Gospel Story Finder

Family relations class, a debate is raging. Dr. Holgate raised the question. “Is there ever a time when parents are justified in asking their children to leave home?” The arguments churn on. The class consensus seems to be that, yes, there are rare occasions when a child should not be allowed in the home, such as if his or her behavior is damaging the entire family or setting a bad example for younger siblings. Dr. Holgate is at the front of the class, looking slightly entertained. Class is almost over.
“Any other thought?” she asks.
“Yes!” my mom says.
“Go ahead.”
“When you have children, they are yours forever, not just in good times or okay times, but always. You have to love them always, show them that you care always, and be there for them always,” Mom says, her voice slightly quivering.
It is an amazing turn of events. The class bursts into applause. Up front, Dr. Holgate is beaming. The buzzer sounds and class is over. Several students come up to talk with my mom, the new class star. One of them is Carianne who grasps her arm and says, “Ruth, what you said is true.”
While I’m happy for my mom, it’s a little difficult to accept that Carianne is more impressed with my mother than with me.

I had some other experiences that year, too, that I am not too proud of, but will admit to you by way of teaching by example, maybe the example of overcoming. As part of being Joe Fraternity on campus, I was invited one evening to go up the canyon with a bunch of senior active members of my fraternity to a beer bust. I’d never been to a beer bust and was kind of curious, assuming they would have soft drinks for us Mormon boys. Wrong assumption. I was persuaded by these active members that I thought a lot of to have a beer or two. I’d had more than two. I had three to five and became sick. They drove me back home to the fraternity house and I went down to my little hovel of a room and immediately threw up on the floor. As I tried to clean it up, there appeared at the door the president of the fraternity, Ross Bradford. Ross said, “What’s going on in here, Skunk?” (I was a pledge to the fraternity and they were called skunks. I think I smelled worse than a skunk that night.) “What’s going on in here, Skunk?” he said, and I told him I was sick. He said, “Have you been drinking?” And I said, “Just two or three.” And he said, “I can’t believe it. You were raised in a better family than that.”

Ross was an experienced man. He had been in the Air Force for three years, was finishing school on the GI bill, and I admired him greatly. He helped me clean up the mess on the floor, which I thought was very charitable for the president of the fraternity, and then he led me down the hall to the furnace room. He opened up the door to this dingy hot furnace room, and there was an old dirty mattress in there. He said, “You go in there and sleep there tonight, and take this garbage can, and if you get sick again, throw up in that. I don’t want to clean up any more.” Well, I felt rightfully challenged and criticized as well, and I sat there for a few minutes with my head in my hands, rather sick and ill. He came back, and he had the pledge manual in his hand, and he said, “I have a poem I want you to memorize, and if you can memorize this by tomorrow morning by the time I go to class and have breakfast in the chapter room, then you can stay and become a member of this fraternity. If you can’t, pack your bags and leave.” Well, I stayed up all night, memorizing that poem. It was a defining moment of my life. The poem was called “The True Gentleman.” The next morning I was awake (I had stayed up all night) and I showered and shaved and cleaned up and even put on my best suit and tie, shined my shoes, and when Ross came down to his breakfast table, at the head of the table in the chapter room, I was ready to give him my poem, “The True Gentleman.” He slowly ate breakfast while I fidgeted, standing there at attention, and when he finished, he put his napkin and spoon down and said, “All right, let’s hear it.” And I quoted this poem called “The True Gentleman”:

The True Gentleman’s a man whose conduct proceeds
From good will and an acute sense of propriety
And whose self control is equal to all emergencies
Who does not make the poor man conscious of his poverty,
The obscure man of his obscurity, nor any man of his inferiority or deformity
Who is himself humble if necessity compels him to humble another
Who does not flatter wealth, cringe before power nor boast of his own possessions or achievements
Who speaks with frankness, but always with sincerity and sympathy
And whose deed follows his word.
A man who appears well in any company
A man with whom honor is sacred and virtue safe.

When I finished, Ross stood up and embraced me, and said, “Nice job, Skunk, you can stay,” and off he went to school. Before he left, he turned at the door and said, “The real challenge is: Now try to live it. Try to live it. Try to be a true gentleman in all that you do.” Well, I’ve found you can live it if you hale to the promptings of the Holy Ghost, if you hale to the power and influence of the priesthood in your lives, if you follow the commandments of God, if you follow the directions of your parents and friends and family.

In her book My Grandfather’s Blessings, Dr. Rachel Remen tells of becoming good friends with a couple and their young son, Kenny. When she visited, she would sit on the floor with Kenny and play with his two Hot Wheels cars. Sometimes she would have the one without a fender and he had the one with a door missing and sometimes vice versa. He loved those cars!

