Gospel Story Finder

Lanny and I never talked about religion. He was a Catholic, but his family only went to church at Christmas and Easter. He knew I was a Mormon, but for the last few years I’d been less and less excited about it. And Lanny knew better than to bring it up.
But one Saturday, the winter when we were 16, almost 17, something changed all that.
I was walking back from the store. My little brother, Tom, was behind me. He was tired and was kicking snowballs the plow had left along the middle of the road.
“Move it,” I told him.
“I um,” Tom whined deeply, his nose full. He looked up at me and gave me a pathetic smile. I rolled my eyes but bent down, and he ran and jumped onto my back. When we turned down our road, I began to jog. Behind me, my brother laughed and covered my eyes with his wet gloves.
“Hey!”
We spun and landed in a yaffle [a jumble] in the slushy snow in front of Lanny’s house.
“Huh, huh … huh, huh, huh,” Tom laughed.
That’s when I noticed them—a couple of bikes leaning up against the side of the O‘Briens’ house. It was strange. Who would ride bikes in one of our rare snowstorms? Then I noticed two figures in the O‘Briens’ window. Two guys in dark suits. Familiar faces.
Then it hit me. The missionaries were in Lanny’s living room, standing in front of the fire to warm themselves like they belonged.
“Cum onnnn,” said Tom. He was standing a couple of yards away, flapping his arms up and down.
“Yeah, yeah.”
I pulled myself away from the window, and we trudged the last few meters home.
On Saturday nights, Lanny usually stopped at my house and we’d wander down to the town building where they’d play a movie or have a dance. That night he knocked about seven o’clock and I grabbed my coat. We dug our hands in our pockets and walked outside. Since it was too early to be seen at the dance, we headed down toward the harbor.
The wind had been blowing in snow from the island all day, and it was dumped in little drifts in front of every one of the blue and yellow houses. But as we crunched along, the wind began to die and the beginnings of a fog started moving in from the ocean.
Lanny began whistling between his teeth. He couldn’t whistle very well, and he only did it when he was nervous.
“You ever get sick? I mean really sick?” he asked me.
That’s how Lanny McDonald O‘Brien started out most conversations—with a question about something he’d been thinking up all day. He was always thinking, always wondering about something.
“You ever see me go to the hospital?” I asked him back.
“I guess not.”
“Then you know the answer.”
We walked a little more before he said, “I was just thinking I could be a doctor one day.”
“I guess. I could see you cutting people up, taking out stuff, charging them lots of money.”
He laughed. “Yeah, I could do that.”
We walked a bit more, thinking about Dr. Lanny McDonald O‘Brien, until he said, “Those Mormon guys came over today.”
“Hmph.”
Lanny took a glance at me, to size up my mood, then added, “Said your parents sent them.”
That ticked me off and he noticed my face redden. “My parents sent ’em?”
“What they said.”
“I’m gonna … Gosh, I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “I don’t care. Didn’t bug me.”
We rounded the fence at the bottom of Main and jumped the ballycater [an icy fringe] at the edge of the dock. Under our feet, the snow hadn’t settled on the rough boards, and we took two to a step. Farther along we walked into the cold ocean fog that hung like a veil. We were alone. No one came out on the dock on a winter night.
“They want to come back again,” said Lanny.
“Who?”
“The missionary guys.”
“They always do,” I said. “That’s their job: to come back and back until you join.”
“Join what?”
“The Church. The Mormon church.”
“Nah, they didn’t say that,” said Lanny. “They were just visiting.”
I laughed. “One of those guys is from the States. You think he came to Wolf Point to talk Maple Leafs hockey with your dad?”
Lanny shrugged.
“What part of the States?” he asked.
“I don’t know. They give you a lesson?”
“I guess. They talked a lot.”
“They teach you how to pray?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the first discussion. They want you to join,” I said.
“Hmmmm.”
We reached the end of the pier and leaned on the rail—the same rail that one winter Lanny had licked to see if his tongue would really stick to frozen metal. It did. And for a month Lanny had talked with a lisp.
