Gospel Story Finder

Zebulon Jacobs, standing guard duty, witnessed one of the funniest moments to occur on the Mormon Trail. He and Henry Parker were posted outside the circled wagon train when it happened. It was a dark August night in 1861. Zeb’s diary tells the story:
“About 10 o’clock P.M. we saw a man running towards us. We hailed him and found that he belonged to Heber C. Kimball’s train, which was a short distance ahead of us. The Utah Boys had induced him to catch rabbits in Yankee fashion by building a small fire and lying down by it with an open sack for the rabbits to run into, and then hit them on the head with a club, now and then giving a low whistle; other boys going out to drive the rabbits in.”
This may be the only pioneer account ever penned of what today is called a “snipe hunt.” Zeb’s diary continues:
“All of a sudden the boys gave a yell. The man thought the Indians were upon him, and off he started at full run. He had run about a mile when we stopped him. The fellow was scared out of his wits. The cause of his scare was this, that he knew everything but Yankee tricks. We took him back to his train which was three-fourths of a mile distant. The method of catching rabbits just described was a trick.”

In December 1999 we were preparing for our annual Christmas trip to the Bern Switzerland Temple. The trip, a special tradition we began shortly after our marriage, is one way we commemorate the Savior’s birth.
We live about eight hours by car from the temple, and bad weather preceded our departure. Uprooted trees, a sharp wind, and icy roads would make the journey treacherous.
I felt uncertain and didn’t understand why we were encountering so many obstacles when we knew that the Lord wanted us to go to the temple. Would He not open our way?
My husband, Antonio, and I knelt in prayer with our children and said to our Heavenly Father that unless He told us differently, we would head for Bern the next day.
“If the road is truly impassable,” Antonio said after our prayer, “we’ll come back.”
I felt our decision was right, but I was still fearful. The next morning, full of doubt, I wanted to pray again. Antonio told me we had already received our answer, but he lovingly and patiently knelt beside me.
When we left, it was barely dawn and dark clouds hovered over us. As we drove, I could see a small bit of blue sky near the mountains. A timid ray of sun broke through the clouds.
That glimmer of sunshine strengthened my vacillating faith. Miraculously, the sun came out and the temperature rose. There was no fog, no ice, no wind—only a clear, extraordinarily warm winter day. My eyes filled with tears. It seemed that Heavenly Father had answered our prayers.
After we arrived at Bern, it began to snow heavily and continued to snow throughout our stay. As we headed to the temple before dawn the next morning, the storm turned into a blizzard. For a minute I was afraid, and I began to run along the sidewalk that leads to the temple.
Then a thought came into my mind: “This is the way it should be. The world howls at us with troubles, but we must run to the peace of the Lord found in His house.”
We had a wonderful time at the temple that Christmas season, but we worried about our trip home. The snow continued to fall, and our youngest son developed a high fever. On the day of our departure, however, the snow miraculously stopped, and our son’s fever broke after he received a priesthood blessing.
As the peace of the temple sustained us, a Bible verse came to my mind: “Is any thing too hard for the Lord?” (Genesis 18:14). With gratitude, I realized that no, it is not.

That is how a legacy of testimony is created, preserved, and transmitted in a family. It isn’t easy, but ordinary people have done it. Like many of you, I had such ancestors. One was my great-grandfather John Bennion. We cannot duplicate what he did because the world has changed, but we can learn from it.

He was a convert to the Church from Wales. He, his wife, and his children came into the Salt Lake Valley in one of the early companies of pioneers. We know something of his life because after that time he kept a journal, making a short entry nearly every day. We have the journals from 1855 to 1877. They were published in one bound volume because his descendants hoped to transmit that legacy of testimony. My mother was one of them. Her last labor before she died was to transform the daybooks in which he’d written into a manuscript for publication.

His short entries don’t have much preaching in them. He doesn’t testify that he knew Brigham Young was a prophet. He just records having answered “yes” every time the prophet called him on a mission from “over Jordan” to the Muddy mission, then on to a mission back to Wales. He also answered “yes” to the call to ride into the canyons to track Johnston’s army and the call to take his family south when the army invaded the valley. There is even a family legend that the reason he died so close to the day when Brigham Young was buried was to follow the prophet one more time.

