Gospel Story Finder

All my life I strove for perfection: I strove to be the angel child, the straight-A student, the exceptional friend, family member, and athlete. But things didn’t work out the way I’d hoped, and I started to feel like I was losing control over my life.
So I turned to something I could control: how much I ate. I began to look in the mirror and feel unhappy with what I saw—an imperfect girl. The only way to make her perfect was to be skinny. I began to weigh myself daily. I ate less and less. I turned down foods I loved. And still I was not happy.
My parents noticed my frequent gloomy attitude, and they noticed I was not eating very much. When they realized that something was not normal, they took me to my pediatrician. Sure enough, my weight was down an unhealthy amount. I was diagnosed with the eating disorder anorexia. I was put on an anxiety medication and treated by three specialty doctors. I was to the point that they almost put me in the hospital to save my life. I was walking the line of life and death. At the time I didn’t realize how bad things were. I didn’t even know what anorexia was: an emotional disorder characterized by an obsessive desire to lose weight by refusing to eat.
I got mad. I did not see what the problem was and why everyone was so worried. Wasn’t that what I was supposed to be doing—staying healthy and being skinny? My family decided to fast and pray for me. This made me frustrated. I didn’t think people should fast and pray for me, because I thought I was healthy, happy, and content with how I looked.
My parents and siblings told me over and over, “You need to change. You need to seek a desire to change.” I didn’t want to change. I didn’t want to put on weight, and I couldn’t see why they wanted me to, either.
Countless times they would tell me, “Turn to the Lord. Tell Him you want to change and ask Him to help you change.” I would pray for these things, but it was an empty cry. I didn’t want help but went along with it to make my parents and doctors happy.
I had been receiving treatment for my eating disorder for about a year and a half when my sister, who was serving a mission at the time, said, “You need to change.” I had been told that over and over again and was kind of sick of hearing it, so I just said in frustration, “How? How do you want me to change?”
From the time I was diagnosed with anorexia, I had read my scriptures every night, had not missed morning or night prayer, and had gone to church. I said to my sister, “I have asked God to change me, and I am still here. He isn’t listening.” I felt frustrated, but I knew giving up my scripture study and daily prayers would do nothing to help the situation.
My kind sister thought for a moment and then said, “You need to want to change. Go to God, and talk to Him like you would to me, and tell Him you are ready to change.” What she said hit me like a ton of bricks. I went to my Heavenly Father, a little nervous but honest and earnest, and just said, “OK, here I am. Help me to change. Please help me to find a desire to change.”
Things did not get better immediately, but I had a slight change of heart. Ever so slightly, I began to want to be healthier, to eat, and to be free from this illness. Little by little, things improved.
I still fight daily to eat, but it is so much better because I turned to the Lord for help. I did not do this by myself and could not have done it by myself.
Heavenly Father and His Only Begotten Son, Jesus Christ, did not leave me comfortless. The Savior is aware of every little pain and agony I feel and have felt. Not only is He aware of them, but He has also felt them (see Alma 7:11–13). He knows how we are suffering. He knows we want to give up, and He gives us the extra boost to keep us going.
There were countless times when I would wonder, “When will it go away? Why me?” I wanted to give up. Later I realized that Heavenly Father has a plan, and I need to trust in His plan. His plan is perfect, although I do not always see it in that way. I also know that the Lord blessed me with amazing parents, doctors, family, and friends throughout this process.
Truly, God knew I would need all the help and support I could get, and each person was inspired of God to help me. God does not leave us to fend for ourselves no matter the situation. He is there, and He wants us to turn to Him, to be saved through His Son’s amazing Atonement. I know that God loves His children and that He has prepared a way for us to return to Him no matter the gravity of our trial or sin.

In your quest to define yourselves, do not get caught up in comparisons with role models or body types that may seem to be macho or chic but in reality are not becoming to you as sons and daughters of our loving Heavenly Father. One 17-year-old girl became so obsessed about her figure that she began to skip meals and ended up with an eating disorder. When it became apparent to her father, he insisted that she eat a substantial meal. This confrontation ultimately brought her to her senses, and she wrote:
“All my life I had done things for everyone else. The grades, the manners, the awards—everything for them, nothing for me. This eating thing, this losing weight had become mine. It represented me and my choices, and now my dad was trying to take that away from me, too!
“As I lay in bed that night crying and feeling fat, I knew I needed help. I knew I was hurting people I loved.
“After staying up all night, I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t my dad I hated. I hated ME! I realized that I wasn’t in control. For the first time in my life, I understood that this was my problem. I needed to take control of my life—not let the disease control it.
“Things didn’t change overnight. In fact, it was one long road to recovery. But slowly, with the help of friends and family, I began to heal. Now that I’m at my ideal weight, I have stopped weighing myself altogether. I no longer peruse fashion magazines, either—I may not be ‘in style,’ but I feel just right!”3

