Gospel Story Finder

I had been a missionary in Taiwan less than a month when my companion and I decided to go to the National Palace Museum on preparation day. While waiting at the bus stop, surrounded by a sea of people with black hair and dark eyes, I noticed an older Caucasian woman approach. What immediately caught my attention was that she simply radiated tranquility, serenity, and peace. She came to where my companion and I were standing, recognized from our name tags that we were missionaries, and began to chat.
The woman told us that she, too, was a missionary. In fact, she and her husband had been missionaries for a small Christian sect most of their lives. We boarded the bus and found seats together so we could continue our conversation. The woman related that she and her husband had been missionaries in mainland China during the Japanese invasion and occupation. They had been captured and held in a prisoner of war camp for five years. She described some of the conditions and their treatment in the camp. To say that those five years were difficult, even horrible, would be an understatement. One of the many stories she recounted was about the year her husband wanted to give her a special gift for Christmas. He took the rubber heel off his shoe and carefully scraped it on a stone until it became a makeshift rubber spatula for her to use in her cooking duties in the camp.
At the end of a most fascinating bus ride, it was time for us to part company. After describing a five-year ordeal that I could scarcely imagine, this beautiful, serene woman said, “You know, I wouldn’t have chosen all of the experiences I’ve had, but I wouldn’t trade any of them now.”

Joan began studying her notes first. She had carefully followed the instructions given in the test class: “Teachers will tell you what will be on a test in four ways: (1) they will come right out and tell you, ‘You had better know this; it’s important that you understand this; etc.’; (2) they will write key points on the board; (3) they will repeat a key point several times; (4) they will spend a great deal of time talking about a specific point.” The instructions in the test class were: “Be test-wise when you take notes; put an asterisk by any material that meets the four rules.” Joan also made up a test by using the material in her notes marked with an asterisk.
In her history test Joan completed only the questions she knew. She circled the number of the others. Her sample test had been a good one; she knew 36 of the 50 answers. She went back to the 14 questions she was not sure of, eliminated those choices she knew were wrong, and then used her first impressions about the right answer. She completed ten more questions. Then she studied the answers in the four remaining questions. She crossed out two choices on one question because they had the words always and never in the sentences. She finally circled the alternative that had the word usually in it. The three remaining questions were dates. Question 17 was, “What was the date of the Battle of Bull Run?” Joan tried to remember the events. Bull Run was an early victory for the South. “Probably in the first year of the war,” she thought. She remembered the war began in 1861. She looked down the choices and circled choice C—1862. The other choices on the last two questions drew a complete blank, so she circled C for both of them—remembering instructions in the test class to that effect.
By Friday the test results were back. Drew got a 91 on the math test. He missed half of one problem, but had even been given part credit for his work on the one he hadn’t finished. Ninety-one was third best in the class and better than Drew had ever done. Joan’s history score was the highest in the class. Bob was walking on air when he got his English exam back. He had never done better than a C+ on an English test. The A- he received was better than he had dared hope. He had come from his usual C- to a B+ in history. But Drew felt prouder than both. Bob and Joan. He had gone from his usual D+ to a solid B on his history test.

Once there were two boys who lived next door to each other. Although they were of the same age, they couldn’t seem to get along together. Then one day, everything started to change. Here are the testimonies they recently gave at the Applewood Ward, Arvada Colorado Stake, where they are both deacons.
“Dear brothers and sisters, my talk today is on friendship, and the story I want to tell you is about how a boy and I became true friends. This boy’s name is Matt. I used to call him ‘Mean Matt,’ and he would get mad and start fighting with me. We would get in fist fights or throw rocks at each other. I would beat him for fun and for revenge. Sometimes he would go home with a swollen eye or a bleeding nose.
“I would always attract the attention of this friend and try to make him very jealous. Sometimes he would get angry and try to get revenge, but I won most of our fights. But often, underneath it all, he made me feel jealous—once he got a new bike, and he did things with his family. Then one night he invited me over to a meeting called family home evening. That’s when I became interested in the Church. I was later baptized.
“This story is a true story about my next-door neighbor Matt Taylor. We both became very active in the Church. We enjoy Scouting, and now we do things together without any fights or trouble. I am thankful Matt brought me into the Church, and I hope that you can bring someone into the Church so they can have the same feeling I have.” (Shawn Bell.)

