Gospel Story Finder

Let me share an experience of a Relief Society sister who made a difference and exemplified the objectives of our organization.
This young adult sister, who was teaching English language classes in Japan, found herself on the playground surrounded by a group of Japanese children who were full of questions. “Do you like Japanese or American kids better?” “Do you eat sushi?” “How do you say basketball in English?” Amid the commotion, the young Relief Society sister felt someone tapping her arm. She turned around to see a little girl with pigtails and glasses. “I bent down to look her in the face and waited for what was sure to be some trivial question,” she says. “It was as if all the commotion stopped when she asked in a soft, almost timid voice, ‘Do you know Jesus?’ I was stunned by such a poignant and important question. I smiled and felt amazing love as I told her, ‘Yes, yes, I know Jesus.’”
Dear young adult sisters, you know Jesus. And with that knowledge you bring a clarity, a freshness, and an energy that our sisterhood needs. We value your membership in Relief Society, and you bless us with your faith in the Savior and in His work. An older sister described you in these words: “We are spiritually nourished as we observe you younger, vibrant women who not only have so much vigor and vitality but also who are spiritually mature, with tremendous inner strength of character and testimony—just beautiful to behold. We count our blessings because you are the ones who reassure us and give such faith and ‘a perfect brightness of hope’ for the future” (see 2 Ne. 31:20).

