother.
She smiled and waved at him. Jason didn’t dare let go of the handlebars to wave back, but he gave her a big smile. When he turned around and pedaled back to his house again, his mother motioned for him to stop. Born with a very bad hearing loss, Jason wore a hearing aid in each ear. The only sounds that he could hear were very soft and unclear, so Jason had only recently begun to learn to talk.
“Jason,” Mother said, at the same time using sign language, “I’m going into the house to do dishes now. It will soon be dark. Please come inside in just a few minutes.”
“Okay,” Jason tried to form the word with his mouth as he finger-spelled.
Mom smiled and rumpled his hair before she walked into the house, and Jason pedaled his bike down the street again. It was exciting riding with a rush of the wind against his face. Jason pedaled faster and faster. He didn’t pay attention to where he was going. “Aaaa!” he cried delightedly.
Then the cry froze in his throat as he stared at the unfamiliar houses that he was passing. The bicycle wobbled and nearly fell over before Jason could come to a stop. He looked around him with wide, frightened eyes. Where am I? he wondered.
Jason turned his bicycle around and pedaled back toward the nearest corner. He peered at the houses in the gathering darkness. They were all strange. Jason choked back a sob. How would he ever get back to his own home? He couldn’t ask anyone for help. He pedaled up and down the streets looking for a familiar sight, but it was no use. The longer he searched, the more confused he became.
Soon it was dark, and Jason had never been so frightened. He didn’t know what to do. Suddenly there came to his mind a picture of his family kneeling in prayer, and he thought, I’ll ask Heavenly Father to help me!
Jason got off his bicycle, then knelt on the sidewalk and folded his arms. Dear Father in Heaven, he prayed silently, I’m lost. Please help me. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
Jason opened his eyes, half-expecting to see a familiar face, but no one was there. He could see lights shining through the windows of nearby houses. He though about his family in his own home and about how much he loved them. Maybe I’ll never see them again. Tears trickled down his cheeks at the thought. Then the words I am a child of God! Popped into his mind. They were from a Primary song that his mother had taught him.
“You can learn to say the words if you try,” she had said as she signed to him. “Then you can sing it with your voice, your hands, and your heart.”
Jason had tried. It was hard, but he could sing it well enough for his family to recognize it. Now he loved to sing it often, even though he could barely hear the sounds that he made. He knew that there was beautiful music inside him, though, because he had such a happy feeling when he sang.
Maybe, Jason thought, I won’t feel so scared if I sing. He squeezed his eyes shut against his tears and began, “I am a child of God, And he has sent me here, Has given me an earthly home With parents kind and dear. …”
As he sang the last few words, Jason opened his eyes. He could scarcely believe what he saw: His big brother was coming down the street!
“Aaaa!” Jason cried, leaping to his feet. “Aaaa!”
Jason started to run. He didn’t stop until he ran straight into his brother’s open arms. Ray caught him in a big hug, swinging him off his feet.
“I’d never have found you if I hadn’t heard you singing that song!” Ray exclaimed. “You’ve sung it so many times at home that when I heard it in the darkness, I knew just who was singing. It led me straight to you!”
Jason couldn’t follow all that Ray was saying, but he knew that he was safe, and he knew that Heavenly Father had answered his prayer.

I was down in Sacramento some years ago, and a good sister there, a new convert, told about being on the train on the way to Salt Lake. She lived in San Francisco—she was a Catholic—and there was a little boy on that train about eight or nine years old. And she said, “He was such a cute little fellow, I thought I would try and visit with him.” She said, “I tried to talk to him about his school. He did not seem very interested. I tried to talk to him about the games he liked to play. He did not seem very interested.” Finally he spoke up and he said, “You are going to Salt Lake, aren’t you?”

And she said, “Yes.”
He said, “Then you are Mormon, aren’t you?”
She said, “No, I am not a Mormon; I am a Catholic.”
He said, “Well, I am a Mormon boy. Would you like me to tell you a little bit about my church?”
And she said, “Even a Catholic woman could not refuse to listen to an eight- or nine-year-old boy who wanted to talk about his church.”

