Gospel Story Finder

Elder Hugh B. Brown of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles (1883–1975) once shared such a lesson he learned while pruning a currant bush on a farm in Canada.

As he went about cleaning up and repairing his property, he came across a currant bush that had grown over six feet high and was yielding no berries. Therefore, he pruned it back drastically, leaving only small, teardrop-shaped stumps. The sight made it appear as if the currant bush were crying, and Elder Brown thought he heard the bush say:

“How could you do this to me? I was making such wonderful growth. … And now you have cut me down. … I thought you were the gardener here.”

Elder Brown replied, “Look, little currant bush, I am the gardener here, and I know what I want you to be. If I let you go the way you want to go, you will never amount to anything. But someday, when you are laden with fruit, you are going to think back and say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for cutting me down, for loving me enough to hurt me.’”

For several years, I’ve been writing to a young man in prison. Knowing him to be an avid reader, and in preparation for this opportunity, I asked him to estimate how many books he’s read since his incarceration. His answer: “Luckily for you, I keep track of every book I read. In the last five years, I’ve read 443 books.” On average, that’s about one book every four days.

His fiction reads include The Count of Monte Cristo, Les Misérables, The Great Gatsby, 1984, and Huckleberry Finn. As for non-fiction, because he’s married and the father of two sons, he prioritizes books on relationships and parenting. Circumstances permitting, he reads books with his boys—an activity that, he says, “binds him to his family.”

Other reading material includes magazines: “I’ve maintained subscriptions to [about thirty of them, including] about a dozen food magazines because it’s the only time I get to see decent food.”

Best of all, he’s read Jesus the Christ, and continues to read the standard works and the Liahona. Perhaps like you, I wondered how he obtained Church publications. Answer: “As part of its humanitarian efforts, the Church donates more than 50,000 volumes of Church literature to prisons every year.”

He also listens to parenting podcasts, which he believes fulfills the Savior’s hope that we “teach one another words of wisdom.” He takes notes that he then shares with his wife when she visits. He says, “I figure [it’s] a way I can help parent from in here.”

He even reads to his cellmates when their reading levels are inadequate. Many inmates have told him that they’d never read a book before coming to prison. Additionally, he’s helped several others finish their high school equivalency diploma. As for himself, he’s earned two associate degrees—one in horticulture, the other in small business management—in hopes of supporting his family upon his release.

Lastly, if I may make a selfish admission, he’s actually helped me live the gospel a little bit better. Every time I drop off his letter at the post office, I recall those tender scriptures from Matthew 25 in which the Savior says, figuratively: “I was in prison, and ye came unto me” and, a few verses later, “inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

Now, back to that book number: 443. As impressive as it is, it’s not just about the number. Much more meaningful is that my friend has chosen to spend his time wisely and productively. If anyone has an excuse to be discouraged or detached, it’s him. But his faith, family, and friends—along with his reading—sustain him.

At 5:40 in the morning, when most people are still asleep, Jay McKinley and Amy Fuqua of the Monroe Branch of the Mobile Alabama Stake are at church with their scriptures and seminary manuals. President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994) said that seminary is one of the most significant experiences that any youth can have, and he encouraged youth to “regularly attend seminary and be a seminary graduate.”1 It is a while until sunrise, but these two students and their teacher know the importance of the blessings they receive from following the prophet’s counsel to become seminary graduates.
“Sometimes it is really hard to get up at 4:45 a.m., but it’s totally worth it,” says Amy. “I love the feeling I get when I have the Spirit with me so early.” All three agree that the early starts are tiring and hard to manage, but all know that the benefits of early morning gospel study far outweigh the challenge of juggling each of their schedules, chores, and lives on top of seminary. Amy says, “When I think about it, having class at 5:40 a.m. isn’t a sacrifice at all.” The opportunity to learn more about the Savior is worth every effort, she says.
Jay and Amy’s seminary teacher, Sister Miranda Smith, agrees, and Jay says, “I have to go to bed earlier than normal in order to get up around 4:30 a.m. Sometimes when I have a lot of homework, my big brother will take over my chores.” In Monroe, seminary really is a group effort, even for those who don’t attend seminary. One of the reasons for the early seminary is that Jay’s school is an hour’s bus drive away and his bus driver picks him up from the chapel immediately after seminary.
One of the benefits gained from the early start is the friendship that comes from spending quality time together. “Sister Smith, Amy, and I have become close. We really didn’t hang out together, even at church, unless we had to,” says Jay. “Now we like being around each other and really are friends.”
Of course friendship is not the only reason for being in seminary; the true goal is the gospel knowledge that comes from studying the scriptures. All three who attend the class can see the benefits. Sister Smith says the best thing about early-morning seminary is “getting to start and end my day with a gospel lesson.” Not only is she the seminary teacher, but she is also a mother of four and a Cub Scout den leader, so she normally waits for her children to go to bed so that she can have some quiet time to study the lessons and prepare for the next day’s class.
Amy agrees that seminary has brought many spiritual benefits into her life. “I have a better understanding of the scriptures,” she says. “Sometimes during the day I find myself thinking about scripture masteries I’ve learned, especially Moses 1:39.”
When asked what their favorite lessons from the past few months have been, both Amy and Jay agree that they enjoyed the lessons about Nephi’s journey to the promised land with his family in 1 Nephi and 2 Nephi. Jay says these chapters have been the most memorable so far.
“Whenever I read those chapters, I think about how I can make it through any trial that is placed in my way. Just like it says in 1 Nephi 3:7, ‘I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them.’ He had such great faith and trust in the Lord, and in turn the Lord placed great trust in him. That is something that I want.”
Jay and Amy’s efforts have not been lost on Sister Smith. Not only does she get up to teach them, but she is also inspired by her students. “They are definitely the reason I keep doing this,” Sister Smith says. “I know they expect me to be there just as much as I expect them to be there. I’ve enjoyed seeing Amy and Jay grow in the gospel this year. Amy has been a member only for a few short years. She’s always excited about the gospel and has a beautiful testimony. Jay tends to be a little quieter, but I know he has a strong testimony and knowledge of the gospel as well.”
So what is it like to have early-morning seminary earlier than most schools have their classes? Jay says, “I find that I have more peace and patience as I go through school and other activities. It is such a blessing to have the scriptures in my life.” Jay, Amy, and Sister Smith are forgivably tired at times but cheerful and positive about regularly attending seminary. They find strength and comfort in overcoming obstacles and fulfilling a prophet’s advice to be seminary graduates.