When a gas station chain offered a Hot Wheels car with every fill-up, she recruited the staff at her clinic to go to that particular station and collect the cars. As soon as she had all of the models, she wrapped them in a big box to take to Kenny. She hoped she wouldn’t offend his parents, who lived quite meagerly. Kenny excitedly opened the big box and took out the cars one by one. They filled the windowsills and even extended to the floor. What a collection! Later, while visiting the family, Rachel noticed Kenny just staring out the window. When she asked Kenny, “What’s the matter? Don’t you like your new cars?” he looked down very sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I guess I just don’t know how to love so many Hot Wheels.” (See “Owning” [2000], 60–61.)

A glimpse of our Heavenly Father’s anguish came to me several years ago during a high-adventure trip with my oldest son and several members of his priest’s quorum. We had gone to the San Juan Islands off the coast of Washington. One of the activities the boys wanted to do was ride their bicycles on the paved road down from the top of Mount Constitution. I’ve done a bit of riding in my life, and I encouraged the boys to first ride up the mountain so they could remember where the gravel, the cracks in the pavement, the tightest turns, and other such potential hazards were. But of course that was too hard. So we took all the boys and the bikes to the top and all started down. I came down last, and I helped pick up each boy as each crashed at a different location. My son, for example, had entered a hairpin turn going hopelessly too fast. He had a choice: go over the railing or lay the bike down. With brakes tightly squeezed, he laid the bike down and skidded for some distance on the asphalt. His T-shirt rolled up his back, and he received quite a road rash, including embedded bits of small gravel and tar.

Like any unprepared Scout troop, our only cleaning agent in the first-aid kit was alcohol. As I watched his friends begin to clean the wounds on his back with the alcohol, I simply could not bear to watch. The pain must have been excruciating, and I could not stand to see my son suffer.

I know that Heavenly Father hurt at the sight of His Son’s suffering. I know that both Heavenly Father and His Son love us.

I remember when I was preparing to be trained as a fighter pilot. We spent a great deal of our preliminary military training in physical exercise. I’m still not exactly sure why endless running was considered such an essential preparatory part of becoming a pilot. Nevertheless, we ran and we ran and we ran some more.
As I was running I began to notice something that, frankly, troubled me. Time and again I was being passed by men who smoked, drank, and did all manner of things that were contrary to the gospel and, in particular, to the Word of Wisdom.
I remember thinking, “Wait a minute! Aren’t I supposed to be able to run and not be weary?” But I was weary, and I was overtaken by people who were definitely not following the Word of Wisdom. I confess, it troubled me at the time. I asked myself, was the promise true or was it not?
The answer didn’t come immediately. But eventually I learned that God’s promises are not always fulfilled as quickly as or in the way we might hope; they come according to His timing and in His ways. Years later I could see clear evidence of the temporal blessings that come to those who obey the Word of Wisdom—in addition to the spiritual blessings that come immediately from obedience to any of God’s laws. Looking back, I know for sure that the promises of the Lord, if perhaps not always swift, are always certain.

By this time, I wanted to continue going to church on my own, but that was such a challenge! It was hard for me to sit alone at church. I felt like everyone was staring at me and feeling sorry for me because my family wasn’t with me. To ward off sympathy, I would sit with my head bowed, reading a book until the meeting started. I felt sorry for myself and thought the challenge wasn’t worth it. I decided that without a family, the Church was not going to be true for me.
It was another small miracle of friendship that brought me back. Wendolyn and I had been friends since childhood, but we’d slowly drifted apart. One afternoon, Wendolyn and her mother sat me down and told me about the importance of going to church. They offered to have me go and sit with their family. My main stumbling block was removed! I had people to sit with who cared!
Through the rest of my high school years, my friendship with Wendolyn deepened, and my testimony of the gospel along with it. Wendolyn’s mother even offered to help me pay for a mission if I ever decided to go. I was touched by their willingness to sacrifice for me and for the gospel.
I know it is sometimes hard to accept an outsider into your family, but these two families accepted me, and to them I owe my active participation in the Church today. I will be eternally grateful to these friends. What small miracles of friendship can do!

