Gospel Story Finder

Years ago, when I played soccer for BYU, I learned a lesson that changed how I prioritized my “double heritage” and my desire to be both a good student-athlete and a good disciple. We were playing at Notre Dame—a big game I had circled months before on the schedule. I was determined and driven to play my best. But that night nothing went right. It was quickly turning out to be the worst game of my life. I felt out of sorts, as if I were playing with two left feet. By halftime, the coach pulled me aside and told me to get it together or I’d find myself on the bench.

It didn’t get better. No more than 10 minutes had passed in the second half when I heard my name called from the sideline: “Cuv!” A substitute was coming in for me. My night was over. Frustrated, I exited the field, muttered a few words of contempt, and kicked a chair because I knew kicking the coach would’ve only satisfied me for a moment.

The coach pulled me aside and said, “Cuv, settle down. There’s another reason I took you out.”

He directed me behind the bench, where my teammate Hugh Smith was lying flat on his back—pale as a ghost, struggling to breathe, and covered in hives. The coach told me that Hugh was about to be taken to the emergency room and asked me to give Hugh a priesthood blessing.

In that moment, being a soccer player became inconsequential. The game didn’t matter. My performance on the field didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that I held the priesthood of God and could act in His name. And under a tent covering a bench during a game in Notre Dame’s soccer stadium, I knelt next to Hugh, laid my hands on his head, and gave him a priesthood blessing.

As I’ve reflected on that experience and others, I’ve learned that what once seemed urgent becomes secondary, and what once seemed small becomes sacred. When we align our desires with the Savior, our perspective changes.

I love going to the library to check out books. I especially like to check out books about my favorite superheroes. One time I brought a book home that I was really excited to read, but when I opened it, one of the drawings was a girl who wasn’t dressed very modestly. I brought the book to my mom, and she asked what I thought we should do about it. I said I thought we should take it back to the library and not look at it. I felt happy inside after I made the right choice.
Caleb O., age 4, Utah, USA

Todd parted the barbed wire carefully and climbed through the fence. Then he held it up for his dog King. The collie leaped through carefully and bounded into the field. The April sun glinted on the dog’s golden coat, thick and deep from the cold winter.
“Come here, King!” Todd called. He put his hand on King’s sun-warmed head. King was Todd’s best friend—his only nearby friend, except for Mr. Phillips. There were no boys Todd’s age in the small mountain town where he lived, and he had to ride the school bus 16 kilometers to attend school.
Todd climbed through another fence into Mr. Phillips’ sheep enclosure. He could hear the old man moving around in the lambing shed. “Hi!” he called as he walked into the dimness of the shed. Then he saw Mr. Phillips watching an ewe lick her newborn lamb. Todd watched the lamb, smiling. He wanted to pick it up, to feel its woolly little body.
“You can hold it later,” the rancher said, picking up two shovels. “We have a less pleasant job to do now. Come with me.”
Todd followed his friend into the bright sunlight where King waited patiently by the door. He spent most of his Saturdays with Mr. Phillips, helping him with the sheep. Todd liked being there, for Mr. Phillips was like a grandfather to him.
“What are we going to do?” Todd asked, running a little to catch up.
“Well, Todd, I’d just as soon you didn’t see this, but I guess it’s part of our job.”
As they approached the corner of the fields, several black and white magpies flapped noisily into the air. Todd saw two dead sheep on the ground. “What happened?” His stomach tightened as he looked at the sheep’s torn bodies.
Mr. Phillips started to dig in the moist ground, piling the muddy shovelfuls onto the grass. “Dogs killed them,” he said, not looking up.
Todd couldn’t understand how this could happen. “When do the dogs come? Have you seen them?”
“I’ve seen four or five dogs running together ever since work started on the new dam and the men moved their trailers in up there. Everybody has a fierce watchdog because they keep so much equipment outside their trailers.
“I’ve lost ten or twelve sheep this way,” said Mr. Phillips.
The boy felt a terrible anger and frustration inside him. “Can’t you go to the owners and tell them?”
“I’ve tried that. But each one claims his dog is tied at night or for some other reason could not be the killer. And since I do not actually see who does the killing, I do not really know who is responsible.”
“Why don’t you get your gun and sit out here all night and watch. If you see a dog coming in here, just shoot it.”
“I’ve thought of something like that, and I’m within my legal right to shoot if a strange dog is on my property.”
Todd helped Mr. Phillips drag the sheep into the hole and cover them. Then they walked silently across the field to the sheds, King following sedately behind them.
Sunday morning Todd dressed quickly and quietly, wanting to see Mr. Phillips before Sunday School started and find out if anything had happened during the night.
Todd closed the back screen door quietly behind him and gave a low whistle for King. He was surprised when the animal didn’t bound out of his doghouse, but without waiting he walked quickly through the fields to Mr. Phillips’ sheds. As he crawled through the last fence, he saw Mr. Phillips leaning over something on the ground. He’s shot a dog, Todd thought. He ran forward quickly, but before he reached Mr. Phillips he stopped, fear and grief gripping his body. He walked forward slowly, his eyes fixed on the golden coat of the dog, now soggy with rain. Mr. Phillips looked up. He came toward Todd and put his hands on his shoulders.
“Todd,” he said, “it’s King. I’m so sorry.” Todd looked into Mr. Phillips’ face and saw tears mixed with raindrops, running into the deep wrinkles of his face. His dark eyes were full of suffering.
Todd felt numb. “How did it happen?” he asked.
“The night was so dark with the clouds and all—I’d fallen asleep waiting. When I woke up, I saw the dark form of a dog moving across the pastures, so I shot. I didn’t even look at the body until this morning. When I saw it was King I couldn’t believe it. He was probably going to the house to see if we’d put out any food scraps for him.” Mr. Phillips moved to put his arms around the boy.
Todd stiffened and pulled away. “How could you shoot King? You know him. You see him every day.” His voice rose with anger.
Mr. Phillips went for a cart as Todd struggled to lift the large wet dog. It was impossible. Together they lifted the dog into the cart and the old man pulled it down the road toward Todd’s house. The boy walked a short distance behind, grieving in silence.
Mr. Phillips wanted to dig the hole, but Todd dug it himself in the soft earth and lowered the dog into the hole, as Mr. Phillips stood silently watching him.
On Monday night Mr. Phillips came to the door with a little lamb for Todd. Todd wouldn’t see him. He told his mother to tell Mr. Phillips he didn’t want the lamb. All week Todd stayed in his room after school, mostly just lying on his bed. After dinner and when he had finished his chores he went back to his room. On Friday night, Todd’s father followed him into his room. He sat down on the side of the bed, not saying anything.
Finally Todd spoke. “Dad, do you honestly believe in dog heaven, or is it just a story to make little kids feel better?”
“I don’t know about dog heaven, but I do believe firmly that all life is eternal, because everything was created spiritually before it was created physically.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s hard to understand, but to you it means that King still lives.”
“Will I see him again after I die?”
“I do not know that for sure, but it may be possible.” Todd’s father looked at him closely and said, “One thing bothers me, you had two great friends in this rather lonely place. You lost one by accident, something that could not be helped. I do not know why you chose to lose the second one. Have you thought any about how Mr. Phillips has been feeling this week?”
Todd had tried not to think of it. But he kept seeing Mr. Phillips’ face with tears and rain running down it. His conscience had also reminded him that shooting the prowling dogs was his idea. “Well, I do not want that little lamb. How could he think a lamb would ever replace King?”
“I am sure he does not think that, but he needs to do something to show how sorry he is. You are hurting him far more than he hurt you, because you are doing it intentionally.”
Todd had not thought of it quite like that. He still did not look at his father, who suddenly leaned over and kissed his cheek.
Saturday morning, Todd woke up early, the same knot of pain forming in his stomach as it did every morning since King died. Sunshine streamed in the window. Todd dressed, went out quietly, and walked through the fields, the morning dew drenching his sneakers. As the sun warmed his face, Todd slowly began to feel a little more alive again. His heart still ached for King, but he felt some comfort, a feeling of his heart softening just as he had prayed it would.
He saw Mr. Phillips in the shed gathering his shearing tools. “I guess I need that lamb if I’m ever going to have my own flock,” Todd called from the doorway. Mr. Phillips turned and came through the door into the sunlight, his eyes warm and shining.
“I’m sure glad to see you, Todd,” he said. “I’m going to need help with this shearing.”
And together they went into the shed.