I would like to share with you what I believe was a defining moment in one of my children's life. One evening I was in my room reading. My then 15 years, 11months and two week old daughter came and sat down at the end of my bed. She started the conversations this way. "Dad, John (his real name isn't John but for purposes of this address, we will call him John) has asked me to the homecoming dance." Now you have to understand that John was the quarterback of her high school football team and a star football player; someone who was popular at school. It was an invitation I am sure that she very much wanted to accept. What high school girl wouldn't be flattered by such an invitation? She continued: "I know that I am not 16 years old but would it be alright if I went to the dance with John?" You see she had asked me, I suppose, hoping that if I said it was alright, then it was my decision, and all would be square with her and the Lord. I remember looking at my daughter and saying something to this effect: "Holly, you know what counsel the prophets of the Lord have given, you are almost 16 years old and old enough to decide, so you decide and I will be alright with your decision." I will always remember her response: "That's not fair!" Well, my then 15 years 11 months and 2 week old daughter had to decide. Would she apply her heart to her understanding? Some might rightfully argue that it was only two weeks before she turned 16 and there would be no harm in going to the dance. And yet, that really, in my mind, is not the issue. The issue in my mind is are we really willing to submit as Elder Holland has taught our will to the will of the Lord, in advance, unconditionally, no matter the consequences? Well, my then 15 years, 11 months and two week old daughter chose to follow the counsel of the prophets and declined John's invitation to go to the dance. She is now 33 years old, married to a wonderful man with five children of her own. I believe that this moment in her life helped to drive what she knew intellectually deep within her heart. I know she has had other experiences in life where she has chosen to follow the Lord's teachings and that such experiences have helped her learn how to apply her heart to her understanding. Do you think that she knows how to teach her children how to apply their hearts to their understanding?

April awoke in the cold darkness to find her father’s hand shaking her. “Time to check the nannies again, honey,” he was saying.
“Why do mother goats have to have their babies so early in the year when it’s still so cold!” April moaned. Bracing herself for the shock, she jumped out of bed, grabbed her cold, rumpled clothes off the chair, and ran barefoot across the cold wooden floor to the fireplace in the living room. Her father already had the fire going, and April held her clothes in front of it to warm them before putting them on. It was a struggle to get her jeans on over her pajama bottoms, but they would help to keep her legs warm.
“Ready to go?” called her father from the back porch.
While she hurried into her coat and boots, April wondered if there would be any new kids this morning. The nannies had to be checked every three or four hours in case any were having trouble delivering their kids.
April’s father was just a black silhouette between her and the dim beam from the flashlight as they walked through the misty darkness. The north wind made them both hunch down in their coats.
The barn felt almost warm after the harsh wind. Turning on the light, they began to look over the nannies penned there. Her father always separated a newborn kid and its mother from the rest of the nannies for a few days. April called these small, private pens the maternity ward.
“Look, Dad, there’s one over in the corner.”
“OK, April, you get the kid. I’ll catch the nanny.”
April couldn’t resist rubbing her cheek against its small nose. It nuzzled her back, and she grinned up at her dad.
“Careful,” Dad warned her. “If you get too much of your smell on him, his mother might reject him.”
“I know, I know. But they’re so cute and so soft that I can’t resist just one little nuzzle.” She placed the kid by its mother and watched it begin to nurse.
By the time April and her father had finished checking the pens and feeding the goats, the cows were mooing to be milked and the dark of night was fading to the gray of dawn. April shivered, and her Brrrr came out in a small cloud. She was turning to go back into the warm barn when she saw a lone nanny outside the gate to the corral. April hurried to let her in. “Look, Dad,” she said. “That nanny has been out all night. She’s kidded too.”
“Yes,” said her father. “She probably came up to eat some hay. She’s hidden her kid somewhere in the pasture, and she won’t return to it until dark, when she can go without being seen.”
“But, Dad, a newborn kid can’t stay out in this cold all day. It will freeze to death.”
“Maybe. And maybe not. That pasture is a big one, and you’ll never find the kid, anyhow. Once a nanny tells her kid to hunker down, it won’t move, even if you stumble over it. It’s going to look just like a small rock out there. But you can start searching if you want, and I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
As April walked, she checked all the white spots that she thought might be a baby goat. Her glance swept the pasture on all sides of her continually. Once she saw her father on the other side of a ravine, looking carefully about. A fifty-acre pasture sure is big when you’re looking for something small, she thought.
After what seemed like hours, April met her father. “We’d better give up,” he said. “There are just too many places for the kid to be hidden. I can’t spend any more time looking for it. Maybe if she found a sheltered place to leave the kid, it will still be alive tonight. Or it may already be dead. I’ll turn the nanny out again as soon as I get back to the barn. Just maybe she’ll go right back to her kid.”
April thought, If I’m cold with my thick coat on, how cold is that newborn kid? Her eyes swept the pasture again. I’ll keep looking a little longer, Dad.”
“OK, but don’t get yourself chilled. You’re worth more than any goat kid to me.”
April’s father walked away, disappearing in the mist that coated everything. The tiny drops that looked like small diamonds would only wet the kid’s hair, chilling it that much faster.
Please, Heavenly Father, help me to find it, April prayed silently as she searched. Don’t let it die! Please help me to find it. She had walked the whole pasture at least once and now was checking out places that she might have missed the first time. She thought of the warmth waiting back in the kitchen. I could be sitting at the breakfast table in fifteen minutes, she thought. I’m so cold and tired—and I did try.
She was turning toward the house when she remembered how good she had gotten at mimicking the nannies talking to their kids. She knew all their calls. Now she wondered if she could fool the hidden kid. She took a deep breath, and, from a low place in the back of her throat, let out her best maaa uh uh imitation of a nanny calling her kid to come nurse. Again she went maaa uh uh with all the urgency of a nanny trying to find her own baby in the midst of dozens of other kids. Then she added the unh unh unh loving sound a nanny makes when she has found her own and is urging it to nurse.
April stopped and listened. Silence. She called again and listened. Then she heard it—a very faint naaah close by.
Calling as she walked, she heard the kid answering. Suddenly, almost at her feet, what looked like a rock lying by a log struggled up onto four legs.
“Oh, you poor, wet thing!” she cried. Gathering the kid in her arms, she tucked it inside her coat to warm it. She talked to it in goat language, and it nuzzled her under the chin. Walking toward the warmth of the house, she whispered, “Too soon! I almost quit too soon. Thank you, Heavenly Father.” Then, laughing happily, she told the kid, “That’s what I’ll name you—Too Soon.”

