Gospel Story Finder

When I started my final semester of college, I thought I’d finally know what I was doing with my life. I was a senior, about to graduate; surely I’d mastered being an adult. But trying to juggle classes and jobs and social life and health quickly turned into a nightmare. Going to school at Brigham Young University–Idaho should’ve made it easier, but being surrounded by so many members of the Church was overwhelming. I felt like I didn’t belong. I never doubted my testimony or the Lord, but I didn’t have a lot of confidence in my own abilities.
I’m a native Floridian who loves to be in the water, so to have a little taste of home, I decided to take a swimming course that semester. It was perfect. I already knew how to swim … or so I thought.
Swimming laps is very different than casually playing in the pool. And I learned that the hard way. During one of my first classes, only five seconds into a lap going back and forth down the swimming pool, I already couldn’t breathe. Pulling myself forward in the water took more energy than I thought it would. I knew how to swim, but I didn’t know the proper strokes or techniques, and all the other swimmers in my class were breezing past me in the water.
As soon as I finished a few laps, my instructor came over to me and said:
“You’re kind of flailing. Try to focus on how your body moves with the water, instead of trying to get to the other side of the pool as fast as possible.”
I left class soaking wet, exhausted, and humiliated.
Later that day, I sat down with my scriptures and pushed swimming from my mind. Thinking about how that class went just made me feel stupid.
But the embarrassment was far from over.
As I prayed and reflected, I kept thinking about my imperfections. I compared myself to who I wanted to be and definitely did not measure up to the expectations I had for myself. Failing at swimming opened my eyes to all the ways I was failing or not progressing in every other aspect of my life. Not only did I fail to measure up as a swimmer, but I also felt like I wasn’t being the best disciple I could be. I was impatient, lazy, and easily annoyed. I’d been working on becoming a better person all my life, but I still could only see all my imperfections.
I began repenting and apologizing, telling Heavenly Father that I knew exactly what I was doing wrong and asking Him to show me what else I needed to change. I told Him I was so sorry, but I was going to work on becoming a better person as much as I could.
Before I even finished my prayer, I felt a clear impression from the Spirit saying that even though I was flailing, Heavenly Father was pleased that I was trying. This impression brought peace and a feeling of joy. I even laughed as I felt just a glimpse of Heavenly Father’s intimate awareness of me and how I was feeling.
I realized in that moment that He knew I was holding myself to an impossible standard. He didn’t expect me to suddenly be perfect, just like how my swimming instructor didn’t expect me to become an Olympic swimmer in a day.
Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles recently taught: “I believe the Savior Jesus Christ would want you to see, feel, and know that He is your strength. That with His help, there are no limits to what you can accomplish. That your potential is limitless. He would want you to see yourself the way He sees you.”1
That’s one thing the Savior can do for us—He can change how we see ourselves and our imperfect efforts.
President Gordon B. Hinckley once said: “Please don’t nag yourself with thoughts of failure. Do not set goals far beyond your capacity to achieve. Simply do what you can do, in the best way you know, and the Lord will accept of your effort.”2
By the end of that semester, I wasn’t flailing anymore. I could glide through the water without any problems, and it wasn’t because I suddenly became an expert overnight. It’s because I showed up to class every week, knowing that whatever happened, I would just try to do my best.
As I struggled to get through my last semester, the Lord knew that I was trying. And instead of condemning me for my imperfections, He helped me find joy in my efforts—even if they were messy and uncoordinated. He could see that behind all my mistakes was a girl who just wanted, more than anything, to be a good disciple … and a good swimmer.

Some years ago one of the kindest and most loved men to live on the earth died. I speak of Louis C. Jacobsen. He ministered to those in need, he helped the immigrant to find employment, and he delivered more sermons at more funeral services than any other person I have known.
One day while in a reflective mood, Louis Jacobsen told me of his boyhood. He was the son of a poor Danish widow. He was small in stature, not particularly handsome—easily the object of his classmates’ thoughtless jokes. In Sunday School one Sabbath morning, the children made fun of his patched trousers and his worn shirt. Too proud to cry, tiny Louis ran from the chapel, stopping at last, out of breath, to sit and rest on the curb that ran along one of the main streets of Salt Lake City. Clear water flowed along the gutter next to the curb where Louis sat. From his pocket he took a piece of paper that contained the outlined Sunday School lesson and skillfully shaped a paper boat, which he launched on the flowing water. From his hurt boyish heart came the determined words, “I’ll never go back.”
Suddenly, through his tears Louis saw reflected in the water the image of a large and well-dressed man. Louis turned his face upward and recognized George Burbidge, the Sunday School superintendent. “May I sit down with you?” asked the kind leader. Louis nodded affirmatively. There on the curb sat a good Samaritan ministering to one who surely was in need. Several paper boats were made and launched while the conversation continued. At last the leader stood and, with a boy’s hand tightly clutching his, they returned to Sunday School. Later Louis himself presided over that same Sunday School. Throughout his long life of service, he never failed to acknowledge the traveler who rescued him along a Jericho Road.

