Gospel Story Finder

We lived on a hill, but it wasn’t so steep that it couldn’t be used for pick-up games of baseball in the spring and summer. The street was the ribbon that tied together the lives of each boy on our block.
After supper was over, the boys would gather on the same corner, and when enough were there, we’d pick sides. We used a rubber ball that we bought at Mr. Pinelli’s variety store for a quarter. We’d play baseball until it became dark.
One breezy June evening, Ricky Cray, the best hitter on the block, was up to bat. My best friend, Chuck Grable, was next to me in the “outfield,” which was the stretch of road between Mr. LaSalle’s and Mr. Kominski’s.
Ricky sized up a belt-high pitch and plastered the ball a good 20 feet beyond my grasp. I put my head down and furiously chased the ball. Suddenly, I came upon two sets of the shiniest black shoes I’d ever seen. I looked up and there were two young men in suits, smiling. One of them was holding the rubber ball.
“Lose something?” he said cheerfully. He flipped the ball to me and I heaved it toward my friends, just as Ricky crossed home plate.
Chuck came over to me. “Who are those guys? That one made a nice catch.” We didn’t see men in suits in our neighborhood often.
“I don’t know. Maybe they’re selling something. Like books.”
“I think they’re police,” confided Chuck.
“No, they’re too young. And they’d be more secret. Look, they’re stopping at every house on the street.”
The next hitter popped a lazy fly ball toward Chuck who easily snagged it. We went to take our turn at bat. Home plate was near our house, and the two men in suits were just stepping to the door.
Father answered. I heard one of the young men say they were from a church and they had a message about families. Father sized them up.
“Are you selling something?” he asked.
“No, sir,” replied the one who had fielded the ball.
“Are you honest?” Father asked. It would have been an odd question from anyone but my father. That’s the way he was, a man who took himself and others at face value.
“Yes, sir, we try to be,” the same man answered without hesitation.
“Are you boys from around here?”
“No. Elder Cone is from Bountiful, Utah. And I’m from Boston.”
Father smiled. “Then come into my house. I’m Joseph Rosa, and this is my wife, Leslee.” As soon as the one said he was from Boston, I knew my father would invite them in. A little thing like that, being from Massachusetts. Yet it changed our lives forever.
We saw the young men in the suits and white shirts many times over the following weeks. Father and Mother listened to them, prayed with them, studied with them, and fed them pasta until they almost could no longer get into their suits. When the elders came, Father pulled me out of the baseball games. “If what they say is true, then you need to hear it also,” he told me. I could see how important this was to my parents. Father’s eyes blazed as the missionaries taught us. “Yes, that seems right. I’ve always believed that,” he often said.
“We have reached a decision as a family,” Father told the missionaries one night. They both looked nervously at each other. “We would like to be baptized.” The two young men almost leaped into the air. The following night, Father and I went to a department store and bought our church clothes. A week later, the four of us were baptized. Never again did my parents talk about the missing piece. We had found it.

If I may use a personal example:
Some years ago when our first son was about a year old, I was the source of some seemingly unnecessary suffering. We were attending college, and one evening I had been playing with my boy on the floor. I left the room to study, and as I closed the door behind me he apparently reached for me, raising his hand up behind his head, and his finger went into the hinged side of the door. When I closed the door he suffered a rather severe injury to his finger.
We rushed him to the emergency room at the hospital, he was given a local anesthetic, and a doctor came in; he assured us that it could be repaired. Almost paradoxically, at that point the only thing my one-year-old wanted was to be held by his dad. As long as he could see me he resisted any efforts to bind him for the delicate surgery. When I left the room he calmed down, and the doctor was able to proceed.
During the process I was anxious and would draw close to the open door and look around the corner to see how things were proceeding. Perhaps by some unseen sense, as I would peek noiselessly around the corner, which was located behind him and to the side, his head would come up and he would strain to see if I was there.
On one of those occasions, as I saw him with his arm pinned out from his side—his head arched, searching for his father—the thought came to my mind of another Son, His arms stretched out, nailed to a cross, searching for His Father, and to my mind came the words, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” What was a very traumatic moment in my life suddenly became very sacred.
As I have pondered that event with my own son so many years ago, it has provided new insights and perhaps even deeper understanding of the magnitude and magnificence of the Atonement. I have a deeper appreciation of what a Father was willing to allow His Son to go through for me and for each of us. I had a new personal insight into the depth and breadth of the Atonement. I could not imagine that I would willingly have let my son suffer even in this small way; and our Father “so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son.”
Although we have never discussed it, my son, too, would have the opportunity to appreciate the passage where the Savior explains, “Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands; thy walls are continually before me.”
Although I would not suggest that anything here can approach the holy Atonement, the scar on my son’s hand is continually before him, and he has the opportunity, if he chooses to take it, to use his scar as a reminder of scars in the palms of the Savior—suffered for our sins. He has the opportunity to understand in his own way the love the Savior has for us in willingly being scarred, bruised, broken, and torn for us.