Brant sat on the curb and ran his fingers through his hair. “Look at this stupid report card!”
Willard shook his head and got to his feet. “You want to see a really stupid one? Look at mine!” He aimed his arm as if he was going to throw a javelin, then ran a couple of steps and threw his ball as hard as he could into the air.
Brant squinted in the afternoon sun. “It’s going over the fence! No! Right onto Mr. Lawson’s shed!” He covered his ears as the ball thudded on the roof and rolled off the other side.
The crash of the ball against the roof brought Brant to his feet and sent Willard ducking behind a bush. Mr. Lawson’s scowling face immediately appeared at his back screen door. Brant felt like hiding, too, but his dad always told him to face what was coming.
“What broke?” Mr. Lawson shouted angrily.
From his shelter, Willard nudged Brant forward. “Nothing, Mr. Lawson,” Brant replied. “Willard’s—” Willard socked Brant’s shoulder—“I mean, our ball bounced off your shed and landed on your property.”
Mr. Lawson’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose you want to get it.”
Brant shrugged. “It would only take a minute, if it’s OK.”
“What if I said no? You kids track through my yard and garden without any regard to the time and work that went into it.” Mr. Lawson opened the screen door and came outside, waving his arms. “Get your ball, but stay off my plants—especially my everbearing strawberries! I’ll be watching.”
Brant shoved his report card back into his pocket and put his books on the curb. He felt as if he was going into a mine field. He glanced at Willard, then entered the yard through the gate. Carefully he moved along the neatly weeded stone walkway and past the porch from which Mr. Lawson glared. Brant could almost feel his neighbor’s angry breath as he hurried around the corner of the shed and down the three timbered steps into the garden.
Bright flowers bobbed beneath the shed windows and along the walkway where the plump, juicy strawberries grew. Brant located the tattered ball among the lush green leaves. Sitting on his heels, he leaned forward, carefully maneuvered among the strawberry leaves, and grasped the ball. The sweet smell of the delicious fruit made his mouth water, but he didn’t take any.
He stood and returned just as carefully along the walkway. Mr. Lawson was standing by the timbered steps, still watching him like a hawk. “Thank you,” Brant muttered.
“Next time watch where you throw that thing!” Mr. Lawson thundered.
Back on the road, Brant tossed Willard the ball, and Willard handed him his books. “I always get the dirty work,” Brant grumbled as they continued to their homes.
“You handle stuff better.”
At the corner, they turned down the alley. “How am I going to handle this report card?” Brant said.
“What’s to handle? You usually get good grades.”
“Yeah, right! Then how do I explain a D in math?”
Willard laughed. “That will take some explaining!”
“Not funny, Will.”
“It is to me. I’m the one with bad grades. What happened to you?”
Brant shrugged and looked ahead toward his house. “Math happened. I’m lost.”
Willard patted Brant’s shoulder. “I don’t even show my folks my report card. Try that.”
Brant frowned. “Yeah, right! Hide it for a whole year? Get serious.”
“That’s what I do.” Willard flipped the ball in his hand. “My folks are too busy to even notice.”
“My folks know when report card day is. And if they forget, Randy reminds them.” Brant nodded toward the end of the street, where his little brother was walking home with a friend.
“Hi!” Randy called excitedly. “I got my report card!”
Brant jabbed Willard’s side. “See what I mean?”
“Wanna see my grades?” Randy offered eagerly. He shoved his report card into Brant’s face. “All A’s except one B!”
Brant patted Randy’s head. “Good work, Ran.”
“I get a dollar for every A,” Randy announced proudly.
Willard leaned close to Brant. “How much for a D?” he snickered.
Randy looked up quickly. “I didn’t get any D’s. After I tell Mom, I’m calling Dad at work and telling him my grades!” He raced toward the house.
Brant’s head throbbed. He knew he was slipping in math, but he hadn’t expected a D! Was this his year to hit his head against a brick wall? Please, Heavenly Father, he prayed silently, help me convince Mom and Dad I haven’t been goofing off. He opened the door and heard his brother’s excited voice.
“Yeah, Dad, all A’s and a B! Thanks! Do you want to talk to Brant?”
Brant shook his head and shivered, but it was too late. Randy shoved the phone into his hand. “Here, Brant, Dad wants to hear about your grades.”
At dinner everyone listened as Randy babbled about his good grades. Brant knew that Dad and Mom would wait till they were alone to drop the ax. After dinner, Randy ran out to play, leaving Brant alone. He wished he could disappear too. Instead, he went out onto the deck, where Dad was restringing the lawn trimmer.
As Brant slumped into a lawn chair, Dad looked up. “OK, so what’s with the D?”
Brant shrugged. “I’m having trouble with math.”
Dad leaned back and wiped his hands with a rag. “That’s no news flash.”
“I’ll do better next report period.”
“Good, but how do you plan to do that?”
Brant squirmed. “I’ll spend more time on my homework.”
Dad smiled. “That’s a step in the right direction. Another is no more after-school street hockey—homework first. No friends in, and no TV while you’re doing it. Plus, doing homework doesn’t mean rushing through and putting answers on paper. It means understanding how to solve the problems. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now get your homework, and we’ll look at it. I used to be pretty good at math.”
The following morning, Willard and Brant hurried to school. “How’d it go with the report card?” Willard asked.
Brant shrugged. “I’m kind of grounded till I get this math thing right.”
“What’s ‘kind of grounded’?”
“It means that homework gets top priority. Dad explained some things, and I understand the math a little better already. What happened with you?”
Willard grinned. “Nothing. I told you I’d get away without showing them my report card.”
Brant frowned. Willard got away with everything! Then they passed Mr. Lawson’s home, and he remembered how Willard had wanted him to get the ball because “you handle stuff better.”
Brant smiled to himself. If he did handle stuff better, it was because his folks took the time and trouble to show him and Randy the right way to do things. Thank you, Heavenly Father, he prayed silently. Thanks for giving us parents who love us enough to not let us get away with anything.