When I finished my mission more than 40 years ago, I came to the United States to work and save money to start college at BYU. As I was working and preparing to start college, I had a strong impression of returning to my country in Mexico to study. The impression was so strong that I didn't hesitate to return.

When I arrived in Chihuahua, Mexico—my home state—to enroll in college, they informed me that since I had graduated from the Juarez Stake Academy—a Church high school in Mexico— which was not incorporated at that time into the Mexican educational system, it would not be possible to enter the university where I was applying.

I moved to Mexico City to explore other possibilities at other universities, but unfortunately, none accepted my application. Disappointed by the impossibility of entering the university, I asked them what their recommendation would be. I was told that I had two options: the first was to move back to the United States, where my high school studies were accepted, or to study high school again. Guess what I decided? Yes, I decided to take the hardest decision of my life, stay in Mexico, and start all over again.

Due to the strong impression from the Spirit that came to me days before of returning to my home country, I did not hesitate to stay in Mexico and go back to high school. That meant that I would have to study another three years before starting university. On the first day of school, I burst into tears in the back of the classroom. Those moments were challenging, as you can imagine. Now, I have two high school certificates. That makes me proud; I don’t think any of you are likely to have two high school certificates.

At that time, I met my wife, Pilar, and while I was attending high school for the second time, I proposed to her. I think she must have loved me very much in order for her to agree to marry a student not in college but in high school.

After many years, I recognized that the impression I had to come back to Mexico came from the Spirit. The Lord helped me make the right decision. I met my wife, one of the greatest blessings of my life, I had adequate academic preparation, and got an excellent job that would allow me to raise a family in the gospel and provide them with everything they needed.

My friend invited me to a birthday party during the Saturday morning session of general conference. It was really hard to choose whether to listen to general conference or go to the party. I had a feeling I should listen to conference, so I did. It’s a good thing I did because I had to give a talk in our Primary program on what President Monson said in conference. Since I had decided to listen to conference, I was able to hear the prophet so I could do my talk.
Katie J., age 9, Utah

A horrible scene unfolded at the end of the Vietnam War. About 250 Vietnamese nationals such as Brother Thach and his family had joined the Church.

What hope did the members of the Church have as the North Vietnamese army swept southward over their homeland? They could not turn to their American allies for help because they had fled the land, leaving the members to an awful fate. The president of the Saigon branch, The Van Nguyen, wrote of this moment:

On Sunday, April 27, 1975, with the enemy at our very gates, members of the Saigon branch met to discuss our collective fates. Cut off by the war from our lines of Church authority, we were afraid and felt utterly helpless. We reverently and humbly bowed our heads for opening prayer and then sang “Come, Come, Ye Saints” from the depths of our souls. Our tiny branch, so far away from the main body of the church, conducted its own funeral. . . . As we drew together at this perilous moment, we only knew that each of us, in addition to the gospel, had one thing in common: life as we knew it was over. . . .

. . . As the highest ranking Church leader residing in Vietnam, my job was to effect the evacuation of as many branch members as possible—hopefully all of them—before Saigon fell. Even though my feelings of inadequacy nearly overwhelmed me, I was determined to do all I could to ensure the safety of those who had embraced the gospel in Vietnam. I could only place my trust in the Lord to help me do the right thing.

While the sacrament was blessed and passed, I could not help but reflect back on the events in my life that brought me to this awful crisis. I paused in the serenity of the sacrament to ponder my unenviable situation. In a long moment of self-pity, I tried to say in my heart, “All is well, all is well,” but instead I recalled the words of the Savior as He hung upon the cross: “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

In the years that followed, the Vietnamese members of the Church were unable to practice their religion. Some fled their homeland while others quietly endured. However, the story does not end here. Following the end of the war, a group of American servicemen organized an effort to identify and assist the scattered Vietnamese members of the Church. These valiant Latter-day Saint veterans helped many members reestablish contact with the Church and in some cases find refuge in other countries. President The Van Nguyen and some of the members of his branch now live in the United States, free to enjoy their membership in the Church. Other members still in Vietnam have recently organized branches of the Church there. It is no surprise that President Hinckley has returned to Vietnam and met with the emerging membership there.

