Gospel Story Finder

About six months after graduating from college, I started experiencing panic attacks, bouts of anxiety, and waves of depression. I had no idea where these feelings came from, but they were strong and debilitating.
I struggled to stay focused. At work, any new task brought such anxiety that I couldn’t sit still. My mind would race, and my heart would beat so hard that I thought it would leap out of my chest. This would go on for days, and after returning home from work each day, I would collapse on the couch. Before I knew it, the evening was gone and another workday had begun.
These feelings persisted for months, even after I found a new job and sought professional help.
I prayed every morning on the way to work for the strength to just make it through the day and return home to my wife and daughter. I couldn’t see an end to my struggle, and I often wanted to give up. Many days I begged heaven for help as my eyes filled with tears. I prayed with more sincerity than I ever had before, pleading with Heavenly Father to help me understand this trial and to remove it from me.
I felt lost in darkness and despair when I didn’t feel the Spirit. But when the Spirit lifted me out of my hopelessness, I found the confidence to continue—if only until my next prayer. I came to rely on my Heavenly Father for more than just a prayer at mealtime or a casual nightly check-in. As a result, I grew closer to Him.
In the middle of my anxiety and despair, I reread the account of the Jaredites crossing the “great deep” (Ether 2:25). I can only imagine their anxious anticipation as they entered their barges. Their journey might be perilous, but they knew they were headed to “a land choice above all other lands” (Ether 2:15).
Of their journey, we read:
“The Lord God caused that there should be a furious wind blow upon the face of the waters, towards the promised land; and thus they were tossed upon the waves of the sea before the wind.
“And it came to pass that they were many times buried in the depths of the sea, because of the mountain waves which broke upon them, and also the great and terrible tempests which were caused by the fierceness of the wind.
“… When they were encompassed about by many waters they did cry unto the Lord, and he did bring them forth again upon the top of the waters.
“And it came to pass that the wind did never cease to blow towards the promised land while they were upon the waters; and thus they were driven forth before the wind” (Ether 6:5–8).
These verses became personal to me. I felt that I was in my own barge, with winds of anxiety beating upon me and waves of depression swelling over me and burying me in the depths of despair. When I was “encompassed about” and would cry unto the Lord, I would break through the surface but would then be buried once more.
I read verse 8 again: “The wind did never cease to blow towards the promised land … and thus they were driven forth before the wind” (emphasis added). Then it hit me. The very wind that caused the mountainous waves to bury the barges also blessed the Jaredites on their journey. I had been pleading with Heavenly Father to calm the wind and waves, but without them, I might not reach whatever “promised land” He was leading me to.
These verses changed my outlook on life. My anxiety and depression had increased my reliance on Heavenly Father. Without the wind and waves, I might never have come to know God as I have—and the Jaredites might never have reached the promised land.
For now, a few years after this experience, my winds of anxiety are no longer gusting and my waves of depression have ceased to bury me. But if and when the tempest returns, I will call upon the Lord and be thankful, knowing that calm seas don’t carry barges to the promised land—stormy seas do.

On the same day members in other areas of London joined in Helping Hands projects at Haven House Children’s Hospice and Richard House Children’s Hospice.
At Richard House, 18 members of the Stratford Ward painted an office space, weeded, cut plants, swept the grounds, and fixed tools. This was the hospice’s first contact with the Church, said Charlotte Illera, project manager for the service project at Richard House.
“I was touched with the way the volunteers took on their tasks with enthusiasm and joy,” she said. “Even a simple task such as sweeping a path was done to its best.”

Christmas Island and Call to Seventy When President Workman was presiding over the Honolulu Mission, he had the responsibility for a branch of the church on Christmas Island. Christmas Island is a small island which is part of the Republic of Kiribati. We had made many trips to Christmas Island and all of them were difficult. The airplane only travelled once a week so when we went, it was always a week long affair. The accommodations were rustic to say the least and the heat oppressive. Still, the saints there were wonderful and they always wanted and needed spiritual leadership.

On one occasion, Ross told me that we needed to travel to Christmas Island to effect a change in the branch leadership. These trips always taxed me but I agreed to go and we fixed the last week of March 2001 as our travel date. We would leave early on Tuesday and return the following week Tuesday.

One morning early, as we were preparing for a week of intensive missionary zone conferences, Ross said to me: “I have a feeling we should travel to Christmas Island this very week.” I thought briefly that this would mean cancelling already planned zone conferences and otherwise rearranging a very complicated schedule. Besides, I always dreaded this trip and the very thought of moving it up would normally have caused me much stress.

However, to my surprise, I felt strongly to agree with Ross. I recognized it as a witness of the spirit. I immediately said, “I agree.” He was as surprised with my quick response as I was.

We travelled there, accomplished the work required, trained local leaders and did what we could to strengthen that branch. However, as we returned home, I could not think of any particular reason why the work we did there was of such urgency that it could not have waited for another couple of weeks as we had originally planned. There seemed to be no answer to it and Ross and I wondered if we had simply misread the powerful spirit we had both received.

The following week, the last week in March 2001, as we were sitting in a zone conference (one of those we had postponed for the Christmas Island trip), Ross got a page from the mission office. It was one of those rare urgent pages that sometimes meant serious trouble with a missionary. Ross left the conference meeting and returned sometime later. He seemed calm but I could tell he had something important on his mind. We had but barely restarted the conference when he was paged again. He left again and when he returned, he handed me a note which said only: “President Hinckley.” We spent the next several hours in the zone conference and when finally we headed out to the airport, I asked Ross: “okay, what is going on?”

