Gospel Story Finder

Gracie felt like she had been waiting in line at the fabric store forever! She was ready to go home and play with her toys. Then she saw a girl in line in front of her. The girl looked a little older than Gracie. She had braces on her legs and used crutches to help her stand. She turned and smiled. Gracie smiled back.
As they were leaving, Gracie was surprised when Mom reached out to stop the other mom.
“Excuse me,” Mom said, “Could I ask why your daughter is using crutches?”
Spina bifida is a problem with the way a baby’s spinal cord grows before birth. It can cause problems with legs, feet, or hips.
The other mom smiled. “This is Saylor, and she has spina bifida.”
Gracie’s eyes opened wide as she looked at Saylor. “This is Gracie, and she has spina bifida too,” Mom said.
Saylor’s mom smiled at Gracie. “Do you have an owie on your back?”
Gracie nodded. She had a long scar on her back from a surgery she’d had right after she was born.
The two moms started talking. Gracie heard words like surgery and treatments. Gracie grinned at Saylor and said hi. Gracie liked Saylor right away. She learned that Saylor was nine, and she was nice. Gracie knew they would be great friends.
Finally they all said goodbye to each other. Gracie heard their moms make plans to meet again soon. She could hardly wait!
Back in the car, Mom said, “You know the surgery you’re going to have soon? Well, Saylor had that surgery, and she’s doing great! I felt the Holy Ghost tell me I should talk to her mom, and I’m glad I did.”
“Me too!” Gracie said.
Gracie loved playing with Saylor. Even though Gracie was five, she and Saylor had lots to talk about. And Mom and Dad talked with Saylor’s parents a lot too—mostly about the big surgery.
Thinking about the surgery made Gracie feel scared. She thought about the long scar on her back. She couldn’t remember that surgery, but she would remember this one. She hoped it would make her better. Saylor had told her that everything would be OK.
A few weeks later, Gracie went to the hospital to get ready for the surgery. The halls of the hospital were bright and happy. There were paintings of blue whales and other fun pictures on the walls. Gracie met with doctors and nurses who explained the surgery to her. She practiced moving the bed up and down and played with the remote for her little TV. They told her she could order chocolate milk every day! Maybe the surgery wouldn’t be so bad.
When Gracie got home, she made a little hospital bed with her pillow and a laundry basket. She got a tray of snacks and pretended she was at the hospital. It would be fun. She tried not to think about the surgery.
A few days before surgery, Gracie got a card from Saylor. She had drawn a picture of Gracie with Saylor and Heavenly Father and Jesus. It said, “Remember that Heavenly Father will make you brave.”
Gracie hugged her card tight. Saylor helped her be brave. Gracie knew Heavenly Father could help her be brave for the surgery too.

Amy Adams of Washington, USA, was trying to decide which activities would be best for her three young children when a conversation with her mother changed her mind. “What if you gave your children something better than training in sports or dance?” Amy’s mother asked. “What if by staying home, they could learn to feel the Spirit more?” Then her mother reminded her of what President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, has taught about the power of focusing on life’s basic relationships (see, for example, “Of Things That Matter Most,” Liahona and Ensign, Nov. 2010, 19–22).
Amy and her husband, Brett, prayed about and pondered this counsel and felt it would be a good idea for their family to spend more time together at home. For one year, they chose to forgo dance and sports; instead they prepared meals, learned Primary songs, visited museums, and played outdoors. “Our children were able to feel the Spirit … because we took the time to stop and listen,” Amy says. Their children may not be the top sports and dance stars, she says, “but they have a testimony of the Savior.”
Amy and Brett prayed to know how they should personally follow the counsel of modern prophets, and doing so allowed them to receive inspiration for their family. Amy says this inspiration led to her “proudest moments as a mother.”

