Gospel Story Finder

Being a witness of the faith of young people has increased my faith. One young mother wrote:
“When I was 13 I knew my life was not worth living. I was living in an abusive home where there never seemed to be lasting happiness. My two best friends told me they didn’t want to be friends with me anymore because I thought I was too good for them, which made no sense but left me feeling completely alone.
“As the battles in my house continued to rage, I went to my bedroom. I was so scared. I knelt and called to the one person I still knew I had. I pleaded to my Father in Heaven to somehow take me home. I said, ‘Father, I need to be with you. I need to feel your arms around me.’ As I sat crying and quietly waiting in that desperate moment for Heavenly Father’s arms to reach down, I heard a voice, ‘Put your arms around yourself, and I will be with you.’ As I followed that prompting, I felt Heavenly Father’s love assure me that I could go on, and I would go on and I was not alone.”
At a difficult time, this young woman turned to Heavenly Father. Her experience made her faith stronger and more real. The reward of her faith is evident in her temple marriage and family life today (see Alma 32:42–43).

I remember walking home from church alone the day I became a deacon. I didn’t know much about the Holy Ghost then, but He bore witness to me as I walked home that I held the holy priesthood and that it was very important. I’ve never forgotten that.
Heavenly Father and His Son Jesus Christ love you very much. Children are pure and close to Heavenly Father, and you can have incredibly powerful spiritual experiences, just like my experience as a deacon walking down the street. If you will remember these spiritual experiences throughout your lives, they will serve as a very strong foundation for future spiritual growth.

There is someone else at school counting on Michelle to do what’s right. Her younger sister, Melissa, 15, also attends Manzanilla High, and she has seen what her big sister’s example can do.
“It helps me to have a sister who stands up for what she believes,” Melissa says. “It makes it easier for me to do what’s right.” They see each other during the day and talk about how they’re getting along, and that helps both of them to stay strong.
“For example,” Michelle recalls, “one day some other girls were making fun of Melissa, saying unkind things about our nationality.” At lunch they talked it over, and Michelle was able to reassure Melissa, reminding her that she is a daughter of God with divine nature and of infinite worth. “That helped me feel better,” Melissa says. “It helped me remember who I am.”

“Christy, this is for you,” her teacher, Mrs. Devin, said. She handed Christy an envelope.
“Thanks,” said Christy. She tore open the envelope and read the note inside.
Congratulations! You are one of six students chosen by your classmates to receive an Outstanding Citizen award for the fifth grade. Please answer the questions below and submit them to the office by the end of the day for our judges to review.
Christy gave the envelope a squeeze of excitement. She could hardly wait to show her friends!
“Guess what!” she told Gabriella at lunch. “I might get an award.”
“That’s great!” said Gabriella.
“I just have to answer all of these questions first,” said Christy. “But I feel like I’m running out of interesting things to write about. This one says, ‘How have you made a difference in your community?’ I’m having a hard time thinking of anything.”
“You could probably just write something you think would be good to do,” said Gabriella. “It’s not that big of a deal. They just want to know what kind of person you are.”
Christy didn’t feel great about making something up. But maybe she could write something that she could plan to do in the future. She tapped her pencil on the page while she thought.
Then she remembered a sign she’d noticed at the public library: “Looking for tutors for beginning readers.” She liked helping her younger siblings read. It could be fun to help other kids too. She hadn’t signed up to help yet … but she wanted to! She wrote down, “Volunteering at the library to help kids learn to read.”
Christy looked at what she’d written. She felt a little lump in her throat and tried to swallow it down. But the uncomfortable feeling just seemed to get worse as she walked to the office and turned in her answers.
As Christy walked home from school, her footsteps felt heavy. By dinnertime she didn’t feel like eating.
“You OK, honey?” asked Mom.
Christy let out a big sigh. “Not really.”
“Want to talk about it?” asked Dad.
Christy explained what she’d done. “I haven’t felt good inside since.” She folded her arms and slid down in her chair.
“I’m glad you told us.” Mom squeezed Christy’s hand. “That’s the first step in making things right.”
“And I know what the next step is,” Christy said with a smile. Just thinking about what she would do made her feel a little better.
That night as she prayed, she told Heavenly Father she was sorry that she hadn’t been honest. She knew He would help her repent and make things right.
The next morning, Christy walked to the school office. She swung open the door and stepped inside …
Help finish the story!
What did Christy do next? Write and tell us what you think happened. See the back cover to find out how to send us your ending.

“In 1915 President Joseph F. Smith asked the people of the Church to have family home evening. My father said we would do so, that we would warm up the parlor where Mother’s grand piano stood and do what the President of the Church had asked.
“We were miserable performers as children. We could do all kinds of things together while playing, but for one of us to try to sing a solo before the others was like asking ice cream to stay hard on the kitchen stove. In the beginning, we would laugh and make cute remarks about one another’s performance. But our parents persisted. We sang together. We prayed together. We listened quietly while Mother read Bible and Book of Mormon stories. Father told us stories out of his memory. …
“Out of those simple little meetings, held in the parlor of our old home, came something indescribable and wonderful. Our love for our parents was strengthened. Our love for brothers and sisters was enhanced. Our love for the Lord was increased. An appreciation for simple goodness grew in our hearts. These wonderful things came about because our parents followed the counsel of the President of the Church” (“Some Lessons I Learned as a Boy,” Ensign, May 1993, 54).

