Gospel Story Finder

Erin K., from North Carolina, USA, and her family (left) have always had one goal in mind: to become an eternal family. However, Erin’s father was not a member of the Church.
“Of course my mom and siblings wanted my dad to share in the blessings of the gospel. The gospel of Jesus Christ made us happy, and we wanted Dad to share in that happiness. We also all desperately wanted to be sealed together as a family,” Erin says.
Determined to become a forever family, Erin and her siblings and mother did all they could to keep the commandments and develop strong faith, and they prayed together for their father’s heart to be touched by the gospel.
Though it took several years, Erin’s father was finally baptized and confirmed. Ten days after his baptism, he was able to baptize Erin’s younger brother and sister. Soon their family will reach their goal of being sealed in the temple.

“Visit Sister Jones” is what was written down for 1:00 P.M. Sister Jones was a member of the ward who we had visited a few times in the California Arcadia Mission, but she had not been to church for a long while. She had a good husband and three adorable little daughters. Every time we saw her, we asked her to come to church, but she had not come yet.
I had often thought and prayed about how we could encourage her to come back to church and was beginning to doubt if we would ever succeed. I suggested to my companion that we go tracting instead. He agreed that tracting was important, but he seemed inspired in his suggestion to follow through with our plan. I swallowed my pride and said a silent prayer. The Spirit whispered to me that following our plan was what God wanted us to do.
We biked to Sister Jones’s place, and as we pulled up she was taking out the trash. When she looked at us she seemed discouraged. She did not seem particularly thrilled to see us.
“Hello, Sister Jones,” I said cheerfully. “How are you doing?”
“Okay,” she responded halfheartedly. I knew something was not quite right. The last time we visited she had commented how hard it was to keep up on her housework because of an illness she had contracted. I wondered if this was the cause of her unhappy countenance. The Spirit whispered again to me. Without leaving room for argument we announced, “We’re here to do your dishes.”
She was taken aback and a little reluctant to let us help. I could see she was longing for some relief. She led us inside, and immediately I went to a sink full of almost every dish in the house. Meanwhile my companion started vacuuming. All Sister Jones could manage to do was sit down on the couch, exhausted, watching us gratefully. We finished the vacuuming, my companion dried the dishes, and soon the house was sparkling. Sister Jones expressed her appreciation with a teary smile.
“Thank you, Elders. I really needed that today.”
“No problem, Sister Jones. We’re always glad to help. You know that,” my companion said. She smiled, and we let ourselves out.
The following Sunday I was surprised to see her in the congregation at church. It warmed my heart. It was fast and testimony meeting, but what added to my surprise was Sister Jones getting up to bear her testimony.
After bearing her testimony of the truthfulness of the Church, she added, “This week I was having a really hard time. I’ve been sick and not able to do everything. One day when it was particularly difficult, I began to pray. ‘Lord help me, I don’t know if I can handle this! Please, please send an angel, or something. Please.’ And right then, two of his angels pulled up on their bicycles and asked if they could help. I was so touched. It was exactly what I needed.”
I began to cry. For one thing, I had never been called an angel before. I am just me—a simple missionary. But for one short afternoon, we were someone’s angels. Still, I cannot take credit for it. In that fast and testimony meeting, the Holy Spirit once again whispered to me with the sweet comfort that comes from following God’s will. It is not always what we want to do. It is not always what we think is best. But God’s way is always right. We may not have reached our goal for tracting hours that week, but we reached a much higher standard—the standard of doing what our all-wise Father above wanted us to do.