I bought the first one several years ago in a drugstore in Alexandria, Virginia. At 77¢, it was the least pretentious bound notebook I could find. At the time, I didn’t know I was starting a journal. I only knew I needed a place to organize my thoughts.
Before then, I had written ideas on any convenient scrap of paper—on the backs of tithing slips, on church programs, in small spaces on calendars. As I lost those bits of paper, I lost my only record of my best insights. The time had come to make them more lasting.
From grade school through high school I had kept diaries, but the small, hand-size pages didn’t allow for long entries. And the word diary on the front seemed too lofty, like the record an explorer would keep of an Antarctic exploration. I wrote only the activities of my life in them, never my thoughts. (A typical entry: “Today I did horrible on my history test, but tonight Mike in my French class called me.”)
There was little emotional substance to those entries, but at least they were entries. Regrettably, as l attended college, I became “too busy” to keep a diary.
Therefore, when I bought the 77¢ notebook, I wasn’t thinking “diary” or “journal.” I was just tired of losing those insights that would make good Sunday School talks. As I wrote in that first notebook, I was fascinated by how easily words came. I began looking forward to writing in my notebook at night. Sometimes during the day I would write myself a note about ideas to record that night. Some mornings I awoke before dawn and wrote fervently for five minutes or even an hour, undisturbed by the need to get up and get dressed. Some nights I wrote several entries; some nights I wrote none.
I liked the inexpensive notebooks because I wasn’t afraid to make mistakes in them, or to write about the mistakes I made in living. I began setting aside time to write. I wrote in the same place—curled up on the sofa, by the lamp. I recorded in the margins events that were significant, such as a new car or the date of my cat’s vaccinations. The actual writing space was used to record my reactions to the day, my observations and conclusions.
It was only when I went back to the drugstore several months later to buy another notebook that I realized I was keeping a journal. I decided to give the series of notebooks a name: Janet. The first volume, Janet 1, hadn’t exactly assumed journal form, since I had dated few entries, and none mentioned daily activities and impressions. As I realized I was keeping a journal, I modified the format so that I would at least know what day each entry was written.
It became interesting, too, to note where I was each day I wrote. No matter where I went—on trips or to stay with nearby friends—I found that I was the same person, with the same personality.
When I was visiting a friend once, I realized the journal’s potential for encouraging spiritual and emotional growth. After hours of bantering with a philosophy student who wanted to argue about the gospel, I wrote a long entry about my beliefs. Putting it on paper was like testifying. That night, as I wrote with a purple felt-tipped pen, I realized how open and honest I was with my journal—probably more candid than I was with any friend. Because of my frustration with my ability to think and express myself I wrote: “My brain has been like a vacuum cleaner, sucking in all sorts of garbage and dirt. And gold dust. So I must empty the bag and sort out the particles one by one until only the gold dust is left.”
Writing out my ideas gave me a chance to analyze them. Sometimes, in writing, I realized that my attitudes were based on selfishness or faulty judgment. Other times I was glad to realize that my ideas were sound.
Sometimes I found myself laughing out loud at my reactions to the traumas of each day. Once on a bad day I wrote “PHOOEY” in letters 15 spaces high. It helped.
I started titling each entry. One of my favorite titles—and favorite entries—came when I was trying to develop greater faith. That title was “Doubt Creeps in and Janet Strikes Back.” Some titles reflect a calmer attitude. One in Janet 3, “On Days and Nights and Things I Love,” leads into a paragraph I love to reread:
“I love nights that are chilly and clear, when I can see the stars and talk aloud under them. And I love early mornings, being up, being alive, and being outside on a day that is only starting. I love new beginnings that are just getting organized. And clean sheets, clean nightgown, clean body, clean hair, and a reason to be happy. I love the world when my soul brims with hope.”
My soul doesn’t always brim with hope. Sometimes it brims with frustration. When that’s the case, I can look back to the rejuvenating entry I wrote that September night. I can find encouragement from another entry, written soon after that one: “When I can understand what I’m going through, I find that endurance becomes easier.”
Not every entry is profound or even interesting. But each, in its own way, traces my daily conversion to the gospel, my struggles with myself, and my delight with each line-upon-line discovery of living. Each helps the others assume clearer perspective. Not only does each entry reflect my life, but it affects and becomes part of my life.
It was during Janet 4, when my best friend moved, that I wrote: “I hurt too much to write.” And it was during Janet 5, after I had written a thoughtless letter that hurt a friend, that I wrote in my journal: “Through the many confusing voices that ring through my mind, one calming voice pervades and tells me the whole matter will be of no consequence.” After writing about that “calming voice,” I listened to it more carefully. The “voice” was right; when I later asked the friend to forgive me, he said he already had.
One day, when I felt that life was picking on me, I started what has become a tradition. I wrote an entry titled “Things I Am Thankful For.” It amazed me that day, as it still does, how varied and plentiful are my blessings, and how obscure and sometimes even humorous are my trials.
Through moves from one side of the United States to the other, through vacations, through each peak and plateau, the volumes of my journal have been a constant, a friend, tucked on a bookshelf or into a suitcase along with my copies of the scriptures. They have become a vehicle for working out personal answers for the curious challenges of each day.
I thought, at the beginning of the journal keeping, that I would neatly record my most profound thoughts, making them more accessible when I had to give sacrament meeting talks. Once or twice I have used a journal for that, but it’s far from the full benefit. The journal isn’t a reference book about my life, nor does it map my life. It isn’t a status chart; it’s a dynamic, if rough, artwork.
The Janet series is steaming ahead in its 15th volume. Some volumes span a year, and others a few months. I am the only person who has read all of them, and I may keep it that way—for a few decades, at least. The volumes have graduated from inexpensive notebooks to actual hardback books with blank pages. I have to confess—I bought a leather-bound journal last time (but it was on sale). And I did make quite a concession on the journal before that; it actually says “Journal” on the cover!

Illustration by Eva Vazquez
After our nephew got into a serious accident, my wife, Ana María, and I talked about our desire to know the truth among so many different religions and beliefs. One afternoon I sat down on my bed and prayed, “Lord, please help me find a way to know which church is true.”
Five minutes later, the phone rang. A friend called to invite my wife and me to his home to learn about some nutritional products. We went, and while we were there, our friend gave us a Book of Mormon. On the title page was a personal note: “I hope this book helps you get closer to our Lord Jesus Christ.”
The next day, I looked at the book and prayed again, “Lord, tell me if this book is true. I don’t want to offend you by reading something bad.”
I began reading. As I read, I felt as if I knew the people in the Book of Mormon. When I reached the end, I was so pained by the destruction of the Nephites that I wept. I had read hundreds of books, but no book had touched me the way the Book of Mormon did. I knew it was true.
One Sunday I invited Ana María to accompany me to a nearby chapel of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I thought she wouldn’t want to come, but she agreed. We liked what we heard. Afterward, ward members asked if they could send the missionaries over. “Of course,” we replied.
The missionaries soon arrived with the Book of Mormon in hand and said they had a message to share with us. “That’s a beautiful book,” I said. “I’ve already read it.” This surprised them. Then Ana María surprised me. “And I’m reading it now,” she said. “I’m in Mosiah.”
She had found the book on the table where I left it every day before work and began reading herself. Later she surprised me again when she said that when I was praying for direction from Heavenly Father a few weeks earlier, she had been uttering the same prayer in another part of our home.
I told the missionaries I was ready to be baptized. They taught us the lessons, and two weeks later, my wife and I were baptized and confirmed. We are so thankful that the Lord sent us the Book of Mormon to help us know which church is true.

