Gospel Story Finder

A friend and I got into a really bad fight, and we haven’t spoken to each other in almost two years. Now, my best friend likes that person who hurt my feelings, and she likes me too. It is sometimes very hard for her to choose between us. All she does is stay neutral, and she doesn’t say anything bad about either of us. And she stops us if we are starting to say something bad about each other.
Name withheld

Something for the Teacher
All of us have dreams—things we’d like to do—but how often do you hear about people helping each other achieve their own individual dreams? That’s why the actions of the Laurel class of the Smithfield (Utah) Ward are so heartwarming. Said their teacher, Patricia Cannell: “Ever since I was a child I have loved to draw and paint. Now that I’m married, we have no room for my hobby in the house. Sometime during the MIA year when we were sharing dreams, I mentioned my desire to buy an old train caboose and make it into an art studio.”
That’s when the girls took over. A caboose was found. The cost to move it was $106. Unbeknown to the teacher, the girls sold window-cleaning fluid door-to-door at 35¢ a pint. At a recent birthday party for the teacher, guess what she received as a present from her Laurels?
A caboose.

Brother Stoneman from up in the north area had been a member of the United Church of Canada. He’d been employed by the United Church of Canada. He was their printer. He lost his job. He found another, better one. He and his wife would go to the investigator who has been a member of the United Church of Canada and bear their testimony. He said, “I lost my job. I lost many of my friends, but I found a wealth of new friends, and I found the truth. You will not regret it.”

As in Christ’s time, some people in our day are not blessed with the actual gift of sight. There was a blind man who, in an effort to sustain himself, sat day after day in his usual place at the edge of a busy sidewalk in a large city. In one hand he held an old felt hat filled with pencils. A tin cup was extended by the other hand. His simple appeal to the passer-by was brief and to the point. It had a certain finality to it, almost a tone of despair. The message was contained on the small sign held around his neck by a string. It read, “I am blind.”
Most did not stop to buy his pencils or to place a coin in the tin cup. They were too busy, too occupied by their own problems. That tin cup never had been filled, even half-filled. Then one beautiful spring day a man paused and added several new words to the shabby sign. No longer did it read, “I am blind.” Now the message read, “It is springtime, and I am blind.” The compassion of human feelings could not now be restrained. The cup was soon filled to overflowing. The coins, however, were a poor substitute for the desired ability to actually restore sight.

Randol lived in Bolivia. He loved going to school, and he took good care of his schoolbooks. His favorite book had a yellow cover and interesting drawings.
One day Randol could not find his yellow book. His mom and dad helped him look, but they still could not find it.
Randol was very sad. “Let’s pray,” Randol’s father said. “We’ll ask Heavenly Father to help us.”
After the prayer Randol’s father had an idea.“Let’s talk to your uncle,” he said. “Maybe his children used the same book and they will let you borrow it.”
This will be the answer to our prayer, Randol thought.
Randol’s family went to his uncle’s store. They asked him about the yellow book. Uncle said his children had never used that book.
Now Randol was confused. Wasn’t Heavenly Father going to answer their prayer?
Just then, some men came into Uncle’s store selling books. They had the book with a yellow cover!
Randol’s father bought the book. Randol thanked Heavenly Father for answering his prayer.