When I was young, our little family lived in a one-bedroom apartment. I slept on the couch in the living room. More than anything else in the world, I wanted to be an athlete. I did everything I was told might help me. While some of the advice I received was questionable, I tried it anyway, just in case it might help. I was advised not to eat chocolate, so I didn’t eat chocolate. I remember being told not to drink soda pop because it would “cut your wind.” I never drank soda pop. I was also told to sleep with the windows wide open to get plenty of fresh air, so all year long I slept with the windows open.
My dad, a steelworker, left home for work very early each day. Every morning he would quietly close the windows I had opened in the living room; then he would tuck the covers around me and stop for a minute. Often, half-dreaming, I would sense my dad standing beside the couch, looking at me. As I pretended to sleep, he would bow his head and quietly pray with all his attention, energy, and focus—for me.
Each morning he would pray that I would have a good day, that I would be safe, that I would learn and prepare for the future. And since he could not be with me until evening, he would pray for the teachers and my friends that I would be with that day.
At first, I didn’t really understand what my dad was doing those mornings when he prayed for me. But as I got older, I came to sense his love and interest in me and in everything I was doing. It is one of my favorite memories. It wasn’t until years later, after I was married, had children of my own, and would go into their rooms while they were asleep and pray for them, that I understood completely how my father felt about me.

When COVID-19 hit in the spring of 2020, we all worried about how to continue the work. The African refugees are an extremely social and warm people, so the isolation was hard on them. Gone were the large group gatherings in homes of members and African friends alike. In May 2020, we held a ward fast and prayed that Heavenly Father would bless the lives of our African friends both temporally and spiritually and help them come unto Christ.
As was common throughout the Church, our missionaries began teaching online. They started a Facebook page about the Church in the Swahili language.
Our ward mission leader at the time, Brian McCann, said, “As we fasted for the Lord to help Swahili missionary work, in our minds we thought it meant Swahili missionary work in Spokane. But the Lord really showed us the use of technology during COVID-19, and all of a sudden the elders were showing up saying, ‘We’re teaching this person in Norway and this person in Uganda and this person in Kenya.’”
Sifa, an African refugee living in Norway, found the Facebook page and began taking the lessons very early in the morning, Spokane time. Sifa contacted her local missionaries, and together with the help of the missionaries in Spokane, she learned about the restored gospel. She and her son were baptized in Norway in December 2020. Sifa knew people in Uganda from her time as a refugee there, and soon we were teaching 20 people in a Ugandan refugee settlement.

Get out the scrapbooks with the clippings and photographs of Holly’s skating career, and the picture of her after the first competition will tell you all you need to know about why she has been successful. There she is at six-and-a-half, standing in third place holding her little ribbon, with her eyes glued on the trophy in the first-place winner’s hands. The look in her eye is everything. It is a look of pure resolve, a look that says next time the trophy will be hers.
Holly’s mother, Marge, noticed the look also. “That’s when I realized her determination. The girl who placed above her had an axel in her routine. Holly didn’t do that yet. She came home and went right to work learning it. I realized then that she had something special. She would fall and fall but keep on trying.”