The fact that he wrote every day makes clear to me that he knew his ordinary life was historic because it was part of the building of Zion in the latter days. The few entries which record his testimony seem to appear when death took a child. His testimony is to me more powerful because he offered it when his soul was tried.

Here is his record of one of those times. His daughter Elizabeth died in his arms. He reported her burial and the location of her grave in a few lines. But then the next day, November 4, 1863, this is the entire entry:

“Wednesday. Repairing up the stable my little children pratling around me but I miss my dear Lizzy. I pray the Lord to help me to indure faithfull to his cause to the end of my days, that I may be worthy to receive my children back into the family circle, who have fallen asleep in Christ in the days of their innocence Ann, Moroni, Esther Ellen & Elizabeth, blessed & happy are they because of the atonement of Jesus Christ.”

All the elements are there. He taught the truth. He testified that it was true. He lived consistent with his testimony and prayed that he might endure faithful until he could be united with his dear family. I feel his love and a desire to be included in that circle.

On his return, Enoch taught at the Accra Missionary Training Centre for a couple of years as he contemplated his future. He had loved accounting in high school and had studied it with the intent of entering that profession. But about three years after his mission, he completed a data analytics certificate program from Coursera, offered by Google. That experience allowed him to see the critical role data plays in today’s economy in anticipating and solving problems. That vision motivated him to begin thinking of attending university to pursue a degree in data science. He applied for and got the sponsorship necessary to pursue a university education. Unfortunately, the global COVID-19 pandemic interrupted his plans, and he lost his sponsorship. Again, he endured his disappointment by casting his burdens upon the Lord.
Without the ability to continue his education at that time, Enoch pursued other interests. From the time he had mastered the piano, he had wanted to teach it, so he began doing so. In addition, he resumed his service to the Lord by working for FamilySearch out of the offices of the Africa West Area in Accra, Ghana. While working there, he met a senior sister missionary who was teaching a ukulele class. He had become acquainted and enamoured with the ukulele on his mission where his general love of music had drawn him towards it, so he joined with the class. Through his association with members of the class, they became aware of his desire to continue his education, so they helped him find new sponsors for attending university. Again, his love of music and his service to, and trust in, the Lord had brought him to the next step in his personal progress. With his sponsorship now secure, Enoch applied to, and was accepted at, BYU-Idaho where he is now studying data science.
Enoch reflects on his personal journey of perseverance and growth, and he gratefully acknowledges the value of that difficult period of his life when he struggled with questions that challenged his faith. Just as his ability to play his musical instruments came through perseverance, hard work, and struggles, learning here a little and there a little, so did his testimony grow line upon line, precept on precept. It was by persevering through his struggles that he discovered the joy of a personal relationship with his Saviour, and it is that relationship that has helped Enoch get to where he is today.