We stared out at the icy water, but it was too dark and the fog was too thick to see much.
“Okay, I got a question,” said Lanny, nodding his head.
“Always.”
“The Mormon guys said the Book of Mormon is like the Bible. I know that’s not right ’cause it says at the end of the Bible that there isn’t supposed to be anything added to the Bible.”
We had talked about that in Sunday School once, but I couldn’t remember the answer. “Well … um …”
“And they told us about the guy who said he saw God and started the Mormons.”
“Joseph Smith.”
“Yeah, I thought it was Brigham Young. Anyway, how does anybody know he didn’t just write the book himself?”
“Well, there were a bunch of witnesses who saw the plates he wrote it from,” I said.
“Yeah, they were probably Mormons too. Do you guys pray to him?”
Lanny kept asking questions, most of which I couldn’t answer. My first instinct was to defend the Church. But he was my friend. I should tell him how I really felt: that I wasn’t even sure if I believed anymore, that I was kind of embarrassed to be a Mormon.
I drew in a breath, ready to tell him everything … but I couldn’t. From somewhere inside I felt the need to do something I hadn’t done in a long time—say a prayer.
I opened my mouth to say something, but I didn’t have the words.
Okay, I thought, I’ll pray.
So as Lanny talked I silently told Heavenly Father that I didn’t know if the Church was true or not, and I didn’t really know what to say.
I waited a few seconds. No answer.
I opened my eyes. Lanny had stopped talking and was looking out to the harbor. He was squinting, trying to focus on the dim lights of a trawler that was bobbing in and out of view in the fog.
I don’t know why, but I guess that was the moment when everything started making sense.
Lanny needed the gospel, just like I did. We were young. Our lives were confusing. The gospel would answer questions we both had about where to go, who to become.
This time, as I opened my mouth, I felt a peace that I hadn’t felt since I was a kid. “At church once, some old guy told a story,” I began. “It’s about a kid who’s 18 and goes to work on a fishing boat out of St. John’s. And sometime in the summer of his first year on the boat it hits a sandbar and sinks. Most of the crew climbs aboard the lifeboat, but this guy and the captain get caught by a current and pulled away.
“They don’t have life jackets or anything, and for a long time they just tread water—hoping for someone to find ’em.”
“Wow,” from Lanny, who had been on enough fishing boats to know how big the ocean was, and how impossible it would be to find anyone swimming in it.
“Anyway, finally the captain realizes that the water’s too cold for them to last much longer, so he swims over to the kid and says ‘We’re not gonna make it.’ And he asks the kid if he’s religious. Well, the kid is just like me. He’s a Mormon, but he’s been kind of goofing off and it’s been a while since he’s been active. But he says he’ll say a prayer for ’em.”
“And what happened?”
“He and the captain close their eyes, and the kid says a prayer out loud … And when they open their eyes they see the light of a buoy. They swim over and hang on, and a few hours later they are found.”
Lanny smiled. “And the guy telling the story turns out to be the 18-year-old kid, right?”
“Uh, no. The guy telling the story was the captain. He joined the Church.”
“Hmmm.”
I pulled my hands out of my pockets and stuffed them back in again, not sure what to say next. I was feeling guilty for my years of goofing off, for not being able to answer Lanny’s questions. But somehow I knew it wasn’t too late.
“You said the missionaries told you how to pray. Did they say a prayer too?” I asked.
“Yeah, but no one was drowning.”
“Wise guy. How did it make you feel?”
“I don’t know, didn’t think about it.” He looked out to the ocean and breathed out. “Okay, maybe I thought about it.”
I turned to him, my eyes wide. “And?”
“Before I left tonight I prayed by myself.”
That night, instead of climbing in bed, I opened my desk drawer and pulled out my copy of the Book of Mormon. I flipped through the pages. They were filled with red and yellow highlighter, but I realized it had been a long time since I’d studied what was in there.
It was a story. It was a light in the darkness.
I began to read.