A good number of years ago I found myself on a bus. The bus was loaded with young men from all over the country. We were arriving at Castle Air Force Base in California to attend summer camp. We were cadets aspiring to be commissioned second lieutenants in the United States Air Force. As the bus entered the field, we got off and were met by a regular Air Force captain who assembled us in companies on the parade ground. Suitcases, duffel bags, and civilian clothes were everywhere. We were given directions to the barracks and the commissary. We were told to report in dress uniforms at 2:00 that afternoon on the parade grounds. I was assigned to lead the first company away.
It was an interesting summer. We spent much time in the classroom, some on the firing line, and some in the air. Each week there was a rotation of assignments; we all drew our fair share of disagreeable duty, and each week cadet officers were appointed to participate in special leadership training programs and to direct the lives of the rest of us.
As the summer wore on, I became aware that I had not received a leadership assignment. As camp drew to an end and the last duty rosters were posted, I noticed that I had been overlooked as a cadet commander. Knowing that my success or failure in the Air Force depended in part on how well I performed in this capacity, I asked for and received an appointment with the officer in charge of the camp.
At the proper hour, I presented myself at his office. I saluted. When asked what I wanted to discuss, I told him that I had noticed a mistake in the duty roster, and that I had not been given the rotating assignment of cadet commander. Without even looking from his desk the captain told me that he knew that, that he had already decided that I had no future in the Air Force. As I started to protest, he said, “You remember the day that you got off the bus? I asked you to march the men to the barracks. As I watched you, I knew that you did not have what it takes to be an officer in the Air Force. The duty roster stands. You are dismissed.”
A flood of thoughts came to my mind. Years of preparation were suddenly of no avail. The course of my life hung in the balance. I turned to leave. There was a silent prayer in my heart. More of a question than a prayer, really. Did I come this far to fail? I thought. I found myself immobilized in front of the captain’s desk. I struggled for words. My career was important to me. To my surprise, I clicked my heels together, saluted smartly, and without having taken thought of what I should say, I said, “Begging the captain’s pardon, sir, but I was under the impression that we were going to be graded by what we learned while we were here, not by what we knew when we came.”
Now you don’t talk that way to regular Air Force officers. There was no precedent for what I did or said. At the time, I didn’t know from what source came the courage for the words. But I do know that I was at a crossroads. My future activities and associates would be different, depending upon what happened at that moment. My temptations and trials would be different, depending upon what happened at that moment. I would be an enlisted man or an officer, depending on what happened at that moment. The course of my life hung in the balance, as it so often does on little things.
The captain got up from his desk; he nearly bit his cigar in two. He obviously was unaccustomed to that kind of insubordination. He walked around to where I stood. He looked at my shoes, he looked at my uniform, he looked at my double chin as I held myself at strict military attention. For at least five minutes, although it seemed much longer, he circled me time after time. I stood there not knowing what else to do. Finally he said, “I might have been wrong about you. Maybe you do have what it takes to be an officer in this man’s Air Force. We’ll change the duty roster; you can command your company during the last week’s activities. We’ll see what you can do.”

Some years ago my business partner and I needed to terminate an employee. After some discussions we reached a settlement to compensate him for his services. I felt that the settlement was more than fair, but some strained relationships resulted from the negotiations nonetheless. That night I felt a gloom come over me. I tried to dispel it by reasoning within myself that I had been fair, but the feeling would not leave. Then this impression came: “It’s not enough to be fair; you must also strive to be Christlike.” Adherence to the highest moral code is a hallmark of a man or a woman of integrity.

One new father wrote: “Often as I watch my son watch me, I am taken back to moments with my own dad, remembering how vividly I wanted to be just like him. I remember having a plastic razor and my own can of foaming cream, and each morning I would shave when he shaved. I remember following his footsteps back and forth across the grass as he mowed the lawn in summer.

“Now I want my son to follow my lead, and yet it terrifies me to know he probably will. Holding this little boy in my arms, I feel a ‘heavenly homesickness,’ a longing to love the way God loves, to comfort the way He comforts, to protect the way He protects. The answer to all the fears of my youth was always ‘What would Dad do?’ Now that I have a child to raise I am counting on a Heavenly Father to tell me exactly that.”

I wasn’t really interested in the Church. I had listened to the missionary discussions only to learn more about a friend’s religious beliefs. But when the missionaries then asked me to pray about whether or not the Church was true, I felt I needed someone to talk to.
I thought about talking with the minister of the Christian church I had been attending. He and his wife had been good to me, and I respected him as a man of God.
“Surely, he could give me some direction,” I thought as I put on my coat.
As I was about to leave, I was impressed to pray about the matter. The feeling was so strong that I acted immediately without question.
I closed the door, knelt by me bed, and asked Heavenly Father to guide me as I talked to my minister. I also prayed that I might receive an answer about what the missionaries had told me.
After ending my prayer, I rose to my feet and again prepared to depart. However, another strong feeling came—that I should not see the minister. I felt that I should tell no one of my problem and that my answer would come in due time. If I needed truthful answers, I was to turn to the Lord in prayer.
Without further thought, I took off my coat and went on with my usual morning tasks.
My answer did come in due time. A burning sensation within me testified of the truthfulness of the gospel.
Several weeks after my baptism I visited my former minister and told him of my experiences. As I politely listened to his biased opinions, I felt thankful that I had taken the time to listen to that still, small voice several months earlier.