Joe Lee sat quietly in conference listening to the people who spoke. He couldn’t understand all they said, but he loved singing the songs with them. He thought how wonderful it would be if he could go up on the stand and tell everyone how exciting it was to be a member of the Church.
Joe was an eight-year-old Korean-Hawaiian boy who had just been baptized. He lived on the island of Molokai in Hoolehua, Hawaii. Joe and his mother were members of the Church, but his father had no interest in it at all. Joe had such a good feeling that he wanted his father to become a member of the Church too.
That night after conference Joe told his mother the thoughts that had come to him during the meeting and later she told Brother Murphy, who was conducting the conference, what her young son had said.
During the next session of conference Joe suddenly heard his name called. Brother Murphy was inviting him to go up to the pulpit and speak!
Joe quickly stood up, and while he was walking up to the pulpit, someone on the stand hurried to get a little chair. Many in the meeting wondered what an eight-year-old boy who was called out of the audience might say.
Joe stood on the chair and spoke into the microphone. A breathless hush came over everyone as Joe began, “Aloha everybody!” He paused only a moment. Then in a clear calm voice he went on, “I know that Jesus is God’s own Son. I know that Joseph Smith is a prophet.”
Tears filled many eyes when Joe said, “My father is not a member of the Church. Please pray that he will become one so he can take Mother and our family to the temple. Then we will all be together in the next world.”
Joe’s prayer and the prayers of others were answered a short time later when Joe’s father was baptized. One of the happiest days of Joe’s life was about a year later when his father took his family to the temple at Laie, where they were sealed as a family.

When I was young, I didn’t get to spend a lot of time with my dad. He went to college all day and worked most of the night. It was really wearing him out, but he had himself, my mother, and four children to support.
I used to play with the wooden toys my dad made for us. He made such things as blocks, wooden animals, and puzzles when he had time. But my favorite was the little knife he carved for me from a small piece of wood. It wasn’t using the knife to fight an imaginary foe that intrigued me so much. It was the fact that my dad had made it himself, just for me and no one else.
I was so proud of my dad. I thought there was nothing better than someone who could turn an ordinary piece of wood into something as magnificent as my little knife. I would just sit and hold it in my hands, looking at it and thinking about the time he spent making it for me.
Years later, when my dad was out of school and had a good daytime job, I was able to spend a little more time with him, but the value of that knife never lessened.
One day I walked outside and what I saw sent a flood of memories into my mind. My dad was sitting on the steps, a pocketknife in his right hand, and in his left a piece of wood slowly taking the shape of a little knife. I could see little slivers of wood fly as he whittled and whistled a happy song. He turned to me and smiled.
Before I knew it, I was sitting right next to my dad, a pocketknife in my right hand and a piece of wood in my left. Twice as many little shavings of wood flew as my dad taught me how to carve a little knife by myself. Mine didn’t look nearly as good as his, but it was okay. My dad was sitting next to me, and that was all that mattered.
Every once in a while, I looked up at him, all smiles, to compare my knife with his, as he kept carving the wood and whistling his songs. Once he caught me looking at him and gave me a big smile and winked at me. That made me feel good because he would wink at me when he was really happy. I winked back.

One woman felt she had little or no light in her life. Her husband spent three days of each week traveling out of town because of his work. This left her home alone to manage their house and two small children. She was just nineteen when they were married. She had almost no experience in caring for young children, and certainly felt no confidence in handling her own. She often found their demands and the pressing household duties overwhelming. In her frustration, she grew increasingly harsh with them until her abusive behavior became frightening, even to herself. Feeling alone, ashamed, and inadequate, she was often in the depths of despair. What light did the gospel offer to her?
She and her husband considered themselves good members of the Church. But what difference did that make when the children were crying, the laundry piled higher and higher, the letter from her mother remained unanswered, and the dress she was to make this week for her husband’s company party lay unfinished on the sewing machine? All these frustrations spoke so loudly the discouragement of the present. They made the blessings of the gospel seem very far away.
Fortunately, there were those who helped her learn to apply the principles of the gospel in solving many of her problems. Her visiting teachers, responding to her anxiety over her children, brought a special toy for each child. They had carefully selected playthings that an adult could use with a child in a delightful but problem-solving way. They took time to show the mother how to relate to her children through activity. She was surprised to find how happy and responsive the children were. They began to look forward to a playtime association with their mother. She realized that she was providing for their needs through play, and that they were becoming more relaxed with her.
Because of the relationship they were establishing through their activities together, the children were more willing to do as their mother asked—to pick up their clothes, put their toys away, and take their naps. This, in turn, helped her have more time to organize her other responsibilities. She learned to be considerate of her children and sensitive to their concerns. She has continued giving the children this special attention each day. Love in this home is now more than a concept; it is the way they respond to each other’s needs.

