Gospel Story Finder

Thinking back to my first ward road show, I distinctly remember the early-morning practices, the prayers, the talking to others as we waited to perform our parts, and the camaraderie we felt as we painted scenery, practiced, and learned together. These were the times when I watched how the gospel worked in the real lives of real people. I saw how my advisers handled problems, how leaders reacted under pressure, how spouses related to each other, and I made silent decisions about living the principles I was being taught on Sunday. I felt the Spirit as we prayed for miracles, such as remembering our parts or the health of one of the youth.
I don’t remember my lines from that road show, nor do I remember all the other particulars. But I do remember how I felt as we performed and as I looked into the faces of my ward members and saw their approval and felt their love.

Becky edged closer to her father on the hard seat of the buckboard, trying to convince herself she was not afraid. As they rounded a bend in the road, the trees hid even the tall church spire. It was as though Jacksonville no longer existed.
Pa seemed unaware of her fears. His tanned face creased into familiar lines as he smiled down at her. “Sure is nice having company,” he said.
“Do you think Mrs. Arnold will be all right?”
“With your Ma watching her?” Pa laughed. “Isn’t a better nurse this side of the Cascades.”
Silence fell between them. The only sounds were those made by the rumbling wheels and the clanking harness chains.
If only Ma hadn’t gone to nurse Mrs. Arnold, Becky thought. Then I would be home now, safe behind the walls of our log cabin, instead of going with Pa on his daily trip to pan for gold.
It was early in the day, but Becky pulled at the brim of her calico sunbonnet. The summer sun was hot in southern Oregon, and Ma had warned her not to get sunburned. She stared ahead at the road that became rough as they left the town behind. Trees lined one side, their branches stretching like hungry arms toward the shallow creek that glittered to her right.
Becky jumped as a shadow passed overhead, then shielded her eyes to watch a hawk swoop low over the trees. She wished she could be as brave and proud as the hawk. There was nothing to be afraid of, she assured herself once more. After all, there hadn’t been any trouble with Indians for almost two years now, and she was foolish to fear anything else with her father beside her. Still, she felt uneasy.
They had traveled for nearly two hours when Pa pulled the buckboard to the side of the road. He jumped to the ground, and his strong arms swung her down beside him. He pulled a pick and shovel from the back of the wagon and handed Becky the battered pan he used for gold panning. “Will you carry the pan?” he asked.
Becky nodded, pleased to be helpful, then followed close behind as her father pushed through the bushes that lined the creek bed. Loose stones rolled beneath Becky’s feet, but she fought to keep up with him. She didn’t want to be left behind. They walked a few yards upstream until they reached a point where the rushing water curved in its course, creating a tiny cove. “Why don’t you sit over there on that big rock?” Pa suggested. “Can’t have you falling in. Your mother would skin us both alive if I brought you home soaking wet.”
Obediently Becky perched on the flat gray rock. She touched the velvety texture of the moss growing in the crevices of the stone—how soft it felt!
Pa crouched beside the stream and patiently swirled the pan, letting water spill over its side. He poked at the sand in the bottom of the pan before he scooped up another shovelful of gravel and began the process again.
Becky stretched her cramped muscles and wiggled her toes. The rock was hard, and she wished she had brought a book to read. Occasionally her father turned to smile at her, and once he showed her a tiny glimmer of color he found in the bottom of the pan.
At last he glanced at the sky and rose from his crouched position. “Why don’t you run back to the wagon,” he suggested, “and fetch the lunch pails? It’s time we had something to eat.”
Becky hesitated. Surely he doesn’t expect me to go back to the wagon all by myself, she worried.
A slight frown of irritation wrinkled Pa’s forehead. “Well, go on,” he urged. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
She took a deep breath and slid off her rock. She couldn’t admit how frightened she felt. He would never understand. She moved downstream, picking her way carefully, her skirt held up to the top of her sturdy boots. Her father waved once and turned back to his work.
When Becky rounded a bend, she knew she had almost reached the wagon. She quickened her steps and tried not to think of anything except getting back to Pa.
A rustle in the bushes made her stop, and a flicker of movement caught her eye. A snake! Is it a rattlesnake coiled there, ready to spring? she wondered. Becky’s heart seemed to stop beating and she was unable to move. Then she saw a patch of brown fur and forced herself to edge closer. Cautiously she pushed the bushes aside. A small brown and black animal crouched on the ground, its foot caught in a snare. Its dark eyes were wide with fear as it stared at the girl.
Becky knew it was a river otter. She had seen their hides stretched to dry behind Parker’s Store and knew a lot of the townspeople trapped them for their pelts. But she had never seen a live one before. “Poor thing,” she crooned, and crouched down and extended her hand carefully.
The animal backed away as far as the snare would allow, and its lip quivered in a weak snarl.
“I won’t hurt you,” Becky said quietly as she reached for the vine that held the otter’s foot. Perhaps she should get Pa to set it free. But she knew he would tell her this was someone else’s trap and that they had no right to release the animal. Yet she couldn’t bear to leave it here like this.
As Becky grasped the snare, she worried that the otter would try to sink its teeth into her hand. Instead, the animal cringed against the rocky ground, shivering with fear. Her fingers trembled as she fought to loosen the loop from the otter’s foot. At last she pulled it free and waited for the animal to run away, but it continued to cower in the bushes.
A rock shifted behind her and Becky whirled around. She looked up into the black eyes of an Indian. Maybe it’s one of his traps, she thought. The man’s scowling face made her catch her breath, but she rose to her feet and stood between him and the injured otter. Run, little otter! she thought fiercely. Run, before he catches you again.
The man’s gaze fell on the snare Becky held in her hands, then moved to the animal she attempted to shield. “You set him free.” It was a statement, rather than a question, but Becky nodded, unable to speak.
Slowly the scowl faded from the man’s face. He took the snare from Becky’s lifeless fingers and studied it for a moment. Then he hurled it into the stream where the current quickly carried it out of sight.
“It is good,” the Indian said abruptly. “The otter is my brother. I am named for him—Swift Otter.”
Becky watched him, uncertain what he would do next. She heard the rustle of leaves behind her and saw the otter disappear into the bushes.
“You have saved his life,” Swift Otter said. “He will be wiser now.” He studied her for a moment in silence, then said, “You are brave for so small a girl.”
The Indian turned and walked away from Becky. She stared after him. She wanted to call out, to ask him where he came from, but he was gone.
At last Becky moved toward the wagon. Swift Otter had called her brave. All her fears were still there, but he hadn’t seen them. She suddenly realized that in her concern for the trapped animal she had forgotten to be afraid. Perhaps in time she could learn to be brave—as brave as Swift Otter thought she was.
A shadow passed overhead, and this time Becky didn’t jump. She raised her face and watched the hawk swoop across the clear blue sky.