He told me that he had received a call to serve as a general authority in the Seventy and President Hinckley had instructed us to be in Salt Lake City immediately. I then realized that the decision to go to Christmas Island two weeks before was a defining moment. Had we not listened to the spirit and gone on the planned schedule, we would have been away from Hawaii when President Hinckley called. We would have been isolated on Christmas Island and could not have travelled to Salt Lake for Conference. We could not have accepted the call to the Seventy because we could not have been reached and even if we had known of the call, could not have made the trip to Salt Lake to be sustained in Conference. The Lord knew we could not be on Christmas Island at the time scheduled and we did not. That we both were guided remains one of the great blessings in our lives.

The spiritual submissiveness which is central to the blessings of the Atonement was well exemplified by Melissa Howes as she led her family in prayer a short while before her father died of cancer. Melissa was only 9 and her father 43. Consider unselfish Melissa Howes’s pleading, in her own words as reported to me by her mother: “Heavenly Father, bless my daddy, and if you need to take him and need him more than [we do], you can have him. We want him, but Thy will be done. And please help us not to be mad at you” (letter from Christie Howes, 25 February 1998).

My family was flying from Buenos Aires, Argentina, to a town in the north of that country called Posadas. I was 15, and although I had been on airplanes before, I was not used to flying in a plane as small as that one was. It held about 50 people and must have been about 50 years old. I got a shiver down my back at the thought of crashing but dismissed the idea. The plane was a little shaky, like me at that moment, but I was not terrified because I was with my family
As we began to cross over a large body of water, the plane started to tremble and shake a lot. The terror I had been keeping at bay suddenly overwhelmed me. I closed my eyes and, almost instinctively, said a prayer. I had learned to always pray when in trouble.
As I was asking my Heavenly Father for protection, I felt a calm assurance that everything would be all right. I opened my eyes and looked out my window. It was early morning, and while I had been saying my prayer the sunlight and the lake had merged to make the sky and water a deep blue—both foaming with puffs of heavenly white. It was one of the most beautiful sights I had ever beheld.
My fear left, and the clouds that once caused the plane to tremble now seemed like Heavenly Father’s loving arms,
Feeling safe, I began to study the water and the sky, imagining the raging storms that must occur in both. I thought about my own life, with all of the daily problems, or storms, that I am constantly getting caught in.
Though I had heen a member of the Church all my life, I had never realized before the great influence Heavenly Father can have. I knew then that he truly has provided an escape from the storms of the world. I realized that by praying and by holding to the iron rod, I could rise above the storms and reach spiritual heights where I could feel his love.
I have prayed every day since I was old enough to know how to without ever knowing my prayers were heard. But that day in the sky over Argentina, a simple prayer opened my eyes. That new awareness was only a starting point, but it helped me understand how much love Heavenly Father has for me. That’s one of the many ways I kow that he lives and that I should always call on him in prayer.

“With the knowledge we have, we may mourn, but we need never despair. We have a little loved one in Seattle. There the daily rain keeps the sun and stars alike hidden much of the time, so she hasn’t really seen stars. We think there is magic in stargazing and lessons to learn from them; they are brighter in winter’s night, you know. I explained this to this little girl when we stood on a clear night looking into heaven. I smiled at her wonderment at first seeing stars crowd the nighttime.
“‘Are they there every time it gets dark, even if I can’t see them?’ she asked. I assured her they were, even behind the clouds.
“‘Then darkness isn’t so bad, is it? If you know the stars are there.’
“It has application to life, doesn’t it?”

I was born in Rigby, Idaho, a farming community of about 2,000 people. About four miles outside of town was a small junkyard. Rigby had a junkyard man, a little old Danish immigrant who couldn’t speak English. He didn’t have a name that I can remember; we just called him the “junkyard man.”
He not only ran the junkyard; he lived there. His home was made of plywood scraps and other junk he had gathered from the yard. He didn’t have any electricity and he lived all alone, except for some dogs to keep him company.
A few times each year he walked four miles into town for groceries. Most people respected him because he worked hard and did a good job. My dad’s mother was a Danish immigrant, so Dad always had a soft spot in his heart for the old man. Whenever we went to the dump, Dad would take him groceries, cookies, or other goodies.
Well, I remember one day when I acted like a real chicken toward the junkyard man; it was a Sunday in 1965. Somehow Dad, who was the bishop, got the junkyard man to come to church that day. I was about 13 years old. I felt real cool sitting there in church in my turtleneck shirt and 100 percent polyester suit, but then it happened. Dad brought the junkyard man to the bench where my family was and sat him down right next to me! I could hear my friends laughing. I was so embarrassed I didn’t even look at the man during sacrament meeting.
After the meeting, I left as fast as I could. Outside, my friends and I really started pecking at the junkyard man, and I was the worst. I told the boys that as the old man sat there I saw “cooties” crawling out of his clothes. I told them he smelled like trash, that his weird wool pants had moth holes in them, and all sorts of other insulting things. The more my friends laughed, the bigger I felt, and the more I “pecked” at him in our conversation.
Of course, he didn’t hear any of this. But about three weeks later, on a particularly cold Idaho night, the pipe of the old man’s coal-burning stove in his house broke. The house filled with thick, sooty smoke and he died in his sleep.
I don’t tell you this story to make you feel sorry for the old man, because his life was not really sad. He was a good man who contributed something to his community and made his own way. The sad part is that I remembered the mean things I said, and it was too late to apologize. I had picked on the old man only because he was different.