My brother, Colonel Leon C. Packer, was stationed at the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. A much decorated B-24 pilot, he became a brigadier general in the Air Force.
While I was at Langley Field, the war in Europe ended, and so we were ordered to the Pacific. I spent a few days with Leon in Washington before shipping out for combat.
He told me of things he had learned under fire. He flew from North Africa on raids over southern Europe; very few of those planes returned.
On April 16, 1943, he was captain of a B-24 bomber returning to England after a raid in Europe. His plane, the Yard Bird, was heavily damaged by flak and dropped out of formation.
Then they were alone and came under heavy attack from fighters.
His one-page account of that experience says: “Number three engine was smoking and the prop ran away. Number four fuel line was shot out. Right aileron cables and stabilizer cables were shot out. Rudders partially locked. Radio shot out. Extremely large holes in the right wing. Flaps shot out. Entire rear part of the fuselage filled with holes. Hydraulic system shot out. Tail turret out.”
A history of the Eighth Air Force, published just two years ago, gives a detailed account of that flight written by one of the crew.
With one engine on fire, the other three lost power. They were going down. The alarm bell ordered that they bail out. The bombardier, the only one able to get out, parachuted into the English Channel.
The pilots left their seats and made their way toward the bomb bay to bail out. Suddenly Leon heard an engine cough and sputter. He quickly climbed back to his seat and coaxed enough power from the engines to reach the coast of England. Then the engines failed, and they crashed.
The landing gear was shorn off on the brow of a hill; the plane plowed through trees and crumbled. Dirt filled the fuselage.
Amazingly, though some were terribly wounded, all aboard survived. The bombardier was lost, but he probably saved the lives of the other nine. When smoke poured from the engines and a parachute appeared, the fighters stopped their attack.
That was not the only time Leon had crash-landed.
As we visited, he told me how he was able to hold himself together under fire. He said, “I have a favorite hymn”—and he named it—“and when things got rough I would sing it silently to myself, and there would come a faith and an assurance that kept me on course.”
He sent me off to combat with that lesson.

President Wilford Woodruff tells of an interesting incident that occurred in the days of the Prophet Joseph Smith:
“I will refer to a certain meeting I attended in the town of Kirtland in my early days. At that meeting some remarks were made that have been made here today, with regard to the living prophets and with regard to the written word of God. The same principle was presented, although not as extensively as it has been here, when a leading man in the Church got up and talked upon the subject, and said: ‘You have got the word of God before you here in the Bible, Book of Mormon, and Doctrine and Covenants; you have the written word of God, and you who give revelations should give revelations according to those books, as what is written in those books is the word of God. We should confine ourselves to them.’
“When he concluded, Brother Joseph turned to Brother Brigham Young and said, ‘Brother Brigham I want you to go to the podium and tell us your views with regard to the living oracles and the written word of God.’ Brother Brigham took the stand, and he took the Bible, and laid it down; he took the Book of Mormon, and laid it down; and he took the Book of Doctrine and Covenants, and laid it down before him, and he said: ‘There is the written word of God to us, concerning the work of God from the beginning of the world, almost, to our day. And now,’ said he, ‘when compared with the living oracles those books are nothing to me; those books do not convey the word of God direct to us now, as do the words of a Prophet or a man bearing the Holy Priesthood in our day and generation. I would rather have the living oracles than all the writing in the books.’ That was the course he pursued. When he was through, Brother Joseph said to the congregation; ‘Brother Brigham has told you the word of the Lord, and he has told you the truth.’” (Conference Report, October 1897, pp. 18–19.)

“God is good” was the phrase that came to my mind when my husband and I first learned we were expecting triplets. I had previously lost twins shortly after childbirth when they were born prematurely at 21 weeks. I’d also had two miscarriages. So the news that we were expecting three more babies was a surprise that my husband and I were still processing after struggling with polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS).
Fearing the worst, I wondered, “What if these babies don’t live? Does that mean God is not good?” I tried to calm my fears with the mantra, “God is always good.” I further reasoned that my love for Heavenly Father isn’t dependent upon getting what I want. I love Him, and I know He loves me. He knows when I weep and what I am feeling. Though I don’t understand why He allows certain things to happen, I know without a doubt that He desires my happiness.
Because of my complications during previous pregnancies, I was referred to a specialist who carefully monitored my prenatal care during this pregnancy. I was comforted when a visiting General Authority gave me a priesthood blessing after a stake conference and reminded me that God was very aware of my situation and that He loves me. I knew I was in good hands.
A statement made by Elder John H. Groberg when he was serving in the Seventy brought me peace during the long days of this high-risk pregnancy: “When filled with God’s love, we can do and see and understand things that we could not otherwise do or see or understand. Filled with His love, we can endure pain, quell fear, forgive freely, avoid contention, renew strength, and bless and help others in ways surprising even to us.”1
Even with priesthood blessings, the best medical care, and taking precautions to prevent the results from my earlier pregnancies, our triplets were born at 20 weeks for the same reason the twins had previously come early. One of the triplets was stillborn, and the other two died shortly after birth.
During this time, I found great comfort in the talk “Grateful in Any Circumstances” from Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. His teachings spoke peace to my broken heart, including these words:
“Some are facing the end of a cherished relationship, such as the death of a loved one or estrangement from a family member. Others feel they are facing the end of hope—the hope of being married or bearing children or overcoming an illness. Others may be facing the end of their faith, as confusing and conflicting voices in the world tempt them to question, even abandon, what they once knew to be true.
“Sooner or later, I believe that all of us experience times when the very fabric of our world tears at the seams, leaving us feeling alone, frustrated, and adrift.
“It can happen to anyone. No one is immune.
“Everyone’s situation is different, and the details of each life are unique. Nevertheless, I have learned that there is something that would take away the bitterness that may come into our lives. There is one thing we can do to make life sweeter, more joyful, even glorious.
“We can be grateful!”2
Based on Elder Uchtdorf’s talk, I started keeping a gratitude journal. In the wake of our twins’ deaths, I’d started experiencing uncontrollable anxiety and despair; the simple act of writing down the good things that had happened each day gave me the courage to let go of the bitterness and blame that had consumed me. I learned to be grateful for every day that I am alive and for the experiences that God gives me. I am a much happier person, despite our losses; I’ve learned to be “thankful in [my] circumstances—whatever they may be.”3
My seven departed little ones are teaching me about gratitude from the other side of the veil. Even though I can’t see them, I feel them influencing my life and helping me to be happy, which is one of the greatest gifts anyone could give me. They have taught me about the important things in life, about what really matters.
There are great blessings awaiting us if we stay faithful to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, obey Their commandments, and keep our covenants. I look forward to the great blessing of being reunited with my children someday and raising them during the Millennium.4 We will have our hands full, but that thought brings me so much joy and reassures me that God is always good.

