Gospel Story Finder

One such account written after the 1968 Olympic Games held in Mexico titled, "The Greatest Last Place Finish",
is worthy of reflection:
"Out of the cold darkness he came.
John Stephen Akhwari of Tanzania entered at the far end of the stadium, pain hobbling his every step, his leg covered by a blood stained bandage.
The winner of the marathon had been declared over an hour earlier. Only a few spectators remained. But the lone runner pressed on.
As he crossed the finish line, the small crowd roared out its appreciation. Afterwards, a reporter asked the runner why he had not retired from the race, since he had no chance of winning. He seemed confused by the question. Finally he answered:
'My country did not send me to Mexico City to start the race. They sent me to finish.'"
What a remarkable example of human endeavor and dedication to a cause.

Once when traveling with Elder and Sister Russell M. Nelson, we left our hotel in Bombay, India, to catch a plane for Karachi, Pakistan, and then on to Islamabad. When we got to the chaotic airport, our flight had been canceled. Impatiently, I said to the man at the airline counter, “What do you expect us to do, just give up and go back to the hotel?” He said with great dignity, “Sir, you never go back to the hotel.” We rummaged about the airport, found a flight, kept the appointment in Islamabad, and even had a night’s sleep. Sometimes life is like that: we are left to press forward and endure frustrated expectations—refusing to “go back to the hotel”! Otherwise, such “give-up-itis” will affect all seasons of life. Besides, the Lord knows how many miles we have to go “before [we] sleep”! (“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”).

The bell rang out across the playground. Recess was over. Alvin put away his basketball and walked to the classroom.
“Please sit down and take out your math books,” his teacher, Mrs. Hall, said.
Alvin slid into his seat and reached into his school bag. Then he heard a knock on the classroom door. Mrs. Hall answered it and started talking with another teacher.
Just a few desks over, Blake and Jared started whispering.
“Pssst! Look what I found!”
“Whoa!”
“Wanna try it after school?”
What’s going on? Alvin wondered.
He could just barely see Blake and Jared out of the corner of his eye. It looked like one of them was pulling a little plastic bag out of his pocket.
Wait, were those drugs?!
Alvin’s heart beat faster. His parents had talked with him and his siblings about drugs before. He knew that drugs were against the Word of Wisdom and that they could hurt your body and brain. He also knew it was dangerous to take medicine that wasn’t yours.
What should I do? Alvin thought. He glanced around. Those drugs could hurt someone! None of the other kids seemed to be paying attention. Should I tell someone? Or just pretend I didn’t see it?
Alvin had trouble concentrating during math. He couldn’t focus during reading time. By lunchtime, he felt like a rock was sitting in his stomach.
“Are you OK?” his friend Mitch asked.
Alvin shrugged.
“What’s going on? Tell us,” his friend Hazel said.
So Alvin told them about what he had seen. “I think I need to tell Mrs. Hall.”
“But what if they find out it was you?” Mitch said. “They might be really mad at you.”
Alvin agreed. But the yucky feeling in his stomach wouldn’t go away. Finally he made a decision. He was going to tell their teacher.
“I’ll go with you,” Hazel said.
Alvin and Hazel found Mrs. Hall in her classroom.
“Mrs. Hall?” Alvin asked. “Can we talk with you in private?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Hall said. “How can I help you?”
“Um … ,” Alvin said. Mrs. Hall smiled kindly. That made him feel brave. “I saw Blake and Jared with drugs in class today. I felt like I needed to tell you.”
“You did the right thing,” Mrs. Hall said. “You can always come talk to me when you see a problem. I’ll take care of it.”
Alvin let out a big sigh. The heavy feeling had disappeared.
That afternoon, the principal’s assistant came to their room and called Blake and Jared to come out in the hall.
The boys didn’t come back to class for three days.
When they finally came back, Alvin was nervous to see them again.
What if they figured out I was the one who told the teacher? he thought. What if they’re really mad at me?
But they just sat and joked with each other, like usual.
“Where have you been?” another classmate asked them.
“Oh … uh … we got caught with something bad at school,” Blake said. “So we got sent home.”
Everyone kept talking, and eventually Alvin relaxed. He was glad he’d spoken up about the drugs to help keep others safe. He wanted to make good choices to keep his body safe and healthy.