He told her all about how Joseph Smith did not know which church to join, and how he went out in the woods to pray, and about the revelation that he received of the Father and the Son, and how Moroni brought the plates from which the Book of Mormon was translated. And then he quoted the Articles of Faith. And she said, “And when he went to bed that night, he slept in the upper berth, and I noticed that his light was burning late.” The next morning she said, “It took you a long while to settle down last night.”
He said, “I never go to sleep without reading a chapter out of my Book of Mormon.”

That little fellow so impressed that Catholic woman. Her son met her at the station in Salt Lake and took her over to the Temple Square Hotel. (It’s right across from the Temple.) She went over there, she went through with a guide, she bought a copy of the Book of Mormon, and she stayed there till she had read it. She fell into the hands of one of our bishops, and he gave the finishing touches, and she went back to San Francisco a member of this Church because a little eight- or nine-year-old boy had the spirit of testimony.

This call from one generation to another is one of the reasons we hold priesthood meetings with dads seated next to sons, and priesthood leaders at the side of those whose fathers may be absent. It was in a stake priesthood meeting with a format very much like this one that the then twelve-year-old Gordon B. Hinckley stood in the back of the old Salt Lake Tenth Ward building—his first such stake priesthood meeting as a newly ordained deacon—feeling just a bit lonely and a little out of place.

But upon hearing the men of that stake sing W. W. Phelps’s stirring memorial tribute “Praise to the Man,” this young boy, who would one day be a prophet himself, had it borne upon his soul that Joseph Smith was indeed a prophet of God, that he had in truth “communed with Jehovah,” that “millions shall know ‘Brother Joseph’ again” (Hymns, 1985, no. 27). Yes, some part of the preparation for this morning’s solemn assembly began when a twelve-year-old deacon heard faithful, experienced, older men sing the hymns of Zion in a priesthood meeting.

Truman had a desire to join the main body of the Church, and in 1835 he moved his little family to Kirtland, Ohio, where he found work waiting for him in the temple. Pulpits, pews, stairs, window casings, and doorjambs all needed to be built. The Prophet Joseph Smith noticed his fine work and put him in charge of many other buildings in Kirtland.
When the Kirtland Temple was almost completed, Truman was ordained a seventy. Eagerly he prepared for another mission. But shortly before he was to go, the Prophet Joseph asked him to stay and build a store. Truman told the Prophet that he was now a seventy and wanted to serve a mission. The Prophet simply said, “Well, go ahead.”
After Joseph Smith left, Truman struggled with his thoughts: How could he bear testimony of a prophet of the Lord if he, Truman, was not willing to heed that prophet’s counsel? Truman remained in Kirtland and built the store and many other buildings that were needed.

Malcolm Tent was still a young man when he began putting rocks in his pockets. It started one day when his boss, Mr. Gump, got angry at him for something that wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t yell back at his boss, because he might get fired. In fact, there wasn’t anything he could do except be angry inside. “But,” he thought, “I’m not going to forget this. No way.”
On the way home from the bus stop that night, he thought to himself, “I’ve got to remember how angry I am. I don’t want to forget this in the morning.” Suddenly he had an idea. There was a small rock on the sidewalk in front of him. He picked it up and said softly to himself, “I’ll keep this rock in my pocket to remind me of how unfair Mr. Gump was.”
And that’s what he did. That night he put the rock on his dresser with his keys and his comb. The next morning, when he got dressed to go to work, into his pocket went the ugly gray rock.
Read the rest online in “Pockets Full of Rocks,” by Larry A. Hiller (from Jan. 1996).

There also have been times when my parents wouldn’t allow me to go places or do things I wanted to do. I have not always been happy about their decisions. But many times I have come to realize that they were right. For example, when I was younger, some of my friends were going to a “teen night” at a nightclub, and my parents wouldn’t let me go. I was upset and felt that my parents didn’t trust me. But after my bad feelings left, we talked about the temptations all around us and how my being at the nightclub would be opening the door to greater temptations. We also talked about my being worthy to pass the sacrament and about honoring my priesthood. I love my Heavenly Father and my parents, and I know that love and obedience go hand in hand.