At the top of a hill, the highway traffic on I-65 rushes right by a grove of trees. Few people even notice the cluster of 30 to 40 headstones nestled in the triangle between the main road and an off-ramp leading toward Vinemont and some other small towns. But the young men of the Cullman Ward, Huntsville Alabama Stake, pay attention to the spot whenever they go by. It’s the site of the Wilhite Cemetery, and without their efforts, including four Eagle Scout projects over the years, the graves of these settlers from the 1820s, and of others in additional cemeteries nearby, could quietly disappear.
Back in Cullman, the young men talk about the value of building a tradition. “We’ve cleaned a lot of the cemeteries up in the hills here,” says Amel Drake, 13. “It started with one Eagle project, and that led to another and another and another.” For example, five miles away in Falkville, members of this same Troop/Team 335 earlier cleaned up a cemetery of about 150 graves, including the resting places of both slaves and prominent citizens. These Scouts have learned to safely operate weed whackers, to properly glue broken headstones together, and to keep a journal of names and locations for people who wish to visit graves or do family history research.
“We don’t just do cemeteries; we do other Eagle projects too,” says Enoch Jones, 15. “And we do lots of community service, to benefit others and ourselves.” He pauses, then adds, “Traditions are a part of our heritage. Building a tradition of service helps us to remember who we are and where we come from. Keeping up the cemeteries is just a part of that.”

Emilia:
When my sister, Custodia, was born, I could immediately see that she was heaven sent. I saw it in her eyes. Custodia and I were close growing up. Because of her limitations, I often carried her because she couldn’t walk. Sometimes she would have several epilepsy attacks a day, so it was hard to care for her at times, but I was always close by to help my mother. When my mother became sick, I cared for both of them.
At that time, my mother was getting older and had difficulty caring for Custodia. She decided to go to a care center. Custodia went to a facility that cares for people with disabilities. That’s when we started to pick her up and have her stay with us every weekend. We did this for about four years.
Just before my mother died, my husband and I visited her. She held our hands and told us she trusted us to take care of Custodia. We told her we would. For the last 15 years, my sister has lived with us and we have cared for her.
Of course it was hard in the beginning. I had to leave my job to take care of my sister. But it has been a blessing. When Ulisses and I were first married, we discovered we couldn’t have children. Custodia is like a child sent from God for us to take care of. In many ways, she helps fill the void we feel being childless. She’s loving and caring. She loves to laugh and loves going to church. She is a joy.
Ulisses:
When I was called to serve as bishop, I had to think if I would be able to fulfill my duties at home and with my calling. Emilia and I talked about it and we realized that we could do this together if we put our trust in God.
Serving my family has always spiritually uplifted me. Although we do not have as much alone time as a couple, we are close to each other spiritually. We are closer as a family. The whole time we have seen the hand of the Lord helping us. He has showed us miracle after miracle. We are truly blessed.
The Maio family love to go to a local restaurant, where they visit with their friends and neighbors.
A friend of the Maio family stops to say hello to Custodia. Emilia says that people are drawn to Custodia because “she’s loving and caring. She is a joy.”

David Whitmer lived outside the Church for 50 years following his excommunication—never to return but never to deny his testimony. As the last surviving Witness, he was often interviewed—and often misquoted. To one man who claimed that David had recanted his testimony, he declared:
“That he may understand me now, if he did not then; and that the world may know the truth, I wish now, standing as it were, in the very sunset of life, and in the fear of God, once for all to make this public statement:
“That I have never at any time denied that testimony or any part thereof, which has so long since been published with that Book, as one of the three witnesses.”8
A year before his death in Richmond, Missouri, David responded to two encyclopedias that claimed he and the other Witnesses had denied their testimonies of the Book of Mormon.
He declared: “I will say once more to all mankind, that I have never at any time denied that testimony or any part thereof. I also testify to the world, that neither Oliver Cowdery or Martin Harris ever at any time denied their testimony. They both died affirming the truth of the divine authenticity of the Book of Mormon.”9
Three days before David died, on January 25, 1888, he called his family and his doctor to his bedside. “Doctor, do you consider that I am in my right mind?” he asked. His doctor replied, “Yes, you are in your right mind.”
Then David turned to his family and said: “I want to give you my dying testimony. You must be faithful in Christ. I want to say to you all that the Bible and the record of the Nephites, the Book of Mormon, are true, so you can say that you have heard me bear my testimony on my deathbed.”10