When the doctor released Tracy’s father from the hospital, it was to send him home to die. The cancer had been discovered too late and was too widespread for there to be much that could be done.
It wasn’t entirely for his father’s benefit that he wasn’t told he was dying; his mother needed some time to deal with the situation before she talked to her husband about it.
Tracy, then eighteen years old, numbly endured the last few weeks of high school, then it was summer. He worked on a highway department survey crew, which left him his weekends free to wait.
His three older brothers and their wives each took turns flying into town on weekends, spending a day or two with their father before returning to their jobs in faraway places.
One day his father called him into his room. It was dimly lit and smelled of pain; the bedside table was littered with glasses and bottles of pills.
“Have I ever lied to you?” his father asked.
“No.”
“Then don’t lie to me. Am I dying?”
Tracy suddenly found it difficult to speak. He tried to remember hopeful words about “being up in no time” that his brothers and their wives had used so easily. But it was no use.
“Am I dying of cancer?” his father again asked.
“Yes,” Tracy answered.
His father sighed and said quietly, “That’s what I thought.”
Over the next few weeks, his father made all the necessary preparations—calling in a lawyer to complete the will and other financial matters, and picking out a reasonably priced casket and a cemetery lot for his burial.
Then he lay back and patiently waited to die. But death, like sleep, does not always come when invited.
He even seemed to improve a little.
One warm summer day in July he looked out his bedroom window and said, “I want to go fishing.”
Of course, it was impossible. That was what his mother said; that is what the older brothers and their wives said; that is what the neighbors said.
The doctor said, “If he feels up to it and somebody can go along to do most of the work, why not let him go?”
Tracy was put in charge of taking his father for one last trip into the mountains. After a busy few days of planning and buying groceries and stocking up on pills and reading his mother’s never-ending list of how to care for his father, finally one Saturday morning, Tracy stepped inside the small camping trailer to make his last inspection before getting his father.
For all the years I was growing up, he thought as he looked at the worn path in the cracking linoleum floor of the camper, this has been dad’s church.
For as long as he could remember, his father had not been active in the Church. Long ago someone in the Church had offended him—about what and by whom no one could now remember. But it had been enough to keep him out of church, except to watch his sons perform, for twenty years.
For all the years that Tracy had been alive, his father treated Sunday as his day. “I work hard at the store six days a week. At least one day I ought to be able to do what I want to do.” And that meant fishing in the spring and summer, hunting in the fall, and doing some home carpentry in the winter.
Tracy drove the camper up the canyon, and his father sat in the front seat and silently watched the twisting mountain stream beside the road.
“I’d forgotten how beautiful it is up here,” his father said. “I know this country as well as anyone. Every road, every hill, each turn in the river—I know it all. See that place where the river goes under the railroad bridge? Right down there on that point is a good place to fish. If you use the right fishing equipment, I’ll guarantee you could catch two or three nice brown trout.”
“You make it sound easy, dad, but it never is when I try it.”
“Well, I’ve spent the last twenty years fishing this river. I should’ve learned something. You know, I should write down all the good places for you. Somebody ought to benefit from all I’ve learned about this river.”
They drove in silence for several kilometers as his dad studied the river and the condition of every fishing area.
Tracy wondered if his father knew that he didn’t care at all about fishing.
“We should’ve come out here more often, just father and son.”
“Mom never would’ve let me come on Sundays.”
“No, she was strongly opposed to your doing that.”
“But we could’ve come on Saturdays, dad.”
“Sure, we could’ve done that,” his father said wistfully, “if I’d ever had an assistant manager I could trust to leave the store with. You know Saturday was our busiest day.”
“I know; that’s what you always used to say.”
We’re strangers, Tracy thought as he drove. I really don’t know much about him. And what does he really know about me?
Soon they arrived at the lake. They discovered that the campsite, which for years had been his father’s favorite, was still vacant. It was the last one along the road to the lake and was located on a hill, giving a good view of the lake and mountains.
After lunch his father took his pills and lay down for a nap.
About mid-afternoon he woke up. “I feel terrific!” he announced happily. “This mountain air has done more for me than all the doctors in the world. Let’s go fishing!”
First Tracy carried down two folding chairs, next the fishing equipment, and after that a sunshade that his mother had made him promise he’d set up for his dad to use. After everything was ready, he escorted his father down the trail to the lake.
Not much happened for a couple of hours, but suddenly, his father shouted and his fishing rod bent over sharply. At the same time thirty meters out into the lake, a large trout jumped out of the water, shaking its head back and forth in an attempt to get rid of the hook.
“He must be about nine kilos!” his father yelled excitedly.
It was a long battle between man and fish. When the fish relaxed, the slow, steady reeling in of the fishing line brought it closer to shore. A couple of times it was within six meters of them before it surged its way back into deeper waters.
“Dad, I can see it now. It’s huge.”
Finally the fight was over.
“Get the net, Tracy. Careful now.”
Tracy stood near the water and waited for the fish to get close enough, then dipped the long-handled net into the water and pulled the exhausted fish into the air, causing it to frantically writhe.
“It’s beautiful,” his father said reverently.
Tracy picked up the large knife and prepared to strike the fish sharply on the head with the handle to put it out of its suffering. That was something his father had taught him.
“Don’t kill him!” his father cried out. “I don’t want to keep him.”
“No?”
“I want him to stay alive. He belongs in these waters. He fought too bravely to die. Can you remove the hook very easily?”
Tracy grabbed the fish by the gills and looked to see where the hook had lodged. It was deep in its throat.
“He swallowed the hook, dad. I can’t get the hook out without killing him.”
“Then cut the line and put him back in the water. Quickly now.”
He took his knife and cut the line a few centimeters from the fish’s mouth, then gently lowered it into the water. For a second or two, it just lay still; then sensing freedom, it quickly swam away from them into the deep.
Tracy looked back at his father, wondering why he let loose the largest fish they’d ever seen in the lake.
“He’s free now, isn’t he? Free to move through these waters. He can go places we’ll never see. I’m glad we didn’t keep it, aren’t you?”
Since anything else after that fish would be anticlimactic, they quit and packed everything back to the trailer.
“How’d you like to go to California with me for a few weeks this summer?” his dad asked, the excitement of catching the fish still bubbling over. “There’s a hospital there where they treat people with diseases like mine. We could drive down there. They claim they can cure people even worse off than me.”
His father was as positive as Tracy had seen him for years.
“We can fight back at disease, can’t we? We don’t have to just sit and accept defeat, do we? We’ll leave in a week or two, just you and me. And when I’m all cured, we’ll have mom fly down and meet us. We’ll take a little vacation and show her all of California, just the three of us. Maybe we’ll even go down to Mexico and Central America and take a boat through the Panama Canal. How does that sound?”
Even as Tracy cooked supper, his father talked about visiting Mexico. He cooked hamburgers and opened a can of beans. His father took the pills and then they had their meal.
Thick clouds had moved in during the late afternoon, and by evening they were in the middle of a violent thunderstorm. Looking out, Tracy watched the wind drive sheets of rain across the lake in sporadic patterns. Several times lightning crashed around them.
His father, suddenly looking much older, his forehead drenched with sweat, went to bed after taking his pills. Tracy stayed up reading a book.
At eleven o’clock his father woke up coughing and retching, and vomited the food he had eaten for supper.
Tracy got out of bed and turned on his flashlight. His father was sitting up, his body hunchbacked with pain.