Our beloved prophet, Thomas S. Monson, is our example in this regard. The stories of his attention to the whisperings of the Spirit are numerous. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland relates one such example:
Once while President Monson was on assignment in Louisiana, a stake president asked him if he would have time to visit a 10-year-old girl named Christal, who was in the final stages of cancer. Christal’s family had been praying that President Monson would come. But their home was far away, and the schedule was so tight that there wasn’t time. So instead, President Monson asked that those who offered prayers during the stake conference include Christal in their prayers. Surely the Lord and the family would understand.
During the Saturday session of the conference, as President Monson stood to speak, the Spirit whispered, “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.”3
“His notes became a blur. He attempted to pursue the theme of the meeting as outlined, but the name and image of [the little girl] would not leave his mind.”4
He listened to the Spirit and rearranged his schedule. Early the next morning, President Monson left the ninety and nine and traveled many miles to be at the bedside of the one.
Once there, he “gazed down upon a child too ill to rise, too weak to speak. Her illness had now rendered her sightless. Deeply touched by the scene and the Spirit of the Lord … , Brother Monson … took the child’s frail hand in his own. ‘Christal,’ he whispered, ‘I am here.’
“With great effort she whispered back, ‘Brother Monson, I just knew you would come.’”5

On my mission, it sometimes felt like people’s hearts or doors would never open to the gospel. Especially during our hardest times, my mission companion and I would fast to bring hope and happiness into our work.
First, we would kneel in prayer, asking our Heavenly Father to help us be positive, take setbacks well, and recognize His hand in our lives and our work. We also prayed that by having more optimistic attitudes, we could better represent our Savior, Jesus Christ. Then later, when we felt tempted to fall back into negative attitudes, we would say a small prayer, asking Him to bless us with the perspective to find the good (or at least the funny) in any situation.
Although we didn’t always have more success after those fasts, we were able to feel the Spirit more and kick negative feelings to the curb—usually through plenty of jokes and laughter.

One day I went to the library to get some books. One of the books was really good until I got to the third or fourth chapter. That’s where I started not to like it because the words got bad and mean. And then there was violence and lots of bad stuff. I stopped reading it. When I got the book, it looked good because of the cover and the award it got. I think that when you get a terrific-looking book, you should read the first few chapters and then think about whether it’s good or bad.

My wife and I were married in 1981 in the Tokyo Japan Temple. Our life after marriage was not easy at first. I was grateful to have a job, but we had trouble meeting our expenses. We asked Heavenly Father for His help and did all we could to make ends meet and pay our tithing. We knew that if we trusted in the Lord, He would provide for us.
One week both my wife and my friend brought me the same small clipping out of the newspaper. It was an ad for a full-time English teacher.
I sent my résumé to the company and was asked to come in for an interview. At the end of the interview, the interviewer said, “You wrote in your résumé that you had been involved in volunteer work as a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. So that means you go to church on Sundays, don’t you? If you had to decide whether to go to church or to work on Sundays, which would you choose?”
It was a difficult question because I needed a better job. But after pondering, I replied, “I would go to church.”
With a vague smile, the interviewer said, “Oh, I see.” Then he dismissed me with the promise that the company would make a decision by that evening and that I should call to find out the results. As I left the room, I thought I had failed.
Later that evening when it came time to call, I dialed the company’s number with great fear.
“What about the results of the interview?” I asked the secretary. “I failed, didn’t I?”
I was stunned but happy with her answer.
“We’d like to ask you to work for us,” she said.
About a month later I learned why I got the job. The secretary explained that the interviewer lived next door to full-time Latter-day Saint missionaries. He had often watched the missionaries briskly riding their bicycles to their work in the morning.
“He believed that you, belonging to the same church, would work for us just as hard as the missionaries worked for their church,” she said. “Lucky you!”
Since then our family has always had what we needed.
Whenever I think of this choice experience, I am encouraged and comforted. I know that God often uses other people to bless His children. I cannot adequately express how grateful I feel for my wife and my friend for their inspiration in bringing that newspaper ad to me, for those hardworking missionaries and their great example, and for our merciful, loving, and caring Heavenly Father, who has miraculous power to consecrate our experiences for our good.

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 past services. I felt the settlement was more than fair, but, nonetheless, there were some strained relationships as a result of the negotiations. 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.