It was an uncommonly warm spring evening in Port Alberni, the small mill town in British Columbia, Canada, where I lived. I was looking forward to attending Mutual and spending time with my Latter-day Saint friends. I was friendly by nature but was nevertheless struggling socially both at school and at church.
As was our habit, a group of us gathered in the foyer of our meetinghouse and began chatting. I spent little time on center stage in these conversations, and from my outside vantage point I spotted two sister missionaries coming in the front doors with a boy beside them. I recognized him from my neighborhood.
While her companion stood off to the side speaking to the boy, Sister Eaton approached us and said, “Look, you guys. We’re really excited about this. We’ve been working with this boy and his family for months, and this is the first time he’s agreed to come. Would you make him feel welcome?”
We nodded halfheartedly, said our hellos, and made a small opening for him to stand with us. He looked awkward and uncomfortable and mostly stared at the floor. In comparison to most of us, he was poorly dressed and unkempt. We talked for a few more minutes until the adult traffic became too intrusive. Then we slipped away to the rest room for more privacy.
All of us, that is—except the new boy. We were so caught up in our discussion we didn’t notice him turn and walk out the door alone. Nor did we miss him in the rest room.
A few minutes later the bell rang for the start of opening exercises. We filed out of the rest room, joking among ourselves. Just outside the door, however, Sister Eaton was waiting for us, tears pouring down her face.
“What’s the matter with you?” she cried out, more in disbelief than anger. “All you had to do was be friendly to him, to include him. Was that too much to ask?”
“Where’d he go?” I stupidly asked.
“What do you care?” she snapped back. “You won’t have to worry about him again. He won’t be back.” With that, she turned, joined her companion, and left the building to look for the boy. It was a five-kilometer walk back to our neighborhood.
Stung by her chastisement, we filed quietly and sheepishly into the chapel. Even when the others began to revive their spirits, my conscience burned. I was deeply disturbed by what we had done. Later that evening after I returned home, I talked to Laurence, my older brother, about it. He had returned from college and would soon go on his mission. I respected his advice on spiritual matters.
“What do you think you should do about it?” he asked me after I had blurted out the whole story.
“I don’t know,” I answered glumly. “What can I do now? Sister Eaton says it’s too late.”
By now Laurence sensed how upset I was.
“Maybe not,” he said with a tinge of hope in his voice. “The sisters should be home by now. I’ll call over there.”
Within five minutes Laurence had the boy’s address, and we began walking there together. Although it wasn’t far, it was getting dark as we walked into the poorly lit part of town where the boy lived. I was glad my brother was with me. I didn’t know what kind of reception awaited us, and I was nervous.
We approached an old house that needed a coat of paint. Laurence checked the number under a streetlight and pointed toward it.
“That’s it,” he announced. Taking a deep breath, I headed toward the front door with Laurence at my side. I knocked quickly before my courage failed. My heart was pounding. A few moments later, a woman I assumed to be his mother answered the door. She looked older than I had expected and seemed tired.
“Hi, is your son here?” I asked.
“What do you want with him?” she asked suspiciously.
“He came to our church tonight, and we kind of ignored him,” I stammered. “I want to apologize and invite him back.”
She folded her arms and looked directly at us. I saw in her eyes a look of disgust at the way we had treated her son.
Ignoring me, she looked over at Laurence and said, “Thank you for coming by, but I don’t think he’ll want to come back.”
As she began to close the door, Laurence made a last attempt to reassure her of our repentance. “The boys made a mistake, and I know they’re sorry. I know them. It won’t happen again.”
But the door had closed before he could finish. For the second time that night, I felt stung by my actions.
“Do you think he’ll ever come back?” I asked apprehensively.
“I doubt it,” Laurence replied bluntly.
We said very little the rest of the way home. I had done wrong, and I knew it. I had felt deep remorse, and I had even tried to make restitution. But I had failed. I wondered why, after I had followed all the steps I had been taught, the Lord hadn’t recognized my repentance and lifted my burden of guilt. I felt awful.
The answer finally came from my heart: I hadn’t done enough. But I was too afraid to go back and try again. So I never did.
For me, this was a complete failure, one I’m still deeply ashamed of. Yet in a curious way I learned an important lesson from it—one that still humbles me and reminds me of what it takes to be a true disciple of Jesus Christ.

Last year, I decided to make a goal of saying my prayers every night. For a couple of nights, it was hard to remember to do it. Then I decided that I needed help to remember to say my prayers. So I prayed to Heavenly Father and told Him about my goal. I asked if He would help me remember to do it each night. And it worked! If I forgot and got into bed without praying, I felt like something was wrong or something was missing. The Holy Ghost helped me every night to reach my goal. My mom and dad were surprised and happy to find out about what I had accomplished. We had a family home evening about goals, and now everyone in my family is working on something!Jackson Barney, age 9Orem, Utah

