Gospel Story Finder

My dad insisted he was not an alcoholic. He said he only drank beer and you couldn’t be an alcoholic if you only drank beer. I believed it for a long time because I loved him. Maybe he believed it himself.
My dad would sometimes disappear for two or three days and then come home drunk.
He never just smiled and said, “I’m going to go get drunk.” He always left when he was angry.
Many things made him angry.
If I cried he would get angry.
If I asked too many questions he would get angry.
If I didn’t say the right thing he would get angry.
Sometimes I didn’t say anything for fear I would say the wrong thing. Then he would be angry because I wasn’t talking.
Usually he started drinking Friday night. Toward the end of each week I tried very hard to be good. I thought if I didn’t do anything wrong he wouldn’t get angry and go drink.
Occasionally he didn’t drink on Friday. I thought it must be because I had been good.
My mother encouraged this way of thinking.
I tried very hard to be good, but he kept on drinking. I thought it was all my fault.
I prayed he wouldn’t get drunk again. He kept drinking. I thought my Heavenly Father didn’t make him stop because I wasn’t good enough.
I remember trying to do everything perfectly. I didn’t want to “make trouble” at home. As I look back, I realize I have always tried to earn people’s acceptance. If I did things well enough, they would like me in spite of my father’s drinking.
My mom came from a very religious family. They went to church together. They did a lot of fun things together. I loved to hear her talk about when she was a child. I would pretend that I had been a child then too. It must have hurt her a lot to live with a man who got drunk.
She was ashamed of his drinking. She told me over and over not to tell anyone. “It’s a secret,” she’d say.
I loved her. I kept her secret. But it was lonely. I thought I was the only young person in the Church who had this kind of home.
What a relief it would have been for me to share the burden, to know that I was not alone.
At sacrament meeting I watched other families sit together. I watched them smile at each other. I wanted my dad to be there. I wanted our family to sit together.
But he never came to church. He said they didn’t like him because he drank beer. My ward had parties for fathers and their children. I helped plan these parties. I never got to go to them.
On Father’s Day our ward gave rosebuds to all the fathers. I helped pick every rosebud in our garden. My dad didn’t come to the meeting.
I hated it when they talked about temple marriage at church. I hated hearing my family was different. I knew as long as my father drank we could not go to the temple. I loved my mother. I loved my dad. I wanted to be with them forever. It’s very difficult to sit in class when they are teaching about the temple.
I just kept going to church. I decided I would not drink. I decided I would be married in the temple.
I’m an adult now, and I definitely don’t drink. I have been married in the temple, and I’m happy that my children are sealed to me.
I was afraid a lot.
I was afraid my dad would kill himself while driving drunk. I was afraid he’d kill someone else when he was driving drunk.
Late at night I would lie in my bed with all the lights out. I would wait and wait to hear his car pull in. I’d pray over and over, “Please help him get home safely. Please don’t let him hit anyone.”
In the morning I’d look at how the car was parked in the driveway. Sometimes it would be barely an inch from the house. Sometimes it would be over into the neighbor’s flowers.
I was afraid he’d embarrass me. He did. He’d wake up from sleeping off a drunk and not really be sober. He’d stumble out of the bedroom. He’d stink of beer. He’d say dumb things. I hated it.
My real friends still liked me. Still, it was embarrassing.
I was afraid my parents would get a divorce. Many times they would have fights when my dad drank. He had a black leather suitcase in his closet. He’d get it out and start packing his clothes. If it were daytime I’d run out of the house. One day I took my dad’s white pocketknife with me. I wanted to have something of his if he left.
Sometimes I was afraid my parents would not get a divorce. I was afraid they would keep living together and I would never have a home that was nice. I thought my mother and I could go live with my grandparents. It sounded so safe.
The movies and television show handsome men and beautiful women drinking. These people do clever and funny things.
My dad didn’t do clever things. He did disgusting things. He would wet the bed. I would have to strip off the sheets and blankets. Then it was my job to turn over that big, blue, wet mattress. I would grab hold for all I was worth. I pulled. I pushed. It would spring back at me. The wet smelly thing would be in my face.
He threw up. He threw up and then threw up some more. My bedroom was next to the bathroom. I would bury my head in my pillow. I didn’t like that sickening smell.
Sometimes my dad would walk around without clothes on when he was drunk.
He never hit me when he was drunk. But lots of people do get mean when they drink. They hit their children and abuse their families.
Now I’m an adult I can forgive him. I know now that alcoholism requires treatment. He did the best he could do without help. But I didn’t forgive him while we were living in the same house.
It was Christmas Eve. I sat by our tree. I remember the sparkling icicles and the glowing red and white lights. I was sad my dad wasn’t home. He was drinking at some bar.
It’s not the way I wanted Christmas to be.
Drinking ruined birthdays. It ruined Thanksgiving. It ruined New Year’s and Easter and other days.
Holidays were often the saddest, loneliest, most painful times of the year. On those days the contrast was sharp and bitter between how life could and should be and how it really was.
Most people do the best they can.
I believe my dad did his best. Maybe he could have done better if he had joined Alcoholics Anonymous. Perhaps a hospital for alcoholics might have helped. Maybe going to a counselor would have helped. But he didn’t get help.
Living with him was very difficult. Living with him was disgusting sometimes. Living with him was embarrassing sometimes. Living with him was sad many times.
Sometimes I was ashamed of him. Sometimes I was scared of him.
Other times I felt angry when our Mormon neighbors didn’t seem to like him. I knew he was a good person when he was sober. Why couldn’t other people see it?
One of my children asked me what I did for fun when I was a child. Initially I didn’t have an answer. Of course, I had some good times. But the strongest memories all involve alcohol.
Alcohol steals childhood. Instead of a parade of carefree days, there is premature responsibility. Instead of happiness, there is anger and fear and guilt. Instead of openness and trust there is secrecy. Often there is estrangement from the Church.
But I survived, and others can too, if we all help. I hope we will.

