Gospel Story Finder

It took my husband two years of studying—and a little bit of arguing—to join the Church. He was finally baptized in 1980, and then he got the priesthood. He became a very calm person, so that his own family members couldn’t believe how he had changed. He was cautious with the priesthood that he held and also to make sure he was always doing the right thing before the Lord. Without the priesthood, he says he would have gone for the honors and the glories of men. But with the priesthood, he found that the most important things are your marriage, your home, your family, and serving others.

At the beginning of 2007, my husband and I were called to produce a cultural celebration for the rededication of the temple. The event was to be held on November 3, a day before the rededication sessions.
Our aim was to involve as many youth as possible from the stakes in Tongatapu and to come up with a presentation that would spiritually prepare the Saints for the temple dedication the next day. The event would be broadcast and televised live to the outer islands as well as to Tongan stakes around the globe, so this was a mighty task.
During the week of the rededication, it rained heavily. At our final rehearsal, on November 2, the skies were overcast. I asked the youth to return to their homes and pray for good weather so they would be able to perform for Tonga and for those who would be watching via satellite, especially the prophet. That night it rained hard, and the next morning the weather was still foreboding.
On Saturday evening, 3,000 young people gathered at Teufaiva Stadium to hear from Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, who had been sent to rededicate the temple due to President Hinckley’s frail health. I will never forget the performance. Everything fell into place. The weather was perfect, the sound system that had malfunctioned earlier was excellent, and those young men and young women danced their hearts out.
We had witnessed a miracle. Heavenly Father heard the prayers of His children and kept the rain away. At the same time, we were able to set the tone for the temple dedication the next day, reminding members that eternal families are the treasure that lasts and that temples are built to bring such blessings to pass.

At a recent encampment planned and directed by stake and ward priesthood leaders, I asked a young man how he felt about his leaders. He responded: “I’ve always been scared around stake presidents and bishops. For some reason I always feel like I’m getting interviewed. But living in camp with them has helped me make friends with them. Next time I have an interview we’ll have memories to talk about.”

The warm August sun gave Margaret a feeling of peace and happiness as she gingerly set one foot exactly in front of the other and balanced herself with outstretched arms. The abandoned, rusty train track glowed like a long brown ribbon as it ran off into the distance. Jeff, her brother, was right behind her.
“C’mon, slowpoke,” he chided her as he accidentally stepped on the back of her shoe.
“Oh, Jeff, look what you’ve done! This is the first time I’ve stepped off the track since we began. You go ahead of me if you’re in such a great hurry.”
She glanced across at her best friend on the other rail and grinned. Allison was having a harder time staying on, and she reminded Margaret of a circus tight-rope walker. Cory, Allison’s brother, was quite far ahead of them. He’d had more practice at rail walking, but it seemed to Margaret that he skipped off often, even though he moved faster.
Looking down the track, Margaret had warm memories of past days when her father came home from the mine with coal dust on his face, hands, and clothes, set the wooden kitchen chair in the middle of newspapers spread out on the floor, and carefully removed his boots. Even more carefully he shook out his tucked-in pant legs. Margaret liked the sound of the coal particles falling onto the paper, and she mentally compared each little pile with the previous night’s. She missed those days. Diesel engines and other inventions had almost eliminated the need for coal, and many of her father’s friends and coworkers had had to move. It will be all right as long as Allison and Cory Anderson stay here, she thought now.
Cory was now out of sight around the bend and headed toward the forest. It was full of wonderful paths created by the miners when they’d walked between the town and the mine. The children spent hours galloping through the trees on pretend horses or playing king and queen on the large boulders in the woods. “Pretend” was always their favorite game, and Cory had a new variation in mind as he waited for them.
“Let’s pretend we’re miners,” he suggested, “and that we’re searching for gold. We must find it by dark so that we can take it to the wicked king and free the good prince before the rats go into his dungeon. Rats always come out at night, you know, and the prince hates them—they scare him almost to death!”
The four friends galloped through the forest toward the old tipple. Margaret was surprised at how quickly the three-story gray building where the coal had been washed and sorted had deteriorated. A few of the windows were broken, and the whole building seemed to be sagging as they stared at it in the shadows of the late afternoon.
To their dismay, they saw that fencing had been put up and that no-trespassing signs had been posted.
“Well,” sighed Jeff, “so much for finding gold.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Cory argued. “We aren’t going to let a little fence stop us. We can find a place to climb through.”
They found a sagging wire, and each crawled through as they held the other wires apart.
Just then something very strange happened to Margaret. She thought she heard a very quiet whisper: “Don’t go in there!” She wasn’t sure where the sound came from, but it seemed to come from deep inside her. Or did it? Maybe she had just imagined it. But as they climbed the hill to the back of the tipple, her spine seemed to tingle.
The four friends peered into the opening where the coal cars had once rolled on tracks into the building and were filled. It was dark and foreboding, and, of course, the boys had to hoot like owls and make ghostly sounds as they entered.
“Jeff,” Margaret pleaded, “it’s time for us to go home. Please, Jeff, don’t go any farther in there! Allison, Cory! Let’s go home now. Please!”
“Ha! Look at Margaret. She’s afraid.”
“No, I’m not. I just don’t want to go in there, that’s all.”
“C’mon, Margaret,” pleaded Allison. “It sounds like such a fun game, and I don’t want those two boys teasing me about being a scaredy cat. We’ll only be in there for a few minutes.”
“C’mon, Margaret,” begged Jeff. “This is the most fun we’ve had in a long time. All we have to do is cross the boardwalk and dig up the gold on the other side. It will only take a minute, and then you can run right back out.”
Margaret could see the board walkway just inside the big entryway. It seemed like only yesterday when she had stood with her father, watching the coal pickers standing on the boards next to the conveyor belt. It was their job to sort the “bony” coal, which was full of rocks, from the good ore by throwing the bony lumps over their shoulders into a huge bin behind them. The good coal continued on to a waiting coal car, which hauled it away to be processed. Even with her father there beside her, Margaret hated the steep drop behind the boardwalk. Now, standing just inside the old, dilapidated tipple, she felt much more uneasy. “I know what I’ll do!” she said. “I’ll stay here on guard while you three get the gold. If the wicked king’s men appear in the forest, I’ll hoot like an owl three times.”
“Good idea!” Cory seemed relieved that Margaret’s fears hadn’t discouraged the others. “You wait here, but hide inside the door. Spies might be crawling all over the forest, and you wouldn’t want to be captured and thrown in with the rats too!”
Margaret watched them scamper across the boards and into the dark shadows. She sighed as she glanced outside. Early evening was usually her favorite time of day because it was so peaceful. However, she wasn’t feeling very peaceful just then.
Her thoughts were shattered by a loud crash and the sound of splitting wood. She heard a scream and more splitting wood, then silence. She froze for an instant with the deepest fear she had ever known. Filled with panic, she ran to the edge of the boardwalk. She could see nothing, and she could hear only her own heavy breathing.
“Jeff! Allison! Cory! Somebody answer me. Jeff, please—answer me!” She tried hard not to breathe as she listened for a sound. None came.
She sobbed, then fell to her knees. “Please, Heavenly Father, help us. Help them not to be hurt!” Scrambling up, she ran out of the tipple, down the hillside, back through the fence, and through the forest. She slipped and fell, rolled and tripped for what seemed miles to her home.
When she gasped out what had happened, her father’s face went white. As he grabbed his miner’s hat and other equipment he thought he might need, he said, “I’ll stop by the Andersons’ on my way. I may need all the help I can get.”
“We’re going too!” Margaret’s mother was emphatic. “I’ll get some blankets and coats.”
Five very grim faces retraced the path to the tipple. Five very serious pleas were silently sent heavenward.
When they reached the entrance of the dark, rickety building, the two mothers and Margaret waited while the men lit the lights on their hard hats, gathered the ropes, and cautiously advanced to the edge of the bony bin.
“Jeff! Cory! Allison! Are you all right?”
Jeff answered. “Yes, Dad. I think I’ve broken my arm, but otherwise we’re fine.”
The two women and one very relieved Margaret gave thanks as they hugged each other with joy.
The house seemed extra cozy to Margaret when her parents tucked her into bed later that night. Cory and Allison were bruised, badly shaken, and very dirty. And Jeff had broken his arm. How grateful they all were that the bony bin had been half full instead of empty and that only the wind knocked out of them had prevented them from answering or even functioning for a few minutes. It had taken a while for them to crawl through the dark bin to find each other, but they were glad to be together until help came.
“Margaret,” her mother asked when she bent to kiss her good night, “why didn’t you go farther into the tipple with the other three?”
“My Primary teacher taught us the same thing you and Dad did about the still, small voice and how it speaks to us when we need comfort or are in danger. She said that it sometimes is so quiet that you can hardly hear it and that at other times it is clear and loud. Well, I heard it this afternoon when we were on our way to the tipple. I should have told the others about it, but I wasn’t sure until the boardwalk caved in. All I know is that it caused me to be afraid, even though I didn’t feel that way at first.”
Her father gently hugged her. “I’m grateful for your teacher—and for a daughter who paid attention in class. It might have taken days for us to find you. However, there was one thing you didn’t pay attention to when you played around the tipple. Do you remember what that was?”
Margaret thought very hard, then said, “Yes, Dad. We should never have crossed the fence that had those no-trespassing signs. That was very wrong. You taught us to regard warning signs and to not trespass on other people’s property. We were so excited about our new game that we just ignored those rules. None of this would have happened if we’d listened to our consciences right at the beginning.”
“That’s right, honey. We all learn through our experiences, and Jeff has learned the same lessons you have. I’m sure that Cory and Allison have learned them too. One of the greatest tools we can use in helping us through this life is to become a listener. We’re grateful that you did listen the second time.”
Eight hearts gave thanks that night to Heavenly Father, who also had listened that day, just as He always listens.