My friends and I were doing a play. There was a girl nobody talked to. My friend said something mean about her, and I did too. I felt really bad about it. The next day my friend made fun of her again. I said, “Maybe she needs a friend.” I went and talked to her. I told her she was doing a good job. She smiled for the rest of practice. I was glad I could make her day a little brighter.
Lauren C., age 11, Utah, USA

When I was a little boy, I enjoyed pretending to be a superhero. I patterned myself after the most popular hero of the day, Superman. When my mother tied a bath-towel cape around my neck, I was transformed not into Superman but rather into a hero of my own making: I became “Man of the Whole Wide World.”

I spent much time each day pretending to fly around as Man of the Whole Wide World—so much time, in fact, that I eventually had a Korihor experience. Do you remember Korihor? He spent so much time pretending to believe things that were not true that eventually he “verily believed that they were true” (Alma 30:53). Likewise, I began to convince myself that I might really be Man of the Whole Wide World and that perhaps I really could fly.

One day I decided to find out. I reasoned that if I were really going to fly, I would need to leap from a high altitude. Fortunately I chose the arm of the living room sofa as the high-altitude launching point from which to test my hypothesis. I leaped many times from the sofa, only to land on my feet just a few inches away. Then it occurred to me that when Superman flew, his body was horizontal—parallel to the ground—but when I jumped from the sofa, my body was vertical—perpendicular to the ground. (I did not know the terms then, but I understood the principle.) It seemed to me that in order to really fly, all I needed to do was leap from the sofa and quickly orient my body so that it was flat—parallel to the ground. I only tested this hypothesis once, for the experiment was too painful to repeat. In fact, after conducting the experiment, I came to the sad realization that I was not really Man of the Whole Wide World. But in the process something I had always known in my heart to be true was confirmed: ordinary people cannot fly. I learned that one’s education will strengthen one’s beliefs, but only if those beliefs are true. In fact, a belief in things that are not true will fall flat on its face.

When I first joined the Church, many parts of it were confusing. I knew basic principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ, which were taught to me by wonderful missionaries, but nobody taught me about the organization of the Church. Elders quorum, Relief Society, institute, and many other programs and principles were unknown to me. I only knew that I should come to church on Sundays, study the scriptures, and pray.
I was lucky, though, to have friends who helped me navigate my early uncertainty. Missionaries may have introduced me to the gospel, but it was through Christlike ministering from many members that I was able to continue to strengthen my testimony.
Here are just a few of the people who blessed my life through their ministering efforts.
One of the first families that made an impression on me were longtime members in the branch I attended near my home in Malaysia. When they saw me at church each Sunday, they greeted me with big smiles on their faces. They also guided me through the classes and showed me where to go and even picked me up and drove me to church at times. Eventually they started inviting me to have dinner over at their place too. This family really embraced the gospel in their lives, and they showed their devotion to Jesus Christ through genuine care and love for me. Because of their ministering, we became close friends, and I felt so much more unified with the branch and like we were one big family.
I also received a lot of help and support from other young single adults. I got really close with most of them early on in my conversion because most of us were the only members of the Church in our families. With the circumstances we were in, we relied on each other for understanding and provided a safe haven for each other. We would often meet up for meals and activities. Being in each other’s company, sharing our love for the gospel, and supporting each other helped me deepen my faith and look forward to some of the social aspects of church.
The ministering efforts of one couple also made me feel like I had family members in the Church. I honestly considered them my grandparents in the Church—they treated me the way they would have treated a grandchild.
Of course, they were the young adult advisers in the district and it was their calling to minister to the young adults, but they never treated their responsibilities as a simple calling. They went above and beyond to find opportunities to care for us as young adults. If I or any other young adults in the area needed someone to talk to, someone to give us advice, or just a shoulder to lean on, this couple was there for us.
One particularly helpful exercise that the sister would do with me before my mission was to have us read one general conference talk each day and share our thoughts about it. We did this for months, up until the day before I left for my mission. The days leading up to missionary service can be stressful and hard, but I believe that her patience and willingness to do this exercise with me every day helped me get to where I am now.
Effective ministering can change a person’s life forever—I am proof of that—especially as we are willing to accept help. As it says in Alma 37:6, “By small and simple things are great things brought to pass.” And it’s true. The small acts of service that I received, like being invited to dinner by that loving family in my branch, receiving support from other young adults, and having the opportunity to read conference talks with that sister, made all the difference. Ministering isn’t meant to be difficult; it’s the simple acts of love and kindness that can turn around someone’s life by 180 degrees.
Because of these members’ willingness to see my needs and show me love, I had enough support to build my testimony, and I am serving a mission right now. The words of President Jean B. Bingham, Relief Society General President, are true: “After all is said and done, true ministering is accomplished one by one with love as the motivation.” 1 And I know that as we rely on the Spirit to guide us, we can minister as Christ did and bring others to Him.