To understand how this story turned out the way it did, you probably need to know Joe. And that’s not an easy thing.
In the small town of Oakley, Utah, if you ask the other teenagers about quiet, soft-spoken Joe Frazier, they say the same types of things: He’s … hmmm? … great to be around. He’s … hmmm? … funny. He’s … hmmm? … I don’t know … He’s just Joe.
Hmmm?
“Let’s put it this way,” says D. J. Glade. “You know how in high school it’s not cool to talk to the younger kids? Well, Joe talks to the younger kids. Joe talks to the older kids. Joe is friends with everyone.”
Come on.
“Serious.”
But then there was Joe, at age 16, lying unconscious in a hospital bed with an oxygen mask over his mouth, a bag dripping into a tube in one arm. The doctors didn’t know what was wrong. It was strange, sobering. And without exception, all of his friends thought, That could be me.
Joe Frazier had been sick for about a month and was getting progressively worse. The doctors were baffled. At first they thought he had a virus, maybe hepatitis. And then, on a July 1994 morning, he was in the kitchen, reached out for the counter, and was suddenly on the floor. His brother, Josh, picked him up and carried him to the car.
The following Monday, Joe was still in the hospital. His parents, Blake and Barbara, were told their son was in very serious condition, that he needed a new liver. The Fraziers’ insurance company did not cover the cost of the experimental surgery, and before Joe could be put on a national transplant waiting list the family would need to raise $125,000.
“We didn’t have time to sell our house or our cars,” says Barbara. “Joe hadn’t been sick in years, and now out of the blue they were saying the word transplant. It was overwhelming.”
The hospital suggested the Fraziers ask a handful of their close friends and relatives to help raise part of the money. The neighbors they asked to help got on the phone to other neighbors who got on the phone to others … well, you get the idea. All they had to say was “Joe is in trouble” and money started appearing. The first donations were from Joe’s brother and sister, Josh and Jamie, who emptied their bank accounts and dug under couch cushions and in the back of dresser drawers for any cash they could find.
Right away, the kids from Joe’s high school got together to brainstorm ways to raise the money. They gave $500 they were saving for their prom. And then they organized car washes, bake sales, a rodeo, and an enormous garage sale.
It was late one evening that week, as the teenagers collected items for the garage sale, that Sam Aplanalp, 15, realized something miraculous was happening.
“The football players were pulling things off a truck when a little boy rode up on his bike,” says Sam. “I know his family doesn’t have much money—and his bike was about all he had in the world—but he wanted us to have it. To help Joe.”
The next day at the sale, a loaf of bread fetched $400 and someone paid $25 for a root beer. At the car wash, 16-year-old Michelle Cooper and her friends washed a stranger’s car who, in payment, handed them two $100 bills. “I don’t know who he was,” Michelle says, tearing up at the memory. “But it taught me that deep down, people really do care.”
On Wednesday afternoon, only a day and a half after the call for donations had gone out, the phone rang in Joe’s hospital room. Barbara answered. It was Joe’s 14-year-old sister, Jamie.
“Mom, you’re missing a miracle,” she said. “I wish you were here to see what the people in town are doing. They’ve already raised $55,000!”
Teenagers from across the county, from all faiths and backgrounds, came together to help raise money and to pray for Joe.
“I don’t think any of us had ever prayed that hard or worked that hard,” says Michelle.
Jake adds, “But we learned where real joy comes from. Passing a test, winning a ball game, having a girlfriend makes you happy—but real joy comes from giving, from sacrifice.”
On the same Wednesday, Barbara and Blake met with their surgeon and told him that Oakley and the neighboring communities in their county had already raised $55,000—in 36 hours. Tears ran down the physician’s cheeks and Barbara recalls him saying, “You have renewed my faith. There really are human beings in the world.” The doctor, realizing the severity of Joe’s condition, had already put him on the transplant list. He said he would not let Joe die without a chance.
When Joe went into surgery the following Monday, the Fraziers had already received $135,000.
But Joe’s fight was not over. He was given only a 50 percent chance of making it through the eight-hour operation. And, says Barbara, “If he hadn’t received the liver that day, he would not have seen another sunrise.”
“The first day I remember is the 24th of July—five days after the surgery,” says Joe. “I remember going to the window to watch the fireworks.”
When Barbara told him what the community had done, Joe seemed strangely sad. “I kinda wish I’d been there to help,” he explained.
On a hot August day with thin clouds in the Utah mountains, the Fraziers’ Thunderbird slowed as it reached the turn into the Kamas valley. Sitting in the passenger’s seat, Joe could see the group of vehicles waiting for him at the intersection, where twisting Brown’s Canyon meets Highway 189.
The fire engine and the cars fell in behind Joe’s car, fender-to-fender. The parade stopped in Oakley, and Joe got out and hugged his mom. A dozen young kids who had donated their toys to the garage sale and who felt in some way they owned a little piece of Joe gathered close to him. And one little guy yelled, “Hey, Joe, how ya feeling?”
There wasn’t a dry eye when Joe smiled and said in a soft voice “fine” and “thank you” and that it was “good to be home.”
“Every street corner, every business, everything was covered with pictures of Joe,” said Barbara. “But when we got home, Joe asked me to get the collection jars out of the store and take his pictures down.
“And then he wanted me to make sure no one had given more money than they could afford.”
Maybe that selfless attitude is why everyone cared, why they did what they did. Who knows? But it’s definitely the reason, when you ask who is Joe Frazier, that all his friends say with love, He’s … hmmm? … he’s just Joe.