In conclusion, the children told this story about their father when he was in the army.
“One time Dad was in a foxhole and enemy bombs were coming closer and closer all around him. He said a very fervent prayer and promised he would serve the Lord righteously if his life could be spared. One shell landed about three feet from him, but miraculously his life was spared.
“On a recent trip overseas Dad visited the site of this particular foxhole. Now just a short distance from there an LDS chapel has been built. He was amazed and thrilled at the contrast and later spoke of it in a meeting at that chapel. Dad has never forgotten his commitment to the Lord, and he truly tries to live each day as righteously as he can.”

Now to those who may be incapacitated in any one of a variety of ways, be it physical, mental, or financial—to those who cannot do what you would sincerely like to do for another—let me tell of a personal family experience.
Some months ago my wife drove down to Provo for her customary weekly visit with her mother, who had been ill for some time. On this particular day her mother had been having an unusually difficult time, and didn’t have the strength to hold up her head, or even open her eyes. Though she was physically restricted, she was very alert mentally, and as my wife was caring for her many needs of the day she visited with her about family and friends. My wife held her mother’s head up with one hand while she fed her with the other, and during the meal their conversation turned to one of our daughters and her husband who have five children under the age of seven. My wife commented to her mother that three of our daughter’s children had chicken pox at the same time. The fact that this little mother was unusually busy was obvious. My mother-in-law stopped eating, thought for a moment, and then in a weak, almost inaudible voice said, “I feel so sorry for Robin. I wish I could go to her home and help her.” A few moments later, as my wife pondered this wish, she observed, “You know, Mother, I think in your case wanting to is enough. Surely you will receive a blessing for service and selflessness as though you went to her home and helped.”
When I was told of the experience, I recalled the words of King Benjamin when, in his final address to his people, he said, “And again, I say unto the poor, ye who have not and yet have sufficient, that ye remain from day to day; I mean all you who deny the beggar, because ye have not; I would that ye say in your hearts that: I give not because I have not, but if I had I would give.” (Mosiah 4:24.)

The title of my talk, “The Messy Middle of Revelation,” was inspired by a conversation that I had in 2007. I was part of a team that hosted the national meeting for the Acoustical Society of America in Salt Lake City. A dozen of our colleagues had come from around the United States to plan the technical program and assign rooms to different events. After our long planning session, we took our guests to the Roof Restaurant, with its lovely view of the Salt Lake Temple. I’m sure dinner was amazing, but I remember this night so vividly because of the conversation I had with two of my colleagues on the walk back to the hotel.
As we were walking, one turned to me and asked, “Do you really believe what they say about Joseph Smith?”
I replied that I did—and still do—believe that, in the spring of 1820, Joseph Smith prayed to know which church to join. In answer to the humble prayer of this fourteen-year-old farm boy, God the Father and His Beloved Son, Jesus Christ, appeared and called Joseph to restore Christ’s Church to the earth. Joseph Smith was the first latter-day prophet.
I then explained that the Church of Jesus Christ has been led by prophets to this day. As members, we each have the responsibility to do as Joseph Smith did—to ask God and receive our own personal confirmation of what the prophet tells us.
His response surprised me. He said, “That sounds very disorganized.”
As I was wondering how to respond, our colleague from New Orleans, who had recently lived through the cleanup after Hurricane Katrina, emphatically said, “If there is one thing their Church is, it’s organized.”

Recently my mom took my two big brothers, my little sister, and me to our favorite restaurant. When we sat down we noticed that President Uchtdorf was sitting with his family at a table very close to ours. My family smiled, and we talked quietly about his special calling. After the Uchtdorfs finished eating, they walked to our table and visited with us. President Uchtdorf was so kind—I love his big smile. We told him that our daddy had been a missionary in Frankfurt, Germany, when President Uchtdorf was president of the Frankfurt Germany Stake. He said, “Well, then tell your daddy, ‘Guten Tag.’” I can’t wait to be a missionary and shout to the world that the Church is true. Who knows? Maybe I’ll go to Germany.

