Gospel Story Finder

One day when John’s shoes were delivered from the shoemaker, Anna found a Latter-day Saint missionary tract tucked inside each shoe. The tracts sparked her curiosity, and when another pair of shoes needed repairing, she took them to the shoemaker herself to find out the meaning of the tracts. After finishing her business with the shoemaker’s wife, Anna was told that the shoemaker would explain what the tracts meant.
“You may be surprised to hear me say that I can give you something of more value than soles for your child’s shoes,” (John A. Widtsoe, In the Gospel Net, page 54) the shoemaker boldly declared to Anna.
She was perplexed and told the man that he spoke in riddles. But he pleaded with her to listen and said that he could teach her about the Lord’s true plan of salvation for His children.
Anna couldn’t forget her conversation with the humble, courageous shoemaker. And as other tracts came from the shoemaker, she struggled mightily, for she knew her Bible well. She worried about the new concepts and certain points of doctrine. But after attending meetings with the missionaries and other Saints over the next two years, she accepted the gospel and was baptized.

It was only a few weeks later when a similar situation occurred. Some of our ward members, including many of our young men, were practicing for an upcoming theatrical performance. Todd, a priest, was one of the performers. During a rehearsal, someone mockingly mimicked Todd’s performance. He was offended and started walking toward the door dejectedly.
“Oh no,” I thought, “here we go again.” I felt compelled to follow him outside and encourage him to ignore the offense and come back.
What happened next was a beautiful surprise.
This time it was not Dennis who hurried past me, but David. David, who only a few weeks earlier had been the dejected one, was now the inspired one. He ran up to Todd and, putting his arm around him, pleaded with him to return. Todd accepted the invitation, and within minutes both boys were standing side by side on the stage. David had now successfully convinced another to stay.

Katsuhiro Kajiyama was among the first students who came from Japan. Now a professor of Japanese on our campus, he reminisced about his rescue, Lazarus-like, from soul death. His tomb was a dark hopelessness; his graveclothes a bitter cynicism and hatred toward Americans. As he said in the account he sent to me: “I lived numbly, desensitized, and cold.”

He remembered as a child the joy of his family, his prayers to the Buddha and Kami. But especially he remembered his mother—beautiful, soft, kind, gentle. His home was a place of peace. Their hometown was Hiroshima. On the morning of August 6, 1945, Kats was playing with a friend at school. He was just seven years old. These are his words:

The loud air raid alarm pierced our ears. . . . As I crouched down to the edge of the front door, an extraordinarily bright flash of light exploded as if a thousand flash photos had been taken, the light enveloping the whole building and sky. . . . There was a thunderous blast and a gust of force so strong that it shook the entire building and ground. . . . I screamed. . . . All around me there were noises of things being crushed and of shattered glass cascading to the floor.

Kats described the panic that ensued. Covered with blood, he escaped from under heavy fallen doors and ran out into a world surreal in its horror: houses on fire, whirling dust and smoke, hysterical crying and screaming from every direction. “Floating, groping along in the chaos,” he had visions of his beautiful mother waiting for him at home. He longed for her comfort, her soft, gentle touch. However, when he arrived at the spot, he said:

I [encountered] a strange woman in baked, dirty clothes with a grotesquely swollen face and burnt, short, kinky hair. . . . Severe burns disfigured my beautiful mother into a stranger of bloated face with red and dark-brown blotches and scratches. I looked on in disbelief as her sweet voice called my name, “Kacchan.” I cried for relief that it was she, but also [in terror for her dreadful look].

It took 20 agonizing days for his mother to finally die. His brother was never found, except for the remnant of a sock with his name written on it with a black marker.

Motherless and reduced to abject poverty, Kats was tormented by the images of the pain and death of his mother and brother. He longed to hear “the sweet, gentle call” of his mother. “It seemed that [he] would never find peace in this cruel and harsh existence,” until one day an American named Elder Gary Roper spoke to him: “How is school? Do you live nearby? I see you often in the streetcar. Would you like to join an activity for young people?”

Kats said he was amazed by this American’s indescribably tender smile.

I was unfamiliar with this type of gentleness from foreigners. . . . Until then I had [believed] all Americans were heartless monsters who willingly sought to hurt and degrade the Japanese people.

After Elder Roper, it was Elder Green. One year had passed since his first introduction to the Church. He was still reluctant to join, but at a district conference in Hiroshima, the voice of Christ from the mouth of mission president Paul C. Andrus commanded, “‘Come forth.’ Be baptized.”

In contrast to the horrific flash of light in the atomic bomb blast, Kats wrote of his baptism:

At that moment . . . I felt as though the brightest sun had broken through the clouds and streamed through the building. The whole auditorium seemed to be brightly lit and glowing. I was . . . filled with incomprehensible happiness and joy.

You can guess the rest of the story. The graveclothes of his tortured past were now unwrapped. The cynicism, hatred, and bitterness were gone. Kats was called on a mission to his native Japan. As a missionary he helped teach and baptize 80 people.