Tim Connors took a big bite of his after-school peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich and considered his problem. The Caped Avenger doesn’t really exist, not even in books. How can I do a book report on a book that doesn’t exist?
He wished he’d been paying attention in class. Then when the teacher asked who his favorite character was, he wouldn’t have blurted out, “The Caped Avenger.”
“Tell us about the Caped Avenger,” said the teacher.
“He fights evil,” Tim said, “and has lots of adventures—like the time the mad scientist had a laser gun pointed at the Capitol in Washington, D.C.”
“Sounds serious,” said the teacher. “What did the Caped Avenger do?”
“He went up on top of the Capitol dome and set up a special mirror to reflect the laser back at the bad guy,” Tim explained. That adventure was one of his brother Mikey’s favorite Caped Avenger stories.
“Boy,” said Norman with a sly grin, “I’d sure like to see that book. Why don’t you bring it in, Tim?”
“I think everyone would like to see it,” the teacher agreed. “Bring it in tomorrow and do a book report on it, Tim.”
Now Tim understood why Norman had grinned. Norman knew that there was no such book and that the Caped Avenger was just a character in the stories Tim told Mikey at bedtime. Norman knew, too, that Tim would be too embarrassed to tell his teacher. If he did, the whole class would laugh at him.
Tim looked at his sandwich. As usual he’d eaten the crusts first. The round, white sandwich looked a little like the spaceship whose occupants the Caped Avenger had foiled when they tried to take over the earth. Mikey hadn’t liked that story as well as the one in which the Caped Avenger had captured the dragon that ate all the ornaments off the Christmas tree. Tim had told his brother that story last year after Mikey had accidentally broken a whole box of glass ornaments.
Carefully Tim bit the sandwich into a rectangle so that it looked like a white book with brown pages. If the Caped Avenger were real, he’d probably consult his book of magic spells to find out how to turn wicked witches into toads—or sandwiches into books for boys who needed them for book reports! Or maybe the Caped Avenger would merely write the book himself. …
Write the book himself! “I’ll do it!” said Tim. “That’ll show Norman.”
When Mom and Mikey came home from the store, Tim was hard at work, cutting out magazine pictures that would illustrate a new Caped Avenger story.
“What’s it about?” asked Mikey, looking at the pictures of a big explosion, an airplane, and a scientific laboratory. “And where are you going to get pictures of the Caped Avenger?”
Tim paused. He shuffled the pages of the notebook that already had some pictures taped in it, just waiting for the story. Mikey was right. There were no pictures of the Caped Avenger in magazines or anywhere else. Tim knew exactly what he looked like, but he also knew that he could not draw such a daring hero. Suddenly he brightened. “The Caped Avenger has a new cape,” he explained. “It makes him invisible.”
Mikey’s eyes grew big. “Please, Tim, tell me the story.”
“Not right now, Mikey. I have to write the whole story for a book report for school tomorrow.”
The title page was beautiful. THE CAPED AVENGER AND THE BOMB and BY TIM CONNORS were in big, bold letters. But writing the story would have been much easier for the Caped Avenger than it was for Tim. Words that fit together in his mind seemed to get muddled on the way to the paper. His notebook pages became so smudged and sticky that he kept crumpling them up and starting over.
Tim was still struggling with his book when Mikey sadly went to bed without a story. Tim felt bad. He wished that he could just tell Mikey the story without having to write it down. Telling stories was easier.
Tim sat up straight. He ran upstairs, rummaged in his closet, then tiptoed into Mikey’s darkened bedroom. “What are you doing?” Mikey asked sleepily.
Tim put something on the dresser. “Telling you a story. It’s about how the Caped Avenger saved the world when the bad guys stole plutonium. They said they’d blow the earth’s crust apart unless the government gave them eighty spaceships.”
“Wow!” exclaimed Mikey happily.
Being careful to speak clearly, Tim launched into his story. By the time the Caped Avenger had been thanked again by a grateful nation, Mikey was asleep.
Tim took his tape recorder off Mikey’s dresser and carried it downstairs. He rewound the tape and played it back. “Silent and invisible, the Caped Avenger crept past the guards into the secret laboratory,” said his voice. He turned it off and picked up his pencil. Smiling, he wrote it all down, listening to a sentence or two at a time. There would be a book to take to school after all. Tim and the Caped Avenger had won another victory!