How teenager Barnard White dressed mattered a great deal to his mother. Widow Mary Ann White felt that her boy should wear clothes that told the world he was a gentleman of breeding. So when Barnard tried to enlist in the British navy, to trade his tailored clothes for a sailor’s uniform and his genteel life for common labor with ruffians, she agonized. Luckily Barnard proved to be a lump-on-the-head too short for military size and was rejected. He would try again, Mother White knew, when he grew another half inch. She pondered what to do to change his mind.
The Whites, new converts to Mormonism in 1854, hoped to emigrate some day from London to America. But problems with the estate after Mr. White’s death slowed them down. The family could not all emigrate, Mother White decided, but Barnard could. One way to keep him out of the navy but to still give him sea adventure was to put him on a Mormon emigrant ship to New York City. So in July 1855 Barnard, dressed in a broadcloth suit and silk hat, boarded the Cynosure and “went to sea.” He traveled alone, but Mormon missionaries became his shipboard companions.
One day Barnard stood on deck in his gentleman’s attire when a sudden gust of wind blew loose his silk hat and spun it down into the sea. With this symbol of his breeding gone, he now looked like so many other bareheaded immigrant boys when he stepped ashore in bustling New York City.

When I was little it used to confuse me. My Primary teachers gave lessons on the Word of Wisdom, and I was taught at church and even in school that smoking was wrong. On the other hand, my dad smoked. I didn’t understand why he would do something he knew was wrong. I knew it made my mom sad, too. I also heard lots of lessons about temple blessings and being sealed together as a family in the temple. I knew that as long as my dad smoked, this could never happen for our family.
Now, don’t misunderstand. I really love my dad; he’s a good man. He’s a good father, and he went to church with us most of the time. But his attitude was negative, and he smoked. He just couldn’t seem to let the habit go.
It was easy not to think about it when I was at school or with my friends. But when the Word of Wisdom lessons were being taught, I felt sad. I baby-sat for couples who went to the temple. And all the time I wondered if it would ever happen for us.
As I was sitting in church one day, I heard someone quote a scripture that said if you have a righteous desire and it is God’s will, then he’ll grant that righteous desire to you. I rushed home after church and looked up the scripture in the Doctrine and Covenants.
“And now, verily, verily, I say unto thee, put your trust in that Spirit which leadeth to do good … and this is my Spirit.
“Verily, verily I say unto you, I will impart unto you of my Spirit, which shall enlighten your mind, which shall fill your soul with joy;
“And then shall ye know, or by this shall you know, all things whatsoever you desire of me, which are pertaining unto things of righteousness, in faith believing in me that you shall receive.
“And then, behold, according to your desires, yea, even according to your faith shall it be done unto you” (D&C 11:12–14, 17). That scripture gave me great hope.
A few years passed, and nothing changed. Still I prayed and hoped that our family could someday be sealed together. Then one fall day my dad got sick—really sick. He caught the flu and a cold together, and it put him in bed for a week. He got so sick that every time he tried to light a cigarette, his lungs seemed to swell shut and he couldn’t breathe. It got so bad that it really scared him. He threw away his cigarettes and promised himself he’d never smoke again. And he didn’t.
After the smoking stopped, we noticed that his attitude began to change. He wasn’t as negative anymore. And he smelled tons better! Several months later I asked him why he quit, and he said he just thought it was time he got his act together.
And then one day last spring we did it! My mom and dad and I went to the temple to be sealed together forever. It was incredible. We were all dressed in white, and I knelt at the altar with my parents and looked in the mirrors that reflected an eternal family—my eternal family.
Things have really changed for our family. It took an awfully long time, it seems to me, but they did change. Just like the scripture said—the righteous desires of the heart, and faith, accompanied by God’s will, can move mountains—even smoking mountains.

