Gospel Story Finder

I am very fortunate to have had opportunities at your age to improve my decision-making abilities. It may surprise you to learn that I struggled with the decision of whether or not to serve a mission. I was young for my grade, so all my friends left on their missions nearly a full year before I was eligible to go. By that time I was quite comfortable in my studies, and I was dating a young woman whom I thought was “just right.” I was a novice at trusting the Lord. I will be forever grateful for the wise counsel of my father and bishop at that critical crossroads. Their loving guidance helped me see the inadequacy of leaning on my own understanding, and I began the upward spiral of trusting the Lord.

By the time I met Margaret following my mission to Scotland, I had added depth and breadth to my spiritual attitude and spiritual perspective. Experience had made trusting in the Lord much easier for me, and I knew right away the correct answers to the questions “Whom should I marry and when?”

It was the worst electrical storm in 50 years, knocking out electricity and communications over a 200-mile region overnight.
Fifteen-year-old Shane had spent the evening huddled with his family around the fireplace, enjoying the warmth and light it gave. But at ten o’clock his parents suggested everyone go to bed, and so Shane took a flashlight and padded barefoot up the stairs to his bedroom, which had been converted from an attic several years ago.
He had just gotten into bed and turned out the flashlight when the door opened and someone else stepped into the room. At first Shane thought it was one of his parents coming to check on him, but the visitor didn’t say anything, just sat down on the other side of the bed.
Shane thought that it might be a burglar, and because he was afraid of being shot, he kept quiet.
The visitor, in pajamas, removed a wristwatch and then got in under the covers on the other side of the bed from where Shane was.
Shane jumped out of bed, grabbed his flashlight and a bat, and prepared himself for a fight.
The visitor likewise jumped out of bed and went into a karate stance. From the light of the flashlight, Shane saw that he appeared to be in his late twenties. There was something strangely familiar about the man’s face.
“What are you doing here?” the visitor asked.
“Look, this is my bedroom. What are you doing here?”
“You must be mistaken. This is my bedroom.”
“Look, all the houses on this block look alike. You must be in the wrong one.”
“4216 Cedar Street,” the visitor said.
Shane was puzzled. That was his address too.
“What’s your name?” the visitor asked.
“Shane Logan.”
“Don’t play games with me,” the stranger said.
“What do you mean?” Shane asked.
“I’m Shane Logan,” the stranger said.
“You can’t be,” Shane said.
“Why can’t I?”
“Because there’s only one Shane Logan that lives at 4216 Cedar Street.”
“I don’t live here now. I just came to visit for the night. My business brings me out here a few times a year. I always stay the night so I can visit with my parents.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” Shane said.
“I can’t see your face very well,” the stranger said. “Shine the flashlight on your face.”
Shane did as the man asked.
“I can’t believe it,” the visitor said.
“You can’t believe what?”
“Your face.”
“It’s not that bad, is it?”
“What year is it?”
“1988,” Shane said.
“You need counseling,” the visitor said.
“Why?”
“Because actually the year is 2003.”
“Look at the calendar on the wall if you don’t believe me,” Shane said. He pointed the flashlight at the calendar on the bulletin board.
“I think we have a problem here,” the visitor said. “The electrical storm must have caused some kind of a time warp. We’re the same person from two different times. You’re me at 15, and I’m you at 30.”
Shane paused. “This is a joke, right?”
“Afraid not.”
“Look, I don’t care who you are. You can’t spend the night here.”
“I’m afraid I have to.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m supposed to be here overnight. If and when the time warp ever reverts back, we both have to be in this room, or else we might miss it and one of us be trapped in the wrong time.”
Shane pulled up a chair from his desk and gave it to the stranger.
“Are you married?” Shane asked, sitting on his bed.
“Yes.”
“What’s your wife’s name?”
The visitor paused. “I don’t think I’ll tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t know who my wife was going to be, and since you’re me, I don’t think you should either. Does that make sense?”
“Is her first name Tara?”
“No.”
“Is her first name Melissa?”
“Look, let’s change the subject, okay? You’re on your own about who you marry. That’s the way it should be.”
“Okay, but what can you tell me about myself that might help?”
The visitor paused. “Obey your parents. Stay active in the Church. Live the Word of Wisdom. Go on a mission. Keep yourself morally clean.”
“You sound like my dad.”
“Well, maybe that’s because I am a dad.”
“You are? I mean I am? I mean I will be? What’s it like? How many kids do we have?”
“One, and one on the way.”
“Is our wife a knockout?”
“Let’s see, a knockout. It’s been a while since I heard that word. That means beautiful, right?”
“Right.”
“Then she’s a knockout.”
“How do we do next year in geometry?”
“Well, if we work hard, and get some help, we do okay.”
“But Mr. Adelstein is a tough grader.”
“I know, but he’s fair.”
“What about girls?” Shane asked.
“What about ’em?”
“Melissa Stewart, what about her? Does she ever get to like me?”
The visitor smiled. “Forget Melissa Stewart.”
Shane frowned. “Rats. What else can you tell me?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Am I going to turn out okay?”
The visitor smiled. “I think so, but of course I’m probably prejudiced.”
“Anything I should watch out for?” Shane asked.
“Drugs and alcohol.”
“Did you stay away from those things?”
“Yes, but last year I was talking to a friend of mine, a psychologist. He told me I had all the personality characteristics of someone who could become an alcoholic. He told me it was a good thing I’d never started drinking. So don’t you start either or else I might not be around at 30.”
“Did we go on a mission?”
“Let me just say, I’d strongly recommend it.”
“What kind of a job do you have?”
The visitor paused. “Actually it wouldn’t do any good to tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because the work you’ll end up doing when you’re my age hasn’t even been invented yet.”
“So what do I do to prepare for it?”
“Get as good an education as you can.”
Suddenly there was a knock on the door.
“Hide,” Shane said.
The visitor got under the bed.
Shane opened the door. His mother was standing there holding a candle in her hand.
“I heard talking coming from your room.”
“I was just talking to myself,” Shane said with a strange grin, and then he burst out laughing uncontrollably.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, Mom, really,” he said, still laughing.
“Well, get to bed and get some sleep.”
“I will, Mom. Good night.”
“Good night, dear.”
He shut the door.
Suddenly the lights in the house went on.
“You can come out of there now,” Shane said. “I’ve got a lot more questions. When I go before the Eagle Scout review board next week, can you remember any of the questions they’ll ask me?”
No answer.
Shane looked under the bed. The visitor was gone.
“Where are you? Look, don’t go away. There are so many things I want to know about my life. When will my parents let me get a driver’s license?”
Another knock on the door. “Come in,” Shane said.
His mother opened the door.
Shane was on his knees looking under the bed. All he saw was an old banana peel and some dust.
“What are you doing?” his mother asked.
“I’m looking for something.”
“Shane, quit this foolishness and get to bed.”
“All right.” He paused. “Mom?”
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter about Melissa Stewart.”
She smiled. “Well, I’m glad you finally came to your senses. Good night.”
His mother left.
The visitor never returned.
Actually that isn’t quite true, because in time Shane became the visitor.
As we all do.