Several years ago, while preparing for a business trip, I began to experience chest pain. Out of concern, my wife decided to accompany me. On the first leg of our flight, the pain intensified to the point that it was difficult for me to breathe. When we landed, we left the airport and went to the local hospital, where, after multiple tests, the attending physician declared us safe to continue our travel.
We returned to the airport and boarded a flight to our final destination. As we were descending, the pilot came on the intercom and asked me to identify myself. The flight attendant approached, said they had just received an emergency call, and told me there was an ambulance waiting at the airport to take me to the hospital.
We boarded the ambulance and were rushed to the local emergency room. There we were met by two anxious doctors who explained that I had been misdiagnosed and actually had a serious pulmonary embolism, or blood clot, in my lung, which required immediate medical attention. The doctors informed us that many patients do not survive this condition. Knowing we were far from home and not sure if we were prepared for such life-altering events, the doctors said that if there was anything in our lives that we needed to consider, now was the time.
I remember well how almost instantaneously in that anxious moment, my entire perspective changed. What seemed so important just moments earlier was now of little interest. My mind raced away from the comfort and cares of this life to an eternal perspective—thoughts of family, children, my wife, and ultimately an assessment of my own life.
How were we doing as a family and individually? Were we living our lives consistent with the covenants we had made and the Lord’s expectations, or had we perhaps unintentionally allowed the cares of the world to distract us from those things which matter most?
I would invite you to consider an important lesson learned from this experience: to step back from the world and assess your life. Or in the words of the doctor, if there is anything in your life you need to consider, now is the time.

When I was young I was overly dependent on my older sister. For example, I was a fussy eater, and when we went to visit our grandparents I was constantly faced with being offered food I didn’t like. To minimize my embarrassment, when the plate was passed to me, I would turn to my sister and ask, “Collene, do I like this?”
If it was familiar and she knew I didn’t like it, she would say, “No, he doesn’t like that.”
I could then say to Grandma, “She’s right. I don’t like it.”
If it was something we hadn’t eaten before, she would say, “Just a minute,” and taste it, and then tell me if I liked it or not. If she said I didn’t like it, no amount of coaxing could get me to eat it.
I know it is past time for me to rely on my own taste buds and stop denying myself healthy food just because my sister told me I didn’t like it.

In the Central Valley of California, there are 44 teenagers who will never forget the city of St. George, Utah, with its hospitable people and its beautiful white temple.
The youths’ 18-hour stay there was the culmination of six months of planning, hard work, and cooperation between the youth and adults of the Tulare Ward (Visalia California Stake) and those of the St. George Second Ward.
The moment the weary travelers arrived at the Second Ward chapel after their 500-mile journey, they were met by an enthusiastic crowd of St. George youth who immediately sought out, tagged, and friendshiped each California teenager. Together these new friends shared the experiences of that day and the next. The anticipation of their meeting and their bond of common beliefs seemed to create an instant, comfortable friendship on both sides.
After an official welcome by Bishop Ross Taylor, the young people toured the tabernacle built during the same period in which the temple was constructed. Everywhere there was evidence of pioneer skill, artistry, and devotion.
Following the tabernacle visit, the group toured the Brigham Young Winter Home and caught a glimpse of the life of that great prophet and the times in which he lived.
After dinner in the homes of their hosts, the youth met at the templegrounds for the long-awaited tour. A lovely scene met their eyes. To one teenage girl, Shawna Brown, “the temple stood out like a gleaming jewel, shining forth with the Spirit of the Lord.” In this small, quiet town was the most magnificent building most of them had ever seen, a great sparkling building surrounded by deep-green lawns, a building normally brilliant white, bathed now in the golden glow of a setting sun. As the young people joined the long lines of those waiting to enter, they huddled for warmth in the unfamiliar chill of the southern Utah evening.
Inside there was peace and calm and cheerfully whispered “hello’s” between the white-clothed temple workers and the awed young visitors.
“What impressed me most,” said Julie Peterson, a convert of one year, “was that the workers in the temple were so at peace and so nice. I want to work there when I become older. Most of all, I know that I’ll marry in the temple, no matter what!” Liz Myers, a young investigator, commented, “It was beautiful, just walking through. It made me feel so clean inside. It was a great feeling!” Michelle Meadows said that being in the temple felt to her “like a little bit of heaven on earth—it was so peaceful and so beautiful.” As the group was passing through the last sealing room, one of the workers whispered to Claire Forman, “This is where you’re going to be married.” She answered, “Oh, yes!” Now, recalling that experience, Claire says, “There is no way I would even consider marrying outside the temple.”
The tour was over too soon. Too soon they stood once more outside the great building looking up at its inscription, “Holiness to the Lord.” But the influence of those few minutes may never end. To David Anderson, it brought greater meaning to going on a mission, coming back to get married for time and all eternity, and living a righteous life.
“We realized,” said Ruben Ruiz, “that the temple is the house of the Lord and that it was built for a purpose. We realized that the work done in the temple is sacred and that you need to be worthy to enter.”
Following the temple visit, the combined fireside in the Second Ward cultural hall concluded the evening. Three young St. George couples related the strength and meaning that temple marriage had brought into their lives.
The final event of the trip occurred the following morning among the red sandstone cliffs of Snow’s Canyon. Never had pancakes—complete with juice, bacon, and eggs—tasted so good. Following breakfast, the youth—lured by the cliffs around the little tree-and-sagebrush-covered valley—clambered up the sloping walls, which seemed almost stair-stepped for their benefit. Campers who chanced to be in the canyon that morning must have been startled as the hills literally burst forth into song. The final rendition was “I Am a Child of God,” sung by the Tulare teenagers from their mountaintop loft to their bishop, who stood looking up from the sands below. It was an impromptu, heartfelt expression of their love for him that neither he nor they will ever forget.
As the two groups exchanged addresses and goodbyes—the St. George youth to return to what was left of their late October Saturday, and the California young people to their journey home—no one doubted that all were spiritually richer than before. Bishop Taylor said that because of the enthusiasm of the California youth in their desire to visit the house of the Lord, the hearts of those in St. George had been reawakened to a remembrance of the great blessing of the temple and the particular privilege of living within its very shadow.
The feelings of all might be best summed up by the statement of Tulare’s Laurel class president, Karen McPherson, as she bore her testimony in sacrament meeting the day after the trip: “Bishop Dredge has been pounding into us for years, ‘Get married in the temple! Get married in the temple!’ And now I know why!”