When I was growing up, every year or so my stake would hold a “roadshow”—a night of laughter and fun as each ward performed an unashamedly amateur melodrama before the rest of the stake in the crowded cultural hall. For weeks before the event, leaders in the wards would concoct unlikely plots, create ridiculous songs and dances, and coerce reluctant youth into wearing outlandish costumes. Our roadshows could hardly be termed theater, but they were a lot of fun.
Of all the stake roadshows I took part in, one in particular stands out in my memory. The year I was 16, the stake presidency, of which my father was a member, decided the wards would not be allowed to use glitter in their costumes or makeup. Although the shimmering flecks looked wonderful on stage under the spotlight, they invariably found their way into the carpets and furniture of the rooms the wards used for preparation. Because the roadshow was to be held on Saturday night, the stake presidency hoped this measure would help keep the building clean for the Sabbath.
But in the enthusiasm and good-natured competition of that year’s roadshow, the stake presidency’s counsel went largely unheeded. After the performances concluded, I looked for my dad among the members slowly trickling from the building. They all seemed to have had a night of friendship and amusement. When I finally found my father in one of the rooms used for preparation, I could see that he was not amused. He was walking slowly around the room, gravely surveying the sparkles scattered about the floor.
“Most of the wards used glitter,” I said, stating the obvious.
“It’s like this in almost all the rooms,” he said and sighed. “Weren’t we clear about not using glitter?” he asked in frustration.
“I think you were,” I said, hoping to ease some of the tension.
By the time we found the rest of the family and went home, it was already late. But after seeing the younger kids to bed, my father took his car keys and went to the door.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Back to the stake center,” he said quietly. “I’m going to see what I can do to get it ready for Sunday. Do you want to come?”
I didn’t have any special desire to spend what remained of my Saturday evening cleaning, but when I thought about my dad doing all that work alone, I agreed to go.
By the time we reached the stake center, my dad’s attitude had changed. As we cleaned, he seemed less discouraged and even somewhat enthusiastic about the challenge before us. He spent the time asking me about school and my friends.
Although the cleaning took several hours, we both felt a certain pleasure in our work and tried to be as thorough as possible. It wasn’t until after midnight that we felt the building was ready for church in the morning.
The next day, I felt special satisfaction as I looked through the clean rooms and remembered how they had appeared the night before. I considered telling my friends about my one-night stint at janitorial work, but that didn’t seem appropriate. Apparently, my father felt the same—to this day I can’t remember him mentioning that night to anyone.
Today when I think back to that roadshow, I can’t remember any of the humor or costumes or music. What comes to mind are images of my father vacuuming and sweeping and picking glitter from the floor of the church—doing behind-the-scenes work in preparation for the Sabbath.

About a year and a half later, I was serving in the mountains of Peru when I received an unexpected phone call from my mission president. He told me my father had suffered a stroke and was in critical condition. After a short time, my father passed away. I was devastated, and I felt plagued with questions like, “How can I ever get over this?”
I prayed to Heavenly Father for an answer. Mostly I wanted to know why my father had to be taken away without me even having the chance to say goodbye. I turned to the Book of Mormon, opened it, and read the same words I had shared with that elder many months before: “But behold, all things have been done in the wisdom of him who knoweth all things.” Those words covered me with peace like a blanket and gave me grace when I felt lost.
My earthly father was gone, but my Heavenly Father would always be there for me. Heavenly Father does all things in His wisdom, and as we search and do our best to prepare ourselves, we can find precious answers.

Elder Soares: I met Sister Soares at a church dance six months after I had returned from my mission. She had also just recently returned from a mission.
Sister Soares: I could see you look at me, and something began to stir within me too. And as soon as the music stopped, you came over and asked me to dance.
Elder Soares: We continued as friends, but it was that night when our eyes were opened. We each saw a faithful young Latter-day Saint and the potential for a relationship. And two weeks later we began to date. That was 41 years ago.

Victoria, British Columbia—
Sometimes before you share the gospel, you have to share your dreams.
That’s how it started for Gillian Hitchmough, a Laurel in the Victoria Third Ward, Victoria British Columbia Stake, and Reta Stevenson, her friend from school. Because they had classes together, they had plenty of time to talk about what was on their minds.
“At first, we didn’t really talk about religion, we just talked about what was going on in our lives,” says Gillian. “But then there was a boy at our school who was another religion, and I remember him really harping on me about being a Mormon. It was hard for me, and I told Reta how bad it made me feel.”
Reta says she could tell from those conversations how strongly Gillian felt about her religion. Pretty soon she was asking questions, and Gillian extended the invitation for Reta to come to youth conference. Reta readily accepted.
“At youth conference I learned a lot of stuff that I could really use in my life. I felt the Spirit so strongly at the testimony meeting. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before. I knew there was something really real there.”
Enter another LDS friend, Matt Hall—whose mom happens to be the seminary teacher—and Gillian got just the backup support she was looking for.
“My family and I had Reta over for family home evening one night and showed her a [Church] video. The missionaries were here, but so was Gillian, so it was just kind of business as usual. One of the missionaries bore his testimony. It was really great,” says Matt.
Pretty soon Reta was attending seminary, week-night activities, and church on Sunday. Reta knew the Church was true, but she was having a hard time overcoming a few things, especially the idea of being the only member in her family. She knew that if she joined the Church her family couldn’t come in the temple with her when she got married. And since she was so young in the gospel herself, it was sometimes hard for her to explain her new beliefs to her mom.
“My decision to be baptized came when the questions I had were answered. This big feeling of relief came over me, and I knew I was doing the right thing. It was a big step, but it was a good big step,” says Reta.
And so, on a beautiful summer day, Matt baptized Reta. She says she’s never been happier.
Matt and Gillian were happy too. They now know firsthand the joy that comes from extending the gospel message to their friends and seeing them accept. And both of them are eager to receive mission calls when they’re old enough.
“My life has really changed since I joined the Church. It’s made me a better person, and it’s filled some empty spots in my life. It gives me hope for the future,” says Reta.