I vividly remember a conversation I had with my roommates during my freshman year at BYU. One night at dinner we were discussing what we would give our mothers for Christmas. I had been raised in a very middle-class family, but I attended high school with wealthy, upper-class Jewish students. I had no other point of reference, so by the standards of my peers, my family was pretty poor. As I discussed gift suggestions with my college roommates, I mentioned that I was contemplating giving my mother a telephone for Christmas. She seemed to already have everything else she needed. One of my roommates said, “I’m going to buy my mother a store-bought blouse. I don’t remember her ever owning a piece of new, store-bought clothing.” Wow, was I humbled in a hurry! My naive eyes had awakened to the real world.

Mercy R. Thompson, the wife of Robert B. Thompson, one of the prophet's hard-working secretaries reports:
"I saw him by the bedside of Emma, his wife, in sickness, exhibiting all the solicitude and sympathy possible for the tenderest of hearts and the most affectionate of natures to feel. And by the deathbed of my beloved companion, I saw him stand in sorrow, reluctantly submitting to the decree of Providence, while the tears of love and sympathy freely flowed. Joseph took charge of the funeral ceremonies, strictly adhering to my husband's wish that there should be no military or other display at his burial as had been but a short time before on the occasion of the burial of Joseph's brother, Don Carlos.
"This indeed was a time of sorrow, but I can never forget the tender sympathy and brotherly kindness he ever showed toward me and my fatherless child. When riding with him and his wife Emma in their carriage I have known him to alight and gather prairie flowers for my little girl."

Forty-seven years ago this general conference, I was called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. At the time, I had been serving on one of the general priesthood committees of the Church, and so before my name was presented, I sat with my fellow members of that priesthood committee, as was expected of me. My wife, however, had no idea where to go and no one with whom she could sit and, in fact, was unable to find a seat anywhere in the Tabernacle. A dear friend of ours, who was a member of one of the general auxiliary boards and who was sitting in the area designated for the board members, asked Sister Monson to sit with her. This woman knew nothing of my call—which would be announced shortly—but she spotted Sister Monson, recognized her consternation, and graciously offered her a seat. My dear wife was relieved and grateful for this kind gesture. Sitting down, however, she heard loud whispering behind her as one of the board members expressed her annoyance to those around her that one of her fellow board members would have the audacity to invite an “outsider” to sit in this area reserved only for them. There was no excuse for her unkind behavior, regardless of who might have been invited to sit there. However, I can only imagine how that woman felt when she learned that the “intruder” was the wife of the newest Apostle.

Let me tell you about a young couple who lived that way. Amy met her sweetheart, Curtis, in the Clyde Building on campus, where they both took engineering classes. Curtis was a returned missionary who was serving in his elders quorum. He loved the Savior, and Amy knew it because of the ways he served others and how he lived his life. They were sealed in the Mount Timpanogos Temple, and Curtis continued to serve Amy, and later their daughter, in countless little ways. Family came first, balanced with responsibilities as a student, a counselor in a BYU freshman ward bishopric, and a member of the BYU Ultimate Frisbee team. As Curtis was traveling to Canada with the BYU team, there was an accident and he was killed. Amy and Curtis’ marriage is eternal: not because he died but because of how he lived—serving others and honoring his temple covenants.

As Joseph contemplated those dreary months of imprisonment in Missouri, he must have recalled the night, when confined in a dungeon, he rebuked the guards. He and his brethren were trying to get a little sleep, but were kept awake by the awful blasphemies and obscene jests of their jailers, who were recounting the dreadful deeds of robbery and murder they had committed among the Mormons. These were no idle boasts, for these awful atrocities had actually been committed. Suddenly, Joseph rose to his feet and, in a voice that seemed to shake the very building, cried out:

Silence, ye fiends of the infernal pit! In the name of Jesus Christ I rebuke you, and command you to be still; I will not live another minute and hear such language. Cease such talk, or you or I die this instant! [HC 3:208]

The effect must have been electric in its suddenness. Some begged his pardon while others slunk into the dark corners of Liberty Jail to hide their shame.