A recent magazine article contains the story of a 12-year-old girl who got hooked on the Internet. In a chat room she met an admirer. One thing led to another until the discussion became sexually explicit. As she conversed with him, she thought he was a boy of about her own age.

When she met him, she found “a tall, overweight gray-haired man.” He was a vicious predator, a scheming pedophile. Her mother, with the help of the FBI, saved her from what might have been a tragedy of the worst kind (see Stephanie Mansfield, “The Avengers Online,” Reader’s Digest, Jan. 2000, 100–104).

Many years ago when I was practicing law, I was consulted by a woman who wanted a divorce from her husband on grounds that, in my opinion, seemed justified. After the divorce was concluded, I did not see her again for many years. In a chance meeting with her on the street, I noticed that the years of loneliness and discouragement were evident in her once-beautiful face.
After we passed a few pleasantries, she was quick to say that life had not been rich and rewarding for her and that she was tired of facing the struggle alone. Then she startled me by disclosing, “Bad as it was, if I had to do it over again and had known then what I do now, I would not have sought the divorce. This is worse.”

2 Joseph F. never forgot one happy occasion when he sat on the knee of the Prophet Joseph Smith, brother of Hyrum. Joseph F. was only five years old and was playing on the bank of the Mississippi River when his father and his Uncle Joseph crossed the river on their way home to prepare to go to Carthage.
3 When they landed, little Joseph F. took his father’s hand, and they went with the Prophet to Hyrum’s house. There, while Hyrum was shaving, the Prophet took Joseph F. on his knee and said to his brother, “Hyrum, what’s the matter with Joseph; he seems so white?”
“Oh,” answered Hyrum, joking about the poverty of the family, “he lives on skim milk.”
4 Joseph F. always remembered the anguish he felt the last time he saw his father. He wrote, “Without getting off his horse, Father leaned over in his saddle and picked me up off the ground. He kissed me good-bye and put me down again, and I saw him ride away.” Several days passed before five-year-old Joseph F. and his mother, Mary Fielding Smith, had any news of Hyrum.
5 Then the tragic night came. Joseph F. later wrote, “I remember the night of the murder … when one of the brethren came from Carthage and knocked on Mother’s window after dark and, with a trembling voice, called to my mother, ‘Sister Smith, your husband has been killed.’”
6 Joseph F. always remembered the fear he felt that night as he lay in his bed listening to his mother crying.
7 Soon after Hyrum’s death, the family began making preparations to go west. With his father gone, Joseph F. assumed responsibility for helping his mother all he could. Not yet ten years of age, Joseph F. drove the oxen the entire distance from Winter Quarters to the Salt Lake Valley—over a thousand miles—in the summer of 1848.
8 This journey proved to be an extra hardship because the captain of their group was against Mary Fielding Smith and her family going on the arduous journey without a father to take care of their needs. He told Mary that she and her children would be a burden to the rest of the company. But Mary told the captain that she would ask no special favors, would make the trip without his help, and would even beat him to the valley! She kept her word, with much help from her young son, Joseph F., the future prophet.