Toward the end of that year of seminary, we had a final seminary activity—a stake scripture chase coupled with a stake speech competition. I was involved in a lot of things in our high school—sports, drama, student leadership, and such. In the past, I would have just bowed out of the speech competition because it may not have been considered “cool” to participate. But I thought, “No, I’m going to do this.” Maybe I did so just to discipline myself.
I didn’t win the stake speech contest, but I placed high enough to go on to the regional competition. Then in the regional competition, I had an interesting experience. I stood up and began my speech based on a truth in the Book of Mormon. All of sudden I was no longer giving just my memorized speech; it was an extension of my soul. It is hard to describe what I felt as I spoke. Instead of participating in a speech contest, I was bearing witness to truth and learning the truth at the same time. I quoted Alma 37:35–37, and as I did I knew and testified that youth was a season to learn wisdom, to prepare for the later season of performance of our lives. Citing Elder Richard L. Evans (1906–71) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, I taught that youth was like springtime: a time to plant the seed of the word of God such that when summer comes, the seed can be cultivated. Then, as we enter the fall season of life, the fruits of the seed can be harvested, so that, upon the arrival of the winter of our lives, we have laid up in store all we need to be able to bless others around us.1 I realized as I spoke that reading and pondering the Book of Mormon was precisely what one should do in one’s youth, because it brings the Holy Ghost in such abundance that our lives will become fruitful inasmuch as we cultivate the words of the book by reading, pondering, living, and sharing them. I knew as I spoke that a life so lived is lived in season. The Spirit flowed through me strongly, and I knew—again—of the power of the Book of Mormon.
When I sat down, I thought, “That wasn’t about the competition at all; it was about the Spirit.” It was a unique experience for me. I have had it many times since. But that was the first time for me to feel that witness to me as well as through me as I spoke. The experience was worth the time I took to prepare the talk! It did not matter to me at that moment whether I won or not. I was simply grateful for what I had just experienced.

I have a necklace that has a small rod on it. It was given to me as a Christmas present and reminds me to hold to the rod.
One Sunday I put it on for church but forgot to take it off, so I wore it to school the next day. Someone asked me, “What is that? A dog whistle?”
“Oh, it’s a reminder to hold to the iron rod,” I said. “It’s something in the Book of Mormon.” That led to questions: “What is the Book of Mormon about?” “What sets Mormons apart from other Christians?” They asked about the temple and all kinds of other things. What was amazing was that as I was talking, I felt the Spirit guiding me about what to say next.
I’m sure I was afraid at first, but taking those kinds of opportunities—even small ones like that experience—is so important. A few months previously, Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles visited our stake. The Friday before the meeting, friends asked me about my plans for the weekend. I was really excited about his visit, but I stopped myself from telling friends about it. How easy would it have been to say, “I’m going to see an Apostle”? But I worried that they wouldn’t know what I was talking about or that they would think it was strange, so I just talked about my plans for Saturday and didn’t mention Sunday at all. That could have been a really great opportunity to share a little bit about my faith with my friends, but I pushed it away. I regretted it afterwards.
I’ve learned since then to never be afraid. A lot of times friends will be interested and ask to find out more, but even if they don’t, my friends generally respect what I do and say when it comes to the Church.
Missionary work can be scary, because the gospel is close to your heart and you don’t want people to ridicule what you say. A scripture mastery verse, Romans 1:16, really gets to me: “For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth.” This helps me to speak up before the feelings of fear hit me too hard. And I know that Heavenly Father blesses us as we do.