I have been a member of the Church for more than ten years. As an officer in the Democratic Republic of the Congo military, I have experienced tremendous difficulty arranging to travel from my home to attend the Johannesburg South Africa Temple and to participate in sacred ordinances there. Over the years I made several requests to my superior officers for permission to travel to South Africa with my family, but still it was difficult to leave Kinshasa given the regime changes which had taken place in our country.
After several attempts to persuade through my chain of command—still without success—I made a decision to discuss the situation with our local priesthood leaders to seek their guidance and direction. Together we pleaded for divine help. Then one day, I was reading 1 Nephi 3:7, which says: “And it came to pass that I, Nephi, said unto my father: I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them.” I realized even more that by always obeying the commandments of the Lord, God provides the means for His children to accomplish the things which He has commanded them.
Then a few years later, at the October 2011 General Conference, then Church President Thomas S. Monson announced plans for the construction of the Kinshasa Temple. At that moment I was far away—more than 1700 km from my home, which is in Kinshasa. My wife Guylaine Kakudji Koyengule, filled with joy at hearing the announcement, phoned to tell me the news—and it was really a day of great joy for me and my family.
After this announcement we looked forward to the groundbreaking and construction. And now our Kinshasa Temple has just been dedicated!
Today I live about five to ten minutes away from the temple. Even without transportation means, I still am able to go there. I know that Heavenly Father truly listens to His children’s prayers and that He answers in due time. I also know that the temple is the House of the Lord and that through the covenants we make with our Heavenly Father in His house—the temple—we will be saved.
John Koyengule is a member of the Gombe GB Ward, Kinshasa Democratic Republic of the Congo Stake.

In junior high school, pitching quarters was the game that dominated the perimeter of the schoolyard, always out of view of adults. However, our fetish with this game eventually found its way into the classroom. As soon as the teacher turned his or her back, our quarters would fly toward the wall, and the person with the quarter closest to the wall won, taking everyone else’s quarter. This game became very detrimental not only to our studies but also to our relationships. Friends were pitted against friends, and fights occasionally broke out. I remember people who lost several days’ lunch money in a matter of a minute. Five or six bad tosses and you were one broke eighth grader.
In high school, quarters became merely small change. Our attention was drawn to larger sums of money with bigger wagers, usually around big-ticket sporting events. Every week there seemed to be a big game, and betting circles were frequently established. Obviously, the more people there were contributing to a pot, the greater a winner’s takings would be. I remember one student who kept a notebook with the particular bets, the odds, and the individuals involved. Between and sometimes during classes he would approach you, asking if you would like to bet.
Unfortunately, the gambling scene pervaded other high school activities and went beyond school boundaries. While traveling with my baseball team, both on the bus and in the hotel rooms, card games took over much of our spare time. I recall watching a card game where two teammates had $120 on the line, with the luck of a particular card deciding the fate of the game. Someone won that day, but I don’t remember who. What I do remember is the chaos, the screaming and vulgar language, the laughing at someone else’s expense. Most importantly, I remember feeling void of the Spirit. It’s a dirty, ugly feeling.
Near my home was a hotel we often went to that had an arcade, a bowling alley, and a good restaurant. I spent many fun times bowling with my brothers and our friends. To get to the bowling alley, we had to go through the hotel’s casino. There is a distinct image in my mind to this day of the smell of cigarette and cigar smoke and the dropping of coins into the metal basins from the slot machines. The image of countless people sitting in the same place for hours playing cards or pulling levers on slot machines seems to be a constant reminder to me of the shallow habit of gambling.
One day a friend of mine, while leaving the bowling alley, tried his luck at a game of chance they called “Megabucks.” The winnings were well over a million dollars. You had to play several dollars at a time to have a chance at winning. Of course, he lost, and he kept on losing. Within five minutes he lost $60, and the only thing he had to show for it was his contribution to the grand total that would eventually go to someone else. My friend lost $60, yet I gained a greater distaste for the gambling habit and a greater resolve to keep the Lord’s commandments. Like other occasions in my life, this became a defining moment that strengthened my resolve to put my occasional past blemishes behind me and turn to the Lord with full purpose of heart.
Through a loving Heavenly Father and the guidance of exemplary parents who avoided the practice of gambling, I was able to put my lapses with games of chance behind me. Far too many friends and acquaintances didn’t stop at pitching quarters or playing cards. Gambling and the other bad habits it leads to are overtaking far too many of Heavenly Father’s children. With an unresolved determination to avoid it, you can become a victim very quickly. Gratefully, two years before I became “legal” in the eyes of the state of Nevada, I was “about my Father’s business” preaching the gospel in the Washington D.C. South Mission.
You may need courageous fortitude as the world thrusts the acquisition of riches and the madness of materialism upon you before you’ve even graduated from school. Understanding true doctrine and living by the principles taught in the scriptures and by living prophets will strengthen you. With this strength, you can refuse and conquer any behavior offensive to the Spirit.

In the same year that Dr. Hansen made his medical discovery, two ecclesiastical leaders from different faiths first made their appearance on the Kalaupapa peninsula. One was a Latter-day Saint named Jonathan Hawaii Napela; the other was a Belgian priest, Father Damien J. de Veuster, who will be canonized by the Roman Catholic Church in the coming year.6 Napela was born on the island of Maui in 1813, became a district judge in 1848, and converted to Mormonism in 1852. He was a tremendous aid to early LDS missionary work on the Hawaiian Islands as he fed and housed the elders, helped them learn Hawaiian, and aided George Q. Cannon with the translation of the Book of Mormon into Hawaiian. Though Cannon taught Napela the restored gospel, Napela on several occasions taught Cannon and the Utah elders a greater dimension of faith.

Perhaps his greatest contribution to humankind is his example as a loving husband. When his wife, Kitty, contracted leprosy, or Hansen’s disease, Jonathan chose to remain with her in the settlement and act as her kokua, a Hawaiian word meaning “helper.” Consequently, Jonathan wrote a letter in Hawaiian to the Board of Health, pleading that he might be allowed to stay with his wife:

On August 3, 1843, I took my wife as my legally married wife and on that same day I vowed before God to care for my wife in health and sickness, and until death do us part. . . .
I am 60 years old and do not have much longer to live. During the brief time remaining, I want to be with my wife. My wife has also lived a long life, but with this disease, it will quickly shorten her life. Such is the reason for this petition.