The power of Jesus Christ, whose name he had invoked in his rebuke, was upon him. His hands and feet were in chains, but these the guards did not see. They saw only the righteous anger in his shining face, and felt the divine power in his voice as he rebuked them.

The first real test of my young testimony came when I had to decide between going on a mission and playing basketball,” says Dean Reid Burgess. Brother Burgess had spent his freshman year playing basketball for the College of Southern Utah on scholarship.
It was 1965, the height of the war in Vietnam, and not every young man had the chance to serve a mission because of the United States military draft. But Brother Burgess had the chance and the choice. “It took a lot of prayer and a lot of fasting,” he says. “But I knew serving a mission was a real privilege, so I left school to serve.” While serving in the Brazilian Mission, Brother Burgess solidified his testimony of the restored gospel.
Upon returning home, he completed his education at Brigham Young University in business management and graduated in 1970. Some time later, he met Annette Christensen at a BYU student ward. “She was the Relief Society president, and I was the elders quorum president,” he says. “She was always busy serving in worthwhile and constructive ways.” They began dating and were later married in the Provo Utah Temple on 27 December 1973. They have five children and reside in Sandy, Utah.
Brother Burgess, 57, was born in Alpine, Utah, to Reid and Ethel King Burgess on 24 May 1946. He grew up working in the family-owned mercantile store and on their 20-acre (8-ha) farm. His parents taught him the value of family, hard work, and the principles of the gospel—the same values he has tried to teach his own children.
In 1997 Brother Burgess returned to Brazil, where he served as president of the Brazil Belo Horizonte East Mission. His other Church service includes counselor in stake presidencies, stake Young Men president, bishop, and high councilor; all told, he has served with the youth of the Church for more than 24 years.

Within the first few months of our marriage, my dear wife expressed her desire to study music. Intending to please her, I decided to orchestrate a big, heartfelt surprise for my sweetheart. I went to a musical instrument store and bought her a piano as a gift. I excitedly put the purchase receipt in a box with a beautiful bow and gave it to her, expecting an effusive reaction of gratitude for her extremely loving and attentive husband.
When she opened that little box and saw its contents, she lovingly looked at me and said, “Oh, my dear, you are wonderful! But let me ask you a question: Is this a gift or a debt?” After counseling together about the surprise, we decided to cancel the purchase. We were living on a student budget, as is the case with many young newlyweds. This experience helped me recognize the importance of the principle of full partnership in a marital relationship and how its application could help my wife and me to be of one heart and one mind.

“I can fly,” laughed Carlos as he went spiraling into the cool Idaho evening. He landed in the playground sand and rolled like a movie stuntman.
He brushed himself off and ran back to the merry-go-round, but it was spinning too fast to get back on. The four of us, all college roommates, had the thing moving so fast that I was afraid it would spin off its braces and take flight. I guessed we’d break out of the earth’s gravitational pull somewhere near Boise, and I’d never get home for Christmas.
“Is there a point to this?” I yelled at Dave, who was leading our family home evening activity that night.
“Yep. And remember, I buy pizza for whoever stays on the longest,” he called from his position in the middle of the twirling merry-go-round.
Our roommate Brad, however, was standing near the edge of the contraption, and I could see his grip was not that secure. From the ground Carlos saw too and began spinning us until we were moving at particle-accelerator velocity. Finally, Brad slipped and was sucked off like he’d just opened the door of a flying 747. He crashed right into Carlos. The two of them landed on the sand in an awkward heap.
“Okay, I win,” I yelled. “Now stop this thing before I throw up.”
We eventually slowed the ride, and Dave gathered us on one of the park benches to give us his lesson.
“Anyone know why I put us through this merry-go-round exercise tonight?” he asked.
“Mental instability?” Brad guessed.
“A sadistic streak?” I asked. My world was still spinning.
“Thanks, but wrong. Did you notice why Carlos and Brad flew off?” Dave asked.
“Yeah, because you took the middle,” said Brad.
“Actually, there was room for all of us,” Dave added.
“Yeah, but it’s not as wild a ride in the middle,” I added.
“True,” said Dave, “there are greater risks on the outside—which is my point tonight. It’s safer when we are in the center—on the merry-go-round and in the Church.
“You’ll find that when you move away from the teachings of the Savior and the prophets, you find yourself taking risks you know you shouldn’t. And then you can suddenly find yourself far away from the Church. And it can be really hard to get back on the ride again once you’re off. Right, Carlos?”
Carlos nodded and brushed a few flecks of sand off his jacket.
Dave opened his scriptures and read from Moroni 10:32 [Moro. 10:32]. “Yea, come unto Christ, and be perfected in him, and deny yourselves of all ungodliness; and if ye shall deny yourselves of all ungodliness, and love God with all your might, mind and strength, then is his grace sufficient for you, that by his grace ye may be perfect in Christ; and if by the grace of God ye are perfect in Christ, ye can in nowise deny the power of God.”
Dave closed the scriptures. “Being a member of the Church is the greatest blessing in the world,” he said. “This scripture reminds us that if we come unto Christ and do all He has asked of us, we won’t be led astray. And if we stay centered on Him, following the teachings of the Church and the prophets, we won’t be tempted to take the risks that will throw us off the path that leads home.”
I have never forgotten Dave’s lesson. Every year the world seems to move faster and the distractions and temptations are greater, but I know if I stay centered I will avoid the greatest risks.
As Dave reminded me, by staying close to Christ I can overcome anything.