Let me return to my experience as a bishop to help you understand what the Lord is suggesting. My wife and I had been in the ward only about a year, so while we knew who people were, we didn't know them that well. One day I got a call from one of the families in the ward asking if I would come up to the University Hospital and give a blessing to their daughter, Christy. I, of course, said I would be happy to do so, though I had not heard of there being a problem.

When I arrived, I was directed to a room on the third floor. As I got off the elevator, I saw a sign indicating this was the center for Cystic Fibrosis. I didn't give it much thought. I had no idea what cystic fibrosis was, nor did I make the connection to Christy. When I walked into the room, however, a shock awaited me. Christy, who was eighteen at the time, was sitting up in her bed. Her mother was standing over her and pounding up and down her back with her fists. Christy held a cup and was coughing up bloody mucus into it. On the hospital tray beside her there were three more cups, all filled with the same bloody mucus.

I learned later that cystic fibrosis is a hereditary disease that causes a fibrous mucus to form in the lungs. Regular thumping on the back helps break up the congestion so the individual can breathe. That was my beginning experience with Christy. Over the next three years I was privileged to come to know her very well. We spent many hours talking together and many blessings were given. She was amazing. She was always cheerful and happy. There was not one iota of resentment in her about this “burden” which had been laid upon her, or the “labor” it took for her to stay alive.

She desperately wanted to serve a mission. It was not to be. She desperately wanted to be a wife and mother. That was not to be either. One day, she asked if it would be possible for her to be endowed in the temple, even though she was single. Happily, the stake president concurred with my recommendation, and I was privileged to be with her and her family when she received that sacred ordinance. And less than a year later, I was honored and deeply humbled when she requested that I speak at her funeral. She died not long after her twenty-first birthday.

As I thought about her and her life, I felt guilty. My health has always been good. Why was she given such a handicap? Her life seemed so much purer and more righteous than mine. Yet I got to go on a mission. I got to marry and have a family. I got to run and walk and play without even thinking of the gift of breathing.

I can remember thinking one day that if I were Christy, when I got up to the judgment bar, I would be strongly tempted to step forward and say, “It isn't fair. What did I do that I should have been denied these righteous blessings? What did I do that earned me a life of handicap and pain?”

And then one day I found the answer. It comes from Alma, and helps explain what the Savior meant when He said that He had descended below all things.

I was called to a home in a little village in New Zealand one day. There the Relief Society sisters were preparing the body of one of our saints. They had placed his body in front of the big house, as they call it, the house where the people come to wail and weep and mourn over the dead, when in rushed the dead man’s brother. He said, “Administer to him.” And the young natives said, “Why, you shouldn’t do that. He’s dead.” “You do it!”

This same old man that I had with me when his niece was so ill was there. The younger native got down on his knees and he anointed this man. Then this great old sage got down and blessed him and commanded him to rise. You should have seen the Relief Society sisters scatter. He sat up and said, “Send for the elders; I don’t feel very well.” Of course, all of that was just psychological effect on that dead man. Wonderful, isn’t it—this psychological effect business? We told him he had just been administered to, and he said, “Oh, that was it.” He said, “I was dead. I could feel life coming back into me just like a blanket unrolling.” He outlived the brother that came in and told us to administer to him.

Many years ago, I went outside to take out some trash. When I got to the garbage can, I saw that it had been haphazardly decorated with white spray paint—it was definitely not the work of a skilled artist! I asked our children if anyone knew what had happened to the trash can. They each testified knowing nothing about it, even our five-year-old son, who stood in the kitchen with white paint in his hair. It was comical to listen to him try to fib his way through his little lie. Even when I put him in front of a mirror and pointed out the paint on his face and in his hair, he still denied any involvement. We laugh about it now and even laughed about it then, but how many times do we look in the mirror and believe the lies, half-truths, or exaggerations we tell ourselves and others?