Luckily, Jonathan’s request was granted, and he spent the remaining years of his life at Kalaupapa with Kitty. While here, Napela encountered yet another way to serve those around him. Not long after his arrival, he was called to act as the leader of the LDS Church on the Kalaupapa peninsula, a calling he held from 1873 until his death in 1879 from the effects of Hansen’s disease.

Brent ran downstairs, his little sister, Lindsey, following close behind. “Mom!” Brent cried. “Lindsey won’t leave us alone!”
Brent’s best friend, Clint, had come over to play. The boys were playing with Brent’s fire truck and putting out the fires in the skyscrapers they had built out of blocks. “Lindsey always wants to do what we’re doing,” Brent said. “Why can’t she go away?”
“Brent, please be nice to your sister. She just wants to spend time with you,” Mom said.
“But, Mom, she always wants to tag along. Can’t she do something else for a while?”
“How about if we color together, Lindsey?” Mom asked. Lindsey nodded.
“Thanks, Mom,” Brent said as he started back up the stairs.
“Don’t forget, Brent,” Mom called after him. “You and Clint have practice for the Christmas program in less than an hour.”
“OK, Mom,” Brent replied.
“Mommy, why doesn’t Brent like me?” Lindsey asked, tears forming in her eyes.
“He does like you,” Mom said. “But sometimes he just wants to be with his friends. Brent loves you very much, even if he doesn’t always show it.”
A little while later, Mom took Brent and Clint to the church to practice for the Christmas program. Brent was excited. He was going to play Joseph this year. Before, he’d always been a sheep or a shepherd or a Wise Man. That was neat, but this year would be the best ever.
“OK, we’re going to practice the scene at the inns,” Brother Mitchell said. “Joseph and Mary, take your places. Innkeepers, it’s time.”
The Primary children hurried to their places onstage as Joseph and Mary approached the first inn.
“Please, do you have a room that we could stay in for the night?” Brent asked. “My wife is going to have a baby very soon, and she needs a place to rest.”
“I’m sorry. There’s no room,” the innkeeper said.
“Come on, Mary. Let’s try another place,” Brent said. They walked to the next innkeeper. “Hello, sir. We’ve come a long way, and my wife is going to have a baby very soon. Do you have a place where we can stay?”
“No, we’re all full. There’s no room.”
Brent went to the next innkeeper and knocked on the door, then the next, and then the next. The answer was always the same.
“There’s no room.”
“No room.”
“No room.”
“I’m so sorry, Mary,” Brent said. “Let’s try this one last place.” He turned and knocked on the door. “Sir, please, we’re very far from home, we have no place to go, and my wife is going to have a baby very soon. We’ve tried every inn in town. Do you have anywhere that we could stay?”
“I’m sorry. We’re all full.”
Joseph and Mary turned away slowly, looking sad. “I’m sorry, Mary,” Brent began. “I don’t know what—”
“Wait! Wait just a moment,” the innkeeper called after them. “Maybe I have a place after all. Come with me.” The innkeeper led them to the stable with cows, sheep, and other animals. “It’s not much, but you can stay here if you like.”
“This is wonderful,” Brent said gratefully. “Thank you very, very much.”
A few days later, Clint was at Brent’s house again. They were playing in a big box, pretending it was a fort that protected them from invaders. But Lindsey kept bothering them, asking if she could come inside too.
“Lindsey, why don’t you go do something else? Can’t you see that there’s no room for—” Brent stopped mid-sentence. He thought of the words that he’d heard just a few days before: “No room, no room, no room.” He thought of Joseph and Mary and the baby Jesus, who meant so much to all of them. Then he looked at his little sister.
“I’m sorry, Lindsey. Of course there’s room for you. There’s always room for three.”

Anna sat quietly in her Primary class. She looked at the picture of Jesus that Sister Albo held.
“Does anyone know what a testimony is?” Sister Albo asked.
Anna raised her hand. “Is it saying that we know the Church is true?”
“That’s part of it.” Sister Albo smiled. “When we share our testimony, we share what we know or believe is true about Jesus Christ and the Church. What do you know is true, Anna?”
Anna thought about it. “I know that Jesus loves me!”
“Yes, He does. You have a testimony that Jesus loves you.”
After church, Mommy asked, “What did you learn in Primary today, Anna?”
“I learned what a testimony is. When can I share my testimony?”
“Any time you want!” Daddy said. “We can have our own testimony meeting in home evening.”
Anna liked that idea. “We can even dress in our Sunday clothes!”
When it was time for home evening, Anna put on her favorite dress.
“Welcome to our family testimony meeting,” Daddy said.
Anna’s brother, Ethan, went first. “I know the gospel is true. I know that Joseph Smith was a prophet. I know that Russell M. Nelson is our prophet today. I know that Jesus Christ lives.”
Then it was Anna’s turn. She stood up. “I love Jesus very much. I know He loves me. He cares about me and makes me happy. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” Her heart felt warm.
Mommy gave her a hug. “Thank you, Anna. I could feel how much you love Jesus.”
Anna smiled. “Sharing my testimony makes me happy.”