Most people who stand six-foot-six and weigh over 300 pounds get some respect. Chad O’Watch is no exception. But in his case, there is no fear involved.
People in the Carry-the-Kettle First Nation (a native reservation) in Saskatchewan, Canada, and far beyond respect the 17-year-old Latter-day Saint because he is a genuinely good person. An honor student at the Nakoda Oyade Education Centre, where he serves as the student president, Chad has earned the school’s citizenship award three years in a row. He is the school’s go-to guy. He has been put in charge of the drink machine at sporting events because of his well-known honesty. If the school needs a representative at a conference, they send Chad. He attended the First Nations and Inuit National Science Camp as one of 5 students from Saskatchewan and only 50 or 60 from all of Canada.
“I love to go to school. I like to learn and be with my friends,” Chad says. “I like to help people. I can’t bear to see someone in need and not be helping.”
This helpfulness seems to be an inherited trait. Chad’s father, who maintains and drives the school’s buses, is known as a kind and generous man, always ready to share with those in need. Though a member of the Church, Brother O’Watch has not attended for many years. That’s why it’s so amazing that he did what he did one afternoon in April when Chad was 11.
Brother O’Watch and Chad were returning in an empty bus from the last run of the day. Instead of turning down his own lane as usual, Brother O’Watch made a surprise right turn into the parking lot of the Carry-The-Kettle Branch of the Regina Saskatchewan Stake. “The missionaries are waiting for you,” he said.
Chad was not a member of the Church and had no wish to be one. He refused to get off the bus. His dad, uncharacteristically, insisted. “There are other kids here,” he said. “You’ll have fun, and it will be good for you.”
So Chad obeyed, steaming and fuming. “I thought my dad was the worst guy alive,” he recalls. He met the missionaries and attended his first Primary meeting. He was astonished to find that he kind of liked it, and he went again the next week.
“After going a few times, I found that I just loved being there. There was a feeling of the Spirit. The missionaries lived next to the chapel, and before long I was there almost every day helping them and being taught.”
In November Chad was baptized and confirmed. “I had a warm, good feeling, like coming home to a place where I belonged.” He felt even more at home as he accepted callings and was eventually ordained a deacon. At the age of 13 he was called to serve as branch clerk and has fulfilled that assignment ever since. “From the first day, serving as a clerk was a joy. The Lord has called me specifically to do this, and it’s a privilege to do His work. When I started, balancing a checkbook was not one of the things I knew how to do. I had to learn that and lots of other things. But the Lord has blessed me with the ability to do my duty. Because of the challenge, I think I’ve grown in both mind and spirit.”
Whenever something needs doing, Chad steps forward. When no one in the branch knew how to lead the music, he taught himself and volunteered for the job. He has since led the singing in a tri-stake youth conference.
Chad’s outward devotion stems from inward conviction: “I know that Jesus Christ is my Savior. I know that He died for me. I love Him, and I know that He loves me. Knowing that I can return to live with Him and Heavenly Father changes everything. It makes me want to bring people to Him. Everyone’s life would be so much better if they had Jesus Christ in it.”
For Chad, serving a mission is a no-brainer. “It says in my patriarchal blessing that there are people waiting specifically for me. I owe it to them to bring them the gospel. I love to serve the Lord, and I just can’t wait to put on the armor of God and go do that.”
Although Chad never preaches to his friends, he has been a missionary since the day of his baptism. Elder and Sister Dudley, full-time missionaries serving on the reserve, have seen him in action. “He teaches the things he believes, but he does it in a fun way,” Sister Dudley says.
“Chad has had a tremendous influence on his nonmember friends just by being himself,” Elder Dudley explains. He sets such a good example that people see the difference between his standards and the standards of the world. One of Chad’s best friends is coming to seminary this year and has attended youth conferences.”
Chad is an easygoing person and fun to be around, but his standards are firm. “If I know in my heart that a thing isn’t right to do, I don’t do it. It’s as simple as that. It’s just not going to happen. I guess I’m hardheaded that way.”
Do his peers have a problem with this? “They respect the fact that there are things I don’t do. If they do those things, they do them somewhere else.”
“There’s a zone around Chad where things like that stop,” Elder Dudley says.
He does put himself in places where right things will be happening. He faithfully attends every meeting, youth conference, service project, fireside, baptism—you name it. He helps his dad maintain the buses. He gives people rides in his car when they need transportation. He pitches in to help make and mend. He embraces every chance to use his priesthood in blessing the lives of others. “When I bless or pass or prepare the sacrament, I think about the Savior and all He has done for me. It is such an honor to serve Him.”
Chad is committed to extending the blessings of the gospel to his ancestors. He does research with his grandmother and has been baptized in the Regina Saskatchewan Temple for several hundred of his ancestors—70 of them in one memorable session alone. “I love the temple,” he says. “There’s a feeling you get there that’s just unreal.”
Another source of inspiration is the Book of Mormon. “Reading the stories and applying them to my life have made me a much happier and better person.”
Practical as well as spiritual, Chad is determined to earn a college degree. But unlike some, he does not see it as a means of leaving behind the poverty and problems of the reserve. “I know deep down inside that my people need me. It’s my responsibility to help bring them to Christ. I really don’t know what my career path needs to be—a teacher might be one possibility—but I’m not looking to escape this place.”
Besides, the reserve can be beautiful. It lies amid low wooded hills on the vast Saskatchewan prairie. It’s a quiet, peaceful landscape that Chad loves. “When I was visiting Edmonton, I felt out of place. It was so noisy and busy. Here it’s quiet and laid-back. It’s just home.”
There are other attractions too. Chad likes to ski, skate, and snowmobile in the winter. He and his dad hunt deer in the fall and ducks and geese in the spring. They always share their game with the elderly.
Though perfectly willing to share his possessions, Chad’s dad is not so comfortable sharing his feelings. He has never explained why he chose to drop his son at the chapel that life-changing day in April. But a fair guess might be that the bus driver was driven by love. If so, the feeling is mutual. Chad has set a firm goal of being sealed to his family in the temple someday. He seeks an eternal bond with the man who made the crucial right turn at just the right time. How could any son show greater respect?