A few days into the #GiveThanks challenge issued by President Russell M. Nelson in late November, I was already feeling sensitised to the many blessings around me. I noted with thanks my beautiful family, my job, the gospel, and the sunshine we enjoy almost every day of the year in South Africa.
And then, on Tuesday, the doorbell rang.
I had just managed to get my three-year-old daughter down for her afternoon nap. Our young baby was also fussing and tired. As a working mom of three small children I too was in a haze of fatigue. On top of that, I was in pain because I had sprained my ankle while running that morning, and was feeling a little sorry for myself because I had been participating in a fitness challenge that I knew I now wouldn’t be able to finish.
I felt concerned that the noise of the bell would wake my sleeping daughter, irritated at the inconvenience of moving my sore ankle and impatient to get my baby to sleep, so that I could get back to my work deadline.
I limped to the door.
A man who was doing construction at a house down the road stood outside the gate. He said he hadn’t brought his skaftin (lunchbox). He asked if I could I please give him some lunch.
My husband mentioned that this was the third time that someone from the same construction project had come to ask for food.
I told him this was a bad time: I was trying to get my baby to sleep.
He said please, just a piece of bread, just for him.
“I’ll give you something simple, but please try to remember your lunchbox tomorrow,” I said.
I went into my kitchen and opened my fridge. It was teeming with fresh, healthy food. In that moment, I felt a simultaneous sense of gratitude and guilt: grateful for the abundance of food I enjoy each day; guilty for having felt inconvenienced by his request.
The scripture of Matthew 25:35 came to mind: “For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in.”
The Spirit prodded me with a question. Was I a true follower of Christ if I wasn’t willing to inconvenience myself to help someone in their time of need?
I hobbled outside to my gate, holding my baby in one arm; two peanut butter sandwiches and two apples in the other. I smiled and told him the bread was still slightly frozen.
My offering was meagre and hastily prepared, but the man looked genuinely surprised as I handed him the four items through the gate. Both sandwiches? Both apples? All for him? His eyes seemed to ask.
Then it was my turn to be surprised. I saw his eyes well up with tears. “Thank you, Mami,” he kept saying, “Thank you. Mami, Mami . . . this will go a long way.” I looked away—embarrassed at his reaction to my small donation, scared I might also tear up, and bid him goodbye.
What did it take to give someone four minutes of my day and two peanut butter sandwiches? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
What did it mean to the man at the gate? Evidently, a whole lot.
It occurred to me that, due to the downturn of construction projects and the huge spike in unemployment in South Africa following the outbreak of the Coronavirus, this man might have been earning money for the first time in several months. It occurred to me that he probably needs every cent he earns to help support several other unemployed family members.
It occurred to me that he wasn’t forgetting his lunchbox at all.
It occurred to me that he couldn’t afford to eat lunch.
In the few moments following that tiny interaction, I felt almost overcome with emotion. My action had been small and flawed. Yet despite that, it had made a huge difference to the man I helped. I felt a deep sense of gratitude that the Lord would allow the weak and simple (See D&C 1:23) such as myself to help achieve his ends.
I give thanks for the millions of lessons such as this one that Heavenly Father offers to us; for these small opportunities of connecting with other human spirits. For the grace of God in allowing us—through no qualification of our own—to breathe tiny particles of goodness into others’ existence.
I give thanks for the lesson I learned from the man at my gate.

As a young boy in Australia, I played a lot of sports. I ran track, and I also played rugby and cricket. I really liked team sports. In those sports, it wasn’t just me playing but a group of people working together. One of the harder sports I tried was rowing.
My friend and I took out a boat called a “tub pair” on the river. I rowed on one side, and he rowed on the other. As we rowed, we tried to prove we were stronger than each other. The boat turned in one direction and then another. We zigzagged up the river. It was slow going. We didn’t work together very well.
After that, we got a coach to help us. He told us what to do and how to help each other. We practiced the things he taught us. Eventually we became very good and won many races.

Paint buckets and plundering. Our lives are busy, and it was difficult to read every day. We finally decided that we would read no matter what, and we found ourselves reading in some rather unusual places—sitting on paint buckets as we worked on our remodeling project or around a campfire in our backyard. We wondered if our four-year-old was even listening at times, but then one day when asked why his room was so messy, he replied, “Someone has been plundering in there!” Buxton family, West Point, Utah, USA