In March 1989 I was seriously ill in a hospital in Wismar, in what was then the German Democratic Republic. At the age of ninety-four, I felt completely helpless and had lost all desire to live. In my prayers, I constantly asked God to take me home.
Seeing my pain, my daughter visited me from Hamburg. On each visit, she tried to give me new hope, encouraging me to hold on. Eventually, she and my son-in-law checked me out of the hospital and brought me into their home.
I had always admired my daughter’s strength and confidence. When I asked about her strength, she said that it came from attending church every Sunday. She had joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints years before, but I had not felt any interest in her new religion. I didn’t want to abandon my Protestant church.
Now that I was in her home, my daughter began telling me about the Church and reading to me out of the scriptures. She also invited two lady missionaries to tell me more. I enjoyed the visits of these sweet sisters, and through our discussions I eventually gained a conviction that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is indeed the only true church.
So I let myself be baptized on 27 August 1989. There I was—ninety-four years old and born again!
The change I felt was immediate and wonderful. I knew that I would still have to suffer pain but that I could ask the Lord to help me stay faithful to the end. I also knew that our Heavenly Father knows when we will return to him. It was his will that I make the baptism covenant with him in this life.

Samuel especially found it difficult to understand the condition and all that it entailed. Looking back, he says, “I wished that there had been a book I could have read that let me know everything was going to be okay! As a type-1 diabetic, my life was very different and explaining that to my friends was like talking to an alien. They just didn’t understand.”
Instead of feeling sorry for himself, Sam felt inspired to help others in a similar situation. He explains, “It was hard after I was diagnosed, but I felt that I wanted to help others to have hope as they experienced the same feelings that I had at that time. It was then that I first thought of writing a children’s book about an alien called Zegg. I wanted to give hope to children who were newly diagnosed. One of my favourite authors is Dr. Seuss, so I tried to write it in his style.”
Samuel then had to work hard to make his book a reality, which happened early in 2021. He has already gifted 50 copies of the book to the hospital that helped him and plans to donate books to other health trusts for children who are beginning their own type-1 journey.
Sam, who is now 13, will always require insulin, and still experiences highs and lows, but his life is full of adventure, joy, and hope.
He has been raising funds in lots of imaginative ways to get copies of his book printed. Anyone can help by donating money for copies of the book (see https://samuel-grant.co.uk). He eventually hopes to gift the book to NHS trusts across the whole of the UK, so they can distribute copies to as many diagnosed Type-1 children as possible. Samuel adds, “Every year, an average of 5,000 children’s lives are changed forever by a Type-1 diagnosis. I hope that this book will help teach and educate people about the disease—being aware of it and understanding it, may help families live and cope with it better. This is one way I have been able to kind of minister to other people during hard and dark times.”