Following a church meeting, I was approached by a father whose only son had gone from being a promising, obedient youth to engaging in rebellion and sin in young manhood through the influence of friends.
Tenderly, the father recalled the son’s youth; the boy had been quiet, happy, and a hard worker on the family farm. It had always been the boy’s intention to honor the priesthood, including serving a mission. He had faithfully saved his money toward that goal. But the money was all gone now, along with his good intentions—washed away by a flood of drugs, alcohol, and immorality.
The faithful mother and father had tried every possible way to help their wayward son—loving, teaching, cajoling, praying, soliciting the help of priesthood leaders. But the son defiantly refused to listen or obey. “It’s my life!” he stormed at them. “I’ll do what I want. I’m the only one who gets hurt.” His response seemed like the foolish attitude of some of the children of Adam and Eve, our first parents, who carefully taught their children gospel truths, “[making] all things known unto their sons and their daughters.
“And Satan came among them, saying: I am also a son of God; and he commanded them, saying: Believe it not; and they believed it not, and they loved Satan more than God” (Moses 5:12–13).
The distraught, desperate father who had sought me out told of climbing a wooded hill and kneeling to pour out a grieving heart to Heavenly Father, asking why his son could not see the damage he was doing to himself and others. “Can’t he see his mother’s anguish or understand our pain?” he had asked. “Please, Heavenly Father, help our precious son in his moment of critical need.”
“What can we do?” this father asked me, tears sliding down his cheeks. “Has he gone too far to come back? Is there hope for him?”
The words of an angel directed to another rebellious son, Alma the Younger, came to my mind: “Behold, the Lord hath heard the prayers … of his servant, Alma, who is thy father; for he has prayed with much faith concerning thee that thou mightest be brought to the knowledge of the truth” (Mosiah 27:14). I assured the grieving father before me that his prayers had surely been heard, too, and that after he had done all he could do, there were some things that he must leave in the hands of a loving Heavenly Father. I told him that to the faithful all things are indeed possible and that he must continue in hope, never giving up.
After hearing of this young man’s transformation, the father who had sought me out in anguish went away with renewed hope that one day his son would be touched by the Spirit to repent and return to the peace, happiness, and security found only in the gospel of Jesus Christ. Gratefully, the man expressed abiding faith in a loving, merciful Heavenly Father with whom all things are possible.

After graduating with honors from high school, Bien studied political science at the Christian College of the Philippines. “We were talking in class about earthquakes,” Bien remembers, “laughing about getting caught in one.” Suddenly, the whole classroom swayed. It was an earthquake.

Terrified, everyone scrambled to escape. The building was dancing madly. Just as Bien was about to dash to safety through an open door, he was pinned by an avalanche of concrete.

“A broken chair jabbed at my stomach, one of my legs was in a half-kneeling posture, and I was face-down,” he remembers. His fractured right arm bled profusely under a block of collapsed flooring. Yet, incredibly, a huge chunk of fallen concrete had barely missed his head. “Classmates were crying for help, but I couldn’t budge,” Bien recalls. One by one they died, including three lying on Bien. The quake struck in late afternoon, and by evening it was pitch dark. Everything was silent.

“I cried,” Bien admits. But as he wept, a Primary song crossed his mind. He started singing “I Am a Child of God.” As each word pierced the silence, a feeling of peace came, a feeling that he was no longer alone. “I prayed, saying, ‘Father, if I still need to live, then please let me live.’” As he prayed, Bien remembered the Savior. “He suffered a lot more than I did,” Bien realized. The cave-in became a tremendous spiritual experience.

As the sun rose the following morning, so did Bien’s hopes. Rescue workers pried him from the rubble and carried him to safety. His relieved family was notified. Bien was rushed to a hospital. Doctors immediately amputated his right arm. “I woke up, looked at my right side and cried out, ‘What’s happening here?’ I thought I was dreaming.” Shock turned to sorrow. “I felt so lonely because I might not be able to do what I used to do.”

After three bedridden months, Bien went home. Nearly all of his 50 classmates had perished. It seemed the same thing happened to Bien’s will to live. How could he, a right-handed person, manage with just his left arm?

While tutoring his nephews one day, Bien felt prompted to practice writing the alphabet. At first it was pure frustration. “My mind knew the shapes, but my hand had difficulty following.” However, practice makes perfect; less than a year after that fateful day, Bien was not only writing with ease, but was also oil painting again. And he resumed college.

After a year, he felt it was time to make use of his newfound strength and serve a mission. His family was aghast. “We’d really worry about you,” his mother protested.

“I know this is what the Lord wants,” Bien reassured her.

Months later, as a missionary, Bien received a family letter. “Don’t worry about us,” they wrote. “We’re boasting about you already.”