When our young daughter was practicing the piano, I suggested she play her piece over five more times to be prepared for her lesson.
She said, “No, Mom. Five is too many.”
I said, “Then you choose how many times you need.”
She said, “No. You choose—but don’t choose five!”
Are we ever like that when the Spirit prompts us what to do and it isn’t easy or comfortable or popular? We say, “Please tell me again. I want to be obedient, but just tell me something a little easier—and more fun.” It can be dangerous trying to please ourselves.

When the Church first came to Ghana in 1978, the government didn’t really understand it and its practices. That led to a lot of rumors. As the Church grew over the next 10 years, so did the rumors. I remember hearing people say that the United States was sending men to spy on our government. That, combined with all the anti-Mormon literature being circulated, made the government very suspicious.
On June 14, 1989, the government closed our Church buildings, sent the missionaries home, and outlawed all official Church activities. We call this time “the freeze.” But as an 18-year-old girl, all I knew was that one day it was announced that we couldn’t go to church anymore. There were even soldiers guarding the buildings to make sure we stayed away.
Since we could no longer meet in our chapels, we got permission from Church leaders to have sacrament meetings in our homes. If you didn’t have a priesthood holder in your home, you were encouraged to go to a home that did have one. It was a confusing time but also a very special one. We shared our testimonies, and it brought us closer together.
Those who stayed in the Church and worshipped together during the freeze created stronger bonds. We became real brothers and sisters. Even now, when we have all traveled separate ways, if something happens to someone else, we all hear about it. We feel like we are pioneers.

I had always had a feeling that I’d serve my mission in Switzerland where my ancestors once lived. So when I got my call to Italy in 1970, I was surprised but excited. In the language training mission (now called the missionary training center), I found out that southern Switzerland, where my ancestors came from, was actually part of my mission. I knew Heavenly Father called me to that specific place for a reason.
Partway through my mission, my companion and I were assigned to be zone leaders over an area that included southern Switzerland—and we had a car.
We went to my family’s village, Vergeletto, and looked up one of my cousins. He showed us around and introduced us to the parish priest, who, upon request, showed us the books of vital records for the area. We then returned home, but a seed had been planted in me that would grow throughout my mission.
With just a month left on my mission, I felt like I needed to take action and find my family’s records before I returned home. I prayed to know if there was something more I could do, and I felt a distinct prompting from the Spirit telling me that I needed to get a copy of those vital records that I had seen months ago. I told my mission president that I felt like I needed to return to my family’s village in Switzerland and explained why. The village was 87 miles (140 km) away, but my mission president gave me permission to go anyway.
It was dusk when the narrow winding road took us up the mountain into the hamlet of Vergeletto. We stopped at the focal point of town, the Catholic church. My companion and I were then drawn to the cemetery across the street from the church that was all lit up with candles.
As we entered the cemetery, I clearly and strongly felt the Spirit guide me like I never had before. That feeling and the fresh alpine air created a sensation I will never forget. In the cemetery, it seemed that every other tombstone had my last name on it. We even saw my great-grandfather’s tomb; it said people went to him to repair their broken bones.
We returned to the church to see if we could find the priest. There we met an old man, who told us it was Il Giorno dei Morti, or a holiday known as the Day of the Dead (which would explain all the candles in the cemetery). The man told us that the priest had services in neighboring villages and would be back in two hours.
My companion and I waited, and when the priest returned, I reminded him of our encounter a few months earlier and then asked if I could see the vital records of the parish again.
He agreed.
The priest brought out a box of books that were hundreds of years old. I told the priest that our Church was microfilming parish records in Parma, Italy, 170 miles (274 km) away. I asked if he would allow us to take the records for a few weeks and have them copied.
He again agreed. I was shocked.
As we left town, I marveled at what had just happened and even checked the rearview mirror to see if the priest was running after us with a change of heart. Two weeks later, we returned the records to him, as promised.
Due to the penmanship, the use of Latin, and the deterioration, the records were hard to read. But then, just a few years ago, I noticed hundreds of records from Vergeletto had been linked to my ancestors in FamilySearch. Family lines that used to only go out three to four generations now extended seven to nine generations!
It turns out a professional genealogist in Alabama, USA, who is not a member of the Church shares a branch of the global family tree with me. He had accessed and read the records from the books I had copied in Italy and attached them in FamilySearch. This man is amazing; we have since collaborated several times. He explained that uploading those names and sources is his way of paying back the Church for all their work in making records available in FamilySearch.
Now my dad’s side of my genealogy fan chart is full of names. And I’ve been blessed to do their temple work.
I’ve often looked back wondering why a Catholic priest would allow a young American—who was also a missionary for another faith—to take his collection of vital records out of the country for copying. Were my ancestors praying for me? Were they praying for the priest’s heart to be softened?
I don’t know—it could have been both those things. But I do know that Heavenly Father can help bring about miracles when we seek His help. And as Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has promised, family history work holds so many blessings for those on both sides of the veil: “God will strengthen, help, and uphold us; and He will sanctify to us our deepest distress. When we gather our family histories and go to the temple on behalf of our ancestors, God fulfills many of these promised blessings simultaneously on both sides of the veil.” 1 The Lord directs this work, and when you trust Him, He can work miracles for you and your family as you strive to gather Israel.