I stood on the step of the train and hugged my father good-bye. “Have a nice time in Wales, Hetty,” he said.
“I will,” I answered, smiling.
The spring of 1910 was one I would never forget. I had been baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints just a short time before, and now I was going on a trip all alone from Bristol, England, to Wales to visit my Aunt Nell.
“Hetty”—Father caught my hand—“don’t forget to say your prayers.”
I squeezed his hand. “I won’t, Father.” But as I turned to go, I added under my breath, “I hope.”
I had a hard time remembering to say my prayers at night. Before the missionaries visited our home, I had sometimes said a little prayer before going to sleep that started, “Now I lay me down to sleep.” But the missionaries taught us that prayer was actually talking to Heavenly Father. I wasn’t used to that—and I wasn’t always sure I had anything important to tell Him. But at Aunt Nell’s house there would be lots to tell Him. I didn’t think that I’d forget there.
That night I didn’t forget. I thanked Heavenly Father that the train hadn’t derailed and that Aunt Nell had been there to meet me. I thanked Him for the lovely green Welsh hills and for the pastures filled with sheep.
The next night was different, though. I spent all day exploring the hills with Aunt Nell. I was so tired at the end of the day that I fell into bed and went right to sleep.
“Oh, dear,” I thought the next morning. “I forgot to say my prayers. Well, I’ll say them tonight.” But we spent all day visiting Aunt Nell’s relatives in the nearby village, and the same thing happened that night. And the next.
The next morning, Aunt Nell surprised me. “Hetty,” she said, “how would you like to go into the village by yourself today and buy something for me?”
“I’d love to!”
She gave me some money and told me where to find what she needed. Then she said, “Now, remember—don’t stay too long. A fog often comes in from the sea in the late afternoon. If that happens, you might not be able to find your way home.”
I told her that I’d be careful. Then I skipped off. I had to go over a bridge, walk down a long lane, and cross two fields to get to the village. The fields were surrounded by high hedges. They had stiles, or steps, in them that allowed people but not animals to go through. After I crossed the last stile, I went straight to the village store, made my purchase, and turned toward home.
“Hetty!” someone called. I turned back and saw some of Aunt Nell’s cousins playing on their doorstep. “Can you stay and play?”
“Well …” I hesitated. The sun was still high in the sky. It wouldn’t hurt to stay a little while. “OK,” I said, “but not long.”
“Not long” turned into “too long.” The sun was getting low in the sky when I started back to Aunt Nell’s. I crossed the first field just fine, but as I entered the second field, the fog came rolling in. I walked around and around the field, but I couldn’t find the stile.
Finally I stopped and stood shivering in the thick, damp fog. My father’s words echoed in my head: “Don’t forget to say your prayers.” I knew I needed Heavenly Father’s help, but how could I pray to Him after I’d been disobedient?
I knelt in the wet grass. “Heavenly Father,” I whispered, “I’m sorry I’ve been forgetting to say my prayers. And I’m sorry I stayed too long in the village. But please help me find my way.”
Just then, a horrible “Eeee-Aaaa!” sounded right by my ear. Terrified, I leaped up and stumbled away from that awful noise. And there, right in my path, was the stile! In an instant, I climbed up and over it. Then I ran down the lane, heading straight for a lantern bobbing towards me. It was Aunt Nell! I threw myself into her arms.
“There, there,” she soothed, and she took me home. That night I knelt and thanked Heavenly Father for helping me, and I promised to never again forget to pray.
The sun was out the next morning. I asked Aunt Nell to go for a walk with me. We crossed the bridge, walked down the lane, and came to the stile. I took a deep breath and climbed it. As I reached the top, I looked down into the field and saw the answer to my prayer. There, tethered near the bottom of the stile, was a donkey.
I laughed.
“What is it?” Aunt Nell asked.
“Oh, I’m just happy,” I answered. And I was. I’d found out for sure that Heavenly Father loves me and answers prayers—sometimes in unexpected ways. He might even use a donkey to do it.

I think often of Brother Herschel Pedersen, who was a basketball star here many years ago. He works at Geneva Steel. He said he was eating his lunch and reading his scriptures one day while he was on the job and a very rough individual looked in the door and said, “Oh, you’re reading that stuff, are you?”

Brother Pedersen said, “Yes. What do you know about these books, anyway.”

The man said, “I know all about them.”

“Oh, do you?” asked Brother Pedersen. “Tell me, then, when the Savior comes again what color will his clothes be?”

The man said, “That’s easy, They’ll be white.”

Brother Pedersen said, “That’s not what it says in here.”

“Oh, what color will they be?”

“Why don’t you try to find out?”

Brother Pedersen wouldn’t tell him. A week or two later he came back ready for further discussion. After some time, he said one day, “Tell me, do you think there is ever any hope for a guy like me?”