I feel ashamed whenever I see Earl. I didn’t like him when we first met. He was overweight and wore a plaid, polyester leisure suit that I thought looked tacky. His plump hand was moist when I shook it, and he chuckled senselessly after every sentence he spoke: “Hi, Sharon.” Chuckle. “I’m Earl.” Chuckle. “It’s good to know you.” Chuckle, chuckle.
Earl and I had been assigned to organize and execute a branch service project for the college branch we attended. Upon receiving the assignment, I’d immediately put my creativity to work. Perhaps, I thought, we could take a group of under-privileged children on a weekend camping trip in the mountains. What could be better for them than exercise, camaraderie, and clean air, I reasoned, overlooking the facts that it had snowed there last weekend, most of the branch members owned little, if any, camping equipment, and the children would surely possess none at all. It irritated me when Earl, chuckling good-naturedly, brought these details to my attention and suggested a Halloween party at the local rest home instead. How unoriginal, I thought, as I smiled and nodded approvingly at his plan.
We met several nights in succession to form our plans. The meetings were unpleasant to me, his ideas so dull that even compromises sounded boring. I wanted horror melodramas for entertainment, complete with shrieks of terror and handsome heroes with their ladies. He wanted ghost stories, all of which would surely begin, “It was a dark and stormy night …”
For refreshments I’d dreamed up whole-wheat pumpkin cakes and apples on a stick dipped in hot, cinnamoned honey and cooled. “What about their dentures?” he’d asked, again chuckling. In turn, he suggested sugar cookies and cider.
As our plans progressed, however, I began to become excited about the prospect of aiding the elderly. I recalled the verse in James 1:27, which reads: “Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction.” The previous year at Christmastime my Laurel class had baked cookies for all the widows in the ward. Sister Kirkham, a 90-year-old woman who walked with two canes, had wept when we came to her door and, when we were leaving, thanked us again and again for our visit. We all felt good afterwards. That’s what the gospel is all about, I thought as I anticipated the upcoming service project. The only thorn in my plans was Earl. He irritated me.
I couldn’t understand why he didn’t lose weight, or find a shampoo that would help control his problem with dandruff. If he’d exercise and eat nutritious foods he’d be in a lot better shape, I’d thought critically, proudly reviewing the personal health program I followed.
Too, his intellect was lacking and his wit was dull, a fact manifested by his love of simple puns and riddles. At one of our meetings when we were relaxing for a moment, he’d asked me jovially, “What’s black and white and read all over?” “A newspaper,” I answered quickly. He chuckled, “Ah, you already heard the joke.” I wondered who hadn’t heard the joke.
I also had serious doubts about the genuineness of his charity. His voice didn’t seem to contain a proper amount of pity when he spoke of the bedridden and ways to include them in the festivities. Nor did he seem to feel much sorrow for the plight of the elderly in general. “Old folks are a real kick,” he’d say. “My grandma can spin a yarn that’ll keep you on the edge of your seat. Course she’s in a rest home now, but that don’t get her down none.”
“He just drives me nuts!” I complained to my roommate, Carol. “Everything about him just drives me nuts.” But despite my irritation with Earl, preparation for the party progressed. Halloween came.
We arrived at Sunshine Terrace nursing home early to begin decorating and set up the refreshments.
“Hello, Earl,” the receptionist smiled as we walked through the door. I briefly wondered how she knew him. We proceeded to the big gathering room. Ancient-looking people sat along the walls in the hallway. One man with a walker had warts that covered half of his face. Another woman sat in a wheelchair which had been tied to the handrailing on the wall. Her head flopped and she drooled continually, wetting a large portion of her dress bodice. As I stepped by she clawed my skirt. I pulled away and muttered a hasty hello. Earl, his smile as usual planted on his face, walked beside me. Old eyes crinkled at him and toothless mouths grimaced his way. Some extended greetings to him and he chuckled out, “Howdy, Doris” and “Lo there, Howard” in return.
I felt tense and faintly nauseated, my charitable zeal overshadowed by fear and revulsion. Earl remained his same chortling self. I soon realized that he knew these people. He was friends with them. I hung close to his shadow, letting his greetings and handclasps compensate for my own silence and lack of response.
But despite my mere surface participation, the party was a success. The elderly people seemed delighted with the drooping orange and black crepe paper (one of Earl’s ideas), and one woman said that the cider and sugar cookies reminded her of the autumn baking days of her youth. They chilled at the ghost stories and retold the eerie tales recalled from their own childhoods.
I began to realize that these were real people with real thoughts and feelings. Nevertheless, my own self-consciousness and discomfort kept me from becoming an active participant and enjoying their company. I had never seen a man without arms or a woman with spastic palsy. I didn’t want to see them, so I focused my eyes on the floor or ceiling or I watched some of the other students in the branch or Earl.
Earl remained, well—Earl. He was still overweight. His hands were still moist, his dandruff unchecked. His remarks and jokes still displayed an amazing lack of originality, and his chuckling remained incessant. I looked at him with those people. His damp hand comfortably clasped a withered, dry one. That was when I first began to feel ashamed. Earl was naturally what I was only pretending to be. I’d come to Sunshine Terrace full of self-righteous charity, artificial smiles, and condescending words of tenderness. Earl had simply come.