I have always been interested in animals and birds and when I was a little boy and the other children wanted to play cowboy, I wanted to go on safari to Africa and would pretend I was hunting the wild animals.
When I learned to read, I found books about birds and animals and came to know much about them. By the time I was in my teens I could identify most of the African animals. I could tell a klipspringer from an impala, or a gemsbok from a wildebeest.
I always wanted to go to Africa and see the animals, and finally that opportunity came. Sister Packer and I were assigned to tour the South Africa Mission with President and Sister Howard Badger. We had a very strenuous schedule and had dedicated eight chapels in seven days, scattered across that broad continent.
President Badger was vague about the schedule for September 10th. (That happens to be my birthday.) We were in Rhodesia, planning, I thought, to return to Johannesburg, South Africa. But he had other plans, and we landed at Victoria Falls.
“There is a game reserve some distance from here,” he explained, “and I have rented a car, and tomorrow, your birthday, we are going to spend seeing the African animals.”
Now I might explain that the game reserves in Africa are unusual. The people are put in cages, and the animals are left to run free. That is, there are compounds where the park visitors check in at night and are locked behind high fences until after daylight. They are allowed to drive about, but no one is allowed out of his car.
We arrived in the park in the late afternoon. By some mistake, there were not enough cabins for all the visitors, and they were all taken when we arrived. The head ranger indicated that they had a cabin in an isolated area about eight miles from the compound and we could spend the night there.
Because of a delay in getting our evening meal, it was long after dark when we left the compound. We found the turnoff and had gone up the narrow road just a short distance when the engine stalled. We found a flashlight and I stepped out to check under the hood, thinking that there must be a loose connection or something. As the light flashed on the dusty road, the first thing I saw was lion tracks!
Back in the car, we determined to content ourselves with spending the night there! Fortunately, however, an hour or two later we were rescued by the driver of a gas truck who had left the compound late because of a problem. We awakened the head ranger and in due time we were settled in our cabin. In the morning they brought us back to the compound.
We had no automobile, and without telephones there was no way to get a replacement until late in the day. We faced the disappointment of sitting around the compound all day. Our one day in the park was ruined and, for me, the dream of a lifetime was gone.
I talked with a young ranger, and he was surprised that I knew many of the African birds. Then he volunteered to rescue us.
“We are building a new lookout over a water hole about twenty miles from the compound,” he said. “It is not quite finished, but it is safe. I will take you out there with a lunch, and when your car comes late this afternoon we will bring it out to you. You may see as many animals, or even more, than if you were driving around.”
On the way to the lookout he volunteered to show us some lions. He turned off through the brush and before long located a group of seventeen lions all sprawled out asleep and drove right up among them.
We stopped at a water hole to watch the animals come to drink. It was very dry that season and there was not much water, really just muddy spots. When the elephants stepped into the soft mud, the water would seep into the depression and the animals would drink from the elephant tracks.
The antelope, particularly, were very nervous. They would approach the mud hole, only to turn and run away in great fright. I could see there were no lions about and asked the guide why they didn’t drink. His answer, and this is the lesson, was “Crocodiles.”
I knew he must be joking and asked him seriously, “What is the problem?” The answer again: “Crocodiles.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “There are no crocodiles out there. Anyone can see that.”
I thought he was having some fun at the expense of his foreign game expert, and finally I asked him to tell us the truth. Now I remind you that I was not uninformed. I had read many books. Besides, anyone would know that you can’t hide a crocodile in an elephant track.
He could tell I did not believe him and determined, I suppose, to teach me a lesson. We drove to another location where the car was on an embankment above the muddy hole where we could look down. “There,” he said. “See for yourself.”
I couldn’t see anything except the mud, a little water, and the nervous animals in the distance. Then all at once I saw it!—a large crocodile, settled in the mud, waiting for some unsuspecting animal to get thirsty enough to come for a drink.
Suddenly I became a believer! When he could see I was willing to listen, he continued with the lesson. “There are crocodiles all over the park,” he said, “not just in the rivers. We don’t have any water without a crocodile somewhere near it, and you’d better count on it.”
The guide was kinder to me than I deserved. My “know-it-all” challenge to his first statement, “crocodiles,” might have brought an invitation, “Well, go out and see for yourself!”
I could see for myself that there were no crocodiles. I was so sure of myself I think I might have walked out just to see what was there. Such an arrogant approach could have been fatal! But he was patient enough to teach me.
My young friends, I hope you’ll be wiser in talking to your guides than I was on that occasion. That smart-aleck idea that I knew everything really wasn’t worthy of me, nor is it worthy of you. I’m not very proud of it, and I think I’d be ashamed to tell you about it except that telling you may help you.
Those ahead of you in life have probed about the water holes a bit and raise a voice of warning about crocodiles. Not just the big, gray lizards that can bite you to pieces, but spiritual crocodiles, infinitely more dangerous, and more deceptive and less visible, even, than those well-camouflaged reptiles of Africa.
These spiritual crocodiles can kill or mutilate your souls. They can destroy your peace of mind and the peace of mind of those who love you. Those are the ones to be warned against, and there is hardly a watering place in all of mortality now that is not infested with them.
On another trip to Africa I discussed this experience with a game ranger in another park. He assured me that you can indeed hide a crocodile in an elephant track—one big enough to bite a man in two.
He then showed me a place where a tragedy had occurred. A young man from England was working in the hotel for the season. In spite of constant and repeated warnings, he went through the compound fence to check something across a shallow splash of water that didn’t cover his tennis shoes.
“He wasn’t two steps in,” the ranger said, “before a crocodile had him, and we could do nothing to save him.”
It seems almost to be against our natures, particularly when we are young, to accept much guidance from others. But, young people, there are times when, regardless of how much we think we know or how much we think we want to do something, that our very existence depends on paying attention to the guides.
Now, it is a gruesome thing to think about that young man who was eaten by the crocodile. But that is not, by any means, the worst thing that could happen. There are moral and spiritual things far worse even than the thought of being chewed to pieces by a monstrous lizard.
Fortunately there are guides enough in life to prevent these things from happening if we are willing to take counsel now and again.
Some of us are appointed now, as you will be soon, to be guides and rangers. Now, we don’t use those titles very much. We go under the titles of parents—father and mother—bishop, leader, adviser. Our assignment is to see that you get through mortality without being injured by these spiritual crocodiles.
All of the training and activity in the Church has as its central purpose a desire to see you, our young people, free and independent and secure, both spiritually and temporally.
If you will listen to the counsel of your parents and your teachers and your leaders when you are young, you can learn how to follow the best guide of all—the whisperings of the Holy Spirit. That is individual revelation. There is a process through which we can be alerted to spiritual dangers. Just as surely as that guide warned me, you can receive signals alerting you to the spiritual crocodiles that lurk ahead.
If we can train you to listen to these spiritual communications, you will be protected from these crocodiles of life. You can learn what it feels like to be guided from on high. This inspiration can come to you now, in all of your activities, in school, and dating—not just in your Church assignments.
Learn how to pray and how to receive answers to your prayers. When you pray over some things, you must patiently wait a long, long time before you will receive an answer. Some prayers, for your own safety, must be answered immediately, and some promptings will even come when you haven’t prayed at all.
Once you really determine to follow that guide, your testimony will grow and you will find provisions set out along the way in unexpected places, as evidence that someone knew that you would be traveling that way.
The basic exercise for you to perform in your youth to become spiritually strong and to become independent lies in obedience to your guides. If you will follow them and do it willingly, you can learn to trust those delicate, sensitive, spiritual promptings. You will learn that they always, invariably, lead you to do that which is righteous.
Now, my young friends, I would like to make reference to another experience, one I think of often but one I seldom talk about. I shall not mention it in detail; I only want to refer to it. It happened many years ago when I was perhaps not quite as young as you are now, and it had to do with my decision to follow that guide.
I knew what agency was and knew how important it was to be individual and to be independent, to be free. I somehow knew there was one thing the Lord would never take from me, and that was my free agency. I would not surrender my agency to any being but to Him! I determined that I would give Him the one thing that He would never take—my agency. I decided, by myself, that from that time on I would do things His way.
That was a great trial for me, for I thought I was giving away the most precious thing I possessed. I was not wise enough in my youth to know that because I exercised my agency and decided myself, I was not losing it. It was strengthened!
I learned from that experience the meaning of the scripture: “If ye continue in my word, then are ye my disciples indeed;
“And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” (John 8:31–32.)
I have not been quite as frightened of spiritual crocodiles since then, because I have been alerted on many occasions as to where they were lurking.
I have been nipped a time or two and on occasion have needed some spiritual first aid, but have been otherwise saved because I have been warned.
Fortunately, there is spiritual first aid for those who have been bitten. The bishop of the ward is the guide in charge of this first aid. He can also treat those who have been badly, morally mauled by these spiritual crocodiles—and see them completely healed.
That experience in Africa was another reminder for me to follow the Guide. I follow Him because I want to. Through the other experience I came to know the Guide. I bear witness that He lives, that Jesus is the Christ. I know that He has a body of flesh and bones, that He directs this Church, and His purpose is to see all of us guided safely back into His presence.