Tracy got a pan of water and a towel and began to clean up the mess on the floor.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” his father repeated over and over again. “It must’ve been the effect of the pills.”
Tracy finished with the floor and then took a wash cloth and cleaned up his father as best as he could. They got him out of his sweat-soaked pajamas and into a pair of old pants and a shirt.
At first his father was afraid of taking any more pain pills that night. As the night progressed, he sat on the edge of the bed and rocked back and forth, his head down, his teeth clenched, fighting against the pain.
Finally, at one o’clock, unable to stand the pain any longer, willing to risk vomiting again, his father asked for a slice of bread and his pills.
“Does the fish hurt tonight?” his father asked after taking his last pill.
“I don’t know, dad. It’s only a fish.”
“It’s out there swimming around with the hook digging in with each breath.”
“It’ll be okay.”
“Do you think it’s grateful to me for sparing its life, or is it cursing me for allowing it to continue to suffer?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Every time it tries to eat, every time it swallows, the hook will be there, tearing at it. Maybe it’d be better off dead. Maybe we should’ve let it die.”
“Dad, please, you’ve got to sleep.”
“Maybe it’s already dead; maybe it’s floating belly up in the water.”
His father stood up and walked to the window to look out at the lake. The rain had turned to a steady drizzle.
“It’s so hard to know what we should’ve done—so hard to play God even for a fish.”
Tracy lay back in bed, hoping his father would soon go back to his bed and rest, but he remained standing there by the window looking out into the blackness of the night.
Tracy must have fallen asleep, but a few minutes later, he heard the door shut and his father walk out into the darkness.
He jumped out of bed, got dressed, and ran out.
A few minutes later, he found his father standing at the edge of the lake, flashlight in hand, shining the light across the surface of the water.
“Dad, what are you doing down here?”
“I want to know if the fish is dead.”
Suddenly Tracy was terrified. He knew he couldn’t forcibly move his dad up to the trailer. He was too big.
“Dad, please go back inside. It’s raining.”
“I know it’s raining,” his father said, shining his light back and forth across the water.
“You know mom would be mad if she knew you were out here in the rain. Please go back.”
Finally satisfied, his father turned around to face Tracy. “He’s not belly up. He must still be alive. We can go back now.”
Tracy put his arm around his father’s waist and helped him up the trail.
“Do you ever pray about me?” his father asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“What do you pray about?”
“That you’ll get better.”
“Don’t pray for that anymore. Pray that God’s will be done. We’ve got to trust him to know what’d be best. You and I can’t even decide that for a fish.”
Back in the trailer, his father slept the remainder of the night.
When Tracy woke up the next morning he discovered a gray, dull, rainy day. His father woke up at ten o’clock. Tracy fixed them both some hot cereal and his father a cup of instant coffee.
“This is Sunday, isn’t it?” his father asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s the first Sunday I ever recall you missing church. I shouldn’t have come up here with you. Especially with this weather. We’re not going to get much fishing today, are we? Of course, fishing is sometimes very good when it rains—if you want to.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“I’ve been thinking about what I said yesterday—about going to California. It would use up all our savings if we went. One thing’s for sure, the insurance money would never pay for it. And if the treatment is no good, then where would your mother be without any money?”
Tracy ached inside as he realized that California was his father’s last hope for recovery, and that hope had slipped away.
“I guess I’ll never see the Panama Canal, will I?” his father said, looking up from his cup. “Well, we’ll just have to make the best of what we’ve got here while we can.”
Tracy, still drying the pan he’d cooked the cereal in, looked away as the tears fell.
“I’ve got some money set aside for your mission and part of your schooling, but if there’s anything else you need from me, let’s talk about it now, before we head back home.”
Tracy knew what he wanted but didn’t know if he dared to ask his father. He knew it wasn’t what his father expected him to say.
“Dad, I want a father’s blessing.”
His father sadly shook his head. “You know I can’t give you that. I’m not an elder. Why do you want that?”
“All my life I’ve been ordained and given priesthood blessings by other men, sometimes by men I don’t even know. But what I wanted was for you to do that, my own father.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know it meant so much to you.”
“I used to think that I if tried hard to be the best kind of boy that you’d see what the Church was like and become active again. Dad, I never did any of the things that other guys in school were doing. Why didn’t that make you love the Church?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t even notice, did you? You took it all for granted. And now it’s too late. Dad, I want a father’s blessing.”
“I can’t do it. If you want a priesthood blessing, you’ll have to see the bishop or the home teachers.”
“They’re not my father. You are.”
“I can’t do it. I don’t hold the Melchizedek Priesthood.”
“Dad, you can give me a father’s blessing even if you don’t hold the priesthood. But if that makes you uncomfortable, just put your hands on my head and say a prayer,” Tracy pleaded.
“No, I can’t. Please don’t ask me. I don’t know how. God wouldn’t hear anything I say anyway.”
“I’d hear it. Doesn’t that matter to you? Please, this may be my only chance to receive a father’s blessing.”
His father sat on the kitchen chair and looked out the window for a long time.
“Please, dad.”
“What do I do?”
“Stay in the chair, and I’ll kneel down so you can put your hands on my head.”
Tracy kneeled down in front of his father.
“What do I say?”
“Just say a prayer.”
He felt the big hands of his father rest gently on his head.
“God,” he began slowly, “Tracy wanted me to do this. I don’t have the right priesthood, but he thought if I just said a prayer.” He paused for several seconds and then began again. “He’s been a good boy, always has been. Not that I can take any credit for that. I should’ve been a better example for him, but there was always enough food on the table, and I taught him about honesty and about work. When he’s given a job to do, he does it. There’s a lot of people, even Mormons, who can’t finish a job.”
Tracy knew there were tears streaming down his face, but he didn’t care about that.
“I wasn’t everything I should’ve been, I guess you know that, but I think he’s turned out okay—well, better than okay. I think he’s the most wonderful boy a father could have. God, you better take care of him. He’s going to need that, because I’m dying. You’d better help him, that’s all I can say.”
Suddenly all the heartache that had been locked inside Tracy was gone.
“Maybe he could remember,” his father continued with a strange calmness, “the good things I did as a father and not think of my failings. And maybe when he’s a father, he won’t be too busy to take his son out and play ball with him. I used to do that, you know. And maybe he won’t be too eager to look down on people in the Church who drink coffee or have a beer now and then. Instead, maybe he’ll try to help them, and not be like those who sniff their noses when somebody who smokes goes to church.”
His father paused and then began again. “I want him to go on a mission, but only if he works hard. And I’d like him to be married in the temple. I never was, but I think it’d be a nice way to start a marriage. You’d better bless him. He’s a good boy, and I love him.” There was a long pause. “I guess I’m through. Tracy, how do I end it?”
Tracy told him, and his father ended the prayer.
Tracy wiped the tears away on his sleeve and stood up.
“Was it okay?” his father asked.
Tracy silently nodded his head, unwilling to trust his voice to explain what it meant to him. Then he reached out and threw his arms around his father and hugged him.
“It wasn’t so bad. I just hope the blessing works,” his father said with a slight smile through the tears.
The rain continued through lunch.
After lunch, his father suggested that they go back home, because if they left then, they would be in time to go as a family to sacrament meeting.
They went to church for the next three Sundays, and then the pain became too much for his dad and he had to stay at home. They had the home teachers help Tracy with the sacrament each week for the family in their home until the end of August, when his father died.