After his mission, thanks to generous donors and a work-study scholarship program, he went to BYU—Hawaii, which was then the Church College of Hawaii. He married his wife, Hilda, in the temple. He had further schooling, coming to the Provo campus to finish his bachelor’s degree and to complete his master’s degree in art. The graveclothes of ignorance and prejudice were further removed. He and his wife have raised a family of brilliant, devoted children. Both their daughters are now embarking on missions for the Church—one to Japan and one to Hong Kong.

Nathan ate his breakfast and smiled. Mother kept thanking Heavenly Father. She thanked Him for morning, for sunshine, for a blue sky.
“Mother, you thanked Heavenly Father three times!” he giggled.
“Three times? No wonder I’m happy. Thanking Heavenly Father for His gifts makes me very happy!”
Nathan stared at Mother. Her eyes sparkled; her lips curved up. She was happy! “I want to be happy, too!” he cried.
“Thank Heavenly Father, and you will be happy!” Mother told him.
“OK.” Nathan thanked Heavenly Father for the birds he heard chirping in the bush near the kitchen window. He smiled. Mother was right! Thanking Heavenly Father did make him happy!
The rest of the morning he thanked Heavenly Father for many things: the backyard with the swing in it; the apple tree that had pretty white blossoms now, and later would have good apples; Grandma’s dog, Lady; kittens and fish; the moon and stars; his playmates, Tom and Chris; and his new bike. Nathan was very, very happy!
At noon Mother said, “Lunchtime, happy Nathan!”
Nathan laughed. He was happy! He was hungry, too. And when he bowed his head to thank Heavenly Father for the good food, Nathan also said, “And I thank Thee for making me happy!”

Years ago, before a temple was completed in South Africa, the Saints planning to visit a temple had to travel the long and costly route to London, England, or, later, to São Paulo, Brazil. When I visited South Africa, they, with all the strength of their hearts and souls, petitioned me to importune President Kimball to seek the heavenly inspiration to erect a temple in their country. I assured them this was a matter for the Lord and His prophet. They responded, “We have faith in you, Brother Monson. Please help us.”
Upon returning to Salt Lake City, I discovered that a proposed temple for South Africa had already been approved and was to be announced immediately. When this occurred, I received a telegram from our members in South Africa. It read, “Thank you, Elder Monson. We knew you could do it!” You know, I believe I never did convince them that though I approved of the proposal, I did not bring it about.

With his confidence in himself established on a spiritual basis, Peter was ready to work toward going on a mission. After submitting his papers and undergoing a special interview with Elder Thomas S. Monson, Peter received his call to the Northern California Mission.
Up until then Peter had always worn dark glasses in an attempt to cover the slits that had been sewn closed over his eyes to compensate for his lack of eyelids. He had been so self-conscious of his appearance that he never went anywhere without his glasses. On the way to his mission interview, he took his dark glasses off and never wore them again. Surgery later corrected the problem with his eyelids.
His new attitude about himself helped him serve a successful mission. He was able to influence people and encourage them to become members of the Church.

Recently I heard the story of John Akhwari. John was a marathon runner who represented the country of Tanzania in the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico City. After running for 20 miles, Akhwari suffered a leg cramp and fell down, dislocating his knee. His coach wrapped his leg and advised him to drop out of the race. He firmly refused and took off running again. The last portion of the race was terribly difficult. Limping, it took him more than an hour to run those last six miles. When he finally entered the stadium to cross the finish line, night was beginning to fall and the spectators had begun to leave. However, when those who remained saw him arrive, they gave him a standing ovation and loudly acclaimed his arrival. After he crossed the finish line, John passed out from exhaustion. Later, journalists went to the hospital and interviewed him. They asked him, "Why didn't you listen to your coach and stop running?" His answer was, "My country did not send me 5,000 miles to start the race; they sent me 5,000 miles to finish the race."

John Akhwari didn't win a medal that day. But he earned the respect and praises of the public and of his country. He was the true hero of the race. Very few people remember the name of the gold medalist, but many can remember the story of the young runner from Tanzania.

I had pondered over these verses for years before I had an experience that helped broaden my understanding of the doctrine of Christ and what it meant to speak with the tongue of angels. In October 2016, my 6-year-old son was diagnosed with cancer. While the news was devastating, we always felt optimistic that he would receive the treatment needed to get better. We had no idea how challenging the next 3 ½ years would be for him and our family.

We spent countless hours traveling back and forth to Primary Children’s Hospital for doctors’ appointments and extended hospital stays. My wife and I spent many sleepless nights lying awake staring out the window, and—if we were lucky—we got one of the rooms where we could see the Salt Lake Temple. During those moments, being able to see the temple was a good reminder of where we could turn for comfort and support. Night after night, I poured over the scriptures, pondering them, and asking the Lord all the really difficult questions I had been nervous to ask, thinking I would come across as doubting or less faithful. For example, why were some healed and others were not? Why were some healed quickly in miraculous ways while others suffered for years before they got better? Did the prayers or priesthood blessings I offered for my son make any kind of difference in his treatment?