Meanwhile, in the summer of 1989, a wonderful opportunity was made available to me. I was invited to accompany the BYU International Folk Dance Ensemble on their tour to Russia, Poland, and England. As the plane touched down at the Sheremetyevo International Airport in Moscow, I remember thinking, “We could just as well be landing somewhere on the Canadian prairies. It looks exactly the same.” No wonder so many Slavic people settled in western Canada at the beginning of the 20th century. They must have felt a measure of security in the midst of geographically familiar surroundings, in spite of the many hardships they had to face.

My mother’s father had always wanted to return to Russia for a visit before he died, but unfortunately that never happened. For me, going to Russia with the folk dancers was going back for him. I thought about him continually the entire time I was there. I loved being surrounded by the Russian people and their culture. And I got to practice the language! But something told me that the real purpose for my learning Russian had not yet been fulfilled.

In my excitement to experience Russia, I had completely underplayed my pending opportunity to experience the people and culture of Poland—until I remembered that my father’s parents had been born in what today is Poland. I wondered if the folk dancers would be performing anywhere near where these grandparents grew up. As I looked at the map, I remember the following rapidly developing chain of thoughts: (1) Hmmm, interesting, not too far; (2) I wonder if there would be any way I could work it out to get to their villages; (3) No, I HAVE to find a way to get there; (4) No matter what, I WILL find a way!

The plane landed in Warsaw. We boarded a bus that had been reserved to take us to Mr?gowo in the north of Poland. I was sitting in the front seat across from the driver when our tour guide, Danuta, boarded the bus with a clipboard in her hands. As she was looking over the ensemble roster, I heard her say, “Cathy Black.”

Sitting directly in front of her, I responded, “That’s me.”

To which she replied, “I see you are from Canada. I worked in Montreal for two years learning English.”

The two of us bonded immediately.

After just a few hours with the Folk Dance Ensemble, Danuta noticed that there was something special about the group compared to others she had been assigned in the past. She said that the performers and leaders were not self-centered, that they were kind and polite to each other, and that they did not ask for anything unless they really needed it.

One of the things we did ask for was a room—one that we could use for a church meeting the next morning. Danuta procured the room and asked whether guests could attend this church meeting. Of course the answer was yes, and she was warmly encouraged to join us, which she did. It was a beautiful testimony meeting during which Danuta was moved to tears a number of times. Following the meeting I gave her my triple combination, and she immediately began to read about Joseph Smith. The next day we boarded the bus back to Warsaw. At the end of that journey Danuta informed us that we would have a different guide to accompany us to the Carpathian Mountains in southeastern Poland and that she would come the next day to say good-bye to us.

Before she left that day I explained to her my obsession about going to visit my grandparents’ villages and asked her if there would be any way that she might help me do so. Danuta took down the last names of my ancestors and the names of their villages and told me she would see me tomorrow.

As had been the case in Russia, 1989 was also a very difficult time economically for Poland. Shelves were bare of essential merchandise, and having a telephone, let alone a car, was a luxury. When Danuta arrived to meet us at the bus the next day, she had acquired a car, a driver, and two contacts she had called who agreed to meet with me in the Carpathian Mountains. One of these people was a priest and the other a gentleman by the name of Mieczys?aw Herbut, who said that he was sure we were not related because he came from a different part of Poland than my grandparents. Pressing him, Danuta asked if he would be willing to meet with me anyway, in spite of his reservations. He said he would.

We were scheduled to meet at a restaurant in Nowy S?cz. Danuta, our driver, and I arrived first and visited while we waited for Mr. Herbut. As he walked through the door, tears welled up in my eyes. Let me show you two photos—one of Mieczys?aw Herbut and one of my father, Michael Herbut. This is one miracle that nobody could miss! Even more uncanny than the remarkable physical resemblance of these two men was the identical nature of their mannerisms. It was absolutely unbelievable! After receiving the photograph of my father, Mieczys?aw, who learned English during World War II while a German prisoner of war, wrote to my father informing him that he knew he had discovered a twin brother. The two men continued to correspond with each other until Mieczys?aw’s death in the mid-1990s. Although we have not yet been able to verify a genetic relationship between these two men, I am working on it.