I love playing soccer and making stop-motion videos. Last summer, I turned 11 and was so excited that I could be ordained to the priesthood in a year. I decided to prepare. I became more sensitive to the Spirit and repented regularly. Soon after, President Nelson announced changes that meant I could be ordained before I turned 12! I was grateful I had prepared so that I could be ordained at the beginning of this year.
Atticus P., 13, Utah, USA

It was too late to stop. As I crashed into the car in front of me, the splinter of glass and crumple of metal dimly registered, an echo of my own shattered breathing.
I started to cry, and my brother Rob said, “It’ll be okay, Alanna. Everything will be all right.” But everything was not all right. I had caused a four-car accident.
Minutes later, a policeman told me no one was seriously hurt. Fortunately, everyone involved was wearing seatbelts. A paramedic treated me for minor cuts, and after I complained of a sharp pain in my neck, I was put on a stretcher.
On the ride to the hospital, a paramedic said, “Alanna, you’re a very lucky girl.”
Lucky? I was strapped in a stretcher with my neck immobilized in a brace. I had totaled my dad’s car, and was responsible for the damage to three other cars. How could he say I was lucky?
“The only reason you’re still alive is because you were wearing your seatbelt,” he added.
For as long as I can remember, my parents stressed the importance of wearing seatbelts. Because of my parents’ example, I wore my seatbelt without fail. This one small act may have literally saved my life.

While I was serving as mission president in Virginia, two of our missionaries met and taught a young man at the Virginia Polytechnic Institute in Blacksburg. As they progressed through the discussions, the young man gained a vision of the truth. He received a testimony. He desired to be baptized, but his parents would not permit him to do so. He was very discouraged. He came and sought my counsel. I told him to heed the feelings of his parents, to honor them, and that the time would come when they would allow him to join the Church.

Several months later I was seated on the stand at stake conference prior to the beginning of the Saturday evening session. Up the aisle came this young man—bright, shining, his face just beaming. As he approached me he said, “President, you’ll never guess what has happened.”

I knew in my heart what the result was, but I said, “Mike, tell me.”

His response was, “You’ll never believe it. Not only have my parents permitted me to be baptized tonight, but they are taking the lessons! They are grateful for a Church that teaches its youth to honor their parents. Thanks so much for encouraging me to honor them.”

Jared’s thumbs flew over his video-game controller. This was it! He was finally going to beat his big brother!
Trees and rocks flew past on the TV screen as Jared’s car zoomed into the last stretch of the final lap.
BAM! Travis’s car came out of nowhere, pushing Jared’s car off the racetrack. A second later, Travis flew across the finish line.
“Yes!” Travis said. “Still the champ!”
“That wasn’t fair!” Jared said. “I want a rematch.”
“That was a rematch,” Travis answered with a laugh. “Face it, little bro. I’m a blast from the past made of nothin’ but fast!”
Usually Jared liked joking around with Travis when they played video games. But this time he didn’t feel like laughing. “Let’s race again,” he said.
“Are you sure?” Travis asked. “You seem kind of mad.”
“I’m not mad!” Jared said loudly. “Come on. One more race.”
Travis shrugged. “OK. But last one.”
By the end of the second lap, Jared’s car was in third place. His heart started thumping harder. Then halfway through the final lap, he finally caught up with Travis’s car. It was now or never! Jared’s thumbs flew as he did his best passing move.
BAM! At the last second, Travis crashed into Jared’s car, sending it off the track—again!
“Aaaugh! Not again!” Jared felt anger filling up inside him like a water balloon ready to pop. He threw the controller down and jumped off the couch. Then he ran and kicked the wall next to the TV.
CRUNCH!
Jared stared down in disbelief. He pulled his foot slowly out of the hole in the wall he’d just made with his foot.
“Whoa,” Travis said. “That’s not good.”
Suddenly Jared’s anger vanished. Now he was just plain scared. Not only about what Mom and Dad were going to say but because he’d never felt that mad before. And all over a dumb video game!
“Hey, bro. I’m sorry,” Travis said. “I wasn’t trying to be mean.”
“It’s not your fault,” Jared said. “I can’t believe I just did that.”
Jared spent the rest of the afternoon dreading the time when Mom and Dad would get home from their date. What would he tell them? He couldn’t even explain it to himself. He went to his bedroom to pray. He asked for forgiveness and for help in knowing how to talk to Mom and Dad.
As soon as he heard their voices, Jared ran out to meet them. “Mom! Dad! I’m so sorry!”
Dad stopped laughing. “Sorry for what?”
Jared showed them the wall and explained what had happened.
“We’re glad you told us the truth,” Mom said. They all agreed that Jared would do extra chores to help pay for fixing the wall. That was only fair.
Dad’s face softened. “The wall isn’t what has me worried. Can you help me understand how you got so angry?”
Jared tried to put into words how he’d felt when he kept losing over and over.
“It sounds like you started feeling really frustrated,” Dad said. “Do you think it might be a good idea to cut back on video games for a few weeks?”
Jared nodded. That made sense. Maybe he and Travis could go on more bike rides.
“We love you,” Dad said, pulling Jared into a hug. “If you have any more problems like this, we can figure it out together.”
Jared said a quick prayer after Mom and Dad left the room. “Thank Thee for helping me talk to Mom and Dad.”
He felt a warmth spread in his heart. This is the best feeling I’ve had all day, he thought. Things are going to be OK.