Let me take you back to the year 2015. I was a newly called member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. One of the wonderful responsibilities we carry as Apostles is to assign missionaries to their fields of labor. I had participated as a Seventy in the process, but now as an Apostle, I felt the full weight of the assignment. I began with prayerfully placing a great number of young elders and sisters, one by one, in missions around the world. Then I turned to the senior couples. There were 10 on the list. Not very many. Surprised, I asked my associate from the Missionary Department, “How many do we need this week to fill the requests?”
He responded, “300.”
That sobering moment has stayed with me: 10 couples to fill 300 requests.
President Russell M. Nelson has encouraged couples to “get on their knees and ask Heavenly Father if the time is right for them to serve a mission.” Of all the qualifications, he said, “a desire to serve may be the most important.”
As the scripture says, “If ye have desires to serve God ye are called to the work.” That work is all about the law of the harvest. We read in John, “Both he that soweth and he that reapeth may rejoice together.”
I have seen the law of the harvest fulfilled in my own family.
Some years ago I was visiting family, when the bishop asked me to conclude the sacrament service. As I was coming down from the stand, a woman approached me with her seven children and introduced herself as Sister Rebecca Guzman.
She asked, “Elder Rasband, do you know Rulon and Verda Rasband?”
I beamed and replied, “They are my parents.”
You can see where this is going. With Rebecca’s permission, who is here with family in the Conference Center, I share her family’s story.
My parents, Elder Rulon and Sister Verda Rasband, were serving as a senior couple in the Florida Fort Lauderdale Mission. They were proselyting and by divine guidance knocked on the door of Rebecca’s home. She was just a teenager and loved listening to the music of the Osmonds, in particular our friend Donny—who is here with us today. She had listened to their media interviews and learned they were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She felt there was something different about them, and thinking it might be their religion, Rebecca spent two years researching the Church’s beliefs in the school library. So, when a kindly-looking couple knocked on her family’s door and introduced themselves as Latter-day Saint missionaries, she was taken back.
“My mother told me to get rid of them,” Rebecca later wrote, “but my heart said, ‘No.’ I looked into their faces, and I felt so much warmth and love. The memory still brings tears to my eyes and deep emotion to my heart.”
Rebecca invited them in, and my missionary parents shared a message with her, her two younger sisters, and, despite her objections, her mother.
Rebecca described to me: “Both your parents were wonderful in explaining any questions we had. I can still see their faces as if there was light surrounding them. We always hugged your mother when she left, and she always made a point of helping my mother feel comfortable and respected. Your father always had a sparkle in his eyes as he was teaching us about Jesus Christ. He tried to include my father in discussions and eventually won him over. My father was a chef at a local country club and started cooking dinners for your parents, including making your father’s favorite, key lime pie.”
When Elder and Sister Rasband asked Rebecca and her family to read the Book of Mormon, Rebecca did so in five days. She wanted to be baptized immediately, but the other members of her family were not ready. After four months, Rebecca insisted she be baptized and join the true Church. She recalled, “Every fiber of my soul knew it was true.” On April 5, 1979, missionaries baptized 19-year-old Rebecca, her mother, and two sisters. My father was a witness at the baptism.
When I met Rebecca and her family at church, we took a photograph of her family with me. I took it home to my elderly mother, and she held it close to her heart. Then she said to me, “Ronnie, this is one of the happiest days of my life.”
My mother’s response begs the question for our seniors: “What are you doing at this stage of your life?” There are so many ways senior missionaries can do what no one else can. You are a remarkable force for good, seasoned in the Church, and poised to encourage and rescue God’s children.
Some of you might be thinking: “But what about leaving the grandchildren? We would miss family milestones, birthdays, friends, and even our pets.” If I had asked my mother why she and Dad went on a mission, I know she would have said this: “I have grandchildren. I want them to know that your father and I served in the mission field, we wanted to set an example for our posterity, and we were blessed, so blessed.”
As I have visited missions around the world, I have seen the remarkable service of our legion of senior missionaries. It is clear they are happy doing “the will of the Lord” and being about “the Lord’s business.”
For some, and we hope thousands of you, full-time missionary service in another corner of the world will be just the right place. For others, serving a Church-service mission at home might be preferable. Because of health issues and other circumstances, there are those who are unable to serve. We understand those situations, and it would be my hope you might find ways to support those who are serving. Follow the prophet’s counsel and pray to know what the Lord would have you do.
Mission fields around the world are pleading for your help. President Nelson has said of our senior missionaries, “They are young in spirit, wise, and willing to work.”
Out in the field, you have a smorgasbord of opportunities: you may serve in mission offices or temples, strengthen young missionaries, bolster small branches, work in FamilySearch centers or at historic sites, teach institute, provide humanitarian service, work with young adults, help in employment centers or on Church farms. The particulars of ways to serve, what best suits you, where you are needed, and how you can get ready to go are addressed on the website “Senior Missionary.” You can also talk with your bishop or branch president.
I have called many couples to serve and watched as the Light of Christ has filled their countenances. At their return, they have described growing closer to the Lord and closer to one another, feeling the Spirit of the Lord pour down upon them, and knowing they are making a difference. Who would not want that?
A mission might be the greatest chapter in a couple’s life. A good title might be “My Lord Will Have Need of Me.” You may be on unfamiliar ground; however, the power of the Spirit will make you feel right at home.
My parents and tens of thousands of returned missionary couples have borne testimony of the joy they found in missionary work. The Lord has said in latter-day scripture, “And if it so be that you should labor all your days in crying repentance unto this people, and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father!”
Isaiah gave us a poetic description of what it means to serve in the mission “field.” Scripture tells us “the field is the world.” This great ancient prophet wrote, “For ye shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace: the mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.” The mountains, hills, fields, and trees can be likened to mission presidents, bishops, district leaders, members, and those who seek the truth but “they know not where to find it.” They will testify that the senior missionaries change the very landscape with their testimony of our Savior and Redeemer, Jesus Christ.
As an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ, I ask you to serve as a missionary in the gathering of Israel and perhaps even serve again. We need you—we need you. We are grateful to you seniors for the lives you have led and the examples you have been in your homes, wards, and stakes. I now invite you to take your know-how, coupled with your time-honored testimonies, and go on a mission. I pray that the next time I sit down to assign senior couples, there will be hundreds of you waiting anxiously for your call.
I also promise that as you serve, you will feel the love of the Lord in your life, you will know Him, He will know you, and “how great shall be your joy.” Your dedicated service to Jesus Christ will inspire and bless your family, your grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. “Peace, and love [will] be multiplied” in their lives for years to come. I promise. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