Throughout my youth, my Church leaders watched out for me. Because my mother died when I was 15 years old and my father had a serious illness, I needed to work at night to earn money and go to high school during the day. I wanted to serve a full-time mission, but I didn’t know how I could save enough money for it. Then the elders quorum president of my ward told me that the quorum would help support me on my mission. I was happy and grateful that they would help me be a missionary. With their help, I served a mission in Brazil. Years later, my wife and children came with me to Brazil while I served as mission president.

Seemingly little lessons of love are observed by children as they silently absorb the examples of their parents. My own father, a printer, worked long and hard practically every day of his life. I’m certain that on the Sabbath he would have enjoyed just being at home. Rather, he visited elderly family members and brought cheer into their lives.

One was his uncle, who was crippled by arthritis so severe that he could not walk or care for himself. On a Sunday afternoon Dad would say to me, “Come along, Tommy; let’s take Uncle Elias for a short drive.” Boarding the old 1928 Oldsmobile, we would proceed to Eighth West, where, at the home of Uncle Elias, I would wait in the car while Dad went inside. Soon he would emerge from the house, carrying in his arms like a china doll his crippled uncle. I then would open the door and watch how tenderly and with such affection my father would place Uncle Elias in the front seat so he would have a fine view while I occupied the rear seat.

The drive was brief and the conversation limited, but oh, what a legacy of love! Father never read to me from the Bible about the good Samaritan. Rather, he took me with him and Uncle Elias in that old 1928 Oldsmobile along the road to Jericho.

My given name has led me to think a lot about this kind of all-encompassing stewardship. It might surprise you to learn how often someone I don't know walks up and asks me whether I'm related to my father, President Henry B. Eyring. (All right, maybe it wouldn't surprise you that much.) Some people actually mistake me for my father.

For example, several years ago on this campus, I passed a young woman who was walking in the opposite direction. She stared at me, and I knew what she was thinking. She passed out of my sight, but then I heard a squeal behind me. Before I could turn around, I felt an arm wrapping around one of mine. The young woman looked up at me with a big smile, and said, "I'll bet I know who yo-ou are!" Caught off-guard by her forwardness, I looked down and said, "I'll bet you do-on't!"

Throughout my life I have been conscious of my name. Henry was not a common name for young Californians in the 1960s. In fact, thanks to Herman's Hermits and their hit song, "I'm Henery the Eighth, I Am," even my friends liked to have fun with my name.

As I grew older, I had mixed feelings about sharing my father's name. Of course I admired him, but I wanted to be my own person. When we moved to Rexburg in 1971, I hoped to be more than just the son of the President of Ricks College. Even as I tried to emulate my father's many outstanding qualities, I was glad for the differences between us. For example, when I learned that the baldness gene is inherited through a boy's mother, I took great comfort in the thought that my maternal grandfather and uncle had thick, full heads of hair.

However, thanks to a relatively rare hair-loss condition called alopecia, I now share both my father's name and his hairstyle. As it happened, my hair fell out in 1995, the year that he was called to serve in the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. As his profile in the Church rose, mine seemed to be swallowed up. That was a time of soul-searching for me. After a period of spiritual grumbling and some self-pity, I realized that I had only two choices: I could either resent my name and association with my father or embrace it. Though I might try to ignore the connection to him, those around me wouldn't, and they would continually remind me of it.

I began to see that, like it or not, I was in a position of responsibility. If I behaved in ways that my father wouldn't, I could do great damage, not only to him and the Church, but to those who might observe my behavior and have their faith weakened. On the other hand, to the extent that I carried myself as he does and expressed both my love and his to those who approached me as his son, I could build faith and goodwill toward the Church and its leaders. Once I got over my personal pride, the right choice was clear and relatively easy to make. I do not have all of my father's good attributes, but that is not what people expect. I can perform my duty as his son simply by trying my best. And, in the process, I become a better, happier person. My small sacrifice yields rich personal blessings.