You probably won’t find four more inseparable friends than Ruth (8), Sara (7), Marta (6), and Raquel (5). They don’t even have to separate when playtime is over, because they are sisters as well as best friends. Being so close in age causes some problems, but generally the girls get along well, and their love for one another shows.
All four girls attend the same school, where they take two language classes: Catalan—language spoken in the province of Cataluna, where Mataro is located—and Castellano Spanish—the national language. Both languages are spoken in their home also.
The girls sing together in their school choir, which won second place in a Christmas choir contest in 1986. All the other choirs in the contest consisted of thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds, so the girls were especially proud when their group won second place.
The sisters agree that singing is great, but they disagree about favorite school subjects. Ruth likes story writing best, Sara enjoys math, Marta prefers art, and Raquel says, “Field trips are the best!”
The girls’ favorite game to play is house. They also like to go to the nearby beaches to swim, play with a Frisbee, and build sand castles.
The Casas live on the segundo piso (second floor) of an apartment building. Each girl has assigned chores to do so that things run smoothly at home. Raquel is very active and tries to make sure that the others get their chores done. Marta makes the beds, Sara cleans the bathroom, and Ruth washes the windows. Ruth also cares for the family pet, a wild canary named Jacky. One day the canary just flew in through the girls’ bedroom window and stayed!
Each of the girls takes her turn teaching the lessons, leading the music, or making the treats for family home evening. And when there were disagreements about whose turn it was to say family prayer, Mom came up with a solution: Wednesday is Ruth’s turn; Thursday is Sara’s. Marta’s turn is on Friday, and Raquel’s is Saturday. Dad offers the prayer on Sunday and Monday, and Mom on Tuesday.
The whole family really enjoys Church. Dad (Rafael) is the branch president, and Mom (Rosario) is the Primary president as well as the girls’ Primary teacher. There are six to eight other children who attend the Mataro Branch Primary. The summer of 1987 was especially exciting for Ruth because she was baptized and confirmed by her father.
No matter where one lives, having friends is special. But the four friends from Mataro know that it’s even more special when those friends are sisters.

One final story—once again from when I was a bishop. One night, while I was in a sound sleep, the doorbell rang. I stumbled to answer it and found a young member of my priests quorum at the door. I knew him well—well enough to have gone on outings with him, to have prayed with and about him, and to have taught him. I knew him as well as a good bishop knows any active eighteen-year-old priest, which was well enough for me to ask what he was doing at my front door in the middle of the night.
He said, “I have to talk to you, bishop. I’ve just done something serious, and I can’t go home.”
He was right. It was serious. I invited him in, and we talked. He talked and I listened, then I talked and he listened, until dawn. He had many questions. He had committed a terrible sin. He wanted to know if there was hope. He wanted to know how to repent. He wanted to know if repentance included telling his parents. He wanted to know if there was any chance of his going on a mission. He wanted to know many other things.
I didn’t have all of the answers, but I told him there was hope. I told him the way back would be difficult, but it was possible. I explained what I knew about the process of repentance and helped him see what he must do. I told him if he really wanted to go on a mission that that decision could only be made in the future after he had repented. Then I told him to go home, and he did.
He made his peace with his parents. He asked forgiveness from those he had wronged. He put sin and bad company behind him and did everything he could to repent.
A year or so later, five young men from that quorum went on missions. He was one of them. I was close to them all. I attended each of their farewells. They all served honorable missions. Within a brief time after returning home, they all were married in the temple. My wife and I attended each of the ceremonies. I could take a piece of paper, even today, and write their names and the names of their wives and some of their children. That is how well I knew them.
But now let me tell you something—something very private and very important. I cannot remember the name of the young man who came to my home in the middle of the night. I know he was one of the five, but I don’t remember which one.
There was a time I used to worry about that. I thought perhaps my memory might be failing. I consciously tried to recall who it was that had the problem, but I could not.
I was eventually released, and I put the entire incident out of my mind. On a late evening walk some years later, I found myself in the ward where I had once been bishop. The shadowy quiet brought back many memories. I was deep in thought when I realized I was walking in front of a house where one of my priests had lived years before. Suddenly, the story of the young man I have mentioned came to mind, and again I tried to remember which of the five he had been. Had he lived in that house? I wondered. Why couldn’t I remember?
As I continued on my way, something happened—something difficult to explain, but real to me. I seemed to hear a voice which said: “Don’t you understand, my son? I have forgotten that. Why should you remember?”
I was chagrined. There was no satisfactory answer to the question. I have never wondered about it again. And I knew more surely then than I had ever known before that the Lord is pleased when his children return to him.