My best friend was born outside in the streets. Her mother was only fourteen years old at the time. Following in her mother’s footsteps, my friend had her first child at the age of thirteen, making her mother a grandmother at age twenty-seven. She had her third child by the age of nineteen. After leaving her third boyfriend, she moved in with her mother, adding her three children to her mother’s six. My friend had the responsibility for nine children under the age of seven before she reached her twentieth birthday. As I looked at my friend’s life, I realized that I wanted something better for myself. I wanted a home and a family. I knew I had to leave the ghetto.
My grandma had taught me to pray at night before going to bed. But to whom was I praying? What was he like? Where did he come from? These were questions that couldn’t be answered. I felt as if I were in a dark and dreary world with no hope of light.
Determined to understand more about this mystery, I started attending the church to which we then belonged, because Grandma said God could be found there. But it didn’t do much good. It confused me more. They taught me about Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost, who, I was told, belonged to and were one with God.
I visited many other churches. When we studied the Bible and the life of Christ, I felt a very different feeling.
I discovered that this feeling had something to do with Christ, the Bible, the Holy Ghost, and God, but I was still confused. I started to pray and have trust in the Lord. Still, there was something missing. Although I could have the good feeling while reading the Bible, I couldn’t have that feeling with me all the time.
One teacher told me a way to retain this feeling was by being baptized, so I was baptized. But nothing changed. All churches seemed the same, so I decided to stay home and study on my own. I found myself praying more intensely for the Lord to help me find the true path that led to him. He heard my prayers.
I met a young man, and we became friends. For the next ten months we shared our ideas and thoughts about many things, but never religion. One day I found that my friend traveled with a Bible, so I asked him if he went to church and what the name of his church was. It was some long name—The Church of Jesus Christ of something something Saints. I wasn’t the least bit interested—it sounded like just another church to me.
My friend later told me he was going to serve the Lord for two years in another country. I figured he was going to be a pastor. When he left, I began to wonder what his church was like, and I began to search for their meeting place.
I found it a few months later, but I also found something more. As I walked through the doors of the meetinghouse, I felt a feeling impossible to describe; it was joy, peace, comfort, certainty, and happiness all in one. It was like coming home. My questions had now been answered.
The members of the church welcomed me with open arms. At first, I was reluctant to accept these welcomes because it was a little too much. I wasn’t used to so many people. They welcomed me whether they knew me or not. At the end of the meeting, a calm feeling came over me, and I heard these words in my mind: “Debbie, this is the place, and these are the people you have been searching for.”
Looking back, I see that my life in the ghetto was difficult and that a person could make it harder by making wrong choices. There was little opportunity for progression. But I wanted something worth living for. When the opportunity came to leave the ghetto with part of my family, I decided this was my chance.
Many of the girls I grew up with never left the ghetto. I could not have made it without following the desires of my heart and trusting in my Father above to lead me. I was blessed with the chance to leave the ghetto, be baptized a member of this church, gain an education, and fulfill a mission. I know Heavenly Father loves us all and is mindful of our circumstances, no matter where we are. He desires above all things that we find true happiness.

“Brethren and sisters, I know that this welfare program is inspired of God. I have witnessed with my own eyes the ravages of hunger and destitution as, under the direction of the president of the Church, I spent a year in war-torn Europe at the close of World War II, without my family, distributing food, clothing, and bedding to our needy members. I have looked into the sunken eyes of Saints, in almost the last stages of starvation. I have seen faithful mothers carrying their children, three and four years of age, who were unable to walk because of malnutrition. I have seen a hungry woman turn down food for a spool of thread. I have seen grown men weep as they ran their hands through the wheat and beans sent to them from Zion—America.”

Let me share with you how some "sports-nuts" transform their addictions into wonderful service opportunities. One of our employees at BYU-Hawaii, a brilliant athlete in his day, loves BYU-Hawaii basketball. He shows up before the lights are on, tingling with anticipation. He told a congregation recently how his joy in basketball has increased by the companions he keeps at the games.

One night he brought with him an elderly man from an assisted living center next door. The man hadn’t been out at night for years. My friend said, "My elderly companion was absolutely mesmerized by the lights, the crowds, the excitement. I became excited myself. I bought him popcorn. At half time I went down to the athletic director and secured a BYU-Hawaii t-shirt and presented it to my elderly friend. He was so thrilled that he pulled off his shirt right down to the skin and put on his BYU-Hawaii Seasiders t-shirt." The punch line to my friend’s address was, "In all my life I have never enjoyed a basketball game so much."