After a 61-hour bus ride, our youth group arrived at the Manila Philippines Temple. In celebration of the temple’s 20th anniversary, the Davao stake youth had spent nine months preparing for the trip, attending family history classes, being actively involved in Church activities, researching and preparing family names, and helping to raise funds for the trip. There was excitement in the air as the 63 of us got off the bus that Monday night. At the temple patron housing, we held a very large family home evening, with musical performances and spiritual messages, and then tried to sleep.
During the next two days the youth were baptized and confirmed for over 2,000 of their ancestors, giving those ancestors the chance to accept the restored gospel. We didn’t feel hungry or tired as we worked hour after hour in the temple. The Spirit was very strong. Some youth had glowing countenances; others had tears of joy on their cheeks.
All too soon it was time to go home. A few minutes into our journey, the peaceful quiet of the bus was interrupted by police sirens. Outside, we were surrounded by patrol cars, which forced us to a stop. Then we could see police snipers around us, aiming forward. In those tense moments, we learned that the passengers of a bus a few feet in front of us were being held hostage, and the police were using our bus as a shield!
We leaders did our best to keep everyone calm, but some began to panic. In the confusion the police ordered us all to drop to the floor. After several terrifying minutes, we heard a man yelling for us to evacuate the bus. Following orders, we hurriedly got off the bus and went to a nearby vacant building.
For over an hour, we sat in the dark building, praying and listening for gunfire. Then finally we were told we could go back to our bus. The shootout had ended; two hostages and two hijackers had been killed.
We were badly shaken as we resumed our journey. As the shock lessened, however, we realized we had been protected. Not one of us had been injured, and we knew the hand of the Lord had been over us. We felt a divine presence and wondered if perhaps some of those for whom we had been baptized were close by.
I thought of the scripture that says, “I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say” (D&C 82:10), and I was glad the Lord keeps His promises. As we keep the commandments and continue faithfully in our duties, including temple and family history work, we will be worthy of the Lord’s blessings—including His protection when we need it most.

When Mom went to girls camp, and Dad had to be out of town for a few days, I jumped at the chance to stay with Grandma and Grandpa. They’re real special.
The first morning there, I got up early and galloped downstairs. Grandpa was already in the kitchen, setting boxes of cold cereal on the table.
“Mmmm, my favorite!” I said, picking up a box of the kind I liked.
“My favorite is hot oatmeal,” Grandpa said. “But we don’t have it often, now that Grandma’s volunteer work at the hospital is in the mornings.”
Grandpa was getting milk from the refrigerator when Grandma came downstairs. “I was just telling Joey how good your oatmeal is,” Grandpa said.
“Anybody can make oatmeal—even Joey,” Grandma said.
“I don’t like hot oatmeal!” I said real quick, hoping they weren’t going to ask me to make it.
“Oh, come on—let’s try it,” Grandpa said.
Grandma had to go back upstairs for something, so I got a pan for Grandpa. He put a little water in it, then dumped in a lot of oatmeal.
“Shouldn’t you measure it?” I asked.
“Grandma never measures,” he answered.
I stirred while Grandpa watched. He hummed a tune, real happy-like.
The bubbling oatmeal got thicker and lumpier. “Are you sure you didn’t put too much oatmeal in?” I asked Grandpa.
“You set the table, Joey,” he said. “I’ll see to the oatmeal. Boy, are you going to love this!”
I didn’t think I would like it, much less love it, but I put bowls and spoons on the table and sat down to wait.
“How’s that?” Grandpa asked, spooning thick globs of oatmeal from the pan into my bowl, then filling his.
I looked at the thick stuff in my bowl. I stirred and stirred, trying to get the lumps out. No luck. I reached for the milk.
When I started to put the milk back, my sleeve caught on my bowl. Kerplunk! The bowl hit the floor and wobbled across Grandma’s freshly waxed floor, spattering oatmeal as it rolled.
Grandma came back downstairs just then. “Oh, no!” She chased the bowl, trying to catch it before it hit the wall and broke. She stepped into a patch of slippery oatmeal and sat down smack-dab in the mess.
I got to her before Grandpa did. When I tried to help her up, my foot slipped into a slick patch and I went down too.
“I didn’t mean to do it!” I yammered over and over. I was worried that Grandma might be hurt.
Then I saw Grandma’s face. Her glasses were hanging from one ear. She was laughing so hard that tears ran down her face and she couldn’t talk.
Grandpa rushed to help. His feet hit a glob of oatmeal, and he came sailing across the floor.
We sat in the middle of the oatmeal and laughed so hard that we were too weak to get up. Finally we got ourselves together enough to clean up the kitchen. Then we ate cold cereal.
The next morning, Grandma made oatmeal. It was smooth and warm. I can’t say that I was crazy about it, but with a little cinnamon and brown sugar on it, it wasn’t bad. By the time Mom and Dad came home, I had learned to like it. And I had learned how to make it—without lumps!
Sometimes I make it at home. It’s funny how the taste for good stuff grows on you.
Grandpa says it’s like life. “You have upsets along the way, but if you keep your sense of humor and keep trying, the lumps smooth out. And it keeps getting better!”

Elder Sebastian Fuller said, “We were hot, tired, and thirsty, but I realized that if I looked outward at the needs of others who had no shelter, I was able to look beyond myself and why I was there. We set up a tent for a woman without a home. Her home was lying on the ground in splinters. I felt a great love for the people we were helping. … The Church has no presence in Carriacou, so this was a great first step in introducing them to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.”

I walked to school and to Primary with my closest friend, Ralph Frei, who was three or four months older than I. One day in spring we were walking along the gravel road in front of my uncle’s house. Ralph had just recently been baptized, and I sensed a difference in him. I felt as if he had changed. We began talking about his baptism and confirmation, and he explained about the Holy Ghost.

“When you receive the gift of the Holy Ghost, you’ll know you have it,” he said. “It’s just like someone is sitting on your shoulder, whispering in your ear, teaching you the things you need to know.” He said that if we invite the Holy Ghost into our lives, He will guide us.

I never forgot Ralph’s explanation. From that moment, I wanted to have the gift of the Holy Ghost. Four months later I received that special gift as my father confirmed me a member of the Church.