Maybe a modern example makes Nephi’s actions even more real to us.

Many years ago our daughter spent the night at a friend’s house. She drove her car there and parked it in front of the house. Other cars were parked there as well.

The next morning she got up, ate breakfast, and went out to her car, but it was gone. Her friend had forgotten to tell her that no one was supposed to park on the street after dark. Her car had been towed away. The puzzling thing was that hers was the only car that had been towed.

Our daughter called home, and my ­husband went to pick her up. He got the number of the ­towing company and called them. He was informed that he would have to pay $85 in cash to get her car back and was given the address.

“Come any time after 4:00,” the man said.

My husband asked him why all the other cars weren’t towed away. The man promptly hung up on him.

We felt that we had been wronged and certainly treated unfairly. We were upset, yes, even greatly enticed!

We had to wait nearly four hours to retrieve the car. During that time my husband prepared a lesson for priesthood meeting. Listen to the excerpt he studied from the President John Taylor manual as he was preparing that day:

If men, by taking a wrong course, act imprudently and seek to injure us, shall we seek to injure them? No, we will try to do them all the good we can. “But that is not natural.” But then we ought to be changed from nature to grace. . . .
. . . If there be trouble existing between me and anybody else, I would meet them halfway, yes, I would meet them three-quarters or even all of the way. I would feel like yielding; I would say, I do not want to quarrel, I want to be a Saint. I have set out for purity, virtue, brotherhood, and for obedience to the laws of God on earth, and for thrones and principalities and dominions in the eternal worlds, and I will not allow such paltry affairs to interfere with my prospects. I am for life, eternal lives and eternal exaltations in the kingdom of God.

With that enticing reminder ringing in my husband’s head, he and our daughter drove to retrieve her car. As my husband walked into the yard with all the towed vehicles, he spotted a little shack that had an office sign hanging in front. A long-haired gentleman in overalls stood there, looking as if he was waiting for a great verbal altercation. Our daughter stayed behind, not wanting to witness the probable confrontation.

My super-enticed husband walked up to the man and said, “Well, I imagine you get pretty tired of people coming in here and yelling at you just for doing your job, don’t you?”

The man’s heart seemed to melt. A big smile appeared on his face, and a friendly conversation followed. My husband made a new friend and retained control of his agency at the same time.

Perhaps I can illustrate the power of the priesthood ordinances in your life by sharing with you an experience that we had several years ago when Sister Sorensen and I were serving in the Canada Halifax Mission. Sister Valerie Connors, who had been investigating the Church, had not made much progress because she was struggling with several personal issues. She was encouraged by the missionaries to contact the Mission President to see if I could help her resolve some of her concerns. She had serious conflicts with the Word of Wisdom; she was a nurse and her job often required her to work on the Sabbath day; she recently had been through a painful divorce and had a teenage son to rear. Furthermore, there were few incentives for her to join the church. There were only a handful of members of the Church in the town of Windsor, Nova Scotia, where she lived. So there were few Church resources for her. She felt her co-workers would look down on her if she were to join the church.

She and I met; we reviewed the beauties and blessings that the fullness of the Gospel provides. As we talked it became clear that she had a testimony of the truthfulness of Book of Mormon. She realized that, in fact, she had a strong testimony of the Gospel and the restoration of the Priesthood. Upon realizing this, she decided what she needed was help in acting on this knowledge. She asked for a Priesthood blessing to fortify her in her struggles against evil. After I gave her a blessing, the missionaries re-taught the discussions, and soon she was baptized. The blessings of the priesthood, including baptism, that priesthood blessing, her patriarchal blessing, and the receipt of the Holy Ghost did indeed give her strength and she was able to overcome the challenges she faced one by one. After substantial planning, she was able to reorganize some of her work schedule. She received divine grace as she attacked each of her problems, and became a strong member of the church. She has been strength to her community for over 15 years. Every year she contacts us by phone or letter. What a tremendous difference the Gospel had made in her life. It has helped her overcome her challenges. She made choices to follow the Priesthood, even in a remote corner of Canada with few other members of the church nearby. She has helped build the Church in Nova Scotia.