Fifty-two years ago, in July 1964, I had an assignment in New York City during the time the World’s Fair was hosted there. Early one morning I visited the Mormon Pavilion at the fair. I arrived just prior to a showing of the Church’s film Man’s Search for Happiness, a portrayal of the plan of salvation which has since become a Church classic. I sat next to a young man who was perhaps 35 years of age. We spoke briefly. He was not a member of our Church. Then the lights dimmed, and the show commenced.
We listened to the voice of the narrator as he posed the poignant and universal questions: Where did I come from? Why am I here? Where do I go when I leave this life? All ears strained to hear the answers, and all eyes were fixed on the images portrayed. A description of our premortal life was given, along with an explanation of our purpose on earth. We witnessed a touching depiction of the passing from this life of an elderly grandfather and of his glorious reunion with loved ones who had preceded him to the spirit world.
At the conclusion of this beautiful portrayal of our Heavenly Father’s plan for us, the crowd silently filed out, many visibly touched by the message of the film. The young visitor next to me did not arise. I asked if he had enjoyed the presentation. His emphatic response: “This is the truth!”
Our Father’s plan for our happiness and our salvation is shared by our missionaries throughout the world. Not all who hear this divine message accept and embrace it. However, men and women everywhere, just like my young friend at the New York World’s Fair, recognize its truths, and they plant their feet on the path that will lead them safely home. Their lives are forever changed.
Essential to the plan is our Savior, Jesus Christ. Without His atoning sacrifice, all would be lost. It is not enough, however, merely to believe in Him and His mission. We need to work and learn, search and pray, repent and improve. We need to know God’s laws and live them. We need to receive His saving ordinances. Only by so doing will we obtain true, eternal happiness.
We are blessed to have the truth. We have a mandate to share the truth. Let us live the truth, that we might merit all that the Father has for us. He does nothing save it be for our benefit. He has told us, “This is my work and my glory—to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man.”1
From the depths of my soul and in all humility, I testify of the great gift which is our Father’s plan for us. It is the one perfect path to peace and happiness both here and in the world to come.

President GilbertBoth of our first two stories relate to formal callings or assignments in the Church. But sometimes the call to follow Christ comes in other, more intimate ways. These calls can relate to our work, family life, and personal life. And sometimes they require us to do hard things. When Sister Gilbert and I first moved back East for graduate school, I was required to participate in a multi-week program affectionately named "Math Camp" by the doctoral students in my program. I was in way over my head. It was about one-third of the way through the initial experience when I started to doubt myself. I knew the program was where the Lord wanted me, but I was becoming painfully aware of my own academic shortcomings. I will never forget one evening with Sister Gilbert as we ate dinner along the Charles River. I confided in her that I didn't think I could complete the program. I explained it wasn't simply a matter of working harder; I just didn't have the ability to do that kind of work. I will never forget her response: "Clark, you prayed for this opportunity and you know our family is supposed to be here. Now, buck up and learn that math!"

Sister GilbertWell, as you know, President Gilbert made it through "Math Camp," and he eventually made it through his graduate program and was given multiple offers to teach in his field. Through this challenging process we both learned that when you are on the Lord's errand, you need to forget your fears and trust in the Lord. In Proverbs we read, "Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding."[4] Ironically, my husband's research and work in his doctoral program would prove foundational, not only to his future work for the Church, but also to his time in Boston. He took a position on the faculty right where he had trained and began teaching.

“I’m going to be honest,” Tyreece says. “The only reason I wanted to become a member was to be with a girl.” He was 17 when he met her and had no idea that their growing friendship would change his life.
At first, she hesitated to tell Tyreece that she was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—she worried he might unfairly judge her. Instead, his reaction was: “Oh yeah? So how do you become a member?” This led to an in-depth discussion about the gospel of Jesus Christ and the standards that Latter-day Saints try to live by. Then she explained her own commitment that she would only marry a returned missionary.
“I’ll do it,” was Tyreece’s immediate reply. He decided then and there that he would join the Church and serve a mission. She was worth it.
The very next day, he went missionary hunting. “You know how missionaries hunt for nonmembers or less-active members?” he explains. “I was hunting for missionaries—looking for them.” Tyreece started by asking his schoolmates and discovered that one of his friends, Siale Aloua, was a member of the Church. Siale confirmed that Tyreece should definitely talk to the missionaries, but in the meantime, he was happy to answer any questions Tyreece had.
One day, while heading home from school, Tyreece spotted, far in the distance, two young men in white shirts, walking together down the road. “Straightaway I ran after them!” Just as Tyreece was catching up, the missionaries entered a house. “So, I waited outside, across the road, for nearly an hour just to talk to them.”
When the missionaries finally emerged from the house, Tyreece rushed over and introduced himself, then told them he wanted to join their Church. The missionaries were understandably stunned and excited, but they told Tyreece that he had a lot to learn first. Less than 24 hours later, they taught him the first missionary discussion at a nearby park.
“I really wanted that lesson, ASAP, because the only thing on my mind was to become a returned missionary. So, I was trying to become a member as fast as I could.” But things didn’t work out the way he hoped. Heavenly Father had a different plan.
Around this time, Tyreece’s relationship with his parents was difficult, and he acknowledges his part in the problem. “I was like, talking back, disrespectful and all that, and my parents threatened to kick me out because they couldn’t handle me.”
When Tyreece returned home from his first lesson with the missionaries, he found all his belongings strewn about. “That’s how bad my parents wanted to get rid of me,” he says. But he thought about the pamphlet the missionaries had just given him about the gospel of Jesus Christ; and remembered the invitation they had extended to him: to go home and pray to Heavenly Father. Instead of reacting to the circumstances, Tyreece says, “I just ignored it all and I just did a prayer.”
He immediately felt the Holy Spirit. The feeling came with a sense of clarity, even at such an unsettling time for him. He stayed with a friend for a few days, then decided to reach out to the missionaries, to explain his home situation and ask for advice. Within five minutes, the missionaries found him board with a family in their ward. It was then that Tyreece knew in his heart that Heavenly Father is real, and that he could put all his trust and faith in Him.
“I ended up staying with the family for a while,” Tyreece says. During his time with them, he continued to receive lessons from the missionaries, participated in the Church’s youth and then young single adult programmes, and was able to learn the routines of a Latter-day Saint home. He began to truly study the scriptures, and when he discovered the Lord’s commandment to honour our parents, Tyreece knew he had to make things right with his own family.
He and his parents started talking again and slowly rebuilt their relationship. His mother even started attending Church with him—she wanted to know the cause of her son’s change of heart. Around this time, Tyreece witnessed his friend Siale prepare for and be called to serve in the Brisbane Australia Mission. His testimony of the Church continued to grow and to strengthen. He just knew that all the blessings pouring into his life came from his choice to follow the teachings of Jesus Christ.
Over a year after his first meeting with the missionaries, with his parents in attendance to support him, Tyreece entered the waters of baptism and became a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He is currently preparing to serve a mission, but more importantly, Tyreece can confidently declare: “Even though I started this journey for someone else, my testimony of the gospel is now my own.”
Tyreece’s progress in the Church has not gone unnoticed. At the end of 2022, he was asked to speak at the Auckland Papatoetoe Stake conference, where he bore his testimony:
“I know this Church is true. I know that when your faith in Heavenly Father is strong, He will bless you and your family for all eternity. I know that when you follow Heavenly Father’s commandments, He will guide you and your family to the right path . . . I have seen it with my own eyes and through experience. Now I want to help guide families towards Heavenly Father, so they can be together forever for all eternity.”