“Choose your friends wisely, for you will tend to be like them.” I had seen this little sign a million times and never thought anything of it. It was only one of many strategically placed thoughts and quotes that dotted the walls of our home. This one happened to be in the best location of all—right above the kitchen table.
When friends came over, we naturally congregated in the kitchen. Dates, late night movies, and quick lunches almost all involved the kitchen. Mom knew this and planned her attack accordingly. Years later I realized what a direct hit Mom had scored.
I was blessed with a lot of friends who are also members of the Church. We went to church and school together, and most of us went on missions at about the same time. However, there was one who was not exactly like the rest of us. His parents were divorced, and he was shuffled between their homes and the homes of friends. As a result, I think he always felt a little isolated and alone. He wore his hair long and always had at least one earring. Regardless, we loved him, and he was one of us.
During high school we witnessed him change; it was great. A short time after his 19th birthday he submitted his mission papers and received a call. A couple of months later we really understood the significance of this event.
The realization came on a cold, crisp Sunday in January. My friends and I had gathered to hear this young man speak in sacrament meeting. I had been invited to perform a musical number, so I sat on the stand. As I gazed over the crowd, I saw all of our friends, as well as my family; it was a wonderful sight. As my friend ventured to the pulpit, his eyes were a little red.
His talk opened with a question: “Do any of you know why I am here? Well, it is really very simple. I am here because of the many meals eaten at a friend’s table, a table with a sign above it that reads, ‘Choose your friends wisely, for you will tend to be like them.’ I want my friends to know that without their influence and love I wouldn’t be here today.”
As I looked down into the crowd, I saw my mother with teary eyes and a smile.
From that day on, I have also thought about the effects my friends have had on my life. I don’t know if I would have served a mission without their example. I don’t know what kind of a person I would be today if it hadn’t been for the strength and love I received from such wonderful people. For that, I will be forever grateful, both to them and to my Heavenly Father.
I know that no one has forgotten the message shared from that pulpit. I also know that that sign, to this day, still hangs above our kitchen table.

One of the choicest experiences this man related to me was about a horse. Because he was a commanding officer in the Canadian Cavalry, a horse was very important to him:
“I looked around for the best horse in the area to buy. I loved horses—I always had. I finally found just the right one. I paid seventy-five dollars for this horse, which was a lot of money in those days. I quickly picked an excellent horseman who was an expert in horse training. He worked and worked with Steamboat, as I called him, and before long, he was not only the best-looking horse in the Canadian Cavalry, but also the best trained. I could tell him to lie down, to roll over, or to come to me, and this horse immediately obeyed. I was so very pleased.
“We were in Cardston at the time and I had enjoyed riding Steamboat for a couple of years when one day a Colonel Walker from Winnipeg visited our headquarters there. His main mission was to buy a fine horse for the general. He didn’t tell me this at first, but just said:
“‘I hear you have a fine horse.’
“‘He’s a dandy!’ I answered.
“Then he asked to take a ride on Steamboat and I said, ‘All right.’
“When he returned from a short ride, he dismounted and asked, ‘How much would you take for this horse?’
“I was sure he was joking with me, so I quickly replied, in jest, ‘Oh, five hundred dollars.’ This was an outrageous sum.
“‘Sold,’ he said.
“I was stunned! ‘But I was just joking, this horse is my pride and joy,’ I stammered.
“Colonel Walker stood straight and tall and said, ‘You told me the price, I will pay it, so we have just made a deal.’
“I was brokenhearted for a long time at the loss of my joy, Steamboat, my friend.
“About a year later,” he concluded, “while I was in England visiting our headquarters there, I was invited to inspect their horse stables. As I was walking down a row of stalls, I saw my great friend in one of them. ‘Steamer,’ I shouted.
“The horse jumped like he’d been shot. I climbed into the stall, threw my arms around that horse and cried and cried. An old friend is hard to forget.”
As I personally met with this great man, I asked him to tell me what he remembered about his boyhood. Some of the childhood experiences he related were humorous.
“My brother Bud and I had a lot of fun as children. He liked to tease and play jokes on me. One day we chased a weasel down a hole. We used a shovel and tried to dig him out, but with no luck. Bud told me that if I put my hand down the hole, maybe I could grab the animal and pull it out. I believed him, and thrust my hand as far down the hole as I could. But the weasel bit my finger so hard that it almost took the end of it off. After that I decided to be a little more careful whenever Bud told me to do something.
“My brother pestered me with jokes all through our childhood. I did get back at him once, though. I remember we were sleeping in the basement of a barn at the time. Bud had been reading a book about ghosts and ghost stories. One day I got the idea to ask my cousin to put an old sheet over himself and hide down in the basement of the barn until Bud came home. I then hid outside and watched and waited. Sure enough, Bud came along and went in through the barn door and started down the basement. When he saw my cousin, he came screaming out of the barn, running as fast as he could. It was a long time after that before Bud would sleep down there again.”

Because of his great love for science, Henry Eyring encouraged each of his sons to major in physics as preparation for a career in science. It was while Hal was studying physics at the University of Utah that a conversation with his father marked one of those defining influences in his life. He asked his father for help with a complex mathematical problem. “My father was at a blackboard we kept in the basement,” Elder Eyring recalls. “Suddenly he stopped. ‘Hal,’ he said, ‘we were working this same kind of problem a week ago. You don’t seem to understand it any better now than you did then. Haven’t you been working on it?’”
A little chagrined, Hal admitted he had not. “You don’t understand,” his father went on. “When you walk down the street, when you’re in the shower, when you don’t have to be thinking about anything else, isn’t this what you think about?”
“When I told him no,” Elder Eyring concludes, “my father paused. It was really a very tender and poignant moment, because I knew how much he loved me and how much he wanted me to be a scientist. Then he said, ‘Hal, I think you’d better get out of physics. You ought to find something that you love so much that when you don’t have to think about anything, that’s what you think about.’”
The advice deeply impressed young Hal. He went on to finish his degree in physics, graduating not long after the end of the Korean War. During the war, the number of missionaries called from each ward had been greatly restricted. Further, by the time he graduated, Hal had already committed to a commission in the United States Air Force. So he entered the military without having served a full-time mission. But in a bishop’s blessing prior to his departure, Hal was promised that his military experience would be his mission.