Wednesday’s 26-kilometer walk to Chinaman’s Bay and back was tougher than the hike up Bishop and Clerk. Everyone brought their bathers (swimming trunks) and a towel, plus lunch. It took several hours slogging along the soft sandy road that followed the shoreline to reach the white beaches of Chinaman’s Bay. The boys showed amazing stamina as they not only kept up but often overtook their leaders.
As four young Scouts passed him, Brother Pash described the feelings of many of the adults when he said, “It’s disgusting, it is, to see little blokes catching us up that way.”
After some very icy swimming (the Tasman Sea carries too much of the Antarctic chill for the less hardy souls), everyone began the long walk back to camp in time to hike down to the ferry dock, meet the afternoon boat, and buy a fizzy (soda pop).

I know where you be coming from. My mother died when I was eight. I was bitter, and I hated everything that had anything to do with the Church. I especially hated God for taking my mother from me and my family.
For the longest time I just went through the motions of Church activity, and then when I was 17 my Laurel adviser gave a lesson on families being forever. That lesson really made an impression on me. After that I started praying and reading my scriptures. I finally got some answers that were real to me. I also talked to my bishop. He helped me understand what I was reading and receiving in my prayers.
Families are forever.
Tina Miller, 19Danbury, Connecticut

A week ago today I drove up the canyon and sat beside the Provo River near Canyon Glen to meditate and seek inspiration about the subject of these remarks. As I sat there lost in thought, I heard a whoop, and down the river came five fellows of college age on inner tubes, whirling and bobbing in the swift, cold water. They had no life jackets or other observable safety protection. As the current carried them beyond my view, I could still hear their happy voices. I wondered if they knew that this river had taken the lives of three boys and girls their age in the last six months. One of these bodies had been pulled from the river within a few blocks of the place where I sat. A deputy sheriff searching for one of these bodies narrowly missed drowning also.

Those of you who have any possible desire to go swimming or tubing in the Provo River, please understand that for a multitude of reasons associated with the chilling water temperature, swift current, and hidden obstacles this is highly dangerous. You enter the Provo River at the peril of your life.

A week or two later we met a man while street contacting who agreed to an appointment. We set a time, and he gave us his address in Bückeburg, a picturesque little town several miles from our assigned city of Minden but still in our area.
It was winter, and on the Sunday morning of our appointment, we mounted our bicycles and pedaled the entire distance, bucking a strong, cold headwind. Cold and panting, we pressed the doorbell on the man’s apartment building, and he buzzed the door open. We climbed the stairs to his apartment, and he let us in. Immediately we recognized a contentious spirit in the room—the same spirit we had felt a few weeks earlier in the home of the minister.
Our host did not invite us to sit down. Instead, he left the room for a moment. He returned carrying several editions of the Bible, dropped them on the table, and said in a very loud and defiant voice, “So you want to talk [religion], do you?” Then, pointing to the window, he bellowed, “Good, but first throw your Book of Mormon in the Weser [River]!”
A couple of weeks had passed since our experience with the minister, and I was now able to say a sentence or two in German. I attempted to do so. Once again, my senior companion simply bore a strong, quiet testimony of the Book of Mormon and politely thanked the man for his time. Then we excused ourselves and rode back to Minden, this time with the wind at our backs.