I don’t think anybody on either side of the Iron Curtain expected the Cold War to end. But Heavenly Father had a different plan. In 1975, unbeknownst to us, President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) had invited Latter-day Saints to “join in a serious continuous petition to the Lord to open the gates of the nations and soften the hearts of the kings and the rulers to the end that missionaries may enter all the lands and teach the gospel.”1
Two years later, President Kimball visited Warsaw, Poland. One morning, accompanied by a small group of his associates, including Elder Russell M. Nelson, President Kimball left his hotel, walked by the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, and entered Saski Park. Not far from a large fountain that still stands there today, he knelt and rededicated Poland for the preaching of the gospel.
A decade of unrest and mass protests followed. While the adults distrusted and opposed the political leaders, many young people questioned some of the values, traditions, and attitudes of their parents. My friend Jakub and I felt disillusioned with Christianity as we understood it. He lost interest in religion in general, while I was drawn toward philosophies that originated in Asia.
In April 1990, Jakub and I hitchhiked to Austria. In Vienna we met two nice women standing on the sidewalk of a busy street. One of them was holding the Book of Mormon in Polish. She told us about Jesus’s visit to the people of ancient America and promised to mail the book to our homes if we gave her our addresses. We also opened our address books and copied addresses of many of our friends. We thought it would be a nice surprise for them to receive a gift.
A few months later the Poland Warsaw Mission was established, and four missionaries arrived in our city. Later, I learned that the large number of “referrals”—our friends’ addresses—played a key role in the decision to open our city for the missionaries. To my surprise a few months later, Jakub told me that two “Mormon” missionaries had visited him and that he had decided to join their church.
I was hurt by his announcement. I had tried for years to interest him in religion but with no success. How could strangers from a different country suddenly convert him? I was determined to face them and show Jakub they had no chance in a debate with me.
When I saw the two young, smiling missionaries standing in the doorway of my parents’ apartment, I forgot about my goal to prove them wrong. They were happy and funny. They asked me lots of questions about myself and my beliefs. They respected my convictions. Later they told me that during that first meeting with the arrogant guy with long hair and ripped jeans who was smoking cigarettes, they had a hard time imagining I would ever be interested in becoming a follower of Jesus Christ. But I felt something special in their presence, and I was intrigued that their Church was the only Christian denomination I knew of that believed in a premortal existence.
I was also impressed with their testimonies and the strong convictions of Jakub and Robert ?elewski, his new friend from the Church. Robert was a psychologist, an intelligent but down-to-earth man whose insights and experiences strengthened my interest in the religion of the Latter-day Saints.
Everything the elders, Jakub, and Robert told me was fascinating, especially the doctrine of the plan of salvation, starting with premortality and ending with the three degrees of glory. But I didn’t see any point in joining the Church until I was able to grasp more fully their unique beliefs. My understanding of Christianity was that anciently, God performed miracles, sent angels, and called prophets, but all those things belonged to biblical times. Once the Bible was completed, humanity no longer needed miracles and revelation because scripture contains all we need to know.
A breakthrough came during our discussion about the Great Apostasy and the Restoration of the fulness of the gospel through the Prophet Joseph Smith. I realized that their beliefs were more consistent with the Bible than the claim that the Bible had replaced prophets and revelation. I felt real joy when I realized I might be living in modern “biblical times.”
I was ready to ask God sincerely for personal revelation, but an answer did not come. Finally, I said, “Heavenly Father, if You called Joseph Smith as Your prophet, I will obey every commandment You revealed through him.” Then the answer came to my heart and mind with surety, and I knew that God had restored the fulness of the gospel and that it is found in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Jakub was baptized on November 3, 1990, and remained faithful until dying in a tragic hiking accident two decades later. I joined the Church on January 11, 1991, determined to serve a mission. Robert was called as the first local president of our branch and drove me all the way to Freiburg, Germany, so I could receive my temple endowment. During my last interview with him, I promised to return to Poland after my service in the Illinois Chicago Mission to use my missionary experience to strengthen the Church in our country.
Two years later, my mission president convinced me that I should get my education in America at Brigham Young University. But I never forgot my promise to Robert.
After getting married in 2000, I moved back to Poland with my wife, who, in 1988, had been an extra in the sixth episode of The Wonder Years. We attend Church meetings in Krakow, raising two boys and keeping in close touch with our two older children. Our older son recently announced he has decided to serve a full-time mission.
In the summer of 2021, I took my family to Berlin, where I showed them the spot where the wall used to stand. It no longer stops God’s servants from sharing the message of the Restoration with the people of Eastern Europe. God’s miracles continue in our day.

This story happened in Bolivia.
Papi clapped his hands at the end of family home evening. “I have an idea for a family goal,” he said. “Let’s read the Book of Mormon together every day.”
Sami’s older brothers, Andrés and Juan, nodded with big smiles at the idea.
“OK!” said Andrés.
Sami was excited too. But then he remembered something. He raised his hand. “I don’t know how to read. How will I help?”
Juan shrugged. “You can just listen.”
Sami’s brothers already knew how to read. But Sami was only five. He hadn’t learned to read yet.
“But I want to help too!” Sami said with a frown.
Mamá gave Sami a hug. “And you will,” she said. “There is always a way to do what God has commanded us.”
The next night, Sami’s family gathered to read the Book of Mormon. They all brought their own scriptures, except Sami. Mamá gave him a picture book of Book of Mormon stories.
“You can’t read words yet. But you can read pictures,” she said with a smile.
Sami held the book close. Now he could read with his family too!
They all took turns reading. Sami looked at the pictures that showed the story. When it was his turn, he told the others what he saw in the pictures. He told as many details as he could.
As the days passed, Sami wanted to read more and more. Mamá taught him what sound each letter made. Then she showed him how to sound out words. Months later, Sami didn’t need the picture book as much. Instead, he read the last word of every verse his family read. Mamá read the word first, and Sami said it back.
At first, they read slowly. Getting to the end of each chapter took a long time. Andrés and Juan groaned when it was Sami’s turn. But they still read as a family.
Little by little, Sami read more. He read one word of a verse, then two words, then three. Then he started reading a whole verse!
Near the end of their goal, Sami could read a few verses by himself. His reading had gotten much better. His love for the Book of Mormon had grown too.
At last, Sami’s family finished the Book of Mormon. It had taken two years! Now Sami was seven years old, and he had learned to read very well.
“Congratulations!” Papi said. “We did it!”
Sami cheered with his family. He had helped them finish the Book of Mormon!
Juan gave Sami a big hug. “What will be your goal for the next two years?”
Sami smiled. He stood tall and said, “I will read the Book of Mormon again!”
What helped Sami read the scriptures?
Illustrations by Melissa Manwill Kashiwagi