Three weeks ago we heard from Valerie again. She told of new experiences that had come this past year. She had recently been sealed in the temple to a widower from Bountiful, Utah, who was introduced to her by a missionary couple assigned to her ward in Nova Scotia. Embarking on a new marriage is an adventure at any time, but marrying again in middle age, to a widower with eight children takes a lot of faith. Again, she looked to the Priesthood for guidance regarding the choices she had to make at that time in her life. Her example is evidence of faithful adherence to the guidance that the Gospel provides.

During the monsoon when heavy rains swelled the Ciliwong, a monkey PLOPPED in front of Kancil while she was nibbling on tender young liana leaves. Kancil reared back on her tiny hooves and her large eyes rolled wildly. “Why scare me so, Monyét (monkey)!” she cried.
“Hurry, Kancil,” Monyét urged, “your grandmother is gravely ill. She wishes to see her family one more time. I’ve just risked my life leaping from branch to branch over the Ciliwong to find you. Hurry, before the river bandjirs (floods).”
Kancil dashed toward the Ciliwong, but the fast-rising waters were already touching the upper banks. Her familiar stepping boulders were hidden under the rushing waters. How was she to get across to her seriously ill grandmother?
Just then a large tree trunk, felled by the storms, came floating by and halted in a whirling eddy at the river’s edge.
Kancil lifted one tiny hoof to see if the trunk were solid. Then she noticed nostrils and beady eyes. She stepped back and did some quick thinking. “Hello there, Buaya!” she shouted over the roaring river.
Buaya’s piercing eyes never left Kancil. He had not forgotten his humiliating defeat in front of his girl friend and this time he vowed he’d get even.
“Guess what I just heard!” Kancil shouted even louder.
Buaya only stared, hoping to lure her into the water.
“Monyét claims the Kancil family far outnumbers the Buaya family!”
“Impossible!” cried Buaya, his eyes looking even beadier. “The Buaya family has always outnumbered every family in the jungle.”
“Monyét says there are more of us than you!” Kancil switched her short tail while keeping a wary eye on Buaya.
“‘Tis a lie!” Buaya’s tail slapped the water in disgust.
“Ask Monyét!”
Buaya’s eyes searched the tree branches overhanging the Ciliwong, but Monyét was nowhere to be seen.
“Why don’t you call all your family members together and I’ll call mine. In an hour we’ll meet again and count them and get this over with once and for all!” Kancil shouted.
Kancil had to make her preposterous proposal twice because Buaya never quite trusted her. But Kancil’s eyes looked so big and anxious and sincere that Buaya dove into the river and within half an hour was back with sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, cousins, nephews, nieces, grandparents, and other distant relatives.
When Buaya saw only Kancil on the riverbank, his tail slapped the water. “Where’s your family?” he shouted.
“On the other side. I sent Monyét to tell them about our argument, and they’ll be waiting to be counted. In the meantime let’s start counting the Buaya family.” Kancil continued smoothly, “You line up side by side in rows across the river and I’ll count you. When I’m finished, you shall count my family.”
The crocodiles lined up side by side, feet touching, and Kancil jumped from back to back, counting, “1, 2, 3, …” until she reached 207. Then she jumped onto the shore. “Thank you friends!” she shouted, making a curtsy by bending one slender hoof under her tiny body, “for making a bridge. I was in desperate need to get across!”
All the crocodiles’ tails churned the muddy river into a bandjir that overflowed the banks for miles. But Kancil ran ahead of the spreading flood till she was safe with her grandmother.