I often saw young men passing by, dressed in a white shirt and ties, two by two. I thought they were Jehovah’s Witnesses.
And, since I was looking for the truth and didn’t know where to find it, why not try them? I said to myself.
When questioning them, they introduced themselves as missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
After two lessons, they invited me to attend sacrament meeting, and, miraculously, I finally felt inner peace. I finally felt at home because I had found the truth I was seeking.

When I was young, I had an experience that helped me relate to the blind man described in John 9. The man was blind from birth. The disciples asked Jesus, “Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?
“Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him” (John 9:2–3; emphasis added).
Jesus anointed the blind man’s eyes with clay and instructed him to wash in the pool of Siloam. The man did as instructed and “came seeing” (John 9:7).
There were witnesses to this miracle who could not comprehend it. They took the man to the Pharisees, who questioned him about it repeatedly. The man finally told the Pharisees, “If this man were not of God, he could do nothing” (John 9:33). For this statement, he was cast out.
Then a great blessing occurred—an even greater blessing than having his sight restored. Jesus, having heard that they had cast the man out, found him and allowed him to declare his belief: “He said, Lord, I believe. And he worshipped him” (John 9:38).
I was 11 years old when the “works of God were made manifest” in me. In the fifth grade, I developed warts on my hands. Both hands were covered with the ugly virus sufficiently enough to earn me the nickname “warthog” among my classmates. Needless to say, it affected my self-esteem and social life.
When my family moved from Utah to Idaho the following summer, I dreaded the thought of going to a new school. In my old class, I took plenty of teasing, but I also had two good friends who stood by me. This new place offered no such assurance.
I began to search for ways to rid myself of my burden. With my mother’s help, we tried over-the-counter remedies and even some home remedies, but the warts remained. Money was limited, so seeing the doctor for such a nonemergency was out of the question. I began feeling like there would be no end to this malady.
Towards the end of summer, it occurred to me to ask Heavenly Father for help. My family had been active in the Church for about two years, and I had been taught about the power of fasting accompanied by prayer, but I had never before taken the opportunity to do this.
Over two weeks I fasted every few days. I remember how hard it was to pass up my mom’s homemade cherry pie, but I believed the outcome of my fast would be equal to my faith and sacrifice. I prayed earnestly in our backyard, where I could speak aloud and not be interrupted. At the end of the two-week period, my warts were gone. Every one of them had shrunk away.
When school started a couple of weeks later, I felt a new confidence. This confidence came, in part, from having healed hands that I did not have to hide, but more so from an internal seed that had sprouted to life.
I had gained personal knowledge of a great truth—that I was a daughter of Heavenly Father, the true and living God. I knew that He loved me and that He heard and answered my prayers. Just as the man in the scriptures, the works of God had been made manifest in me, on a physical and a spiritual level.
A few years later, when I was a senior in high school, my philosophy teacher asked each of us to justify our belief in God. He asked us to “prove” God’s existence. I shared this experience with my class and testified not only of God’s existence but of His love for us. After the bell rang, my teacher pulled me aside and asked me to consider that perhaps it was the power of positive thinking, rather than God, that had caused my warts to disappear. I did not hesitate in my response to him that I knew of a surety the source of this miracle.
Perhaps someday I too will be allowed the blessing of kneeling before my Healer and proclaiming, “Lord, I believe.”