As we recognize the Lord's hand in our circumstances, we better understand the nature of the peace the Savior promises. I recall a few years ago when one of our sons was on his mission, a close friend of mine had his missionary son killed in a tragic auto accident. As I sought to share my condolences and sympathy with him, I found that he and his wife had already received the Savior's promised peace. And while they missed their son very much, they were grateful for the atonement and the blessing it had been in their hour of need.

Whatever our circumstances in this life – be they sickness, financial misfortune, or any of the other challenges that accompany mortality – through the exercise of our agency, the atonement's promised blessings of peace can be ours.

1. Mathan’s great-grandma always had interesting things in her big purse. If Mathan was hungry, she had a treat. If Mathan was bored, she pulled out a pad of paper for him to draw on. And if Mathan got hurt, she always had a bandage. But the thing that he loved the most was Great-Grandma’s bottle of lotion.
2. Great-Grandma often took out her lotion and rubbed it on her hands. She said it helped keep her hands smooth and soft. Mathan thought this was important because he knew that Great-Grandma did a lot with her hands. She made delicious grape jelly, she sewed soft baby blankets, and she played the piano.
3. Sometimes Great-Grandma shared her lotion with Mathan. When he was feeling restless or unhappy, she would take his hands in hers and squeeze out the cool lotion. Then she would gently rub it on his fingers, the backs of each hand, and then the palms. The sweet smell of the lotion and the touch of her soft hands made him feel calm and content. “There now,” she would say. “That’s just what you needed.” And it was just what Mathan needed.
4. Over time, Great-Grandma got very old. She couldn’t make jelly or sew blankets or play the piano. She no longer carried her big purse full of treats, pads of paper, bandages, and lotion. Most of the time she didn’t even look at Mathan. She just sat in her wheelchair with her hands in her lap. Mathan thought she looked unhappy and tired. It made him feel sad.
5. One day when Mathan went to visit Great-Grandma, he brought a bottle of lotion with him. While she was sitting in her wheelchair, Mathan gently took her wrinkled hands in his and squeezed out the cool lotion. He gently rubbed it on her fingers, the backs of her hands, and then the palms.
6. When Mathan was finished with her hands, he carefully removed her slippers and rubbed the lotion on her feet. After he replaced her slippers he looked up to see Great-Grandma’s bright blue eyes looking at him. “Thank you, Mathan,” she whispered. “That’s just what I needed.”

To understand President McKay and a little bit of what you have emanated here on your campus, he grew up in a day when the eighth grade was the expected education for any young person. Most people in our town didn't even get to the eighth grade but those who did, they had fulfilled what you would think of as a high school education today.

At one time President Mckay's mother, we called her Aunt Jeanette, received an inheritance of $2500. All those around her were advising her, in particular, her brother in law, Isaac McKay, who was a very successful businessman, advised Aunt Jeanette, "Now take that $2500 and invest it and only use the interest for what you want. That would serve you for a long time in your life." Aunt Jeannette declined all the advice. She took the $2500, she provided wagon, team of horses, loaded in the wagon some flour, some potatoes, and other things to eat and keep, put four of her children in the wagon, tied dairy cow on behind the back of the wagon and sent them off 75 miles to Salt Lake City and the University of Utah to go to school. Those four children got a college education when it was almost unheard of, especially in our farming community, population 496, up in the mountains.

That emphasis on education has made all the difference in the world to President McKay and others in his family.

The story is told of a man named Jack who had a beloved bird-hunting dog named Cassie. Jack was so proud of Cassie and often bragged about what a skilled dog she was. To prove this, Jack invited some friends to watch Cassie perform. After arriving at the hunting club, Jack let Cassie out to run around while he went inside to check in.
When it was time to begin, Jack was anxious to show off Cassie’s amazing skills. However, Cassie was acting strangely. She wouldn’t obey any of Jack’s commands as she usually did so willingly. All she wanted to do was remain by his side.
Jack was frustrated and embarrassed and angry with Cassie; soon he suggested they leave. Cassie wouldn’t even jump into the back of the truck, so Jack impatiently picked her up and shoved her in the kennel. He fumed as those with him made fun of his dog’s behavior all the way home. Jack couldn’t understand why Cassie was misbehaving. She had been trained well, and her whole desire in the past had been to please and serve him.
After arriving home, Jack began examining Cassie for injuries, burrs, or ticks, as he usually did. As he put his hand on her chest, he felt something wet and found his hand covered with blood. To his shame and horror, he found that Cassie had a long, wide gash right to her chest bone. He found another on her right front leg, also to the bone.
Jack took Cassie into his arms and began to cry. His shame at how he had misjudged and treated her was overwhelming. Cassie had been acting uncharacteristically earlier in the day because she was hurt. Her behavior had been influenced by her pain, her suffering, and her wounds. It had nothing to do with a lack of desire to obey Jack or a lack of love for him.