Toward the end of his treatment, we ended up in the hospital one last time. During this stay, I was very frustrated over what I felt was a mismanagement of his treatment plan that had now caused him an unnecessary prolonged stay in the hospital. To make matters worse, we were only a few days away from celebrating his 10th birthday.

During this stay, there was no view of the temple and night after night, I lay awake staring at the top of a dreary parking garage. Because of my feelings of frustration, I did not feel like praying or reading the scriptures and there was nothing on the top of that parking garage that reminded me of where to turn for help in my time of need. The night before his birthday, I finally gave in and poured my heart out to the Lord. I prayed alone several times and with my son several times. We asked the Lord to help heal my son so the doctors would feel comfortable sending him home tomorrow for his birthday.

Morning came, doctors were making their rounds, and I felt certain they would send us home. Surely if anyone deserved to go home and celebrate their birthday, it was my son. You can probably guess what happened. The doctors said they wanted to keep him one additional night for observation. My son burst into tears and pulled the blankets over his head, and I—not knowing how to console him—decided I would be better off having my parents sit with him while I took a shower and got some rest.

The previous feelings of frustration, anger, and entitlement were gone; instead, I felt humbled as I perceived that this was the Lord’s will. This change in attitude set the stage for me to witness the outpouring of revelation in my son’s life. As I was resting, I had a few distinct thoughts come to mind. If your son is getting better, why does it matter if he goes home today or tomorrow? Be patient and let me show you the bigger picture. As I went back to my son’s room, I saw revelation in action as doctors, nurses, and hospital administrators were bringing in gifts and singing happy birthday. They were all overjoyed as they provided that special experience for my son. This was a life-altering event I will never forget. In that moment, I had another clear impression come into my mind. How could a doctor or nurse use their spiritual gift of healing if no one needed to be healed? How could a hospital administrator, whose spiritual gift is providing comfort, use their gift if they couldn’t plan a surprise birthday party for someone in need?

Later that night when I came back from getting dinner, my son was sitting on the couch with a nurse talking about Nintendo Switch games like they were new best friends. My son looked up at me as I entered the room and said, “Can you believe we have the same birthday? I’m going to try and make tonight really fun for her.” The nurse later shared that she had originally been disappointed about working that night because it was going to be the first time she would celebrate her birthday with her new husband. She was devastated when she got the call to come in because other nurses had called in sick. I truly believe it was no coincidence that a nurse from a different department would randomly be assigned to care for my son that night as they comforted each other on one another’s birthdays. This is the doctrine of Christ in action.

Over the course of several days and many years later, I have come to realize through line upon line, precept upon precept experiences that when we use our spiritual gifts to bless the lives of others, we are receiving revelation from the Holy Ghost to act. This is the doctrine of Christ that helps the Lord accomplish His work, which is the salvation of all His children.

A young missionary in Italy recounted that one morning a poor, crippled boy in ragged clothes and badly worn shoes came to a busy street corner and went from person to person, begging for a few lira [coins] without success. A man observing the boy from a distance finally went over and picked up this little lad, held him tightly and loved him, and then cared for him.
The missionary’s heart was touched, and he was helped to understand the power of love.

Where I live, we have no cinemas, no bowling alleys. The only thing a lot of teenagers think there is to do around here, it seems, is party and drink alcohol. Peer pressure can also be overwhelming. What makes it worse is that there are only a few active members of the Church at my school.
One afternoon at work I talked with a male friend of mine. The conversation eventually turned to drinking. “I don’t drink, ever. Not a drop,” I said. He gave me a strange look, and then, in a low voice, said, “I wish I could do that. I could never stick with decisions like that.” He started picking on me for my standards, but I knew that deep down he fully respected me.
A few months later, the same friend had a birthday party, and I went, not knowing what would be going on there. My friend walked around with a $50 note in his hands, which I jokingly snatched from his hand, thanking him. He sat down next to me. “Okay,” he said. “You can keep the money, but only if you sip some alcohol.” I politely refused and gave him the money. He was shocked that somebody would pass up a $50 note. Then, he told me how strong and brave I was. The person sitting on the other side of him said good things about me. It was cool—one of the best feelings I have ever had.
I learned that people respect our standards and expect us to stay true to them. If we’re not true to our standards, we don’t earn respect from them or ourselves. People notice everything we do.

President Thomas S. Monson shared the experience of Jay Hess, an airman who was shot down over North Vietnam in the 1960s: “For two years his family had no idea whether he was dead or alive. His captors in Hanoi eventually allowed him to write home but limited his message to less than 25 words.” President Monson asks: “What would you and I say to our families if we were in the same situation—not having seen them for over two years and not knowing if we would ever see them again? Wanting to provide something his family could recognize as having come from him and also wanting to give them valuable counsel, Brother Hess wrote [the following words]: ‘These things are important: temple marriage, mission, college. Press on, set goals, write history, take pictures twice a year.’”