My name is Hunter Holton, and I am now seven years old. I live in Madison, Mississippi. My story started two years ago, when I was in kindergarten. A boy named Patrick was in my class. He was a little different from the rest of the kids. He went to special classes and was in our class for only a short time each day. He also ate lunch and went to recess with us.
I was always taught to be a friend to everyone, so I was Patrick’s friend. On the first day of school most of the kids stared at him. Then they started to make fun of him and didn’t want him to play with them. When I saw how upset he was, I walked over to him and asked if he wanted to play. Patrick smiled at me and put his arm around my back, and we went over to the playground and played.
When we went inside, I heard some of the kids say ugly stuff about Patrick and me playing together. So I turned to them and told them that it wasn’t nice to be that way. After school, I went home and thought about Patrick.
For the next week or so it was the same—I played with Patrick, and the others laughed at him. One day someone said, “Come and play with us, Hunter.” I went, and Patrick came too. They told Patrick that he couldn’t play with them, and he was so hurt that he started to cry. Then I said, “I can’t play, either.”
When they started to say some real ugly things to Patrick, I told them that they were very wrong to say those things and act the way they were. I also told them that we are supposed to act like Jesus Christ and that they weren’t acting like Him. I explained about loving everyone and treating people like the Savior treated people. They were soon playing with both of us, and we all became friends.
Patrick always went where I went and did as I did. I helped him with his schoolwork because I would finish mine first. My teachers told my mom what I had done for Patrick. She was pleased that I was trying to do what Jesus Christ would do. My teachers told Patrick to always follow me. Then they would know he was doing what he was supposed to do. This made me feel good inside.
The school leaders put Patrick in my first grade class so that he and I could have another year together. They felt like he still needed a friend he could depend on. When we got to the second grade, Patrick was not in my class. The school leaders had decided that he needed to learn to do things without me. Whenever Patrick sees me on the school playground, he comes over and gives me a hug, and all of us friends play together.