After graduating from high school (during the stage of Intimacy vs. Isolation), I registered at a university and joined the gymnastics team. I created an impressive routine on the uneven parallel bars and achieved some success in competition. Just prior to the regional meet I decided to change the final maneuver of my routine. As the first competitor from our team, I felt confident that the change I had made would result in a winning routine, and I anticipated an extremely positive outcome.

My performance, however, was anything but satisfactory, as I fell from the bars with every maneuver I attempted. After completing the routine, I walked from the apparatus in absolute humiliation and disgust. I could not look my teammates nor my coach in the eye. As I tearfully made my way past my coach, his only comment was, “I never should have let you change the ending of your routine.”

I have often pondered his comment and the devastating impact the change in my final maneuver had upon my performance and that of my peers. In spite of hard work and dedicated preparation, the other members of the team felt my discouragement and loss of vision. They also performed substandard routines.

I learned a few things from this experience. In my mind, the maneuvers of my routine represent the implementation of my goals, the final maneuver embodies the personal vision of where I am going in life, and the outcome is dependent upon my performance. It reminds me of the importance of setting righteous goals in life and not giving up—even during trials. It reminds me of the value of having a sound vision of where we are going and the importance of recognizing the influence we have upon each other.

I think about this experience often when reviewing my goals for life. My ponderings about my experience on the gymnastics team solidified my determination to attain goals that will lead me to a righteous end in my life’s journey. Setting righteous goals early in life has provided positive direction for my spiritual and academic learning.

In the fall of 2020, the COVID-19 pandemic had the world on its knees. We were certainly all affected in some way.
Given my vocation in the culture and tourism industries, the pandemic posed a serious challenge to me professionally. So, I was full of expectation when I learned that our beloved prophet, President Russell M. Nelson, would deliver a special address to the world on Nov. 20, 2020.
As he began, President Nelson told of some of the challenges he had experienced in his life and expressed great concern about the pandemic. Then he said, “There is, however, a remedy—one that may seem surprising—because it flies in the face of our natural intuitions. Nevertheless, its effects have been validated by scientists as well as men and women of faith.
“I am referring to the healing power of gratitude.”1
President Nelson invited us to use social media as our personal gratitude journal and to express our thanks to God in our daily prayers for the innumerable blessings in our lives.
I applied the “therapy” he suggested and felt it helped me in that difficult time to experience healing and have a cheerful, believing heart.

Brian R.
Twelve-year-old Brian R. of Arizona, USA, was preparing to pass the sacrament for the first time. He didn’t want to make a mistake, so he asked the other Aaronic Priesthood holders in his ward to explain things to him.
“They were great,” he says. “They told me where to stand, where to go, and how to pass the trays.”
But even more important, they reminded him to be reverent. “We need to remember the Savior as we pass the sacrament,” Brian says. “If we are reverent, it helps others to remember Him too.”
Brian learned that others are happy to help him to understand his duties and to learn to do them well. “Just ask,” he says. “Moving from Primary into Young Men is easier than you think.”

When I was a young man living in a city called Namur in Belgium, there was a large river separating it from an adjacent city on the other side of the river. At that time, only one bridge connected the two cities. It had been built and rebuilt over the remnants of a bridge built centuries before by the Roman conquerors. It had become too narrow for the traffic, and there were too many small arches to allow the passage of large boats and barges. A new bridge was necessary, wider and with only one arch. The work to establish the foundations soon started on both sides of the river. Rapidly, two huge metallic arms began to stretch from each side with the aim to meet together in the middle of the river. I was fascinated by the engineering and rode my bicycle almost every day to watch the progress of the work. Finally the day came when the centerpiece, a cornerstone made of steel, was going to link the two arms together. Crowds were now watching with me the delicate operation, the final step that would join the two arms together and permit crossing the bridge for the first time. When it took place, people applauded, workers embraced; the obstacle of the river had been conquered and overcome.