By the time the motor coach passed Big Ben, Jamison knew what he was going to do. “Peter,” he whispered to his friend, “I’m not staying with the class. I want to explore the Tower of London alone.”
“Are you daft? Miss Wellington will really be upset.”
Before Jamison could reply, the teacher announced: “Get your lunches, and when we get off the coach, we’ll queue up (form a line) by the ticket booth.”
Later Jamison clutched his lunch bag nervously as he waited his turn to be searched by the Tower guard.
“Scotch eggs and biscuits (cookies) today, is it?” joked the guard as he quickly glanced into each sack. “You don’t have a bomb in there, do you?”
“N-No, sir,” stammered Jamison. Everyone was checked before entering the Tower because a bomb had recently been planted there.
Miss Wellington led the class down the stone causeway into the Tower of London. Jamison marched beside Peter.
“I’ve got to drop back, or someone will tell on me when I slip away,” said Jamison.
“I’m going with you,” replied Peter.
“You might get in trouble.”
“When Miss Wellington asks for partners to hold up arms and I don’t have a partner, she’ll know you’re gone. If both of us leave, nobody will miss us.” Peter looked to see if anyone was listening. “How do you plan to get away?”
“Simple—when we stop at the scaffold site on the Tower Green, we’ll slip away.”
Jamison had been on field trips to the Tower before and knew that at each important site a guide was stationed to explain its history.
When they reached the place where many famous people had been beheaded, a large crowd stood listening to the guide. Different school groups could be recognized by their uniforms. Miss Wellington stopped her class on the edge of the crowd.
Jamison jerked at his friend’s sleeve. Carefully the two boys inched from one group of tourists to the next. “Where are we going?” asked Peter as he dashed after his friend.
“To the White Tower. I want to see the armor. We never stop long enough there for me to really examine everything.”
The boys entered the White Tower and climbed the narrow, winding stone steps to the Chapel of St. John. Behind the Chapel they reached the room where swords from the early Middle Ages were displayed on the walls and in cabinets.
“Oh, look at this sword!” cried Peter, pointing to a long-bladed weapon with a jeweled handle.
“Now isn’t this better than trailing along with the class and looking at all those crown jewels and silver goblets?” asked Jamison with a grin.
The boys walked from display to display, exclaiming in whispers. Finally Jamison said, “I’m hungry. Let’s go up to the top floor and eat our lunch.”
“They won’t let us eat up there,” said Peter.
“I’ll show you a place where we can eat and they won’t see us.” Jamison wiggled his way through the people standing beside a counter of Middle Ages armor and headed for some stairs. He motioned for Peter to follow.
The top floor opened into a large hall where suits of armor stood like silent guards. A few tourists were moving slowly from display to display.
Jamison marched with confidence past a horse carrying a rider. Both man and beast were completely outfitted in mail and armor, ready for battle.
One cabinet housed fourteenth-century breastplates and gauntlets. Others displayed shields of various sizes and with different designs.
Quickly Jamison glanced around the room. Satisfied that no one had noticed them, he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled behind a display of crossbows. Peter followed.
It was dark in the corner, but the boys were completely secluded from view. When Jamison was satisfied that they were safe in their hiding place, he sat on the floor and crossed his legs. “Let’s eat. But don’t drop any crumbs,” he warned. He pulled his scotch egg from the sack and took a bite. (A scotch egg is made by taking a hard-cooked egg, rolling it in sausage, and frying it in deep fat.) Each boy ate his egg with delight.
“What kind of biscuits do you have?” asked Peter. “I’ve a chocolate chip and two shortbread. Have you anything to swap?”
“I’ve two oatmeal and a ginger with white icing. I wish the school had packed those marshmallow biscuits with chocolate on top,” whispered Jamison.
When the boys finished eating, they carefully folded their paper sacks and stuffed them into their pockets. Jamison peeked out of their hiding place to see if all was clear.
Everyone had gone while they ate. “We have the place to ourselves. Isn’t it great?” whooped Jamison as he dashed around the room.
“Jamison, don’t you think it’s a bit odd that nobody’s up here besides us?”
“Someone will be along in a minute.” Jamison walked over to a display and lifted a knight’s faceplate. “Hello in there,” he called.
Soon Jamison also began to feel uneasy. No one had entered the room, and he knew they had been alone for at least fifteen minutes. “Maybe we’d better go find the class,” he said. “I’ve seen enough, haven’t you, Peter?”
As they dashed down the narrow stone steps, their footsteps echoed against the walls. Jamison grew more nervous. No one had come up as they descended. At the foot of the stairs Jamison reached for the heavy iron latch on the door and tugged. Nothing happened.
“Peter, the door is locked! We’re trapped in here.”
“What? Let me try. We can’t be. Miss Wellington will have the headmaster punish us if we aren’t back when the class boards the coach.” Peter yanked at the door, but it didn’t budge.
“Let’s go to a window and call for help,” said Jamison. “Someone will hear us.”
They hurried into the nearest room.
“There’s a window!” shouted Jamison. He ran to it and looked out. “Peter!” he gasped. “They’ve roped off this area. Look!”
“What does it mean?”
“The guards must have received a bomb threat or something. They’ve closed this building and evacuated the area,” replied Jamison, unable to keep the tremble from his voice.
“What if the building blows up?” Peter asked, swallowing hard. “We could get hurt or maybe even die.”
“If we’d stayed with the class, we wouldn’t be here now. I know I’m supposed to follow rules. Mum and Dad taught me that. And now you’re trapped too! I’m sorry, Peter. It’s all my fault!”
“It’s my fault, too—I chose to come with you. I thought it would be a lark … We could have come back another time. Our parents would have brought us.”
Just then a police siren wailed and an armored demolition lorry (truck) wheeled around the corner. The tower guards rushed over to the bobbies (policemen) jumping from the lorry and began explaining the situation.
Jamison stuck his head out the window and waved his arms. “Hello! We’re up here! We’re locked in!”
The guards and the bobbies looked relieved to see the boys. One shouted, “We’ll have you down in a few minutes!”
Jamison and Peter were at the door when they heard the key turn.
“You’d better dash over to your coach,” one bobby growled. “Your teacher’s been giving the guards fits because they’ve had other people to look out for—some blind students and a group of foreign tourists—before they could make an all-out search for you. I’m glad you’re found, though. Go along now—leg it!”
Jamison and Peter did not stop running until they reached the motor coach. “When we get back to the school, we’ll decide what to do about your leaving the group,” Miss Wellington told them. She sounded more scared than angry. But the two boys were quick to sit where she pointed. “Take those seats where I can keep an eye on you. I don’t want you straying again!”
Jamison looked at Peter. “She doesn’t have to worry about us ever straying again, does she?”