Do you like to work? When I was a boy growing up in Sandy, Utah, my three brothers and I learned to work hard. My family had a big garden, and my father always planted much more than our family could ever eat. He gave corn, tomatoes, and other vegetables to our neighbors. When they offered to come pick the vegetables, my father said, “Oh, no. My boys will pick them and have them ready for you.” My brothers and I learned to get up at 4:30 or 5:00 in the morning to weed the garden and pick the vegetables while it was still cool. I still get up very early in the morning.

I love the story of the golf addict who in a spiritual moment decided to take a new set of friends each time he went to play golf. That decision led to his inviting troubled teenagers from the inner city to come and learn a game of skill in a beautiful setting with clean air and clean company. Every golfing outing became a highlight in his life, not because of the game itself but the company he kept. Their gratitude knew no bounds and many of these youth were benefited emotionally and spiritually by the things they learned about discipline, concentration, coordination, and other things you learn when you gain a skill.

I illustrate this principle with a personal experience. When I was young, I decided to prepare for the entrance exam to the best business schools in France. This preparation, which lasted a year, was very challenging. At the beginning of the year I decided that whatever the heaviness of the task, I would never let my studies prevent me from attending my Sunday meetings or from participating in an institute class once a week. I even accepted a call to serve as the clerk in my young adult ward. I was confident that the Lord would recognize my faithfulness and would help me accomplish my objectives.
At the end of the year, when exams approached, I felt that I had done my best. When I arrived for the examination at the most reputable school, I had full confidence that the Lord would answer my desires. Unfortunately, the oral exam in my strongest subject was an unexpected disaster—I received a grade that prevented me from getting into this highly coveted school. I was distraught. How could the Lord have abandoned me when I had persevered in my faithfulness?
When I presented myself at the oral exam for the second school on my list, I was filled with doubt. In this school the exam that was weighted the heaviest was an interview with a jury presided over by the director of the school. The beginning of the interview was normal—until I was asked a seemingly insignificant question: “We know that you studied a lot to prepare for this exam. But we would be interested to know what your activities were outside of your studies.”
My heart skipped a beat! For one year I had done only two things: study and go to church! I feared that the jury would negatively interpret a description of my membership in the Church. But in one second I made the decision to remain faithful to my principles.
For 15 minutes or so, I described my activities in the Church: my Sabbath meetings, institute classes, and responsibilities as the ward clerk. When I had finished, the director of the school spoke.
“You know, when I was young, I studied in the United States,” he said. “One of my best friends was a Mormon. He was a remarkable young man, someone who had great human qualities. I consider Mormons to be very good people.”
That day I received one of the best grades possible, which allowed me to get into this school with a place of honor.
I thanked the Lord for His goodness. It took me several years, however, to understand the miraculous blessing of not getting into the first school. In the second school, I met key people. The benefits of my association with them became evident throughout the entire length of my career and are still important in my life and in the lives of members of my family.

Illustrations by Bryan Beach
K.C. played with his CTR ring during Primary. He tossed it from hand to hand.
Whoops! It slipped from his hands and fell to the ground. He couldn’t see where it fell. Then it was time to go to class.
After Primary was over, Sister Ballard saw a CTR ring on the floor. I wonder if K.C. left this behind, she thought.
She slipped it in her pocket to give to him later.
A few days later, K.C. realized he had lost his CTR ring. He looked everywhere, but he couldn’t find it.
K.C. knelt down. “Heavenly Father, please help me find my ring,” he prayed.
That same day, Sister Ballard was making dinner.
“Take K.C.’s CTR ring to him,” she felt the Spirit say.
I can’t go now, Sister Ballard thought. I’m too busy!
K.C. kept searching and praying. “Please, Heavenly Father,” he said. “Please help me find it.”
“Get K.C.’s CTR ring and take it to him,” Sister Ballard heard the Spirit say again.
She set down the carrots and went to get the ring.
K.C. came downstairs and told his mom what had happened.
“I’ve prayed and prayed, but I still can’t find it,” he said.
Just then, there was a knock at the door …
It was Sister Ballard!
“I felt like you needed this,” she said, handing K.C. his CTR ring.
K.C. smiled as he happily put his ring back on. His prayer had been answered!