The house was dark and warm, but a cool breeze filtered through the open window and brushed across Maggie’s face as she slept. Suddenly Chip’s excited barking made her sit up in bed. She blinked her eyes open and looked out the window at the moonlit yard below, where Chip tugged at his chain and barked frantically. Then she heard Father rush down the stairs and stumble through the kitchen. The back porch light flicked on and instantly flooded the backyard with light. Maggie quickly wiggled her toes into her slippers and reached for her robe.
From his room, eight-year-old Robbie demanded sleepily, “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Maggie replied. “Chip’s barking at something in the yard.”
Downstairs, Maggie and Robbie joined their mother, who stood near the kitchen door. They watched as Father raced back and forth across the lower end of the yard.
“He’s trapped something!” Robbie shouted.
Maggie slammed out the screen door and ran across the dew-covered grass to see that Father had cornered a stray dog. He finally got close enough to clamp an empty bushel basket over it. Instantly the dog whimpered and scratched, trying frantically to escape. Father carefully raised one edge of the basket, grabbed the dog by its scruff, and secured him in the shed.
“Two of them were at the rabbit cage,” Father said softly. “They got in by digging under the fence. The other one got out the same way.”
They stood at the rabbit cage where Floppy lay stiffly. His fur was stained with blood, and Maggie did not have to be told. “Floppy’s dead,” she whispered.
Her father hugged her tightly. “Yes, honey.”
They walked slowly back to the house and explained to Mother and Robbie what had happened.
Robbie’s face puckered, and his chin quivered. Without a word, he turned and ran to his room and slammed the door. Maggie looked up at her mother and father. They were both crying silently.
Maggie didn’t think that she could fall back to sleep, but when morning came, she knew that she had. Wearily she stretched, then remembered: Floppy is gone—all because of two vicious stray dogs! She sat up and looked out at the shed. That dog ought to be shot! she thought. Floppy was our pet, and he never hurt anyone. She remembered the day when her parents had brought him home. He had hopped playfully around the yard while Father built his cage. Tears welled in Maggie’s eyes as she forced herself to look down at Floppy’s pen. It was empty. She sprang from her bed and dressed. “Where’s Floppy?” she demanded when she reached the kitchen.
Mother turned from the stove. “Your father put him in a box, honey. When we return from town, we’ll bury him beneath the plum trees in the meadow.”
Maggie nodded and began to set the table.
Later, as their parents climbed into the truck, Mother asked, “Are you two sure you won’t come to town with us?”
Maggie shook her head. “I’ll stay and dig the grave.”
“I’ll stay, too, and help Maggie,” Robbie said.
“I’ll get new fencing,” Father told them. “And the dogcatcher will pick up that stray dog this afternoon.”
“What will they do with him?” Maggie asked.
Father shrugged. “Make sure that he doesn’t have rabies, then try to find his owner, I suppose.”
“Do you want anything special from the grocery store?” Mother asked.
Maggie and Robbie shook their heads. As soon as the truck drove away, Maggie said, “I’ll do the dishes. You get the shovel.”
Robbie nodded, then turned and shuffled toward the shed.
“And give Chip food and fresh water, OK?” Maggie called.
Robbie nodded and kept walking, his shoulders drooping. As Maggie went inside, angry thoughts churned in her head. She wanted to get a big stick and beat the dog that had killed Floppy. She hoped that it died of hunger! No punishment is too cruel for it, she decided.
She washed the dishes, and each time she looked at Floppy’s pen, tears slid down her cheeks. Finally she was done, and she went out on the porch. Funny—things looked just as they had: White daisies bloomed by the porch, and purple irises waved their filmy heads in the morning sun. The vegetable garden sported tiny green sprouts, and birds chirped around the feeder. Only one thing was different—and nothing could erase last night’s tragedy. “Robbie?” she called.
When she saw her little brother step out of the shed with the shovel, Maggie stepped off the porch and walked toward him. “Did you feed and water Chip?”
He nodded. “I fed and watered the stray dog, too,” he told her. “Father said that he’d put a pan in there last night, but it was empty. I guess that he finished whatever was in it long ago.”
Maggie stared angrily at Robbie.
“He’s just a little dog, Maggie,” Robbie explained quickly, “and he’s really hungry and scared. He gobbled the food down and didn’t even try to run away.”
Maggie didn’t care how hungry and scared he looked—he’d killed Floppy!
Robbie kept right on talking. “I thought about Chip. If he didn’t have a home or anyone to feed him, maybe he’d have done the same thing . …”
Maggie blinked, and her anger turned to understanding. Robbie’s right. Jesus taught that we’re supposed to forgive … especially those who hurt us … even a hungry stray dog. … Maggie’s frown softened. “Come on,” she said, taking the shovel from him. “Let’s go dig the grave. Then we’ll make a marker for it.”
“What will it say?” Robbie hurried to keep pace with his sister.
“How about ‘Here lies Floppy, our loving pet’?”
“He was a nice pet, wasn’t he?” Robbie asked.
“He sure was,” Maggie agreed as she started along the path to the meadow. “And nothing can take that away.”

On 29 November 2018, my dear wife, Ruth, went into labor with our fourth child. Although this was an exciting and joyous moment for us as a family, there was some major concern. The pregnancy was at 32 weeks and the expected delivery was to be late January 2019. This was approximately eight weeks early. The thought—and the now-evident reality—of getting our baby preterm was disturbing.
Before we rushed to the Aga Khan University Hospital in Nairobi that night, I said a silent prayer and beseeched the Lord so that both the mother and baby would be protected. As we arrived at the hospital, the doctors warned me of the possible dangerous outcomes of preterm delivery. They mentioned that the baby’s development could be affected due to incomplete time in the womb. In the worst-case scenario, loss of life happens, and mom and baby could be lost. Although this terrified me, I knew that God was in the details. I knew that the Lord would do His will upon my wife and baby. This assurance gave me a lot of peace. I had prayed many times for other pressing matters in the past, and I had seen the hand of the Lord. He had answered all my prayers from the days of my youth. I knew He would not forsake us even in this case however difficult it seemed.
Around this time of trial, my ward, Zimmerman, was split and I received a call to become the bishop of one of the two newly created wards. This was a very challenging moment for me, but I knew that God would provide a way to accomplish this immense task. I could juggle between my new calling, taking care of the three children at home—all of whom were still young—making regular visits to the hospital, and give honest labor to my employer.
From my past interactions with other bishops, it was evident that the calling of being a bishop was considered one of the most challenging callings in the church—feared and loved in equal measure. However, I confidently knew that whom the Lord calls He qualifies and that He would provide a way for me to be a successful bishop as well as fulfill all other responsibilities placed on my shoulders. As Nephi states: “And it came to pass that I, Nephi, said unto my father: I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save He shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which He hath commandeth them” (1 Nephi 3:7).
Things went on well and our baby, David, was born weighing 1.5 kg (approximately 3.3 pounds). The doctors said he looked good for his age and that he was not in any extreme danger. He was placed in the neonatal intensive care unit and he responded very well to the care given by the doctors and nurses. Like many other times in the past, I saw the hand of the Lord and His choicest blessing in my wife’s and son’s lives. This experience helped me appreciate our great medical technology and the selfless acts of the hospital personnel. David is healthy and thriving now and has been a great addition to our family. He is a source of joy to us all. His siblings Payson, Precious, and Natasha love him dearly. He is a constant reminder of the greatness of God.

My husband, Gary, a marriage and family therapist, shares valuable insights about parent-child communication. “Asking simple questions and then listening is a great way to get children thinking,” he often tells parents. I’ve watched him do it in our home, and I’m gaining some skill in putting it into practice myself.