House Build C:
In this family are Roberto (father), Micaela (mother), Gloria (daughter, 13), Esther (daughter, 10), and Abraham (son, 8). Roberto works as a cook six days a week. Micaela raises her children and makes foam flowers to sell to stores and schools.
Two years ago, Roberto started going back to church with his family. He felt God’s love and felt the need to serve and love others, so each Friday he would bring hundreds of burritos and flavored water to migrant groups from Central America. He feels that God always blesses him for his service and that his new home is one such blessing. But he was even more excited about the incredible gratitude, love, and unity he felt among the youth.

I once read a story about a boy named Jack who grew up in the hills of Virginia in the United States. Every day, his family sat around the table for dinner. His father would ask each one of them, “What did you do for someone today?” The children wanted to do a good deed every day so they could tell their father they had helped someone. As they grew up, they felt a desire in their hearts to help others.
Jack became a successful doctor. Then he created more than 70 clinics across the country to help people who needed medical care. We can’t all create medical clinics, but each of us can do something to help others.

Thinking about this young sister missionary brings back memories of my first few days as a young elder. Serving in Tokyo, Japan, with no previous language training, I participated many mornings in a flyer distribution activity at the Nishi Koiwa train station. As men hustled to board their train to go to work early each morning, we politely approached them and offered a small flyer detailing the location of our church and providing a brief spiritual message. As the men rapidly passed by, I learned to say, “Dozo, yonde kudasai,” or “Please read this.” After a few days of repeating the same simple directive, I asked my companion, Elder Kent McKell, if there might be another phrase I could use. He told me to say, “Dozo, o yomi ni natte kudasai,” which means the same thing (please read this) but in honorific language. I proceeded to use the newly discovered expression but unfortunately failed to pronounce one syllable correctly. That morning I repeated, perhaps 200 times, to busy Japanese businessmen, “Dozo, oyome ni natte kudasai,” or “Please marry me” (literally, please become my bride). Yes, we risk failure or embarrassment when we approach others, but it is the right thing to do!

The day we interviewed Talon Hobbs of Franklin, Idaho, it was easy to see why he loved his small family farm so much. The hill behind their fields glowed gold in the sun and was plastered against the dark green of the mountains. The sky was intense blue. The air was clean and crisp, with the drifting scents of fresh hay and distant animals. It was the kind of day that makes you want to stand still and enjoy where you are and what you are doing.
In fact, that is exactly the reason Talon gives for wanting to go into the family business. At 18, he has learned from his father how to do virtually every job on the farm. “My dad tells me what I need to get done, but I can choose what I do throughout the day. It’s really quiet. You’re not stressed. You get to have your quiet time. That’s what I really like about it.”
But it’s not easy work. There’s no such thing as procrastination when chores need to be done and animals cared for. “I figure you might as well get the worst job done first, then you get to do the easier ones. There is always something to do.”
And what about when it’s winter, when it’s 20º below with the snow blowing? Talon shrugs because he doesn’t really see that as the worst thing. “You just have to deal with it.” He goes on to explain how his parents will give their hired hands the day off on holidays such as Christmas. “We used to groan and moan about it when we were little, but now it’s our family tradition to be on the farm on Christmas Day doing the chores together.”
Ironically, the only way that Talon Hobbs will get to own part of the family farm and the outdoor life he craves is by getting more indoor learning. “I’ve always wanted to farm, even when I was little. I wanted to have some of my own animals, but Dad didn’t want me to get too tied down. He wanted to give us the opportunity to go to college. I plan to go into animal science. I’d like to take some plant science classes, and learn how to add to the farm and make it better. I’ll need to learn some small business management. I figure it’s better for me to take classes than struggle my whole life trying to figure it out.”
In the meantime Talon is getting ready for another kind of advanced education, his mission. Looking back, his mission preparation has been going on for years. He tells of meeting a girl just as they were starting high school and how he admired how she stood up for the gospel. He says, “I saw that she could be strong at that age, and her example made me realize that I also knew the Church is true. It made me think. Choosing to follow the Church may not always be the popular thing to do, but it’s always the best.”