You have to understand. Chris and Jason are the kind of guys who, if you ask about diving and you’re close to the community pool, will show you the dives they do. Never mind that they didn’t bring their suits. They’ve been lifeguards here, and the caretaker, who knows them well, gives permission. They look at each other, accept the challenge, and even though they’re in jeans, jump on the board and plunge in the pool. You get the feeling that’s the same way they’ll plunge into missionary work—follow the rules, be dependable, work hard. But get with it—no wimpy excuses.

When I was 30 years old, I began working for a retail group in France. One day the company president, a good man of another faith, called me into his office. His question startled me: “I just learned you are a priest in your church. Is that true?”
I replied, “Yes, that is correct. I hold the priesthood.”
Visibly intrigued by my response, he further inquired, “But did you study at a theological seminary?”
“Of course,” I answered, “between the ages of 14 and 18, and I studied seminary lessons nearly every day!” He almost fell off his chair.
To my great surprise, several weeks later he called me back to his office to offer me a managing director position in one of the group’s companies. I was astonished and expressed my concern that I was too young and inexperienced to hold such an important responsibility. With a benevolent smile, he said, “That may be true, but it doesn’t matter. I know your principles, and I know what you’ve learned in your church. I need you.”
He was right about what I had learned in the Church. The years that followed were challenging, and I don’t know if I could have had any success without the experience I acquired by serving in the Church from the time I was a young man.

My Grandmother Jordan was a great example of one who knew her divine nature. In 1909 as a recent convert to the Church, she had to make difficult decisions and took firm action, unlike her typically quiet, timid self. She told me she received prayerful direction, and she was empowered with vision and strength beyond her own. Because she did what had to be done, I had the blessing of being born in the covenant and having a rich heritage. I have many ancestors who have faced life with courage. Their actions have given me great advantages and responsibilities.

During World War II, in the early part of 1944, an experience involving the priesthood took place [and] was related by a correspondent—not a member of the Church—who worked for a newspaper in Hawaii. … He and other correspondents were in the second wave behind the marines at Kwajalein Atoll. As they advanced, they noticed a young marine floating facedown in the water, obviously badly wounded. The shallow water around him was red with his blood. And then they noticed another marine moving toward his wounded comrade. The second marine was also wounded, with his left arm hanging helplessly by his side. He lifted up the head of the one who was floating in the water in order to keep him from drowning. In a panicky voice he called for help. The correspondents looked again at the boy he was supporting and called back, “Son, there is nothing anyone can do for this boy.”
“Then,” wrote the correspondent, “I saw something that I had never seen before.” This boy, badly wounded himself, made his way to the shore with the seemingly lifeless body of his fellow marine. He “put the head of his companion on his knee. … What a picture that was—these two mortally wounded boys—both … clean, wonderful-looking young men, even in their distressing situation. And the one boy bowed his head over the other and said, ‘I command you, in the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the priesthood, to remain alive until I can get medical help.’” The correspondent concluded his article: “The three of us [the two marines and I] are here in the hospital. The doctors don’t know [how they made it alive], but I know.”
President Thomas S. Monson, “Willing and Worthy to Serve,” Liahona and Ensign, May 2012, 67, 68.

I think of another. I knew him well. He joined the Church when long ago I was a missionary in the British Isles. He had a smoking habit. He prayed for strength in that springtime of his Church membership and the Lord answered his prayer and gave him power to overcome his habit. He looked to God and lived with a joy he never had previously known. But something happened. Family and social pressures were brought against him. He lowered his vision and gave way to his appetite. The smell of burning tobacco seduced him. I saw him some years later. We talked together of the old and better days he had known. And he, like Peter, wept bitterly. He blamed this and he blamed that, and, as he did so, I was inclined to repeat the words of Cassius—
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
(Julius Caesar, act 1, sc. 2, lines 140–41.)

“What can I do to be more perfect?” was the question many people asked themselves that day. And for many the answer was found in St. Matthew 25:40. “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” [Matt. 25:40]
James was one of those. He enjoys helping people, but sometimes they need your help at the most inopportune times. “It seems like your mother always wants you to do something when your favorite show is on television or when you are in the most exciting part of reading a book. Why don’t they ever ask you to take out the garbage when you are studying?”
His goal for Thursday was to do what he was asked, when he was asked to do it, and most importantly, to do it cheerfully. “It was a lot of work to remember that. Sometimes I had to stop and remind myself to do it now. But by the end of the day, I had conditioned myself to respond immediately. It just gave me a good feeling,” he concluded.

I will start with a story related by M. Sue Bergin in a recent BYU Magazine; I quote:

"When Tom Puzey was a teenager, he became perplexed by arguments challenging his religious beliefs. He went to his dad ... in emotional anguish, doubting all he had been taught. His father smiled, hugged him, and said, 'This is wonderful.' Then his father told him, 'It's okay to question ... You'll figure it out. And Tommy ... you're going to be okay."[12]
Tom later noted that he believed his father, which gave him added confidence to resolve his doubts.