In Belfast, in quieter times, I had two roommates—girls of another faith whom I had met through a mutual friend. None of us had any extra money. Carol and Anne were both midwifery students, and I was saving for a postgraduate nursing course.
Our apartment was dismal, faded, and hard to bear, but we could find no other place within our means.
Nevertheless, Carol and Anne decided to call the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and offer to give a Christmas party for 12 needy children. Of course, I agreed to help with the work and the financing as did Carol’s sister Marian.
I had seen some of the miseries of the slums. The most appalling thing I remembered was a little girl in a torn summer dress sitting on the cold, windy sidewalk molding a lump of filthy clay because she had no other toy. I could not now find and help that child, but I could try to help some others.
Our Christmas tree was two feet high, decorated with nine small glass balls, one package of tinfoil icicles, and a star we had made from the foil inside a cracker box. The room was decorated with a few streamers and a dozen balloons. The food was simple—fried potatoes and sausages, grilled tomatoes, cookies, and orangeade. Fancy food is almost unknown to ghetto children, and we were afraid they would not eat anything unfamiliar. Besides, we couldn’t afford it. The 12 gifts were small and inexpensive: a string of plastic beads, a doll’s feeding set, a young child’s picture book, small toys and games. And, remembering the girl on the sidewalk, I bought a package of clay.
The children arrived semiclean and in their best rags. Eleven, twelve, thirteen! One of the girls had come with her toddler sister, who had refused to stay at home. That presented a problem.
Most of the children stood in a group at the door, but one determined boy about eight years old examined all the gifts through the paper.
“If you don’t mind, Missus,” he declared, “I’ll have this game of blow football for me and me mates.”
Carol smiled but was firm.
“We’re giving out the presents at the end of the party. Right now we’re going to play some games.”
We played their games; they played our games. We told stories; they related past experiences. We sang songs and grew decidedly tired of the children’s favorite, “Jingle Bells.”
“Last year,” announced the oldest girl, trying hard to be sophisticated in an ill-fitting sheath and high heels much too large, “I was to a party in the Linen Makers’ Hall. Hundreds of us there was, and a tree 30 feet high.”
“Was it grand, but?” asked a slightly envious voice.
“It wasn’t, for no one had time to talk with us like these good ladies are doing.”
We served the simple food, which first brought forth cries of delight and then the silence of serious eating.
“Ye’ve left food on your plate,” objected our blow football elf to his neighbor.
“I can’t eat it, but,” she replied, “for I’ve never had this much food on me plate at once.”
“Give it here, then, for ’tis a shame to waste good food.”
He ate several children’s leavings and then conceded defeat. He could not prevent a few scraps from going to waste.
We gave him the blow football game. We gave the 12-year-old, would-be sophisticate the plastic beads.
We gave the doll’s feeding set to a seven-year-old Raggedy Ann.
“It’s no use to me, Missus. I ain’t got a doll.”
So the Relief Society lost another plastic doll. This time it was wrapped in writing paper, and we pretended it had fallen behind the tree.
“Tis the best party I was ever at,” someone announced with satisfaction. “I felt right to home.”
“Indeed it was grand, Missus,” seconded another voice. “For whenever we’uns wanted something, one of you ladies was near.”