A neighbor received an original and useful gift from her sister last Christmas. It was a file box filled with the makings for a year’s worth of family home evenings. Each manila folder contained a lesson and mounted visual aids clipped from the current manual. Also included were paper napkins and a variety of stickers for the children to glue on them for refreshment time. The mother reports that the file, with lessons ready-to-go, has been one of the best gifts her family has ever received, and it’s been used by parents and children alike.

On September 29, 2015, he received an unexpected call from the Office of the First Presidency. At the Church Administration Building, “I was welcomed warmly by President Thomas S. Monson and his two counselors. After we were seated, President Monson looked at me, and he said, ‘Brother Renlund, we extend to you the call to serve as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.’”
Elder Renlund was stunned. He humbly accepted the calling and recalls, “I think President Monson sensed that my bones had dissolved, and so he looked at me, and he said, ‘God called you; the Lord made it known to me.’”
Elder Renlund returned to his office, closed the door, and fell to his knees in prayer. After collecting himself, he called his wife. “Her reaction was one of astonishment,” he says, “but of absolute commitment to the Lord, His Church, and to me.”

Young men in Uganda start playing football as small boys, using tightly bound branches for a ball. Ever since he was very young, Dennis had a gift for the sport, and his high school gave him a scholarship to play for their team. After he completed high school, a professional team offered him pay, room, and board. It was a dream come true, but Dennis knew this would likely interfere with his plans to go on a mission later in the year.
Dennis’s desire to do what his Heavenly Father wanted him to do was so strong that he did not even want to be tempted to remain on the team when the time would arrive for him to serve a mission. Many people questioned his choice, but Dennis is certain he made the right decision—for himself and others. “My two little brothers and my little sister were just baptized,” he says. “I never thought my sister would hear the gospel. When I see God doing miracles in my family, it gives me a bright hope for my future.”

Tonight I asked Mom to teach me how to cook from scratch, like she used to before Dad died and she had to go to work. I’m tired of watching her worry about bills, and I know that cooking from scratch would save money and be healthier.
“It would take a lot of your time,” she said. I said I figured it was time for me to pull my share of the load. Mom hugged me tight. “OK,” she laughed. “Lesson one …”

Many years ago when I was a young missionary and had just received a new companion, we met a Protestant minister who invited us in out of the cold. After exchanging points of view on various topics, he asked us, “And what is the Mormon attitude toward sexuality?”
I choked on my cup of hot chocolate. “Well,” said the minister after a moment of silence, “could you please tell me the Mormon philosophy toward sexuality?” I was speechless. Finally, my companion, realizing that I didn’t have an answer, replied, “Sir, we believe in it.”
It has been more than twenty years since that time. As a marriage counselor and university professor I have been asked the same question by students, friends, professional people, and LDS members and nonmembers alike. And still, I have never found a better answer than the one my young missionary companion gave: “We believe in it.”

Katie danced into the kitchen, where her brother, Jack sat at the table. “What are you doing?” she asked as she twirled on her toes.
“I’m writing a thank-you note to Uncle Ed,” Jack told her. “He gave me his old stamp collection.”
“I want to write a thank-you note too.”
“That would be nice, but since tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, why don’t you make valentines, instead?” her brother suggested.
Katie twirled again while she thought about that. Then she started smiling. “I have another idea,” she told Jack. Then she hurried off to her bedroom.
Katie found her colored paper and markers. She got her scissors and glue. She took some white paper and cut out five wide heart-shaped ruffles. Then she glued each one on a piece of red paper. On the first one, she drew trees on one side of the ruffle and a letter carrier waving on the other side. In the middle, she printed “Thank You, from Katie.” Next, she made one with striped balls around the ruffle, and one with a piano on each side of the ruffle. The last one she made had checkerboard squares around the ruffle. All the heart centers said, “Thank You, from Katie.”
Katie put the valentine with the striped balls into her dad’s shoe. He always played catch with her.
She put the one with the pianos into her mom’s coat pocket. Mom played the piano with Katie, and they sang songs.
She slipped the checkerboard ruffle valentine inside Jack’s desk. He was teaching her how to play checkers.
She put the last ruffled heart into their mailbox. The letter carrier always waved to her as he walked by.
Early the next morning, Katie’s dad started to get ready for work. He felt sleepy and a little cranky. When he grabbed his shoes, Katie’s thank-you valentine tumbled out. Dad looked at the striped ball and smiled because he liked to play catch with Katie. He read the thank-you in the middle and smiled again. He started whistling.
In the afternoon, Mom had to go grocery shopping. She snatched her shopping list and hurried out the door. She was in such a rush that she didn’t even wave to their neighbor, Mrs. James. But when Mom put the shopping list into her pocket, she found Katie’s thank-you valentine. She looked at the pianos on the ruffle and smiled. She read the message and smiled again. Then she stopped to show Mrs. James the special thank-you valentine and asked if she needed anything from the store.
An icy wind nipped at the letter carrier’s cheeks as he walked down Katie’s street. When he put some letters into Katie’s mailbox, her thank-you valentine blew out. He caught it and looked at the pictures. He read the message and smiled. Then he waved to Katie and smiled all the way down the street.
After school, Jack sighed as he went to his room to work on his math homework. Numbers mixed him up, and he wanted to eat supper. Jack opened his desk to get a pencil, and Katie’s thank-you valentine popped out. Jack looked at the checkerboard ruffle and smiled. He read the thank-you in the center and smiled again as he began figuring out his math problems.
Later, Jack found Katie feeding her goldfish. “I like my thank-you valentine,” he told her.
“Really?”
“Of course! Everyone likes it when someone remembers to say thank you. Now, how about a game of checkers?”
“Sure!” Katie danced off to get the game.