Sister Groberg remembers with deep appreciation the closeness among the youth of her age in their ward. She gives thanks, in part, to the quiet, powerful influence of a humble, dedicated Sunday School teacher whose life and example made a lasting impression. She explained: “Brother Richard Maxwell was our teacher. He was self-educated,” she recalled. “He never knew his real name, his parents, or any of his ancestors: He had been raised in an orphanage. Someway in his wandering through life, he found the true church. He had such a beautiful testimony that the gospel was what life was all about, and he had a wonderful, understanding way with young people. He loved us,” she declared, then continued with warmth in her voice: “He was able to teach and reach us in his own humble way.”
When Brother Maxwell died of a heart attack, Jean, along with the other youth in the North Hollywood Ward still in their teens, felt so grateful for his life and his love and influence in their lives that they felt they had lost a dear friend. Sister Groberg remembered that her sister, Marilyn, was invited to speak at his funeral. “She went around to all his students to get their feelings for this humble, great man who had become such a friend to each of us. Our feeling for Brother Maxwell,” Sister Groberg said, “was a very special thing.”
These grateful students felt a strong desire to somehow express their appreciation for their friend and teacher. “It took some time after he died to collect the money,” she recalled. “Several months, I believe. We sponsored many projects. We took a little box to all our firesides and finally collected the money we needed. We wanted to buy a redwood tree. We all agreed that a redwood tree, when it grew up, would appropriately symbolize Brother Maxwell’s great strength and stature.” The youth were united in this special project. Someone was responsible for having a plaque made to place at the base of the tree, and others arranged for a fitting program. On the appointed date the members of Brother Maxwell’s Sunday School class gathered together for this special memorial service. Together they planted the tree, which they knew would become in time a mighty redwood. This living tribute stands today tall and stately by the side of the chapel and a beautiful bronze plaque at its base reads, “In memory of Richard Maxwell, our beloved teacher whose example was like the redwood, tall and masterly.”

It is a typical Saturday morning along the Salt Lake Valley’s Jordan River. The sun’s rays shimmer as they reflect off calm waters, the birds’ warbles create a peaceful harmony, and the squirrels’ chatter echoes through the trees. Suddenly, the usual tranquility of the early morning is interrupted as large clusters of people round a bend in the smooth trail that runs along the river. There are 500 people of all ages and denominations. What’s more, they are laughing and talking together.
Maybe this isn’t such a typical Saturday.
It was last April that Brighton High School senior Gweneth Thomas decided that she needed to get more involved in service. So she approached a representative of Church World Service, an interfaith organization dedicated to helping fellow Christians in times of need. She soon became at least 80 hours immersed in service as she agreed to become the organization’s first youth coordinator of the annual Christian Rural Overseas Program walk.
CROP walks are worldwide fundraisers for struggling countries in times of crisis. Volunteers are asked to pledge money and then walk a six-mile course to help them appreciate the hardships of fellow Christians all over the world.
The theme of the 1996 walk was “We walk because they walk,” referring to the individuals in many developing countries who must walk five or six hours a day to find food and water.
Besides raising money for the needy, Gweneth and her co-chair, Max Freeman, had a very specific goal in mind for the 1996 walk. They wanted members of the ten participating religions to work to break down the barriers between each other and move from intolerance to acceptance, from acceptance to respect, and finally from respect to love.
But before any of this could happen, Gweneth and Max felt they needed to get teenagers involved as well as adults. They started in their high school cafeteria. Fellow Brighton High students Alina Stay, Brenna Flynn, and Mindy Pitts observed their classmates’ reactions to Gweneth’s pleas for donations.
“What doesn’t seem like a lot of money to me will feed a lot of people [in another country],” says Mindy.
Brenna, a convert to the Church, was especially concerned with helping Gweneth and Max create peaceful interfaith relations through the walk.
The most exciting part of the event for her was seeing that goal fulfilled as “people from other faiths shared testimonies and showed the true spirit of Christianity without the normal my-church-is-better-than-your-church attitude,” she says.
“Build up trust and gain a respect for each other,” says Max.
And not only did the teens spur these good relations between denominations while donating money; they walked as well.
Perhaps it was the strenuous six-mile walk. Perhaps it was the wooden signs along the trails with poignant messages. Perhaps it was the experience of associating with people of many different faiths. Whatever the case, the mood at the picnic afterward was reflective.
Everyone seemed to sense what Gweneth put into words, “One person can make a big difference.”