Wouldn’t you get a little nervous if your high school counselor suddenly and unexpectedly called you into the office?
You would especially be nervous if you were Richard Aballay, a senior at a Catholic seminary in New York City. Richard had seen the commercials about the Mormon church on TV, had contacted the missionaries, and was baptized. But he hadn’t yet mentioned his baptism to anyone at the school, where boys prepare to become Catholic priests.
“How are you doing in your subjects?” the counselor began politely on that fateful day in late October.
“Fine,” said Richard, cautiously.
Then the counselor jumped to his real concern. “Are you affiliated with another church?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Why?”
“I have come to know the Savior better in this church. I know this church is doing more for me. It is the church of God.”
As the counselor began to lecture, warning Richard that being a member of a different church was grounds for dismissal, Richard thought how easy it would be to say he had made it all up. Then he could finish his senior year in peace.
“But I couldn’t do that,” Richard said later. “You can’t deny the truth when you have it.”
By the next day it was official: Richard had to leave.
The following week was torment, Richard said. But with much prayer, his family was able to find space for him in another good school.
“From that experience,” Richard says, “I have learned that the Lord will never abandon me.”
In fact, the experience gave Richard the chance to tell more people about the gospel, since his classmates wanted to know why he would leave school for his new beliefs.
Being dismissed from school is not the only challenge Richard has faced. He grew up in the Bronx, a borough of New York City. It is not an easy place to live.
“I know for a fact that if it weren’t for the gospel, I would probably have gone into something crazy,” he says. “The inner city is hard. But I know the greatest blessing in my life has been the priesthood.
“Ever since I was first ordained a deacon, I noticed a great change. I just felt that the Lord was with me. And I had a confidence—I could walk into my school where kids were doing bad things, and I could say no. It helps keep me straight. I’m always saying to myself, ‘I want to honor the priesthood.’”
The gospel has helped him in other ways, too. One is that since he joined the Church, Richard has been able to overcome a speech impediment. Before receiving the Holy Ghost, “I could not say a word in public,” Richard says. After his confirmation, he was able to bless the sacrament, give talks in church, and take roles in two road shows. “Like it says in Ether 12:27—my weakness became a strength,” he says. Richard used to go to parties a lot. But after the last one, he says, “I saw things there, and I didn’t feel right. For some reason I knew I didn’t belong.”
He left the party and vowed to become more involved in service, schoolwork, studying the scriptures, and listening to good music—and to not watch so much television.
“It was hard,” he says. “I wanted to keep up with things going on outside. I didn’t want to be a social hermit. But I felt that if I was going to go on a mission, and if I was going to get married in the temple, and if I was going to receive callings, I had to be worthy.”
Many of his friends think this is a strange road to take. They also think it strange that he decided to accept a call to serve as a full-time missionary in the Paraguay Asunción Mission. And Richard agrees with them.
“As I look at it, the life-style one lives as a disciple of Christ—as a member of the Church—is a strange one from the rest of the world. God doesn’t work or think in the same ways man does, and he doesn’t want us to act and think the way the rest of the world does. So because the Lord works in ways that seem strange to the world, we appear to be a strange and peculiar people. But I’m proud of being strange! I don’t think there’s anything strange with it.
“The truth is, now that I’m on the other side, I think the life-style that other people live is strange. I want to make their life-style one that I know will be better for them—and that would be bringing them to Christ.”
The Apostle Paul invited all to be “no more strangers and foreigners, but fellowcitizens with the saints” (Eph. 2:19). Richard Aballay extends the same invitation to the strangers of the world. In doing so, the boy from the Bronx has become a man.

I graduated from high school in 1992 and immediately turned in my papers to serve a full-time mission. At the time my call came, I had just been admitted to one of the best universities in Nigeria to study medicine.
In Nigeria admission into medical school is competitive and not to be forfeited. When I received pressure from some friends and family members to abandon my mission call, I explained that I had a responsibility to serve and had looked forward to doing so since I joined the Church six years before. I was sure I could get readmitted to medical school after my mission, but many thought I would regret my decision.
I am grateful to the home teachers, family members, and Church friends who supported my decision to serve. Attending seminary, studying the scriptures, and living the gospel enabled me to stand by my convictions.
As a missionary I set personal goals and worked hard. Twenty-four months later I received an honorable release. The Lord blesses returned missionaries but has not promised that they will be immune to trials. For the Nigerian returned missionary, those trials include unemployment and lack of funds for education.
During the first three years after my mission, I took and passed three entrance examinations, but I wasn’t readmitted to medical school. During those same three years, I couldn’t find a job. I was tempted to believe that some of my friends and family members might have been right and that it was a mistake to have forfeited my admission to medical school.
On my mission I learned to cast my burden on the Lord, so I let Him direct my life according to His will. As soon as I did, things started working out for me—but not as I had planned.
One fast Sunday I decided to fast and intently pray for the Lord’s help. That evening a knock came at the door. When I opened the door, I was astonished to see an acquaintance I had met during security training I had attended six months before. He told me that an opportunity for a security operative had opened in a company his elder brother worked for and that the company urgently needed to fill the position. I was the only person who came to his mind.
The next day the company hired me. That singular experience confirmed to me that Heavenly Father had not abandoned me and that I needed to trust in Him. The job proved to be a springboard to other jobs.
Divine blessings are not measured by temporal achievements alone. I struggled for years after my mission to find temporal stability, but the Lord blessed me spiritually. My patriarchal blessing directed me to get married and told me that the opportunity of higher education would come. It did.
Though I never went to medical school, I have earned the equivalent of degrees in accounting and mathematics. The Lord eventually blessed me with sufficient material stability that I was able to marry.
If we serve an honorable mission, the Lord is bound to bless us as we seek opportunities for higher education afterward. Nothing in the life of a young man or young woman can surpass the experiences, learning, and blessings of full-time missionary service.