Paolo trudged home from school.
Saturday was his tenth birthday. Back home in Mexico, his family had celebrated birthdays with a big party, inviting many of their friends and relatives. His mother would prepare a large meal of wonderful foods, and his father would give special presents.
Ever since his family had moved to a small town in Colorado last fall, money had been scarce.
It was not the big party he would miss or even the presents. It was the way of life—the traditions and customs—that tugged at the empty place in his heart. His family still practiced some of the old ways, but it was not the same.
He stopped at the bakery where his father worked. Though his father had been a professor at the university in Mexico City, he had not been able to find a teaching job in the United States. He’d taken a job as a doughnut and bread maker at the local bakery.
“No work is to be ashamed of if it is honest and helps people,” his father had said when Paolo asked him about it. He’d pointed to the loaves of freshly baked bread. A rich, yeasty smell filled the small shop. “I bake good bread. It helps the people who buy it, and Mr. Patterson, who owns the store. Someday, I might be able to teach in the United States, but until then, I am content.”
Paolo had nodded, but he wasn’t convinced.
He thought about that as he stepped into the small bakery. He inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma of cinnamon and sugar.
His father smiled. “Paolo, I am glad you came.”
Paolo climbed on top of a tall stool and watched as his father wiped down the counters and polished the glass display cases until they gleamed.
“There.” His father hung up the towel. “Would you like to try my new creation?”
Paolo bit into the savory pastry his father handed him. “It is good.”
Paolo and his father walked home together. Someday, maybe, there’d be enough money to buy a car. For now they walked or took the bus.
Paolo waited until they were almost home when he said, “We do not live like we did in our country.”
“You will have a birthday party this year,” his father said, guessing Paolo’s thoughts.
“It won’t be the same,” Paolo muttered.
“Because we do not live in a big house?”
Paolo started to deny it and then hung his head. “I wish we had never left Mexico. That was our home.”
His father stopped and gestured to their modest one-story house. “This is our home now. It is a good place.”
Paolo looked at the rented house where his family lived. It was small and run-down. He had not invited any of his friends to visit because he was ashamed of it. In Mexico, their home had been much nicer, a place he could be proud of.
He hadn’t told his parents of his feelings. He knew they would be hurt.
“Paolo, you have not invited anyone to your birthday party,” his mother said as he set his books on the kitchen table.
He pretended to be very busy in making himself a snack, avoiding meeting his father’s gaze.
“What is it, Paolo?” his mother asked. “You do not laugh or smile as you once did. Are you so unhappy here?”
The worry in his mother’s voice caused him to flush with guilt. “I am happy. I just haven’t made friends yet.”
That was not true and his conscience nagged him. David, a boy at school, had invited Paolo to his home several times. David lived in a fine house. Paolo could not invite his friend to the shabby house where his family now lived.
His mother’s eyes were shadowed with pain. “You are ashamed of your papá and me. Of where we live.”
“No, Mamá. I could never be ashamed of you.”
“But you are embarrassed by our home, aren’t you?”
He wanted to deny it. A look at Mamá’s face convinced him she would not believe him. “I will invite someone,” he said.
The pain in her eyes eased. “Good. I will prepare a special meal.”
“Ten is an important age,” his father said, his dark eyes serious. “Two years ago you were baptized. In two more years, you will receive the priesthood and be ordained a deacon.”
The words of the blessing his father had given him at the time of his baptism sounded clearly in Paolo’s mind: “I bless you with the knowledge to choose your friends wisely. Remember that the friends you make can influence your choices. Be an example to them and let your light shine.”
At the time Paolo had thought the blessing was to warn him of those who might try to tempt him to forget his principles. Last year a boy in his class had dared Paolo to steal something from a store. Paolo had walked away and avoided the boy after that.
For the rest of the afternoon and evening, Paolo worked hard to help around the house. He polished the furniture, swept the kitchen floor, and washed the dinner dishes while his sisters dried.
“Thank you, Paolo,” his mother said, looking up from where she was rolling out pastry. “We will have a good party on Saturday. You will see.”
The following day at school Paolo asked David, “Would you like to come to my birthday party on Saturday?”
A smile creased David’s face. “Sure.” He punched his friend lightly on the arm. “I was wondering when you were going to ask me over to your house.”
When David arrived on Saturday afternoon, Paolo tried to see his home through the eyes of his friend. Richly woven rugs brightened the floor. Pillows, embroidered by his mother, covered the furniture. The house smelled of frijoles and spices and simmering meat. The old house no longer appeared so shabby as laughter and the aroma of good food filled it.
He introduced David to his parents and little sisters and was pleased when David joined in the fun of knocking down the piñata.
Once again Paolo recalled the blessing at the time of his baptism. Now he realized that, in addition to the warning, the blessing also encouraged him to make and appreciate good friends like David.
“Your family’s great,” David said between bites of frijoles.
“Yeah,” Paolo agreed. “You’re right.” The things he had worried over no longer seemed important. He had what really mattered.