On the first and second of November 1831, a conference was held at Hiram, Ohio, when it was decided that the revelations should be compiled and published. On the first day of the conference the Lord gave approval to the plan by giving a revelation He called His “preface unto the book of my commandments, which I have given them to publish unto you, O inhabitants of the earth” (D&C 1:6).

During the course of the conference there was not perfect harmony among the brethren. A few criticized the language found in the revelations. They forgot that the Lord uses men as instruments as they are available, through whom He communicates, just as an author when writing makes use of whatever pen, paper, or ink he may be able to obtain to produce his work. Some of the brethren did not fully realize that divine revelation is independent from university study, and they were wavering in their faith. In answer to this inquiry, the Lord issued a challenge:

Now, seek ye out of the Book of Commandments, even the least that is among them, and appoint him that is the most wise among you;
Or, if there be any among you that shall make one like unto it, then ye are justified in saying that ye do not know that they are true;
But if ye cannot make one like unto it, ye are under condemnation if ye do not bear record that they are true. [D&C 67:6–8]

William E. McLellin accepted the offer and undertook to initiate the revelations of the Lord. His efforts to produce a revelation were witnessed with great interest by the elders assembled, and when they were aware of his complete failure, all doubts concerning the revelations of God vanished. They were then willing to testify to the truth and signed a document containing their testimonies and witnesses to the truthfulness of the book.

Ronny was not just shy; he was downright backward. As a 17-year-old high school senior, Ronny had never really had a close friend or done anything that included other people. He was famous for his shyness. He never said anything to anybody, not even a teacher. One look at him told you a great deal of the story—inferiority complex. He slumped over as if to hide his face and seemed to be always looking at his feet. He always sat in the back of the class and would never participate. He was such a novelty, it became kind of a school joke.
One thing you could say about him—he came by his complex honestly. His parents were the same way. People right next door went months without even seeing them. Ronny’s father was a night custodian for a small business building. He left for work late at night, worked alone, and came home just as others were getting up. Neighbors used to joke that they never ate because they were afraid to go to the store—afraid someone might talk to them.
It was because of Ronny’s shyness that I was so astonished when he started coming to my Sunday School class. He was a member of the Church. I vaguely remembered when a relative from out of town came to baptize him. Ronny was 14 then, and so shy that a special baptismal service had to be arranged. Just Ronny, his uncle, the bishop, and the missionaries. It must have about killed him being the center of attention.
His attendance in my class was the result of the personal efforts of a classmember, Brandon Craig, who had recently befriended Ronny. Boy, if there had ever been a mismatch, this was it. Brandon was “Mr. Social.” A good head taller than Ronny, he was undisputedly the number one star of our high school athletics program. Brandon was involved in everything and successful at everything. You had to smile whenever you looked at him. He was just a neat kid.
Well, Brandon took to little Ronny like glue. Class was obviously painful for Ronny, but Brandon protected him like the king’s guard. I played a low profile—no questions, just a quick smile and once a pat on the back. Time seemed to be helping, but I often wondered if Brandon and company (the rest of the class certainly played it right) would ever be able to break the ice. That’s why I was so shocked when Brian, the class president, stood before our Sunday School class one Sunday afternoon and boldly announced that Ronny would offer the opening prayer.
There was a moment of hesitation; then Ronny slowly came to his feet. Still looking at his shoes, he walked to the front of the room. He folded his arms (his head was already bowed). The class was frozen solid. I thought to myself, “If he does it, we’ll all be translated.”
Then almost at a whisper I heard, “Our Father in Heaven, thank you for our Sunday School class.” Then silence—long, loud silence! I could feel poor Ronny suffering. Then came a few sniffles and a muffled sob.
“Oh, no,” I thought, “I should be up front where I can help or something.”
I hurt for him; we all did. I opened an eye and looked up to make my way to Ronny. But Brandon beat me to it. With an eye still open I watched six-foot-four Brandon put his arm around his friend, bend down and put his chin on Ronny’s shoulder, then whisper the words of a short, sweet prayer. Ronny struggled for composure, then repeated the prayer.
But when the prayer was over, Ronny kept his head bowed and added: “Thank you for Brandon, amen.” He then turned and looked up at his big buddy and said clear enough for all to hear, “I love you, Brandon.”
Brandon, who still had his arm around him, responded, “I love you too, Ronny. And that was fun.”
And it was, for all of us.