Praying and realizing that I am a son of God gave me the courage to explain my feelings to my parents, but they didn’t quite understand. They thought I was rebellious and too immature to make the decision to be baptized. They were embarrassed that their son was following this strange religion rather than their traditions. I knew who I was and what I wanted, but I also wanted to honor my parents and hoped they would honor my religion.
I explained my situation to the sister missionaries. They had an idea—they could come talk to my parents so that they would feel better about this religion. I told them I was afraid my parents wouldn’t want to talk to them. Then one of the sisters suggested that we fast together.
When I didn’t eat breakfast, my mom was worried. “Why didn’t you eat?” she asked. I explained that I was fasting, and that made her even more concerned.
“First you are going to this no-man’s land of religion, and now you are not eating. I’m worried. I’m shocked! I’m going to call those missionaries.”
She did call the sisters, and somehow they got themselves invited to our house for dinner!
We had a great time. The missionaries taught my parents the hymn “I Am a Child of God” (Hymns, no. 301), and we sang it together. My father loved that. After dinner with the sisters, neither of my parents was worried about me going to church. And I felt I was able to honor them by living the gospel because it really encompassed everything they had taught me. I thought if I loved them long enough and treated them kind enough, eventually they would understand. It took 35 years after my baptism, but my mother was baptized and went through the temple just a few years ago!

The missionaries held up a photo. “What do you see?” they asked.
“A happy family,” I answered.
“Are all families happy?”
I shook my head no. “You’ve seen my family,” I explained.
I was a 16-year-old living in Brazil, where I had lived all my life. The missionaries had been teaching me for several weeks, but nobody else in my family wanted to listen. During that time, the missionaries had often seen my family fight and argue. My family and the grinning family in the photo had nothing in common.
One of the elders said, “Well, maybe your current family isn’t this way. But you can build your future family differently.”
When we ended the visit, they asked me again to pray about what we’d been studying. As always, I didn’t exactly promise to do so. I enjoyed how I felt when the missionaries visited, and the gospel made sense to me. But I was afraid of the answer I might receive. If the gospel was true, I would have to make a lot of changes.
After the elders left, I couldn’t stop thinking about happy families. Ours wasn’t even close. My dad wasn’t in my life. My relationship with my mom wasn’t great. Grandma was the one who took care of us, but none of us behaved like a family the way the missionaries taught. None of us expressed love to each other or even spent much time together.
All my life I promised myself I would be a good dad someday. I would be the parent I never had. Yet as the missionaries taught me, I started realizing that I was doing the same things my parents did at my age. I stayed out late, did whatever I wanted, and lived like a rebel. Without meaning to, I was repeating the same story.
It was time to ask God.
When I finally prayed, I received
the answer I had expected all along. The Church is true! Now it was time to make a choice.
My grandmother had to give permission before I could be baptized. She was against it, but I persisted.
“Grandma, which Leonardo do you prefer?” I asked. “The one who was out drinking and smoking and coming home late? Or do you prefer who I am now? These changes are because of the gospel.”
Grandma finally agreed, and I was baptized and confirmed. From that moment, something interesting began to happen in my family—something I didn’t realize fully until a few years later.
Right before I left for my mission to southern Brazil, Grandma attended stake conference with me. Afterward we held a small testimony meeting with family and friends. To my surprise, Grandma wanted to say something.
“Ever since Leonardo joined your church, my family started becoming a real family,” she said. She then listed ways our entire family had grown closer: We now spent time together. We started saying “I love you” to each other, when we never had before. The fighting and arguing stopped. Real friendships developed among all of us. We had more to eat and were blessed with abundance in other areas.
I had noticed these changes too, but I hadn’t realized the timing could be linked back to when I was baptized.
“I may not be a member of your church,” she said, “but I am a friend of your church. And I know our family has been blessed because of Leonardo’s choice.”
I could hardly believe it! And yet, as Grandma spoke of how our family had grown closer, I suddenly remembered the photo the missionaries had shown me years before. Back then, I thought my only way to have a happy family was with my future family.
But I was wrong. My current family was happy! We had grown to love each other.
Maybe none of my family members will join the Church in this lifetime. But even if they don’t, I know that God has already blessed us in so many ways. The gospel of Jesus Christ shows us how to improve our families, no matter what our family situation looks like.