When I was in my teenage years, we thought that my older brother wouldn’t get to serve a mission because the ward was allowed to send only one young man at a time on a mission. Everybody else had to be available for the military draft. But our bishop and stake president found out that they could send one more. So, they talked to my brother about it, and he came home and told my parents.

My father was a wonderful man, but he was not active in the Church. His response was negative—but for an unusual reason. He wasn’t critical of the Church or even of a mission, but my brother was preparing for medical school. My father said, “You’ve prepared yourself to go to medical school. You’ve taken the classes. You can do more good if you go to medical school than you can if you go on a mission.”

That evening, this faithful, wonderful brother of mine sat with me, and the two of us talked. We concluded that there were really three questions that would determine his response to our father. The first one was, “Was Jesus Christ the Savior of the world?” The second one was, “Is the Book of Mormon the word of God?” And the third one was, “Was Joseph Smith a prophet?” I realized that the answers to those three questions would affect almost every decision I would make for the rest of my life.

I had always loved the Savior and I had read the Book of Mormon, but realizing how significant those answers were, I prayed that night and received through the Holy Ghost a profound favorable answer to those questions. Jesus Christ is the Savior, the Book of Mormon is the word of God, and Joseph Smith was a prophet. I testify that these things are true.

One such decision is whether or not to go on a mission. While I was growing up I had a desire to serve a mission. But when it finally came time to send in the papers, I was hesitant. The decision became filled with pressures. I didn’t know whether to leave after my freshman year, after my sophomore year, or after I had completed my college education. I fought with a multitude of inward thoughts and feelings. I also wondered if I had enough knowledge to go out there and give what was so precious to me to somebody else. I talked to a lot of people, and most of them willingly shared their opinions with me. Some said that I should go immediately, others said later, and some said I shouldn’t go at all. I wonder, if I had asked you, should I go now or later or not at all, what would you have told me?
Perhaps you would have been like one of our great priesthood leaders. I went to him, and we talked about my situation. He listened with patience and concern. After I expressed my feelings about being able to play basketball when I returned, he said, with words that sank deep into me, “Devin, if you serve a mission and serve faithfully, when you return you will be a better basketball player than you are now.”
I had great confidence in that man, and I felt that he was moved by the Spirit to say what he did. I felt he was talking to me personally and not to all athletes who serve missions, because each case is different. He could advise me, my parents could advise me, my friends could advise me, but they couldn’t serve for me. I was the one who was going, and no one else could make my decision. I had to make that myself.
One reason I desired to serve a mission was that I had seen the impact that serving a mission had on my father and mother. Many times in our family home evenings Dad would mention his mission. He told us about his call. He had a desire to serve a mission, but when he expressed that desire to his father, his father discouraged him from going. My dad grew up on a chicken farm in American Fork, Utah. Because of failing health, his father didn’t feel that he would be able to maintain the farm, and there would be no money to finance a mission.
Bishop Melvin Grant came to discuss the matter with my dad’s family. When Dad’s father told the bishop that his son couldn’t go, Dad’s mother stood right up from her chair and said, “I’ll take care of the chickens. My son George is going on a mission.”
And so he went to England. My dad told me that a few months into his mission he received a letter from his mother that said, “I think the chickens know where you are, because they’ve never laid as many eggs as they are laying now.”
In April of 1980 I entered the Missionary Training Center and began to learn Spanish to prepare to serve in Madrid, Spain. While in the MTC, I knew that I was doing the right thing. In my heart I wanted to someday return to play basketball. Yet at the same time I decided that even if I never played another game of collegiate ball I wouldn’t regret the decision that I had made.
In Spain I had the honor of wearing a little name tag that said “Elder Durrant.” That title, Elder, was a greater honor than any I had ever before known. I had many experiences as a missionary. When someone accepted the gospel, I felt indescribable joy. When people rejected the message of the gospel, it brought me great sorrow.
One of my most joyous memories began during the summer of 1981. We had walked the city streets all morning talking to businessmen about the Church. By noon we were hot and tired and ready to take a break. We decided to walk through a nearby park, and as we did so, we could see off to the side a group of young people. We decided to see if they would listen to our message.
As we approached, they looked at us with some suspicion. We told them we were missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They laughed a little and made a few mocking comments. It seemed obvious that they didn’t want to listen to us. But there was one young man in the group who looked at us with a sincere interest. So we focused our attention on him. He had a guitar. We asked, “Would you play something for us?” He smiled, lifted his guitar, and began to play.
When he finished, we told him more about ourselves and our message. He told us his name was Jose Manuel. We talked for a few more minutes and then ended the conversation by asking if we could talk to him another day about our church. He replied he would be glad to listen to us and that we could find him in the park most every day taking his dog for a walk or playing his guitar.
As we left, we couldn’t imagine this young man ever being baptized. A few days later we were in that same area. To our pleasant surprise, there he was. We asked if he would listen to us. He consented, and we pulled two park benches together, and my companion and I sat on one and he sat on the other. We looked into Jose Manuel’s eyes and told him about Jesus Christ. Near the end of our message we told him about the Book of Mormon and that Jesus Christ had visited America after his resurrection. We challenged him to read about this great event. He said he would. We left the book, yet we had our doubts if Jose Manuel would ever even open it.
A few more days went by, and we decided to see how he had done on his reading assignment. To our surprise, he told us that he had read the part in the Book of Mormon that we had assigned him. He explained that he had told his friend about what he had read. His friend also wanted to read the book, so Jose Manuel had given it to him. He asked us if he could possibly get another copy. We told him that we could probably work something out.
After that we continued to teach him the gospel. We saw him change his appearance and his heart. He wanted to be baptized.
Nearly three years have passed since we first met Jose Manuel in that park in Madrid, Spain. He is now a member of the Church. A few months ago he, like you and me, had a decision to make. He had to decide whether or not to serve a mission. Jose Manuel had every reason in the world not to go. He was just a recent convert. His knowledge of the gospel wasn’t that extensive. He had lost his father a few years before, and his mother didn’t want him to go. Other family members didn’t want him to go either. He didn’t have the finances to be able to serve for eighteen months. He also had to complete his military service before he would be able to even think about serving a mission. Everything was against his going on a mission.
Every one of us, as we think about a mission, can find a number of reasons why we shouldn’t go. We must each look beyond those reasons. The key is to look for reasons to go. And Jose Manuel had some reasons to go. He knew that Jesus Christ was the son of God and the Savior of the world. He knew that Joseph Smith had seen a vision. He knew that the Church was true. He knew that it had changed his life, and he wanted to go out and share that knowledge with others.
Jose Manuel had a desire to serve. He was called to the work. With the help of the Lord, he was able to work things out. That always seems to happen. He overcame the obstacles, and he’s now serving in the Spain Barcelona mission.
We’re all faced with different obstacles that sometimes make serving missions seem difficult. In my dad’s case, his father was ill. Jose Manuel’s family didn’t want him to go. I wondered about my basketball future. Many of the obstacles we face are those within our own minds. For just a minute I want to talk directly to you—just you. You who might say, “I have this girlfriend”; or, “I’ve got a good job and a car”; or, “I’ve never been good at schoolwork, and I know I could never memorize scriptures and all those discussions”; or, “I can’t talk to people who I don’t even know”; or, “I couldn’t be obedient to all the rules missionaries follow”; or, “I don’t really know the Church is true, so how could I tell others about it?”
To those who have such thought and feelings: if you don’t now have a testimony, you can gain one on a mission. Your girlfriend will be all right. You can learn the scriptures and discussions well enough to be effective. You’ll have the courage you need to talk to strangers. You can be obedient. You can do it.
Some of you may be fearful about your ability because to this point in your life you have struggled. Perhaps you’ve not been academically gifted or socially prominent. I agree that being socially graceful, well educated, experienced in leadership, and able to speak well are useful talents for doing missionary work. But there is something beyond these which can give a missionary his real power.
I was told recently of two missionary companions—one had many outward talents, the other didn’t. They had received a letter from a man and his family to whom they had taught several discussions. The letter told the elders to come by and pick up the Book of Mormon because the family had decided they were not interested in continuing the discussions.
The more outwardly talented elder felt confident that by using all his social skills and all his learning he would be able to change the man’s mind. During the meeting he used every persuasive skill he could think of. The other elder listened. Finally the man agreed to continue the discussions.
Later, at the family’s baptism, the talented elder remembered the night with some degree of pride. After the baptism the man told him, “The night I changed my mind and continued to have you teach me was the most important night of my life. As you talked to me, my mind was so determined to not listen that there was nothing you could have said that would have caused me to continue. But then I looked at your companion. His eyes were focused on me. I saw in his face more love than I had ever known before. My heart felt a spirit that made it so I could not resist his silent message. I decided then that if this church could cause someone to love like that, then I wanted to be part of it.”
Outward social and educational talent help, but more needed than these are the inward talents of love and faith and testimony. In these talents we can all be equal.
If your health will allow, make yourself worthy to serve. Push aside the obstacles and go.
I pray that the Lord will bless us in all of our decisions—decisions about missions, decisions about marriage, decisions about character, about dedication, about morality.
I’m grateful for the honor that I had of being Elder Durrant while in Spain. I know that Jesus Christ lives, that while he was on the earth he taught us the way that we ought to live. I know that he expects us as holders of the priesthood to take what he has given us and go out and share it with others. And as we do this, he not only blesses the lives of the people we come in contact with, but he also blesses us. I know that the gospel he has given us is true. That’s why I wanted to share it—because it means so much in my life.
I testify of these things in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