For example, our son came home from school one day and seemed discouraged. I said, “What’s up? You seem sad.” He replied, “Jim [not his real name] is such a jerk.” And I said, “Oh, how’s that?” I was surprised at what followed. “He’s been inviting his girlfriend over to his house every day after school since his mom started working.” Resisting the temptation to begin a magnificent sermon on morality, I said, “Hmmmmm.” And he said, “It’s so stupid. He’s just asking for trouble.” That was definitely similar to what I would have said, only more concise. I asked, “What do you mean?” Then a flood of information poured forth regarding all the dangers of being alone in a house with a girlfriend. But it didn’t stop there. He discussed all sides of the issue, including the terrible effects of venereal disease and abortion. All I did was listen and agree. I’m convinced he would have heard very little of the sermon had it been preached by me.

During my freshman year of high school, I met a girl who shared something with me that has changed my life permanently.
I knew she held her family and church very close to her. She always seemed to be talking about these things and never failed to invite me to a church activity. I always had an excuse for not being able to go, but in truth, I was simply afraid of the rumors I had heard about Mormons. After 18 months of invitations, I decided to go help her father with a Cub Scout activity at her local meetinghouse. The members were a lot of fun, and even though I didn’t recognize it by name, I felt the Spirit very strongly. I went to more activities until eventually I found myself waking up at 4:30 a.m. to see what seminary was all about.
My friend invited me to read the Book of Mormon and meet with the missionaries. I agreed to meet with them in her home where I was able to feel the love and support from her family and also hear their conversion stories. The missionaries and this family encouraged me to read and to pray. Through their examples and support, I was able to gain a testimony of the Book of Mormon and the restored Church of Jesus Christ. I was baptized and later served in a branch presidency while on my mission in Lubbock, Texas. I loved to share this experience with those I taught and will be forever grateful for what a friend was willing to share with me.

When I was growing up in Japan, I was given a Bible at school. It had English and Japanese words next to each other. Our principal told us to use it to study English.
As I read it, I learned about Jesus. Who is this person who is so full of love? I wondered. The words He said made me happy. I wanted to know more about Him.
A little while later, I met the missionaries. They gave me a Book of Mormon and asked me to read it and pray about it. I loved reading about Jesus in the Book of Mormon too. I prayed and felt it was true.
No one in my family wanted to learn about the Church. Jesus taught that we should honor our parents, but my parents didn’t want me to join the Church. That was hard.
I told my parents how I felt. I told them about my prayers. They didn’t understand. They wondered why I wanted to leave our religion behind.
I kept trying. Eventually my parents said I could be baptized. Many years later, my mother was also baptized.
I know that I was blessed for wanting to follow Jesus. I love learning about Him, and I know following Him brings blessings.

In order to come to the point, I want to tell you of a faithful brother who was a member of the same branch in my home country of Germany in the early years of my membership.

He was living in humble circumstances and felt very blessed to have recently begun a job in a small, privately owned company. He told me about an upcoming event where all of the employed people were invited to participate in a traditional company dinner party. He was concerned because he knew that there would be a big beer party at the end of this meeting, with the boss being probably the heaviest beer drinker of them all. But he also knew that it would be considered very impolite if he did not attend the dinner at all.

When I saw him again, after that dinner event occurred, I saw him with a most happy, deep inner glow, and he could not wait to tell me what had happened. Because he was new in the company, the boss had sat right next to him, wanting to get to know him better. As the evening progressed, the brother saw his wildest fears confirmed because the boss would not tolerate that he would not drink beer with him, and he said, “What kind of church is that that would not permit you to drink even a glass of beer with me?”

The fear of my friend did not grow into panic as he was able to calmly answer his boss that the reason he was not drinking had nothing to do with the church that he belonged to, but that he himself had made a sacred covenant with God that he would not drink. If he would ever break this covenant, how could he continue to stay true to that which he would ever promise, and how could he be trusted, even by his employer, that he would not lie or steal or cheat?

According to my friend, the owner was deeply touched by this statement, and he hugged him, speaking words of profound admiration and confidence.

One of our sons struggled with fitting in and self-esteem during his teenage years. My wife and I prayed to know how to help him, and we were willing to do whatever the Lord would have us do. One day I felt prompted to ask my elders quorum president if he knew of anyone in need who I could visit together with my son. After some thought, he asked us to visit a woman with significant health challenges and, with permission from the branch president, to bring the sacrament to her each week. I was elated but also concerned about how my son would react to this weekly commitment.
On our first visit, our hearts ached for this dear woman, as she was in constant pain. She was very grateful for the sacrament, and we enjoyed visiting with her and her husband. After a few visits, one Sunday I was away and could not accompany my son, but I reminded him of our assignment. When I got home, I couldn’t wait to hear how the visit went. My son replied that he didn’t think his classmates got to do cool things like this. And he elaborated by saying that he brought his brother with him to help and that the sacrament went smoothly, but this dear sister had been sad during the week because she had invited friends to her home to watch movies, but her video player would not work. My son said he searched online, found the problem, and fixed it for her on the spot. He felt useful, happy, and trusted to do something that brightened her day. He felt God’s love for him.