Bang! Scritch! Scraaaatch!
Jesse didn’t like the noises coming from outside his window. He shivered and pulled his covers over his head. Jesse regretted watching that superhero movie. He knew it wasn’t real, but the bad guy in the movie was really scary.
Screeeech!
Jesse’s eyes flew open. What was that scratching sound against his windowsill? He sat up. Was it his windowpane rattling? Jesse said a quick prayer in his mind. With his heart pounding, he tore off his covers and ran across the hall to his brother’s room.
“Steve! Hey, Steve!” Jesse said as he skidded to a stop next to where his brother lay sleeping.
“Mmmph,” Steve answered, not lifting his head from the pillow.
Jesse tugged on Steve’s arm. “Steve, there are noises outside my window. I think something is trying to get in!”
Nothing.
Jesse talked to himself as he trudged back to his room. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said. “Be brave.”
Scraaaatch!
Jesse froze. Trying to be brave, he lifted the corner of his window shade to take a peek. He searched the darkness outside of his window. He couldn’t see anything, but he expected something to pop up and scare him at any moment.
He stared hard, but the only thing he saw was the top of the bush below his windowsill. Relieved, he took a deep breath and sank back down onto his bed. He closed his eyes for a moment, but then he heard another sound. Scritch. Scritch. He sat up. He didn’t want to feel scared anymore. He said another silent prayer.
“Heavenly Father, please, please, please help me sleep. Please make the sounds go away.”
Jesse looked at the shadows on his walls and trembled. Why weren’t his prayers working?
Then he had a thought. He remembered that the Holy Ghost helps people feel peace. Maybe feeling the Holy Ghost could help him feel better.
Jesse glanced over at his bookshelf where there was a book of scripture stories and pictures. He rushed over to the shelf and snatched the book. Turning on the light next to his bed, he began to read some of his favorite scripture stories. Jesse felt calm as he read. His room felt warmer somehow. Though he could still hear scratching outside his window, the sounds seemed to be softer and not as scary.
Jesse read another scripture story, and then another. Soon he didn’t feel afraid anymore. Heavenly Father had answered his prayers—not by making the scary sounds go away—but by giving him the idea to replace his fear with the peace of the Holy Ghost.

With those two extremes in mind, I would now like to give some examples which might help us inch our way into the center of the spectrum or toward that elusive balance. A few years ago I learned a great lesson while laboring as the new managing director of the Welfare Services Department of the Church. We were at a critical stage in the history of welfare. It was time to go through an agonizing reappraisal of the program in light of current world conditions. I was beside myself with worry and concern.

After praying for a solution, I decided to ask for meetings with some of the Brethren. I poured out my concerns and added my feeling that we were at a stage where further revelation on the subject was necessary. Then I sat back with my yellow note pad and Cross pen and waited for pearls of wisdom.