Life cannot be all about work, and it cannot be all about play; there needs to be a certain balance. I would like to give you a personal example.

We married a year after returning from my mission. Coming home, I still had to do my military service, and when that part was finished, I started working full time. I met Marjan at a YA summer camp shortly after returning home from my mission and we got married a year later. We were poor but happy newlyweds with no car but wonderful bicycles. We lived about an hour away from the stake center by public transportation, and the stake conference was coming up. The cost for me to go to the priesthood leadership session of that conference would equal a week’s groceries. Besides that, I felt I needed to stay with my sweetheart since we just gotten married, and I needed to hold her hand all the time. On the stake conference Saturday morning, while I was comfortably sitting on the couch—yes, we managed to have a couch after some weeks—she asked me why I was not getting ready to go to the priesthood session. I told her I did not want her to feel lonely without me. Well, you should have seen the look on her face when she told me that, as a priesthood leader, my place was to be in that conference meeting. I am so grateful for her directing me in the right way, otherwise I would not have been standing here addressing you today.

Yes, our priority should be the one we are sealed to, but we should not use this as an excuse and miss out on growing experiences that make us better.

In junior high, I didn’t think life was fair. I was short—not just a little below average, but officially vertically challenged. One day my entire grade lined up by height for a picture. I was at the end of the line—the short end.
Despite my height, I loved basketball and was determined to make the team. As a gym full of boys began running drills to win their places on the squad, I hoped my many hours of practice would pay off. The coaches stood in the middle of the gym, observing us and taking notes on their clipboards. At my size, I just prayed they would notice me.
After warm-ups, the head coach blew his whistle and explained our first shooting drill. He handed me a ball. I was one of the first to dribble from half court and pull up inside the three-point line for a jump shot. I knew everyone was watching; my shaking hands reminded me with every dribble. I stopped at the top of the key, jumped, and let go of the ball. I hoped that it would at least hit the rim. The ball rolled around the iron and dropped through the net.
Sooner than I wanted, it was my turn again. Again my shot found its way through the hoop. Through the next rotation, my luck continued. The returning center of the team noticed me and decided to help out an underdog. He began calling attention to me right before each of my next shots. Thankfully, I kept making my shots.
At the end of the day, when the list of those who made first cuts was posted, my name was there. I had just climbed the first leg of my Mount Everest.
After a few more days of tense nerves and early-morning drills, another cut was posted. I made it past my second hurdle. With only one or two cuts left, my chances were getting better, but my competition was stiffer.
At the end of the week, tryouts were over. I tried to remain calm as I walked to the coaches’ office to see if I made the team. My name was missing from the list.
The assistant coach, who was also my science teacher, pulled me aside. “You’re a good little ball player. You’ve got a lot of potential.” His compliments didn’t help my disappointment. “It’s hard to cut people. It’s just that right now you don’t have the size to play for the team. Maybe next year.”
Why me? One of my dreams crashed, and it wasn’t because I didn’t try or practice. It was because of something out of my control. Life just didn’t seem fair.