It was my first day of college and I was scared. Scared because I felt like a nameless student lost in a sea of students. Scared that my high school achievements would not meet the requirements of my new classes. But most of all, scared by the sudden opportunity to improve my mind and body in ways I had never had before. I wanted to learn, but I did not want to fail. And that was why I worried about Swimming 101.
I had signed up for beginning swimming thinking that I would broaden my physical abilities. But as I sat on a locker room bench preparing for the class, I wondered if it was foolish to admit that I had never learned such an elementary skill. Wading in the creek that ran through my grandfather’s ranch and splashing around in some waist-deep ponds were the sum total of my aquatic experience.
Suppressing my fears I popped the contacts out of my eyes and stored them in their case. My blurred vision softened the surroundings and somehow made me feel less vulnerable.
Moments later I stood beside a huge swimming pool waiting for class to begin. Staring into the water I imagined my body lying lifeless at the bottom of the pool, then, pulled out by a lifeguard only to have a crowd of onlookers gather around whispering and snickering about an 18-year-old not knowing how to swim.
The shrill sound of a coach’s whistle brought me back to reality, and I lined up with the 23 other bodies in regulation swimsuits. As the roll was called I couldn’t help but wonder if all these students really didn’t know how to swim or if they were just taking the class for an easy A. I began thinking maybe I should transfer to a sport I knew more about.
The coach gave a speech on the benefits of swimming, then explained a chart on the wall. It listed the skills we had to learn in order to pass the class.
“And by the end of the semester,” he concluded, “you must all swim one mile and jump from the high dive.”
Everyone looked to the far end of the pool. Even without my contacts I could see all too well the spindly ladder and platform towering above the water. I swallowed hard and tried to forget it, but its image was etched in my mind.
One week went by. A second. Then a third. I was beginning to make new friends and feel comfortable with my classes. Except swimming. My classmates had taken to water like fish, but no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t seem to get the hang of it.
“Relax!” the coach kept telling me. “Don’t fight the water. Let it help you.”
Relax? How could I relax when I lagged behind all the other students? They were passing off the skills on the chart while I had to stay near the side of the pool and receive help from the coach or his assistant.
I hurried to and from the locker room each day, glad that my blurred vision kept me from recognizing anyone, and hoping no one would recognize me. Still, I worried about coming face to face with one of the California guys from my dorm. How could I explain Swimming 101 to someone who grew up with the Pacific Ocean in his backyard?
By the sixth week I was ready to quit. I was tired of being a loser. But something unexpected happened that made me decide to stay. I was working my way down the length of the pool, trying to pass off the backstroke, when I was suddenly torpedoed by another body. The impact sent us both thrashing about, sputtering and gasping for air.
“Stay in your own lane, Mitchell!” I heard the coach yell.
“Yes sir!” replied my assailant as he continued across the pool in wild and ungainly strokes. Thwack! Thwack! His feet slapped the water sending gallons of it into the air.
Mitchell. I checked his name on the skill chart after class. He had passed off four requirements, but I had now passed five. It felt very good to no longer be last, and I vowed to keep it that way.
Weeks went by and my swimming improved. My secret race against Mitchell had given me new courage and a deepening sense of satisfaction. I checked the chart at the beginning of each period, focusing not on how far I was behind the others, but on the fact that Mitchell was two, then three, then four spaces behind me.
Mitchell always practiced at the far side of the pool. I watched him from my lane, squinting to see what advice the coach was giving him, assessing his performance against mine. Rarely did a class period go by that the coach didn’t get down in the water and help him. I wanted to move closer and learn from the coach’s instructions, yet I kept my distance, thinking that association with Mitchell would label me a loser once again.
The final days of the semester came like a tidal wave, swiftly and silently submerging the student body in a flood of projects, papers, and exams. I sequestered myself in a corner of the library and tried to study for my tests, but visions of the high dive and the deep waters beneath it kept interrupting my thoughts. Relax, take a deep breath, jump, push off from the bottom, and swim to the side of the pool. I kept rehearsing the steps in my mind, wondering if I was really brave enough to do it.
The day I dreaded came quickly, and I stood below the diving board as other students ascended the ladder and dropped one by one into the pool. I tried to relax my knotted stomach by telling myself it would be easy.
“Okay,” said the coach tapping his pencil on my shoulder, “It’s your turn.” I nodded and turned to go.
“Oh, and could you give Mitchell a hand?” he added, pointing to a figure that stood by the wall.
“Sure,” I replied, wondering why I had to help him. Was he too afraid to climb by himself? Did he need someone to coax him off the edge?
I walked over to the wall and, for the first time, stood face to face with Mitchell, close enough to look into his cloudy, misshapen eyes and see that he was blind. Guilt and embarrassment shot through my body. This was the person I had privately put down all semester, too worried about my status to notice why he had been given extra help.
“Hi,” he said, reaching out his hand and grabbing onto my arm.
“Hello,” I managed to reply.
“Are you nervous?” he asked as we walked toward the high dive.
“A little,” I confessed.
“So am I,” he said. “But once we do it we will never have to be afraid of it again.”
As we climbed the ladder I thought of Matthew 7:1–2: “Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.” [Matt. 7:1–2] It seemed as though I had heard that scripture a million times, but suddenly I began to understand it. My judgments of Mitchell could not have been more wrong. He was not a loser, but a brave person who was conquering a physical challenge with confidence and enthusiasm. We only become losers when we avoid trying to learn a new skill because of fear of looking foolish. I regretted that my unkind judgment of Mitchell had prevented me from associating with him during the class and learning from and being motivated by him.
“Do you want to go first?” Mitchell asked as we reached the top.
“No,” I said, “you go ahead.”
I watched as he cautiously walked to the end of the platform, plunged down into the water, then resurfaced and swam to the side.
I knew I would not get an A in Swimming 101, but I had learned a lesson that I would not forget. I went to the end of the platform, took a deep breath, and jumped.

Years ago, when we lived in a mountainous area of Southern California, my wife called me as I was driving home from work and said, “Gary, be careful when you park in the garage because there is an overturned green plastic tub that I threw over a rattlesnake in there. Would you please take care of it when you get here?”