I feel impressed by something that has been said to repeat an experience. There are a number who are listening in tonight, and one particularly who will remember this very vividly—an incident that took place a number of years ago in Japan. I want you to pay particular attention to a part of this, to show how a mistake in your early life can blight the possibilities of your future opportunities for service in the kingdom of God.
It was just after the war; things were tense. We were at one of the upper camps where the planes could take off, and within half an hour they could be over on the Russian side. We were holding a noon meeting with our servicemen. They called on a young man to speak first. He announced his text from the prayer of the Master when he prayed for his disciples: “I pray not that thou shouldest take them [my disciples] out of the world, but that thou shouldest keep them from the evil.” (John 17:15.) Then this lad delivered one of the finest talks on chastity that I have ever heard. He closed by saying, “Rather than lose my virtue, I would die and have my body sent home in a pine box and my dog tags follow after.”
There was a hush over that audience of servicemen, and then he bore his testimony; and as he started to leave the pulpit, he stumbled and fell, draped over the pulpit. We lifted him off the pulpit and worked with him until he was revived, and then took him down in the audience.
As they carried him down, the mission president said to me, “I wonder if he has a bad heart.” And I said, “You know, I have had a feeling that there is something quarreling inside of him against what he has been saying to us.”
When it came my time to speak, I said to him, “Now, my boy, you have made a profound impression upon all of us. You have said you would rather die than lose your virtue. But remember, the devil heard you, as we heard you, and if I don’t miss my guess, he is going to make you prove that you would give your life before you would lose your virtue. You had better be on guard.”
The group leader took me aside when the meeting was over, and he said, “You were hitting close to the mark, because up at the Chitose Airbase there has grown up one of the most filthy, rotten cities filled with prostitutes to try to entrap our men, and we have tried to keep them out of their clutches. But this boy had made a date with one of these hussies, as they called them, patriotic hussies; and we found out before he kept the date and said, ‘Now look, we are not going to let you keep that date. Think of your mother; think of your sweetheart; think of your sisters. Now we will go down with you and help you break that date honorably.’”
This they did, and kept him under their surveillance for two weeks. They assigned him to do ward teaching, or home teaching, as they call it now; that meant, visit all the inactive boys in the camp. And two weeks later they assigned him to talk on the subject of chastity.
So the years passed. We were with President McKay at the dedication of the Los Angeles Temple. Between sessions I walked out to get some fresh air. As I walked up the west side of the building, I saw on the upper elevation a young man who seemed familiar to me, and I got closer to this young man that I had seen in Hokkaido, Japan. As he recognized me, he came running down the steps and threw his arms around my neck, and said, “Guess what! They have called me to be a worker in the Los Angeles Temple.”
There was a lump in my throat because I was there at the crossroads when he almost made a fatal step that probably would have forfeited him the right to be a worker in the Los Angeles Temple.
More years passed, and then I was out at a conference where he lived; and I saw a young couple walking down the aisle, the man holding in his arms a beautiful child, and a beautiful girl holding on to his arm, whom he introduced as his wife. As they uncovered the face of their new baby, I thought there was pride in the face of that young man because he knew as a young father that in the blood of his own child there was clean, pure blood. That is the reward that comes to one who passes the test.

My son decided to attend BYU-Hawaii in 2000 after graduation from high school. When I asked him why he had chosen BYU, his answer (at least from a father's perspective) was unassailable. He said that he would probably have the greatest chance of accepting a call to serve a mission if he attended BYU-Hawaii. How could I argue with him? As it turns out he was placed with dormitory roommates from all over the mainland and Hawaii, and every one of these young men ended up accepting mission calls after their freshman year, and a couple shown here even ended up joining the Church, because of the example of these young men. I know that their examples as worthy friends had a tremendous influence on my son as he also accepted a call to Sydney, Australia after his freshman year.

Do not underestimate your capacity to influence your roommates and fellow students towards the path of righteousness. In this small but powerful way you will be the salt of the earth. If the Savior were to meet with these young men today, I am sure He would thank them for their examples of righteousness which impacted each other and touched thousands of lives throughout the world. He would probably next ask what they were doing today to influence others for good.