Before my mission, I had things I, too, needed to clear up with the bishop. I was afraid to talk to him at church because I thought it would look obvious. So I called him at work and said I would be playing basketball at Mutual. I asked him if he could casually ask to speak with me for a minute or two. I remember the feelings I had experienced. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I walked out of my bishop’s office feeling much better.
Name withheld

One lunchtime Eric was a couple of minutes late. He spotted our group and sprinted across the sloping lawn, gripping his brown sack in his good left hand. His backpack bumped against him, his shirttail billowed, and his shoelaces straggled behind him. His weak right ankle tangled with his charging left foot, and he went down in a heap. He tried to catch himself, but his right arm crumpled and he plowed the grass with his face.
A couple of guys and I jumped up and ran to him. By the time we reached him, he was sitting up in the middle of his spilled backpack and smashed lunch. Dirt and grass smeared his nose and forehead, and he had a bloody scrape on his chin. He grinned up at us and said, “I hate it when that happens!”
One of the guys asked him incredulously, “Did you do that on purpose?”
Another example of his determination was when he joined the swim team. I had swum the year before and lettered in water polo. Eric decided he’d like to take a crack at competitive sports. He never missed a practice, even though he never placed higher than last in any meet. Sometimes he ended up in the wrong lane because his left side was so much stronger than his right, and he often worked up such momentum that he crashed into the concrete pool sides. But by the end of the season, he had halved his personal best time for the 50-meter freestyle.
Eric has been an example to me, even when I wouldn’t admit it. He taught me how to be tolerant of other people’s differences, how to overcome and overlook weakness, and how to find strength. He taught me to use what I have and to never give up. He showed me the value of being myself and how to love without condition.