A man who grew up in the Church, served as a full-time missionary, and married a lovely woman was surprised when some of his siblings began speaking critically of the Church and the Prophet Joseph Smith. After a time they left the Church and tried to persuade him to follow. As often happens in such cases, they bombarded him with essays, podcasts, and videos produced by critics, most of whom were themselves disaffected former members of the Church. His siblings mocked his faith, telling him he was gullible and misled. He didn’t have answers for all their assertions, and his faith began to waver under the relentless opposition. He wondered if he should stop attending church. He talked with his wife. He talked with people he trusted. He prayed. As he meditated in this troubled state of mind, he recalled occasions when he had felt the Holy Spirit and had received a witness of truth by the Spirit. He concluded, “If I am honest with myself, I must admit that the Spirit has touched me more than once and the testimony of the Spirit is real.” He has a renewed sense of happiness and peace that is shared by his wife and children.

Every morning our walk to the work site at the end of the trench grew longer, and every day the Sundance Power Plant grew a little smaller on the horizon. For myself and the three young LDS men that I worked with that summer in northern Alberta, the construction work was temporary—our heads were filled with thoughts of college, dreams of careers in business, advertising, and biology. We counted the days until the two-mile-long trench (that would serve as a filter for the murky water that left the power plant) would be finished.
The fact I had found myself working with three Mormons in northern Alberta was a near miracle, if not a mathematical impossibility. Being a recent convert, I felt fortunate to be among others of my faith while I worked. The time went by quickly as they shared experiences from their missions, one even taking the time to teach me a little Japanese.
Norm was our patriarch, not in age as much as in patience and insight. He was a tall, lanky guy who was always the first with a practical joke or a one-liner, but also the type who seemed to know when understanding and empathy were in order. Perhaps Norm’s kindness was made even more apparent as it contrasted with the rough, seasoned construction workers we worked alongside—men who used four-letter words to replace any and every adjective possible, men who spent their paychecks on beer and little else. Three of us steered clear of the regulars, but Norm made an extra effort to spend at least a few minutes every day working in their group.
One morning, before we made our way down the twisting trench, Norm pulled a Book of Mormon out of his lunch box and walked over to one of the regulars.
“Don’t be stupid,” snapped the powerfully built construction worker as he pushed the book back at Norm. Norm took a short, nervous step back.
“Put the thing in my truck,” the man said in a hushed voice. “And put it under the seat so the guys don’t see it and give me a hard time.”
Norm walked over to the vehicle and called back to the man who was now surrounded by several of his fellow workers. “Hey, nice stereo. Mind if I have a closer look?”
“Yeah, sure,” the man called back.
Norm slipped the Book of Mormon under the driver’s seat, and we began our daily walk to the job site.
Norm answered our queries by telling us that he had struck up several conversations with the man while they worked. During one talk he discovered the man’s grandmother was an American Indian. “I listened to the stories his grandmother told him,” said Norm, “like the one where the continent is covered in darkness for three days [see 1 Ne. 19:10]. I told him, ‘Boy, do I have a book for you!’”
I felt disturbed. I knew I would have let these individuals miss out on the blessings of the gospel simply because they appeared rough on the outside. I knew Norm did not approach these men because he wanted to show off to us; he knew the joy of the gospel, and he wanted these men to share that spiritual wealth.
After Norm told his story we were quiet for a long time, walking and thinking of the blessings we enjoyed and wondering how we could walk closer to our brothers. With the time we had left on the job, we brought the other men into our work group and involved them in our water fights and our harmless practical jokes on the bosses and on each other. But perhaps most important, we let these men know what we believed and how we lived our lives. And from then on, as we walked to and from the job site, we did so together, the regulars and the Mormons—side by side.

Early one December afternoon my husband baptized our youngest son. My heart was full as I saw my son’s sweet face reflecting his feelings about this important day. That evening we attended our ward Christmas program and left for home filled with a special Christmas spirit. It had been a wonderful day.
But our feelings of joy were replaced with confusion and anger as we pulled into our driveway and noticed that the glass in the lamp outside our front door had been broken. The lightbulb was smashed, and the rod that earlier had held a bright Christmas bow lay broken on the ground. Along the front of our house hung dripping masses of raw eggs. Bright yellow egg yolk clung to the windows, the eaves, and the siding and smeared the woodwork of our front door. Some of the mess had already solidified in the freezing temperatures. This was not the first time we had been the object of minor vandalism, but it was definitely the worst.
My husband and I hurried our children into the house as they questioned, “Mom, why would anyone do that to us? Don’t they like us?” We calmed the children down, put them to bed, and headed out into the frigid night air to begin the task of scraping and scrubbing off the mess. We knew that if we left it until morning, the paint would be ruined. With frozen hands and angry tempers, we came inside an hour and a half later.
I suddenly remembered that the next day, Sunday, I was supposed to talk to the Primary children about the Savior and his love for us. We were going to discuss ways we could show love to him and our fellowman. I wondered how I could honestly express feelings of love when anger and resentment were racing through my heart. We went to bed that night exhausted and disappointed that such a wonderful day had ended so miserably.
The next morning someone told us who the culprits were. Friends urged us to call the police and report the two boys involved, but my husband and I searched for a better way to handle the situation. We knelt together and asked Heavenly Father to help us do what was best—not just for us, but also for the boys involved. Suddenly, the answer came rushing to us, and a sweet peace replaced our feelings of anger. I was able to go to Primary that day and share with the children my love for the Savior and his guiding influence in our life.
That evening my husband and I piled two plates full of cookies and headed out to talk with the boys and their parents. The first family was new in our neighborhood. We gave the cookies to the boy and told him that we felt this was a better thing to do with eggs. “The next time you get the urge to use some eggs,” we said, “bring them down to our house, and we’ll all make cookies together.”
Sadly, the boy’s father was not receptive to our attempt at reconciliation and told us to take the cookies and go. We left the cookies anyway. As we walked to our car, I started to lose all of my resolve about going to the next house. Frankly, I was a little frightened and very disappointed. I had been so convinced that we were doing the right thing, but now I wasn’t so sure.
However, my husband’s encouragement kept us going. Fortunately, our experience at the next house was somewhat better. This time the boy’s parents expressed appreciation that we had dealt with the problem so understandingly. But the boy flatly denied any part in the egg incident.
We went home, glad of what we had done, but unsure of the result.
One hour later, the second boy, accompanied by his father, knocked on the door and quietly confessed that he and the other boy had been involved. To make up for the mess they had caused, he said he would come to our house the next day after school and clean off any remnants of the eggs he could find.
No apology or attempt at restitution came from the other boy. However, one month later, as Relief Society president, I received the name of a family whose records had just been sent to our ward—it was this boy’s family. I had always made a point of visiting each new sister in our ward as soon as I knew she was here. But this time I was in no hurry to go. “How would she feel about my coming?” I worried. “Would she even let me in?” After procrastinating for a few days, I finally resolved to visit her. With knees shaking and a prayer in my heart, I knocked at her door.
She invited me in, and through the course of our visit we shared our feelings about that night. “You know,” she said, “I almost asked you that night what church you belonged to because I know that’s the way the Lord would have us do things.”
Oh, the joy I felt at that moment. What if we had called the police and had handled the situation in anger? What would this sister’s feelings have been then? How grateful I was that we had listened to and followed the guidance of the Spirit, especially during this season of the Savior’s birth.