They each gave me the same pearl: “Brother Pace, I commend you for your concern and conscientiousness in finding solutions to these weighty matters. I, too, have some deep concerns and anxieties, and you are absolutely right—we do need revelation. Now, go get it!” Who, me? I was an employee of the Church, not a General Authority; but I had the responsibility to bring forth well-thought-out recommendations to the Brethren which could be confirmed, modified, or rejected in the appropriate forums. It was my obligation and right to receive inspiration, but it came with intense, agonizing study, research, and meditation.
What can we learn about balance from the recent fuss about historical documents? The lessons on straying off center are vivid. Would the discovery of any document, no matter how contradictory to what you believe to be true, destroy your testimony? It may raise some intellectual questions, but it need not destroy your testimony. There is an avenue to truth greater than intellect and more certain than the five senses. The most glorious of all avenues to truth is direct revelation from heaven. A saving testimony will never come from a spectacular historical or archaeological find, and a testimony need never be lost on the basis of such a find.
This does not mean we should have no interest in history. I love Church history, and my joy when visiting Church historical sites is intensified by knowing their background. But the more lasting impressions are from what is felt there, rather than what is remembered.
A few years ago my wife and I went to some of these sites. Two experiences come to mind which have relevance to this search for balance. In Jackson County we sat on the lawn within the boundaries of the future Jackson County temple. It was sunset. We were alone. We talked of history and prophecies of the future. But we remember most the sweet, peaceful, spiritual witness that Jesus Christ stands at the head of this church and that Joseph Smith is what he claimed to be, a prophet of God. No amount of historical research alone can bring to pass that spiritual witness. It comes only when we become attuned and learn to recognize spiritual things. However, the spiritual witness was strengthened by our knowledge of what has happened and what will happen there. That evening we found the elusive balance.
The next day we strayed off center. We went to Adam-ondi-Ahman, part of a sacred past and destined to be included in a sacred future. Knowing this history helped us understand the significance of the land. We had a history book which told of an altar of Adam and the Nephites. We didn’t know subsequent research has given rise to some questions on the exact location. We arrived an hour before sunset and, in search of the precise location of the altar, we drove to and fro becoming more frustrated by the minute. Fortunately, we came to our senses and drove to a knoll just in time to watch the sunset and enjoy the spirit of the place. Again, the Lord blessed us with a spiritual experience which can be recalled vividly upon reflection.
How often do we get so involved in the search for historical and archaeological details that we fail to take advantage of spiritual experiences right before our eyes. The same historical knowledge which can intensify spiritual experiences can destroy spirituality when we stray too far off center.
A complete testimony was never intended to be gained through history, except that kept by prophets and coming forth as scripture. The Lord didn’t mean for our testimonies to be based on physical, historical evidence.
Do you remember what the Lord told Joseph regarding Martin Harris’s desire to see the plates? “Behold, if they will not believe my words, they would not believe you, my servant Joseph, if it were possible that you should show them all these things which I have committed unto you” (D&C 5:7).
There is no other way to gain a testimony but through the witness of the Holy Ghost. You can rely on nothing else. Spiritual manifestations are generally reserved for the spiritually mature, not so much as a trial of faith as to assure they are not mocked. One must become adept at recognizing the Spirit before a spiritual manifestation can be a sanctifying experience. We have numerous scriptural examples of how pointless a physical manifestation can be without the accompanying receipt of the witness of the Holy Ghost. Conversion comes not by physical manifestations from heaven.
Laman and Lemuel observed many miraculous manifestations such as that recorded in 1 Nephi 3:30–31: “And after the angel had spoken unto us, he departed.
“And after the angel had departed, Laman and Lemuel again began to murmur, saying: How is it possible that the Lord will deliver Laban into our hands? Behold, he is a mighty man, and he can command fifty, yea, even he can slay fifty; then why not us?” [1 Ne. 3:30–31]
Nephi couldn’t believe it and said, “and ye also know that an angel hath spoken unto you; wherefore can ye doubt?” (1 Ne. 4:3). Here we have an example of knowledge being of no eternal value because the Spirit was absent.
Nephi put his finger on Laman’s and Lemuel’s problem in 1 Nephi 17:45. “Ye are swift to do iniquity but slow to remember the Lord your God. Ye have seen an angel, and he spake unto you; yea, ye have heard his voice from time to time; and he hath spoken unto you in a still small voice, but ye were past feeling.” [1 Ne. 17:45]
Even in heavenly manifestations we must acquire the ability to recognize the Spirit and feel the experience as well as see and hear it. Were it not so, Satan could thoroughly confuse us with his own demonstrations. Despite all the spectacular manifestations received by the Nephites and Lamanites at the birth of the Savior, within a short period of time doubts crept into the minds of those who were not converted.
“The people began to forget those signs and wonders which they had heard, and began to be less and less astonished at a sign or a wonder from heaven, insomuch that they began to be hard in their hearts, and blind in their minds, and began to disbelieve all which they had heard and seen—
“Imagining up some vain thing in their hearts, that it was wrought by men and by the power of the devil, to lead away and deceive the hearts of the people” (3 Ne. 2:1, 2).
If a witness of the Spirit is necessary to discern the validity of a visit by an angel, how very vital that witness is in more subtle situations.
How can we acquire the ability to recognize a witness of the Spirit? Even as I attempt to explain, I know it’s impossible to convey an understanding of this phenomenon. We must make the discovery privately and individually.
First, remove yourself from the guilt feelings you have experienced when you have fallen short in your attempts to recognize the Spirit. Have any of you ever been certain you have received a spiritual witness only to have subsequent events prove you were in error? Have any of you had a spiritual witness you dismissed as indigestion only to find out you blew it?
We have more patience with our failures in learning to ski than we do in learning how to recognize the Spirit. When we fall going down the slope, we get up, laugh at ourselves, and try again. When we have a failure in recognizing the Spirit we feel great guilt and are reluctant to go forward. It’s natural to have spiritual setbacks. It’s okay. It’s all right. Stay with it.
We all know it takes years of practice to become a professional athlete and a price must be paid. However, we expect to be overnight successes in spiritual things.
Joseph Smith said, “A person may profit by noticing the first intimation of the spirit of revelation; for instance, when you feel pure intelligence flowing into you, it may give you sudden strokes of ideas, so that by noticing it, you may find it fulfilled the same day or soon; (i.e.) those things that were presented unto your minds by the Spirit of God, will come to pass; and thus by learning the Spirit of God and understanding it, you may grow into the principle of revelation until you become perfect in Christ Jesus” (Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, p. 151).
Please note he said, “you may grow into the principle of revelation.” To become proficient in basketball one practices shooting countless shots. By repeating successful approaches and changing failures, the player gets the uncanny ability of knowing as soon as the ball leaves his hands whether the shot will be good or not.
In spiritual things we need to learn when we have had a witness of the Spirit and be able to recognize a counterfeit thrown at us by Satan or self-imposed by our own ambition and desire. Sometimes a young man will tell his girlfriend, “I have received a spiritual witness that you are to be my wife.” In some cases I would suggest the witness is more a desire than a manifestation. If, when the time comes, you receive that witness, put it to the test. Ask her to marry you. If she says yes, you were right; if she says no, you were wrong. But keep your witness to yourself. She is perfectly capable of receiving her own revelation.
What does a spiritual confirmation feel like? It’s the feeling you have when you read the Book of Mormon. It’s the feeling you have when you talk of heavenly things with your parents or a valued friend. Learn to recognize it. Learn to follow it.
If it were possible, I would lay down a formula for instant and certain success. One of the reasons it is so hard to enjoy consistent success is that the variables change each day. We are in tune more on one day than another. We are more emotionally vulnerable on one day than another. Satan works harder on us on one day than another. However, with all the variables there is one constant. The Spirit witnesses only the truth.
If your success ratio for recognizing the Spirit is low, ask yourself these questions:
How well am I living the commandments?
Am I studying the scriptures in order that I might be more attuned to spiritual things?
Am I praying with real intent?
Have I done my homework and gone to the Lord with a well-thought-out solution?
Have I learned to recognize a stupor of thought?
Can I honestly say “thy will be done” and am I willing to take no for an answer?
Don’t fail to invest adequate time learning things of the Spirit. I’m not speaking of religion classes, although I heartily endorse them. I’m speaking of learning how to recognize and obtain revelation. It’s a lifetime course, but you don’t have to wait until graduation to receive benefits. The rewards are immediate. Close in on that elusive balance between intellectual pursuits and that of learning to recognize the promptings of the Spirit. There is a balance and it is incumbent on each of us to find it.

I asked, "Alex, do you have any idea how much impact you and your book have had on the people of the world?"

He answered, "I think so."

I said, "I haven't been involved in Family History Administration too many years, but it seems to me there is an invisible hand guiding this work, bringing people like you and scientific developments and special events together toward a pre-determined course."

He slammed his fist on his knee and said, "That's right! I felt the guiding hand of the Lord."

How appropriate that one year after the broadcast of Roots, in June 1978, the historic revelation was announced that all the children of God could enjoy the full blessings of the Priesthood.