Reflecting on this spiritual teaching pattern in my life, I would like to share with you some of my memories as a convert to the Church. This might help someone—young or older—learn how to “stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places” (Mosiah 18:9) under any circumstances.
It all started on the day of my baptism. I was twenty-two years old and a college student. I was part of a small group that assembled at a swimming pool in Brussels, Belgium. We didn’t have a chapel at that time. There was no baptismal font, no bishop—just two missionaries and a few branch members to support us. I had no family members with me. It was a first step in the known and the unknown. The known was a sure testimony of Jesus Christ, our Savior and Redeemer; of Joseph Smith, a prophet; of the Book of Mormon; and of the Church, the only true one. The unknown was yet to be discovered and experienced. It started to be unveiled by receiving the priesthood after baptism. According to the procedures followed at that time, a convert almost had to stand at the bar of judgment to receive the priesthood. Three months passed before I was interviewed and ordained a deacon. Then on that Sunday morning I stood in front of the sacrament table to distribute the emblems of the atonement of the Lord Jesus Christ. I still remember the surroundings, which were quite different from the ornate decorations of the church where I had previously worshiped. The dining room of a home had been transformed into a meeting hall for sacrament meetings that were attended by a few members. It was my first experience to magnify my priesthood calling. Nine months later I was ordained a teacher and learned how to teach and to watch over the few members of the branch during their contentions and ups and downs.
These were also interesting days, when attending priesthood meeting meant sitting in a circle with two missionaries and two other brothers, and reading from one mimeographed sheet of paper that was the lesson. There was no priesthood manual, and only twenty sections of the Doctrine and Covenants had been translated into French. There was no Pearl of Great Price, but most importantly we did have the complete Book of Mormon. We passed this great book from hand to hand and learned about the covenants and teachings of the Lord and his doctrine. Precept upon precept, stone upon stone, I was building my spiritual memory bank and enjoying spiritual happiness.
Another four months passed, and I was ordained a priest. Now I stood on the other side of the sacrament table. The decor was the same, but I felt different. It impressed me that now I was blessing the emblems of the Atonement and memorizing “that they may eat in remembrance of the body of thy Son, and witness unto thee, … and always remember him and keep his commandments … that they may always have his Spirit to be with them” (D&C 20:77). It was an unforgettable experience, and I still visualize it today when I bless the sacrament as a General Authority.
Two years passed after my baptism, and the day arrived for me to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood and to be ordained an elder. The mission president once again laid his hands upon my head. The authority and power to act in the name of the Lord were given. It was received by mutual agreement by an oath and covenant. The oath represented the assurance that the promises of the agreement would be kept by both participants; the covenant, that the conditions of the agreement would be kept.
As I recall that priesthood preparation in the service of the Lord, I can see how remembering my covenants helped me to honor and magnify my priesthood calling, to keep the commandments, and to bring spiritual happiness into my life in preparation for eternal life. During those trial years, many of my young friends in the Church forgot their covenants and one by one returned to the world. The world always stands between man and God, representing two alternatives but only one true choice.
How can we be strengthened in making the choice to serve the Lord? By simply focusing on the doctrine of Jesus Christ that will ensure the salvation of those who remember it, accept it, and act upon it. How did the process work for me?
As a young man I considered and learned the doctrine of eternal marriage and family. This was of great interest to me and a determining factor in my conversion. I had witnessed the breakup of my parents’ marriage; I had seen sorrow caused by death without spiritual knowledge and friends marrying without temple ordinances. I wanted to avoid these tragedies.
What is this doctrine? In the Bible, it states that Adam was created, but he was alone. We read, “But for Adam there was not found an help meet for him” (Gen. 2:20). Thus, the Lord created woman—not another man—and commanded that they should be united in the sacred bonds of marriage. The first divine, righteous, ordained union between a man and a woman was sealed by these words: “A man … shall cleave unto his wife” (Gen. 2:24). This is the established doctrine, and it will never change. It is repeated in modern revelation: “Thou shalt love thy wife with all thy heart, and shalt cleave unto her and none else” (D&C 42:22).
This union is solemnized by the authority of the everlasting priesthood in a holy and sacred ordinance, the temple sealing. It is also called the new and everlasting covenant of marriage, and its purpose is to bind couples together on earth and bring them to a fulness of exaltation in the kingdom of God in the hereafter. Then Adam and Eve were also commanded to multiply and replenish the earth. “And Adam called his wife’s name Eve; because she was the mother of all living” (Gen. 3:20).
The true concept of marriage and family, the unit composed of a husband, wife, and children sealed together, was instituted at the beginning by God to create eternal families. That foundation principle became my vision and my goal and also reality as my companion and I were sealed in the temple in Zollikofen, Switzerland. As a husband and father and later as a grandfather, I was and still am responsible for the development, temporal support, protection, and salvation of my family.
Another determining factor in my conversion was the Church as a divine institution led by the authority of the priesthood. It provided the framework that I needed for support as a member of that covenant group. I could not save my family by myself.
Elder John A. Widtsoe wrote: “The Church, the community of persons with the same intelligent faith and desire and practice, is the organized agency through which God deals with His children and presents His will. Moreover, the authority to act for God must be vested on earth in some one organization and not independently in every man. The Church through the Priesthood holds this authority for the use of man” (Priesthood and Church Government [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1939], p. 180).
The Church provides a unique support for individuals and families to do things that they cannot do by themselves, such as receiving the essential ordinances of salvation. It brings temporal relief in times of hardship. It is also a laboratory outside of the home where we can serve, learn, and practice charity, the pure love of Christ.
I also found in this church that the priesthood has a patriarchal order and that God is a God of order. He is at the head, and following this pattern, the priesthood is conferred upon worthy men so they can preside in their homes and families. The husband and father, a patriarch, is to preside in righteousness and exercise the power of his priesthood to bless his wife and family. The husband and wife serve as partners in governing their family, and both act in joint leadership and depend on each other. They are united in the vision of their eternal salvation, one holding the priesthood, the other honoring and enjoying the blessings of it. One is not superior or inferior to the other. Each one carries his or her respective responsibilities and acts in his or her respective role.
Much more could be said about the priesthood and its uniqueness, the divine commission given to man through which he acts in the plan of salvation. In essence, therein is the true doctrine of the Father, the irreversible correct principles to govern ourselves, and the know-how to act upon the law and commandments that we were given.
In this age of increased individualism and selfishness, opinions now matter more than facts or doctrine; attitudes glorify personal choice above other values and principles; and language is typified by “I don’t need anyone to tell me how to be saved; I don’t need prophets, seers, or revelators to tell me what God expects of me; I don’t need to attend church meetings, to hear talks, or to be challenged.”
Today the concept of priesthood and Church authority is on trial by the world and even by some members who think that the Latin expression vox populi, vox Dei can be literally interpreted in the Church as “the voice of the people is the voice of God.” The commercial slogan “Have it your way” certainly does not apply in God’s plan for the salvation of his children when we read that the very cause of apostasy is when “every man walketh in his own way, and after the image of his own god” (D&C 1:16). How do you overcome the temptation to have it your own way, to satisfy your own appetites, and to follow the world’s trends?
One of my simple answers tonight is to constantly remember your covenants, to act on them, and to commit to them. This sequence, as repeatedly stated in the scriptures, is a classic, spiritual teaching pattern to prepare us for eternal life. It is centered upon Christ and his doctrine and teachings. I will remember them forever.
I testify that Jesus lives, that this is the only true church, that the priesthood of the Son of God is vested herein, and that prophets, seers, and revelators who preside over this church are appointed to preserve the pure doctrine of Jesus Christ and the authority of his priesthood for the salvation of his people. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Roger Bannister was a medical student in England who had an ambitious hope. He desired to be the first man to run a mile (1.6 km) under four minutes. For much of the first half of the 20th century, field and track enthusiasts had anxiously awaited the day the four-minute-mile barrier would be broken. Over the years many outstanding runners had come close, but still the four-minute barrier stood. Bannister dedicated himself to an ambitious training schedule with the hope of realizing his goal of setting a new world record. Some in the sporting community had begun to doubt whether the four-minute mile could be broken. Supposed experts had even hypothesized the human body was physiologically unable to run at such speeds over such a long distance. On a cloudy day on May 6, 1954, Roger Bannister’s great hope was realized! He crossed the finish line in 3:59.4, setting a new world record. His hope to break the four-minute-mile barrier became a dream which was accomplished through training, hard work, and dedication.