When the Murray Utah West Stake decided to make hygiene kits as part of their youth conference, Amy Woodland, of the 13th Ward, was one of those asked to collect and organize supplies for her ward.
She says of the experience, “When I was asked to help with my youth conference and gather items for a humanitarian project, I sat down with my mom and talked about how I was going to organize the project and get all the items I could. I started by passing out flyers that told what items we needed and took them to each house in my neighborhood. I also went into priesthood meetings, Relief Society, Primary, Young Men, and Young Women to announce the items needed.
“Before I knew it, I had people dropping items off at my house, calling me to find out more about the humanitarian project, and giving me money to purchase supplies that we needed the most. Then, when youth conference came around, we had tons of items that other girls had collected from other wards in the stake.
“Being able to participate in this project was amazing! It felt so good knowing that these hygiene kits were sent out to children, adults, and families who were really in need of them. Service is something that really should be spread throughout the world. It has helped me want to serve others more. I learned that by serving others we are serving Heavenly Father.”

We take an oath to be friendly, kind, and courteous. At a national jamboree a 12-year-old Scout got separated from his patrol. He was standing alone in a sea of Scouts and about to break into tears. An older Scout saw him and went over and introduced himself. “I have a gift for you,” the older boy said. “It is a hand-carved bolo tie. A great Scouter, Bill Burch, carved it. He numbers each one. He has carved over 40,000.”
The older Scout presented the tie to the young scared Scout. About that time the patrol found the boy. They gathered around him, and for a few moments he was the center of attention with his new bolo tie. The tears had disappeared; he felt important. The older Scout had truly been friendly.

A number of years ago our family lived in Brazil for a short while. Two weeks before we were supposed to return home, we were in an auto accident. As we drove home in pouring rain from sacrament meeting, we entered a neighborhood intersection. A car pulled out from behind a parked vehicle and hit us broadside. Fortunately no one in either of the cars was injured, but the automobiles were both quite badly dented. As my husband, John, got out to discuss our plight with the other driver, I kept reminding him that it was not our fault. Soon he returned to the car and slowly drove back to the little farmhouse where we were living, with metal grinding against the tires on every rotation. The other car followed. All John said was, “I’ll explain later.”

When we got home, John found our little envelope of emergency cash, and he paid the family to get their car repaired. They happily left. I was astonished. Then John gathered our family together. He was somewhat apologetic as he explained his actions. “I know this accident was not our fault, but as I was negotiating with this family, the only thought in my head was that only a little over an hour ago I had covenanted with Heavenly Father to always act as He would. I knew that if He were standing in my position, He would have had compassion on this family and would have done all He could to help them.” What an exemplary husband and father! He had remembered his covenants. Acting with Christlike love, he had softened hearts.