I’m not sure why I strayed from the Church. Maybe it was because I grew up in the turbulent ’60s and took up the social causes of the day. Perhaps it was because I distanced myself from my extended family. Whatever the reason, I stopped going to church, and for many years I was less active.
I was attending a university in Idaho when a young Native American woman came to me and said, “I know you’re a member of my church. Do you want to go to church with me?”
I was shocked, to say the least. I wasn’t living the type of life Latter-day Saints are supposed to live. How did she know I was a member?
“Sure,” I replied. So Rosemary and I went to sacrament meeting together, and from there our friendship grew.
Just before summer break, Rosemary invited me to spend the summer with her family in Alaska. With no firm plans for the summer and wanting some adventure, I agreed.
I wasn’t sure what to expect when our airplane touched down on an emerald green island with peaks shrouded in fog. We were greeted by Rosemary’s three brothers in an old pickup truck. As we rumbled into town on the island’s only paved road, I suddenly realized I was in a special place.
I learned many things that summer. I learned how to slime fish at the salmon cannery. I learned to respect the ancient Native American customs and culture. I learned to love the sea as I explored the rugged, rocky, solitary beaches.
But most of all my heart began to be softened toward the Church as I was accepted by strangers who didn’t care what I looked like on the outside but cared deeply about who I was on the inside.
The branch on the island met at a deserted World War II Coast Guard base. As a handful of Native American Saints gathered on a Sunday morning, I was amazed to realize that the Church here was the same as the one I had known as a child. A feeling of comfort came to me, and I realized that even here, so far from home, I could worship as I had once been taught. I learned that no matter where one goes in the world the gospel is always the same and the Church is for everyone, regardless of culture or background.
I was forever altered by my stay on the island. When it was time to go back to school, I understood I had been given new insight into the meaning of life. My heart had been touched, and although I didn’t realize it at the time, I was beginning my long journey back to activity.
Over the years, Rosemary and I eventually lost contact. But in quiet times my mind still wanders back to that magical summer when a dear friend and a small group of Saints on a starkly beautiful island helped reawaken in me a remembrance of my gospel roots.

Brothers and Sisters, would you be willing to go looking for lost donkeys? God might want to intervene and put you on the most important path of your life. The Lord knows each and every one of us and our capacities. We need to remember this. I was reminded of this by my son when he was only four years old.
Louis had a love for dinosaurs and animals. He knew the names and sounds of dozens of animals, and naturally, a favorite place to take our young children was the zoo. Given our frequent visits to that zoo, he would often run ahead as he knew where the animals' enclosures were located. On one visit, Louis ran so quickly that I lost sight of him. I figured he probably made his way over to the bears. It was near dusk and getting chilly, so I picked up my pace to see if I could catch up to him. When I got closer, I saw him standing in front of the glass at the bear den display, and he was talking with someone I didn't recognize. As I started to get closer, I picked up on his conversation with this stranger. I heard her ask. Hello little one, are you lost? I then saw my son look up at her with a bewildered look and respond, "I'm not lost, I'm Louis!" She then saw me and realized that he was not alone after all.
I didn't realize the significance of this story and how I was at the right place and the right time to hear it until many years later. It was ‘out of the mouth of a babe’ that greater perspective and strength was given to me in how we should live our lives. When asked, "Are you lost?" The response was, "no, I'm not lost, I'm Louis!" It was a confident answer exclaiming who he is. And fears were also allayed when my presence, as his Father, was known. Louis was not alone.
I pray, that we too, can always have the same confidence to know who we are and who we belong to. Then with this surety, we would seldom or never feel lost. When we were baptized, we all took upon ourselves His name. We've become like family, called by the same name - Jesus Christ - who in turn will call us His. It is only through Him that we can be saved.

I would like to share a personal experience from my life that illustrates this principle. In my early youth, pride and peer influence began creeping into my life as it does with many adolescents. I began to take offense easily and was quick to anger. In the 1980's the phrase "burn'd ya" was a way to shown how clever you were at putting others down in a way that made them feel frazzled and unable to defend themselves against your clever criticism. Being good at "burning" people fed one's pride and served to build an increasingly rebellious nature. I succumbed to these temptations and at times responded in hurtful ways to my parents and siblings. Despite this great weakness, I had developed a pattern of consistent personal scripture study and prayer which allowed the Holy Ghost to prick my conscience often. Each time I would get angry and arrogant I would feel disappointed in myself. I finally vowed with intense personal commitment that I would quit it.