The garage doors had been newly varnished that day and because one of them had not completely dried, the workers had not yet put the rubber seal on the bottom. This small crack between the closed door and the ground allowed the rattlesnake to slither in.

Dear friends, please seal up any cracks in your life so that the adversary cannot destroy you. None of us would feel comfortable with a rattlesnake in our garage. How about in our house, our bedroom, our backpack, pocket, or our purse? We need to be very careful about what types of media we engage in and let into our minds. Much of it is far more dangerous than a rattlesnake which can only kill the body. Eternity is at stake and purity is the lynchpin. Be pure.

Let me tell you of a recent experience that is part of the lives of General Authorities of the Church. As you may know, the Seventies serve in area presidencies and most live away from here in many nations of the earth. Each year the Quorums of the Seventy receive new or extended assignments for the coming year. Some of these assignments may mean that the General Authority and his wife will spend from three to five years away from their homes and families.

The First Presidency, because of their great love and concern for the Brethren and their wives and children, always have interviewed each Seventy personally before giving him an assignment. During this interview the members of the First Presidency inquire into the many issues that surround the Seventy and his family. These interviews have required great time and effort on the part of the First Presidency.

Recently all of the General Authorities and their wives were invited to a special meeting with the First Presidency and the Quorum of the Twelve. There President Thomas S. Monson explained that the First Presidency simply had not had the time to conduct their regular interviews. Then he informed all of us to prepare ourselves because he would announce, from the pulpit, our assignments for the coming year.

The suspense was great as President Monson announced the list of assignments, which would require great sacrifices by those leaving their homes and families. Personally, I have never witnessed a greater demonstration of willing sacrifice. I heard no complaints. I heard not a single negative comment. No one objected to either the method or the nature of the assignment. All of the Seventies and their wives simply returned from that meeting to begin the preparations that would take many from their homes and families for several years.

When my wife, Blanca, and I were married, the laws of Guatemala required that we be married civilly first. I didn’t like that ceremony—it said that we were married only until death. The next day we left for Arizona, though we had to sell some of our possessions to afford the trip. Being sealed to my wife in the temple for eternity was one of the most joyful experiences of my life.
But we soon discovered that we didn’t have enough money to return to Guatemala. When we went to church, a man shook my hand and left a U.S. $20 bill in it. Another man did the same. I had said nothing of our problems. But we had told Heavenly Father.
I was a stake president when the temple in Guatemala was announced. It was my privilege to help raise funds for the temple and prepare the people to be worthy to enter it. We were asked to raise U.S. $10,000. Children, young people, and adults all participated. The people of the stake were so enthusiastic that we raised about $27,000—almost three times as much as our goal.
When our youngest child, Daniel, was 11 years old, he told us he wanted a special gift when he turned 12. He wanted to go to the temple and be baptized for some of his ancestors. The whole family got involved in family history. We grew closer to our living relatives and found several ancestors whose temple work had not been done. On my son’s 12th birthday, he was baptized for these people. I performed the ordinances. Daniel gained a greater testimony of temple work.
As you can see, many of the best moments of my life have been spent in the house of the Lord. It can be the same for each of you.
Always remember that our Lord Jesus Christ loves children. When we read about His visit to the Americas after His Resurrection, we learn that He called the children to Him and blessed each of them. There are not many times in the scriptures when the writer couldn’t record the things that were said, but this was one of them. The words and the blessings were so sacred they could not be written. (See 3 Ne. 17:12–23.) Jesus loves you just as He loved those children.
I believe that my testimony was just as firm when I was 12 years old as it is today. You do not have to be a grown-up to have a testimony of Jesus Christ or to make a difference. Perhaps sometimes you don’t realize how much good you are doing for your parents, for your relatives, and for the world.

A few hours before the youth began to arrive, we held a meeting and a quick spiritual thought with the young single adults. As a Church, our pioneers have crossed rivers in times of extreme difficulty before. “Let me tell you about the Sweetwater River in Wyoming and the story of the Martin and Willie handcart companies,” I said.
I recounted the events of Nov. 4, 1856, when the members of the Martin handcart company could go no further and wept at the thought of crossing that river in the frigid cold to find shelter from the storm at Martin’s Cove.
I told them of three members of the rescue party from Salt Lake City, all young adults, who stepped forward and volunteered to carry the entire company across the frigid river at great personal cost. I then asked, “who is willing to carry on this tradition and carry our 530 youth across the river this morning so a different kind of rescue can continue today, right here?”
The young single adults leapt to their feet volunteering in excitement to be a rescuer for the 2022 FSY and carry our youth across the river. They ran to their dorm rooms and changed into suitable clothing, knowing they were about to get very wet and dirty in the river and mud.
At 10:45 am we walked down to the water. The youth had already begun to arrive. The Konka staff had fixed the ropes to hold while crossing the water and were ready for the assistance of the young single adults. Several leaders grabbed onto the ropes and walked across the river and foot bridge to greet the youth and their parents and leaders as they arrived, to give them confidence and assurance that everything was safe, and we were moving forward.
There was shock on the faces of the youth and leaders as we explained the situation and instructed the youth to remove their shoes and socks and pull up their pant legs as far as they could. An umbrella to protect them from the rain was all most had planned on. Now they were about to cross a river on foot. As they walked down to the footbridge, several slipped, a few even falling in the deep and slippery mud. “Hang on to the rope!” was the yell that echoed for the next three hours as group after group arrived.
The young adult leaders took every suitcase and all the bedding and carried it across the footbridge. Over 500 youth made it across the river, either on the backs of the young single adults or picking their own cautious paths across the river whilst holding onto the safety ropes. A few hours later, the rain began to lessen. We had made it, and the FSY experience could go forward.
Uniformly, the youth expressed thanks that FSY had not been cancelled and we had found a way forward. Several analogies to our river crossing followed during the week, all relating back to the theme trust in the Lord. The young single adults acting as counselors not only carried and guided the youth across a literal river, but then spent the week teaching and strengthening the youth in a way that has had a deep and meaningful impact—teaching them and sharing tools for navigating an increasingly difficult world. Lives have been forever changed.