Walking Hawk moved slowly toward the fire in the center of the village and took a place in the shadows behind the other novice warriors. He tried not to look across the fire at Standing Elk, Eagle Claw, Buffalo Horn, or the other boys his own age who now had taken their places with the men.
Walking Hawk barely heard the talk at the council meeting. His impatience made all other thoughts grow dim. Perhaps if he hadn’t gone with the hunters in search of wild horses, he, too, would be sitting there with the men. A picture of the splendid young roan mare that had been his pay for helping in the horse hunt, however, filled his mind so that he wasn’t too envious of the other boys’ new position of manhood.
Most of the boys who had proven themselves during his absence had killed only antelope or deer, not the great buffalo.
Walking Hawk sat up straighter. That was what he would do. He would not settle for less than a buffalo. Then it wouldn’t matter so much that he hadn’t been among the first.
With the vow bright in his heart, Walking Hawk listened to the words of Long Arm, one of the most famous leaders among all the Sioux.
“The buffalo no longer come to this place as they have in the past,” Long Arm said. Then he paused, glancing around the circle of faces turned toward him. No one spoke.
“The season grows late for securing meat and hides and all else that the buffalo provides for our people. Winter will be upon us before we are prepared. We cannot wait any longer. Tomorrow we must go to the west in search of the buffalo.”
A murmur rose from the men in the circle, for there was danger in going farther west into Crow country, the land of their enemies.
Seeing nothing but a few straggler buffalo during the next three days, the Sioux’s hopes quickened when scouts reported signs that a large herd had been in the vicinity not many days before. The women were pleased when Long Arm announced that a more permanent camp would be made near the ragged, gray bluffs where they would have cover and shade. From here, the scouts would search for the buffalo herd and signal the men to ride out for the hunt.
It was barely dawn when the hunt leader rode out with a few of the most experienced scouts in search of the herd. For those left at camp, the day passed slowly. The waiting was hard for everyone.
Without really tasting it, Walking Hawk ate the supper his mother set in front of him that evening. He walked to the horse herd to watch the animals graze along the stream, and then came back to the tepee to sleep.
Early the next morning Walking Hawk stepped from the tepee. He could not stand this inactivity any longer. He had decided to slip away from the camp to find and kill a straggler buffalo. If no herd were found, he, at least, would have proved himself in his own hunt.
As he had on many mornings in the past, Walking Hawk searched the horse herd for his roan mare.
Impatience pushed at him but still he took time to rub the pony’s coat with a bunch of grass until it gleamed in the first morning light. He casually glanced around at the hunters who had now returned to the village for their morning meal.
Walking Hawk moved slowly, as though he were leading his pony to the stream for water and the better grass growing near there. At the stream, he mounted and sat astride his pony, studying the clouds overhead and the ripples in the water. Then pressing his heels in slightly, the roan started walking downstream. Once around the bend, Walking Hawk crouched forward and dug his heels into the pony’s sides.
He felt a strange uncertainty about running away without telling even his father about his plan. But when he returned with a buffalo, they would all be proud of him.
Walking Hawk had ridden quite a distance without seeing game of any kind, by the time the sun was straight overhead. He decided to ride only as far as the next rise with the stunted trees, and then he would turn back to camp.
Halfway to the trees, Walking Hawk quickly pulled the pony to a halt. Moving from the protection of the trees were two buffalo cows and a partly grown calf. They had not caught sight of him yet and the wind was in his favor.
Sliding off his pony’s back, Walking Hawk paused just long enough to fit an arrow to his bow. Then he ground-reined the pony and crept forward alone.
He would shoot the young cow since the calf was old enough to be weaned. The other cow was too old and tough. Walking Hawk was just about to let the arrow fly, but he paused for a moment. Had he seen a movement beyond the buffalo? His heart jumped like a startled coyote when he realized what the movement was.
In his excitement at seeing the buffalo, Walking Hawk had not been careful and had moved above the horizon line.
Now he had been seen by Crow warriors!
The horsemen were still some distance away, down the west side of the ridge. But they rode swiftly toward him.
The buffalo were forgotten as Walking Hawk bolted for his pony. Sensing his fear, the mare was in motion almost before he had mounted. With this much head start, he hoped to outrun the Crows to the camp.
Then suddenly Walking Hawk’s head reeled, for he recognized the mistake of his thinking. He must not ride toward the camp. To do so would give away the location of his people and make them easy prey for their enemies.
Swallowing his fear, Walking Hawk headed the pony off at an angle from their camp. He glanced over his shoulder and was relieved to see that the riders had not yet topped the ridge. Is it possible that they haven’t seen me, he wondered.
Twice more he glanced back. Five warriors had ridden into clear view.
Walking Hawk rode on all through the afternoon, beyond the time of dusk and into the night. Though his pony breathed hard, it did not falter. His heart sang with gratitude for such a fine animal.
At last, Walking Hawk brought his pony to a halt. Though there was no sound of his pursuers, he knew that they could be very near just waiting for morning to resume their chase. But now he and his pony must have rest. He wondered if he had come so far that he would be unable to find his way back to the camp.
Morning came quickly and as Walking Hawk scanned the horizon in all directions, he felt certain that he had lost the five warriors who had followed him all the previous day.
Though he was becoming faint from hunger, Walking Hawk climbed on his pony and rode toward camp. Dusk was settling like a heavy robe over the land when he caught sight of the familiar line of bluffs ahead. The camp was so well hidden that, without previous knowledge, he would never have guessed its location.
Walking Hawk swallowed hard at the rough command of a sentry who rose up from among the rocks with his bow and arrow poised.
“It is Walking Hawk, son of Red Feather,” he struggled for words. “I—I have returned.”
“You have brought concern to your family and danger to us all,” the sentry scolded him.
The sound of their voices brought Walking Hawk’s father in long strides. His face was dark with anger.
“Care for your horse,” Red Feather commanded. “And then you shall explain the worry that you have brought to your mother.” He strode away as quickly as he had come.
Walking Hawk wanted to make the task of caring for his pony stretch on for a long time, but he dared not. Never had he seen such anger on his father’s face.
Red Feather’s anger did not lessen as Walking Hawk told of his strong wish to become a successful hunter, of his plan for at last achieving it, of his near success, and then of the coming of the Crow warriors.
“So careless!” his father exploded. “Surely, my son would not be so foolish about his own safety or that of his people. Failing to creep carefully to the top of a ridge when in enemy country is unbelievable!”
As his father spoke, Walking Hawk began to realize the seriousness of his act. He tried to swallow the shame that rose bright in his heart. But he could not look at his father. Now he understood that the laws of his people were not just unreasonable rules set down by adults. His act had been a selfish one.
His father put Walking Hawk’s next thought into words. “No one among us has the right to bring danger to himself if it could also bring danger to our people. There can be no safety for any of our people unless each one accepts responsibility for the welfare of all.”
Walking Hawk nodded seriously. “When at last a buffalo herd is sighted,” he said, “I shall stay behind to help guard the camp. It is what I wish.”
Red Feather looked surprised. But as he left the tepee, his heart swelled with pride. Now Walking Hawk was indeed becoming a man!

Let me tell you of a man I know. I will not mention his name lest he feel embarrassed. His wife felt there was something missing in their lives. She spoke with a relative one day who was a member of the Church. The relative suggested that she call the missionaries. She did so. But the husband was rude to them and told them not to come again.

Months passed. One day another missionary, finding the record of this visit, decided that he and his companion would try again. He was a tall elder from California who carried a big smile on his face.

They knocked on the door; the man answered. Could they come in for a few minutes? they asked. He consented.

The missionary said, in effect, “I wonder if you know how to pray.” The man answered that he knew the Lord’s Prayer. The missionary said, “That is good, but let me tell you how to give a personal prayer.” He went on to explain that we get on our knees in an attitude of humility before the God of heaven. The man did so. The missionary then went on to say, “We address God as our Father in Heaven. We then thank Him for His blessings, such as our health, our friends, our food. We then ask for His blessings. We express our innermost hopes and desires. We ask Him to bless those in need. We do it all in the name of His Beloved Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, concluding with ‘amen.’”

It was a pleasant experience for the man. He had gleaned a little light and understanding, a touch of faith. He was ready to try another step.

Line upon line, the missionaries patiently taught him. He responded as his faith grew into a dim light of understanding. Friends from his branch gathered around to reassure him and answer his questions. The men played tennis with him, and he and his family were invited to their homes for dinner.