It was hot enough, Laura Jo imagined, to turn even a lizard belly-up in the sun. And the rocks in front of her rose higher than one of her Uncle Walton’s tall tales. But Laura Jo didn’t want to stop until she had scrambled down the other side of the butte so that she could leave her confusion and hurt feelings behind her at the schoolhouse on the flats below.
She knew that at twelve years old she couldn’t run away from her problems. But she was sure that if she could put some space between herself and her grievance—that at the moment being Sarah Greely—she could perhaps at least calm down about not being asked by Toby Dunlap to share his box lunch at the school picnic.
Maybe I sometimes wear old clothes, she thought as she followed the little crooked path up the steep slope, but that doesn’t mean I’m poor in the head! She made her way down the other side of the red-rock ridge to the big lightning-split cottonwood alongside Yellow Bird River. It was quiet there, as quiet as a prayer, just as a secret place should be.
Now, as Laura Jo gazed into the deep green water that glinted in the daylight, her disappointment seemed as deep as that river. Most of the kids were oblivious to her affliction by now—she was just another classmate to them. But Toby Dunlap was a new boy at school. In fact, today was his first day. It might have been the first time that he had seen gold ringlets as eye-fetching as Laura Jo Walker’s, because she was the one he had first approached to share his box lunch with.
That was before he knew about Laura Jo’s harelip. He tapped her on the shoulder, and halfway through his asking her if she would lunch with him at the picnic, Laura Jo turned around. Toby stopped, stared at her, then stated awkwardly that he suddenly remembered that he had already asked someone else.
It was only because Sarah Greely happened to be passing by, Laura Jo knew, that he ended up sharing his lunch with her. Still, Laura Jo had felt more unwanted than bad news. She leaned forward now and eyed her reflection in the inlet pond and for a moment wished that the girl looking back at her was someone other than Laura Jo Walker.
The sudden appearance of another face looming over hers in the water gave her a start. Then just as quickly she relaxed. It was Bishop Cole. He wore a broad-brimmed hat and a smile as big as a wasteland sunrise, and the latter, the girl’s father said, went on forever.
“Sorry if I startled you, Laura Jo,” he said kindly. “It appears that you and I have a liking for the same spot.” He leaned his fishing pole against the trunk of the old cottonwood and set his creel on the ground.
“I didn’t know that you like to come here, too, Bishop Cole.”
The tall man with the forever smile sat beside her, pushed back the brim of his hat, and squinted across the deep, wide ribbon of green water. “Almost as regularly as the sun coming up in the morning!” Then he added, “Well, at least once or twice a week. Bishops are pretty busy you know.”
Laura Jo nodded. “Do you come here to fish?” she asked, not able in her low mood to think of anything more sociable to say.
“That I do, honey,” Bishop Cole returned. “And to think.”
“So do I—to think that is.”
Bishop Cole beamed. “It must mean that Heavenly Father put enough quiet here for both of us.” He regarded her for a long moment, and his look shifted to one of quiet concern. “Is there anything that I can help you with, Laura Jo? Behind those beautiful green eyes I detect a look that’s more out of sorts than a bee in a poked hive.”
“It’s that easy to tell, huh?”
“It’s part of a bishop’s calling to be able to sense those kinds of things.”
Laura Jo’s bottled-up emotions started to seep out of her eyes. She brushed at her tears and found a release in the bishop’s listening ear.
Late afternoon shadows were creeping out from behind the buttes when Bishop Cole pulled a pocket watch from his vest and checked the time.
“I’m sorry, Bishop Cole,” Laura Jo apologized. “I’ve taken too much of your time.”
“Not any more than I’ve taken of yours.” he reassured her. “I was just wondering if school is out yet—we don’t want your folks worrying about you.”
“It only takes me a half hour to walk home from school, bishop.” She stood up and brushed herself off. “It’s not any farther from here if I take that path over there.”
Bishop Cole stood up too. “Why don’t I take it with you, young lady? I’ll walk you home.”
“I’d like that.” Laura Jo beamed, then hesitated. “But you didn’t even get to fish yet.”
“One doesn’t always have to aim for rainbow trout to have fished. It just so happens that today I went fishing for the whys of a certain young lady’s fretting.” He pointed toward the little red-rock path skirted with spatterings of sego lilies as he added, “And I didn’t do too badly. Between here and your place, I’d like to talk to you about them and about a few of my feelings.” He removed two large sandwiches from his creel. “And maybe you can help me eat all this food my wife packed for me. There’s enough in just one of these sandwiches to last until the Lord’s second coming!”
Laura Jo smiled inside as well as out. Someone was sharing a lunch with her, after all. And not just anyone. Bishop Cole.
That night when Laura Jo brushed her hair before the small wall mirror in her attic bedroom, she smiled at the golden-haired girl looking back. She couldn’t remember everything that the bishop had told her on the walk back to her house that day. What she remembered most—besides the fact that a person is different only to the extent that she is herself and not anybody else, and that real beauty lies in one’s heart and soul—was that Bishop Cole was her friend. And she was his. He had taken time for her. She mattered. She was, he had said, “a precious soul in his eyes, in the eyes of her family, in the eyes of a lot of other fine people—and,” Bishop Cole had then testified, “in the eyes of Heavenly Father.”

After his mother died, Gordon B. Hinckley felt responsible for his younger brother and sisters and helped them in many ways. He worked hard and saved money for his schooling. When it was time for his sister Ramona to graduate, he realized how important it would be to her to have a new dress for that special time. Thinking more about her needs than his own, he used some of his hard-earned money to buy her a beautiful new dress.

