Gospel Story Finder

This importance of “clinging” to the rod – the word of God – and not casually touching it now and then was reiterated when going though the Haunted Mill a few weeks ago with our 14-year-old daughter, Kristen, and three of her friends. They voted 4-1 for me to lead, then bunched up behind me with hands on my shoulders and around my neck. It was a fearful trip, mostly due to the screams of my young companions. And there really were moments where it was pitch dark and confusing.

I thought, “Great, they’ll either have to turn on the lights to get us out of here or find us sometime the next morning.” But I had to be brave and, fortunately, found railings or ropes at key moments to latch on to that got us through. I would take hold of these guides really tight, and we made it through without incident.

Life can likewise have twists and turns, ups and downs. I testify that clinging to the rod – the word of God in all its forms – and maintaining the Holy Spirit as our guide is a sure source of strength and direction through it all.

Some time ago I was invited to speak at a youth conference, which is the kind of invitation that I have had to decline routinely for years. But something about this one kept gnawing at me, and I answered that I would come. It seemed a foolish thing to do. It meant a morning drive of about four hours into a neighboring state and then the same drive back that night. But I felt I should go, and I did. I put my wife and children in the car with sandwiches and a Scrabble board, and off we went.

After I dropped them off at the local city park and swimming pool, I went over to the youth conference held at a local stake center. The trip was worth it all to me for one brief testimony that I heard there. At this very moment I honestly cannot tell you what I said to that group as their invited speaker. It’s gone from my memory and undoubtedly gone from all of theirs. But this young convert’s testimony is still with me, and I leave it with you today.

She described her conversion to the Church and what the gospel of Jesus Christ had come to mean in her life. Her home life was something out of a horror story—broken marriage, mother living with a man not her husband, brother on drugs, sister expecting a baby. It was as bizarre as any social worker would ever need to see. But into her life had come the Church, and for this young fourteen- or fifteen-year-old girl it was everything, and she was hanging on. She described opening her school locker one day, only to have her paperback edition of the Book of Mormon fall to the floor. She used it in seminary, and to her it was a prized possession. She was still a little insecure about all of this, however, for the world around her had made her pretty insecure. And she was not yet certain what her new faith and friends held in store for her. She was happy but still tentative and very anxious to be stronger in the faith. She was embarrassed. She had not wanted anyone to see the book.

She hastily stooped down to pick it up before someone noticed. But someone had noticed, and they were standing right next to her. Three girls looked first at the book and then at her. Her heart sank, and she clutched at the little blue paperback cover. She said nothing, and neither did they for a moment. But then one of them asked, “Is that a church book?”

She said “Yes.”

The other girl said “What church is it?”

And my young friend stuttered, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

“Is that the Mormons?” shot back the inquirer.

“Yes,” whispered the frightened little Latter-day Saint, “that’s the Mormons.”

There was a long pause, and then her interrogator said, “Are you true?”

After a pause that was both instantaneous and eternal, my little friend said, with her head slightly more erect and her back slightly straighter and her hands trembling a little less, “Yes, I’m true.”

I must confess that when I first heard that young girl’s testimony, I did not quite understand all that I was hearing. I’ve thought about it since, and obviously what the one girl, in her own way, was asking was, “Are you active?” That’s the way we would have phrased it. But what a tragic loss to so phrase it. How much more meaning there is in the straightforward inquiry, “Are you true?”

There was no reprisal. The heretofore undisclosed copy of the Book of Mormon in a school locker had not brought on physical torture or social ostracism. A little confidence came, and a little conviction increased. There was just one young soul saying to another, “Are you true?” “If you are a Latter-day Saint, are you a good one?”

Lily is also able to complete many Personal Progress experiences and projects without adapting them. For example, one of the value experiences for Good Works is to spend three hours serving outside of your family. For this project, Lily and her mom cleaned up a neighbor’s yard. After completing the project, Lily felt stronger. She says, “It was hard work and I was happy when it was over, but I am glad that I did it!”