In addition to visiting my grandparents’ villages and meeting with people there, Danuta and I searched genealogical records, and I was able to add a generation to my family tree. Since then Danuta has joined the Church, has become proficient in genealogy, and has helped many Americans find their Polish ancestors. By searching Polish records on my behalf, she has helped me access several generations to add to my family tree. In 2005 she was called to codirect the newly created LDS Warsaw Family History Center. I never cease to marvel at the privilege that has been mine to have been part of this amazing series of events.

And there is yet another dimension to this story. On the 1989 trip we discovered that the family names on my father’s side were not in fact Russian names but belonged to a Slavic minority population known as Lemkos, who had identified themselves as Russians at the time my grandparents left for North America. This discovery has resulted in a serious academic research agenda for me, which has included trips back to Poland for the express purpose of studying the dance and rituals of the Lemko people.

On 23 February 1979 Elder Richards was taken to the hospital, where he remained in critical condition for nearly a month. His obituary was written, and the First Presidency and the Twelve were informed that it was only a matter of hours before he’d be gone. But gradually Elder Richards recovered.
Later, in a meeting of the Twelve, Elder Richards said, “I read in the minutes where you’d received word of my imminent demise, but I fooled you, didn’t I?”

President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Second Counselor in the First Presidency
“Like many of you, I find that some of the warmest and most vivid memories of Christmas come from my childhood. Although I grew up in modest circumstances, my parents wanted Christmas to be a time of joy and wonder for their children. They went to great lengths to make Christmas a special time for our family.
“We children made gifts for each other. One year, I remember drawing a picture as a Christmas gift for my sister. It could not have been a work of art, but she treated it like a treasure. How I love her for that! Another year my brother, who is 12 years older than I, gave me a precious gift. He had found a wood stick in the park near our home and carved from it a small toy knife. It was simple, not fancy at all, but oh, how I cherished that gift because it came from him!
“Isn’t one of the joys of Christmas seeing the excited faces of little children as they take in their hands a wrapped gift that is just for them?
“This Christmas season and always, I pray that we will see the marvelous gift of the birth of the Son of God through the blessed eyes of a child. I pray that in addition to giving good gifts, we will strive to become good and grateful receivers. As we do so, the spirit of this season will enlarge our hearts and expand our joy beyond measure.”2

One thing that people outside of academia, and often even students at universities, don’t know is that when professors undergo a bid for tenure, it is an all-or-nothing proposition: either professors earn tenure (or what BYU calls “continuing faculty status”) and have a nice measure of job security or they do not earn tenure, which results in their dismissal from the university, usually after another year is given to them so that they can secure another job elsewhere. Thus, while the reward of tenure is high, so is the risk—and so is the stress of getting there. In my pre-tenure years I worked assiduously to shore up my teaching, my publication record, and my service to the department and college so that I would meet the standard when the time came and so that I would establish good habits for my post?tenure career.

In one particular case I had the opportunity to publish one of my essays in a book by a prominent university press, but while the initial drafting and submission of the piece had gone smoothly, I struggled with getting the revised essay just the way the editor wanted it. To make matters worse, I had a long professional relationship with the editor of the book, so my repeated failed attempts to successfully revise the essay to meet the reviewers’ expectations embarrassed me, as my friend had to tell me that the essay still wasn’t the way it needed to be. He explained that if I couldn’t revise the essay to the reviewers’ and the editor’s satisfaction, it would not be included in the book and the project would move forward without my work in it.

Finally humbled, or perhaps compelled to be humble by the humiliation of the process, I did what I probably should have done long before: I knelt down in my office and prayed for Heavenly Father’s help, asking that the Spirit would impress upon my mind what I needed to do to make the necessary changes to the essay so that it would be publishable. When I finished my prayer and sat back at my desk, I experienced what I think Joseph Smith meant by “pure intelligence flowing into you” and “sudden strokes of ideas” 5 from the Spirit. I had concepts coming into my mind as if a faucet had turned on in my brain, and I raced to jot down these ideas before they were lost. I subsequently moved around entire sections of the essay, incorporated some new information into it that I hadn’t before known existed, and generally shifted the tone and tenor of my writing in keeping with the promptings I had received. The editor was astonished at the revision and accepted the essay without any subsequent changes. It made it into the book, which now sits on my shelf as a tangible reminder of an experience that was entirely more unusual for me than it should have been.