The stars flickered once and then went out. Slowly the sky’s midnight black faded into the calm, pale gray that meets the dawn. The shadowy silhouettes of the trees in the orchard and the old rusty-red barn became more defined, clearer; then suddenly, as the sun topped the mountains, it was all there.
A dog barked. The rooster called good morning to the hens and anyone else who was listening. The birds in the loft awoke, fluttered their feathers, then rushed out of their nests into the cool morning air to catch that last, late worm on the dewy grass. The cows stirred in their stalls; they wanted to be milked. A horse whinnied and stomped his feet as he nuzzled in the manger, looking for a wisp of alfalfa. The barn owl returned from a night of hunting with a field mouse for her downy young.
I heard the creaking of the stairs. Milk pails rattled and clanged in the kitchen, and the back door slammed shut. Turning over, I saw the clock by my bed. Dad was up early; it was only 5:30 A.M.
I closed my eyes. Maybe I could sleep for a few more minutes. The ringing of the alarm made me jump. Six o’clock! I had just closed my eyes.
Stumbling sluggishly, I got out of bed and pulled on my clothes as I sleepily made my way to the bathroom. I filled the sink with icy water and washed my face, then reached for a towel. Instead, I grabbed one of my sister’s blouses. That’s girls for you, always leaving their clothes strewn around.
As I went down the hall, I stopped at my sisters’ room and gave their door a few loud knocks. I heard one sit up in bed and the other groan.
“Cut it out, Bobby!”
“Yeah, we want to sleep. It’s Saturday, you know.”
“I don’t care. It’s time to rise and shine. Besides, mom needs you to help with breakfast,” I said. “Now get up.”
I clumped down the stairs. Mom was busy in the kitchen, and dad had just come in with the milk.
“What’s for breakfast, honey? I’m as hungry as a starved hog in the winter,” he said as he kissed her on the cheek.
“Just sit down, dear,” she said with a smile. “We’re having coffee cake. Now sit down, Bobby. Elizabeth, go see if your grandfather is up yet.”
Coffee cake for breakfast? We only had that on special occasions, and I really hadn’t thought that anyone would …
“Happy Birthday, dear Bobby,” sang my sisters as mom set the steaming cake down in front of me.
“How does it feel to be 18, son?” asked grandpa as he sat down next to dad. “I was about your age when I first got that old Ford. Today would probably be a good day to start putting it back together.”
I looked at grandpa with a dazed expression. I couldn’t believe it. For as long as I could remember, the old Ford had sat in the unused part of the cow barn. Time and time again grandpa had said, “Bobby, someday when you’re old enough, you and me will put that old car back together.”
So, someday had finally come.
The old Ford had been the first car my grandfather ever owned. He bought it as a young man after a bumper crop of wheat in the early 1900s.
He was a farmer like his father and grandfather. He had lived on the land and off the land all his life. Farming was in his blood, and he had passed on this love of the land to my father, who had passed it on to me. Many times grandpa would say, “I’ve been a farmer all my life, always had dirt on my hands and mud on my boots. I’ve sat on a tractor and walked behind a plow. Yep, I’ve been a farmer all my days, and I intend to die one!” Then his wrinkled, weather-worn face would smile, and he’d be off into the past, telling a story of days long ago.
The old Ford was almost always in these stories. He loved the car almost as much as the farm. It was a part of him. Renovating it was his goal, and now it was mine, too.
Grandpa and I worked on the car most of the afternoon. We stopped at about 4:00. There was a dance in town that night, and I was going to take a girl I hadn’t seen in a long time.
I had known Margie for as long as I could remember. We were in the same kindergarten class, and I used to pull her ponytail. In junior high I used to tie the ends of her dress sashes to the back of her chair during class, and then laugh as she got up and knocked her chair over. Most girls would have gotten mad but not Margie. She would just laugh, shake her finger at me, and say that I had better watch out; she was going to get me back.
But when we went to high school, something happened. Margie was no longer the skinny-legged, freckled-faced girl in knee socks and braces. Sometime during that summer she had changed into a willowy beauty with an electrifying smile and sun-streaked hair. She was so carefree and simple, always laughing, always there to listen.
But halfway through our sophomore year she moved to the city. It was quite a blow to all of her friends, me in particular. But she promised to write and visit when she could.
So, when she called me to tell me that she was going to be in town visiting her grandparents for a few days, I couldn’t help but get excited. She had always been so fun to be with, and I was sure I would have a good time. Two years couldn’t have changed us that much.
As I drove up to the house where her grandparents lived, my hands were sweaty and butterflies were doing acrobatics in my stomach. My legs felt like spaghetti as I got out; and as I knocked on the door, I felt my face flush to a deep, hot red. The door opened and there was Margie, still willowy, still beautiful. Smiling, she let me in.
“Hi,” she said. “Boy, it’s really good to see you again.”
“Hi yourself,” I stuttered.
“Grandpa and grandma are in the kitchen. They said they wanted to see you when you came.”
“Oh. I saw your grandpa in town the other day, but I haven’t seen your grandma for a long time,” I said as we walked down the hall toward the kitchen.
“Bobby, how’s your grandpa?” asked her grandfather. “I hope he’s doing well. Haven’t seen him around for a while. Now, we don’t want to sound old-fashioned, but what time do you think you’ll be home?”
I assured them that it wouldn’t be too late, and then we left. As we walked out to the truck, I heard Margie clear her throat. I looked at her, but all she did was smile and ask who was going to play at the dance.
“Oh, it will be records,” I said.
“Records. How different. At home we always have a band.”
“That really must be nice,” I said uncomfortably. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice kept saying that this evening wasn’t going to be what I had expected. She just kept smiling.
All the kids welcomed her when we got to the dance, but as I watched her, I saw something that puzzled me. It was sort of an amused look, one that seemed to say, “I can’t believe the way you all act. I hope I didn’t act like this.”
We danced; then she danced with some of the others. Every once in a while I would see that same look. It bothered me, but what could I do? I just let it go.
On the way home, I asked if she had had fun.
“Oh yeah. I can’t wait to get home and tell the kids about it.”
I couldn’t help but wonder what exactly she would tell them. Her voice wasn’t the same as it used to be. She acted differently. Maybe it was just my imagination; it was probably nothing more than seeing old friends again. Whatever it was, I wasn’t going to worry about it; we were going to the county fair the next weekend, and I was sure we’d have fun.
I worked on the old car with grandpa that whole week. And as we worked, he would tell the stories I had heard so many times. The years seemed to turn backwards and sweep us away with them.
I was cleaning the carburetor when grandpa said, “Bobby, did I ever tell you what happened when I first got this old car? I’ll never forget the look on your grandma’s face when I took her for her first ride.” He chuckled to himself, then went on. “Bobby, you’ve never seen a woman more scared in all your life. The whole time I was driving she was yelling. ‘Look out for that fence! Look out for the ditch!’ Sometimes I thought she’d yell herself hoarse. I’d swerve all over the place, and she’d scream like a baby pig caught in a fence. I learned my lesson though. The next time I tried to scare her, she gave me one. She reached over and grabbed the wheel! That woman nearly ran me into the barn!”
He laughed out loud as he remembered. Then, eyes twinkling, he was off into another story. This time it was about how he had won the motorcar race at the county fair three years in a row. Then another about how some city slicker had tried to con him out of his car and how he had “showed him a thing or two.”
The week passed quickly, too quickly in fact, and it was soon time for the fair. I picked Margie up early; I was showing a calf, and I had to be there as soon as possible.
I won a blue ribbon and was pretty proud of myself, but when I showed it to Margie, all she did was smile that same smile she had given the kids at the dance the other night. But now I knew what it was that bothered me so much about it. Her smile was one of polite disinterest, as if to say, “You guys are nice and everything, but you’re so different, so uncool.” My stomach lurched inside me and my heart sank down to my toes. The old Margie was gone, gone forever. Somehow, she had gotten lost in the city.
We didn’t talk very much on the way home. She hadn’t had a good time (she’d nearly been kicked by a cow and run over by a Tennessee Walker), and I was depressed by my discovery.
I never saw Margie again after that. I saw her grandfather in town a few days later, and he said that she had gone back to the “big city.”
The days dragged by, even though I was working on the car with grandpa. He saw by my halfhearted enthusiasm that something was wrong and tried to cheer me up with his funniest stories. I listened and slowly began to feel better.
That week we finished the work on the engine. Grandpa was excited and wanted to take her for a trial run before we started on the body. So, I opened the barn doors up all the way and stood back to watch. He got in and gently ran his hand over the seat. The gleam in his eye reminded me of the excitement of a father watching his only child take its first few steps.
He tried to start it up, but the engine just sputtered and fell silent. He tried again, and again it died.
“Third time will be the charm,” grandpa yelled.
But as he tried to start it, a terrible rasping noise came from inside along with billows of black smoke and a deafening crash.
I ran to the car. Grandpa, coughing from the smoke, got out and sat on a bale of hay. I opened the hood and peered down into the remains of the engine, all black with burnt oil and grease. It was hopeless to think of fixing it again, and I knew it would hurt grandpa deeply when I told him.
But as I glanced over at him, I knew he already knew. His face trembled as he buried it in his hands. His back was bent, like a crooked cane, and he looked so old, so lost, so alone.
I went and sat next to him with my arm on his shoulder. Looking up, he mumbled, “I only wanted to bring it back, make it new, make it the way it was when grandma and I went riding in it.”
He sat there shaking, his heart crying out for the days of the past, somehow thinking that they could be brought back, rebuilt like an old car, this old Ford.
Gently I shook his shoulder.
“Grandpa,” I said. “Grandpa. Sometimes things just can’t be brought back or rebuilt. Sometimes we can only call back the memories.”
I sat there a while longer, then left him alone to sift through his days long past. Walking out of the barn, I could hear the cows softly mooing in the pasture and the hens clucking to their little ones. The sun was warm on my face, and suddenly I knew that everything would be all right for the both of us.