One morning we woke up to find the ground covered with snow—in New Mexico, imagine! Enough to make angels, or play fox and geese, but not enough to stop work on the barn. The snow melted during the day, and that night when we got home Mama showed us where the water was running down inside the dugout. The next day Papa went to town for something to seal the leak.
Mama went with him and left Caroline in charge. Ed and I thought we were old enough to take care of ourselves and didn’t like her bossing us around, so we went out to the barn to plan our day.
“Let’s go see the Indians,” Ed said. His curiosity was pulling him like a magnet. I liked to talk about danger more than I liked to experience it, so I wasn’t so eager.
“Caroline won’t let us,” I offered as an excuse.
“Pooh! She can’t stop us. Come on. Let’s go.”
I followed obediently, but slowly.
“Hurry up,” he urged.
“W-what if they ch-chase us?” I whispered.
“They won’t chase us, and even if they do, we can run faster. And you don’t need to whisper. No one can hear you.”
“What if the braves are there?”
“They won’t be. They come in the middle of the night.”
“I’m scared.” I couldn’t help whispering, even though Ed had told me not to.
“That’s all right. It’s fun to be afraid.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Go back then, scaredy-cat, and I’ll go by myself.” Ed started off. He knew I’d follow. Frightened as I was, I couldn’t stand to miss a chance to be with Ed.
I followed slowly. Ed picked up a stick.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he answered.
“You could hit with it if you needed to,” I suggested.
“Yeah, but I probably won’t,” he replied. Even so, we both felt better now that Ed was armed.
We walked more slowly as we approached the first hut, and Ed put his finger up to his lips to warn me to keep quiet. The air was still except when a small breeze whispered through the grass. Our bare feet left silent prints in the damp ground. No sound at all came from inside the dugout, and we could see only a black square where the door was ajar. We tiptoed closer and closer, trying to see inside.
Suddenly a voice came from the darkness, gentle and coaxing. “Come on,” it encouraged.
We stood in the doorway and gradually out of the darkness emerged a great shape, a woman who seemed large enough to half-fill the room. No wonder she didn’t want to move. She was beckoning to me with her finger. “Come on,” she invited again.
Ed gave me a little push. “Go on,” he said. “I won’t let her hurt you.”
When I got close enough, the squaw grabbed me, lifted me onto her ample lap, and nearly took my breath away, hugging and kissing me. She touched my hair gently and murmured, “Palomino, Palomino.”
When Ed said we had to go, it was hard to pull away, but I did. As we left she said, “Come back. I want to be your grandma.”
We checked the other dugouts, and what Mr. Talbot said was true. Each had an old squaw in it. We were never welcome in any of the houses but the first, however. “Grandma” became our first and best friend in New Mexico. Until she died, she loved my golden hair and called me Palomino.
When we got back home that day Papa was already there and fixing the leak.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“To see the Indians,” Ed answered.
“Not clear up on the reservation?”
“No, just those old squaws over there.” Ed pointed to the dugouts.
“I thought you heard Mr. Talbot say to stay away and not to bother them.”
“They don’t mind. They’re lonely for little kids.”
“One likes me,” I said. “She calls me Palomino.”
“Palomino’s a horse,” Papa said.
“I think she means my hair,” I explained.
“Maybe so,” Papa agreed. “A palomino is a blond horse.”

“I will never forget you, bishop. You saved my life.”
The man who makes that statement today didn’t feel that way in the beginning. As a teen he was scared. He knew he needed to repent. I was his bishop at the time, and he knew we needed to talk. But he was full of doubts.
“What is the bishop going to think of me?”
“Will he keep this confidential?”
“How will I ever look at him again?”
Such worries can feel overwhelming, making it seem nearly impossible to muster the courage necessary to travel the road to repentance.
But some confessions require that you talk to your bishop or branch president. And that’s where this young man found himself. He needed help beyond his own capacity, and he needed to know the journey was possible.
Let me close by telling you a little more about my visit with that young man. “Bishop,” he said, “you’re going to hate me for what I have to tell you. You’ll never be able to look at me again, and if you share what I say with anybody, I’ll kill myself.”
I said, “I promise I will never betray your confidences. I will take them with me to the grave.”
He told me about some minor situations and watched my reaction. When I said, “I know what you’re going through. I can help you,” he proceeded slowly until he got to what he really wanted to discuss. I reminded him repeatedly that I admired him for confessing and wanting to change. Even though he seemed ready to run at any moment, together we got through what he needed to share.
Was it a big deal? It was to him. But as we talked, he came to better understand the mercy the Lord offers to those who sincerely repent. After that first visit, we worked together, and over time his repentance became complete. Today he still calls me to say hello, and our conversations are happy.
I was privileged to help him learn that we all depend on the Atonement. And I join my voice with his in praise of Jesus Christ, the one who really saved his life.