In the spring of 1848, you developed an interest in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, although your father, family, and friends did not share your enthusiasm. They did everything possible to persuade you to denounce the Church. Your father even locked up your clothes to keep you from attending Sunday meetings. But your faith was steadfast. In spite of persecution you struggled on.

Dear Ebenezer, despite your father’s opposition, you were baptized in April 1848, the only convert in your family.

Sarah sniffed deeply. There was a wonderfully warm and sweet smell on the air. “Come on, Daisy,” she called to her dog. “Let’s go for a walk and find where it’s coming from!”
TRAMP-TRAMP, up a hill they walked.
CLIP-CLOP, down a hill they ran.
They came to a field of flowers. SNIFF-SNIFF went Sarah’s nose. “That’s not what we’re looking for, Daisy,” she declared. “But let’s take some flowers home to Mom anyway.” Sarah picked a handful of flowers. Then she and Daisy started off again on the dusty road.
TRAMP-TRAMP, up a hill they walked.
CLIP-CLOP, down a hill they ran.
They stopped and Sarah climbed on a fence, smelling the air, SNIFF-SNIFF.
“That’s not it. I only smell oats!” she told Daisy.
CLIP-CLOP! Across the field trotted a fine big horse. “Hi, Princess,” called Sarah. Princess walked over to the fence. She sniffed the flowers in Sarah’s hand and took a nibble, then another nibble. CRUNCH, MUNCH, she ate them all up!
Sarah and Daisy walked some more. Soon they were walking between rows of cornstalks. SNIFF-SNIFF, Sarah smelled the air. SNIFF-SNIFF, Daisy did too.
“That’s not it either,” said Sarah. “All I can smell is corn.”
SWOOSH! A little brown bunny streaked across the road and into the cornfield.
WHOOSH! Daisy ran after the bunny. “Come back! Come back!” called Sarah.
Daisy finally ran back to Sarah and together they walked along the winding road.
TRAMP-TRAMP, up a hill they walked.
CLIP-CLOP, down a hill they ran.
Now they were in the middle of Dad’s peach orchard. SNIFF-SNIFF, Sarah smelled the air. “That’s not it,” she told Daisy. “But these peaches smell delicious. Let’s pick some to take home with us.”
Sarah picked a ripe, juicy peach from a low branch, SNAP! She put the peach in her pocket. Then SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! She picked three more peaches.
“I can still smell something wonderful,” she said to Daisy. “But I’m getting tired. Let’s just walk over one more little hill.”
So up a hill they walked, TRAMP-TRAMP.
Sarah stopped and sniffed the air. “The wonderful smell is coming from someplace very close to here,” she told Daisy. They looked down the hill and saw their house. Down the hill they ran, CLIP-CLOP.
The smell was getting stronger and stronger. They stood outside the kitchen window. Mother was working inside.
CLINK! went the mixing bowls.
CLANK! went the oven door.
Sarah and Daisy walked into the kitchen. The whole room was filled with the warm, sweet smell.
“Mmmm!” said Sarah, “Cookies! The wonderful smell is from the cookies Mom is baking.”
And with a CRUNCH and MUNCH, they each ate one.

When he was eight years old, President Thomas S. Monson decided to have a campfire with his friend Danny. There was just one problem—the field they wanted to use was dry, prickly, and full of weeds. It was then that young President Monson had an idea: “I said to Danny, ‘All we need is to set these weeds on fire. We’ll just burn a circle in the weeds!’ He readily agreed, and I ran to our cabin to get a few matches. …

“… I recall thinking that the fire would burn only as far as we wanted and then would somehow magically extinguish itself.

“I struck a match on a rock and set the parched June grass ablaze.” Soon realizing the fire would not go out on its own, the boys ran for help, and the blaze was put out after several hours of work.