The story is similar with Shannon M., 16, who has earned her Young Womanhood Recognition, and Lucy W., 14. Lucy was halfway through her Personal Progress as a Beehive. She stumbled across the third value experience for Faith and hit a wall.
“I was supposed to look in the Bible Dictionary or True to the Faith,” says Lucy. “I didn’t know where to start. I didn’t know exactly what to look for or how I could use it toward my experience.”
Shannon mentored Lucy, and the two went through the reading materials and set goals. Lucy was able to complete the value experience and carry out a family home evening, completing her goal. This experience strengthened Lucy’s testimony and helped her stick with Personal Progress.
“When you finish something and you have to pray about it and write about it in your journal, it strengthens your relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.”
Shannon says that working on Personal Progress helped confirm the testimony she knew she had. “I was born into the Church, and I never really had that experience where I thought, ‘I know this Church is true’—until Personal Progress,” says Shannon. “It has backed my testimony up. That was the turning point.”

Occasionally Papa got a job laying brick for a fireplace chimney, and once he received a horse in trade for his work. It was a gentle, broad-backed creature named Bessie, who would carry as many children as could climb on. When she got tired she would walk under the low limbs of the Early Harvest apple tree and sweep the laughing riders off onto the ground. Ed could leap onto her back with a quick, smooth movement that I envied. I always seemed to get stuck lying across her back on my stomach, unable to wiggle around to swing one leg over and sit upright. Ed usually had to give me a shove that threatened to push me off.
One day I had an idea as I sat on the barn roof watching Ed ride Bessie around the yard. “Bring her over here,” I called. “I want to try something.”
Ed rode over. “OK, here we are,” he said. “Come on down.”
“Back her up under the sliding board,” I said.
Ed could see my idea at once and did as I asked. It was not more than two inches from the end of the board to the horse’s back, and I slid easily from one to the other. After that I always mounted Bessie the same way, and before long she backed herself close to the board as soon as anyone was on the barn roof. She learned to lower her head so we could slide down the board onto her back, over her head, and onto the ground in one quick swoop. We called that game the Bessie Bounce, and it was one of our favorites.