The small farmhouse appeared dreamlike in the predawn Florida mist that enveloped it and the surrounding swamplands. A large white ibis resting atop a darkened tree shape started at the sound of a screen door banging closed. A young girl ran from the farmhouse toward an as yet invisible landing on the edge of the swamp. She was crying and carrying a large doll with a broken right leg.
Cassie Gunnerson climbed into one of three wooden boats, untethered the rope that secured it to the pier, and shoved off into the gray silence. Using a long pole, she pushed with angry, tearful grunts against the soggy bottom of the shallow water.
The ibis blinked its eye, and the eleven-year-old girl was gone, swallowed up by the mist.
It wasn’t long before Cassie’s twelve-year-old brother, Nathan, and their parents, were up and searching for her. “We got in a fight, Pa,” Nathan sheepishly admitted as he and his parents scoured the mangrove thickets on the outer edge of the field. No one bothered to call to Cassie because she had been born deaf. “Cassie dropped the spyglass you gave me into the water yesterday while we were fishing, because …” Nathan’s voice trailed.
“Because why?” his father gently but firmly probed.
“Well,” Nathan continued somewhat hesitantly, “I guess because I cut her line. And that’s because,” he added defensively, “she kept splashing her feet in the water and scaring away the fish!”
“You haven’t told us why she ran off,” Nathan’s mother prompted him.
Nathan’s eyes fell, then lifted slowly. “I really liked that spyglass.” His look shifted to his father’s, hoping to find some kind of sympathy. But what he saw was deepening concern. “With it I could see things in the marsh nobody knew were there,” Nathan continued. “Little things like cooties and skater bugs and cucumber beetles and potter wasps and …” Anger festered inside Nathan as he tried to justify what he was about to say. “I broke Cassie’s doll,” he declared, “because of what she did to my spyglass!”
“Do you realize how long your sister saved for that doll?” Nathan’s mother questioned sternly. “How much it meant to her?”
“I guess about as much as my spyglass,” Nathan retorted.
Father rested his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Do two wrongs make a right?”
Nathan’s mother stared toward the swamp. “Cassie’s boat is gone!”
The swamp was deep, a maze of twisting waterways in a jungle of trees and vines. What made matters worse was Cassie’s being deaf. She couldn’t hear them call for her.
Father rested a calming hand on his wife’s arm. He turned to Nathan. “Son, I’ll take my boat; you take yours. I’ll carry my rifle; you take my Colt Dragoon. Whichever one of us finds Cassie first will fire three shots, is that understood?”
“Yes, Pa.”
Father’s eyes focused on Mother. “You stay near the house, in case Cassie shows up here first. Grandpa Sawyer’s pepperbox pistol is in the root cellar. If she does come here, fire three rounds to let us know.”
Nathan navigated his small boat through the lily-pad-laden backwater with his long pole. His eyes scanned the densely brushed islands and the countless waterways between the huge cypress trees for any sign of his sister’s boat. To his right, on some goldenrod that protruded above a log wrapped with Spanish moss, he observed a tiger swallowtail butterfly. To his left, a harmless rat snake rested in the fold of a dead tree. Directly above him on an old, dilapidated walkway that spanned two small islands, a gray squirrel chattered loudly and shook its bushy tail at him. And less than fifty yards in front of Nathan a sandhill crane waded looking for food. The young boy found himself thinking that he would gladly trade all these wondrous sights for a glimpse of his younger sister.
The boat scraped against hidden roots of cypress trees and groaned like Nathan’s conscience. He gazed into the smooth, glassy water and stared at his reflection. Then he disrupted his image with a swish of the pole—he didn’t like what he saw.
The thrashing of brushwood on one of the nearby small islands caused him to lift his eyes with a start. There, in a little clearing high atop dry ground, Nathan witnessed two male white-tailed deer contending with each other. They pushed against each other with their heads and curved antlers. Finally the fight ended when one of them tired and ran away. “I guess Cassie got tired of fighting and ran away, too,” Nathan muttered. “It was a stupid argument,” he added as he continued on down the winding, watery corridor. “Why do people who love each other fight so much? And what if something’s happened to Cassie and I didn’t tell her I was sorry!” Nathan’s pace quickened, scanning the shadows with unblinking scrutiny.
Nathan searched all day, meandering in and out of a maze of waterways. He was a few miles from home when it started to rain. He steered his little boat under the protection of an overhanging tree limb. His eyes welled up. He hadn’t heard any gunshots. Cassie hadn’t been found, nor had she returned home. He gazed through the gray curtain of falling rain. “Cassie!” he screamed, knowing full well that she couldn’t have heard him even if she was sitting right beside him. He bowed his head and beseeched his Heavenly Father to help him find his sister. He knew that Heavenly Father could hear him even through the pounding rain.
A few moments later the rain stopped as quickly as it had started, and Nathan continued his search. A great horned owl stared out of the mossy shadows with its bright yellow eyes and hooted as the little boat moved quietly by.
A short time later Nathan’s dugout floated into a clearing. He felt prompted to stop and listen. He heard someone whimpering! Rapidly poling toward the sound, he saw a small boat harbored along the shore of an island. Then he saw Cassie. She was sitting in a patch of goldenrod, her face soiled and drawn, her hair tangled. She looked very lost and very frightened. Relief washed over Nathan.
A moment later Nathan was standing before his sister. She was relieved to see him, but her reaction was dulled by leftover hurt. He glanced at the broken doll in Cassie’s boat, then at a paint-root plant in a tuft of grass. He picked some seeds from it and crushed them on a smooth rock. He dabbed his index finger in orange dye from the seeds and wrote “I love you” on Cassie’s arm. After a long look at her arm, then at Nathan, Cassie leaned forward and hugged her brother.
Smiling through his tears, he took his father’s Colt Dragoon from his boat and fired three rounds skyward.