I grew up in a small town surrounded by the beautiful, snow-peaked mountains of central Colorado. Looking back, I remember afternoons spent playing soccer on the high school soccer field, hours of practice in the wrestling room, and workouts with the ski team. Numerous camping and fishing trips were also a part of those days, as were hikes up seemingly endless trails while clear mountain streams trickled alongside.
Those days hold many great memories, and yet perhaps the greatest of them all comes from an experience I had when I was 14. I was the only Mormon boy my age at our high school. Two other young men and my 16-year-old sister made up the rest of the active Mormon student body.
Because of our town’s location, a great flow of tourists came from all over the world to enjoy the seven major ski areas that were all within 30 minutes of us. Drinking, smoking, immorality, and the use of drugs were common among the majority of people.
Many people in our community had made a great deal of money from the heavy tourism and found it easy to support these habits. Soon, our small high school was rated second in the entire state for drug-related problems, second only to a school that had more than three times the number of students.
Growing up in such an environment wasn’t easy. The majority of my friends were involved in such activities, and I soon found myself falling to peer pressure. My attitudes started to change, my grades dropped, and my general outlook on life headed steadily downhill.
My parents became concerned with my actions, and the questions began. “What has gotten into you? Why are you like this? Why are your grades dropping?” I became defensive, and my parents worried even more about the changes taking place in me.
One morning, as I lay in bed before school, my mother came into my room to wake me up. She nudged me gently until I was aware of her presence and then waited until I was awake enough to listen to her.
She began to speak and I soon realized that this wasn’t your average early morning wake-up session. “Last night your father and I spoke with one of his good friends and we were informed of the things you have been involved in during the last few weeks,” she said. “Son, I want you to know that we love you and we will do everything possible to help you overcome this difficult time in your life, but we know you won’t quit until you make the decision to do so.” Then she kissed me and left the room.
I was stunned by what had just happened, and tears filled my eyes as I realized how much my mother loved me. But then my thoughts turned to my father and I wondered how he would react.
My father had been my idol as long as I could remember, and we had a very close relationship. He was a big man, very athletic, and always involved and interested in what I was doing. I had always been proud to say, “Yeah, that’s my dad.”
I got up and got ready for school as usual that day, but as I left only my mother said good-bye. My father didn’t say anything, and I realized he hadn’t spoken to me at all that morning.
After soccer practice that day I came back home and everything seemed to be normal, except that my father still didn’t speak to me. Finally, I approached him and asked how his day had gone, but he didn’t reply.
For the next two days there was an uncomfortable silence between us. I felt awful and wished that we could talk as we had before.
Then, on the evening of the third day, I was told that my father wanted to talk to me. I walked nervously into the room where he was waiting, and many things passed through my mind as I wondered what he would say. I sat down across the table from him, and he was silent for a moment.
Then he explained to me, in a way that I have never forgotten, why our relationship had been so strained and why he had seemed so distant. “Son,” he said, “as you know, I haven’t spoken with you in the last three days, and I want you to know why. I want you to know that I wasn’t angry with you, and I wasn’t trying to punish you. When we are participating in things that are contrary to our knowledge of the commandments, the spirit of God cannot be with us.” He said that just as we hadn’t been able to communicate for the past few days, so it is with the Holy Ghost when we knowingly and willfully reject its promptings.
Although my father’s method of teaching this lesson might not work for everyone, it hit home with me. My father went on to explain the importance of having the companionship of the Holy Ghost, and since then I have enjoyed that companionship many times.
As a missionary, I now enjoy that closeness each day as I serve my Heavenly Father and try to live the commandments he has given us.

Anthony Antelope was so absentminded, he thought he was an anteater. That was because his last name began with ANT.
He became as angry as an alligator when he couldn’t catch any ants. He aimed at ants, but he wasn’t able to gather any amount of them. Although he was amazingly agile, as soon as he advanced against ants, he found those active insects absent.
Ambitious Anthony was not able to eat. His ant-catching acts always caused accidents. Afterwards, Anthony was usually ailing and always hungry!
In the afternoon Amy, the Angora cat, said, “Anthony, allow me to alert you that you are an authentic African antelope and absolutely no relation to any anteater.”
“I’ve always been an anteater,” replied Anthony. “I adore ants, but I can’t catch any. Aren’t you aware that I must appease my angry appetite with ants?”
“You should be ashamed, Anthony! You aren’t an anteater. I advise you that you are an admirable antelope,” answered Angora Amy. “My advice to you is to admit you aren’t an anteater. All the animals will stand aside to watch an active, alert antelope. No one stands aside for an antelope acting as an almost anteater.
“Instead of ants, which you admit you aren’t able to catch, try some grass. Other antlered antelopes eat huge amounts of grass and they are still alive,” added Amy.
Anthony accepted an ant-sized amount of grass from Amy. He apologized after eating it, and admitted that it tasted altogether different from how he thought grass would taste.
“It appears that my antelope appetite has been aroused for this food,” announced Anthony. “Thanks to you, Angora Amy, I am able to be an actual antelope and not an artificial anteater who found it awfully awkward obtaining ants.”
There are over 125 words beginning with A’s in this story. How many do you remember?

Soon after moving to Frankfurt, I was called as a presidency member of our area’s center for young adults. The calling involved coordinating institute classes, family home evenings, and other activities. It required a lot of work, but it was worth it because the center is a great blessing to young adults in the area.
Because of this calling, I learned about and joined a young single adult choir. The choir went on a concert tour to Poland and the Czech Republic. It was a great experience, and I loved having the opportunity to share my testimony through music. I was even happier when I received an e-mail several weeks later telling me that someone had joined the Church as a result of one of our concerts.