When I was in high school, I almost always felt far away from God and Jesus Christ. Everyone around me appeared to be so much more spiritual and had all these neat spiritual experiences.
I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong. I attended church, read the scriptures, prayed, and went to the temple when my ward planned temple trips. But I still felt like I was missing something.
It wasn’t until my mission that I realized what that missing puzzle piece was: Jesus Christ.
I had been focusing on doing things rather than focusing on the Savior and becoming a devoted follower of Him.
To be clear, righteous habits are good. Living the commandments helps bring us to Jesus Christ. But sometimes we get so caught up in “church tasks” that we take the Savior out of the very activities that are meant to bring us to Him. This can leave us feeling spiritually empty.
Recently some friends of mine who left the Church told me they’ve never felt happier and more at peace. It was so confusing to me! If this is Christ’s Church, how could that be?
As I listened to my friends’ experiences and concerns, I realized that it wasn’t leaving the Church that brought them peace; it was leaving behind the to-do lists they felt they had to keep up on. Once they left the Church, they also left their spiritual to-do lists behind.
But that is not what the Savior had in mind when He established His Church and gave His commandments.
Elder Donald L. Hallstrom of the Seventy once taught: “Some have come to think of activity in the Church as the ultimate goal. Therein lies a danger. It is possible to be active in the Church and less active in the gospel. Let me stress: activity in the Church is a highly desirable goal; however, it is insufficient.”1
It is possible to be doing the right things but completely miss the why behind them.
It is possible to be doing the right things but completely miss the why behind them.
Sister Tracy Y. Browning, Second Counselor in the Primary General Presidency, had a significant insight about the Israelites in the New Testament: “Just as we are today, God’s ancient people were invited to see their lives through Him in order to see more of Him in their lives. But by the time of the Savior’s ministry, the Israelites had lost sight of Christ in their observances. …
“… The children of Israel, in this state, believed that the practices and rituals of the law were the path to personal salvation and in part reduced the law of Moses to a set of protocols administered to rule civilian life. This required the Savior to restore focus and clarity to His gospel.”2
Sometimes Satan doesn’t distract members of Christ’s restored Church so they’ll commit serious sins. Instead he takes the very things we think are good and convinces us to see them incorrectly.
As President M. Russell Ballard, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, taught: “Sometimes faithful Latter-day Saints … begin to focus on the ‘appendages’ instead of on the fundamental principles. That is, Satan tempts us to become distracted from the simple and clear message of the restored gospel.”3
Rather than bringing us peace, our efforts to live the gospel can sometimes result in some stress and frustration. This is exactly how Satan wants us to feel about the gospel. If he can’t get us to sin, he will convince us that living the gospel is too hard, too exhausting, and more than we can successfully achieve.
Back in high school, I thought I wasn’t doing enough. That fear of inadequacy was why I didn’t feel as spiritual as those around me.
Although our actions can be signs of our conversion, we can’t allow our outward activities to define our spirituality entirely. If we do, we may begin placing the weight of our salvation on our own shoulders rather than relying on Jesus Christ.
We can’t allow our outward activities to define our spirituality entirely.
President Nelson has urged us to have our focus “riveted on the Savior and His gospel.” 4 This will take us from spiritual checklists to peaceful and joyful conversion in His Church. “Nothing invites the Spirit more than fixing your focus on Jesus Christ.” 5

Juliana was a little bit scared to give a talk in Primary.
Grandma gave Juliana a hug. “Heavenly Father will help you,” she whispered.
When it was her turn, Juliana saw her friends, her teacher, and Grandma and Grandpa all smiling at her. Then she gave her talk.
“I am a child of God. I show that I love Heavenly Father by learning about Jesus, saying my prayers, and helping my family. I know that Heavenly Father and Jesus love me too. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
After Primary, Juliana gave Grandma a big hug. “I wasn’t scared,” she said. “I knew that Heavenly Father was helping me.”

Mom and Dad say that when I was born, I brought a special spirit into our home. I like to be a peacemaker. Whenever my brothers argue, I put up my hand and say, “Stop! No mad allowed!” If that doesn’t get them to stop, I lead them to the den and have them look at the picture of Jesus and talk to them about Him. Then I ask if they feel better. They always do.
Elizabeth Gibson, age 4 (with help from her mom)Goshen, Indiana

When I was ten years old, my best friend was a Methodist. He and I determined that we would know which of our churches was true based on whether Southern Methodist University or BYU won the Holiday Bowl game to be played on December 19, 1980.
It did not look good for the Restoration when BYU trailed by twenty points with four minutes left. Then the Cougars recovered an onside kick and scored. Then they blocked a punt and scored. Then, with no time left on the clock, quarterback Jim McMahon threw a Hail Mary pass that Clay Brown caught amid a thicket of defenders in the end zone.1
It was a miracle. Now I knew which church was true. It was that simple.
In football, as you may know, a Hail Mary is a hope-filled prayer that the trailing team offers in the form of a desperate pass into the end zone with no time remaining. I did not know while watching the game that a Hail Mary is also a Catholic prayer. That fact interrupted my ignorance sometime after the game when I learned about Clay Brown’s postgame comment: “It was a Hail Mary,” he said. “That’s all right, Jim and I are both Catholics.”2
Wait, what? Two Catholics connected to bring to pass the miracle? My childish conclusion was less simple than I had thought.
However, everything became simple and certain again early the following spring, when the BYU men’s basketball team trailed Notre Dame 49–50, facing elimination in the NCAA tournament with just a few seconds left. That is when Danny Ainge took the inbounds pass, dribbled the length of the floor, went between, around, and finally over future NBA players, and scored the winning basket with two seconds left.3
That is a true story. Well, it is actually more complex than that. It is a historical narrative.