This story took place in Bolivia.
Ismael smiled as he stepped outside into the sunshine. He and Papá were going to the park. As they walked, Ismael held Papá’s hand and carried his football. Ismael liked to spend time with Papá—especially when they played football!
When they got to the park, Ismael looked around. A lady was weeding near the football field. A family was walking on the sidewalk. But no one was playing on the football field. Ismael and Papá would have lots of room to practice!
“Ready to play?” Papá asked.
“Yes!” Ismael ran as fast as he could onto the field. He did zigzag drills, penalty kicks, and corner shots.
Papá kicked the ball hard. It flew right over Ismael’s head!
“I’ll get it,” Ismael said. He ran to the corner of the field and picked up the ball. He saw the lady still digging in the dirt. She looked tired.
“I’ll be goalie now,” called Papá. “See if you can score!”
Ismael ran back and kicked the ball toward the goal. Papá reached out to stop it but barely missed.
“Goaaaal!” Ismael cheered as the ball hit the net.
Soon a whole hour had passed. “Time to go home,” Papá said.
Ismael looked back at the woman weeding. Working in the sun isn’t as fun as playing football, he thought. He wanted to cheer her up. Then he had an idea.
“Papá, don’t you think that lady is doing a good job?” he asked.
“What?” Papá looked over at the woman. “Ah, yes.”
“I think we should go tell her!” said Ismael.
“Well, we need to hurry home. Mamá is waiting for us,” Papá said.
Ismael watched the woman wipe her forehead. The feeling to talk to her got stronger. “I really feel like we should,” he said. He took Papá’s hand and walked over to her.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Ismael said with a wave.
The woman didn’t look up. “What do you want?”
Ismael could tell she wasn’t very happy. But that didn’t stop him. “I wanted to tell you that you are doing a great job!”
This time the woman looked up at him.
Ismael smiled. “Thank you for taking care of the park!”
The woman smiled back. “Thank you,” she said. Then her smile got even bigger. “Thank you very much.”
Ismael felt happy as he walked home with Papá.
“I think what you said was important to her,” Papá said. “I’m glad you listened to the feeling you had.”
“Me too.” Ismael thought for a moment. Then he asked, “Do you think it was the Holy Ghost?”
Papá nodded. “Sometimes the Holy Ghost gives us a thought to help someone. And that’s exactly what you did.”
Ismael grinned. Talking to the lady was just a small thing, but he had made her day better. Listening to the Holy Ghost had made his day better too!
Illustrations by Jennifer Bricking