During World War II, many cities in the United States enforced nightly blackouts to conserve fuel. In Salt Lake City the floodlights on the Salt Lake Temple were turned off. The temple stood dark in a dark city for years. When the ceasefire was declared in Europe, President Heber J. Grant ordered the floodlights of the temple turned back on.
For Christmas 1945, President George Albert Smith planned an inspiring and meaningful Christmas card. On the front was a photograph of the three eastern spires of the Salt Lake Temple beautifully lit against a dark blue background with the angel Moroni figure standing above. Across the bottom were the words “Christmas—1945” and the message “The lights are on again.”10 Nothing could have better reflected the joy felt by everyone after so many long years of death and destruction.
But this beautiful Christmas card was also President Smith’s way of bearing his testimony of Jesus Christ and the Restoration of the gospel. Just as the end of the war brought peace and light in dark places, the Restoration of the gospel following the centuries-long Apostasy turned the bright lights of truth “on again” for all the people of the world.

1 Young Spencer Kimball spent many hours helping his father on the family farm. He tramped hay, planted seeds, weeded the garden, and painted the barn and house.
2 And every day Spencer milked the cows. There were no milking machines in those days, and it took the young boy quite a while to finish this chore.
3 Spencer liked to learn. He decided to use his “milking time” to learn new things, so he copied the words from Church hymns onto small pieces of paper and sang to the cows while he milked them.
4 He memorized many of his favorite scriptures the same way. Neighbors often joked about those cows being the most spiritual cows in the area!
5 From the barn doorway, Spencer’s father would watch him sitting on a three-legged stool, milking a cow and learning hymns and scriptures.
6 Spencer W. Kimball learned at a young age to be dedicated to the gospel and to seek after righteousness. He was well prepared to become the twelfth President of the Church.

Upon graduating from high school, I decided to move to Utah, USA, where my two older brothers had settled after returning from their missions. They had started their own construction companies and extended to me the opportunity to work for them while I tried to figure out what I wanted to do with my life.
Both of them tried to persuade me to serve a mission. I had always felt impressed to serve a mission but failed to prepare. Rather than make the necessary preparations to serve a mission, I chose to serve in a different capacity. At the age of 20, I enlisted as a medic in the US Army.
Despite my joining the army, the impression to serve a mission never left. As I entered the last year of my enlistment, I pondered what was next.
“Do I re-enlist? Do I finish my bachelor’s degree? Or do I go out and make the necessary changes in my life, repent, and prepare to serve a mission? Even if I do want to serve, am I too old?” These were some of the questions that crossed my mind.
As I considered whether to serve a mission, I felt strongly that there were people waiting for me to invite them to come unto Christ. This impression was the catalyst for my decision to prepare to serve a mission. I decided that even if I had only a slight chance of being able to serve a mission at my age, I had to try.
I think for most prospective missionaries, the flood of emotion and the power of the Holy Ghost hits them upon opening and reading their mission call. However, for me, that happened the day I was informed that I was still eligible to apply to serve a mission.
As I had repented and prepared myself to serve, I felt an immense gratitude toward my Savior, Jesus Christ, and my Heavenly Father. I felt like They wrapped Their arms around me and said: “We forgive you. We accept your repentance and the changes you have made and who you have become. You are worthy to serve.” I felt triumphant.
Eventually I received my call to serve in the Philippines Quezon City Mission.
Entering the missionary training center at the age of 25 was a unique experience. Most of the other missionaries were much younger. Many had recently graduated from high school or had completed their first year of college. Several were experiencing their first time away from home and family. As for me, I had just finished spending four years in the US Army and was already acclimated to many of the sacrifices and adjustments that the other missionaries were only about to encounter. My experience afforded me the opportunity to focus less on myself and more on extending empathy and encouragement to others. My age and experience also gave me insight into the value of time and provided motivation to serve with focus, intention, and diligence.
My mission will always be one of the most important experiences of—and for—my life. It solidified and sealed my foundation built on the rock of my Redeemer (see Helaman 5:12). I am immensely thankful that I had the opportunity to serve.