I’m an average 16-year-old high school junior. I’m on the pom squad, I work in the mall, and I am on the Bishopric Youth Committee. I keep the Word of Wisdom, attend church regularly, and have a strong testimony. But there are some things I’ve never put a whole lot of emphasis on—like not swearing. I was always careful never to use the Lord’s name in vain, and I didn’t by any means swear as a regular course of conversation. But if I occasionally said a “bad” word, I never really stressed over it.
That was until this past summer when I became close friends with someone who was very careful never to swear. By just spending so much time with her I got in the habit of not swearing, which presented an interesting problem when school started again. My drama teacher gave a friend and me dialogue to learn for a forensics competition, dialogue that contained some profanity. So whenever my friend and I ran through it together, I modified my lines to avoid having to swear.
A few weeks later, we had to perform this dialogue in a school assembly. When we did, I modified my lines as I always had, and my friend delivered hers as they were printed. I didn’t think twice about it until I was talking to another nonmember friend later that day who told me something very interesting. After about the third word I had obviously changed, this person commented about how my church must mean a lot to me if I was going to go out of my way not to use profanity.
When she told me that, I was taken by surprise. I know everyone knows I’m LDS, and I know they watch to see how I live my life. But I didn’t think something like altering a few lines to eliminate bad language could have so much importance. My friend said what I had done really made an impression.
It also taught me that everything counts. Each commandment has a purpose and is important. I’d hate to think that someone’s connection or indirect introduction to the gospel of Jesus Christ was a negative one because of something I did. I now know more than ever that leading by example is a great way to share the precious truths I’ve been given.

I had an experience when I was 13 that I will never forget. I was hanging out with some friends in my room when one friend asked me about my brothers. So I took them over to my 17-year-old brother Matt’s room, right next to mine. He was not home at the time.
Matt was so cool. I showed them all of his things: his cool shoe collection, the things he had made by hand, and all of the pictures on his mirror of his high school friends. My friends were impressed.
Then, something horrible happened. I heard a crunching sound under my foot, so I lifted it up and saw a small pouch. Immediately, my heart sank. Right away I knew that inside this pouch was one of my brother’s most prized possessions, an expensive pair of sunglasses.
I panicked. I put the pouch under a pair of jeans on the floor, and we quickly left the room. The rest of the day was a nightmare. I tried to forget about it, but I knew he would find out. All I could do was wait.
The next morning I stayed in bed, still haunted with anxiety. I knew I could not outwit fate. Then it happened. He had found the broken sunglasses, and he was furious. I could hear him downstairs in the family room talking to my other brothers, demanding that the perpetrator confess his crime.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I knew he wouldn’t stop until someone confessed. So I grabbed all the money I had earned from my newspaper route and slowly walked down the stairs. This was one of the longest walks I have ever taken.
Finally, I came up to my brother. Matt slowly turned to me, and I handed him the wad of cash. “I did it,” I said. No one said a word. I just turned around, walked up the stairs, and got back in bed.
I felt awful for what I had done. I did not know what my brother was going to do. I felt helpless. I didn’t expect Matt to forgive me, but I hoped he would. Then, I heard his voice say my name.
“David, I know you didn’t mean it,” Matt said. He placed the money I gave him on my nightstand. “You earned this money, and I can’t accept it.”
Filled with emotion, I said, “I’m sorry, Matt!” He replied with the most sincere words I have ever heard: “I forgive you.”
We both wept. This was the first time in my young life that I understood how it felt to be truly forgiven. It may be the most powerful human experience one can have, and I praise those who have the courage to give forgiveness.

Following a church meeting, I was approached by a father whose only son had gone from being a promising, obedient youth to engaging in rebellion and sin in young manhood through the influence of friends.
Tenderly, the father recalled the son’s youth; the boy had been quiet, happy, and a hard worker on the family farm. It had always been the boy’s intention to honor the priesthood, including serving a mission. He had faithfully saved his money toward that goal. But the money was all gone now, along with his good intentions—washed away by a flood of drugs, alcohol, and immorality.
The faithful mother and father had tried every possible way to help their wayward son—loving, teaching, cajoling, praying, soliciting the help of priesthood leaders. But the son defiantly refused to listen or obey. “It’s my life!” he stormed at them. “I’ll do what I want. I’m the only one who gets hurt.” His response seemed like the foolish attitude of some of the children of Adam and Eve, our first parents, who carefully taught their children gospel truths, “[making] all things known unto their sons and their daughters.
“And Satan came among them, saying: I am also a son of God; and he commanded them, saying: Believe it not; and they believed it not, and they loved Satan more than God” (Moses 5:12–13).
The distraught, desperate father who had sought me out told of climbing a wooded hill and kneeling to pour out a grieving heart to Heavenly Father, asking why his son could not see the damage he was doing to himself and others. “Can’t he see his mother’s anguish or understand our pain?” he had asked. “Please, Heavenly Father, help our precious son in his moment of critical need.”
“What can we do?” this father asked me, tears sliding down his cheeks. “Has he gone too far to come back? Is there hope for him?”
The words of an angel directed to another rebellious son, Alma the Younger, came to my mind: “Behold, the Lord hath heard the prayers … of his servant, Alma, who is thy father; for he has prayed with much faith concerning thee that thou mightest be brought to the knowledge of the truth” (Mosiah 27:14). I assured the grieving father before me that his prayers had surely been heard, too, and that after he had done all he could do, there were some things that he must leave in the hands of a loving Heavenly Father. I told him that to the faithful all things are indeed possible and that he must continue in hope, never giving up.
After hearing of this young man’s transformation, the father who had sought me out in anguish went away with renewed hope that one day his son would be touched by the Spirit to repent and return to the peace, happiness, and security found only in the gospel of Jesus Christ. Gratefully, the man expressed abiding faith in a loving, merciful Heavenly Father with whom all things are possible.