Wilford Woodruff (1807–98), who later became the fourth President of the Church, was once sleeping outside in his wagon with his wife and child when the Spirit whispered, “Get up and move [your] carriage.”1 He could have dismissed it as a strange idea, but instead he obeyed. Half an hour later, a whirlwind snapped off an enormous tree and flung it through the air. The tree landed exactly where the wagon had been.

Our guinea pig was Christy. When Christy was two years old, a little girl in our town was kidnapped. Trying to be wise parents, we spent a lot of time role-playing with Christy what she should do if approached by a stranger. We even showed her pictures of the kidnapped girl and reminded Christy what had happened in the case.

Our efforts had mixed results. Christy was never kidnapped, but she was also unable to sleep alone for three months.

When I was about to receive my mission call, I had an experience with my dad that really impressed upon my heart and mind the importance of worthy hands.
I had the opportunity to accompany my dad to the house of a man we home-taught. This good brother had asked for a blessing. I was not yet a Melchizedek Priesthood holder, so I watched and listened as my dad placed his hands upon the brother’s head and spoke the words that the Spirit put into his mouth. I felt the Spirit strongly during the blessing.
Afterwards my thoughts lingered on my dad’s hands. Those rough, tough farmer hands had been kept clean by their owner. Because of that, they were able to be an instrument in the Lord’s hands to bestow the blessings and power of heaven upon one of many whom my dad cared for. I viewed the sacred power of those hands with awe and thought: “Wow. I want to have hands like those.” I knew that soon I could, but I would need to keep them clean throughout my life to do any good.
My dad has always used his hands for good. He has kept them ever worthy to hold the priesthood of God.

For a long time something else puzzled me. Forty-six years ago I was a 37-year-old seminary supervisor. My Church calling was as an assistant teacher in a class in the Lindon Ward.

To my great surprise I was called to meet with President David O. McKay. He took both of my hands in his and called me to be one of the General Authorities, an Assistant to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.

A few days later I came to Salt Lake City to meet with the First Presidency to be set apart as one of the General Authorities of the Church. This was the first time I had met with the First Presidency—President David O. McKay and his counselors, President Hugh B. Brown and President Henry D. Moyle.

President McKay explained that one of the responsibilities of an Assistant to the Twelve was to stand with the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles as a special witness and to bear testimony that Jesus is the Christ. What he said next overwhelmed me: “Before we proceed to set you apart, I ask you to bear your testimony to us. We want to know if you have that witness.”

I did the best I could. I bore my testimony the same as I might have in a fast and testimony meeting in my ward. To my surprise, the Brethren of the Presidency seemed pleased and proceeded to confer the office upon me.

That puzzled me greatly, for I had supposed that someone called to such an office would have an unusual, different, and greatly enlarged testimony and spiritual power.

It puzzled me for a long time until finally I could see that I already had what was required: an abiding testimony in my heart of the Restoration of the fulness of the gospel through the Prophet Joseph Smith, that we have a Heavenly Father, and that Jesus Christ is our Redeemer. I may not have known all about it, but I did have a testimony, and I was willing to learn.

I was perhaps no different from those spoken of in the Book of Mormon: “And whoso cometh unto me with a broken heart and a contrite spirit, him will I baptize with fire and with the Holy Ghost, even as the Lamanites, because of their faith in me at the time of their conversion, were baptized with fire and with the Holy Ghost, and they knew it not” (3 Nephi 9:20; emphasis added).