One other incredible example of the "invisible hand" operating upon the hearts and minds of people: We cultivated relationships with the USSR for about 30 years in an effort to microfilm vital records. In 1989 one of the employees of the Family History Department, Kahlile Mehr, was in conversation with Dr. Patricia Grimsted of Harvard University, recognized as the top scholar on Russian Archival records. Brother Mehr expressed strong interest in the church being able to microfilm public and church records in the Soviet Union. She told Kahlile that in her opinion this church would never have access to Russian archival records. The Lord thought differently.

As President of the Genealogical Society of Utah, accompanied by Sister Clarke and our European acquisition Manager, Lynn Carson, we traveled to Moscow, Russia in April 1992. Sitting around a table in the offices of the former Central Committee of the Communist Party located at the Kremlin, I signed a contract with Dr. Rudolph Pikhoia, Chairman of the Committee of Archival Affairs for the Republic of Russia. This contract authorized the Genealogical Society of Utah to microfilm vital records in 200 regional archives throughout Russia. What in 1989 was said to be impossible was now reality. "Is anything too hard for the Lord?"

Susan (name has been changed), like many adoptees, had a great curiosity about her birth parents. She was sealed as an infant to her adoptive family and felt the power and confirmation that these were her people—the ones she was meant to be with forever. She felt blessed by doing family history and temple work for this family. However, that didn’t take away her curiosity or her desire to offer the saving ordinances to the people on her birth line. She worried that she was being somehow disloyal to her adoptive family for having that desire. But after a loving conversation with her parents, she was assured that feelings of love and loyalty would not be diminished by pursuing the sacred work for her birth line.

When rare king tides swept over isolated Parama Island in western Papua New Guinea on 22 October 2024, residents of the town’s only village had nowhere to turn for help. In only a few hours, the floods left many homes wrecked, subsistence farming plots destroyed, and community wells fouled by seawater.
About 400 people live on the beautiful but remote island in western Papua New Guinea. Nearly one-third of them are members of the Parama Branch of the Daru Papua New Guinea Stake.
When word of the disaster reached the stake center in Daru, Church leaders acted quickly to send immediate relief. Food, water, tarps, and water filters were shipped from Papua New Guinea’s capital city of Port Moresby to a waiting barge in Daru.
From Daru, the supplies, along with Church humanitarian missionaries skilled in disaster recovery, and local Church missionaries and leaders, traveled up the Gulf of Papua to the Fly River, and then inland to reach Parama Island.
On arrival, they found damaged homes and ruined community resources, but resilient and confident Saints already working to do their part to rebuild their damaged village.
When the barge and accompanying dinghies arrived during the late morning low tide on 29 October, the water was too shallow to allow them to bring their supplies into the village, so supplies were transferred to smaller dinghies, which moved closer to the shoreline.
But in the end, the dinghies could come no closer than a kilometer from shore, so the village came to them.
Throughout the afternoon, villagers combined with missionaries in walking back and forth through two kilometers of tidepools to collect the food, clean water, and water filters, and carry it all into shore.
In all, it took more than three hours to transfer the supplies from the dinghies into the village.
The relief supplies were stacked in the village square, as preparations were made for distribution to villagers.
Once all the supplies were brought into the village, families gratefully received their shares of the supplies that they had just carried across the water.
In Port Moresby, Johnny Leota, the country office manager, reflected on the blessings that often come from trials. “After the devastation of the king tides, the resilience and faith of the people of the Parama Island shine through as they joyfully receive temporary relief to aid them through this challenging time in their lives. Their gratitude and love of the Saviour has increased as they witness His love through emergency efforts from the Church. Continued relief efforts will include finding solutions with local leaders of the community to safeguard against future disasters.”
Restoring Parama Island to its pristine condition will not occur quickly. But the Parama Saints, with their friends and neighbors, know that they will not face their ordeal alone, and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints stands ready to provide support, both temporal and spiritual, as these Saints of God and their neighbors work together to rebuild their beautiful but temporarily damaged remote island home.

I would like now to relate one last personal experience in faith that demonstrates these six suggestions.

On July 29, 1977, Sister Cook and I had just finished visiting the Bolivia Santa Cruz Mission and were stalled in the Cochabamba, Bolivia, airport for some five hours. I recall that we were very tired, having had few hours of sleep the night before. We were both delighted to have a few hours rest in the airport. As I was drifting off to sleep, I had a very strong feeling that I should awaken and write down some ideas. The desire to sleep was strong, but the promptings of the Spirit were more powerful. I did write; in fact, I wrote for nearly three hours, solving some organizational problems I had struggled with for a number of years previously. I felt a great outpouring of the Spirit on that day and excitedly wrote down each inspired thought. The experience took most of the time of the delay.

We were then off to La Paz, Bolivia. We were graciously met by President and Sister Chase Allred at the airport and driven in their van to the mission office. We locked the car and left our luggage and briefcase in the van.

Upon entering the office, the president was confronted with the difficult case of a woman whose husband was dying. While President Allred and I assisted with her needs, Sisters Cook and Allred left for the mission home.

When the president and I returned to the van, I realized immediately that all of our goods were gone but assumed that Sister Cook had taken them with her to the mission home. While we were driving toward the home, I discovered that the right front window-wing had been damaged and began to fear that our goods had been stolen.

Arriving at the mission home, we found that our luggage had indeed been stolen. The loss of a substantial amount of money and all our clothing created an immediate but only temporary problem. More disheartening was the fact that my scriptures were in my briefcase along with the inspired ideas I had just received in Cochabamba. The overwhelming sensation of discouragement, anger, and inability to do anything about the situation was overpowering.

My wife and I prayed alone. We prayed with those present. We tried to enjoy our dinner but could not. Who could know of the great loss I personally felt? The scriptures had been given to me as a young man by my parents, a sacred inscription placed in one of them by my mother and in the other by my since-deceased father. I had spent literally thousands of hours marking and cross-referencing (and loving every moment of it) in the only tangible earthly possessions I had ever considered of much value. I had on many occasions instructed my wife that if there were ever a fire in the home, she should first remove the children and then, if there were time, save my scriptures and not worry about anything else.