Every year it was the same. They drove from their home in Ohio to attend the family reunion in Utah, stayed a few days, then drove back again.
By the time Bryan was 17, he thought he was bored with it all. He pleaded with his parents to let him stay home and work, but they said it just wouldn’t be the same without him. So he came to yet another family reunion.
The reunion was held at his grandparents’ farm in northern Utah. Their family was given use of a camp trailer that an uncle who lived in town had made available for the reunion.
The morning after they arrived Bryan got up early and watched families as they went about the business of making do. The farmyard looked like it had been invaded by a band of gypsies. There were trailers, tents, and camper-trailers everywhere. Inside his grandparents’ home, kids were sprawled asleep on the floor in every room.
There was a girl his age sitting under a tree reading a book. He recognized her from the reunion two years ago but couldn’t remember her name.
He walked up to her. "Hi. We must be cousins, right?"
She looked like she’d made up her mind to have a miserable time at the reunion. "Do we have to be?"
"Well, this is a family reunion, which means that you’re either a cousin or an aunt. But if you’re an aunt, why haven’t you been sending me Christmas presents every year?"
"Because I’m not Santa Claus."
This was going to be a little tough.
"I see that you and I share the family nose," he said. "How’s it been working for you?"
She was still trying to be grumpy, but Bryan caught a faint smile. "Not very well today," she said. "Usually I can smell a rat."
"Hey, I’m the future of America."
"That’s it. I’m moving to Canada."
He studied her face. "Where did you get your eyes? They’re supposed to be blue. Yours are brown. Are you an imposter?" He sat down next to her. "What grade are you in?"
"I’ll be a junior," she said.
"I’ll be a senior, so I’m older and wiser." He patted her on the head. Then, trying to sound like one of his uncles, he added jokingly, "You know, I remember you when you were just this high."
She closed her book with a smile. "I’m not going to get much reading done with you around, am I?"
"Not much. But, hey, talking to me is a lot better than reading a book. My name’s Bryan. What’s yours? You weren’t at last year’s reunion. How are we related?"
"I had to work during last year’s reunion. My name is Kim. I’m your mother’s Aunt Ruth’s granddaughter if you want to locate me on your family group sheet."
"Aunt Ruth—is she the one who makes fruitcakes for Christmas and sends ’em out to everyone in the family?"
"No. That’s Aunt Melba. What do you do with yours? We store ours in the freezer for a year and then throw it out."
"We usually give ours to the home teachers."
"And they keep coming?"
He paused. "Let me guess—you weren’t too thrilled about coming to the reunion."
"Right. All I ever do at these things is stand around and watch my chubby uncles make fools of themselves playing softball. Two days of that is enough to drive anyone crazy."
"This year you’re in luck. Come on." He took her hand and pulled her to a standing position.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"On a family reunion search for adventure."
"Why don’t we just go in Grandma and Grandpa’s house?" she replied. "It’s getting hot out here already, and there isn’t a lot of shade."
Inside the house he pointed to the fruit room just off the kitchen. It smelled of mildew.
"They say there’s a teenage girl buried in there," he spoke eerily. "She died when she was 16. Sometimes at night she walks the halls crying out for a driver’s license. It’s so sad."
Several younger cousins, still lying on the living room floor trying to wake up for the day, looked around to see who was waking them.
Kim giggled. "Quit teasing," she whispered. "Why did you drag me in here anyway?"
"I don’t know. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Besides, you dragged me in, didn’t you?"
"You’re crazy."
"I suppose that’s a possibility." He walked to the fruit shelves and looked around. "Want to try some peaches canned ten years ago? They’ve been known to cause insanity."
They found a stack of old magazines, some going back 40 years. He set up a couple of rickety folding chairs and talked her into glancing through them with him.
A few minutes later they went back into the kitchen for some cookies and two glasses of milk.
"This will spoil your supper," he said.
"If last night’s supper is anything like what it’ll be tonight, I hope it does."
They began to show each other interesting things they were reading.
"Look at this girl," he said, showing her a picture of a fashion model.
"Woman, you mean," Kim corrected. "What about her?"
He checked the cover to find out when the magazine was printed. "Now she’s 46 years old. I wonder if she ever looks at this picture and gets depressed because she doesn’t look this way anymore. Or if she ever has any regrets."
"What kind of regrets?"
"About how her life turned out?"
Kim stood up. "Let’s go outside, okay? This place is getting to me."
They decided to go for a walk. There were cousins and aunts and uncles everywhere. Near the top of a hill they stopped to rest. He found himself staring at her face.
"Something wrong?" she asked.
"You know what? If I were a girl, I’d want to look just like you."
She appreciated the compliment. "You would, huh?"
"You bet. And I probably would too." He started speaking in a high-pitched nasal tone. ‘That’s because we’re like two peas in a pod.’ I heard Aunt Melba say that once. Well anyway, we are a lot alike, coming from the same ancestors and all. Same eyes, except yours are the wrong color. Same nose, same double-jointed wrists, same crazy sense of humor …"
"Same humility," she teased.
"Well, yeah, that too."
At lunch Aunt Melba announced that the family variety show would be held that night. She invited anyone who wanted to show off their talents to sign up. Usually the same people volunteered every year. Bryan asked Kim if she wanted to go in with him on a skit, but she said no.
After lunch Bryan and Kim played volleyball with a whole group of relatives, but she quit after a while because one of the uncles kept running in front of her to take any ball heading her direction.
They decided to take another walk. "Can I talk to you about something?" she finally said after a few minutes.
"Sure."
"There’s this guy I’ve been going with," she began. "His name is Rob. He just graduated from high school." She paused. "My parents don’t like him very much."
"Why not?"
"Well, he doesn’t go to church much. And he drinks once in a while, not much now though because I got him to cut down. We haven’t done anything bad. And I think I can get him to come back into the Church. But now he’s going into the army on Monday, so this family reunion couldn’t have come at a worse time. I tried to talk my parents out of making me come up here, but they said I had to." She paused. "The thing is, my parents don’t know this, but Rob’s driving up here tonight."
Bryan smiled. "Oh good. He’ll be just in time to see the variety show. It’s so seldom you get to hear Uncle Harold play Lady of Spain on an accordion. Just once a year since we were little kids, that’s all. It should be a real treat for Rob. I know it will be for me."
"Rob doesn’t even like being around my family. He wants me to go away with him."
"Are you going to do that?"
"What do you think I should do?"
"If you went away with Rob, how long would you be gone?"
"I might be gone a long time."
Bryan swallowed. "You mean like all night?"
"Yes."
"You must really think you love him a lot."
"What do you mean, ‘think?’ I know I love him."
"Enough to go against what you’ve been taught all your life?"
She sighed. "I don’t know. I can’t decide."
"When is Rob coming?"
"Around eight o’clock. He told me to meet him at the old schoolhouse. At the crossroads."
"What about your parents? They’ll be wondering where you are after the variety show."
"I’ll tell them I’ve decided to sleep in the TV room in the house. There’s so many cousins packed in there I don’t think my parents will notice I’m gone." She paused. "Rob’s been really patient with me, but with him going away, well …" She stopped talking. "I really do love him, you know. I really do."
They walked back. Aunt Melba saw them and came after them. "I’ve been looking for you two. I need someone to read the family history."
"Why do we do that every year?" Bryan asked.
"It’s one of our family traditions. Kim, will you read it for us this year?"
"I’d rather not." She glanced at Bryan to help her out.
"I’ll do it," Bryan said.
"Oh, good," Aunt Melba said enthusiastically. "This year try putting expression into it. Last year it was done in such a monotone it put everyone to sleep." She handed him several pages then turned to Kim. "Kim, what do we have you doing for the variety show?"
"Nothing, but that’s okay. Excuse me now. I have to run an errand for my mom." She left.
Aunt Melba made Bryan practice reading the family history for her once to make sure he’d do it right. As soon as she was finished with him, he went to the camping trailer Kim’s family was staying in. He knocked on the door. Kim was there. She came outside.
"I thought Aunt Melba was never going to let me go," he said. "What are you doing?"
"Packing a few things, for tonight."
"Kim, I’ve been thinking."
"I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’ve decided to go with Rob."
He sighed. "Oh."
"You won’t tell on me, will you?"
He touched her arm. "Don’t do it, Kim."
"Excuse me. I’ve got to go back in and finish packing before my parents come out."
He tried to think of what to say that would help her change her mind, but he couldn’t come up with anything. He looked at the family history he was carrying.
"If I wait until you come back to the house, will you at least listen to me practice reading the family history? Aunt Melba made me promise to practice it in front of someone."
A few minutes later, they met again in their grandparents’ kitchen. She was carrying a small suitcase that she placed in the corner. She took a seat at the table.
Despite the noise from the TV room, he began.
"We are all privileged to belong to a wonderful family. Genealogical research has so far traced our ancestors back to the 16th century, and further research continues to push back the sands of time.
"As far as the branch of the family which belongs to the Church goes, that began a few years after the Church was organized, when a 16-year-old apprentice shoemaker in Scotland heard two Mormon missionaries. He knew from the very beginning that what he heard was the truth. He wrote to his parents and asked for permission to be baptized. They wrote back and said that if he joined the Church, he would no longer be considered a member of the family. The man he worked for told him that if he joined the Church, he could no longer work for him.
"What a difficult choice for a 16-year-old boy to make. He must have agonized over the decision. To lose everything considered of value in life—his family and a chance to earn an income.
"If he had chosen to reject the gospel, this family would not be meeting here this year, all of us members of the Church, all of us committed to upholding the standards of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
"Every person at some time in his or her life must make the same kind of decision. Each of us must decide, once and for all; we must say to ourselves, ‘This is who I am, and these are the standards I live by.’ Until we do that, we are continually tossed to and fro, not knowing what to do when we face difficult decisions.
"Archibald McKinnon made the decision to join the Church. He came to America and crossed the plains with a handcart company. In time he married a beautiful young woman in the Manti Temple, and from their union, all of us have descended.
"And now for the news of the family during the past year. We are proud to have six of our family serving in the mission field. Last year Matthew and Cathy returned home from their missions. We have three young men who will be leaving before we meet next year.
Bryan continued. ‘We are proud so many of our family choose to live worthily of temple blessings. Last year we had 12 temple marriages, and 16 others who went through the temple for their own endowments. Genealogical research continues to be well supported through our family trust which so many of you help support each month. We had four of our young men earn their Eagle Scout Awards this year, bringing the total to 79 over the years.
"In conclusion we have a heritage and a tradition in our family. This is our family. It goes on forever, both into the future and back into the past, and all of us are grateful for the decision of a 16-year-old boy who had a difficult choice to make. And we’re grateful he made it in such a way that it blessed the lives of all of us here today.’"
Bryan looked up. Kim was crying softly. She looked awful. "I don’t appreciate you preaching to me. You’ve never been in love like I am, so you don’t know what it’s like."
"Maybe not, but I know when I do something wrong I always end up feeling bad about it."
"Just go away, will you? I don’t need you telling me how to run my life." She got up and walked out the door. He tried to follow her but she waved him away.
He returned to the volleyball game, trying to figure out when and how to talk to her parents. He quit playing and went looking for them, but in the few minutes before the show, he couldn’t find them anywhere. Then just before the variety show began, Kim came up to him and asked him if he’d walk with her to the crossroads.
"Why?" he asked.
"I need to talk to you."
They walked along a well-worn path. "Our parents used to walk this way to school every day," she said.
"Yeah, right. And from the way my dad tells it, he had to walk through three feet of snow, uphill both directions."
Her voice became serious.
"I’m going to try to talk Rob into staying at the family reunion tonight."
"Oh. That’s good, Kim."
They climbed to the top of a hill, to where they could see the old schoolhouse at the crossroads. Rob’s car was already there.
"Maybe you’d better stay here," she said.
Bryan sat down and watched her walk the rest of the way to the school. It suddenly dawned on him that she wasn’t carrying her suitcase.
"I’m glad you came," Rob said when Kim arrived.
"I’m not going away with you tonight."
"Why not?"
"It’s not right."
"Kim, we’ve been through all this before. You love me, don’t you?"
"Yes."
"Then what’s the problem?"
She paused before saying anything. "My great-great-grandfather joined the Church when he was just 16. Because of that his family disowned him and he lost his job as a shoemaker. He came across the ocean in a boat without any relatives to help him, and crossed the plains in a handcart."
"I don’t care about any of that."
"I know you don’t, but for the first time in my life I think I do."
"Kim, if you don’t come with me tonight, it’s all over between us."
She closed her eyes. "That’s not fair, Rob. We can be together tonight, but not in the way you mean it. Come with me to my family reunion. There’s going to be a talent show and refreshments."
"Kim, get serious. This is my last night. I don’t want to be stuck with a bunch of your relatives. I want to be with you."
"After the talent show, we can take a walk together."
"You know what I mean."
"Rob, I can’t go against what I’ve been taught all my life."
"Why not?"
"Because I’ve got to keep the temple in sight. I know you think it’s not important, but I want to be married there. Please come with me to the reunion."
"You’re hopeless," he said. He got in his car, slammed the door and drove away.
Kim began sobbing. Bryan hurried down the hill.
"That was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do," Kim said between sobs.
"I know. Are you okay?" He put his arm around her shoulders, to let her know she’d be all right.
"I’ll survive," she said. "Besides, you’d have told my parents anyway."
As they made their way along the path their parents had walked as children, they could hear the strains of Lady of Spain being played on the accordion. For the first time either of them could remember, it sounded good.
And they had to hurry back. It was Bryan’s turn to read the family history to everyone.