Growing up, Matthew attended church in small branches. He and his wife, a convert from Ukraine, grew accustomed to multiple callings and full engagement with international LDS communities but then moved to the United States. Large wards and different cultural expectations made them feel “unneeded and adrift,” he recalls. “We seemed unable to fit in. We felt ignored, with a lack of uplift and connection on Sundays.”
Their frustration reached a breaking point when, after moving to a different city, Matthew and his wife looked forward to a visit from a local priesthood leader whose purpose in visiting ended up being to ask them to keep their lively toddler under control during sacrament meeting. Deeply hurt, Matthew contemplated never returning to the local meetinghouse. “What stopped me,” he explains, “was my testimony that this is the Lord’s Church and that the Savior wants me there. Participating in the gospel has consequences beyond any hurt or personal encounter I’ll have in this life.”
Matthew found this reliance on the divine crucial to staying active in the Church. “The only thing that’s kept me going sometimes is my testimony of Christ,” he explains. “The gospel is bigger than any of us. Christ sees what we cannot see, knows what we can become, and has room for all.”

Well, Dad had not taught us one thing to impress his latest guest, and Mom hadn’t explained why we had to wear Sunday clothes. In fact, they wouldn’t even tell us who was coming.
Mom had fresh flowers, candles, and her very best lace cloth on the table. She made us work to clean every inch of the house. She even got her hair done at the beauty shop.
I said, “Hey, Mom, please tell me. Who is coming? If he’s such an important person, how could he have time to come to dinner with us?” She just smiled and asked me to refill the ice cube trays.
Soon the house was ready, the food was ready, all five of us children were bathed and dressed and ready in our Sunday clothes. There was soft music playing. Mom and Dad seemed happy and peaceful, not nervous like when our other guests were coming. It was 6 o’clock. The guest would soon be here.
At 6:30, the guest hadn’t come. At 6:45 we were still waiting. We were all hungry. “Who is this most important person, anyway?” I asked impatiently.
Just then Dad and Mom called us to the table, and Mom lit the candles. “Let’s begin,” said Dad.
“How can we begin? We can’t start without our guest! We’ve gone to too much work. Who are we waiting for anyway? The president of the United States?” I said.
“Sit down, all of you, and we’ll give you some clues to see if you can guess who our guest will be,” said Mom.
“This person is more important than the president of the United States. But even though he is so important, he knows you very well,” said Dad.
“Is this a trick?” I asked.
“Not a trick,” Dad answered.
Dad continued. “This person is smarter than my boss or the senator. He is more spiritual than the missionary or the bishop. Yet, as important as he is, I didn’t even have to make an appointment with him.”
“Let’s kneel down and have family prayer to begin our dinner and home evening,” said Mom.
Suddenly, as we knelt around the table and Dad began to pray, I got this special feeling. Then I knew. Dad and Mom had gone to all this work to teach us about Heavenly Father. He is much more important than anyone else, and we don’t have to make an appointment to talk to him.
Everyone else must have figured it out too because after the prayer we ate in silence for a long time.
Finally, Dad said, “I hope you will invite Heavenly Father to be your guest in everything you do.”

“I was not a member of the Church until I was past Primary age. My father was not a member either (although he joined the Church later), but my mother was Primary president, and later Mutual president, in our little branch in Boise, Idaho, which was then in the Northwestern States Mission. Our meetinghouse was a single room. Curtains were hung from cross wires to divide the room into sections. Besides passing the sacrament, it was the deacon’s job to pull the curtains when we separated for classes. Since I wasn’t a member of the Church, I wasn’t able to perform these duties. I did attend meetings, however, and I joined the Scout troop. I became the first Eagle Scout of that troop and the second Eagle Scout in Boise, Idaho.
“When I was thirteen, I decided I didn’t want to be different from the rest of the boys, so I asked my father if I could be baptized. My sister and I were baptized the same day.”

I live in Douala (Cameroon) and I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I joined the Church when I was 12 years old and back then I lived with my mother, Kameni Lauris, and my little sister, Awasiri Grâce. We used to attend a Pentecostal church which was very far from our home. The cost of getting there made it very difficult for us to attend.
My mother was someone who loved the Lord dearly. Whenever it was not possible for all of us to attend together, she would ask me to go with my little sister to another church near our home. As we went out on Sundays, I could navigate towards the nearby church while calculating the time it would take my mother to leave the house! Then I would go back home without attending the nearby church. At that time, I did not like religion at all because I could not understand much about it.
A friend to my mother, who looked after my little sister when my mother went to work, introduced us to Elder Holland and Elder Rambeleson. These two missionaries came to visit us at home. I still remember the first time I attended a sacrament meeting and saw young men like me participating in passing the sacrament. Afterwards, I attended the Primary and saw how much fun the kids were having. I felt a sense of belonging and knew I would never miss out on a Sunday.
When I got baptized, I immediately wanted to leave the Primary to go to Young Men and be able to begin my priesthood service. I started to really know my Heavenly Father and my identity. I helped clean the building on Saturdays, and came very early on Sundays, sometimes even before the building was open. As I grew older, my desire to serve a full-time mission grew likewise. Through seminary and institute, I was able to prepare for my mission and had the privilege to serve in the DRC Kinshasa West Mission from 2021 to 2023. I’m grateful for the restored gospel and for the joy it has brought to me and to my family.
I know that Christ lives, and that He is sitting down on the right hand of our Heavenly Father, that He knows and loves us all. I know that the Book of Mormon is another testament of Jesus Christ. I know that we are led by a living prophet who receives revelations from God.