The president and I had much to discuss as we were to be together only that evening. However, I felt a strong impression that we must do all in our power to recover the scriptures. After supper, all present knelt in prayer once again. We determined to search the immediate area near the mission office and in a nearby field, hoping that the thief or thieves had taken the salable items and discarded the English books.

In the prayer we pleaded that the scriptures would be returned, that the persons who had taken them would be led to know of their unrighteous act and repent, and that the return of the books would be the means of bringing someone into the true church.

Eight to ten of us then loaded into the van with flashlights and warm clothing and drove up to the mission office in the central city. We scoured vacant lots across the street and adjacent streets and alleys; we talked with guards and anyone else we could find and exhausted all possibilities. No one had seen or heard anything. Finally we returned home, dejected, able only to pray individually and wait. President Allred and I worked late into the night to finish our business, and the next day Sister Cook and I flew back to Quito, Ecuador, where we lived.

During the next few weeks, the missionaries searched the lots again. They looked in hedges and garbage cans, searched a nearby park, placed a sign on a wall where the books were stolen, requesting their return, and kept a watchful eye to see if the books might show up in an unexpected place nearby. In sheer desperation, trying to do all in their power, the missionaries decided to place an ad in two daily newspapers, offering a reward and giving explicit information concerning the books.

In Quito, Ecuador, I began a personal spiritual struggle that was a very difficult one for me. After nearly three weeks, I had not studied in the scriptures at all. I had tried on numerous occasions, but every time I read a verse I recalled only a few of the many cross-references I had made over 20 years. I was disheartened, depressed, and had no desire whatsoever to read. I prayed many times expressing to the Father that I had never tried to use my scriptures for any purpose other than glorifying his name and trying to teach others the truths that he had taught me. I pleaded with him to do whatever had to be done in order to have them returned. My wife and little children prayed incessantly for the same blessing. Even after two or three weeks they continued praying every day, “Heavenly Father, please bring back daddy’s scriptures.”

After about three weeks, I felt a strong spiritual impression, “Elder Cook, how long will you go on without reading and studying?” It seemed to me to be a test or a trial and to have something to do with the “cost” of the blessing I desired. The words burned, and I determined that I must be humble and submissive enough to start all over again.

With my wife’s permission to use her scriptures, I began reading in Genesis in the Old Testament, marking and cross-referencing once again.

On August 18, a friend, Brother Ebbie Davis, arrived in Ecuador from Bolivia and laid my scriptures on my desk along with a manila folder that contained the papers that I had written in Cochabamba and some recently prepared mission budgets that were also stolen. He indicated that they were the only things recovered, that he had been given those items by the mission president in La Paz as he boarded the plane, and that he did not know how the books were found, but that I would be told when I arrived there in the next few days to tour the mission.

The joy I experienced in that moment and later that day is indescribable. To realize that my Heavenly Father could, in some miraculous way, lift those books out of the hands of thieves in a city like La Paz and return them intact, not one page removed, torn, or soiled, is still beyond me. How the faith of our family and many Bolivian missionaries was rewarded! That day I promised my Father that I would make better use of my scriptures and my time as instruments in his hands for teaching the gospel.

On Sunday, August 21, I flew to Guayaquil, Ecuador, and on to La Paz, Bolivia, arriving on August 22. Upon arrival I was given the following account:

A lady had been in one of La Paz’s hundreds of marketplaces. She saw a drunk man waving a black book around. She had the strongest spiritual impression that something holy was being desecrated. She approached the man and asked him what it was. He did not know but showed her the book. She asked if he had anything else. He pulled out another black book. She asked if there were more. He removed a folder full of papers that he said he was going to burn. She then expressed the desire to purchase those things from him, to which he agreed, for the price of 50 pesos or about $2.5, U.S. currency.

After the purchase had been made, she felt totally taken back by what she had done. She realized the books and papers were in English—she didn’t speak, read, or understand English—and she had no desire to have any English books. It would have been like one of us paying nearly 10 percent of our monthly income to buy some books in a language we could not read. She immediately began a search for the church that was named in the front of the books. After approaching a number of other churches, she finally arrived at the mission office in La Paz, directed by the hand of the Lord. She had never heard of the reward nor of the ad in the newspaper, which was to appear that very day. She did not ask for any money, not even to reclaim the 50 pesos that she had paid for the books and papers. The elders received the books with rejoicing and paid her the reward anyway.

She told the missionaries that she was associated with a Pentecostal sect, but she listened very intently as they unfolded the gospel to her. She recalled reading something about Joseph Smith from a pamphlet she had picked up in the street two or three years earlier. After their first discussion with her, they reported, “She is a golden contact.” After the second discussion, she committed to baptism. Two weeks later, September 11, 1977, on a Sunday afternoon in La Paz, Bolivia, Sister Maria Cloefe Cardenas Terrazas and her son, Marco Fernando Miranda Cardenas, age 12, were baptized into the true church of Jesus Christ by Elder Douglas Reeder.

Who could describe my deep, discouraging, depressing, disheartening, overpowering feelings of helplessness when the scriptures were lost? Who could describe my great feeling of joy and rejoicing when we saw the power of heaven revealed in this miraculous way? Our Heavenly Father does hear and answer the prayers of his sons and daughters if they exercise faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. The Lord said:

“For verily I say unto you, That whosoever shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; and shall not doubt in his heart, but shall believe that those things which he saith shall come to pass; he shall have whatsoever he saith.

“Therefore I say unto you, What things soever ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them.” (Mark 11:23–24.)

One day, a few months after my baptism, I heard some members criticizing each other in church. I was very disappointed. I went home and told my father that maybe I should not go to church anymore. It was difficult to see members criticize others like that. After listening, my father taught me that the gospel had been restored and it is perfect but members are not yet, neither himself nor me. He firmly said, “Do not lose your faith because of the people around you, but build a strong relationship with Jesus Christ. Don’t look around, look up!”
Look up to Jesus Christ—the wise advice of my father—strengthens my faith whenever I face challenges in life. He taught me how to apply the teachings of Christ, as in these words: “Look unto me in every thought; doubt not, fear not.”4