For several years, my parents didn’t know where I was. They were good people who tried to give me the best education possible and were understandably disappointed by my choices. When my father became ill, my mother persuaded me to return home to Washington, D.C. When I arrived, John found me a job on a crew building the Washington D.C. Temple.
I didn’t know it, but he had arranged for me to work with a crew of returned missionaries. I was stunned that John Howell, the lead foreman, would ask a crew member to pray at the start of each day’s work—something I had never seen with crews I had worked with previously.
One day at work, several of us were mounting one of the temple’s heavy front doors when it fell and smashed my finger as thin as a dime. John hurried over, looked at my finger, called for some consecrated oil, and gave me a blessing. My finger healed so quickly that I didn’t need to see a doctor.
On another occasion, I was given a razor blade and told to scrape bits of debris off the concrete floors.
“Why?” I asked one of our crew members. “Aren’t they putting carpet down?”
“Randy, you don’t know whose house this is, do you?” he responded. “We’re perfecting it for the Perfect One.”
The world was drowning in cynicism, bitterness, hatred, and fear, but the example and teachings of the young men I worked with filled me with hope. As crew members shared their beliefs with me, I knew they were being honest and authentic. They had given two years of their lives to serve others, and they were intelligently optimistic. I wanted their teachings to be true. I felt I was gaining the enlightenment I had been seeking and that the Lord was preparing me spiritually.
John Howell suggested I meet with the full-time missionaries. Instead, I opted to have my brother and one of his friends, another returned missionary, teach me. As they taught me, I wanted external, incontrovertible evidence that what I was learning was true. Without that proof, I didn’t want any further discussions.
When I asked how they knew the truth, they replied, “We have read and prayed and felt a witness from the Holy Ghost.” They told me I needed that same witness.
That night I went into a grove of trees near my neighborhood. I don’t know how long I prayed, but I did so with absolute intent. I repeatedly asked God the same four questions: “Is the Book of Mormon the word of God? Did You and Your Son appear to Joseph Smith? Is this the true Church of Jesus Christ? Am I good enough to be a member?”
The answer to each question came in a whisper to my soul—“Yes”—four times. Those whispers were accompanied by serene and sublime feelings.
With my head bowed, kneeling in prayer and drenched with tears, I exclaimed: “If this is the answer You will give to me, then I accept it and will commit my life fully to You and this gospel as You reveal it to me.” Words cannot express the thoughts, feelings, and truths that enveloped me.
The witness I received that night was incontrovertible, and it’s as strong now as it was then. Since that prayer, God has proved those answers to me in thousands of miraculous and practical ways.
“The Church is a miracle,” says Randy, pictured here a month after his baptism. “And my life in the Church has been miraculous.”
Soon after I was baptized in 1974, I attended my first general conference in Salt Lake City with my brother, John. I was surprised when Elder Boyd K. Packer (1924–2015) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, who had met my aunt in New York City three weeks before that conference, referred to John and me during his Sunday morning talk.
Quoting my aunt, Elder Packer said: “Two of my nephews have joined your Church. I can hardly believe the change that it’s made in their lives.”
Because of that profound change (see Alma 5:14), a fire burned inside me that I wanted to share. Soon, I found myself in Idaho as a full-time missionary. Halfway through my mission, my father, who was my greatest hero and best friend, passed away. My mother called my mission president and asked that I come home to give a eulogy. When my mission president left the decision up to me whether to leave, I told him I wanted to pray and fast for 24 hours before deciding.
That night I had a dream. My father appeared to me. In the midst of sublime and meaningful discussions with him, he told me, “Son, stay on your mission.”
I followed Dad’s counsel and stayed.
Because of the profound change that followed his conversion, “a fire burned inside” Randy that he wanted to share as a full-time missionary.
Six months after my mission, I held my mother’s hand as she took her last breath. Decades later, my wife, Lisa, found a letter from my parents in an old box. Dad had written it to me during my mission but died before sending it.
“Our hearts were and are and always will be full of love for you. I realize that things have not always been perfect, but that is life. … Christ did not say, ‘Follow me and it will be easy.’ He said, ‘Take up [your] cross, and follow me’ [Matthew 16:24]. He carried the cross, but we all have our splinters. Perhaps our place in heaven will depend upon how we handle ours. Son, we love you very much.”
Growing up, I was rough on my parents, but I never doubted their love. Since finding the Church, I have worked hard to thank them and honor them.
On February 17, 2018, two weeks before the Washington D.C. Temple closed for renovation, I was sealed to my father and mother, 42 years after they had passed through the veil into eternity. My oldest son, Randall, acted as proxy for my father, and Lisa acted as proxy for my mother. I felt that my parents, who had been sealed to each other earlier, were both there in spirit.
In the temple we find cords that bind us forever to our loved ones. I am certain of that.
When I was young, I didn’t want to get married or have children. But today my wife, children, and grandchildren are my greatest treasures. The Church is a miracle, and my life in the Church has been miraculous. With Joseph Smith, I say, “If I had not experienced what I have, I would not have believed it myself.”
Fifty years ago, I was a construction worker on the Washington D.C. Temple. I was convinced that my life had no happy future. Today I am an ordinance worker in that same temple, having accepted the Lord’s invitation to follow Him, receive His healing, embrace His ordinances, and strive to become like Him.
Randy and his wife, Lisa, serve in the Washington D.C. Temple, which he helped build 50 years ago.
Photograph by Leslie Nilsson
The restored Church is not a theory, a philosophy, or merely a community or culture. It is the true Church of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
I thought I would find what I was looking for in San Francisco. I didn’t. I found it in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and in the house of the Lord, “the crowning jewel of the Restoration.”