A few years ago, my mother was diagnosed with a terminal illness. Knowing that she would pass through great agony and that death would inevitably take her, I arranged a trip to the sacred Church sites in upstate New York—just the two of us. It was my way to create some one-on-one time and to say good-bye. At one point, as we were driving together toward the Sacred Grove, I reached out and took her hand. I told her how much I loved her and how grateful I was for all that she had given me, all she meant to me. I told her how sorry I was for the little things that I had done along the way that had caused her disappointment or pain. I will never forget what she said. She squeezed my hand and, her eyes glowing, said, “Oh, Doug, you don’t understand, do you? I forgave you those things before you ever did them.”

Oh, the love of a parent for her imperfect child! I testify that our Father’s love is like that—except it is even more complete. He is your Father. Regardless of where you have been or where you are now, He wants you, as His child, to learn and to grow from your experiences—even from the mistakes that He knew you would make. He wants you to properly put them behind you through the miraculous gift of the Atonement. He wants you to experience joy in your progress toward Him. And He wants you to complete that difficult but infinitely rewarding journey, safely and successfully.

The ice glowed with a cold bluish hue around the edges of the rink, but in the middle, it was white where the cutting edges of skates had scarred the smooth surface. Huddled to one side of the rink was a group of toddlers, rocking unsteadily on the narrow blades as they clung to their mothers. It was the first time most of them had ever seen a skating rink, and it would be their first experience with ice skating.
One little girl with straight blonde hair was anxious to get started. Her mother helped her onto the ice. She tried a few running steps, but the skates slid out from under her. She went down hard, falling back and hitting her head with a resounding crack on the ice. The cry was one of sincere pain. Holly Cook, the toddler, wanted to end her skating career then and there.
“On my fourth birthday, Mom took me down to the ice rink which had just opened and signed me up for a group lesson. When I hit my head, I didn’t want to go back on the ice after that.”
But she did. Holly’s mother wiped away the tears, comforted her, then helped her again stand on the ice.
As a four-year-old, Holly Cook did try again, and since that time trying again has become a part of her daily life. She has spent hours and hours perfecting the intricate moves that make figure skating look deceptively simple when she’s on the ice. For 11 years she has honed her talent, skill, and grace, until now at age 15 she is one of the best—one of the 10 best women figure skaters in the United States and in the world. Competing in her first senior Nationals, Holly came in tenth. In her first international competition in Yugoslavia, she placed eighth. Just a few months ago in an international skating competition known as the Coupes des Alpes, she took first.
Get out the scrapbooks with the clippings and photographs of Holly’s skating career, and the picture of her after the first competition will tell you all you need to know about why she has been successful. There she is at six-and-a-half, standing in third place holding her little ribbon, with her eyes glued on the trophy in the first-place winner’s hands. The look in her eye is everything. It is a look of pure resolve, a look that says next time the trophy will be hers.
Holly’s mother, Marge, noticed the look also. “That’s when I realized her determination. The girl who placed above her had an axel in her routine. Holly didn’t do that yet. She came home and went right to work learning it. I realized then that she had something special. She would fall and fall but keep on trying.”
Her teacher and coach, Chris Sherard also noticed the determination and talent of young Holly. “She was all business even as a six-year-old. She knew what she was supposed to do. She didn’t agonize over every performance. On the outside, she’s different than on the inside. Outside she’s a nice kid and tries not to hurt feelings. When she skates, her inner self comes out, and she becomes aggressive and strong. She wants to compete. I think the combination is nice.”
Holly is approaching a critical period in her skating. She is entering senior high school and needs to either make a commitment to skating or relax and become involved more in school. “Everybody decides in about ninth grade,” Holly explains, “if they really want to skate or not. You have to decide whether to be involved in all the high school activities or to stick with skating. I’ve been skating well and working hard. Now I want to stick with it.”
It isn’t always easy to stay with a schedule when it includes five or six hours a day on the ice. A typical day goes something like this. Holly wakes up at 4:30 in the morning and gets ready for school. She heads for the skating rink and skates from 5:30 to 7:30. Then it’s off to school by 8:00. She’s in school until 2:00 since she’s allowed to skip her seventh period class. Then it’s back to the rink for more practice from 2:00 until 5:00. At 6:00 it’s dinner and homework, a short time to relax, then to bed.
Holly has learned how to deal with the ups and downs of skating. “There is always a point when you want to just quit. If you stick with it, things turn out for the better. I know when I have really bad days, when I just want to throw in the towel and say bag it, that everybody has bad days. You have to just realize that it happens. I have to think, ‘I’ll stick with it.’”
And Holly has a pretty clear view of how things should be in big competitions. “There are a lot of big heads. I don’t want to get like that. I want to stay laid back and skate for the fun of it. A lot of skaters skate because others want them to, but I just don’t want to do that.” Her parents agree. Holly is the youngest of six children, and they want her to skate as long as it is making her happy.
For Holly, doing well in her skating routines has brought a lot of satisfaction. “At the last Nationals, I had the best long program I have ever, ever skated. When I got off the ice, the crowd was great. I love the crowd. It was fun to hear them clapping for me. I had tears in my eyes. I was happy with myself.”
But not all competitions go smoothly. “There are some competitions where I do well and others when I do bad. Sometimes you just don’t feel like skating. Other times you’re just rarin’ to go. And those competitions are the ones you pull off.”
When asked to analyze her own style of skating, Holly is quick to point out her strengths and weaknesses. “I like powerful skating. I like the fast portions of my routines. I’ve been told I skate like a boy,” Holly says with some chagrin. “My favorite move is a cantilever. It’s fun to do. Girls don’t do that move in their routines. But right now I’m working on my maturity. That’s how I present myself, keeping the body up, standing up straight and working with my arms. Then I’m going to work on the consistency of my jumps.”
As a Mia Maid in the Bountiful Utah 53rd Ward, Holly has had the support of her Young Women leaders and the other young people in the ward. Susan Larson, the Young Women president and formerly Holly’s teacher, says, “Holly is just so genuine and friendly. She’s lots of fun to have around and fits in easily. There is no envy from the young people. They are all just so proud of her. Everyone is excited about her successes. And we’re touched when she bears her testimony about how she prays and feels that the Lord is with her.”
Holly has found that religious faith has given her something to talk about with skaters of other religions. And she finds the opportunity to bear her testimony. “I was talking to a Catholic skater one time when we got onto the subject of religion,” said Holly. “We were just talking and comparing what he thinks is true and what I think is true. It’s good to learn more about other religions and other people.”
Back to the scrapbooks. There’s a picture of Holly during her first time at Nationals. At 14, she was still competing in the junior division. Just like the picture when she was six, she’s standing on the riser in third place. But this time, her eyes are straight ahead. There is no sidelong glance at the first-place trophy. The smile is bright, and the look is still determined. She obviously knows she has done as well as she could and better than nearly everyone expected.
“My biggest goal,” said Holly, “is to skate my best at competitions, to show myself that I can do it. And if I do skate my best, then it will take me somewhere. Everybody wants to go to the Olympics. I don’t want to think about it because it puts too much pressure on people. When I push myself too much, that’s when I don’t do as well.”
One person who would have loved to watch this young woman develop her skill on the ice is Holly’s grandfather. He knew the lure of speed and grace on the slippery surface. He himself was a speed skater, and he taught his little girl, Holly’s mother, to skate. But he did not live to see his granddaughter follow in his blade marks.
Still Holly is influenced by him and the stories of him her mother has told her. “I hope that he has seen me skate. I think of him even though I didn’t know him. I think of how he used to skate, then my mom skated, and now I skate. And I wonder if my children and grandchildren will skate too. Sometimes I skate remembering my grandfather, and that encourages me.”
And the scrapbooks continue to be filled with clippings of triumphs on the ice and photographs of a young girl with a look of assurance that she is pursuing her talents and doing the best she can. But somewhere, lingering around the eyes, is the look that was once on the face of a six-year-old, a look of pure determination.