“Danny and I learned several difficult but important lessons that day,” said President Monson, “not the least of which was the importance of obedience.”3

Things were all set for a really fun weekend. My friend Tara and I had set up a girls-ask group date with some young men in our stake, and we were excited. A popular movie had just been released from theaters to DVD, and we were going to watch it all together at a friend’s house.
And then Nathan, my date, called.
“You know, Jennifer,” he said, “I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should do something else tonight.”
A panicky feeling gripped my chest. Was Nathan backing out of the date?
“Umm, what do you mean?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“Well,” he continued, “I think that movie is just going to be watching hours of battles. Could we do something else instead?”
The panicky feeling left as I realized he was right. The movie, even though it was popular and didn’t have a bad rating, did have a lot of violence in it.
“That’s a great idea,” I said. “You got it.”
I called Tara, and we decided to have a board game night instead. It ended up being much more fun and social than staring at the TV for a couple of hours.
I feel so grateful that Nathan was willing to tell me how he really felt about the movie. His high standards were a great example to me and pushed my standards even higher. Since then, I’ve avoided a lot of other movies that, when I stop and think about it, aren’t very uplifting or fun, even if the rating isn’t that bad or if they’re really popular. I also never felt offended that Nathan didn’t like our original activity. That has given me the strength to speak up in situations when my standards are at stake. Nathan didn’t offend anyone by being honest about his feelings, and so I learned that, even if some people do take offense, I shouldn’t worry about standing up for my values either.

On a cool October evening, fathers and sons steadily filtered into the old Alpine Tabernacle for the priesthood session of general conference, even filling the cushioned choir seats. I sat on the back row of the large meeting hall—alone, as usual. It was hard not to envy the other boys whose fathers reached arms over their shoulders. There was no one to show such affection for me. I was the 16-year-old boy from the “broken home.” I was the boy whose father had abandoned his family, leaving me an embarrassing legacy of impropriety and shame.
I continued watching as the Beck brothers made their way to the top row of the soft choir seats, smiling and laughing, with their father leading the way. I knew that they would likely be going together for ice cream after the meeting. And I also knew that I would be walking home alone.
I leaned over, placing my elbows on my knees, and sat uncomfortably on the edge of the wooden pew, wanting the meeting to be over before it began. I told myself, “Someday, I will be one of the fathers that puts his arm around his sons and leads them to the choir seats; someday, I will be everything that my father failed to be.” I vowed to be different in all the best ways—to form my own family, free from burdens of disgrace and embarrassment.
Then, a miracle happened: the speaker, then-Elder Boyd K. Packer (1924–2015) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, said that he wanted to discuss a topic that fathers should discuss with their sons. But, he said, he was aware that many young men didn’t have fathers who could talk to them about these sensitive subjects, so he wanted to speak to the young men himself. It was as if Elder Packer had singled me out and spoken directly to me, indicating his willingness to be the father figure that I had longed for for years.
In that very moment, I determined that I would not let my family history, my personal circumstances, or my less-than-perfect family relationships stand in the way of my Father in Heaven’s blessings resting fully upon me! That night, I sought counsel from a prophet, seer, and revelator. He would be the father that I did not have. Although I did not have an opportunity to speak to him directly, and I did not feel his arm resting upon my shoulder, from then on, I actively sought counsel from his speeches, books, and instruction in an effort to rise above all the hardship and disappointment I faced in life.
As I left the tabernacle that evening, instead of walking home alone or feeling sidelined and marginalized by my unique family circumstance, I felt hope and encouragement: I could claim a connection to an Apostle of Jesus Christ. Thirty-two years later, almost to the day, my wife and I were invited to meet with Elder Packer in his office. Heavenly Father had granted me the tender mercy of being able to tell Elder Packer how much he had meant to me over a lifetime. As we discussed a calling to serve as a mission president, my father figure imparted wisdom and counsel that continues to serve me even now.

There are those families comprised of mothers and fathers, sons and daughters who have, through thoughtless comment, isolated themselves from one another. An account of how such a tragedy was narrowly averted occurred many years ago in the life of a young man who, for purposes of privacy, I shall call Jack.