When Sam (short for Samantha) Southwick started high school in Grand Blanc, Michigan, she wanted to be involved. She knew that the secret to having a lot of fun in high school is to participate. She thought it would be either in cheerleading or playing on a sports team, but her plans didn’t work out easily. “I tried out for basketball. I tried out for cheerleading. I don’t know how many times I tried out for cheerleading, but finally I just stopped. Then I tried out for volleyball. It was fun, but I didn’t even make the first cut.”
Even in those moments of disappointment, Sam was a little bit proud of herself for following through and not quitting. But which was her sport? Where was she going to succeed? Repeatedly not making the team could have made her want to quit trying. But she kept on. Only now can she look back and see clearly what she needed to understand. “When you go into something with a positive attitude and the will to do it, then it actually becomes a lot easier. I was going through some of this for the wrong reasons.”
In Sam’s junior year, some of her friends were playing lacrosse. Because she was always willing to try something new, she started learning about the game and began the conditioning. “My friends helped me, and I’ve loved lacrosse ever since. We joke that it’s soccer in the air.”
Even after making the lacrosse team, Sam still had some learning to do. At first, she wanted to play offense. “It’s really fun to shoot on the goal and to make it. Everyone gets really excited. Offense is the glory place.” But her team needed her on defense—in the goal in fact.
Playing goalie is a scary position. To block a shot, she would get hit hard by a small rubber ball. Sam freely admits that she wasn’t very aggressive when she started out. “And on defense you’re trying to make sure the other team does not score, so you feel worried and responsible.”
Sam can still give you a blow-by-blow account of her first game as the goalie. “I was standing there thinking, What have I gotten myself into? Then they came down, running straight at me. Our defense didn’t really know what they were doing because we were new. I just stood there gripping my stick so hard. I was saying to myself, Just move, just move. It was really nerve-racking. I don’t think I blocked the first shot, but after that it got easier. I learned that when those balls hit you during the game, it doesn’t bother you because you’re just so intense. But after the game, you really feel it. You get hit everywhere.”
The team tied that first game. But two games later, after their first loss, Sam took it hard. She appreciated her team’s being supportive because they knew she felt responsible. “Losing takes an emotional toll on the goalie,” says Sam.
How does she deal with the pressure? Sam says, “I’ve actually said prayers in my head. I’ll ask myself, ‘Why am I praying about a sport when there are other things you should be praying for?’ But when I’m in those moments, I know that God really will help me.”
Losing is not fun, but Sam has learned that the old saying “Winning isn’t everything,” is actually true. Her philosophy is that sports are for fun and for learning how to deal with other people. “You learn how to communicate better with people and how to talk with them and get along. What I have learned playing goalie has helped me at my job.” Sam works as a waitress and sometimes has to deal with difficult people.
Even when you lose, Sam says, you can still feel great. “If you lose and you played as well as you can, you feel good because you feel like you actually did something. Winning looks good on your record, but it’s all about what you learn and how to deal with it.”