“Life’s a disaster,” Travis mumbled, slouching into the bench at the back of the chapel. It was Sister Stott’s last Sunday in the ward, and he hadn’t felt this bad since he fell off his skateboard into a muddy ravine.
He scanned the chapel, looking for Sister Stott, his Valiant teacher. She had just finished teaching his Primary class and now was sitting in her favorite spot, the center of the second row. Her shiny brown hair hung over the back of the bench as she hugged her one-year-old daughter, Tiffany.
I don’t care if I ever go to Primary again, Travis decided, looking away.
Now she was leaving. Travis’s stomach knotted up as the bishop read her name to be released. Staring at the podium, he raised his hand in a vote of thanks.
As Bishop Olson read names to be sustained to new callings, Travis gripped the bench in front of him. Who will be my new teacher? He wondered. It could be Brother Coty, probably the strongest man in the ward. Or maybe Sister Campbell. Every year she won a blue ribbon for her homemade pie at the state fair.
Travis sighed. It didn’t matter who his new teacher was—class would never be the same.
Bishop Olson shuffled through his papers at the podium. “We have called Brother Rolf Meyer as Valiant teacher in the Primary.”
Travis stared at the bishop. Brother Meyer! Travis was sure Bishop Olson had made a mistake. Brother Meyer had to be a hundred years old, and he walked with a cane. Because of his German accent, he was also a little hard to understand. Even so, Travis raised his hand to sustain his new teacher.
After sacrament meeting, Travis stopped to look out the large glass door in the foyer.
“Hello, Travis.”
Travis jerked around.
Smiling, Sister Stott moved Tiffany from one hip to the other. “I just wanted to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed being your teacher.”
Travis dug his shoe into the carpet as he looked away.
“Travis,” she said softly, “you’re going to learn a lot from Brother Meyer. You know that, don’t you?”
Shrugging, Travis slowly lifted his eyes to meet Sister Stott’s.
She placed her hand on Travis’s slumped shoulder. “Can I teach you one more thing before I leave?”
“Sure,” Travis muttered, wishing she hadn’t reminded him of her move.
Sister Stott bent slightly to be at eye level with Travis. “There are lots of ways to teach. If you give Brother Meyer a chance, just like you gave me, you’ll learn more than you’ve ever imagined.” Smiling, she stood up.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Sister Stott said, nodding. “Remember it.”
“I will.” He pushed open the heavy door and ran across the parking lot to his family’s station wagon.
As he scanned the parking lot, the only other person outside was Jennifer Mizway, practically on her knees, staring at the rear tire of her mother’s car. Travis knew she had just gotten her driver’s license. Normally, he’d ask if he could help, but this afternoon he wasn’t in the mood.
The rear door of the meetinghouse opened, and out stepped Brother Meyer. He slowly made his way across the parking lot and called something to Jennifer. Reaching her car, he set his cane against it, then bent down to examine the tire.
Travis watched as Brother Meyer and Jennifer struggled to pull a spare tire out of the trunk of the car. The tire slipped from their hands, bouncing twice before falling with a thud in front of them.
“Brother Meyer, Jennifer,” Travis hollered, going over to the car, “let me help.”
“You know how to change tire?” Brother Meyer’s German accent brought life to his words.
“No,” Travis replied as he came up to them, “but you can tell me what to do.”
“Das ist gut (This is good)!” Brother Meyer nodded at Travis and signaled him to pull out the jack from the trunk.
Pumping the jack, Travis listened as Jennifer told them how grateful she was for their help. Her father had taken her mother home early with the flu, and they would worry that she’d had an accident if she was late getting home.
Travis stopped pumping to rub away the burning sensation in his upper arm.
“Here.” Brother Meyer handed his cane to Travis. “I show you a trick to help.” Bending on one knee, he pulled out the jack’s lever and inserted his cane into the opening where the lever had been. “My cane is longer. It will be easier to pump now.”
Travis began to pump again. A smile spread across his face as his arm moved faster with less effort. “It is easier!”
As Travis set the hubcap on the tire, he felt a thumping on his leg. Turning, he saw Brother Meyer smiling.
“Is good to help, ja (yes)?” Brother Meyer asked.
Travis smiled. “Yeah, it is. Well, I’d better get going.”
He and his father arrived at the station wagon at the same time.
“Is everything all right?” Father asked.
“Yep.”
“Your mother and I were worried. We know how you feel about Sister Stott. She was a special teacher, wasn’t she?”
“Yeah, she was.” Travis waved to Brother Meyer as he got into the car.
Rolling down his window, Travis thought about Jennifer dejectedly examining the tire. He thought about Brother Meyer tapping him with his cane, saying “Is good to help, ja?”
Valiant class was going to be different, Travis decided, but he had a feeling that one thing wouldn’t change—he was going to learn a lot this year.

During my last year of college, I was definitely burned-out. School was fulfilling, but pushing myself took a toll. It was difficult to participate in meaningful activities outside of classes, and I felt empty and unmotivated to do anything that didn’t involve being graded.
It became hard to focus on the gospel. After studying all day, pulling my scriptures out felt like a chore. I found myself dragging my feet to church, and I could tell I was growing distant from Heavenly Father, though I didn’t want to.
Something had to change. But I felt like I couldn’t ask Heavenly Father for help, because I wasn’t doing enough to be worthy of it. However, I had a subtle prompting to focus on the temple, a confirmation of President Russell M. Nelson’s (1924–2025) promise that “regular worship in the house of the Lord increases our capacity for both virtue and charity.”
Virtue means power (see Mark 5:30; Luke 8:46). And I desperately needed God’s power in my life.
Walking the grounds, sitting in the foyer, and doing proxy work became essential to feeling close to Heavenly Father again. While there, I would envision my relationship with Heavenly Father as tangible and real. And this made a lasting difference.
To have a relationship with someone, you have to make time for them. Temples are the most sacred spaces on earth. Free from distractions and worldly stresses, I could focus entirely on Heavenly Father and His eternal plan for His children.
The Savior taught: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid” (John 14:27).
Nowhere is that peace stronger than in the temple. The temple was my harbor during that stormy semester. The divine calm there made a monumental difference in my outlook, and my connection with God started growing again.
A relationship also involves communication. I hadn’t been speaking or listening to Heavenly Father as much as I used to, but the temple helped me start again.
President Henry B. Eyring, First Counselor in the First Presidency, taught that in the temple “revelation comes to us easily if our hearts are open to it and we are worthy of it.” Spending more time there helped me open my heart. I found forgiveness as I repented and mercy lighting my soul as I reached out to my Father in Heaven.
By rekindling the revelation process, I found answers to questions. Paths that seemed murky became lighter, and I knew that Heavenly Father would support me as I kept moving forward.
A covenant relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ is the most powerful bond we can experience. When I received my own endowment, I felt hope that it would bring essential blessings into my life. Participating in those ordinances for my ancestors brought that feeling back during the busy semester. I felt comforted knowing I had Heavenly Father’s power with me as I lived my covenants.
Young Women General President Emily Belle Freeman explained that it’s not the covenant path itself that brings these blessings but our companion along the path. “And this is the why of covenant relationship.” Our covenants connect us to Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father.
Though I felt undeserving of Heavenly Father’s love because of my struggles, He didn’t want me to feel that way. As I remembered my covenants, Heavenly Father was there for me. His divine intervention wasn’t just for after my burnout—He was there to help me through it.
No matter how small my efforts in worshipping in the temple were, Heavenly Father was infinitely gracious, giving me more than I could ever pay back. He gently encouraged me to live up to my covenantal promises, and I kept pushing forward to regain my motivation.
I still struggle to do these things perfectly, but I’m hopeful instead of despondent. I know that Heavenly Father can take my faltering efforts and make miracles. Because of Jesus Christ, I can always repent and ask for forgiveness. I can keep striving to strengthen my bond with Heavenly Father each day.
Worshipping in the temple, living worthy of a temple recommend, and keeping your covenants can strengthen and fortify your relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. These relationships will bring you peace and joy, no matter what your circumstances may be.