Shortly after my parents were baptized in Ponta Grossa, Brazil, their bishop called them into his office for an interview and taught them about the importance of paying tithing. As he taught about the principle of tithing, the bishop also referred to the blessings of living this commandment as stated in Malachi 3:8–12. We read:
“Will a man rob God? Yet ye have robbed me. But ye say, Wherein have we robbed thee? In tithes and offerings.
“Ye are cursed with a curse: for ye have robbed me, even this whole nation.
“Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house, and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it.
“And I will rebuke the devourer for your sakes, and he shall not destroy the fruits of your ground; neither shall your vine cast her fruit before the time in the field, saith the Lord of hosts.
“And all nations shall call you blessed: for ye shall be a delightsome land, saith the Lord of hosts.”
My parents went home that day from church pondering about these verses from Malachi. Their initial reaction was not to pay their tithing, as they were recently married with a young and growing family. Life was difficult and they still had a very limited knowledge of the gospel. My father, having a very strong personality and being very rational, was not willing to pay tithing, because in his mind they could not afford to pay ten percent of their income to the Church, but the promise from the prophet Malachi where the Lord says, “bring ye all tithes . . . and prove me . . . if I will not open you the windows of heaven” stayed in his mind. After counseling together, they decided to give it a chance and to do exactly as we are instructed to do in Malachi.
They started paying tithing out of obedience to the commandments, but over time they gained a strong testimony of the promises made in Malachi. They could see in their lives how the Lord opened the windows of heaven for them. I grew up listening to my father saying that we could not afford not to pay an honest tithing.

When we forgive and forget, we give our children the opportunity to experience the miracle of forgiveness. During my years as an Aaronic Priesthood holder, a prominent individual in the stake was found guilty of illegal business practices and sent to prison. Stake members made many critical comments. My kind and forgiving father, who was on the stake high council at the time, brought us together as a family and taught us that there are no perfect people for the Lord to call, but there are many good and wonderful people whom He calls to strengthen the lives of others and also to be strengthened through service. Dad said that we would always be blessed for sustaining those whom the Lord has called to serve and that we ought to focus on their strengths and not on their weaknesses. My father’s forgiving and loving feelings toward our former leader taught me a powerful lesson that has been a guiding principle in my life.

Several years after the difficult trial the Alvarez family faced, I witnessed how another faithful family dealt with great adversity. Several members of the Quero family had died in a terrible car accident. Brother Abraham Quero lost his parents, two sisters, his brother-in-law, and his niece in that accident.
Brother Quero showed an admirable attitude when he said the following:
“This was the time to show loyalty to God and to acknowledge that we depend on Him, that His will must be obeyed, and that we are subject to Him.
“I spoke to my brothers and gave them strength and courage to understand what President Kimball taught many years ago, that ‘there is no tragedy in death, but only in sin’ (Teachings of Presidents of the Church: Spencer W. Kimball [Melchizedek Priesthood and Relief Society course of study, 2006], 18) and that the important thing is not how a man died but how he lived.
“The words of Job filled my soul: ‘The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord’ (Job 1:21). And then from Jesus: ‘I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live’ (John 11:25).
“This was one of the most spiritual experiences we had as a family—to accept the will of God under such very difficult circumstances.”

When a student of mine, whom I will call Dillon, walked into my math class a few years ago, he lit up the room with his smile. He spread this joy and peace to all who worked with him that semester. He made my day. I don't know about other professors, but whenever I run into a former student, I rarely remember the grade they earned, but I always remember how I felt around them. Around Dillon, I felt like a daughter of God.

When Dillon introduced himself that first day, he spoke of his fiancée and their plans after BYU-Idaho. He was full of hope and promise. Now, I did notice that he had a peculiar physical characteristic for one so young. He was bald. I soon found out he had been battling cancer since his mission. That semester, the good news came that he was in remission. I was so happy for him and his future bride. He reminded me of the faith described in Hebrews 11: "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."[5] Dillon's faith in his Savior was strong.

In Hebrews it goes on to share many of the miracles of the Bible which came about by faith. By faith, Noah built an ark. By faith, Enoch did not see death. By faith, Isaac offered up his son. By faith, Sarah bore a child later in life. By faith, Dillon found hope and peace in his journey.