In 1993, with the vigor of my newly made attorney’s oath and the energy that came from my recent graduation from law school and passing the bar exam, I received an unanticipated assignment one morning as a brand-new lawyer. That morning I was summoned into my supervising partner’s corner office and assigned my first jury trial—I was only a few months out of law school. Pleadings were complete, discovery had already been accomplished, even pre-trial documents had been submitted.

I should have foreseen what was to come when I picked up the file to prepare for my first meeting with my newly assigned clients and read their name: “The Church of Soldiers of the Cross of Christ.” They were a faith-filled zealous group, deeply committed to their beliefs. I prepared anxiously during every waking hour over the days that followed. Just a week later, I arrived early at the courthouse, filled with nervous tension for the first day of trial when we would argue last-minute motions, conduct jury selection, and give opening statements. It all filled my mind and consumed my thoughts. You know the feeling, kind of like when you show up for a semester-long comprehensive organic chemistry or calculus final exam. Filled with those kinds of feelings, I exited the elevator on the 6th floor of the courthouse. I was immediately met by an angry bailiff. I recall the top of my head came to about the level of the big shiny badge on his uniform. As I looked up at him, he said, with great tension and angst in his quivering voice “Mr. Bangerter, the judge wants you in his chambers now. I will escort you.” Then I saw it. Lining the long courthouse hallway, on both sides, was church member after church member, shoulder to shoulder, and all dressed head to toe in white. They broke out in song singing, “Onward, Christian Soldiers!” as we walked between them. By this point, any confidence I had upon arriving at the courthouse was entirely gone, leaving behind a big empty space that seemed to fill my mind.

As we entered the judge’s chambers, I was greeted by a red-faced, clearly very bothered judge. He yelled, “Mr. Bangerter, what is your church during in my hallways?” My response was immediate. I had feared he would ask a hard question. I felt such relief that the answer came so clearly and easily. I blurted out, “Oh, your honor, it’s not my church, that’s my client. My church is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints!” The Judge was disarmed by the candor and naivete of my reply; it seemed to melt his icy countenance. He then smiled and said softly, “Please, Mr. Bangerter, just tell them to leave the courthouse now and let me help you to know how you will do that.” He then got up from his chair, walked around his desk, and sat next to me. He said, “Go out to the hallway, thank them for their support. Ask them respectfully now to go on with their day and help them understand that their numbers would more likely intimidate the jury than endear the jury to them. Go down the stairway with them—lead them. Gather them again, and tell them you will update them every evening on the outcome of the day.”

That day, a judge who could have squashed me, instead took time to lift me. It worked; it worked just as he said it would. I got through that experience, but to this day, the clearest memory I have of that trial happened in the beginning with a judge kindly stepping down from his high position and sitting between me and the opposing attorney bringing peace to my heart and lifting me to accomplish something I did not think I could do.