Bien’s personality affects just about everybody. At the Manila Missionary Training Center he was an inspiration, and his dedication has touched the Santa Maria Branch. But Bien admits there are still some challenges, like forgoing basketball and missing service projects like harvesting rice.

One of Bien’s favorite scriptures says God “will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will … also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it” (1 Cor. 10:13). It’s a scripture that helps Bien see everything as a learning experience.

Mission life, he says, “is like a school where I learn much, not only about the gospel but also about myself.” He hastens to add that it was in the rubble of another school where he learned to trust Heavenly Father.

Ask Bien to sum up his blessings, and he’ll share his motto: “I asked God for health that I might do great things, and I was given an infirmity that I might do greater things.”

Then he’ll smile and extend his friendship to you—with a warm, left-handed handshake.

What I didn’t have the courage to do, though, was to pray. I felt like I couldn’t face God. I thought I was angry at Him, but in reality I was just ashamed of myself. In my mind, this whole “accident” seemed to be a punishment, partly because I had stopped going to church and I hadn’t been following His commandments, but mostly because I’ve experienced same-sex attraction for as long as I can remember. I mistakenly thought He was disappointed in and ashamed of me.
I was wounded both physically and spiritually.
When I was released from the hospital, my mental health suffered. Even though I had my family and friends around me, I still felt alone. I knew I needed Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ in order to heal, but I struggled to make myself pray.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I reached my breaking point and was willing to kneel down and pray for the first time in so long. I sobbed as I poured my heart out to Heavenly Father. I asked Him questions and told Him my concerns until I was out of breath.
Gradually, a feeling of peace filled me. And these words came to my heart and mind: “All these things will be for your good to refine your character. It was just an accident.”
Seriously?
Was this really just an accident? Not a punishment? That answer made no sense to me. But after a few days of pondering, I knew it was true. I also knew that Heavenly Father loved me. He had been calling me back to His flock for so long, and I was finally ready to return. I decided to go back to church and began an incredible, spiritually healing process with my loving bishop, who helped me fully invite the peace the Savior offers into my life.
Coming back to the Church was not easy. For so long, I had so much shame about myself. But the more I came to understand my divine identity, the less ashamed I felt. I know now that my feelings toward women don’t make me a sinner, and my amputation doesn’t limit my worth. These qualities do give me a different perspective and play a role in my spiritual growth. I also know that my perspective can bless others in the gospel. Through the Savior’s grace, I have been able to confidently accept that I am a child of God. I am loved completely. And Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were, are, and will always be ready to bless me as I turn to Them. Always.

And now, my brothers and sisters, I share with you the rest of this account. I delivered my message on April 6, 1969. Again, I had little or no hope that Mrs. Patton would actually hear the talk. I had no reason to think she would listen to general conference. As I have mentioned, she was not a member of the Church. And then I learned that something akin to a miracle had taken place. Having no idea whatsoever who would be speaking at conference or what subjects they might speak about, Latter-day Saint neighbors of Mrs. Terese Patton in California, where she had moved, invited her to their home to listen to a session of conference with them. She accepted their invitation and thus was listening to the very session where I directed my remarks to her personally.
During the first week of May 1969, to my astonishment and joy, I received a letter postmarked Pomona, California, and dated April 29, 1969. It was from Mrs. Terese Patton. I share with you a part of that letter:
“Dear Tommy,
“I hope you don’t mind my calling you Tommy, as I always think of you that way. I don’t know how to thank you for the comforting talk you gave.
“Arthur was 15 years old when he enlisted in the navy. He was killed one month before his 19th birthday on July 5, 1944.
“It was wonderful of you to think of us. I don’t know how to thank you for your comforting words, both when Arthur died and again in your talk. I have had many questions over the years, and you have answered them. I am now at peace concerning Arthur. … God bless and keep you always.
“Love,
“Terese Patton”
My brothers and sisters, I do not believe it was a coincidence that I was impressed to give that particular message at the April 1969 general conference. Nor do I believe it was a coincidence that Mrs. Terese Patton was invited by neighbors to join them in their home for that particular session of conference. I am certain our Heavenly Father was mindful of her needs and wanted her to hear the comforting truths of the gospel.