The next semester, I received one of those campus e-mails that none of us likes to read. The e-mail let us know that Dillon had passed away. He had lost his battle here on earth. I didn't understand. He was so good, so faithful. Why didn't the Lord grant him healing? How could one so young and so good be called home so early?

Sometime after Dillon's death, I returned to Hebrews 11. Further on it says that even the faithful are called home and sometimes tortured, mocked, scourged, and imprisoned. And yet in verse 40 of the Joseph Smith Translation for this verse, it states, "God having provided some better things for them through their sufferings, for without sufferings they could not be made perfect." Dillon had not lost his battle. He had won. He had come to know his Savior and lived a life which shared this testimony with all he knew.

Many of you have gone on full-time missions, and many of you are preparing to go out soon. Relying on the Spirit is the best preparation for missionary work. In 1974 two missionaries who were in Italy came and knocked at my door. My mother was alone at home that day and, before letting them in, she looked through the peep hole of our door on the seventh floor of the apartment building in which we lived. You see, the week before one of her friends had been attacked in her home while she was alone. Two young men had introduced themselves as employees of a utilities company, and the woman allowed them in the home to check the gas lines. They seized her, hit her in the forehead with a gun, fired a shot in the air to scare her, and robbed her of all her jewelry. My mother had gone to visit that friend in the hospital just a couple of days earlier. Now, she was not going to let those two young men with a foreign accent into the house, especially when no one else was there. She told them that she was the maid and that she was not allowed to let anyone in.

The two missionaries left, marked my address with a check, and went on to the next home. A few days later they happened in my neighborhood again, and the same scenario followed. My mother was home alone, and the missionaries were not permitted to enter. All you returned missionaries can relate to this experience, and I am sure that you remember how disappointed you were in similar situations. Well, as you know, after two or three unsuccessful tries, missionaries usually don’t go back to the same place. They look for friendlier people! Those two missionaries were later assigned to a different neighborhood and for awhile worked in another area of the town.

Some time went by, and one day my mother saw a missionary street board in the main square of our town. Her interest was immediately drawn by the pictures and the writings on the board, and she began talking to the missionaries. Suddenly it started to rain, one of those thick and abrupt rainstorms of central Italy that keep the country beautifully green but that also catch you by surprise. My mother ran away to take cover. She still had many questions in her mind but didn’t have the time to give her name or address to the missionaries.

The next day or so, the same first two missionaries happened—and I emphasize “happened’—into my neighborhood. They were still working in another part of town, but that day they decided to take a different way home. As they were walking down my street, one of the missionaries asked the other one if they should try that building on 71 Carducci Street again—on the seventh floor. His companion told him that it would be a waste of time; they had already tried three times! The first missionary then replied, “I don’t know why, but I know that we have to go back to that residence. I have no explanation, no reason—I just feel that we have to try again.”

So they went up the stairs, rang the doorbell, and waited outside for a little while. My mother was alone again, but that day, that time, she did open the door, and she let them in. That missionary is the reason why I am here today, why I began attending this church, why I was baptized, and why now I have been married in the temple for time and all eternity, with a beautiful family and eternal blessings awaiting me. That missionary listened to the Spirit, and he could hear the Spirit because he was ready to listen. My life is a miracle, a miracle made possible by the faith of another, and by the love of the Lord for me.

It is sometimes really tough to know how to deal with people who pick on you. I had long ago decided that the best way was just to ignore them. But sometimes this just didn’t seem to work. Earlier that school year, two girls in my science class had hurt me so much with their cruel words that I finally burst and fired similar cruel words right back at them. This landed me in detention, and I spent a miserable afternoon picking up trash. Worse than the actual punishment was how horrible I felt inside. I knew my actions weren’t Christlike, and that hurt me more than anyone’s awful words ever could. After that, I stuck like glue to my old policy of keeping silent and expressionless, hoping people would get bored with me. But Megan still hadn’t given up trying to have fun at my expense, and I had been wondering recently if there were something more I could do besides just turning the other cheek.