A young father sat in his darkened apartment. It was 5 a.m. His three small children were sleeping at the neighbors. Everything in his life had been going so well; and then without any warning, everything changed. He had just come home from the hospital where he had spent all night watching his wife struggle to live. She had died an hour before of a massive brain hemorrhage.
In the next few days the Lord blessed the young father with tender mercies that helped him understand his wife's death and gave him the strength he needed to move forward to finish school and rear their children. It was a challenging, but spiritually powerful time that became the foundation of a strong family with children who knew and loved the Lord.

But our eagerness to declare this message is not merely the result of a sense of spiritual duty. Rather, our desire to share the restored gospel of Jesus Christ with you is a reflection of how important these truths are to us. I believe I can best describe why we are so forthright in seeking to explain our beliefs to you through an experience my wife and I had many years ago with two of our sons.
One evening Susan and I stood near a window in our home and watched two of our little boys playing outside. During the course of their adventures, the younger of the two boys was injured slightly in a small accident. We quickly recognized that he was not seriously hurt, and we decided not to provide immediate assistance. We wanted to observe and see if any of our family discussions about brotherly kindness had sunk in. What happened next was both interesting and instructive.
The older brother consoled and carefully helped the younger brother back into the house. Susan and I had positioned ourselves near the kitchen so we could see what next took place, and we were prepared to intervene immediately if additional bodily harm seemed likely or a serious accident was imminent.
The older brother dragged a chair to the kitchen sink. He climbed up on the chair, assisted his brother onto the chair, turned on the water, and proceeded to pour a large quantity of dishwashing soap onto the scratched arm of his little brother. He did his best to gently wash away the dirt. The reaction of the little brother to this procedure can only be described accurately using language from the holy scriptures: “And they shall have cause to howl, and weep, and wail, and gnash their teeth” (Mosiah 16:2). And did that little boy howl!
After the scrubbing was finished, the arm was carefully dried with a towel. Eventually the screaming stopped. The older brother next climbed up onto the kitchen counter, opened a cabinet, and found a new tube of medicated ointment. Though the scratches on his little brother were not large or extensive, the older brother applied almost all of the ointment in the tube to the entire injured arm. The screaming did not resume, as the little brother clearly liked the soothing effect of the ointment much more than he appreciated the cleansing effect of the dishwashing soap.
The older brother returned again to the cabinet in which he had found the ointment and located a new box of sterile bandages. He then unwrapped and put bandages all up and down his brother’s arm—from the wrist to the elbow. With the emergency resolved, and with soap bubbles, ointment, and wrappers all over the kitchen, the two little boys hopped down from the chair with bright smiles and happy faces.
What happened next is most important. The injured brother gathered up the remaining bandages and the almost empty tube of ointment, and he went back outside. He quickly sought out his friends and began to put ointment and bandages on their arms. Susan and I both were struck by the sincerity, enthusiasm, and rapidity of his response.
Why did that little boy do what he did? Please note that he immediately and intuitively wanted to give to his friends the very thing that had helped him when he was hurt. That little boy did not have to be urged, challenged, prompted, or goaded to act. His desire to share was the natural consequence of a most helpful and beneficial personal experience.

My husband and I moved from Minnesota to Florida in 1995 with four kids in tow. The day we arrived, a powerful hurricane was heading to our area in Fort Lauderdale. As the movers were unloading our belongings, Elder Homer quickly went to the store to purchase water and canned goods, but he returned home a short time later with nothing. The shelves were completely empty. Panic started to set in as we noticed people boarding up windows in stores and homes.
Just as we were trying to figure out what to do, we saw a minivan pull up in front of our house. A woman got out and unloaded a wagon full of water and canned goods—and a homemade meal. A native Floridian, she told us all the things we needed to do: fill every sink and bathtub with water, except for one. This one we would all lie in and cover ourselves with a mattress, should the hurricane hit.
This woman, we learned, was the bishop’s wife, and she knew we were moving in this particular weekend. So, she had planned ahead for us, in addition to preparing for her own large family. We were overwhelmed with gratitude for this covenant-keeping woman. Through these kind acts, I felt deeply of Heavenly Father’s love for us and for me as His child.
The hurricane did not hit our area, but we were now well prepared for the next one.