When Elder Christopher H. Kim was 14 years old and had a chance to share the gospel with friends, he realized he needed to know the truth of the Book of Mormon so he could speak with conviction.
“As I prayed about the Book of Mormon, I felt a soul-comforting feeling,” he recalls. “And suddenly, there was not any question or any doubt about the Book of Mormon.” For the first time in his life, he added, “I really felt the Spirit, knew the truth about the Book of Mormon, and knew that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God.”

The first angels that I will mention are the two sister missionaries who taught me the gospel when I was a young man: Sister Vilma Molina and Sister Ivonete Rivitti. My younger sister and I were invited to a Church activity where we met these two angels. I never imagined how much that simple activity would change my life.
My parents and siblings were not interested in learning more about the Church at that time. They were not even willing to have the missionaries in our home, so I took the missionary lessons in a Church building. That small room in the chapel became my “sacred grove.”
One month after these angels introduced me to the gospel, I was baptized. I was 16 years old. Unfortunately, I don’t have a picture of that sacred event, but I do have a picture of my sister and me at the time we participated in that activity. I may need to clarify who is who in this picture. I am the taller one on the right.

You could start in your room today. Is there an unfinished paper somewhere in the stacks? Perhaps it’s typed and ready to turn in. Why bother more with it? I learned why during a religion class I taught once at Ricks College. I was teaching from Doctrine and Covenants 25:8 [D&C 25:8]. That tells Emma Smith she should give her time to “writing, and to learning much.” About three rows back in the class sat a blond girl whose brow wrinkled as I urged diligence in developing writing skills. She raised her hand and said, “That doesn’t seem reasonable to me. All I’ll ever write are letters to my children.” That brought laughter. I felt a little chagrined to have applied that scripture to her. Just looking at her I could imagine a quiver full of children around her and even see the letters she’d write, in purple ink, with handwriting slanting backwards, with neat, round loops. Maybe writing powerfully wouldn’t matter to her.
And then a young man stood up near the back. He’d said little during the term. He was older than the other students and shy. He told in a quiet voice of being a soldier in Viet Nam. In what he thought would be a lull, he’d left his rifle and walked across his fortified compound to mail call. Just as he got a letter in his hand he heard a bugle blow, and shouts and mortar and rifle fire came in ahead of the swarming enemy. He fought his way back to his rifle, using his hands as weapons. With the men who survived, he drove the enemy out. The wounded were evacuated. And then he sat down among the living, and some of the dead, and he opened the letter.
It was from his mother. She wrote that she’d had a spiritual experience that assured her he would live to come home, if he were righteous. “That letter was scripture to me,” the boy said quietly. “I kept it.” And he sat down.

Illustration by Dilleen Marsh
We were new in the Dunwoody Ward when we first met Billy. As sacrament meeting started, I noticed him sitting at the sacrament table.
After the ward partook of the bread, Billy began the sacrament prayer on the water, but he stuttered and struggled for each word. The often-normal distractions and sounds of small children died down. Everyone seemed to pause, waiting on Billy.
The words of the usually fluid and brief sacrament prayer came out slowly, each word drawn out and painstakingly pronounced. At first, I felt embarrassed for the young man. My heart filled with compassion for him.
Then everything changed.
As he finished the first phrase of the prayer—a prayer that I had heard a thousand times—a new feeling came over the room. An intense quiet settled over us, and we knew we were in a holy place. Billy was not just reading the words of the prayer but was sincerely praying to his Heavenly Father, who was answering with an overwhelming outpouring of the Spirit.
The feeling of God’s love for this young man was palpable, and we felt privileged to be part of this uniquely spiritual ordinance.
Billy continued and eventually completed the prayer. I didn’t want him to finish because I wanted that sacred feeling to continue. But the intense gift of the Spirit continued as the sacrament was passed to the congregation. It was a true renewal of covenants to repent, be better, and serve the Lord more completely.
At the end of the meeting I walked up to the sacrament table to thank the young man. I saw that he had Down syndrome. He stuttered, “You’re welcome,” with a great big smile.
Years later in a different ward, I still remember Billy. Sacrament meetings are more meaningful as I strive, like Billy, to reach out to Heavenly Father with simple, fervent faith and prayer.
The author lives in Florida, USA.