I sat alone at the edge of my bed, balancing my thick biology book as I attempted to study for the next day’s test. I slowly turned through the complicated chapter on cellular respiration, my jaw tight as I tried to concentrate. But it was useless.
I looked up at the glow-in-the-dark stars clustered above my bed, dull in the light of my lamp, the sharp edges blurring as my eyes filled with tears. I had done a horrible job that evening trying out for the play. It had been my first attempt at high school theater. Although untrained in the arts of dancing, acting, and singing, I had undertaken the challenging musical tryouts at the urging of my friends. I hadn’t done well. My dancing on the first night and my singing audition seemed about average. But tonight had been the final test, the portion I had counted on for success—a memorized humorous monologue, performed in under a minute, before the critical eyes of the director and audition board. I had prepared for my monologue days in advance, writing and memorizing the script carefully until I was certain I could perform it even in my sleep. But when I had reached the school, I couldn’t think clearly. I was not only nervous but also tired and worried about my two difficult tests scheduled for the next day. I tried to remember my lines, those words that I knew so well, but they slipped from me in fragments and spilled out shaky and uncertain.
A hot tear brushed my lips, and I tried to muffle a sob. Nothing seemed to be going right the past few weeks. Between the recent cold distance of one of my closest friends, the stress of my difficult schedule, and the nagging doubts of applying to college, I was finding my senior year to be nearly impossible. And now, after the embarrassment of tonight’s audition, I didn’t know how I could study or even sleep. I shut my biology book and placed it on the floor, emotions roiling as I buried my head in my pillow.
Then I heard my door open and the concerned voice of my mother. “Do you need a blessing?” she asked softly. I looked up, tempted to send her away. My puffy red face, streaked by wetness, held the imprint of my pillow’s seams. But I knew, even as I pulled myself into a sitting position so that I could see both my parents in my doorway, that tonight a blessing was what I needed most of all. I nodded wordlessly, sniffing a bit as I stood and followed my parents across the hall into their room.
I’ve heard of blessings given by pioneers. And even in modern times I’ve heard of blessings for fire victims, children in comas, and people who are not expected to survive. I had a testimony of the priesthood before that night. I had been given my patriarchal blessing two years prior and knew of the unique truthfulness and love it contained. But as my father placed his hands on my head that evening, I could feel divine power in his phrases, in the gentle pressure of his hands. His blessing swept past my superficial wants into what I needed to hear most. And as he concluded, my heart sang at the power in those words, those simple, healing words that I knew were not his. My father couldn’t remember what he had said, but I could, and my dark tangle of stress and fears had loosened into a soft and gentle peace.
I smiled at my mother, grateful for her inspired suggestion. As I turned around and hugged my father, I could feel in the warmth of his arms an echo of the love of my Heavenly Father and His Son, both watching and caring for me more than anyone else ever could. I felt so grateful for that single modest blessing, those quietly powerful, comforting words. That night I slept deeply for the first time in weeks, unworried and sure of my future as a beloved daughter of God.

Then, about two years ago, a friend of mine died by suicide. The phone call I received that delivered the news will be etched in my mind for the rest of my life. I beat myself up for months, wondering what more I could have done for this person. How I could have been a better friend. How I could have called more. How I could have invited this person more. I had so many thoughts of regret and self-blame that went on and on.

And finally, I recently hit a point of exhaustion I’d never felt before. My friends, family members, and even coworkers had been opening up to me about their current challenges, and the more they opened up to me, the more I would try to take on what they were struggling with. I was hyperfocused on that idea of “fixing,” and I felt powerless to do so.

So when that song came on at work, tears instantly flooded my eyes as I stopped typing and listened to the music. It was all I could do to mutter a small prayer: “Heavenly Father … I’m exhausted.”

Then God, in His loving grace, answered my prayer by patiently teaching me. These words instantly came to my mind: “You’re exhausted because you’re trying to be the fixer. And that is what I sent my Son to do.”

I felt incredibly humbled in that moment. I’d been trying to do a job that was never mine to do in the first place.

As Sister Reyna I. Aburto, Second Counselor in the Relief Society General Presidency, taught: “Sometimes, the natural man or woman in us makes us think that we have been called to ‘fix’ other people. We have not been called to be ‘fixers’ of others, and we have not been called to lecture or to scorn. We have been called to inspire, to lift, to invite others, to be fishers of people, fishers of souls so they receive the opportunity to be spiritually healed by Jesus Christ, our Savior and Redeemer.”1

I’ve learned that because of the world we live in, we will constantly be with people, including ourselves, who are imperfect. And living in an imperfect world means that we will all experience challenges in this life, including difficult things that are beyond our control. That’s why God sent Jesus Christ—so He could help us.

Heavenly Father reminded me that day in my office that it wasn’t my job to heal my grandma. I wasn’t to blame for my friend’s death by suicide. And it certainly wasn’t my role to take on all the burdens and weaknesses of those around me.

Let us remember the Savior “descended below” all things (Doctrine and Covenants 122:8) because He is the Master Healer.

That’s a truth I’m continually learning to hold on to when I feel that need to solve everyone’s problems. I now strive to allow the Savior to guide and teach me.

Our simple mandate from Him is to “bear one another’s burdens” (Mosiah 18:8), which entails loving, supporting, listening, comforting, praying, fasting, forgiving, and serving. We can do that as we turn to follow the Savior. And as we let Him offer His healing hand to us and to those we love, our burdens will truly become light.