Hanna twisted the dish towel and snapped it at the imaginary enemy in the middle of the kitchen. “Take that, Black Knight!”
Her friend Ashley leaned against the counter, holding her sides. “That towel makes a silly sword, but I’m sure you finished him off,” she laughed.
Hanna made a cape of the dish towel and put her foot on the imaginary evil knight.
Her mom peeked in. “Speaking of finishing things, girls, if you want me to drop you off at the skating rink, you’ll have to hustle. I’m leaving in ten minutes.”
Ashley jumped. “Let’s hurry.”
“Don’t worry,” said Hanna. “We’ll let the rest soak and drip dry.” She dumped the silverware and utensils into a bowl, squeezed in some soap, and turned on the tap. The mess was soon lost in bubbles. Hanna and Ashley turned over the clean, wet dishes and pots to dry.
“That looks better,” said Hanna. She doubted whether her mom would get angry in front of Ashley.
Hanna’s mom reappeared. She scowled at the dishes, but then smiled. “Well, let’s go.”
In the car, the girls talked about skating backward and about rounding corners on one leg. Hanna stopped in the middle of a sentence when her mom pulled to the curb, reached across their laps, and opened their door.
“What are you doing, Mom? We’re only halfway there. We’ll be late for our lesson.”
“I know,” said her mom.
Hanna looked confused, but Ashley tugged at her friend’s arm. “Come on, we’ll walk the rest of the way.” Then she thanked Hanna’s mom for the ride.
The car pulled away. Hanna stared at Ashley. “Why did you say thank you?”
“That’s just the kind of thing my mom would do. She calls it a ‘consequence,’” answered Ashley. “Remember, we only did half the dishes.”
“Yes, but we were counting on my Mom’s help,” objected Hanna.
“And she was counting on ours.”
“Now you sound like a parent,” Hanna said. She looked betrayed. “Consequence sounds like a fancy word adults would use instead of punishment.”
“In our family it isn’t. We have meetings where everyone decides what rules will make us a good family.” Ashley found it hard to explain. “Come to our family meeting tonight, Hanna. You’ll see what I mean.”
“Right after I do the dishes,” joked Hanna.
That evening Hanna cleaned up quickly. She was curious about family meetings. As she slipped through the gate that separated their yards, she thought about Ashley’s comments.
Ashley invited her in and told her that the family knew that she was there to watch. Then she led her to the kitchen, where the others had gathered. Beth, the oldest of the four children, had a notepad and pen. John was combing his hair, and Eric tapped the table edge as if it were a drum. Ashley’s mom and dad greeted her with smiles.
It doesn’t exactly look like a courtroom, thought Hanna. She took the empty seat and leaned forward.
After a prayer, John started. “Beth borrows my basketball and doesn’t let me know. I don’t mind sharing, but I’d like to be asked.”
“I know how you feel,” said Beth. “Ashley borrows my T-shirts without asking.”
Hanna waited for an argument to start.
“Sometimes we all forget to ask before we borrow. Let’s talk about consequences that would remind us to ask first,” Eric said.
“How about fifty lashes with a wet dish towel?” Ashley winked at Hanna. Everyone laughed. “Seriously,” she went on, “how about, whoever you borrow from gets to claim something of yours for a day?”
Everyone nodded. “That was easy,” said Beth, jotting down the decision.
“Here’s a problem that doesn’t seem simple,” said Ashley’s mom. “What should we do about people being late for dinner?”
“That seems easy to me,” snickered John. “The people who are on time get to eat it all.”
“That’s a consequence,” admitted Ashley’s dad. “But it’s too tough. We could keep a plate of food warm in the oven.”
“Then it would seem like my consequence,” said Mom, “especially if I want to clean up right after dinner.”
“The late person could have to settle for a cold sandwich,” suggested Eric.
“That doesn’t sound like a bad consequence to me.” Hanna wasn’t sure she should participate. Her face reddened. “I love peanut butter sandwiches.”
“Hanna is right,” said Dad. “Sometimes that consequence would seem more like a reward.”
“Mom did say that cleanup is harder if there are stragglers,” said Beth. “I think the consequence should involve cleanup.”
“That’s logical,” agreed John.
Mom smiled too. “How does this sound: anyone who is late for dinner will be responsible for putting away leftovers and clearing the table. And whoever misses the meal does the dishes alone.”
Everyone liked the idea. Beth added it to the family notebook.
“Does anyone else have a problem to work on today?” asked Dad.
“Just one,” said Eric. “I made a carrot cake and some cocoa. Now I have to find someone to eat them.”
“I think,” Hanna said, smiling at Ashley, “that we should get ready for an enjoyable consequence.”

Many wonderful, humble women in the Church provide dedicated service without realizing the far-reaching impact their lives have—as examples of temporal service, but also as legacies of spiritual strength. One such woman is my grandmother, Cherie Petersen. She has served faithfully in quiet callings all her life. If you asked her, she would claim that she doesn’t have many talents to offer the world. However, as I have started to learn about her life, I’ve realized just how much her spiritual strength has affected my life.
Cherie’s parents stopped attending church and divorced when she was still very young, so she grew up with a mother, Florence, who was always working. Florence had been neglected as a child, as she was raised in a boarding school while her mother, Georgia, lived a worldly life. In spite of the challenges in her upbringing, Cherie remained active in the gospel, faithfully attending church with her great-grandmother Elizabeth’s family or with friends. She saw in their families what she wanted for her own. She didn’t know exactly what a family should be like, but she knew what it shouldn’t be, and she was determined to have her future family be different.
Cherie’s husband—my grandpa Dell—once told me, “To have a testimony, you have to want it. Cherie always wanted a testimony.” Though their early years of marriage were filled with struggles, they were determined to remain strong as a family. They were less active during the first year of their marriage because of Dell’s work schedule, but a call to serve in the Primary prompted Cherie to begin attending, and Dell soon joined her at church as a deacons quorum advisor. They’ve both been active and strong in the Church ever since. Cherie’s willingness to serve and determination to raise a strong family helped my mother become the strong woman she is, and my mother’s example has helped define my life, especially as I now start my own family.
My grandmother’s righteous decisions have impacted her family generations past what she could see as a young woman. However, the spiritual influence of the women in my family stretches even farther back. Cherie gained much of her own spiritual strength from observing her great-grandmother (my third great-grandmother) Elizabeth. Elizabeth’s example of faith and testimony reached past two generations of inactivity to help her great-granddaughter Cherie reverse a trend of broken families and return to the Church.