On my mission, I decided to become the world’s greatest scripture expert. I assumed that would be sort of hard but not too hard. When I returned to BYU after my mission, I enrolled in courses on biblical Hebrew and on the Old Testament. I discovered that the Old Testament is really, really complex. I had assumed that Moses wrote the so-called books of Moses, or the Pentateuch. Then I actually read them and realized that if he did, he did it in a weird way, which raised some questions.
One question was epistemological: How did Moses know what happened “in the beginning” with Adam and Eve and Noah and Abraham? The Bible doesn’t answer that question. The book of Moses in the Pearl of Great Price answers it. It says that God revealed the beginning to Moses. The book of Moses tells how Moses knew. It doesn’t tell who the author is or how they know what Moses knew. Neither the Bible nor the book of Moses answer the authorship question. Both the Pentateuch in the Old Testament and the book of Moses in the Pearl of Great Price are written from an omniscient third-person perspective that doesn’t disclose whose it is or how they know what they know.
The Pentateuch includes the story of Moses’s death and burial in Deuteronomy 34, but Alma 45:19 says, “The Lord took Moses unto himself.” And Mormon cites “the scriptures” as his source of that knowledge, so Mormon’s scriptures tell a different story than our Bible does. That should be enough Old Testament talk to illustrate my trip from simplicity to complexity. The more I studied the Old Testament, the less I knew—or, rather, the more metacognitive I became about how little I knew and about how complicated knowing actually was.
About that time I took Religion 341, the elective Church history class titled Joseph Smith and the Restoration. I decided that I had to know everything my professor knew and how she knew it. I caught up to her in the hallway of the Eyring Science Center after class one day and asked how I could do what she did. She smiled and said, “Get a PhD.”
So I did. Along the way I learned that the Restoration is richly documented. There are lots of best books—meaning primary sources of knowledge. You can find many of them at josephsmithpapers.org. They include Joseph Smith’s autobiographies, journals, letters, translation manuscripts, and revelation manuscripts. It was thrilling to me to realize that I could study the handwritten source material of a real live revelator. I learned how to read the sources. Literally, I learned to read the handwriting, but I also learned to be source critical so I could assess what the sources could tell me and what they couldn’t. I have been reading those best books ever since.

As a BYU student, I had an experience that catalyzed my life as a seeker. I got to work with esteemed professors, one a Methodist named Jan Shipps, the other a Latter-day Saint named John (Jack) Welch. They were copublishing the journals that William E. McLellin, an early convert to the restored gospel, wrote from 1831 to 1836. I was assigned to help Professor Shipps compare the original journals to typed copies to ensure accuracy. I read William’s journal entries closely as I learned the historical method and document editing. Those academic disciplines were entwined with evidence that Joseph Smith was a revelator.
In the summer of 1831, William gained an enduring testimony of the Book of Mormon by what he called “examinations searches and researches” and “earnest prayr to God to direct me into truth.”9 He wrote later about how he prayed for a revelation from the Lord through Joseph:
I went before the Lord in secret, and on my knees asked him to reveal the answer to five questions through his Prophet, and that too without his having any knowledge of my having made such request. I now testify in the fear of God, that every question which I had thus lodged in the ears of the Lord . . . were answered to my full and entire satisfaction. I desired it for a testimony of Joseph’s inspiration. And I to this day consider it to me an evidence which I cannot refute.10
William was the scribe for that revelation, now found in Doctrine and Covenants 66. He copied it carefully into his journal after these words: “The Lord condecended to hear my prayr and give me a revelation of his will, through his prophet or seer (Joseph)—And these are the words which I wrote from his mouth.”11 William bore a kind of testimony at the end of the revelation when he heavily underlined the words Joseph Smith, Revelator.12 In a letter to his relatives, William testified that Joseph Smith was “a Prophet, a Seer and Revelater to the church of christ.”13
Working with sources of knowledge like Joseph’s revelation manuscripts and William McLellin’s journals and letters showed me that brainwork could strengthen my faith. It also exposed some of my assumptions. It taught me to think more carefully and critically. My definition of a revelator became more complex and more justifiable. Working with sources of knowledge helped me to expect and to cope with ambiguity and paradox in people, including prophets like Joseph Smith and apostles like William McLellin.

That is one chapter in a long story of how I became a seeker and how studying the best books with rigorous faith led to my knowledge that Joseph Smith is a revelator. It is a true story.

I admonish all families: search out your heritage. It is important to know, as far as possible, those who came before us. We discover something about ourselves when we learn about our ancestors.
I recall as a boy hearing of the experiences of my Miller ancestors. In the spring of 1848, my great-great-grandparents Charles Stewart Miller and Mary McGowan Miller, joined the Church in their native Scotland; left their home in Rutherglen, Scotland; and journeyed across the Atlantic Ocean. They reached the port of New Orleans and traveled up the Mississippi River to St. Louis, Missouri, with a group of Saints, arriving there in 1849. One of their 11 children, Margaret, would become my great-grandmother.
When the family arrived in St. Louis, planning to earn enough money to make their way to the Salt Lake Valley, a plague of cholera struck the area. The Miller family was hard-hit: in the space of two weeks, mother, father, and two of their sons died. My great-grandmother Margaret Miller was 13 years old at the time.
Because of all the deaths in the area, there were no caskets available—at any price. The older surviving boys dismantled the family’s oxen pens in order to make crude caskets for the family members who had passed away.
The nine remaining orphaned Miller children and the husband of one of the older daughters left St. Louis in the spring of 1850 with four oxen and one wagon, arriving finally in the Salt Lake Valley that same year.
I owe such a debt of gratitude to these and other noble forebears who loved the gospel and who loved the Lord so deeply that they were willing to sacrifice all they had, including their own lives, for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. How grateful I am for the temple ordinances which bind us together for all eternity.