Looking down at the candy canes in my backpack, I realized that the Spirit had just given me a solution to my dilemma. I thought of Matthew 5:44, in the Sermon on the Mount, where Christ says, “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you.”

“Well,” I thought, “it’s worth a try.” Even though the thought of doing such an unusual thing scared me, I told myself it couldn’t make the situation any worse.

I almost chickened out. It was the very end of the class period before I had the guts to approach Megan. When I called her name, she turned and looked very surprised that I was speaking to her.

“Here, this is for you.” I held out the candy.

She looked at me very suspiciously. I could tell she was trying to figure out what the trick was. I knew she thought I was trying to do something mean because she knew she’d never done anything nice to me. So I smiled and said, “Merry Christmas,” hoping she would trust me just a little bit.

She took the candy. When I turned to walk away, and it was clear that there were no strings attached, she said, “Thank you.”

I wish I could say Megan and I became friends after that. We didn’t. But she left me alone the rest of the school year, and her eyes lost that hard, malicious glint when she looked at me.

I like to hope I gave her more than just candy that Christmas. I hope that’s what happened, but maybe it didn’t. Maybe she never thought about it again. But I was changed for life after that simple exchange. I was filled with the joy of having done what Jesus would have done. The gift I gave her paled in comparison to the gift I received—a taste of charity, the pure love of Christ, a feeling sweeter than all the Christmas candy in the school.

The first is illustrated by an experience when a stake president and I took the opportunity to visit a young woman in her home near Atlanta, Georgia. She was young; her husband had been killed in a car accident; she was living in an apartment with her two young children. I suppose we expected to find her upset and discouraged at having received a “bump” not of her own making. On the contrary, she was cheerful, calm, and very gracious. She thanked us for coming and said, as nearly as I can recall: “Brethren, I want you to know that I believe in the plan of redemption. I am grateful to my Savior for the promise of a glorious resurrection with my husband. I am grateful for his redeeming sacrifice.” Then, putting her arms around her two children, she said, “Our faith in Jesus Christ will see us through.”
We came expecting to comfort and strengthen, and we left humbled, buoyed, and blessed by her wonderful expression of faith.

I often get too busy and forget to pause when I need help. When my mother died last October, I was sad and needed the Comforter, yet I was so busy taking care of details I failed to pause. We had asked my mother's dear friend to give the life sketch, but she needed some more information. For years I had asked my mother if she had written journals or finished a personal history. She always told me she had, but she could never remember where they were. I had given up hope of ever finding the lost records. My father was not sure they even existed.

The night after my mother's death, I was staying at my parents' home in Pocatello, Idaho, gathering some of my mother's belongings for a display at the viewing. I laid down on the couch to rest and my mind stopped spinning. I paused, and this is when a quiet thought came to my mind, "Go up and look on the shelves in the west bedroom." I followed this prompting, hopeful I would find some more treasures for the display.

I was delighted to find a jewelry box filled with wonderful trinkets. Then I continued down the bookcase where I found a large, white box. I sat down on the bed and opened this box to find volumes of my mother's personal journals written in her own hand, plus several letters and personal histories written at various times throughout her life. I also found many long-lost beautiful photos of my mother as a child, college student, young wife and mother.

I immediately felt the presence of my mother in that room. I sensed a great feeling of relief from her. She was so grateful that I had finally found the missing journals and photos that had been lost for years. I now treasure these family records. I am so grateful that I slowed down long enough to heed the promptings of the still, small voice.