He was baptized, and that was a giant step of faith. The branch president asked him to be a Scoutmaster to four boys. That led to other responsibilities, and the light of faith strengthened in his life with each new opportunity and experience.

That has continued. Today he stands as a capable and loved stake president, a leader of great wisdom and understanding, and above all, a man of great faith.

This ministering to others must not always be to our own. I am reminded of a time when, as a young missionary, I was stricken with yellow jaundice, which was known to us as “missionaries’ disease.” I was so deathly sick, I was afraid I would not die. A good woman, not of our faith, nursed me back to health. I felt she literally saved my life. That surpassing service to me was unpurchased, for she accepted nothing in return. I am looking forward to seeing her in another world if I should be worthy to go where she is.

Besides sprucing up Main Street, washing cars, tidying the cemetery, spreading gravel at the train depot, and chopping weeds at a main intersection on the highway into town, the youth painted the city’s historic log church, landscaped its grounds, and polished the benches and the organ inside.
“I thought that was neat,” said Daphne Motto, 17. “It didn’t matter that it’s not an LDS church. It’s like we were saying, we’re all brothers and sisters and we need to help each other.”

This glimpse in summary. It was in a school of instruction, the School of Prophets—and prophetesses, too. (For the first thing the Smith brothers thought on a day of a rich spiritual outpouring in that room above the Newel K. Whitney store was, “Where is mother?” And they rode a piece and brought her to participate.) In that setting the Prophet asked that each in turn speak, that, as the revelation says, “not all be spokesmen at once . . . and that every man may have an equal privilege” (D&C 88:122). The subject was faith. Scriptures were quoted. The last man to speak, as it happened, was Brother Kimball who in effect said,

“It’s all been said, but I can say one thing, tell you a story. My daughter, Helen Mar, was standing near the table, and her mother left her saying, ‘Don’t touch those dishes. Don’t break one of those or I will whip you.’ Vilate left, and Helen Mar did what little children often do when they are told not to do it. Not just a dish was broken. The whole table leaf collapsed. All were broken.

“Now she went out, as she had watched her parents do, near a tree. We don’t know what she said, but it would have been simple enough: ‘Bless my mother that she won’t whip me.’

“Vilate returned. She saw the situation. She flared. She led the little girl by the hand into the bedroom. She assumed the angle. And then she couldn’t go through with it. And the arms of Helen Mar came around her neck, and she said, ‘Oh, mother, I prayed that you wouldn’t. I’m sorry, sorry.’”

When Brother Heber finished, every man in the room, including Joseph, was in tears. And Joseph said, “Brethren [these are grown-up, strong, independent, willful, intelligent men], that is the kind of faith we need, the faith of a little child going in humility to its Parent” (Whitney, Kimball, pp. 69–79). That sums it up.

Late last year, I decided to talk to my stake president about something I had kept inside for a long time. Even though I’ve had a picture of the temple on my nightstand for over 10 years and have always had a temple recommend, I had never actually gone inside. A quiet fear had kept me from taking that step.
What made it even harder was that I had been deeply involved in the success of many temple-related events in Haiti, including the laying of the cornerstone at the dedication of the Port-au-Prince Haiti Temple as a member of the Haiti Communication Council and helped promote the temple in many ways. Yet still I couldn’t bring myself to go inside.
I told my stake president that it wasn’t a lack of faith but a fear I couldn’t overcome. Having grown up in the Church, I’ve always tried to be a faithful disciple of Christ. But the thought of actually entering the temple overwhelmed me. Maybe it was the sacredness of the place or the feeling that I wasn’t ready or worthy, even though I wanted to go.
He listened kindly and encouraged me to pray for help to overcome that fear. I took his advice seriously. As the new year began, I knelt in prayer and felt it was finally time to move forward. I no longer wanted to miss out on the blessings of the temple because of my doubts. I told the stake president I was ready to go, and he responded with words I’ll never forget: “May the Light of Christ illuminate your progress as you walk the covenant path and help you overcome your fear.” Those words gave me strength and peace.
I made plans to go to the temple with my mother on January 3, 2025—a day I will never forget. I was nervous but excited. Just before we left, I received a surprise phone call: a long-awaited prayer of mine had finally been answered. After several rejections, I was told that a request I had lost hope on had been approved. It felt like a direct message from heaven, a sign that God had been listening all along.
With a joyful heart, I entered the temple for the first time. The temple president and his wife welcomed me warmly, fully aware of the significance of this moment for me. Their kindness helped calm my remaining fears, and I felt a deep peace.
During the temple session, every word touched my soul. I felt a clarity and joy I had never experienced before. I knew I was in a holy place of revelation and blessings. Afterward, the temple president walked me to the door. That simple act made me feel loved and supported.
That day changed me. I overcame a fear that had weighed on me for years. I felt God’s love and guidance more clearly than ever before.
But the blessings didn’t stop there. When I returned home, I received a second confirmation—another answer to the same prayer but through a different person. It was as if the Lord wanted me to be absolutely sure that He had heard me. Receiving two answers to the same prayer was a powerful witness of His love and mercy.
As I reflected on everything, the words of President Russell M. Nelson came to mind: “It is significant that the Savior chose to appear to the people at the temple. It is His house. It is filled with His power. … I promise that increased time in the temple will bless your life in ways nothing else can.”
Now I know the temple truly is a refuge—a sacred place where I will continue to return for light, direction, and peace.