Everyone can enjoy participating in this read-aloud story. Whenever the reader mentions any of the words in italics, the listeners make the appropriate sounds:
Sean O’Riley—Hooray!
Leopold the Leprechaun or the leprechaun—clap hands
Shamrocks—Ahhh!
Pot of gold—clink, clink, clink
Trip the Trolla, or Trip—Boo! or Hiss!
Peat bog—squish, squish, squish
Sean O’Riley was walking through the forest near the little town of Clonkinny when he saw Leopold the Leprechaun sitting on a log. Big tears trickled down the leprechaun’s cheeks and splashed into a soft bed of shamrocks.
“Top o’ the mornin’ to you!” Sean O’Riley called. “Why are you cryin’ on such a beautiful mornin’ with St. Patrick’s Day comin’ tomorra?”
Leopold the Leprechaun sniffled and wiped his eyes on a bright green handkerchief. “It’ll be a sad St. Pat’s Day this year, lad. Not more than an hour ago someone stole my pot of gold!”
Sean O’Riley gasped. “’Tis a terrible thing! Who do ye suppose it was?”
“It’s in my mind that Trip the Troll has sneaked up from the peat bog,” Leopold the Leprechaun answered, “for I saw his footprints among these very shamrocks.”
“Cryin’ won’t help,” said Sean O’Riley, patting the little leprechaun’s shoulder. “Trip the Troll hasn’t had time to go far with your heavy pot of gold.”
“True, true, but what’s to be done?”
Sean O’Riley thought hard for a few minutes. “I’ve heard tell that trolls are afraid of bright, glitterin’ lights. Is it true?”
“For a fact, they are. But the only bright light today is the sun, and Trip has no fear a’that.” Leopold the Leprechaun sighed. “What’s on your mind?”
“I’ll have to run back to Clonkinny and ask all the children to help,” Sean O’Riley said. “Ay, ’tis a sure thing that Trip the Troll will take your pot of gold to the peat bog, so this is what we’ll do.”
Leopold the Leprechaun giggled and snickered after his friend unfolded a plan. He did an Irish jig over the shamrocks. “That’s a fine idea! I’ll meet ye at the peat bog.”
When Sean O’Riley explained the leprechaun’s problem all the children of Clonkinny wanted to help. They hurried to the edge of the peat bog to lie in wait for the wicked troll.
It wasn’t long before they heard him coming. Trip the Troll grunted and groaned as he shuffled along, lugging the heavy pot of gold.
“Now!” Sean O’Riley called.
The children stood up holding mirrors into the sun, and sharp, glittering shafts of bright light flickered on the troll’s face. Frightened, the wicked troll dropped the pot of gold and ran across the peat bog until he disappeared from sight.
“Sure ’tis goin’ to be a fine St. Patrick’s Day tomorra! And there’ll be a surprise for each of ye,” Leopold the Leprechaun promised as the children helped him pick up the coins that had spilled from the pot of gold.
When Sean awoke on St. Patrick’s Day, there on his pillow was a shiny golden coin and a shamrock from Leopold the Leprechaun—just as there was on the pillow of each child in Clonkinny!

“Water rushed over Greg’s face and he panicked. I tried to help him, but he fought me because he was scared. We gave him a board to hang onto, but it gave away. I grabbed him, but he pulled me under with him. When we came up, I grabbed his hair and started for shore, but he threw his arms around my neck and wouldn’t let go.
“Finally I broke the hold and again started working him to shore. He struggled all the way. I was tired, but I knew I had to keep trying. The water was deep—I never touched bottom in the middle. Just as I reached shore, a cramp set in my leg and I couldn’t move. But we had made it, and were both okay.”
What may sound like a passage from a pioneer journal describing the crossing of the Mississippi is actually 17-year-old Daniel Kite’s description of how he rescued a sixth-grader from the Weber River near Ogden, Utah. Dan, a member of Troop 38, Hooper First Ward, Hooper Utah Stake, was awarded a Certificate for Heroism by the Boy Scouts of America.
Brent advised hikers to always travel with a partner and not to take shortcuts. “Stay on the trail or you’ll get in trouble,” he said. Daniel warned swimmers to know the water they’re swimming in and not to swim in conditions beyond their capability. Kristin advised everyone to learn how to swim and to become familiar with lifesaving techniques. Brother Crockett advised those who find themselves in an emergency to do something, rather than just watch, which complemented Brother Johnson’s advice to “be quick and alert, but think things out before you act. Keep calm and don’t panic. Move as quickly as possible and listen for guidance from the Lord.” Mike Poppleton said Scouts should pay attention during classes on lifesaving techniques so that when an emergency does arise, they’ll be able to think of what to do. And the entire group agreed that proper training is vital and that people should be careful about what they do if they have had no training.
Most of the group agreed that their rescue efforts had been a spiritual experience for them. “At the time I acted only on instinct, but since then I have thought how great it is that I was able to save one of Heavenly Father’s sons,” Kristin said. Dan said he felt the Lord helped him “keep a straight head,” and gave him that “additional strength needed to get to shore before the cramp set in.”

Elder Hugh B. Brown shared a story that illustrates that God knows best:
I was living up in Canada. I had purchased a farm. It was run-down. I went out one morning and saw a currant bush. It had grown up over six feet high. It was going all to wood. There were no blossoms and no currants. I was raised on a fruit farm in Salt Lake before we went to Canada, and I knew what ought to happen to that currant bush. So I got some pruning shears and went after it, and I cut it down, and pruned it, and clipped it back until there was nothing left but a little clump of stumps. It was just coming daylight, and I thought I saw on top of each of these little stumps what appeared to be a tear, and I thought the currant bush was crying. . . . I looked at it, and smiled, and said, “What are you crying about?” You know, I thought I heard that currant bush talk. And I thought I heard it say this: “How could you do this to me? . . . I thought you were the gardener here.” . . . I said, “Look, little currant bush, I am the gardener here, and I know what I want you to be. . . . And some day, little currant bush, when you are laden with fruit, you are going to say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for loving me enough to cut me down, for caring enough about me to hurt me. Thank you, Mr. Gardener.” [Hugh B. Brown, “The Currant Bush,” New Era,January 1973, pp. 14–15; emphasis in original]

On July 27, 2013, after a long battle with Alzheimer’s disease, my life partner of 25 years passed away. Jay Eldredge was a world-renowned cardiologist. We had both served missions for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when we were younger but then distanced ourselves from the Church because of same-sex attraction.