Mike is now 20. Last summer, he was home from his freshman year at BYU. His family, which had moved to Germantown, Tennessee, was planning a trip back to Virginia and North Carolina to visit friends.
One night the phone rang. It was Ira Spencer.
“We hear ya’ll are headed this way,” he told Mike. “Me and the boys are going to take the boat out as a family. Would you like to tag along and make a little money for your mission? Bring your dad, too, and we’ll show him what life’s like out on the water.”
And that’s how Mike and his father ended up on the War Cry, this time sailing out of Newport, Rhode Island. “The fishing’s better up north right now,” Duke explained. Dave Spencer, 18, (Ira’s son and Duke’s brother) and Duke’s nine-year-old son, Sam (nicknamed “Hambone”), rounded out the crew.
After walking along the same Newport streets that George Washington traveled, past clapboard cottages and governor’s mansions as old as the American colonies, and stopping for five grocery carts full of food, the crew made its way to the wharf, climbed over a neighboring ship’s deck, and finally set foot on the War Cry.
Mike started remembering. “First I noticed the smells—the salt water, the fish. Then I saw the hooks on all the doors, even on the refrigerator, to keep them closed when the ship rocks, then the iron rods you use to clamp pots and pans in place. Then I looked in the sleeping quarters and remembered the narrow, hard bunks that seemed like heaven when you got a chance to use them. Then Ira and my dad fired up the engines and I remembered the noise. You have to run the engines to run the generators, and you have to run the generators to operate the rest of the equipment, the radios, the fridge. After a while you get numb to it. But at first it seems like everyone’s deaf. You have to shout to be heard.”
Noise or no noise, everyone slept aboard ship that night. And they were up early the next morning, winding miles of iron cable onto the winches, inspecting and mending nets, pouring oil by the drum into oil tanks. Seventy-five dollar filters were removed and replaced. Weather reports and market prices were checked. Eighteen tons of ice, used to keep the fish fresh, were pumped into the hold.
By late afternoon, the War Cry was underway. Sam sat on the bow and waved at a lighthouse. With David and Mike he read names of other boats as the trawler passed them on its way to harvest the sea. The Captain Ralph, the Iron Horse, the Mikentodd, the Harry Glen. The Ramona, the Skylight, the Venus, and the Chief Wanchese. Soon the city was far behind, then the shore; then there was nothing but a flat horizon. The three young men were called inside for dinner, followed by stories, jokes, and laughter, followed by sleep.
The first “haulback” came in the dark of the night. A haulback means the net is full and it’s being pulled out of the water to be dumped on deck. When the captain calls, you’ve got about five minutes until the fish come in. Like zombies from some old horror movie, fathers and sons together rose from sleep, pulled on heavy boots and overalls, pulled on yellow sea bonnets, and stumbled outside into the mist.
“Sometimes the salt air revives you,” Dave said. “Sometimes all it does is give you a chill.” This time it did a little of both. Yawns were universal. But the work went on. With Ira in the wheelhouse keeping the War Cry on course, David, Mike, and Sam positioned 16-foot, two-by-ten deck boards to hold the catch in place. Duke pulled hydraulic levers to raise the dripping bundle out of the depths and position it over the deck. Brother Lee tugged a rope that opened the bottom of the net, spilling the squirming contents out into a flat, flapping pile.
Instantly the sorting began. It takes quite an eye to be able to pick out and size the different types of flounder, and the talent of a Dr. J. to consistently flip them into the right basket. For Mike and Dave, it was an old routine. Like a power forward, Dave worked with both hands, flinging fish over his shoulders without looking up, shoveling trash fish between his legs. Like a center fighting for rebounds, Mike preferred to work close to the basket, loading it with one type of fish, then pulling up another basket to start all over again. For Sam, the sorting time was an adventure. He would waddle nearly knee-deep in fish, mud, and seaweed, picking out lobsters, crabs, and scallops, isolating them in special pails of their own. He was the guard on the team, carefully selecting his shots, working from the outside, calling for help when he needed it like an open man calls for a pass.
Brother Lee was amazed at the entire operation. “I felt totally outclassed. These guys were real pros, and I felt like a rookie in his first training camp.” But like any eager player would, he made up for inexperience with hustle.
To make the analogy complete, Duke would have been a player-coach, offering advice and assistance, jumping in to do some sorting himself as necessary. And Ira would, of course, have been the team owner, reassuring others with his presence, keeping the entire operation in order. (It was his boat, after all.)
Soon another net had been hauled back and sorted. Then another, then another, then another, then another. At what point today blurred into tomorrow blurred into the next day and the next, nobody was quite sure. The sun went down; the sun came up. Meals, at first looked forward to as a break in the monotony, finally became part of the routine.
“We ate snacks instead of lunch and took cat naps instead of sleeping,” Mike said. “You know, I really loved this when I was 16, but I’d forgotten how dead-bone tired you get. My back is starting to kill me.”
Then he looked over at his father. “We don’t get to spend a lot of time together,” Mike said. “I’m sure this is difficult work for him. He’s more the type who would rather teach or be in an office. But it’s helped him understand what I went through. He’s already told me that.”
And Brother Lee, an oral pathologist and dental educator, agreed. “I’ve never worked so hard in all of my life. Even the two-a-day workouts when I played college football are pale by comparison. But if it helps me understand my son, it’s worth it. This time on the boat is something we’ll always share.”
Later that day, Mike and his father were seated on an old plank next to each other, opening scallops, tossing the shells overboard. The shells would skip as they hit the water, then sink, spinning shiny white loops as they drifted out of sight. The conversation was pleasant, intimate. They talked of school. They talked of the other Lees back home. They talked about Mike becoming an elder soon, about his going on a mission. They talked about another fisherman, from Galilee, of how he called Peter, Andrew, James, and John to leave their nets and cast for the souls of men.
All around Mike and his father were the sounds, the smells, and the ocean. In this realm of rust and motion, of motors and commotion, they had found a moment of peace.
The first fistful of ice hit Sam softly on the shoulder.
“Hey,” he shouted, but he could see Dave coming. Soon Sam had a handful of his own, and the great ice fight was on, with both uncle and nephew flinging pieces of frozen water at each other. It was a short-lived battle. Sam ended up with ice down his chest, but he got a hug from Dave in return.