“It was a dare!” Brett said, avoiding his father’s eyes. “I mean, I had to do it, or everyone would think I was a wimp, especially Alan.”
His father sighed. “Do you care so much what other people think?”
Brett blinked. “Of course I care what people think. I mean, a guy has a reputation to keep up.”
“But what sort of reputation do you want to have?” his father asked. He waited, but Brett was silent, so he laid down the law. “I don’t care who dares you. You are not to go out on the roof again, and certainly not wearing flippers.”
“Aw, Dad …” Brett knew from the look on his father’s face that it was pointless to argue. He quickly changed his tactics, smiling sweetly. “OK. I promise not to go out on the roof in flippers again.”
His dad gave him a close look and raised an eyebrow but said no more.
Brett was relieved. He hadn’t promised that he wouldn’t take any more dares. He’d just promised not to dance on the roof with flippers. Who’d dare him to do that again?
Still, Brett felt a little guilty for giving his dad the wrong impression. It was almost like lying. The thing was that all of his friends liked to do dares. It was easy to say you shouldn’t accept a dare when you were talking to your dad, but it was a lot harder when you were with a friend.
The next day, Brett dared his best friend, Alan, to run through the school office wearing his gym shorts on his head. Then Alan dared Brett to do a handstand in the cafeteria during lunch.
Then they both spent an hour after school in detention. Brett didn’t mind. After all, he’d proved how brave he was.
That night when his family was reading the scriptures, they read about the sons of Helaman.
“Now there’s an example of courage,” his mother pointed out. “They were willing to fight for what they believed in, and they even risked death for it. They trusted in the Lord.”
Brett frowned. Sure, that was courageous, but had any of them ever put a silly hat on the neighbor’s cat, then sent it back home and watched the fun?
“This has always been one of my favorite stories,” his father said. “I also like the story of Nephi, when he stood up for what was right even when his brothers disagreed.”
Brett had the impression that his parents were trying to tell him something. Still, the next day, when Alan bet him that he couldn’t climb the flagpole at school, Brett took the dare. He remembered his father’s words, but the dare was just too tempting. Climbing it was easy. Climbing it without a teacher seeing him do it was the hard part.
That was the part that he messed up on. That and getting down again. He slipped. Fortunately the custodian managed to get underneath him, or he might have been seriously injured.
His father came to pick him up from the principal’s office. Brett expected his dad to yell at him or lecture him. Instead, they walked to the car in silence. Brett got in and watched his dad. His dad didn’t slam the door. He just quietly slipped into the driver’s seat, rested his hands on the steering wheel, and closed his eyes.
Was his dad napping? Was he gathering his energy for a really big yell that would shake the car to its rubber tires? Brett was prepared for a good bawling out. It would clear the air, and everything would be all right again.
Then he realized that his father was praying. It wasn’t a quick prayer, either. It went on and on and on. Brett grew more and more nervous. Yelling was something he could cope with—but praying?
His father opened his eyes and silently drove home. As they pulled into the driveway, he stopped the car, then turned to look Brett in the eyes. “You could have been seriously hurt today. You could have been killed. Your mother and I love you, but you are showing poor judgment.”
“Dad, it was a dare,” Brett tried to explain. “I didn’t have a choice.”
His father opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. For a moment it seemed like he was listening to something. Then he turned to Brett. “You think that kind of a dare is hard—that it proves you’re a brave person?”
Brett nodded. “Yeah. Why else would I take it?”
“Could you handle a harder dare? One that really takes courage?”
Now Brett was on familiar ground. “I can handle any dare,” he announced proudly. “I haven’t missed one yet.”
“Then I dare you to do the right thing.”
“Ah, Dad,” Brett replied, “that’s just a ‘parent dare.’”
“What’s the matter? You can take the easy dares, but you can’t take the hard ones? That doesn’t sound all that brave to me.”
Brett got out of the car without saying a word and marched into the house.
That Sunday in Primary, they sang “Dare to Do Right.”*
Brett squirmed in his seat.
“Dare to do right! Dare to be true!” The words echoed in his head. What was this, a conspiracy?
On Monday, Alan met him walking to school.
“So, what’s it going to be today?” Brett asked him.
Alan grinned. “Today’s easy. I dare you to sneak into Mr. Suther’s desk during recess and get a copy of tomorrow’s math test.”
Brett swallowed. “But that would be cheating,” he said.
“Cheating, schmeating! We don’t have to use the test. I just dare you to steal it. Hey—not even steal. Borrow. I dare you to borrow the math test.”
Brett suddenly heard the words to the Primary song go through his head again. He turned to Alan. “No.”
“No? But I dared you.”
“Sorry.” It was hard, but Brett held his ground. “I have another dare to do, instead.” He swallowed again, then offered hopefully, “I’d be happy to help you study for the test.”
Alan stomped off in disgust. Brett didn’t know what to think. He’d done the right thing. Doing the right thing wasn’t supposed to make you feel lousy, right?
Later that day, Brett saw Mr. Suther walking Alan to the principal’s office. His teacher looked at him as they passed. He could tell that his teacher was surprised to not be marching two kids to the principal. Suddenly Brett realized what sort of a reputation he had made for himself. It wasn’t one he wanted.
The words to the Primary song rang through his head again—“Dare to do right! Dare to be true!” He promised himself that he would keep only the dare his father had given him.