Heavenly Father never intended for us as parents to sit on the sidelines as spectators, watching the spiritual lives of our children unfold. Let me illustrate this idea of intentional parenting with a personal experience. When I was attending Primary in a small branch in Guatemala, my parents began to teach me about the value of patriarchal blessings. My mother took the time to share her experience of receiving her treasured patriarchal blessing. She taught me the doctrine related to patriarchal blessings, and she testified of promised blessings. Her intentional parenting inspired me to have the desire to receive my patriarchal blessing.

When I was 12, my parents helped me navigate the search for a patriarch. This was necessary because there was no patriarch in the district where we lived. I traveled to a patriarch that was in a stake 156 kilometers (97 miles) away. I distinctly remember when the patriarch laid his hands upon my head to bless me. I knew by powerful spiritual confirmation, without a doubt, that my Heavenly Father knew me.

For a 12-year-old boy from a small town, that meant everything to me. My heart turned to my Heavenly Father that day because of my mother and father’s intentional parenting, and I will be forever grateful to them.

At a time when the family and the necessity of family life are increasingly in question and under attack, 35 young members of the Northwest First Ward, Wilmette Illinois Stake, have found a way to speak out strongly in favor of them. For their annual service project, the youth of the ward decided to present a pro-family program, which eventually evolved into a series of nine performances throughout the Chicago area.
Everyone in the ward between the ages of 12 and 18 was invited to participate. The young people wrote skits and musical presentations based on their own experiences in family life and their personal belief that it’s worth the effort. Some of the topics treated were: why parents don’t see their children’s point of view while children don’t see the parents’; the story of a boy from a broken home who finally finds his father and is told, “I never visited you because I didn’t want to see you,” and how he copes with such rejection; the feelings of a young man who wonders why his father never comes to see his wrestling matches, and what happens when he finally does; the triumph of a young woman who (in song) shows her father how much she loves him.
Some of the reactions: One of the young men in the cast was so affected by the program that he decided to accept a mission call. One young lady in the audience was so touched she started taking the missionary discussions and has since been baptized. A sociology teacher who saw the program at his high school changed his mind about never having a family. An Indonesian exchange student came up after the performance and said she appreciated her family much more after having seen the show. At an old folks’ home, one of the men stood up and said, “I’m Catholic; most of us here are Presbyterian or Lutheran; but these kids have just made us all saints.” The program was endorsed for presentation to sociology classes at local high schools, and the young people have been offered the chance to perform at many college campuses.
All of the cast members wore T-shirts with the inscription “Family Harmony.” Banners with the word Love were attached to curtains. Cast members divided into groups of various sizes, carrying numbers to emphasize that families come in a variety of sizes and combinations. A “harmonizer” box sounded an alarm when a situation demanding attention and understanding presented itself on stage. At the end of each hour-long performance, cast members took turns being interviewed by the audience about their feelings concerning the family and about their involvement in the show. “People were surprised,” one participant said, “to find out we were doing it all for free.”
The youth goals in originating the program were “to help the community as a whole with one large service project instead of a lot of little ones, and to find a new way to serve.” If service can be defined as arousing someone’s conscience, this was a service project that worked.

While my friend and I were riding scooters around the neighborhood, he accidentally tripped over a rock, fell off his scooter, and landed on his back. Luckily we were by another friend’s house, so I helped my hurt friend over there and rang the doorbell. Steven came to the door and said, “What’s wrong, William?”
“Well, Michael here fell off his scooter and landed on his back,” I answered. I asked if his mom was home and he said yes. So I took Michael inside.
Steven’s mom looked at his back. She said that it was only a bruise. In five minutes he felt much better. I know that Jesus would help His friends too.

The last experience tells of a professor’s impact:
I was a research assistant for a professor who taught me how to run statistics software, how to cull themes out of qualitative data, and how to patiently comb through survey responses. But he also shared with me faith-filled personal experiences and stories about his family. He lived his values and always remembered which things were most important in life. He inspired me to want to sing more and laugh more and appreciate life often, even in its extremities. When I came to his office to work, I always left edified. He ministered to me even though I wasn’t doing a stellar job for him because I was so busy and stressed out with school. He looked at the situation and saw the most important thing in it. And that thing was not the work. It was a person who needed hope and faith in a challenging time of life.