When I first attended church, I often went alone, as I was the only member in my family. At times, I struggled to feel a sense of belonging, which would increase temptations for connection in the wrong places. I realized one way I could combat this was by engaging more deeply with my congregation. As the Lord teaches us in Doctrine and Covenants 58:27, we should be “anxiously engaged in a good cause, and do many things of [our] own free will.”
I started by volunteering to help clean the chapel. I began attending all the ward activities and offering to help wherever I could. Gradually, I built deeper connections with the members of my ward. One family began inviting me to their home evenings, Sunday dinners, and even just to hang out and play games. My family and I have become great friends with them, and it’s been a beautiful experience for all of us.
By immersing myself in my ward, I’ve found opportunities to connect with others who share the same values and standards, including the law of chastity. My ward family has been a great source of support in helping me to stay faithful and strong.

There are two main experiences that led to my testimony of Christ. The first happened the day my big brother died. He passed away on a Scout outing in eastern Arizona. I was 14 years old. When my parents and I found out, we were heartbroken.
At first, it was hard to imagine that I would be living the rest of my life without my big brother. But I was wrong. From the moment I heard of his death, I felt peace. I was at peace because Christ was there to mourn with me when I mourned and comfort me when I needed comfort. Never for one minute did I feel alone.
More than a year later, I participated in the Mesa Temple Easter Pageant. It depicts Christ’s life on the earth and plays six nights during the week of Easter. The best part was that it took place on the temple grounds. I was just one of the crowd in a cast of 300. For several weeks, I was able to spend hours near a house of the Lord.
As I watched Christ’s life portrayed to thousands of people, I was able to witness a representation of His birth. I was feet away when He was shown healing the sick and raising the dead. I watched when He was portrayed suffering and atoning for the sins of the world, and I was there when He was depicted dying on the cross for all. I was there and saw the portrayal of Him rising from the dead three days later, and I saw the representation of Him ascending to His Father.
The feelings I had at that time are indescribable. It seemed so real to me. I was able to testify of Christ’s message many times to those who had never heard it—that He lives!
I know that Jesus Christ is our Savior and Redeemer. He is the King of Kings and the Lord of Lords. He is the way, the truth, and the life. Because of Him I can be with my brother again. Because of Him, I can be with Heavenly Father. This message is what will save the world in the last days. If we have faith in Him, we can receive blessings beyond measure. If we follow Him, we can become like Him.

In the summer before my junior year I got news of an LDS 11th-grader moving into our area. I was ecstatic. She was an answer to prayer. It’s amazing how much we have in common and how well we get along. Together with another senior, we made up the three LDS girls at my high school. With three boys, that made six Latter-day Saints among 950 students. While the school year was stressful for all of us, we were always there to support each other. We stuck together through bad times and great times.
We went together one night to the Washington D.C. Temple Visitors’ Center. That night Katie, Paige, and I took a long walk around the temple. There was such a feeling of peace and love. There, the three of us made a pact with one another to work towards temple marriages and to settle for nothing less. We see the eternal perspective on choosing the right day-by-day. We are striving to gain the highest reward: eternal life. The Lord provided a way for three girls to choose the right, and I have never felt so good inside.