President Charles W. Penrose used to tell the story of an officer on the Titanic who stated that there was no fear of “God, man or devil,” because the Titanic was built so solidly that it could readily withstand collision with other ships or contact with any other force, including icebergs. The Titanic was in fact three football fields in length, 12 stories high, and built of the finest steel. On that fateful night of April 14, 1912, other ships warned of ice ahead. Yet the Titanic continued to increase her speed, cutting through the cold Atlantic Ocean. By the time the lookouts sighted the iceberg, it was too late. The Titanic could not turn out of its way in time, and the iceberg scraped along the starboard side of the ship, creating a series of punctures. Two hours and 40 minutes later the brand-new Titanic sank to the bottom of the ocean. Over 1,500 people were drowned.

Usually one-eighth of an iceberg is above the waterline. The ice in the cold core is very compact, and keeps seven-eighths of the iceberg under water. As it was when the Titanic encountered the iceberg, so it is with us. We can often only see part of the danger that lies ahead.

Later that same year, 161 adults and children embarked from Tokyo to make their way to the Hawaii Temple. One Japanese brother reflected on the journey: “As I looked out of the airplane and saw Pearl Harbor, and remembered what our country had done to these people on December 7, 1941, I feared in my heart. Will they accept us? But to my surprise they showed greater love and kindness than I had ever seen in my life.”
Upon the Japanese Saints’ arrival, the Hawaiian members welcomed them with countless strands of flower leis while exchanging hugs and kisses on the cheeks, a custom foreign to Japanese culture. After spending 10 transformative days in Hawaii, the Japanese Saints bid their farewells to the melody of “Aloha Oe” sung by the Hawaiian Saints.

Can you imagine the terror that must have been in the heart of 11-year-old Dieter Uchtdorf as his family fled their home in East Germany in 1952 to find freedom in the West? For political reasons, the life of Dieter’s father was in extreme danger. He would have to escape alone to minimize risks to his wife and children. To avoid suspicion, the rest of the family would not be able to travel together. They would have to make the attempt separately.
A plan was implemented. Dieter’s two older brothers, Wolfgang and Karl-Heinz, took a northern route out of their hometown of Zwickau. Their sister, Christel, traveled with two other girls on a train that passed briefly through West Germany en route to its destination city in East Germany. As the train passed through West Germany, the girls persuaded the conductor to open the door for them, and they jumped out of the train.
Dieter, age 11—the youngest of the children—and his courageous mother took still another route. They carried with them only a little food and precious family photographs that had been preserved from destruction through World War II. After Dieter and his mother had walked long hours, Sister Uchtdorf’s knees began to weaken. Dieter carried their belongings and helped his mother climb a final hill to freedom. There they stopped to eat a meager meal, only to realize, when they saw Russian guards, that they were still shy of the border. The mother and son terminated their picnic, picked up their packs, and climbed even higher before reaching their goal.
Dieter and his mother continued their trek as refugees, hitchhiking and walking to their destination at a suburb near Frankfurt. After many long and perilous days of separation, the family was finally reunited. The brothers arrived first; their father followed. Dieter and his mother then arrived, and his sister came last. Their great reunion was joyful.
Of lesser significance was the fact that they had left behind virtually all of their possessions.
Seven years earlier, toward the close of World War II, they had fled from home as foreign forces approached. Now they were refugees again. Once more they owned nothing. Once more they had to start over. But they had each other. They had their deep faith in God, and they had their membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, acquired barely five years earlier.

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

Let me tell you about the day I was baptized. It was July 15, and it was a very hot day. A woman was also baptized that day. The baptismal font had been handmade by the missionaries, and it wasn’t much to look at.
We were confirmed right after we were baptized. First, the sister was confirmed by Elder Lloyd. I sat down with the other members, closed my eyes, and quietly listened. Elder Lloyd confirmed her and then began to pronounce a blessing on her. However, Elder Lloyd stopped talking, so I opened my eyes and looked at him with an intent gaze.
Even today I can clearly remember that scene. Elder Lloyd’s eyes were overflowing with tears. And for the first time in my life, I experienced being enveloped in the Holy Spirit. And through the Holy Spirit I gained a sure knowledge that Elder Lloyd loved us and that God loved us.
Then it was my turn to be confirmed. Again it was Elder Lloyd. He placed his hands on top of my head and confirmed me a member of the Church, bestowed the gift of the Holy Ghost, and then began pronouncing a blessing. And again he stopped talking. However, I now understood what was happening. I truly knew through the Holy Ghost that the missionaries loved me and that God loved me.