Jay’s death, although not unexpected, was devastating. I felt heartbroken and lost and alone.

While driving home after making the funeral arrangements, I felt the influence of the Spirit overwhelm me so strongly that I had to pull over to the side of the road. I knew that God was speaking to me, calling me back to Him, but I was resistant. “Can’t you see that I’m suffering?” I said aloud. “I can’t face going back to church right now.”

But the more I protested, the more the Spirit pulled at me, inviting me back to church.

I was deeply worried about returning to church. I hadn’t been to a sacrament meeting in 25 years. Would they even accept me? Would I accept them? What would the bishop say? I felt anxious and unsettled and still heavy with grief.

But my testimony of the gospel had never wavered in all those years. Jay and I loved the Church and its guiding principles—namely, charity, mercy, and forgiveness. I knew that Christ was my Savior and that His Church was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I had known that since my conversion and baptism at the age of 14. I wasn’t about to deny that now.

Finally, after mustering the necessary courage, I called the Linwood Ward in New Jersey, USA, to find out what time sacrament meeting started.

As Sunday approached, the adversary put many obstacles in my path that could have easily prevented me from attending. How grateful I am that the Holy Ghost persisted.

I felt nervous as I entered the building, but the opening hymn in sacrament meeting reassured me that I was home again. The hymn “Come, Come, Ye Saints” (Hymns, no. 30) invited the Spirit so powerfully that tears flowed down my face. I knew in that instant that Heavenly Father was aware of me and the deep sadness I was feeling.

That hymn has become an unofficial anthem of sorts for the Church, but it has become my personal anthem as well.

“Come,” the hymn invites me. “Though hard to you this journey may appear, grace shall be as your day.”

My journey was hard. But grace did attend me as promised.

Bishop Darren Bird and the rest of the congregation were wonderful and welcoming. They accepted me as their brother in Christ.

The words of “Come, Come, Ye Saints” took on greater meaning to me, however, as I felt Heavenly Father directing me on how I should proceed.

We’ll find the place which God for us prepared,
Far away in the West,
Where none shall come to hurt or make afraid;
There the Saints will be blessed.

I went west and bought a home in Fountain Hills, Arizona, USA, where I met Bishop Jerry Olson. When I requested to meet with him and shook his hand, the Spirit impressed upon me that this man would help bring me back into full activity in the Church.

As I began visiting with the bishop and embarking on this reconciliation with Heavenly Father, I witnessed many spiritual miracles. I was open with the bishop, for which he was grateful. He said that helped him better understand where I had been and where I was now in my relationship with God. He also lovingly informed me that this was the first time that he had had an opportunity to minister to someone with same-sex attraction, and he asked for my patience and forgiveness if he said or did anything to offend me throughout the process.

I thanked him for his honesty and said, “Well, this is my first time as well. We’ll learn together.”

Thus began a wonderful journey and friendship!

Soon I had an action plan on how to become a member again. I accepted the loving and prayerful counsel with a grateful heart and began the process.

Later, as I followed that counsel and worked hard to draw closer to Christ, I received the restoration of my priesthood and temple blessings and accepted a call to serve in the elders quorum. In the holy temple, as I communed with Heavenly Father, He showed me how much He loves all His children. I felt solace and a deep desire to please Him.

Months later, a new bishop was called, with whom I have also developed a loving friendship. Bishop Larry Radford knew of my circumstance and appreciated my service in the elders quorum, where he said I had served with love and devotion not only for the quorum but also—and more importantly—for God. His kind words and encouragement helped me feel that the Lord and my fellow Saints were pleased with my service.

I now faithfully serve as the ward clerk.

Having same-sex attraction and being an active member of the Church is not always easy. But as I put all my faith and trust in God, I can feel Him strengthening me. Critics will no doubt say that I’m not being true to who I am or that I’m disappointing the LGBT+ community.

I understand their frustration, and I obviously don’t have all the answers. I can only speak of my own experience. And that experience has taught me this: I am Heavenly Father’s son, a child of God. That’s the one and only label that matters to me. As a result, I try not to allow the world’s labels to define me. I fear that will limit my potential and eternal progression.

Satan is very clever. He knows that by using labels, he can divide us as a community and as a church.

With that perspective in mind, the choices I make are not based on my same-sex attraction but on how to be a true disciple of Christ with same-sex attraction. As Nephi said:

“O Lord, I have trusted in thee, and I will trust in thee forever. I will not put my trust in the arm of flesh. …
“… I know that God will give liberally to him that asketh. Yea, my God will give me, if I ask not amiss; therefore I will lift up my voice unto thee; yea, I will cry unto thee, my God, the rock of my righteousness. Behold, my voice shall forever ascend up unto thee, my rock and mine everlasting God” (2 Nephi 4:34–35).

Throughout my return, I felt the loving companionship of my leaders and fellow Saints, including active and less-active LGBT+ members. I found a place where I could thrive. I found among them the attributes of Christ that I had always associated with my faith: mercy, compassion, understanding, and, above all, love.

As I struggled along the path with my Savior, I felt comfort and peace as I turned to Him, knowing that I wasn’t walking that path alone. Several bishops were there beside me. Members of my quorum. Sisters in the ward. I even had a young man in the ward ask me if I would ordain him a priest. His kind invitation deeply moved me. He saw me as a man who holds the priesthood of God and who can exercise that priesthood in service to others.