I learned that day that whatever station or status we achieve in life, we can always take time to pause and lift another. This is God’s pattern. And so, He lifts us in the private times and in the public times of our lives to experience the reality of our own divine heritage.

One of my favorite stories was the cadet who did not want to admit that he had done anything wrong, in spite of wiping out his own and three other aircraft. His accident report stated: “The aircraft’s speed was too high on final approach. … The aircraft hit the runway first with one wheel and then with the other wheel. … It did a few kangaroos down the runway. … The aircraft swerved off the runway and across the grass. … It crossed the taxiway. … across more grass. … The right wing hit a truck parked in the wrong place, … and then I lost control and we cartwheeled into the three parked planes!”

Obviously the aircraft was out of control from the beginning. The cadet must have had his head “down and locked” hiding inside the cockpit while all sorts of things were going wrong. He had long since lost control of such essentials as airspeed, direction, and perception. He could have shut down the engine, used the brakes, or collapsed his own gear instead of running into things with the engine still pulling the aircraft along at 1,500 RPM. No one was in control at all!

There was once a group of villagers who instructed their young shepherd, “When you see a wolf, cry ‘Wolf! Wolf!’ and we’ll come with guns and pitchforks.”

The next day the boy was tending his sheep when he saw a mountain lion in the distance. He cried out, “Lion! Lion!” But no one came. The lion killed several sheep. The boy was distressed: “Why didn’t you come when I yelled?”

“There are no lions in this part of the country,” they replied. “It is wolves that we are afraid of.”

The young shepherd learned a very valuable lesson:
People respond only to what they are prepared to believe.

Four-year-old Chad could hardly wait until Monday, when he would go to Cousins’ Camp for the first time. His grandparents held a special camp each year for all their grandchildren.
His older brothers and sister talked about it all year, saying it was even better than going to the Grand Canyon, where their family had visited last year.
The night before camp, Chad and his brothers and sister packed their clothes, scriptures, and journals. Chad couldn’t read yet, but he had his own set of scriptures. When Grandpa had told him he should bring a journal, too, Chad was worried.
“Grandpa,” Chad had whispered, “I don’t know how to write.”
Grandpa had smiled and placed a gentle hand on Chad’s shoulder. “That’s all right. You can draw pictures of what we do at camp. Grandma and I want you to have a record of the week.”
Chad’s mother took him and his brothers and sister to his grandparents’ home in the country the following morning. A banner hung between two poles with the words “Cousins’ Camp” printed in big black letters.
Grandma and Grandpa greeted each child with a hug and a name tag. Grandpa asked Chad’s older brother, Tayson, to give a prayer.
The children rotated between a story station, a cooking station, and a craft station. Grandpa told stories about their pioneer ancestors at the story station. At the cooking station, they made pizzas from Grandma’s homemade dough for their lunch.
At the craft station, Chad made a birdhouse. He couldn’t decide what colors to paint it. All the colors were so pretty. Then he remembered a song he learned in Primary. He chose red, yellow, and blue.
Grandma sat on the bench beside him. “You have chosen beautiful colors for your birdhouse,” she said.
Chad smiled and said, “Thanks, Grandma. They’re the Primary colors.”
Later, Grandma helped everyone make Peanut Butter Balls for an afternoon snack. Chad ate three.
When Chad started to yawn, Grandma suggested a nap.
For dinner, Grandpa showed everyone how to make tinfoil meals with hamburger, potatoes, and carrots. Then they cooked them in the campfire coals.
Chad usually didn’t like his food mixed together, but the tinfoil meals tasted great. He asked for seconds.
At the end of the day, everyone roasted marshmallows over the campfire. Grandpa and Grandma told stories from their childhood. After Chad said his prayers, he settled inside his sleeping bag, tired but happy. “This is the best camp ever!” he thought. “There are already a lot of pictures I can draw in my journal. I can’t wait to see what we do tomorrow.”

As a youth I had many opportunities to perform baptisms for the dead in the San Diego California Temple. Though I always had a good experience, one trip in particular stands out in my mind.
I was 16, and my little sister had just turned 12 and was making her first trip to do baptisms for the dead. Since it was her first time, we decided to walk around the outside of the temple after we finished.
The temple grounds have a couple of lookout points on one side, so we walked over there. Because the San Diego Temple is situated next to a busy highway, when you stand at a lookout point, you actually look down at the freeway.
Standing on the temple’s higher ground that day gave me a new perspective on life. I was looking down at the world with its whizzing cars, crowded shopping centers, and graffiti-covered road signs.
It was then that the thought came to my mind: “You don’t want to be a part of that; it’s not what life is about.” I had always been taught that the purpose of life is to return to live with our Heavenly Father and become like Him. I knew I didn’t need the things of the world to accomplish that purpose.
I turned around and looked at the beautiful temple, and I was grateful for the knowledge of the gospel and the perspective it gave me. I knew that in the midst of the chaotic and treacherous world, I had found higher ground to stand on.
That day at the temple I promised my Heavenly Father that I would always stand on His side and not the world’s. No matter what the world throws at us, we can overcome it by keeping the covenants we have made and by standing in holy places (see D&C 87:8).

When my ballet teacher showed us what our costume would look like for the spring recital, my sister and I knew it wasn’t modest. We decided to talk to our ballet teacher and explain that we were not comfortable wearing that costume. We told her we would not be able to be in the recital unless the costume was modest. My ballet teacher agreed to change the costume so it would be modest. I was glad I talked to my teacher about it and that she was willing to make the changes to the costume so my sister and I could be in the recital. I know it was the right thing to do.