I am impressed with the deep humility of President Kimball. Years ago he related an experience that emphasizes that the person in a Church position is not as great as the calling. Elder Spencer W. Kimball gives us this story:
“In a hotel in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania long years ago, I learned an important lesson when the president of the Rotary International said to the district governors in the assembly:
“‘Gentlemen: This has been a great year for you. The people have honored you, praised you, banqueted you, applauded you, and given you lavish gifts. If you ever get the mistaken idea that they were doing this for you personally, just try going back to the clubs next year when the mantle is on other shoulders.’
“This has kept me on my knees in my holy calling. Whenever I have been inclined to think the honors were coming to me as I go about the Church, then I remember that it is not to me, but to the position I hold that honors come. I am but a symbol.” (In Conference Report, Oct. 1958, p. 57.)

A home teaching visit is also more likely to be successful if an appointment is made in advance. To illustrate this point, let me share with you an experience I had some years ago. At that time the Missionary Executive Committee was comprised of Spencer W. Kimball, Gordon B. Hinckley, and Thomas S. Monson. One evening Brother and Sister Hinckley hosted a dinner in their home for the committee members and our wives. We had just finished a lovely meal when there was a knock at the door. President Hinckley opened the door and found one of his home teachers standing there. The home teacher said, “I know I didn’t make an appointment to come, and I don’t have with me my companion, but I felt I should come tonight. I didn’t know you would be entertaining company.”
President Hinckley graciously invited the home teacher to come in and sit down and to instruct three Apostles and our wives concerning our duty as members. With a bit of trepidation, the home teacher did his best. President Hinckley thanked him for coming, after which he made a hurried exit.

Recently, I went on a trek with our quorum members to the infamous Gantam Dora Trek Path in the Kambalakonda Wildlife Sanctuary. The trek was three kilometers long. At the beginning, everything was smooth; I was ahead of everyone. But after climbing for only about five hundred meters, my heart rate spiked. I was feeling breathless, dizzy, and nauseous. I regretted having climbed this far and was seriously thinking about quitting.
But then, I remembered hearing about the breathtaking view—a panorama concealed from all who never put in the effort. After taking a few minutes to rest and hydrating my tongue with a few drops of water, I resumed the ascent with the help of my friend, Raj Bangaram. And there it was, after another kilometer of effort: a beautiful, stunning vista. Every struggle we endured seemed instantly worth it. We had a wonderful time trekking, and once I got down, I could not help but compare the incident with the trials we face in life.

I never thought I would go home early from my mission, and I was embarrassed and nervous about facing everyone. Although it was one of the hardest moments in my life, I also grew from the experience. It molded me into a better person.
I returned home to go through a repentance process. Some of the choices I had made before my mission were not in line with the gospel teachings and commandments. Because of my embarrassment and desire to maintain my standing in the Church, I didn’t go through the repentance process with my bishop beforehand. But within the first few months, I felt the need to return home to repent so I could serve with honor and integrity.
Things that really encouraged me when I returned home were participating in spiritually uplifting activities, including Church meetings, service projects, and the temple, once I was able to. What helped me the most, however, were the people around me—family, a few friends, and even people I had never met before showed me love and kindness.
Overall, with the help of the Lord and the Christlike examples around me, I was able to return to Florida to finish my mission. My hope is that we will all strive to be Christlike toward others, whether they have returned home early or are simply in need.
Caigen Stuart, Utah, USA