Brandon, another remarkable friend, has chosen to live with that same perspective.21 Paralyzed in an accident at age eighteen, just before he was supposed to leave on a full-time mission, he has spent as many years living with a lack of physical mobility as he did with a fully functioning and highly athletic body. Brandon will be the first to tell you that the change was excruciatingly difficult to accept, yet he has chosen to use his considerable gifts and talents to bless others, rather than dwell on what he wishes he still had. As he serves in a bishopric, his sensitivity to the Spirit allows him to understand, comfort, and encourage those with whom he counsels. Again, choosing to prioritize those things over which he does have control allows him to experience unexpected joy and to progress eternally.

Andy Taylor had a problem. And he was worrying about it so much that he hardly noticed anything else going on around him. He didn’t even hear the click-clacking music of his skateboard wheels as he rolled along toward Mr. Weber’s house.
The problem had started right after his baptism. “Now remember, Andrew,” Sister Thomas had said, “every member of the Church should be a missionary. And that’s what you are now—a real member.”
Even though he had always felt like a member, Andy knew now that he really was a member. Still, he’d asked Sister Thomas if even Primary kids were supposed to be missionaries, and she’d said “Yes, even Primary kids.”
When he got home, Andy asked his father the same question and got the same answer. That’s why he was going to see Mr. Weber. Maybe Mr. Weber can help me, he thought. He’s a great thinker.
Andy screeched his skateboard to a stop in front of Mr. Weber’s house, opened the door, and walked in. “Mr. Weber,” he called. “It’s me, Andy Taylor.”
Several months ago, shortly before Andy’s eighth birthday, Mr. Weber had been injured in a terrible automobile accident. He couldn’t walk or talk or do anything now except lie in his bed. He even had a full-time nurse to help take care of him.
Andy had started coming to see Mr. Weber every day after school, just for short visits, to keep him company. At first the visits had been hard for Andy because he had had to do all the talking. Then one day Andy discovered that Mr. Weber could sort of talk to him by blinking his eyes—one blink for “yes” and two blinks for “no.” After that they talked about everything. Well, Andy did all the real talking, and Mr. Weber did all the blinking, but it was almost like they were both talking out loud.
It was because he and Andy had become such special friends that Andy was allowed to walk into Mr. Weber’s house whenever he wanted. And now Andy just had to talk to his friend about his problem. “Hi, Mr. Weber,” Andy said as he seated himself on a stool by the side of the bed. He always sat close enough to clearly see Mr. Weber’s eyes. “Did you get a lot of rest today?”
Mr. Weber blinked his eyes once for “Yes.”
“Great! I have a really big problem that I want to talk over with you. Is that OK?”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked.
So Andy explained about his baptism, about how he was now a real member of the Church, and about how every member of the Church should be a missionary. “But how can I be a missionary when I’m only eight years old?” Andy asked. “Maybe only grownup members are meant to be missionaries. Is that right, Mr. Weber?”
“No,” Mr. Weber blinked.
“You mean kids should be missionaries, too?” Andy asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s what Sister Thomas, my Primary teacher, said, and my father agrees with her. But being a missionary kind of scares me. You see, I don’t know how to be a missionary.”
Mr. Weber blinked once. “Yes.”
“Yes?” Andy repeated, surprised. “I do know how to be a missionary?”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked.
“But I don’t knock on doors like real missionaries do.”
“No,” Mr. Weber blinked twice.
“And I’ve never read to you from the Bible or the Book of Mormon.”
“No,” Mr. Weber answered.
“Boy, am I lost.” Andy tried to think of anything that he might have done that would make Mr. Weber think of him as a missionary, but Andy’s mind was as empty as the time he had flunked a spelling test. He just sat there and couldn’t think of a thing.
Andy glanced up and saw that Mr. Weber’s eyes were closed. It was his way of telling Andy that he wasn’t talking enough. If Andy didn’t talk, Mr. Weber couldn’t blink.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Weber. I know you want to talk, but I’m stumped. How can I be a missionary?”
Mr. Weber’s eyes glanced quickly from one side of the room to the other, then he stared really hard at Andy. Deliberately he did the same thing again.
Let’s see, Andy thought. By first looking at his room and then at me, he’s trying to tell me something. “You want me to figure out some connection between your room and me?”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked.
Andy got excited, knowing that he was close to the answer. “Let’s see. Your room and me, and we’re talking about me being a missionary. Am I being a missionary by visiting you in your room?”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked again.
Andy was pleased with his lucky guess. Suddenly he remembered pictures he had seen of pioneers throwing seeds from sacks slung over their shoulders. “I remember something from a Primary lesson,” Andy said. “Farmers plant seeds that grow. And when I’m good and do good things, maybe I’m planting ‘missionary seeds.’”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked, and his eyes were really shining now. That meant that Andy had it right.
“So even though I’m only eight years old and I don’t knock on doors like real missionaries do, I can still be a missionary by setting a good example and by being kind and thoughtful. And visiting you is one way that I do good—is that it, Mr. Weber?”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked.
“Wahoo!” Andy yelled. “That’s it! I can be a missionary by helping those around me. I’m going to help Mrs. Gandey in her garden and Mr. Thompson with his lawn. And I’m going to keep visiting you. Thanks, Mr. Weber.” Andy jumped down from the stool and added, “I’m glad that we had this talk. I’m going to be the best missionary that you ever saw!”
“And thank you, Andy Taylor,” Mr. Weber’s eyes seemed to twinkle back. “I’m glad that we had this talk too.”