Grandpa smiled, remembering the leaf whistles Jason’s dad had blown in his childhood days. Then Grandpa seemed caught up in a special memory, and his thoughts began to tumble out.
“I remember a time your daddy came home from school with a big problem. Your grandma told me that he’d gone to his room after he got home, and he just stayed there till suppertime. I noticed how quiet he was when we sat down at the table to eat, so I persuaded him to take a walk with me afterward, and he finally blurted out what was bothering him.
“It seems he’d had an argument on the playground at school with his best friend, Jimmy. Joe’d become so angry that he’d hit Jimmy and made his nose bleed. Then Joe had walked away and come home. Now he felt sorry for what he’d done, but he couldn’t face Jimmy and apologize. Joe had too much pride—but he didn’t feel good about himself, either.
“Then I thought of my treasure—a seashell that I’d brought home with me from the war,” Grandpa went on. “I’d found it on the beach where we landed late one night. As I held it to my ear, it seemed to speak to me. I kept it because the sound of the sea seemed to whisper in my ear. It reminded me of the still, small voice inside me trying to keep me on the right path.
“I hadn’t thought of my seashell for years, but after our walk together that night, I looked for it. I handed the seashell to your daddy and told him to listen to it. When he placed it near his ear, I told him that it was a reminder of the still, small voice of conscience that each of us has within us. Then I asked him what the small voice would tell him about asking forgiveness.
“Your dad sat on the bed next to me. ‘I can’t say I’m sorry,’ he cried. ‘I just can’t!’
“I told him that he must apologize if his friendship with Jimmy was worth keeping and if he wanted to be at peace with Heavenly Father and with himself.
“It was hard for Joe to go to Jimmy and ask for forgiveness,” Grandpa went on, “but he finally listened to his conscience and patched up the hurt feelings.
“I kept the seashell on my desk for a long time afterward,” Grandpa told Jason. “Having to say that he was sorry was a particularly difficult lesson for your dad to learn. It was hard for him to admit his mistakes, just as it is for you and me. He had some stubbornness to overcome. I often reminded him of the seashell and invited him to listen to its voice. It helped him remember to listen to the still, small voice inside himself that was always there. As we grow up, we are constantly faced with choices to make, and seeing the seashell reminded Joe to listen to his conscience and choose the better way. And that is why I consider the seashell a treasure.”

Celebrating Christ’s life during the Christmas season brings both families and friends closer together. Jennifer Adams, of Pleasanton, California, discovered this when she went away to school.
She and her roommates knew they would spend most of the time leading up to Christmas away from their families. But they didn’t want to miss out on the traditions and special experiences of home, so they started some of their own.
They took a long candle, decorated it with numbers from 1 to 25, and placed it in the center of the living room. Every night they lit the candle and let it burn down one number.
While the candle burned, they sang traditional Christmas hymns and shared stories of service and giving. Some nights, they bore testimony of the Savior and talked about what Christmas meant to them.
It only took 15 minutes a night and made for a meaningful holiday season. It became a tradition Jennifer will one day incorporate in her own home. It also brought the roommates closer together and created a feeling of having a family even while they were away at college.

Fifteen-year-old Taitia Wilihana spends much of his free time painting black designs on his face and sticking his tongue out at tourists. He does it in the name of entertainment and in an effort to educate people about his native culture. Taitia is a Maori, a descendent of the first people to inhabit his native New Zealand. He lives in Queenstown, a beautiful city on the southern tip of the south island; and because of its picturesque setting on the shore of Lake Wakatipu, it is a tourist mecca with plenty of interest in the Maori culture. Half of the youth in the Queenstown Branch—Rachel Ruru, 14, and Taitia—are Maori; and Taitia performs traditional songs and dances nightly at the town’s Maori cultural center, owned and run by Rachel’s parents.
Every night except Sunday and sometimes Monday, you’ll find Taitia on stage singing and dancing, while hordes of tourists watch and eat the traditional Maori hangi, food steamed underground. Taitia and his group have even performed for the prime minister of New Zealand. The cultural center is a sort of branch gathering place during the week. Branch members and missionaries often mingle with the audience and are asked questions about their heritage. Missionary-minded performers take advantage of this opportunity to mention the Church and its emphasis on family unity and family history. It’s all very subtle, but it leaves a strong impression.
“There are so many tourists coming and going, there aren’t very many permanent members,” explains Angelina Giles, 15, half of the branch Young Women’s group. “When the missionaries make contacts and get referrals, they’re usually with people from other parts of the world.
“There are so few of us here, and we have such different standards, that we really stand out,” she continues. “We’re all very close and we stick together.”
In Sundays the branch meets in a hotel conference room. Deacon Ashley Giles, 12, and Taitia, being the branch’s only Aaronic Priesthood holders, always pass the sacrament. Angelina is the ward chorister. Rachel helps in the Young Women program. During the week, the three oldest attend early-morning seminary, held alternately at Taitia’s house and at Angelina’s. All four have unwavering testimonies of the gospel and realize they’re blessed to have it in their lives.
“I’m adopted,” Taitia explains. “I’m the youngest of eight children now. My real mother is a relative of the family that adopted me. My adoptive mother used to look after her when she was little. I’m lucky though, because my family now has the gospel. My other one didn’t.”
“We’re all lucky to be members of the Church here,” explains Ashley, referring to the fact that since most people in Queenstown are there on holiday, many have a party attitude. The gospel, he explains, helps them remember the important things in life.
“If you can stay away from Satan’s temptations here, you’ll probably be good anywhere else,” agrees Taitia.
And they all plan to try their hands elsewhere. Ashley, at 12, isn’t quite sure yet where he wants to go or what he wants to do, but Angelina will spend a year or two at the LDS church college on the north island, then perhaps go on to study law. Taitia wants to go on a mission, then become a physical therapist, and Rachel thinks she’d like to study graphic design. This will require them all to leave their homes and families in Queenstown, although Taitia and Rachel will have family and a place to stay almost anywhere in the country because of their heritage. “It’s the Maori way,” says Taitia.
In the meantime, they realize that the tourism that seems to be almost everywhere in their town isn’t all bad. It provides them with a living.
“All our parents are involved in it somehow,” says Angelina. “Our dad works in the city of Dunedin, and takes people on yacht charters during the day. At night he does hotel work. To help support our older brother, who’s on a mission, our family delivers advertising flyers.”
You get the feeling that all four of the LDS youth in Queenstown have a sense of purpose. Through the gospel they have found normalcy and stability in a city teeming with adventure-seeking tourists.
“It’s a good way to grow up, and a good place to grow up in,” says Angelina. “We can never forget we’re children of a Heavenly Father who loves us.”