As a boy, I loved to run. When I was eleven years old, I won an Oregon state cross-country race and I vowed to become a national champion before I graduated from high school. Full of boldness, determined to be better than anyone else, I began a training routine that was to last for years. Every day I ran from five to sixteen kilometers. I loved training. Neither mud, rain, sweat, nor pain were to keep me from my goal. “You only get out of it what you put into it” became my motto.
I began to look ahead to running in the Junior Olympics. My plan was to prepare to race in the 1985 competition, when I would be fourteen years old, and again in 1987, when I would be sixteen. I calculated that these would be in my best years and I would be in my top running condition. What I didn’t calculate was that by 1985 I would grow from a skinny, lightweight boy, to a taller and heavier young man. My whole system had to catch up with the added dimensions of my growing body. My knees ached constantly; my feet and hips almost cried out in pain as I ran; and it was all I could do to win a state championship by a fraction of a second. I knew 1985 wasn’t the year to enter the Junior Olympics, but I would have two years to prepare myself for the 1987 event.
By the spring of 1987 I was running well. I was undefeated in the 1,500-meter run and praised by a local newspaper as the fastest high school freshman in the state of Oregon. My aches and pains had gone. I felt good and I knew I was ready for the Junior Olympics.
Meanwhile, three teammates and I had been invited to participate in a prestigious regional track meet. Full of confidence and in high spirits, we got into the team van with our coach for the ride to the meet.
As we drove onto the main highway, I noticed how congested the traffic was and subconsciously fastened my seat belt. We were all laughing and joking when I casually looked up and noticed a speeding car coming our way. Completely out of control, it began swerving back and forth in our traffic lane, barely avoiding several cars ahead. Stunned into silence, we helplessly watched the car head straight for us.
I awoke to the sounds of screaming sirens, two-way radios crackling, and shouting policemen. We had been hit head-on by a car driven by a wanted man in a stolen car who was being pursued by police in a high-speed chase. My teammate and good friend, Lenny, who was in the seat behind me without his seat belt on, had been thrown across my seat. I had been propelled forward and pinned under the weight of his unconscious body and my doubled-up seat.
I managed to move just enough to see out of the window. The other car looked like a crumpled piece of paper. Two ambulances drove in beside our crushed van, and I was quickly, but very carefully, lifted out of our wrecked vehicle. “I think this one has a broken back!” I heard one ambulance man say as he looked at me with pity and concern.
As miracles go, my back wasn’t broken—just my nose! However, serious back strain, several pulled muscles, and joint displacement prevented me from walking for a few days and kept me from running normally for several months. This had not been in my plan. I became discouraged as my training schedule for being in top condition was once again interrupted.
I continued to train, both with the high school team and with a running club my brothers and sisters and I belong to. As I watched my ten-year-old brother, Tyler, run, I began to feel more frustration and irritation. He ran strong and well. He could keep up with several of the high school runners and was getting better every week. As much as I loved him, I resented how easy it all seemed for him.
I watched Tyler win in a state track and field championship, defeating his nearest competition by 500 meters. A crowd of excited supporters gathered around him as I stood back. An incredible sense of pride built up inside me, and as Tyler looked past all the well-wishers, seeking my approval, the feeling of love was so intense between us that I felt we were the only two in the noisy stadium. As I sensed his deep need for my approval my resentment of his success totally left me. At that moment, I vowed that my little brother would go to the national championships prepared with all the knowledge I could share and with the assurance of my support.
We ran together after that. I talked about form and strategy, how to pass other runners and maintain a lead. We ran up hills to build his endurance, sprinted on the track to build his speed, and made up all sorts of exercises to improve his reflexes. We talked about racing as we did chores around the house, as we ate breakfast, as we drove into town, and as we watched sports news on television. We ran in pouring rain and sweltering heat.
Tyler and I both placed first in our age categories in the Northwest Regional Championships, and that gave us the chance to compete in the national championships. Because of the accident and the interruption of my training, I thought I might only place in the top twenty-five runners. My race was first, and I was twenty-first out of 300 and gained a national ranking.
Satisfied and happy with my performance, I then turned my attention to Tyler. I had already taken him through the cross-country course, showing him how to approach and hurdle a deep ditch, when to stride out, where to save his strength, what to avoid, and how to stay mentally tough. He wa ready! As we looked for his starting place among the other 265 runners on the starting line, I felt as nervous as when I had lined up for my own race. Tyler was tense, and I just kept assuring him that he was the best. I could sense his apprehension as if it were my own. How I wished I could transform his pain to joy! “Be tough, Tyler. Just remember, no one is better than you. No one can beat you,” I said. My arm slipped around his slumping shoulder, and I felt like I was deserting a desperate man when I walked away and noticed the tears in his eyes.
I watched him run a perfect race as I ran from place to place on the course to cheer him on, hoping he could feel my support reaching out to him. Could he hear? Could he sense my strength reaching out to him? He came toward the last stretch of the race in second place. “Keep going, Tyler!” I yelled. “Use your arms! Breathe deeply!” If he could just feel what I felt for him in that crowd of 5,000 wildly screaming spectators.
He was turning the corner for the last 100 meters—a part of the course we had run over and over together as we planned this moment. “Now Tyler! Give it all you’ve got left! Come on!” I pleaded. My voice choked as I thrilled at the sight of my little brother, a picture of perfect health, striding down the homestretch to a spectacular finish to become the national champion I had planned to be.
My pride in him told me that I had won something too. I realized I had given part of myself away to help Tyler succeed, and it created a feeling within me far richer and more powerful than I could have ever imagined. As an exhausted Tyler broke away from the crowd and came to me, he gasped out the words which taught me the lesson of my life.
“Jason, I felt terrible—but I could hear you cheering the whole way, over the noise of all the people, and I knew I could win. I knew I had to win!”
What other lessons would this little champion learn from me—good or bad?
What about all our other brothers and sisters in the family of men. What messages do they hear above the crowd? Just as Tyler could hear and respond to that call to win, how many others need that voice in the crowd? How often do we get caught up in our own plans and fail to call out our encouragement, fail to cheer others on to victory?
As Tyler and I embraced, I truly knew the meaning of the words, “He that loveth his brother abideth in the light, and there is none occasion of stumbling in him” (1 Jn. 2:10).

Some of us are held captive by the misunderstanding that we can hold onto Zion without letting go of Babylon.
We may want to be righteous, but not yet. We avoid the sin, but hold onto its appearance. Perhaps we seek to appear fashionable, extreme, edgy, cool, or push the limits in how we dress, speak, posture with each other.
This may include how we portray ourselves online. In a recent Sunday school class in our student stake, we discussed three questions. First, “Do you protect your credit card and financial identity?” Every hand went up. Second, “Do you protect your cyber-identity, e.g., address, phone number, class schedule, etc., which appear online?” Some hands went up.
I invited a few volunteers to share their MySpace or Facebook profiles. Let me ask you: Would you feel comfortable showing your profile in Sunday School?
Then our third inquiry, “Do you protect your spiritual identity? If your parents or bishop saw your profile what would they think? What would your spouse or children, current or future, think about you spiritually if they saw the profile you use today?”
Do you know many employers now review profiles and other online information? Most screen names are functional or for fun. But would an employer feel comfortable hiring winkydink, cutiepie, pinkygirl, hotty14 to do important legal briefs? Or what about hotstuff, daddyo, dabomb, rm34 to put a mature face on the firm’s new regional office?
One student said, “I always thought my profile was private, but now see some of the pictures and links my friends posted have got to go.” She concluded, “I want my profile to reflect who I really am.”
Let us understand Zion is the pure in heart and we become Zion by letting go of everything that is not Zion.