An inspiring example is found in the touching production The Miracle Worker, a dramatic work derived from the autobiography of Helen Keller, who suffered an illness as an infant that left her deaf and blind.10 In their Santa-like approach to raising their daughter, Helen’s hovering parents were overprotective and overindulgent, with the counterproductive results of stunting Helen’s intellectual, spiritual, social, and emotional growth.
Conversely, Anne Sullivan, Helen’s private teacher, recognized that Helen had received too much indulgence and therefore began helping Helen confront her problems and become more self-reliant. In the end, it was Anne Sullivan, not Helen’s parents, who helped Helen live up to her true potential.

Who can forget the evil attacks of September 11, 2001, on various U.S. locations? Such events remind us how quickly our feelings of peace and safety can be destroyed.

Our oldest son and his wife, who were expecting their first child, lived three blocks from the World Trade Center in New York City when the first plane crashed into the North Tower. They went to the roof of their apartment building and were horrified as they watched what they thought was some kind of terrible accident. Then they witnessed the second plane crash into the South Tower. They immediately realized that this was no accident and believed lower Manhattan was under attack. When the South Tower collapsed, their apartment building was engulfed in the dust cloud that rained down over lower Manhattan.

Confused about what they had witnessed and concerned about further attacks, they made their way to a safer area and then to the Manhattan stake Church building at Lincoln Center. When they arrived, they found that dozens of other members in lower Manhattan had made the same decision to gather at the stake center. They called to let us know where they were. I was relieved that they were safe but not surprised at their location. Modern revelation teaches that the stakes of Zion are a defense and “a refuge from the storm, and from wrath when it shall be poured out without mixture upon the whole earth.”2

They could not return to their apartment for over a week and were devastated by the loss of innocent lives, but they suffered no permanent damage.

I had always planned to go on a mission. In the spring of 1950, I was eighteen and finishing my sophomore year at the University of Utah. I was studying for my final tests when my father, who was also my bishop, came into my room and asked me, “Are you ready to go on your mission?”

I said, “Yes, Dad, I am.”

He asked, “Is your life in order?”

I said, “Yes, it is.”

“Good,” he said. “You’ll leave in two months.”

I immediately submitted my papers and soon received my call from President George Albert Smith. Before I reached the British Isles Mission two months later, the Korean War had started and there were restrictions on the number of young men who could serve missions. If I had waited to go, I might not have been able to serve a mission.

On May 30 of last year, my friend Troy Russell pulled his pickup truck slowly out of his garage on his way to donate goods to the local Deseret Industries. He felt his back tire roll over a bump. Thinking some item had fallen off the truck, he got out only to find his precious nine-year-old son, Austen, lying face down on the pavement. The screams, the priesthood blessing, the paramedic crew, the hospital staff—they were, in this case, to no avail. Austen was gone.
Unable to sleep, unable to find peace, Troy was inconsolable. He said it was more than he could bear and that he simply could not go on. But into that agonizing breach came three redeeming forces.
First was the love and reassuring spirit of our Father in Heaven, a presence communicated through the Holy Ghost that comforted Troy, taught him, loved him, and whispered that God knows everything about losing a beautiful and perfect Son. Second was his wife, Deedra, who held Troy in her arms and loved him and reminded him that she too had lost that son and was determined not to lose a husband also. Third in this story is John Manning, home teacher extraordinaire.
I frankly don’t know on what schedule John and his junior companion made visits to the Russell home, or what message was given when they got there, or how they reported the experience. What I do know is that last spring Brother Manning reached down and picked Troy Russell up off the tragedy of that driveway just as if he were picking up little Austen himself. Like the home teacher or watchman or brother in the gospel he was supposed to be, John simply took over the priesthood care and keeping of Troy Russell. He started by saying, “Troy, Austen wants you back on your feet—including on the basketball court—so I will be here every morning at 5:15 a.m. Be ready because I don’t want to have to come in to get you up—and I know Deedra doesn’t want me to do that either.”
“I didn’t want to go,” Troy told me later, “because I had always taken Austen with me on those mornings and I knew the memories would be too painful. But John insisted, so I went. From that first day back, we talked—or rather I talked and John listened. I talked the entire drive to the church and then the entire drive home. Sometimes I talked while we parked in the driveway and watched the sun rising over Las Vegas. At first it was difficult, but over time I realized I had found my strength in the form of a very slow 6-foot-2-inch (1.88 m) Church ball player, with an absolutely pathetic jump shot, who loved me and listened to me until the sun finally rose again on my life.”8