A few months later, my teammates on the Dixie State College debate team and I boarded a 15-passenger van, heading to the regional tournament in Casper, Wyoming, hundreds of miles away. After a stop for dinner, I had the backseat of the van all to myself. It was the perfect place to get extra sleep to be ready for the next day’s competition. Of course, by lying down I wouldn’t be able to wear a seat belt.
I was nearly asleep, when suddenly the Spirit reminded me of a conversation I had had with Johnny earlier in the week. As I drove Johnny and his father home from our house, he told me, “Remember to buckle your seat belt. I wish I had.”
At first, I thought I was just being paranoid. But the words kept coming into my mind, over and over, urging me to buckle up.
Finally, I listened. I buckled myself in and unsuccessfully tried to sleep. Meanwhile, we had entered a late-winter blizzard. As we made our descent into Casper, our van hit a patch of black ice, spun, went off the road, and rolled.
The next thing I remembered was waking up spitting mud and glass and wondering why I was suspended in midair. My seat belt had held me in place and saved me from being thrown from the vehicle. Fortunately, everyone in the van had been buckled in, and only two were slightly injured.
I am grateful on a night when I needed some sleep to get ready for a busy day that I was able to listen to the voice of the Spirit. I’m grateful I heeded that warning.

When my bishop told me, “The Lord is calling you on a mission,” his words seemed to have a different meaning than they had two years before, when he made the call for the first time.
I was 18 then, a newly ordained elder and busy preparing myself to enter medical school. Besides that, my parents had been inactive for a long time and had never properly trained me to accept such a call if it ever came. I felt these were sufficient reasons for me to say no but decided to ask for some time to think about it. I approached my father and, as I expected, he emphatically refused to let me accept the mission call.
I thought I had been smart enough to fool everybody, but in fact I was the only one being fooled. About a year later, just before I was to take the long-awaited entrance test to medical school, the Lord called me again. This time I resolved to pray about it. I told the Lord that the result of the test would be the answer to my doubts. If I passed, I would understand that my mission would be medical school; if I failed, a proselyting mission would be what he wanted from me.
I passed the entrance exam. Blessings were poured upon me in an avalanche. My father changed to a better-paying job, which he needed to pay for my expensive studies. The lessons in medical school entered my mind with incredible ease, and I became an outstanding student. I became engaged to a wonderful LDS girl, even though she lived 360 miles away and we met just a few times a year. Good health, so seldom enjoyed before, became steady in my family. I was called to be a counselor in the Campinas Stake Sunday School presidency. Through the efforts of the home teachers, my younger sister became active again in seminary. The Lord was blessing us abundantly.
But two years later, I was sitting right there before my bishop once again, being reminded of my obligation to the Lord’s work on the earth. I felt different about it this time, but I was still reluctant to accept. I wanted the Lord himself to tell me what to do. Scriptures that promised marvelous blessings, shown to me by returned missionaries and the bishopric, did not seem to help.
Praying was not enough either. I fasted also, asking the Lord to give me an unmistakable answer so that I would not be left in doubt. It seemed like a fierce battle inside me, my spirit contending against my mortal reasoning. I was nearly exhausted from it when I felt the “burning in my bosom” and knew the Lord had revealed that accepting a mission call was what he wanted from me.
The first round had been won. Now the scriptures would give me strength to support an unshakable faith in God. I knew that other trials would come but not so soon.
When I phoned my fiancée to wish her a happy birthday, she asked about my decision. I told her I had decided to go on a mission, but that I would like to talk with her when she came to see me in a few weeks. She insisted that we talk about it right then. Her sweet voice became choked as if something bitter were being swallowed against her will. We said good-bye.
I went to my room to pray to my Heavenly Father so she could understand and accept my decision. A little later the phone rang and that same sweet voice said with firmness, “Thank you for the birthday gift.” At first I thought she was being ironic, but then I realized she was sincere.
Little by little the Lord was showing that he had prepared the way for me. However, I felt that I would need his help a lot more when I talked to my father. My father is a good man, but his hard life had made him tough and materialistic. Such an outlook would prevent him from accepting my decision.
On a Sunday afternoon, when we were alone in our backyard, I decided to tell my father. He listened until I finished and then asked very dryly, “Is this your will?” I nodded. “Very well, now listen! When you took this course you destroyed the love that existed within me for you. I am not going to drive you out of the house but from my heart. Those medical school stickers that I proudly exhibit on the windshield of my car will be removed, and you will have to do much to put them back on. You tore down a great dream of my life, and as far as I am concerned you fell down with it.”
I tried to answer him and express my great love for him, but my words stopped in my throat. I wished that the whole world would fall upon me for bringing such great suffering to my father, whom I loved so much.
Time went by. My father went to stake leaders to try to stop me. In a last and desperate attempt he went to the stake president. When he returned home that night, he had only harsh words for me.
While I prayed to the Lord to give my father understanding, the Spirit dictated to me that I should listen to him without saying a word. The night before he was to talk to the stake president again, he was sitting alone in the backyard. He said the moonlight made the night clear. He took the opportunity to pray to the Lord in the way he knows and said, “Father, I know that you have given me everything, but do you need to collect all at once? You know I cannot bear it.” In that very moment the backyard became filled with shadows that started to move towards him. My father became stricken with fear and ran to his room like a frightened child. He spent the whole night talking to my strong and sweet mother. That long talk with my mother and his interview with the stake president, when both cried, were enough to change his thinking.
And then came the night that I will never forget. I was in the kitchen peeling a pineapple for our dessert when my father came home. He stopped behind me, placed his briefcase on the floor, and said, “May I talk to you?”
I was already getting used to his aggressive talking. I answered yes and continued to peel the pineapple. “Listen, young man, when I talk to someone I like him to look into my eyes.” I stopped, turned to him, and heard him say with a calm and tender voice, “My son, go and do what you have decided to do because the Lord has told me that it is right. You can count on me for help because I love you very much.” We embraced each other, and the Lord bound the heart of the father to the son and of the son to the father. Tears of joy rolled down our cheeks.
And now my longing for my fiancée and my parents, my desire to attend medical school, and even my disappointment at having to turn down a long-awaited job—all of this is overshadowed by the joy of having received a letter from President Kimball saying, “Dear Elder Areas. You are being called by the Lord to work in the Brazil, Rio de Janeiro Mission. …”