If it hadn’t been for the accident, the apple pie corner would probably have stayed closed for a lot longer.
It was a Saturday morning. I know, because Dad had been drinking at the pub the night before. I was down the yard at 5.30 milking Mrs. Nephi. (I call her that because Nephi found wild goats in the promised land. I’ve often wondered whether he liked them as much as I do. I mean, he seemed to care for outsiders, and no one else in the scriptures ever seemed to reckon much to goats, did they?)
I’d just found a good spot to rest my chin—there’s an extra lump of gristle to one side of Mrs. N.’s backbone that’s softer than the rest—when all of a sudden this fox appeared, right out of nowhere, rushing in front of us.
Well, old Mrs. Nephi went crazy, staggering sideways, then stumbling across the stand. I hadn’t bothered to tether her. She never moves an inch normally. Simply gazes into the distance, grinding her teeth round and round like some old lady thinking and thinking.
But this time, back legs bucked, hooves clattered down into the bucket, milk splattered all over … and me? My head snapped back, and I fell off the stool, crashing into the heavy gate beam wedged up against the goat shed.
The beam toppled, missing my neck by inches but hitting my arm, crushing the bone with wicked pain. I remember screaming in agony until things went swimmy and black.
My shrieks must have been right powerful. Only something dreadful could waken Dad on a Saturday morning. Next thing I knew he was leaning close, yelling at me.
Somehow he got me to the hospital, ten miles away. I never, ever, want to try to drive in that condition again. The pain was so terrible, bumping over those country roads, I wanted to cry and whimper like a child. Only the sight of Dad’s tight-lipped face forced back the anguished gasps.
Come to think of it, Teacher could have used an experience like mine when we did that scripture on suffering in the Doctrine and Covenants—19 something-or-other. I need to go over that one. And to think my agony was nothing compared to His. I daren’t begin to imagine His pain—and all for the likes of me and my dad. So I pulled out those apple pie thoughts to check them through again. I don’t want to miss knowing someone who loves me that much.
The day after my accident, Teacher appeared on the doorstep. I could just about see and hear from my makeshift bed on the sofa.
“Why, hello, Mr. Bell.” She didn’t give him a chance to slam the door but kept right on talking. “I’ve brought this pie to cheer up Thomas. I know he’s fond of apples. Could you help him eat it?”
If there’s one thing Dad and I have in common, it’s appreciation of apple pies.
“I … er … I, that’s right good of you, Miss … er …” He was lost for words—my dad was actually tongue-tied. My eyes bulged, and I couldn’t keep the grin away.
“The name’s Jenny, Mr. Bell. I’m Thomas’s seminary teacher, I …”
She got no further. Dad’s tongue loosened fast. “Kind of you—yes, most kind—but I’m sorry, you can’t see the lad. He’s … er …”
Guessing the lie he would offer, I quickly waved, calling out, “Sister Summers, hello! Thanks for coming. Is that for us? Can you stop a minute? How’s Sharon? How’s the class? How’s …” I’d run out of questions, but Dad had opened the door again by this time, sheepishly stepping aside.
She came again and again. Each time Dad softened more. I didn’t realize Teacher cared for animals so much. She could even milk Mrs. Nephi!
Good job she got on the right side of Dad though, because he wouldn’t have let the home teachers round for anyone else but her. And that blessing they gave me—I don’t remember getting a feeling like that ever before in my whole life. The comforting warmth rushed clear through to my toenails.
Now I’d heard Teacher mention miracles before, but I’m not kidding, I never thought it could happen to me … me, Thomas Bell! I healed all right. So fast that the doctors weren’t sure what was going on. And they were convinced that such a messy break could never mend straight. But it did.
Dad was equally amazed. And incredible as it may seem, he actually looked at my seminary booklets one day while I worked on them. I wanted to keep going, despite the arm. I mean, I couldn’t let her down, could I, not after she had gone to so much trouble. Besides, she makes me feel kind of important. I enjoy that feeling—belonging, somehow.
I’m planning on watching her mouth drop open one day soon. Now that my arm’s in use and I’m milking Mrs. N. again, I’ve made myself a promise. With each squeeze and squirt I’ll repeat a scripture reference until they’re all glued in my brain.
Today our class finished for the year. I gave Sister Summers a box of chocolates.
She looked sort of choked, and I heard her sniff as I turned away to hide my red cheeks. On thinking it over, though, perhaps it was the words, not the chocolates, that made her cry.
“Teacher,” I said, “I’ve decided to start saving for a mission. I want to take part in all the blessings of eternity. Not only that, but I want to help others feel they’re important to someone—you know what I mean?”
She nodded, her lips wobbling a little, and she dabbed away at her eyes with a tissue.
“Oh, and by the way,” I finished in a bit of a rush, because my own eyes weren’t staying too dry either, “Dad says, if I earn half, he … he’ll pay the rest.”
I had to leave the room quickly. But not before I caught a glimpse of her face—it was glowing with such a strange look. Could that be the joy she’s always on about?
Maybe her mind has a “chocolate corner.” I like the idea of being a memory that’s pulled out every now and again.

I chose a place in the hills on the moors called Saddleworth Dovestones, where I would not be disturbed. I took my lunch, scriptures, and my journal and headed out, climbing to the top to offer the desires of my heart to my Father in Heaven. As I prayed, I listened very carefully for an answer, maybe a peaceful feeling or a burning in my bosom, but I felt nothing.
As I walked back, I noticed a series of rocks on the ground carefully placed to spell out the words “Truth Will Prevail.” “Curious,” I thought, but nothing more. However, when I told my mother, she said simply, “That’s your answer.”