“Mom, I shouldn’t have to do all of these dishes!” Roxanne complained. “David didn’t do them last night, and now I have to do his dishes too. Can’t he help me?”
“David is helping me with something else right now,” Mom said.
“But it’s not fair!” Roxanne said loudly.
“Please speak nicely,” Mom said.
Just then, David poked his head around the corner, laughing and making faces. “Yeah,” he whispered so Mom couldn’t hear. “Speak nicely!”
Roxanne put her hand under the running faucet and threw a handful of water at David.
“Roxanne!” Mom exclaimed.
Roxanne tried to explain, but Mom sent her to her room. Roxanne lay on her bed until Mom came in to talk.
“Roxanne, how do you feel right now?”
“Angry.”
“Would you rather feel happy?” Mom asked.
“Well, yes,” Roxanne said.
“I know I asked you to do more dishes than normal, and that’s hard,” Mom said. “And I know it isn’t always easy to get along with your brother. But don’t forget that you’re always in charge of your feelings.”
Roxanne thought. Even though she would rather feel happy, it wasn’t easy to let go of her anger.
“It’s hard to change how I feel,” Roxanne said.
“I understand,” Mom agreed. “I was feeling upset because we have visitors coming tomorrow, and I’m worried that we won’t be ready. But then I remembered that I would rather be happy, so I said a prayer and chose to feel good instead.”
Mom gave Roxanne a quick hug. “I need your help tonight,” she said. “When you feel better, I hope you will join me in the kitchen.”
Roxanne did want to help Mom. She knelt down by her bed. At first she didn’t feel like praying. Then she started telling Heavenly Father how she felt and asked Him to help her be happy again. She remembered how tired Mom looked and decided to pray for her too.
After her prayer, Roxanne felt calm enough to go back into the kitchen. As she walked in, Mom smiled and handed her a sponge.
Roxanne eyed the stacks of dishes in both sinks and on the counter. She sighed, then she started washing, one dish at a time. Soon, the chore didn’t seem so bad. And before the first sink was empty, she was even humming a little.

I hadn’t prayed for years, but I finally had to go to my knees. I was afraid to, because I knew my guilt. That first time, honestly wanting to change and repent, was the biggest turning point in my life.
I tried to pray, but I couldn’t. I started to cry, the first time in years, and I felt like I was being torn apart inside. I fell over, still in a kneeling position, and my body went into convulsions. I kept praying in my mind, “Please help me!”
I almost fell unconscious. Then the physical pain passed, and I just lay there crying. I had a long way to go to clean up my life, but I knew that the first step was the hardest. I didn’t understand the Atonement, but the feeling of peace and comfort that engulfed me left no doubt that it was real.

Several years ago on a trip to Florida, I sat outside reading a book. Its title suggested that we can still make it to heaven, even though we’re not perfect now. A woman walking by asked, “Do you think it’s possible?”
I looked up, confused, and then realized she was talking about the book I was reading. I said something ridiculous like, “Well, I’m not that far into it, but I’ll let you know how it ends.”
Oh, how I wish I could travel back in time! I’d tell her, “Yes, it’s possible! Because heaven isn’t for people who’ve been perfect; it’s for people who’ve been forgiven, who choose Christ again and again.”

I spoke at the funeral of a dear friend the other day. Some years ago he served as a mission president. He felt totally inadequate when he arrived in the field. He was sent to succeed a very good man, a man of great ability, an excellent leader, and a very able president.
When this new man took over the mission and made his first tour of meetings with missionaries, he said to them: “I never served a mission as a young man, and so I don’t know what you are going through. But do your best, your very, very best. Say your prayers and work hard and leave the harvest to the Lord.”
With that kind of spirit and that outreach of love, a whole new attitude spread through the mission. Members got behind the missionaries. Within a year the number of converts had doubled.