For example, if you receive a spiritual impression to honor the Sabbath day, especially when it seems difficult, God will send His Spirit to help.

That help came to my father years ago when his work took him to Australia. He was alone on a Sunday, and he wanted to take the sacrament. He could find no information about Latter-day Saint meetings. So he started walking. He prayed at each intersection to know which way to turn. After walking and making turns for an hour, he stopped to pray again. He felt an impression to turn down a particular street. Soon he began to hear singing coming from the ground floor of an apartment building close by. He looked in at the window and saw a few people seated near a table covered with a white cloth and sacrament trays.

Now, that may not seem like much to you, but it was something wonderful to him. He knew the promise of the sacrament prayer had been fulfilled: “Always remember him and keep his commandments which he has given them; that they may always have his Spirit to be with them” (D&C 20:77).

As a small child, I must have been a great “talker.” According to my mother, I liked talking to adults and enjoyed the attention this generated. My observations and comments often resulted in laughter, which at times, I later learned, came from the embarrassment those remarks had caused my parents.
Soon after my family moved to Holladay, Utah, many of my parents’ friends came to visit and to see our new home. After one such visit, in which I had given my usual performance, my father took me aside and said, “Keith, I’m grateful you are so honest in the things you say. Mother and I are proud of you.” He paused and then with greater emphasis said, “Keith, always be honest.” Then he added, “But Keith, you don’t have to tell all you know.” He then explained what he meant. Evidently, in my chattering before his friends that evening I had really said too much. What impressed me, however, was my father’s counsel to always be honest.
In later studying the thirteenth article of faith, I noticed that it began with “We believe in being honest.” [A of F 1:13] I was very pleased that my father had taught me that principle.

Family is important to eight-year-old Shonesty Johnson. When she turned eight, her father, Alexander, was out of town, working in the oil fields. She postponed her baptism a month and a half so that he could perform the ordinance. Her fifteen-year-old brother, Alexander, Jr., (Zack), sang “When I Am Baptized” as part of the service. Shonesty says, “I liked being baptized. It made me feel good—especially because Dad baptized me and my brother sang to me.”

John A. Widtsoe tells us the following:
“For several years, under a Federal grant with my staff of workers we had gathered thousands of data in the field of soil moisture; but I could not extract any general law running through them. I gave up at last. My wife and I went to the temple that day to forget the failure. In the third endowment room, out of the unseen, came the solution, which has long since gone into print.” (In A Sunlit Land: The Autobiography of John A. Widtsoe, Salt Lake City: Deseret News Press, 1952, p. 177.)

Five years later—I was 27 by then—I came back to my father’s home for a time. My father was ward mission leader, and the sister missionaries were teaching someone else in my home. I overheard them teaching about the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith, and I decided to pray about it. It made sense in my mind that if Joseph Smith was a prophet, then the Book of Mormon is true and the Church is true.
That night I began to read the history of Joseph Smith and of his vision in the Sacred Grove. Then I stopped, and I prayed to the Lord. I spent the whole night in this manner, reading and praying about each paragraph. It took me 14 hours. Something happened to me when I began to ponder. It seemed that I was in the grove with Joseph. It was a vivid and real experience. It seemed I could see what happened. When I finished the prayer the next morning, I knew Joseph Smith was a prophet.
I went immediately to find the missionaries. At noon, when the sister missionaries came home for lunch, I was sitting in front of their door waiting for them. I asked them to teach me the discussions. After they taught me the seven discussions in a short period of time, I was baptized and confirmed into the Church.