Overcoming this weakness, however, was not that easy. Day after day I would try to control my anger by sheer will power. Day after day I would falter. My personal prayers began to include petitions to the Lord to help me with this weakness and these petitions became more and more sincere as they continued for perhaps 3 or even 4 years. By the time I was approaching 16 years of age I still hadn't completely overcome this weakness. Sure I had made some progress but came to the frightening realization that although I was doing my very best it just wasn't enough. I began feeling helpless against this obstacle and knew that it stood in the way of my exaltation. My prayers then began sincerely acknowledging that I just couldn't fix it and that I desperately needed his help. I humbly began asking for a miracle.

What occurred throughout the next months happened quietly and almost imperceptibly until one day I was in a situation that normally would have offended me and made me angry. I recall saying to myself "Wow, I don't feel offended or angry at all". When this continued month after month I realized that a miracle had occurred for me. Not only did I not get angry but I had become very patient -- my weakness had been turned into a strength. I humbly witness to you that it was the grace of my Savior that performed this transformation. I testify that "it is by grace that we are saved, after all we can do."[20]

After Lee finished sweeping the back room, he tiptoed into the front of the Chinese shop to watch his father, dressed in a long gown, cover the rich carvings with beautifully colored silk cloths. When everything was well covered, his father’s head dipped in a bow. Lee knew it was time to go home!
Although the shop was filled with fine old porcelain cups and plates, hand-painted fans, and ivory and jade statuettes, Lee didn’t like it. The shop was too Chinese. His father still clung to the ways of the old world. His manner was humble, his step soft, and he seldom spoke—not even to the customers.
Once Lee spoke up. “You’re supposed to talk to customers,” he told his father.
The only answer was his father’s lowered eyes. Lee waited a minute and then dared to say even more. “You’re supposed to tell customers about the things you have to sell.”
Father’s searching eyes looked at Lee from across the room. Then he said, “What I do not wish men to do to me, I also wish not to do to men.” He turned and quietly walked out of the room.
Lee’s mother said nothing until she was sure they would not be overheard. Then her dark head went from side to side. “It is not right to talk to your father that way.”
“But,” Lee began, “you have to talk fast and push hard.” He wanted to tell his mother what his friend’s father had said, but his mother’s long cool fingers pressed against his lips.
“No more,” she said softly. “You must remember that you are your father’s son.”
Lee tried hard to remember, but one day he forgot. He had just finished sweeping the back room when a lady entered the shop.
Lee knew that after a brief nod the customers were permitted to browse and look about. He also knew that he should not approach customers. But all of a sudden he found himself saying to the lady, “Are you looking for cups?”
The lady half-smiled, and before she could answer Lee said, “We have porcelain cups and also beautiful hand-painted fans. They came all the way from China! So did the ivory elephants and the frogs carved of jade. Would you like to see them? We have nice incense burners too.”
Lee spoke so fast and said so much that the lady turned and hurried out of the shop.
His father watched but did not speak. Lee was grateful, for his face was already crimson with shame. He had talked fast, pushed hard, and lost a sale.
He waited for his father to speak. All he said was, “One good word is better than a thousand bad ones.”
Lee remembered his father’s words long after they had been spoken. He often said the words to himself, repeating them again and again, burying them deep in his mind.
He did not go near a customer again, but one day a customer approached him. A man came into the shop and looked about. When he saw Lee’s father was busy behind the counter, he motioned to Lee. “I’m sure you can help me,” he said.
Lee’s feet refused to move. It was only when his father nodded that he went forward. Have I learned, he thought, or will my tongue prattle?
The man smiled, and Lee’s lips quickly parted. But just as quickly his lips closed. Instead of speaking, his head dipped low just as his father’s would have done. Then he stood silent and waited while the man’s smile broadened as he picked up an ivory elephant and a green jade lotus blossom.
“I’ll take the elephant,” the man said at last. But he did not leave the shop. He stayed to look at the many other lovely carvings. At last he turned to Lee and said, “Most salesmen talk you to death when one good word could make a sale!” He turned and called to Lee’s father, “Your son is a good salesman. You should be proud of him.”
Lee saw a small smile cross his father’s face before they both quietly bowed their heads.