Tonight my thoughts are about a boy somewhere in the world. He is wondering if he can do what being a priesthood holder will require of him. I had that worry when I was about 13 or 14.
I had grown up in the mission field where there was only a tiny branch, which met in my home. Then my family moved to where there were stakes and large wards and chapels and quorums of boys who all seemed to know so much more than I did about what priesthood holders do. They had in that ward a complicated pattern for passing the sacrament. I felt almost certain that I would make a mistake when my turn to pass or prepare the sacrament came.
In my fear and desperation, I remember going outside the chapel to be alone. I was worried. I prayed for help and for some assurance that I would not fail in serving God in His priesthood.
It is now many years later. I have held the Melchizedek Priesthood for more than 50 years. But in the last few days I have prayed with that same pleading for help and assurance that I will not fail in the call which has come to me to serve in the First Presidency. Others seem so much more able to serve and so much better prepared. But as I prayed this time, I think I could feel an answer that was probably sent to me outside the Yalecrest Ward chapel long ago. It is the same answer you can expect to get when you face a call to serve in the priesthood which seems beyond you.
The message may come in words to your mind or in a feeling or both. But it will include at least three things to give you assurance and guidance in what you must do in this seemingly overwhelming calling.
First, the assurance will come from a memory of times Heavenly Father has helped you through dangers and difficulties. That’s happened to me in the last few days.
When I was young and still living in New Jersey, a large crowd of angry people gathered in front of our house. My mother went out to meet them, standing alone in this crowd of people who looked very dangerous to me. I couldn’t hear what she said, but after a few minutes they went away peacefully. I still remember that I had seen a miracle.
From when I was older, I have a more recent memory of a crowd of angry people I was called by the First Presidency to face who suddenly and inexplicably were touched by a spirit of calm and reconciliation.
Another time I was sent to speak to leaders of churches in the United States and ministers of those churches who had met in Minneapolis to deal with the problem of competition among churches.
When I arrived, I found that I was assigned to be a speaker. My subject was to be: Why there was a need for a restoration of the true Church through Joseph Smith. I was a last-minute substitute for Elder Neal A. Maxwell.
When I arrived in the city the night before the meetings and looked at the program, I called President Hinckley. I told him that the meetings were to last three days, that many talks were to be given at the same time, that the crowd could choose which one to attend. I told him that I thought if I told the truth, I feared that no one would come to my second session and that I might be coming home very quickly. I asked him what he thought I should do. He said, “Use your best judgment.”
I prayed through the night. Somewhere near dawn, I was sure I was to say about the Restoration not, “This is what we believe happened to Joseph Smith and why we believe it happened,” but, “This is what happened to Joseph Smith, and this is why the Lord did it.” In the nighttime I was given no assurance of the outcome, just a clear direction—go forward.
To my amazement, after my talk the ministers lined up to speak to me. Every one of them, one after another coming to me, told essentially the same story. Each of them had met a member of the Church somewhere in their lives that they admired. Many of them said that they lived in a community where the stake president had come to the aid of not just his members but of the community in a disaster. They asked if I could take back their greeting and their thanks to people I not only didn’t know but had no hope of ever meeting.
By the end of the three days of meetings, larger and larger crowds were coming to hear the message of the Restoration of the gospel and the true Church of Jesus Christ not because they believed the message but because they had seen goodness in people’s lives—the fruits of that restoration.
As I prayed in these last few nights, those and other memories flooded back with an assurance something like this: “Haven’t I always looked after you? Think of the times I have led you beside the still waters. Remember the times I have set a table before you in the presence of your enemies. Remember, and fear no evil.” (See Psalm 23.)
So to the new deacons: remember. He has always taken care of you from your childhood. To the new quorum presidents: remember. To you fathers with children who are a challenge to you: remember, and have no fear. What is impossible for you is possible with God’s help in His service. And even when you were very small and in the years since, He has with His power and His Spirit gone before your face and been on your left hand and on your right hand when you went in His service (see D&C 84:88). You can receive assurance that God will watch over you if you pray for it in faith. I know that.
The second part of the message you will receive as you pray for help in facing a hard assignment came to me very early Friday morning. I had prayed, as you will, about overwhelming inadequacies. The answer was very clear and very direct and really a rebuke as I prayed. “Forget yourself; start praying about the people you are to serve.” That does wonders, I can testify, to bring the Holy Ghost.
But be prepared to lose track of time as you pray. You will feel love for the people you are to serve. You will feel their needs, their hopes, their hurts, and those of their families. And as you pray, the circle will grow wider than you would imagine, to perhaps people not in your quorum or your family but to those they love across the world. When you forget yourself to pray for the circle of others, your service will be extended in your heart. It will change not only your service but your heart. That is because the Father and His Beloved Son, whom you are called to serve, know and love so many people your service will touch, however limited to a few it may seem to be to you.
The third and final message you can watch for when you pray for help in a hard priesthood assignment is this one—I got this one as well—go to work. Priesthood power is given you to bless others. And that always takes moving out and doing something, usually something hard to do. So you can expect, in addition to assurance of God’s help and the command to forget yourself, the clear prompting by the Holy Ghost to go and do something which will bless someone’s life. That may be as obvious as going prayerfully to visit a person or a family or a quorum member whom you are assigned to serve. For a father it may be to correct one of his children.
Whether what you do is to correct or to teach the gospel of Jesus Christ, you will do it better if you remember what success will be. You are to help Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, make eternal life possible for those you serve. To do that, the Spirit must take a testimony down into their hearts. And that testimony has to lead them to choose to keep the commandments of God, whatever storms and temptations may come.
As you keep that in mind, the Spirit will guide you in teaching and correcting with priesthood power. You will keep yourself clean so that you will teach with the Spirit. You will pray for the Spirit to tell you when to correct and how to correct and how to show an increase of love (see D&C 121:43–44). Whatever you do in your priesthood service can be guided and measured by how well it could or did help the person take a testimony of the truth down into his or her life and heart enough for the Atonement to work and keep working.
You can get assurance in your service. You can forget yourself and begin to pray for and love those you are to serve. And you can choose what to do and measure success by the degree to which it changes the hearts of the people you serve.
But it is never going to be easy for you or for those you serve. There will always be pain in service and in the repentance necessary to bring the power of the Atonement to change hearts. That is in the nature of what you are called to do. Think of the Savior, whose service you are in. At what point in His mortal life can you see an instance when it was easy for Him? Did He ask easy things of His disciples then? Then why should it ever be easy in His service or for His disciples?
The reason for that is suggested by the phrase “a broken heart,” about which you have been taught so well today. The scriptures sometimes speak of people’s hearts being softened, but more often the words describing the state we seek for ourselves and for those we serve are a “broken heart.” This may help us accept that our call to serve and the need for the repentance we need and seek will not be easy. And it helps us understand better why testimony needs to go down into the hearts of our people. Faith that Jesus Christ atoned for their sins has to go down into the heart—a broken heart.
Now, tonight let us decide together what we are going to do. All of us, whatever our callings may be, face tasks that are beyond our own powers. I do and you do. That’s true from the simple fact that success is to get testimony down into the hearts of people. We can’t make that happen. Even God won’t force that on anyone.
So success requires people we serve to choose to accept the testimony of the Spirit into their hearts. The Spirit is ready. But many people aren’t ready to invite the Spirit. Our task, which is in our power, is to invite the Spirit into our lives so that people we serve will want to have the fruits of the Spirit in their lives—the fruits that they can see in ours.
This leads me to some suggestions of what we can choose to do or not to do. Some things we can do invite the Spirit. Some force the Spirit to withdraw. You know that from your own experience.
No priesthood holder who wants to succeed will be careless about where his eyes may go. Choosing to look at images which incite lust will cause the Spirit to withdraw. You have been warned by Elder Clayton as well as you may ever be warned about the dangers of the Internet and the media in putting pornographic images before us. But immodesty is now so common that everyday life requires discipline—a conscious choice not to linger watching whatever might create in us feelings which would repel the Spirit.
The same care is required in what we say. We cannot hope to speak for the Lord unless we are careful with our speech. Vulgarity and profanity offend the Spirit. Just as immodesty seems to be more common, so does vulgar and profane language. It used to be that only in certain places and with certain groups would we hear the name of the Lord taken in vain or hear vulgar words and crude humor. Now it seems to be everywhere and, for many, socially acceptable, where once it was not.
You can decide—and you must—to change what you say even when you can’t control what others say. But I know from my own experience that even in such a terrible situation you can count on God’s help. Years ago I was an air force officer serving for two years in an office with a marine colonel, an army colonel, and a grizzled navy commander. They had learned to speak in war and in peace in a way which offended me, and I know it repelled the Holy Ghost. I was at the time serving as a district missionary, trying in the evenings to go out to find people and teach them under the influence of the Holy Ghost. It was very hard. I was only a lieutenant. They were very senior to me. I had no way of changing their language. But I prayed for help. I don’t know how God did it, but in time their language changed. Slowly the profanity disappeared and then the vulgarity. Only when they drank liquor did it come back, but that was in the evenings, so I could excuse myself for missionary work.
You can have memories like that to sustain your faith when life puts you in difficult places. God helps the faithful priesthood holder who decides to see and say no evil, even in a wicked world. It will not be easy. It never is. But you can have the promise fulfilled for you as I know that it can be for me: “Let virtue garnish thy thoughts unceasingly; then shall thy confidence wax strong in the presence of God; and the doctrine of the priesthood shall distil upon thy soul as the dews from heaven” (D&C 121:45).
I testify that I know that you and I hold the priesthood of God and that He will answer our prayers with sweet assurance and with the help to serve Him better. I so promise you and testify in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