Recently I had an engaging conversation with a young man who was contemplating a mission. As we talked, it became apparent that he was struggling with his decision, because he was questioning the strength of his testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ. He wanted to know why he had not received more clear answers to his prayers and study of the scriptures.
This young man, whom I will call Jim, was raised in the mission field in a home with loving parents who were doing their best to teach gospel principles to their children.
He is an outstanding athlete and popular among his friends at school. However, he is only one of a very few LDS students in a large high school.
Having raised my family in the mission field, I quickly related to Jim’s challenges of wanting to stay true to gospel principles while being accepted by good friends, yet friends whose values and beliefs generally differed from his.
He was looking for further confirmation of his testimony of Jesus Christ and the Restoration of the gospel.
Today I speak to Jim and many others like him—young men and young women across the world who are unsure about their testimonies but very much want to develop strong, vibrant testimonies that will guide them through the shoals of life that lie ahead.
I also speak to those adults who have not yet felt deeply the spirit of the gospel in their lives. In the absence of a compelling testimony, some have let their daily thoughts and actions become so focused on the things of the world that they have minimized the influence of the light of the gospel in their everyday lives.
And then as Elder Neal A. Maxwell has so eloquently described, also included are those “‘honorable’ members who are skimming over the surface instead of deepening their discipleship and who are casually engaged rather than ‘anxiously engaged’ (D&C 76:75; D&C 58:27)” (in Conference Report, Oct. 1992, 89; or Ensign, Nov. 1992, 65).
As I attended the funeral services of Elder Neal A. Maxwell and Elder David B. Haight and listened to their well-deserved tributes, I more fully internalized the extraordinary examples of testimony and discipleship that the lives of these two great brethren demonstrated. I kept pondering how their examples could help strengthen our testimonies and deepen our resolve to come closer to Christ.
These two great disciples of Christ exemplify President Gordon B. Hinckley’s admonition to all of us when he said: “I have been quoted as saying, ‘Do the best you can.’ But I want to emphasize that it be the very best. We are too prone to be satisfied with mediocre performance. We are capable of doing so much better” (“Standing Strong and Immovable,” Worldwide Leadership Training Meeting, 10 Jan. 2004, 21).
Surely President Hinckley’s counsel and encouragement applies as much to the development and strengthening of our testimonies of Jesus Christ as to anything else.
True testimonies bring the light of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ into our lives and focus all of us toward the same goal of returning to our Father in Heaven—yet our individual testimonies come through varied experiences and at different stages in our lives.
Like Jim, as a young man I was privileged to have “goodly parents” (1 Ne. 1:1). They taught gospel principles and values to our family by precept and example. As a young boy I thought I had a testimony. I believed! Then came some personal spiritual experiences through faith, prayer, scripture study, and especially father’s blessings in our home that caused me to think more seriously about the principles I had been taught and believed—but even more deeply about what I was beginning to feel. I will be forever grateful to parents who helped coach me through those precious spiritual experiences. They have had a lasting impact on me and on the strength of my testimony.
I think Alma must have had us in mind as he was teaching the Zoramites how to gain testimonies of the truth:
“But behold, if ye will awake and arouse your faculties, even to an experiment upon my words, and exercise a particle of faith, yea, even if ye can no more than desire to believe, let this desire work in you, even until ye believe in a manner that ye can give place for a portion of my words” (Alma 32:27).
Alma then went on to “compare the word unto a seed.” He explained that as hearts are opened, “it will begin to swell within your breasts” (Alma 32:28). Alma then gave us the key to developing a successful testimony:
“But if ye will nourish the word, yea, nourish the tree as it beginneth to grow, by your faith with great diligence, and with patience, looking forward to the fruit thereof, it shall take root; and behold it shall be a tree springing up unto everlasting life” (Alma 32:41).
And then the promise!
“Then, my brethren, ye shall reap the rewards of your faith, and your diligence, and patience, and long-suffering, waiting for the tree to bring forth fruit unto you” (Alma 32:43).
Think with me for a moment, brothers and sisters, about what Alma is teaching us.
First, we must have a sincere desire to believe. Phrases such as “awake,” “arouse your faculties,” “experiment,” and “exercise a particle of faith” are action words that suggest sustained effort on our part.
His description of the swelling in our breast describes the feeling of the Holy Spirit. And as Moroni promises, “By the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things” (Moro. 10:5).
To keep that Spirit growing, Alma says we must nourish it by “faith with great diligence, and with patience.” He then promises that the rewards of faith, diligence, patience, and long-suffering will bring forth everlasting life (Alma 32:41; see also Alma 32:43).
Like Alma, latter-day prophets have been clear in their teachings of the things we need to do to develop and strengthen our testimonies.
We have been sent here to work out our individual salvation through the tests and challenges of daily life. We cannot do that by relying heavily upon the borrowed light of someone else’s testimony. As we receive inspiration when we hear prophets, leaders, and peers bear their testimonies, those spiritual feelings should further enhance our desire to strengthen our own convictions.
To my young friend, and to all wherever you may be, never give up on the Lord. The answer to your prayers may not be as clear or as timely as you would like, but keep praying. The Lord is listening! As you pray, ask for help in understanding the promptings of the Holy Spirit. And then do your very best to be worthy to receive those promptings. As you recognize or feel the impressions and whisperings of the Spirit, then act upon them.
Daily fervent prayers seeking forgiveness and special help and direction are essential to our lives and the nourishment of our testimonies. When we become hurried, repetitive, casual, or forgetful in our prayers, we tend to lose the closeness of the Spirit, which is so essential in the continual direction we need to successfully manage the challenges of our everyday lives. Family prayer every morning and night adds additional blessings and power to our individual prayers and to our testimonies.
Personal, sincere involvement in the scriptures produces faith, hope, and solutions to our daily challenges. Frequently reading, pondering, and applying the lessons of the scriptures, combined with prayer, become an irreplaceable part of gaining and sustaining a strong, vibrant testimony.
President Spencer W. Kimball reminded us of the importance of consistent scripture reading when he said, “I find that when I get casual in my relationships with divinity and when it seems … no divine voice is speaking, … if I immerse myself in the scriptures the distance narrows and the spirituality returns” (The Teachings of Spencer W. Kimball, ed. Edward L. Kimball [1982], 135).
The Savior taught, “Search the scriptures; for in them ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they which testify of me” (John 5:39).
The strong, unwavering testimonies that so many of you wonderful, faithful members of the Church embrace have come from prayerfully following counsel from our prophets and the scriptures. That same priceless blessing is available to each of us who earnestly seek it.
To my young friend Jim, and all others who may have periodic concerns about the strength of their testimonies, know that you are loved and watched over daily by your Father in Heaven. He will respond as you strive to keep His commandments and reach out for His loving hand.
We all share the same promise that the Lord gave to the Prophet Joseph Smith: “Draw near unto me and I will draw near unto you; seek me diligently and ye shall find me; ask, and ye shall receive; knock, and it shall be opened unto you” (D&C 88:63).
Our prophet’s call to do our “very best” challenges each of us, individually and within our families, to carefully examine our personal lives and then commit to change those things which will more fully assure our testimonies are strong and secure.
Strong testimonies become the driving force for each of us to do “much better.” They become the impenetrable bulwark of armor that protects us from the unrelenting things of the world.
I bear my witness that we have a loving, caring Father in Heaven and that He and His Beloved Son, Jesus Christ, appeared to the boy Joseph to usher in the Restoration of the gospel in this last dispensation.
Jesus Christ heads this Church. President Gordon B. Hinckley is His chosen prophet.
May we have the courage and the conviction to follow the prophet’s counsel. As we do so, our personal testimonies will be secure. That this may be so I pray in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I witnessed this truth during a particularly difficult week on my mission. Everything seemed to be going wrong: I wasn’t getting along with my companion, people we had been teaching had suddenly stopped talking with us, and the weather was extremely hot.
I felt like God had forgotten me. As I was walking down the street in the blazing heat, I thought: “How could you forget about me? It’s so unfair. I’m trying so hard!” And in that moment, a drop of water hit me in the eye—right between my eyebrow and glasses. At first, I was so annoyed that I didn’t even consider the cloudless sky. And then, seconds later, another drop of water hit me in the same spot. I stopped and looked up, and the words “Jacob, I haven’t forgotten you” entered my mind and heart.
I began to cry. I knew those words and raindrops were a message from Heavenly Father. I felt His perfect love for me and for all of His children. I was reminded of who I was and that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ would never abandon me—or any of us.
Now when I am struggling to remember my divine identity, I ponder this experience to remind myself that I, and all of Heavenly Father’s children, have great worth.