Illustration by Rachel Hoffman-Bayles
I set a goal to read the Book of Mormon before my baptism, like my older brother and sister did. But when COVID happened, I missed a lot of school, and reading was extra hard for me. The Book of Mormon has a lot of big words, and I needed help.
Then my parents and I had an idea. I used the Gospel Library app on my mom’s phone to listen to the Book of Mormon. We slowed the voices down so I could read and follow along more easily. I also stopped along the way and watched the videos linked in the app. Every time I read, I marked it down on a chart. I talked to my mom about what I was reading. It was fun!
I was getting better at reading, but I did not think I could finish by my baptism. So I said instead of finishing before my baptism, I’d finish before the end of the year (which was one month later). I kept reading. Sometimes my mom or my sister read with me.
On December 31, I finished the Book of Mormon! My whole family cheered. Then I went to my room to say a prayer. I asked if the Book of Mormon was true, and I felt so good.
I know that Heavenly Father listens when I pray. I know my heavenly parents love me. I know the Book of Mormon is the word of God, and Jesus loves us.

A few years ago, our family started going through some trying times. Our daughter, who was two at the time, had received a cancer diagnosis that required ongoing rigorous treatments. We also had a baby who had her own medical complications requiring frequent monitoring and visits to specialists. Life was not going quite as we had planned!
Based on our circumstances, we needed to make a few changes—and do so quickly! Upon the cancer diagnosis, I quit my job, dedicated my time to my children’s health-care needs, and started traveling out of state frequently for my daughter’s treatment.
As a six-year stretch of various cancer treatments for her began, I didn’t know that I was going to get an intensive course on how to be ministered to and in turn how to minister to others.
I’d like to share a few of the lessons that personally helped me when I was the one being served:
Say yes to help—if it actually is helpful. It can be hard to be on the receiving end of service. It is humbling since it can bring up vulnerabilities and weaknesses. But if someone offers something that would be helpful to you, say yes! Some offers may not be helpful, and in those cases, it is appropriate to politely decline. Maybe in that case you can suggest something they could do instead. In the future, you can offer to serve someone else.
Reach out. I am grateful for the organization of the Church because there are people in the ward or branch who are responsible to minister to each one of us. We are not alone. If you are in need, humbly reach out. Speak up and let others know a way that they can help. So many struggles are not public knowledge and not shared, so it might be hard for others to know how to help you if you don’t tell them. One example is that we had a few unexpected treatment appointments come up, and we had not yet arranged childcare. I asked a few friends to have my youngest daughter over for playdates to help ease the burden on Grandma, who was primarily caring for her. They were so kind and willing but would not have known I needed that help if I did not ask.
Be graceful in response to people’s well-meaning comments. No one but our Heavenly Father and the Savior can know exactly what you are going through. Be generous in accepting people’s comments or words of sympathy. We all have been in the position of wishing we could take back something we have said. On the rare occasions when people said something that came across the wrong way, I would try to focus on their good intentions and move on.
When able, share your thanks! When you are in the trenches of your trials, thank-you notes or expressions of gratitude might not be a possibility. In those times, it can feel overwhelming to notice and receive any gifts of generosity or love. If you missed an opportunity to share your thanks, remember there is no expiration date for gratitude. You can always reach out later and let them know how much their service meant to you at the time.
During our daughter’s first few months of treatment, our time and energy were filled with the daily grind of our children’s health-care needs. Normally, I like to give people thank-you notes but didn’t make the time for that. Instead, I kept a list on my computer of some of the gifts and acts of service we received, both to remember to thank later and to remind us of the wonderful people watching out for us. This is a list I hold dear to my heart, and it serves as a reminder on how I can help those around me.
To follow Jesus Christ, our ultimate example of being a minister, includes being “willing to bear one another’s burdens, that they may be light” (Mosiah 18:8). I have received many Christlike acts of service, making my burdens light. Being on the receiving end of this kindness is humbling, and I am grateful to have learned more about our Savior’s love by being ministered to by His disciples.

And healing came from ministering to others in their loss—be they refugees in Europe, the abused or oppressed, or fellow Church leaders like Elder Paul V. Johnson of the Presidency of the Seventy, who had lost a daughter to cancer two months before joining Elder Kearon in the Europe Area Presidency in 2015.
“He and Sister Kearon were wonderful in helping us in that grieving and healing time,” Elder Johnson says. “They were so sensitive to our situation. I’ve always loved them for that.”

Let me tell you a quick story about a briefcase. I know it’s a weird subject for a story, but it’s actually a magic briefcase. It’s my magic Brigham Young University briefcase. I visited here in the fall of 2007 for the first time—I’d never been here before. My friend Gary Cornia, who is the dean of the business school, gave me a beautiful briefcase that said “Brigham Young University” on it. I took it home and put it away because I already had a briefcase, and I didn’t think about it.

About a month later my briefcase broke, and I was complaining to my wife, and I said, “The handle’s broken. It’s very inconvenient.”