One night I read 3 Nephi 14:13–14: “Enter ye in at the strait gate; for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, which leadeth to destruction, and many there be who go in thereat;
“Because strait is the gate, and narrow the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.” [3 Ne. 14:13–14]
I got up from my chair and walked outside. Alone in the darkness, I could see myself standing at that narrow scriptural gate, pacing back and forth, afraid to go in. I realized at that moment that I had found the way. The Lord spoke to me that night, not as we speak to one another, but with a still, small voice that said, “What are you going to do about it?”
I went back to tell President Conley I wanted to be baptized. But he was in Salt Lake City. Thinking that only the branch president had the authority to baptize, I left, intending to return a week later.
During that week, Satan placed another stumbling block in my path—more doubts. “Do I have to start all over again?” I wondered. After struggling with my doubts for three days, I started reading a book President Conley had given me—Truth Restored, by President Gordon B. Hinckley. As I did, the Spirit, which had borne witness to me of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon, also bore witness to me that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the Lord’s true church.
When President Conley returned from Salt Lake City, I told him I wanted to be baptized. As we drove to Gilmer, Texas, for my baptism on 19 October 1970, I asked him, “Do I understand correctly from what I have read in the scriptures that just because I’m being baptized, I’m not saved, but that I have to endure to the end?”
He said, “That’s exactly right.”
I cried all the way to my baptism. I felt very strongly that the Church was true. After baptism, I felt it ten times more strongly.
Many times after, I wondered, “Why me? Why do I know the truth while many good Christian people don’t?” And a scripture always came to my mind, “Seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you” (Luke 11:9).
Several weeks after I was baptized, I had the privilege of receiving a witness of the Holy Ghost once again, stronger than before. One morning at about 3:00 A.M., I sat up in bed with tears streaming down my face. The Holy Ghost was bearing such a powerful witness to me of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon and of the Church that I felt like saying, “Please, Lord, no more, no more. I know it’s true.”
I do know with all my heart and soul that the Book of Mormon is true. It led me to the living God, to his Son Jesus Christ, and to his church guided by a living prophet.