“Sarah! Sarah, wake up!” five-year-old Christiana said to her little sister. “It’s time to leave.”
Three-year-old Sarah struggled to open her eyes.
“But it’s still dark outside,” she complained sleepily.
“I know, but Mama says we have to get an early start. The ship to America leaves soon.”
The Larsen family had joined the Church in Denmark. Now they would be making the long journey to join the Saints in the Salt Lake Valley.
Christiana helped Sarah get dressed. Then the little girls tearfully took one last look around their comfortable bedroom. They knew it would be a long time before they would sleep in a real bed again.
“Don’t forget your parasol, Sarah,” Christiana said as she picked up her own lacy silk parasol. “Mama said she would pack them with the bedding.”
Mama and Papa had said they couldn’t take anything besides necessities on the trip to America. After the bedding, clothing, and tools were packed, there wouldn’t be much room for anything else. But Christiana and Sarah had begged to take just one favorite thing to their new home. After all, they were leaving behind their dolls, books, and toys. Each girl chose her pretty parasol.
As the sun rose, Christiana and her family boarded the ship that would sail to America. They were excited to go to Zion, even though they had to leave friends, family, and their home.
The ocean voyage was long and tiresome. During the hot afternoons on the ship, the two girls used their pretty parasols to keep the sun off their heads. If the wind blew in the right direction, the ship sailed steadily on. But if it changed course, the ship was forced back, often as far as it had already come.
When the Larsens landed in America, they bought a wagon and oxen and began the long journey to the Salt Lake Valley. The ride in the wagon was bumpy and hot, so Christiana and Sarah often walked instead.
Like many other pioneer families, Christiana’s family experienced hardships and tragedy along the way. Christiana’s newborn brother died during their journey and was buried on the plains.
After the Larsen family reached the Salt Lake Valley in 1857, Christiana loved to go to church with other children her age. Christiana and Sarah happily carried their parasols to church every Sunday to keep the hot desert sun off their faces.
As the days and weeks went by, the family’s money and food began to run out. One night Christiana heard her parents discussing the problem. Her father said he knew of a family who had been blessed with a good harvest of grain. The Larsens could trade something they had for some flour. But what did they have to trade?
Christiana spoke up. “You can trade Sarah’s and my parasols, Papa.”
“But you love your parasols, Christiana. I couldn’t do that!”
“It’s all right, Papa,” Christiana said. “We need the food more than we need the parasols.”
The next day Christiana’s father traded the beautiful lacy parasols for some flour. The flour provided food for the whole family.
That night, as Christiana got ready for bed, she looked sadly at the corner where her lovely parasol had stood. But as she remembered the wonderful bread she had eaten for supper, her sadness turned to gratitude. As she said her prayers that night, she thanked Heavenly Father for her lovely parasol, which helped to feed her family.