And now, my brothers and sisters, I share with you the rest of this account. I delivered my message on April 6, 1969. Again, I had little or no hope that Mrs. Patton would actually hear the talk. I had no reason to think she would listen to general conference. As I have mentioned, she was not a member of the Church. And then I learned that something akin to a miracle had taken place. Having no idea whatsoever who would be speaking at conference or what subjects they might speak about, Latter-day Saint neighbors of Mrs. Terese Patton in California, where she had moved, invited her to their home to listen to a session of conference with them. She accepted their invitation and thus was listening to the very session where I directed my remarks to her personally.
During the first week of May 1969, to my astonishment and joy, I received a letter postmarked Pomona, California, and dated April 29, 1969. It was from Mrs. Terese Patton. I share with you a part of that letter:
“Dear Tommy,
“I hope you don’t mind my calling you Tommy, as I always think of you that way. I don’t know how to thank you for the comforting talk you gave.
“Arthur was 15 years old when he enlisted in the navy. He was killed one month before his 19th birthday on July 5, 1944.
“It was wonderful of you to think of us. I don’t know how to thank you for your comforting words, both when Arthur died and again in your talk. I have had many questions over the years, and you have answered them. I am now at peace concerning Arthur. … God bless and keep you always.
“Love,
“Terese Patton”
My brothers and sisters, I do not believe it was a coincidence that I was impressed to give that particular message at the April 1969 general conference. Nor do I believe it was a coincidence that Mrs. Terese Patton was invited by neighbors to join them in their home for that particular session of conference. I am certain our Heavenly Father was mindful of her needs and wanted her to hear the comforting truths of the gospel.

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

When I was 12, some of the girls in my new school invited me to a birthday party. It was the first party with these school friends I had been invited to. When I asked my parents if I could go, they said no because the party started too late.
A short time later, I got another invitation. I again asked my parents, but they again said no, and I got mad. Couldn’t I have any fun?
Then one of my closest friends planned a party. I was one of the first people she invited. The party started earlier than the others. It would be private and held near my home. I asked my parents for permission to go, and they said yes! I was excited.
The day arrived. As my parents drove me there, they said that they would pick me up at 10:00 p.m. When I got to the party, I found my girlfriends. Twenty minutes later, I still hadn’t seen the birthday girl.
A few minutes later, a young man came up to us and asked, “Have you brought money for the pisto?” He made a sign that let me know that “pisto” was beer. My girlfriends gave in at the request for money. I didn’t have any money with me, so I decided to go off with some other girls while these ones did their business.
Finally, the birthday girl arrived—an hour late. I congratulated her, and while we were talking, a big truck arrived. Five men got out and unloaded two crates of beer. Everyone crowded around and started handing out the beer. My girlfriends went off, and I was alone, watching those young people fighting to drink beer.
My girlfriends came over and offered me some. “No, thanks,” I told them. They again insisted. I again said no. My heart started beating fast, and I felt strange, like in a suspense movie where I was the main character and I was trapped in the middle of nowhere. Then I heard a car horn—it was my parents! I made my exit with a single good-bye and ran to the car.
I got in, breathing hard. I started thinking how heavy the environment felt where I had been. My mom asked if I was all right. “Yes,” I replied, “but something surprised me.”
“What surprised you?” asked my father.
“All my friends were drinking, and there I was, startled, waiting for something good to happen. How I wished for you both to get here, and now I’m here.” I looked at the car clock; it wasn’t yet 10:00.
My mom said, “That’s how parties are in the world. That was why we didn’t allow you to go to previous parties.”
That night when I prayed, I thanked my Heavenly Father that my parents had arrived early.

I feel happy with that decision I made to not drink. I thought that I would be made fun of afterwards, but my friends ended up with more respect for me because they know my standards. After that, I have not been afraid to say no to what I know will harm me.

Brother Bingham soon sent the missionaries to visit me. At first their prayers and testimonies seemed strange to me, and my interest in them was simply motherly concern. I thought of their mothers—what they must be experiencing having sent their sons and daughters to our cold Russia, so far from home. I wanted to feed and warm them.

As it turned out, the missionaries were not the ones who needed help—I was. I had lived my entire life without a real knowledge of God and his Son, and I was afraid to open my heart. But gradually, over the period of a year as the missionaries continued to teach me and as I began to attend church weekly, I turned more and more to God. The burden of my loss was eased.

Finally, on 10 December 1995, Brother Bingham baptized me. Now I know that although we may experience heartache and difficulties, such as the death of a loved one, the Lord gives us the strength to endure such difficulties. That strength, for me, is the faith that comes through finally having the Lord in my life—and the knowledge that through temple ordinances I can be with my husband again.

When Nick Turpin was 14, the only thing he knew about the Church was that his friends Steve Andersen and Jason Farrell were members. That’s when they gave Nick a Book of Mormon with their testimonies written in the front of it. Then they invited him to seminary, telling him their teacher was cool and they wanted Nick to learn more about the Church. That was February of 2002. Nick was baptized three months later.
That may seem quick, but Nick’s testimony didn’t come from one overwhelming spiritual experience. It came quietly, gradually. He says, “It just felt right at seminary and at church.” He says he always figured there was a purpose to life, and the missionaries explained what that purpose was. Reading the Book of Mormon also helped his testimony grow, and, pointing to Steve and Jason, he says, “These guys helped me to join the Church. When I was with them before I joined the Church, it was great to know that we were doing the right thing and still having loads of fun.”
Steve says, “Our friendship wasn’t based on Nick taking the discussions. We just wanted him to know more about the Church. If he had said no, our friendship wouldn’t have changed.”
Nick’s friends introduced him to the gospel, but it was the Spirit who converted him. Nick says, “In my heart, I know that if I didn’t believe that the Church was true, I wouldn’t have joined just because my friends wanted me to.”