Throughout Jack’s life, he and his father had many serious arguments. One day, when he was 17, they had a particularly violent one. Jack said to his father, “This is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. I’m leaving home, and I shall never return.” So saying, he went to the house and packed his bag. His mother begged him to stay; he was too angry to listen. He left her crying at the doorway.

Leaving the yard, he was about to pass through the gate when he heard his father call to him, “Jack, I know that a large share of the blame for your leaving rests with me. For this I am truly sorry. I want you to know that if you should ever wish to return home, you’ll always be welcome. And I’ll try to be a better father to you. I want you to know that I’ll always love you.”

Jack said nothing but went to the bus station and bought a ticket to a distant point. As he sat on the bus, watching the miles go by, he commenced to think about the words of his father. He began to realize how much love it had required for him to do what he had done. Dad had apologized. He had invited him back and left the words ringing in the summer air: “I love you.”

It was then that Jack realized that the next move was up to him. He knew the only way he could ever find peace with himself was to demonstrate to his father the same kind of maturity, goodness, and love that Dad had shown toward him. Jack got off the bus. He bought a return ticket and went back.

He arrived shortly after midnight, entered the house, turned on the light. There in the rocking chair sat his father, his head in his hands. As he looked up and saw Jack, he arose from the chair and they rushed into each other’s arms. Jack often said, “Those last years that I was home were among the happiest of my life.”

Euleza gave a devotional a few years ago, and I want to share with you from her devotional about perspective.

We are here to help ourselves and others make it home. I am thankful for all the people on this earth and on the other side of the veil that has helped me not give up. They are the ones that when I asked for help instead of giving me a pity party would cheer me on. On one occasion I was going through a tough time. To this day I cannot even remember what that challenge was but I have never forgot her words to me. She said, "Euleza, I see you looking at yourself from what may seem to you to be a deep, deep hole. As you stand there at the bottom of that hole I see your hand reaching up. You want so badly to be pulled up to where you know you need to be; where you can feel safety and peace. But I also see you at the top of that deep hole, Euleza. You are reaching down to grab your own hand and pull yourself up." Then my friend added, "Grab on Euleza. Grab on and pull yourself up. You know where you want to be, and where you should be, you know it! Let yourself be rescued." [8]

Heavenly Father gives us people or circumstances around us that influence us in positive ways. It is up to us to allow the circumstances or people to improve our lives. If you are discouraged, get help. Start to pull yourself up and others will help. Have the confidence to know you can do extraordinary things. Then, as you improve, help others to realize they can do extraordinary things.

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.

It’s easy to get lost in Madrid.
I know I’m in trouble as soon as I get off the train. I give the address of the chapel to a cab driver, and he rubs the back of his neck while slowly shaking his head. He’s never heard of that part of the city. He’s never heard of that street. And he’s especially never heard of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. “What’s that?” he asks.
An hour later, we’re still driving around looking. Oh, we’ve passed some marvelous sites along the way—incredibly majestic, centuries-old buildings; statues; fountains; tree-lined avenues; ornate bridges. And the driver has learned a lot more about the Church. But we still can’t find the chapel.
After stopping to ask about 27 different people, we approach the right neighborhood. Suddenly, a nice-looking boy, probably about 17, runs out in the street to stop us. They’ve been waiting for me in the chapel, he explains, and have posted people at various street corners to see if they could spot me coming. They know it’s not easy in their city.
“It’s difficult here because the members are so spread out,” says Paloma Bosch, 17, in the interview that began as soon as I arrived. “If you fall, it’s easy to fall quickly because there aren’t many around to help you. But we try to look out for each other.”
I believed her. They’d looked out for me.

When he was a very young boy, my great-grandfather, Benjamin Lillywhite, came from England with his parents after they joined the Church. When they arrived in St. Louis, his father and little sister died of cholera. His mother did not have enough money to buy a wagon to travel the rest of the way to the Salt Lake Valley, but she wanted her son to go to where the Saints were gathering as soon as possible. So she sent six-year-old Benjamin with another family, and under their care, he walked to the valley. I was told that when his shoes wore out along the trail, he wrapped his feet in rags. But in spite of hardships, he made it to the valley.
As a child, I heard this story over and over. I heard of my ancestors’ sacrifices, and I wanted to be like them. I knew Heavenly Father was now depending onme to be as courageous and faithful as they had been.