“This time you’re racing the clock.” The P.E. instructor held up his stopwatch. I lined up with the rest of the class on the university track. I tucked my standard, authorized T-shirt into my standard, authorized gym trunks, attempting to camouflage the spare tire around my waist, that although unauthorized, had become quite standard.
“Ready!” the instructor called.
The semester was just beginning. This was a pretest—11 laps equaling a mile-and-a-half run to assess our present fitness levels.
“Get set!” Again the voice sounded. I leaned forward. When this fitness appraisal is finished, I thought to myself, I just hope I’m still fit enough to stand up.
“Go!” The whistle blew.
Like a herd of animals scared by the sound, our group lurched forward and stampeded down the track. After only one lap the herd sorted itself into two distinct groups: them and me.
After two more laps I was so far behind I appeared to be leading the pack. “Just keep plugging, Brad,” I psyched myself. “Remember tortoise and the hare—tortoise and the hare—tortoise and the hare.”
The group whizzed by me again. I noticed the lead runner. He was good. I admired his form. I studied his stride. I reflected on his reflexes. I wanted to trip him. Runners like Ken Williams make coaches proud and tortoises envious.
I staggered ahead. By lap six, Ken was finished and probably showering. By lap eight the rest of the herd had completed the run and were headed to the watering trough as well. The instructor might have forgotten I was still running except for the sounds of wheezing and gasping he heard as I endured to the end. Oh, the indignity of it all, I thought. I wished I were a tortoise with a shell to hide under.
Lap nine: My rubbery legs were protesting.
Lap ten: My stomach was threatening a revolutionary uprising.
Lap eleven: This class was supposed to be teaching me fitness for life, but right then, death looked like an enticing alternative. I crossed the finish line. My heart sank into my left tennis shoe, partly because of the ordeal, but mostly because of the embarrassing time announced too loudly by the instructor.
“You’ve got a lot of work to do this semester,” the bored teacher proclaimed as he walked away.
He was right. In the 12 weeks that followed I ran almost every day, and the only thing that kept me from being as bored as he, was memorization. It was an idea Dad gave me to keep my mind off my tortured legs and sagging arches. So with each of my daily 11 laps I memorized the corresponding article of faith. (Just don’t ask me to recite numbers 12 and 13. Shortly I moved into the scriptures. You know, “Run and not be weary …”
The semester passed. “We’ll have our final run next Tuesday,” the instructor declared. “Final next Tuesday,” I wrote in my notes. “Wait!” I was horrified. “I’ll be in Nevada next Tuesday!”
After class I tried to explain. “I’m in this play, see … this musical, and we’ll be performing in Las Vegas on Monday night.”
“So?” the instructor intoned. “It doesn’t matter where you are on Monday night as long as you are here on Tuesday morning.” He seemed as mechanical and cold as the stopwatch hanging from his neck. “If you want a grade, you’ll be here.” Discussion ended.
Tuesday morning came. Sure enough, I was there—physically, at least. I left Las Vegas immediately after the curtain call and drove all night long. I arrived in town with only minutes to change into track clothes. My body screamed, “You should be in bed!”
“No,” my mind replied, “You should be in a mental institution for not being in bed.” My spirit was unwilling and my flesh was weak. But there I was.
“We’ll run in two groups,” the instructor shouted.” So everybody gets a partner to count your laps and record your time.” Williams, the name next to Wilcox on the roll, became my partner.
“Great,” I thought sarcastically, “the tortoise and the hare.” Remembering his performance during the pretest months ago, I already knew it would be easy to count Ken’s laps. My partner lined up with the first group.
“Good luck,” I muttered through a near yawn. The whistle blew. Just as the other partners did for their runners, I kept track of Ken’s laps. Just as the other partners did for their runners, I held up a corresponding number of fingers as he passed. Just as the other partners did for their runners, I yelled encouraging words. Then, well ahead of other partners and their runners, I recorded Ken’s amazing time.
Hardly pausing, Ken circled the track for a leisurely cool-down. He breathed heavily. His muscled frame gleamed with sweat.
“Second group to your mark!” the instructor shouted. Some of the “jocks” who had already finished running began slipping out. They had just completed the last requirement of the semester and certainly didn’t plan to spend any extra time following up on this “partner” business.
Ken came toward me. I suggested, “Hey, you don’t have to stay. I can count my own laps.”
“It’s okay,” he said.
“Don’t feel obliged,” I tried again. “Some of the others are leaving and the instructor doesn’t care. Just go ahead and shower.”
“No,” Ken flopped on some nearby bleachers, “I’m kind of tired. I’ll just sit here for a minute and count your laps.”
“I’m afraid it’ll take more than a minute,” I warned.
“Second group ready!” the instructor called. “Get set,” the whistle blew.
We charged forward. Now’s your chance to prove you’ve worked hard during the semester, I reminded myself. Now’s the time to make those hours and laps pay off. Come on now. “We believe in God the Eternal Father …” I recited silently as I ran. It helped.
Lap two passed. Lap three passed. Already I was wavering.
You’re pacing yourself too fast, I panicked. But this is the pace I’d kept for weeks.
Lap four: “We believe the first four principles and ordinances of the gospel are … are … are what?” My head started spinning. The long night’s drive was showing up. I was slowing up.
“Adrenaline!” I demanded of my body. “Sorry,” my sleepless self yawned. “You left it in Las Vegas.”
I swayed and tottered like a sleepwalker. I was exhausted.
Lap five: “We believe … we believe …” I can’t do it, I thought. My head throbbed in rhythm with my pounding heart. My strength was gone.
Just as the other partners did for their runners, Ken held up his fifth finger as I passed. Just as the other partners did for their runners, Ken yelled, “You can do it!” or some such nonsense. Then, noticing my distress, Ken Williams did something very unlike all the other partners on the sidelines. Ken started to run and caught up with me. Loping along at my right, he offered the tail of his T-shirt.
“What’re you doing?” I gasped.
Again Ken extended the shirttail. Without further question I reached over into his lane and grabbed it. Then Ken began to run, forcing me to keep up. He was still sweating from his own final test, and now he was exerting himself again.
“By love serve ye one another” (Gal. 5:13). It was one of the scriptures I had memorized while running on that very track.
Lap six: “Come on,” he urged.
Lap seven: “Run, Brad, keep it up.” He wasn’t shouting from the sidelines. He was encouraging me step for step.
Lap eight, nine, and ten: Ken didn’t just pace me for a while. He ran with me to the end. He gave me the shirt off his back and went the extra mile, literally.
My drained body finally drooped across the finish line. I wanted a gold medal. Under the circumstances my time wasn’t that much better than the pretest taken months earlier, but I wanted a gold medal. I wanted it for Ken.
Mosiah 4:15: “Teach them to love one another and to serve one another.” I had memorized that one, too. I memorized it; Ken lived it.
“Thanks,” I coughed, when I finally felt that I could talk at all.
“No problem,” Ken panted.
Still leaning heavily on his shoulder, I clutched my aching side. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” he said.
“Verily I say unto you, insomuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matt. 25:40). I memorized that or I had learned it in Mutual activities when we used to clean widows’ yards and go to the stake welfare farm because our advisers insisted. We quoted it in seminary, also, when we subbed for Santa and donated money to help foreign seminary students because we knew we should.
“Ken,” my chest was heaving. “I’d never have made it without you. Thanks.”
“It’s okay,” he smiled. “I wanted to help.”
No adviser insisted. No seminary teacher told him he should. I wasn’t a welfare assignment. I wasn’t a home teaching obligation. There was no space on the elders quorum roll where Ken could report his extra-mile laps and get the credit he deserved. Ken helped me because he wanted to.
“Want to”—“have to.” On paper the difference between these two phrases is minimal. Each one even has the same number of letters. But on a fieldhouse track, in a ward, neighborhood, school, or elsewhere, the difference between “want to” and “have to” is continents wide.
It was quite a lesson Ken taught me a few semesters back as we ran together on the fieldhouse track. He probably doesn’t remember now. He probably didn’t even realize it then, but the exercise he showed me, this exercise called willing service, has been particularly good for my heart.