Not only does this service bless the homes from which missionaries come, it blesses lives where missionaries go. One young lady who worked among the Indian people wrote: “The Navajo are a great people. Words can’t express my love for them. …
“The Navajo people accepted me, a white girl, as one of their own. They called me their white daughter. I had a hard time with the language, but I could teach by reading the lessons. I was very fortunate to have Navajo companions who could explain in detail. We could communicate with love. I learned that love is the greatest language to know. This people loved me and I loved them. We spoke with smiles, laughter, and sometimes tears. They were patient with my broken Navajo and helped me when I couldn’t think of a word. I left with a testimony in my heart and a feeling that cannot be described in words. …”
She concludes with, “In December I met a returned missionary. We fell in love and have been married in the temple.”

An acquaintance recalls that when he was a young boy, an electrician came to do some wiring. It was necessary to string some wires in a little crawl space under the house. Since the space was too small to accommodate an adult, the electrician asked the boy if he would go in and pull the wires through. When the boy had done it, the man handed him a quarter, and the proud boy went to show it to his mother. Her response was, “Oh, a quarter is too much. Go back and tell him that a dime is plenty.”
No doubt the mother was only trying to be fair to the electrician, but the fact that the man remembered the incident after thirty years seems quite significant.
How much better it would have been for the mother to have said, “A quarter is a lot of money. He must have thought you did a real good job.” Or she might have used the experience to teach him about service and help him realize the good feeling that comes from service offered freely. Such an approach would contribute to the child’s self-esteem instead of lowering it.

Let’s all learn from my friend Mick. One day he was swimming at a party given by the company for which he was working that summer in Nebraska. He dove into the water and hit a shallow spot very hard. A broken neck was his diagnosis, and his whole body was immediately paralyzed. He even lost the capacity to breathe. The doctor said, “He may not make it through the night.”
He had earned a B.A. degree in political science after serving a mission in Japan. At the time of this tragic accident he had just one year left in law school at BYU. He was married and had two children. This tragic accident changed his whole life, as if from day to night. He wasn’t sure whether he would make it until the next day. It was inconceivable, the emotional and physical pain that he must go through as a quadriplegic.
Even though he was in this condition in the University of Utah Medical Center, he was determined to graduate from law school. It was an almost impossible task, but good friends, true Samaritans, brought him notes and taped lectures from Provo. Oh, God bless these true Christians. He turned pages by a mouthstick, and if his book flipped shut, he waited for a long time until someone came to help him.
Finally, he graduated from law school, passed the Utah bar exam, and became a licensed attorney. While he was studying, exercising, and maintaining doctor’s contact to gain strength, his wife took his two sons and divorced him. This was the most “sorrowful and very heavy” period of his life. (Matt. 26:37.) But he never complained and even blessed the leaving loved ones. In his heart he prayed, “Thy will be done, O Lord!” (Matt. 26:42.) It was his own Garden of Gethsemane, and he took his own cup and drank it as his blessing.
My friend Mick met a most beautiful lady, Cheryl. They married and now the greatest joy has come to their lives. His wife is expecting a baby. It is a miracle. The Lord said, “I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless.” Last Friday, they were sealed in the temple for time and for all eternity. It was my privilege to perform the ceremony for this beautiful couple.
His stake president, President Banks, described him as “a most humble person with strong faith,” and his secretary said of him, “Time has always been important to him. A span of a few brief seconds means the difference. He has no wasted time. He has accomplished more than ever.”

It was almost Christmas, but Diego wasn’t feeling very excited. This was the first Christmas since his parents got divorced. And nothing felt the same. He and his brother, Samuel, wouldn’t even get to see Mom this Christmas.
“Everything’s different,” Diego said to Dad.
“I know.” Dad’s eyes were sad. “Sometimes things change before they get better.” He was quiet for a bit, then smiled. “Christmas will be different this year, but that doesn’t mean we won’t have some good times. We’ll still be celebrating the birth of the Savior.”
Diego nodded. It would be hard not seeing Mom, but maybe Christmas could still be good, just as Dad said. Diego wanted to help make this Christmas a happy one.
He went to his room to think. Sometimes for Christmas they did a family service project. What could they do this year?
Diego looked around his room. He saw a toy car he didn’t play with anymore. He picked it up and spun the wheels. It was still really good. Maybe he and Dad and Samuel could give some toys to kids who didn’t have any! He found a few other toys and put them in a bag with the car.
When Diego finished, he took the bag to Samuel’s room. “Can I help you clean your room?” he asked. “It’s a surprise for Dad.”
Samuel looked up from the picture he was drawing. “Sure.”
The boys worked together to clean Samuel’s room. Diego told him about the plan. They found a few toys that Samuel didn’t play with and added them to the bag.
When they were done, they carried the bag downstairs. “Dad,” Diego said, “we found some toys we don’t play with anymore. Can we give them to kids who don’t have any toys?”
Dad looked surprised and happy. “That’s a great idea! Let’s take them to the homeless shelter this afternoon.”
Visiting the shelter was fun. Diego and Samuel got to play with some of the kids while Dad talked to the grown-ups.
On the way home, Dad asked what else they could do to make this Christmas special.
“Last Christmas we made treats for our neighbors,” Diego said.
“We could do that,” said Dad. “Let’s go buy stuff to make cookies.”
Samuel thought cookies were a great idea.
The boys helped Dad shop for the ingredients at the store. At home they made the dough and cut out star and tree shapes. Diego and Samuel frosted the cookies yellow and green. Then they took little bags of cookies to their neighbors.
At the end of the day, Diego was tired but happy. He and Samuel and Dad had done things together as a family and had helped others. Dad was right. Christmas was different, but it was still good.

8. Bishop Kofi Sosu and His Father: Forgiveness of Father and Son, by Emmalee Glauser Powell
After his mission, Kofi wanted to return home, but his father had disowned him. He felt impressed to go anyway. When he arrived, his father saw him and said, “Stop.” So he stopped.
“Who are you?” asked his father.
“I am your son.”
“My son?”
“Yes, your son, Kofi.” At this he saw tears running down his father’s face. His father stood up and embraced him.
“Oh, my son, my son. I am so sorry. I know you did the right thing. I have accepted you as my son.”