These opportunities to serve and worship with my fellow Saints have lifted me and—along with the many blessings I’ve received from the Lord—helped me experience the love, understanding, and acceptance that I needed.

The Savior said, “I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you” (John 14:18). Those words are true. I needed comforting, and He came to me, more abundantly than I could have imagined.

At the risk of embarrassing me a little bit, could I tell you a personal story? When I was a young teenager wanting to pursue the athletic field, I was moving along with relative ease with some accomplishment. The time came when I signed a professional contract. Unfortunately world conditions were much more serious than they are now. The rest of the world was engaged in a conflict, and then the enemy struck us. It became necessary in that year to lower the draft age to eighteen. I turned eighteen the very month they lowered it. Now how is that for timing? They had a big drawing in Washington to see which number would go first. Do I have to tell you whose number they picked? And instead of going into the field of my great desire, I ended up going into the military. I wasn’t a bad boy, but I left a little bit to be desired, I’m sure, in the hearts of my parents.

My dad, upon learning that I was to be in that first eighteen-year-old draft, called me to his side and said, “Paul, you haven’t yet received your patriarchal blessing. Would you do that?” He gave me a little spiritual preparation, and, being typical at that age, I said, “Yeah, I’ll go do it.” I went and got the necessary recommends and on the appointed day made preparation to go down to have the blessing. My dad made one other suggestion. He said, “Maybe you would like to fast and pray about it before you go.” Well, to fast one meal in those days for me was monumental, and somehow I got through one meal, prayed a little bit about certain concerns I had regarding the future, and then drove down to the stake center.

Old Brother George Wride, Los Angeles stake patriarch, was there to receive me. He was in his eighties, white haired, and kind of wobbly. Now, do you know what an eighty-year-old man looks like to a teenager? I thought I was being blessed by Abraham. He came out of the office to get my recommend, and he wasn’t too surefooted. I thought, “Boy, this will be something.”

He took my recommend, ushered me into the office, had me sit down, and pulled up a chair so that we were pretty close to each other. I think he had one foot in that office and the other foot in heaven. Then he gave me a very thorough interview, and after about twenty minutes (I’d never seen him before except at a distance. I’m not sure he knew who I was other than another teenage boy coming through the ranks), he stood up, came around behind me, and put his hands on my head. He called me by name, declared my lineage, and then he paused. I’ll never forget that. He said, “Now concerning the future. Thou shalt experience combat. Angels shall intercede in thy behalf and protect thee all the days of thy life, and thou shalt live to testify to all the nations of the world that Jesus is the Christ.” He continued to tell me some very personal things, and I ask that you pardon me for not sharing them here. All of it was in concert with the desires of my heart that I had expressed as I knelt as a teenager to pray to God.

Well, I went home after that, and even I was impressed. You know how parents are, kind of anxious about what happens to their kids. When I walked in the door, my dad said, “What did he say? What did he say?” I said, “I don’t know; he had angels flying around.” Two weeks later, my blessing came in the mail. My father, as a young man just married, taught at this institution when it was at the lower campus. He taught typing, shorthand, and penmanship. At age 64, the year he died, he could type 125 words per minute on a conventional typewriter. The blessing came in the mail, and unbeknownst to me he had gone out and purchased a waterproof wallet. He sat down at the typewriter: “Tap, tap, tap,” and there was a new copy of my blessing. He put it in the wallet, handed it to me, and said, “Now, take it with you and read it.”

I’m embarrassed to tell you. I went off to war, and, during ten months of training in the United States, I didn’t even open it. Then I was shipped to Hawaii and had three months of jungle training. Then one morning at 4:00 a.m. they came unannounced to load us up on troopships, and out we went with a great mass of ships to a destination we didn’t know at that time.

Three weeks later we were out in a harbor where the Navy was pounding the beach. You’ve seen enough movies on that to understand a little about it. The night before the invasion we were issued live ammunition. Now all of a sudden the previous year’s training came into focus. We didn’t go below the deck that night because we were all a little frightened, wondering what would happen. I had just had my nineteenth birthday. The next morning I was assigned to the seventh boat team, the seventh wave, as we called it. We started to load into the landing craft at about 0500, and 0600 in the morning was to be H-hour on that D-day.

I don’t know if you understand the challenges of getting into one of those boats. It was interesting. The deck where we were standing was four stories above the water, and the water that morning was pretty rough. We were experiencing forty-foot swells. We were trying to get into what was called a landing craft vehicle—personnel (LCVP) that held about thirty infantrymen. The boat was out about thirty or forty feet from the ship itself, rising and dropping about thirty or forty feet. When you came down on one of those cargo nets, you had to drop precisely as the boat came up because you didn’t want to miss (keep in mind each of us had a twenty-pound pack, a ten-pound rifle, a five-pound helmet, and thirty-five pounds of ammunition). If you missed the boat, the harbor was about four hundred feet deep, and you wouldn’t come up very readily. And so it made a whole lot of difference in how we got down into one of those crafts on a cargo net, with all those characters above us stepping on our fingers as we went down.

From the time we arrived in the harbor until just a few seconds before H-hour, the Navy was pounding the beach. The noise from the shells was so loud we couldn’t even hear each other talk when we were sitting next to one another. It was deafening. Pretty soon we started to click off our watches, five minutes before H-hour, four, three, two, one. Exactly as the second hand passed the mark, the Navy just ceased firing. There was total silence out there, thousands of men and nobody making a sound.