I woke up one morning during my junior year in high school in a rotten mood. It was 5:30 a.m., it was cold, and it was a Tuesday—a day with a heavy class load. I’d already decided it was going to be a miserable day.
I bumbled around the kitchen and got my lunch ready. Then I plopped down at the table for some plain cereal and milk. Grumpy, I dug my spoon into the bowl and took a huge bite of breakfast. I scowled at the wall.
A small plaque caught my attention. My mother had received it from her visiting teachers. In cheerful letters it said, “Blessings brighten when you count them.”
“No,” I thought darkly. “I’m in a bad mood today and nothing is going to change it.”
In my head, I started an argument with the plaque.
“Absolutely nothing can brighten this day,” I thought. I took another bite of cereal and crunched it angrily. But my eyes were drawn back to the white writing: “Blessings brighten when you count them.”
“You won’t work,” I told the plaque. “You can’t work. I’m pretty sure even a box of puppies couldn’t make me happy today.”
“You don’t like puppies,” my brain argued.
“Exactly,” I said.
I like to be right all the time, and the plaque was challenging me. “Fine!” I said out loud, “I’ll prove you’re wrong.”
I looked around the kitchen, daring myself to find something I was grateful for. The obstinate part of me was still being unreasonable.
“It is 5:43 in the morning. I have nothing to be grateful for.”
I crunched another bite of cereal. Then suddenly I had a thought.
“It would be mighty hard to eat your cereal without a spoon.”
I stopped. I looked at my spoon. Then I looked at the cereal in my bowl.
“I guess you’re right,” I thought reluctantly. “It would be pretty hard to eat cereal without a spoon.”
“Now,” the thought came to mind, “imagine trying to eat your cereal without a bowl.” I actually smiled a little at the thought of a big puddle of milk and cereal on the table.
“What about without a chair to sit in?” I thought.
I felt the chair beneath me and gripped my spoon a little tighter, looking at the simple utensil with appreciation. My gaze drifted back to the plaque that still said, “Blessings brighten when you count them.”
This time, I gave a tiny smile. “I have a spoon. I have something to be grateful for. And a bowl. And a chair.”
I started to see dozens of things I was thankful for. Not only did I have food, but there was also food in the pantry and downstairs in the storage room. I would probably never have to go hungry. My parents worked hard to feed my siblings and me. They also worked hard to create a safe house for us to live in. And they loved me.
All of a sudden, many things gained new meaning: It was cold outside, but I lived in a warm house. It was early in the morning, but I had the opportunity to go to seminary and to school. I was eating breakfast alone, but Tuesdays were my dad’s temple days, so I could rejoice that he was in the house of the Lord. I could be grateful that I had parents who were devoted to the gospel. Many times they got up early to go and serve.
“So, plaque, I guess you were right. My blessings did brighten as I counted them.” The dark mood from minutes before had evaporated. It had been replaced with a spirit of peace.
“No hard feelings,” I thought. I realized that I’d only scratched the surface of understanding how blessed I am. In fact, I was so busy feeling blessed that I was nearly late for seminary. As I walked out of the house, I was full of gratitude—for my family, my Heavenly Father, a wooden plaque, and the women who had given it to my mother.
And, yes, I was grateful for something as small and easily overlooked as a spoon.