You’re Rosalie Pakiding, you’re 18 years old, and you’ve just graduated from high school. You’ve been accepted at the University of San Carlos in your native Cebu, Philippines, and you’ve decided you want to major in political science. You’ve got the world in front of you, and you can’t wait to tackle college. You’ve got big plans.
Then the next thing you know, you’re withdrawing from classes and telling your family and friends you’ve decided not to go to school for six months. Attending school right now just doesn’t feel right. You say it’s a feeling you have, but you really know it’s the Holy Ghost speaking to you. It doesn’t make sense to many people. But it does to you, and that’s all that matters.
So you’re left waiting for the second semester to start, which is still six months away. Half a year with free time on your hands. What do you do? You could apply for a job, so you check around to see what’s available. You’re offered a position working in a factory assembling parts to telephones. But working all day means you’d miss your institute classes, and since you enjoyed seminary so much when you were in high school, you turn the job down because, as you say, “Institute is more important.”
Then some things happen that help you understand why you had the feelings you did about going to school. It begins to make more sense.
You meet with Mrs. Itomay from your neighborhood. Her six-year-old daughter, Queenie Ann, is in kinder-one in school, but she has some troubles. She was born with a defect in her tongue that limits her ability to speak. Mrs. Itomay works all day, and she is worried. She knows Queenie Ann needs a tutor who can give her individual attention in the areas that are hard for her. But Mrs. Itomay doesn’t know who could provide that help. To compound matters, she doesn’t have much money to pay a tutor.
So you look at Mrs. Itomay and say, “I think I have an idea.”
You volunteer to be Queenie Ann’s tutor, and Mrs. Itomay is so relieved. What little money she does have she offers to you, but you turn it down. Although you could use the money you realize those seminary lessons about service really did sink in.
Suddenly you’ve got things to do, and life is going to be a bit different. It seems a little odd that instead of sitting in college classes as you planned, it’s you and this six-year-old working on the alphabet.
But you settle into a routine. You do your household chores in the morning and then pick up Queenie Ann. You have word exercises for her to do, you help her write her letters, and you take her to school. She’s a bit of a slow learner. But when she writes out a letter or says a word, you feel so good inside. You also discover she likes to sing. She’s shy around strangers, but you’ve quickly become her best friend. She sings to you a lot. Things are going so well that Queenie asks you if you’ll teach her more. You can tell she’s really learning. And she seems very happy. Whether you’re learning words or stopping for a soda pop break at a store outside the school, it doesn’t matter. She just likes being with you. And you know what? You like it too.
“I’ve learned to love her,” you say, not the least bit surprised by your response.
Taking a semester off, you also figured to have some free time when you weren’t with Queenie Ann. But then your ward, Mandaue II, is asked to produce a road show about the Book of Mormon for a stake activity. It’s a big project, and your bishop is looking for a person to serve as the scriptwriter. Everybody is so busy with school except you, so you volunteer for the assignment. Again, it just feels right.
There have been times when you wondered if you made the right decision, delaying school and everything. You’ve watched while friends progressed in school without you. You’ve asked your Heavenly Father for a confirmation that what you were doing was what he wanted and what was best for you. Eventually those feelings of doubt leave and you say, “I understand now.” And you really do.
Your testimony continues to grow, and you are so excited when you learn new gospel concepts. You’re a bit short on money, but that doesn’t seem to matter. “The knowledge I have learned from institute class cannot be exchanged for the money I could have earned if I had worked,” you explain when someone asks why you’re doing this. Then you continue. “I’m very happy about it.”
It’s then that you look down at Queenie Ann, who’s holding your hand. She looks up at you while squinting in the hot Philippines sun. She smiles, and as you smile back you realize that while dropping out of school for one semester would not be the right decision for most people, it was one of the best decisions you’ve ever made.

When my grandfather James E. Fisher, born in 1865, was set apart for his mission, he was told: “You may have the gift of tongues if necessary, that you shall use the language fluently that is foreign to your mother tongue, that those who listen to you may listen in their own tongue.”
Within a few weeks after his arrival in New Zealand, a Maori boy came running to him and excitedly speaking in Maori said, “Come quickly, my father is ill. He is possessed of an evil spirit.”
Elder Fisher understood every word the boy said. He and his companion quickly followed the boy to his house and found a frightening situation. The man was entirely out of control, screaming, cursing, and leaping high into the air. When the missionaries entered, he shrank away and said in Maori, “You can do nothing. Go away.”
James E. Fisher took hold of the man and said quietly, “Be calm.” The missionaries laid their hands upon his head, blessed him, and commanded the evil spirit, by the authority of the holy priesthood, to depart. The man then thanked them for their assistance.
From that time on, James E. Fisher could understand the Maori language and rapidly learned to speak it fluently. He never lost his ability to speak the language. More than 40 years later, he met some Maori people at general conference in Salt Lake City and carried on a conversation with them easily and fluently in their native tongue.

It was a busy summer for Matt Morris, a senior at Indio (California) High School. Just before the spring term ended, he was elected student body-president of the 2,500-student school and was also chosen to represent the United States in a series of wrestling tournaments in Japan.
Matt, who was named most outstanding wrestler on his school’s junior varsity team last season and who has also competed on the varsity squad the past two years, was selected for the trip to Japan on the basis of wrestling, scholastic achievement, and citizenship.
“He is a leader and leads by doing things right,” said his wrestling coach, John Rice, upon announcing the selection. “He is very coachable and a real student of wrestling, as well as being outstanding both academically and morally. We tried to choose somebody who would be a good representative of the United States, and with Matt there was just no question.”
The team, made up of wrestlers from the Southern California Section of the Amateur Athletic Union, would take part in as many as ten matches during a 25-day stay in Japan in August.
Matt is an active member of Indio Ward, Palm Springs California Stake, and has served as president of the deacons and teachers quorums and as vice president of his school class.
“I was certainly surprised but also thrilled and honored to be able to represent our country in Japan,” he said. “I know that there are better wrestlers than I am at our school and that other things were involved in the decision. It’s nice to know that doing your best and trying to be good can have its rewards.”
The 16-year-old youth, who has nearly a straight A average, has won awards for his piano-playing ability, breeds pigeons for a hobby, and is quick to acknowledge that support from his family has been important in his busy life.
“The willingness of my family to help me has made it possible for me to put so much time into wrestling and my other activities,” he said.

Teaching children requires more than desire. It requires diligence on our part. Earlier I mentioned the song “Teach Me to Walk in the Light,” written by Clara McMaster. Sister McMaster shared with me that while serving on the Primary general board she received the assignment to write a song about teaching children. She found this an especially daunting task and prayed to know how to begin and complete this assignment.

After much effort she submitted her work, only to be told that it was not yet right. She was not told what to change, only to continue the effort until it was right. She was spiritually exhausted, not knowing how to proceed. She again sought guidance from the Lord, made changes, and submitted another edition. This process continued three times until at last she was told it was perfect and she was not to change anything.

Even though there were many times that Sister McMaster wanted to give up, she diligently worked at what she had been asked to do and what she hoped would bless the lives of children. Her inspired music has been sung by adults and children in many lands and in many languages. This song represents the desire of my heart—that all children will learn to walk in the light of the gospel of Jesus Christ. This song begins with a plea from a child, “Teach me to walk in the light,” and ends with a commitment, “Gladly, gladly we’ll walk in the light.”

In December of 2019, while serving in Baltimore, Thierry and Nathalie were invited to meet with President Russell M. Nelson. The meeting was virtual. The prophet asked mission president Mutombo what the most important thing was they had learned on their mission. President Mutombo answered, “trying to follow the Savior’s footsteps every day.”

President Nelson then extended a call to Thierry to serve as a General Authority Seventy. Thierry was 43 years old. For the next nearly 27 years, he will devote his life to the Savior’s work. On Saturday afternoon, April 4, 2020, while watching general conference as a family in Baltimore, Maryland, the six Mutombo children learned of their father’s new assignment. Walking in the Savior’s footsteps would continue for many years.