Then a flare goes off, and the first boat team starts in. They have about 2,000 yards to shore. Well, the first boat team goes, and when they are about 1,200 yards from shore the whole beach opens up. I don’t know how anybody could stay alive. And one craft after the other is hit, scattering American soldiers in the water. The second flare goes off, and the next boat goes in. The same thing happens to the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth. Nobody’s getting ashore. It makes you ponder and wonder.

Now it comes time for the seventh wave, and that is mine. The flare goes off, and in goes the boat team. It is kind of eerie sitting there watching that boat go up and down, and you can see the palm trees getting a little bigger. Your heart is pounding, and all of a sudden the whole shoreline opens up, zeroing in on you. Now it is H-hour plus one, and the tide is starting to come out. It exposes a large coral reef, and our LCVP can’t get over it. The boat sticks on the coral reef.

The Navy crew gets excited. They drop the front of the boat and say, “Get out of here; you’re drawing fire!” We jump into the water. The water is chest high. You have to hold your rifle over your head. If the muzzle drops in the water, the salt water will make it blow up on you when you fire. Did you ever try to run in water up to your chest when you were loaded down? You don’t move very fast. And the enemy starts to pick you up. You are pushing aside with the butt of your rifle the dead and wounded bodies of the friends and associates you have been training with. The coral is so sharp it cuts the boots off your feet, and your feet are starting to bleed like mincemeat. You are trying to get ashore.

I was one of the first ashore that morning, and I dug my first foxhole with my fingernails. Just as I crawled into that mucky hole an ambu gun opened up. It shoots about seven hundred rounds a minute. A round went down my right arm and took off my identification bracelet. I rolled over and started to talk to my Heavenly Father, and he answered me. I have never been the same since.

As we secured the beach that morning, I reached into my pocket and took out that wallet my father had prepared and read what the Lord had said, “Angels shall intercede in thy behalf and protect thee all the days of thy life, and thou shalt live many years and testify to the people of the world that Jesus is the Christ.” Imagine that being given to a nineteen-year-old out there!

Get your blessings, young people. Ponder them. They are not all perfectly clear. It is exciting for me now, at this stage of my life, to read into mine what the Lord said when I was a teenager and to see the fulfillment of those promises and blessings.

I love the parables used by Jesus Christ to teach gospel principles. I would like to share a real-life parable of sorts with you this morning.
One day I walked into the cafeteria at Church headquarters to have some lunch. After getting a tray of food, I entered the dining area and noticed a table at which all three members of the First Presidency were seated, along with one empty chair. My insecurities caused me to make a quick detour away from that table, and then I heard the voice of our prophet, President Russell M. Nelson, saying, “Allen, there’s an empty chair right here. Come and sit down with us.” And so I did.
Near the end of the lunch, I was surprised to hear a loud crunching noise, and when I looked up, I saw that President Nelson had stood his plastic water bottle straight up and then flattened it and replaced the lid.
President Dallin H. Oaks then asked the question I wanted to ask, “President Nelson, why did you flatten your plastic water bottle?”
He replied, “It makes it easier for those who are handling recyclable materials because it doesn’t take up as much space in the recycling container.”
While pondering that response, I heard the same crunching sound again. I looked to my right, and President Oaks had flattened his plastic water bottle just like President Nelson. I then heard some noise to my left, and President Henry B. Eyring was flattening his plastic water bottle, although he had adopted a different strategy by doing it while the bottle was horizontal, which took more effort than with the bottle straight up. Noticing this, President Nelson kindly showed him the bottle-straight-up technique to more easily flatten the bottle.
At that point, I leaned over to President Oaks and quietly asked, “Is flattening your plastic water bottle a new recycling requirement of the cafeteria?”
President Oaks responded, with a smile on his face, “Well, Allen, you need to follow the prophet.”
I’m confident that President Nelson was not declaring some new recycling-based doctrine in the cafeteria that day. But we can learn from the prompt response of President Oaks and President Eyring to President Nelson’s example and President Nelson’s attentiveness to help teach those involved a better way.

Illustrated by Sal Velluto and Eugenio Mattozzi
When Wilford Woodruff became the prophet, many Church members did not have enough money. Wilford especially worried about some of the farmers.
President Woodruff: What can the Church do to help the people?
After hearing a report on sugar, President Woodruff felt the Church should begin growing sugar beets. He appointed a committee to learn more.
President Woodruff: The Church needs to know if sugar beets would be a good business.
Committee member: We will find out for you, President.
When the committee decided that growing sugar would not be a good idea, President Woodruff asked a second group to look into it again.
Committee member: This group agrees with the first. We do not think sugar beet manufacturing would be a good business for the Church.
President Woodruff: Never mind this report. I feel inspired to start the sugar beet industry.
Just as the new company began planning to build a factory, Utah began to have serious money trouble. It was not a good time to begin a business.
Committee member: President Woodruff, it is just as we feared. The Utah Sugar Company will never survive!
Committee member: We recommend that you get out of the business while you still can.
President Woodruff would not agree.
President Woodruff: The Lord has inspired me to have us work with sugar beets, and we will. Every time I think of abandoning it, there is darkness; and every time I think of building it, there is light.We will build the factory even if it busts the Church!
As the prophet, President Woodruff always tried to lead the Church through the inspiration of the Holy Ghost. The sugar company eventually helped many struggling farmers.