When school bus number 882 finally turned onto the dirt road, I was never happier to see our house.
I was still upset from the argument that had exploded between me and my friends three days ago. Or should I say ex-friends? Now I thought of them as bullheaded and cliquey.
When the bus stopped, I marched down the stairs determined not to speak to Connie and Vicki again.
That night I tossed and turned as contention filled my dreams.
By morning I had a headache. I also woke up late. As a result, I ran around the house trying to get ready for school. I finally grabbed my books and slammed the front door without saying good-bye to my mom and little brothers and sisters as I raced to the bus stop.
I walked quickly down the aisle, finding a seat away from Connie and Vicki. I could feel their eyes watching me, but I sat close to the window and pretended not to see them. I reached for my history book to read my assignment. I was surprised when I opened Pathways to Perfection by Elder Thomas S. Monson. I must have inadvertently grabbed the book as I raced out of the house. It was as if it fell open to what I needed to read most: the chapter titled “Love As Jesus Loves.” The words seemed to be directed at me as I read scriptures from Matthew 22:36–39:
“Master, which is the great commandment in the law?
“Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.
“This is the first and great commandment.”
Then these words penetrated my heart:
“And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.” [Matt. 22:36–39]
Those verses took on new meaning for me. Tears filled my eyes as I felt my Heavenly Father’s love for me. And I realized that it wasn’t Connie and Vicki who needed to change. It was me!
That morning on the bus I made a commitment to serve and love the Lord through loving those around me.

The young couple glanced at each other anxiously as the four distinguished-looking brethren entered their home and seated themselves on the sofa. The mother gently rocked the twin babies she had delivered two months previously, while the two older children, ages three and five, stared inquisitively at these men who had such earnest faces.

Now the stake president spoke: "Sister, how would you feel if we told you the Lord has called your husband to be the bishop of a brand new ward in Zion?"

She looked at those four little children, her mind anticipating the added responsibilities she would have as her husband attended to his bishop’s duties. Without hesitation she replied, "If that’s what the Lord wants, I’ll support my husband every way that I can."

Her young husband had thought such a call might come to him someday—perhaps in his forties or fifties after he had adequately prepared himself. But now he was scarcely thirty. Although the Spirit had alerted him a few days previously that the call would come, still he felt totally inadequate and completely overwhelmed.

He spent several sleepless nights contemplating the magnitude of the call. How does one go about organizing a new ward? How could he be sure whom the Lord desired for his counselors, Relief Society officers and teachers, home teachers, Sunday School teachers, ward choir director, or editor of the ward newspaper? He could not get rid of a disquieting, hollow feeling.

Then, a few days later, all the bishops in the stake met with the stake presidency. Older, experienced bishops shared their counsel and recommendations. The young bishop received handbooks of instruction, a bishop’s training manual, priesthood bulletins, and other helpful materials. Members of the stake presidency shared wise counsel, the result of rich experience laboring in a variety of capacities in the Church. All the brethren knelt in prayer together and invoked the Spirit of the Lord to guide and direct them in their stewardships as "… common judge among the inhabitants of Zion …" (D&C 107:74) in Israel.

Later, the bishop recalled that as he drove home that day, he felt strongly the presence of the Spirit. Just as one’s limbs tingle when he sits in an awkward position too long and the blood rushes into a hand or foot that has "gone to sleep," the infusion of the Spirit was physically perceptible. Confidence and comfort came to him. He was now as in D&C 58:27) "… anxiously engaged in a good cause …" in the Lord’s work.

During the years that followed, the bishop enjoyed the companionship of the Holy Ghost in making hundreds of decisions relating to the welfare of the Saints in his ward. He also learned the very important lesson "that the rights of the priesthood are inseparably connected with the powers of heaven, and that the powers of heaven cannot be controlled nor handled only upon the principles of righteousness’" (D&C 121:36; italics added).

One young man, Michael, fulfilled this duty by helping his friend Jose.
One day, Jose asked him, “Michael, why are you always happy?”
Michael said, “It’s because I serve.”
“Why do you serve?”
“Because I hold the priesthood and it’s my duty,” came the reply.
Jose said, “I would like to know more about the priesthood.”
Michael invited Jose to Church activities and later to Church meetings. Eventually Jose and his family were taught by the missionaries and were baptized. Jose said, “Missionary work is the base of our Church. If we will be just and righteous in our daily dealings, then those around us will take notice and inquire of us like I did. Michael is a vessel in God’s great plan.”

A few weeks ago, Sister Belle Spafford, who is the president of the Relief Society of the Church, was attending a women’s convention in New York City. She was on a panel representing approximately twenty million women in the world. She was invited to participate as a voter on an issue. A proposal was made that did not conform to her teachings as a member of the Church. It had nothing to do with morality as such—that is, the type of morality we normally think of—but it was contrary to her beliefs. She was the only one who voted negatively in that great convention. Integrity! And now the leaders of that conference are reconsidering their position. All of the other women voted positively. You see what courage it takes to be a woman of integrity?