I remember the first time I encountered the Americans. We came through a dense pine forest, and we had to go across the street. We pushed aside the tree branches and all of a sudden a huge tank was right in front, and the gun was aimed at us.
I was scared. I had never seen an American tank or an American. The top of the tank opened, and an American came out. Russian prisoners who had been freed by the Americans were sitting on top. They saw that we were shaking. The American asked me where we came from and where we wanted to go. I told him we wanted to go home. “No way,” he said. “You just jump on here, and we’ll take you along. At the next stop we’ll put you on a truck that will take you to a camp.”
I had put it in my pocket, and at the moment that we were faced with that tank I remembered it. I pulled it out and gave it to the Russians. They read it and then all of a sudden said, “Friend! Friend!” in German and talked to the American, telling him that I had given food to the Russians. He said, “I hear you have been good to the Russians. Instead of us taking you along, just go ahead.”

On one occasion I was reading a general conference talk by Elder Richard G. Scott of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. Though I had heard and read this talk before, one phrase caught my attention and stayed in my thoughts.
A few hours later my son, who was living in an apartment with his friends, came by for a visit. He had served a full-time mission and had attended a few semesters of college. He was unsure what educational direction he should go and which career path he should pursue. Because he had been frustrated and felt that school, for now, was a waste of time and money, he put his studies on hold and began working full time.
He told me that one of his friends had suggested they go to an island in the Bahamas or the Caribbean, get jobs, and have fun for a few months. My son was excited about the prospect. I could easily see how enticing such a carefree experience could be to a young man.
Just then, Elder Scott’s impressive message came to my mind. I picked up the Ensign and read the following to my son: “You are here on earth for a divine purpose. It is not to be endlessly entertained or to be constantly in full pursuit of pleasure. You are here to be tried, to prove yourself so that you can receive the additional blessings God has for you. The tempering effect of patience is required” (“Finding Joy in Life,” Ensign, May 1996, 25).
Without a word, my son took the magazine, walked away, and read the whole talk. Later all he said was that he would not be embarking on his island adventure.
In time he entered the police academy, a path that led him to meet his future wife. They married in the Mesa Arizona Temple and today are raising three wonderful children. In 2010 my son finished his bachelor’s degree and is truly “finding joy in life.”
My son’s proposed adventure might have been a fine experience; on the other hand, it might have been spiritually dangerous. Each time I reflect on this experience, the Spirit touches my heart.
I am thankful for the words of the prophets and that I was prompted to recall a talk that helped me provide guidance. I am also thankful that my son listened to a messenger of the Lord and allowed the Spirit to influence him. I know that many blessings and tender mercies come when we listen to and follow the teachings of the Savior and His servants.

During her work on both the YWMIA general board and the correlation committees, Sister Funk came to know Sister Hortense H. Child, now her first counselor. Sister Child tells the story of the time she needed to give an important report on short notice. Before coming to the office that day she had forgotten to change from an old pair of gardening shoes. She just traded shoes with Ruth and carried on with her usual poise. But Ruth got even: she was asked in one meeting by the president of the Church to play the piano for an opening song, but she had forgotten her glasses. She just got up from her seat in the audience, and when she passed Sister Child, who was sitting on the aisle, she took off Hortense’s glasses as she swished by, put them on, and read the music without a flaw.

As a new Freshman at Ricks College, back in the year 1971, I was assigned an advisor just as the practice is now. I was told to meet with my advisor often and take advantage of the opportunity to learn and grow from his vast experience. However, upon seeing the assignment of my advisor, I shied away from this opportunity and only met with him the required time each semester. Despite his offering to come to visit with him often, I rejected the opportunities. I now regret and wish I had taken advantage of a lost privilege. I wonder what lost opportunities of a personal relationship with that advisor and counsel I might of enjoyed, if I had but entered the open doors of invitation. My advisor was the newly appointed president, now an Apostle, Elder Henry B. Eyring. What was lost during those first years at Ricks will never be regained, other than a lesson taught to seize the moments of privilege and opportunity, for we can never realize the magnitude of opportunities while they are seeds, only after they are planted, watered, and nurtured by faith and works. Perhaps part of my repentance requires a payment of counsel and advice to you this day. My desire is that not one of you cheat yourself, as did I.