Immediately, I contacted the Church’s area legal office, and they hired an attorney to seek Sister Llanos’s release. This attorney was not a member of the Church. He committed to help us but expressed pessimism. He explained that mere possession of a military bullet by nonmilitary personnel is a serious crime, regardless of a person’s intent.
Later, Sister Llanos told us she had picked up the bullet off the street in her last area. She thought it was a souvenir. The bullet, after all, resembled the souvenir key chains sold outside an old silver mine in one of her previous areas. Government investigators, however, treated her like a terrorist. Within a few days, Sister Llanos was moved from the airport jail to a high-security prison where the worst female criminals were housed.
Prayers for Sister Llanos’s prompt release began immediately. Janeen and I invited the 115 missionaries serving in our mission to exercise faith that we could see a miracle, if it was the Lord’s will. I contacted the mission presidents in Mexico City, the Costa Rica San José East Mission, and the Mexico Missionary Training Center, and they invited their missionaries to join us in prayer.
Inside the prison walls, Sister Aketzaly Llanos never lost sight of her purpose as a representative of Jesus Christ.
Inside the prison walls, Sister Llanos never lost sight of her purpose as a representative of Jesus Christ. She taught her nine cellmates to pray by offering morning and evening prayers as a group each day. She also taught them about their divine identity.
One of her cellmates declared, “I am a really bad person for what I did to get in here, and God hates me.” Sister Llanos looked her in the eye and said, “No. You are not a bad person. You’re someone who did something bad. But you are a daughter of God, and He loves you!”
Another cellmate recounted a dream she’d had a few weeks before Sister Llanos was arrested. The cellmate dreamed that a quetzal bird had flown into the prison to help her. Before Sister Llanos joined the Church, she had had a picture of a quetzal bird tattooed on her back. When the cellmate saw the tattoo, she knew she should listen to Sister Llanos’s missionary message.
Sister Llanos taught her about the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ and gave her the copy of the Book of Mormon she had brought with her to prison—the same copy sister missionaries had given Sister Llanos five years before when she investigated the Church.
A preliminary trial was quickly scheduled in Mexico City. Janeen and I went to testify in person. When we met the legal team outside the courthouse, the attorney was visibly nervous, pacing up and down the sidewalk.
I took him aside and said: “Today you are going to feel more calm and more peaceful than you have ever felt in a courtroom. Let me tell you why. More than 500 missionaries and their families are praying for you and your success today. They’re also praying that the judge will have a softened heart and that he will release Sister Llanos from prison.”
The attorney’s eyes filled with tears, and he expressed his appreciation for the faith and prayers of so many people in his behalf.
At 10:00 a.m. the trial started, but I was required to wait outside until my turn to testify. Two long hours passed. Then the courtroom guard came out and said the judge didn’t need to hear my testimony—he’d already made his decision.
Anxiously, I entered the courtroom, and the judge began to speak. He spoke about the law Sister Llanos had violated and about the serious charges she faced.
“Disregarding all that,” he continued, “I believe the evidence that has been presented about Sister Llanos’s good character.” Then he quoted an obscure part of the law that allowed him to grant mercy, and he immediately released her.
Sister Llanos with Sister Janeen Redd, into whose arms Sister Llanos collapsed upon her release from prison.
This was the miracle we had sought! Instead of being sentenced to four or more years in prison, Sister Llanos was free to go. After the hearing, her attorney said that that day was one of the most significant days of his professional career.
“I truly felt God at my side,” he said. “I want to learn more about your beliefs.”
I invited him to the Mexico City Mexico Temple Visitors’ Center. “You will see other missionaries there as good as Sister Llanos,” I told him. “You’ll see the sparkle in their eyes, and you will ask yourself why.”
Twelve hours later, Sister Llanos was released, still dressed in prison clothes. She collapsed into Janeen’s arms. Once we all stopped crying enough to speak, Sister Llanos exclaimed, “President, I got some referrals in prison!”
This entire experience confirmed that “God has not ceased to be a God of miracles” (Mormon 9:15). I have no doubt that the faith and prayers of many good people helped an attorney argue his case and softened the judge’s heart.
Because Sister Llanos was arrested, several imprisoned women received hope through the gospel of Jesus Christ, an attorney sprouted a seed of faith, and we were strengthened in our conviction that God can use us to further His work no matter where we are.

Sister Baddoo, a substitute teacher in the Langata Branch (Kenya) Relief Society, began her lesson. She held up the “Light the World” poster and explained how it was easy last year to do something each day and it would also be easy this year. For day one, the scripture was “Freely ye have received, freely give” (Matthew 10:8). She explained what fun her family had making cookies—sugar and chocolate chip cookies.
The two youngest enjoyed rolling the dough in little balls and smashing them flat on the baking pans. All four children were involved in the baking process. The family took them to neighbors to surprise them and make them smile. The following day Sister Baddoo smiled because her children helped her pull weeds in the garden without being asked. The family discovered that making others smile is not only fun but contagious.

A friend of mine told me recently of his family vacation this past summer. A long distance was being driven, and the children, who ranged from preschoolers to high school age, grew restless. The parents had wisely taken along the scriptures, and when these restless times came, family members read chapters and then everyone talked about what had been read. The teenagers who did most of the reading quit teasing the little ones, and the little ones seemed very interested in what the older ones had to say. This family read a sizable part of the New Testament while traveling on their vacation.