I was happy that I eventually did get married in the temple, but sometimes I still felt like I didn’t fit in. I had a testimony, but I couldn’t figure out how to share it, and church classrooms felt like tests where my peers would see me fail. I thought that because most of them had the lives I wanted, they hadn’t stumbled as much as I had.

One day the bishop called me in and extended the call to teach elders quorum. I was surprised, since I had only been to elders quorum twice in the last year. Despite feeling incredibly anxious, I accepted the calling. On my first Sunday teaching, I found myself starting out with probably the strangest introduction they had ever heard:

“Hi, brothers, I’m Richard Monson. I never served a mission and I’ve been inactive most of my adult life. I haven’t attended elders quorum pretty much ever because I don’t feel like I belong or fit in. I won’t be able to answer all your questions, but I’m hoping that you will participate so we can learn together. If you’re OK with where I’m coming from, then we’ll get started.”

I realized that day that I could admit to others—and to myself—that even though I didn’t consider myself a “straight arrow” (someone who served a mission, was active all their lives, and hadn’t made serious mistakes), I was pointed in the same direction as they were, and that was what mattered. To my amazement, I found that more than one of these men whom I thought led perfect lives had made mistakes too. I think it reinforced the idea to all of us that perfection isn’t a requirement to bring value to the class or the Church as a whole.

In my youth I gained a great respect for this power, especially as it was manifest in priesthood blessings. While serving as a young missionary in Chile, my companion and I were arrested and separated. We were never told why. It was a time of great political upheaval. Thousands of people were taken into custody by the military police and never heard from again.
After being interrogated, I sat alone in a jail cell, not knowing if I would ever see my loved ones again. I turned to my Heavenly Father, fervently pleading: “Father, I have always been taught that Thou watcheth over Thy missionaries. Please, Father, I am nothing special, but I have been obedient and I need Thy help tonight.”
The seeds of this help had been planted many years earlier. After my baptism, I was confirmed a member of the Church and given the gift of the Holy Ghost. As I prayed, alone, behind bars, the Holy Ghost immediately came to me and comforted me. He brought to my mind a very special passage from my patriarchal blessing, which is another blessing of the priesthood. In it, God promised me that through my faithfulness I would be able to be sealed in the temple for time and eternity to a woman full of beauty and virtue and love, that we would become the parents of precious sons and daughters, and that I would be blessed and magnified as a father in Israel.
Those inspired words about my future filled my soul with peace. I knew that they had come from my loving Heavenly Father, who always keeps His promises. In that moment, I had the assurance that I would be released and live to see those promises fulfilled.
About a year later, Heavenly Father did bless me with a wife who is full of beauty and virtue and love. Lynette and I were sealed in the temple. We were blessed with three precious sons and four precious daughters. I became a father, all according to God’s promises in the patriarchal blessing I received as a 17-year-old boy.