How did you meet your best friend? Alexandra W. from California and Katie C. from Oregon met because their grandmas are best friends. Even though their families live far apart, these girls have a lot in common. They are both in second grade, they both love ice cream, and they both have been baptized. Both girls also had a special general conference experience that they will always remember.
Our grandmas decided it would be fun to celebrate our eighth birthdays by going to Salt Lake City for general conference. We explored the Church History Museum. At one exhibit, we helped tie a quilt. We also saw an actor dressed up as the prophet Brigham Young.
There were lots of things to see in Utah! Here we are at This Is the Place Monument, where Brigham Young told the pioneers they had finished their journey across the plains.
The most exciting day of all was Saturday morning. We walked into the Conference Center with thousands of people from all over the world. Our grandmas helped us find our seats. Suddenly everyone in the Conference Center became quiet, and we stood up to show respect as President Monson walked into the room. We saw the prophet of God! We listened to the prophet and General Authorities speak, and we heard the Tabernacle Choir sing.
Did you know that before the Conference Center was built, general conference was held in the Tabernacle on Temple Square? The organ pipes behind us should look familiar—a picture of them is on the front of every green hymnbook!
Now that we are back home again, we like to look back and remember. We remember not only the fun things we saw and did but also the special feelings we had when we heard and saw the prophet of God. We know that we have a Father in Heaven who loves us and that Jesus Christ is our Savior. And that is worth remembering!

As a college student, I heard a wonderful Relief Society lesson on service. The teacher said, “If you pray for Heavenly Father to open your eyes to the needs of others so you can help them, He will do so.”
That sentence stayed with me. I wanted to serve others but hadn’t thought to ask Heavenly Father for help. So I decided to give it a try. The next morning I knelt and prayed, “Heavenly Father, if there is anyone who needs my help today, please let me know.” I finished my prayer and headed to class.
Amid the hustle of the day, I forgot my prayer. During the afternoon I went to the grocery store. As I stood in line to pay for my groceries, I noticed an elderly woman who used a cane for support. I smiled at her and glanced at the groceries she was buying. I thought, How is she going to get those groceries into her house? I pushed aside the thought, finished paying for my own items, and headed out of the store. I noticed the woman standing next to her car while a store employee loaded her groceries into the trunk. The thought came to me again: How is she going to get those groceries into her house?
With some frustration, I countered: But what can I do? Follow her home? I had an immediate strong feeling that this idea was correct, so I gave in and drove down the road after her. I kept thinking: This is crazy! Why am I following this woman home? Soon we arrived at her apartment complex. I ran over to her and asked, “Can I help you with these groceries?”
Puzzled, the woman looked at me and asked if I lived nearby. I told her I did not. “Do you work here?” she asked.
I explained that I had seen her in the grocery store and had worried about how she would carry all those groceries into her home. At that point she looked up at me with tears in her eyes and said, “I was wondering the entire way home how I was going to get my groceries into my home.”
Later, as I drove home, my own eyes blurred with tears. I had experienced the wonderful influence of the Holy Ghost touching two lives through the power of prayer. The words of Alma 17:9 came to me: “They … prayed much that the Lord would grant unto them a portion of his Spirit to go with them, and abide with them, that they might be an instrument in the hands of God.”
I am grateful to Heavenly Father for the special gift of the Holy Ghost that not only blesses our lives but also helps us bless the lives of others.