And she said, “What about that BYU briefcase you brought home? Why don’t you carry that?”

And I said, “Oh. Okay. That’s a good idea.”

So I took all my stuff and put it in the BYU briefcase, and I started carrying it around.

At the time, my research assistant at Syracuse University, Nick Bailey (he’s here—he actually works at BYU now), noticed, and he said, “You’re carrying a BYU briefcase.”

I said, “Yeah, it’s great. It’s an Italian briefcase. It’s very nice.”

I travel a lot, and one of the funny things I noticed is that when you are out in public carrying a briefcase that says something on it, the first thing people you don’t know do is read the briefcase and then look at you. It occurred to me that people were thinking, “He’s a Mormon guy.” And that’s actually sort of false religious advertising because I’m a Roman Catholic. I take my faith seriously, but no matter how seriously I take my faith, technically that still doesn’t make me a Mormon.

So I was walking around saying, basically, “I’m a Mormon,” and the funny thing is that it was changing my personality. And the reason it was changing my personality was because I was mortified by the idea that somebody would say, “You know, I was in the airport, and I saw this Mormon guy, and he was being a real jerk.” I wanted to live up to someone else’s reputation, and it was making me into a better person. It was a magic briefcase.

So what’s the implication of this story? Well, obviously it might just be that I’m trying to get a new briefcase right now. (Maybe the greatest kind of evangelization that the LDS Church could undertake would be to buy 300 million briefcases and give them out to all Americans.) But the bigger point here is that carrying the briefcase was actually making my life better. I was happier; things were going really well for me as I was carrying that briefcase. And the reason is that the service for which Mormons have become justifiably famous was infecting my life. It was making me better as a person. It was helping me. And I thank you for that.

When I was a young girl of about seven or eight years of age, I loved to read. One Sunday afternoon I was looking for a book to read and found a small volume on our bookshelves called From Plowboy to Prophet by William A. Morton. I took the book down and began to read a simplified version of the life and experiences of Joseph Smith. I read in that simple little book about how a young man was prompted by a verse of scripture to seek answers to his questions and went into the woods to ask the Lord which church he should join. I read the account of how that unpretentious farm boy was visited by God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, in a display of glory and light brighter than the noonday sun.

Certainly I had heard the story before, but it was in reading the account that day that I remember first feeling a confirmation from the Holy Ghost that this was true. I felt the confirmation in my heart. I was thrilled to think that the Lord speaks to His children on earth and that we have prophets in our day. It was the beginning of my conviction and testimony of the restored Church of Jesus Christ being established in these latter days.

It was in the beginning a childlike faith, but it was enough. Later, as a seminary student, I read the Book of Mormon. I really didn’t have to ask if it was true. As I read, I felt that now-familiar warmth and confirmation from the Spirit that this was everything Joseph Smith had claimed it to be and that it was a confirmation of his mission. If the Book of Mormon is true, then it is further proof that Joseph Smith is a prophet of God.

As soon as the constable took Joseph Smith away, Joseph Knight, Sr., went out and hired two men, a Mr. James Davidson and a Mr. John S. Reid, who were “respectable farmers who were well versed in the laws of their country,” to help Joseph during his trial before Justice Joseph P. Chamberlain.
Newel wrote in his journal:
“On the following day a court was convened for the purpose of investigating the charges which had been made against Joseph Smith, Jun. On account of the many scandalous reports which had been put in circulation, a great excitement prevailed. …
“The trial commenced among a crowded multitude of spectators, who generally seemed to believe Joseph guilty of all that had been alleged against him, and, of course, were zealous to see him punished for his crimes.”
Many witnesses were called up against Joseph Smith, including Josiah Stowell, for whom he had worked, and Mr. Stowell’s daughters, whom Joseph had known socially. Despite many attempts to elicit something from them which could be held against Joseph, all of the witnesses reported that Joseph Smith had dealt with them fairly and kindly.
Joseph Smith was acquitted by the Chenango County court of all charges, and at the very moment he was released, officials from the neighboring Broome County presented another warrant for his arrest.

Then came the first Sunday in March. I’ll never forget that day. Just after Sunday School Bishop Edwards asked me if I could come to his office an hour before fast meeting for a little talk. Well, I know the bishop doesn’t just call people in for a little talk for no reason. I wondered what I had done—or what I was going to do. But I did tell him I would be there.
At three o’clock I found myself stepping on the rich blue carpeting of the bishop’s office and then staring into the eyes of a man who, it seemed, instantly knew everything about me. I had known Bishop Edwards for a long time. He had been my Sunday School teacher when I was in junior high school and had been bishop now for a couple of years. I hadn’t known him as a bishop too well since I spent many Sundays in my student branch at school. But now, as I looked at him, I knew what a wonderful man he was and the great power he represented.
After a few minutes of small talk about school, family, and whatever, he got to the point of this meeting. “Today as I looked over the congregation, my eyes rested on you,” he said intensely, “and as clearly as we have been speaking to each other, a voice said to me, ‘That girl needs to go on a mission.’” I was stunned! That was the last thing I expected him to say. Me? On a mission? His voice interrupted my thoughts.
“I can see by your expression that you didn’t receive the same inspiration. It must come as quite a surprise. But it’s something you don’t have to decide right now. You think about it and be sure to include your parents and the Lord in your decision. Just let me know when you’ve found your answer.”
A few moments later I walked out of the door, and the fluorescent lighting of the hall hit me with the reality of the situation. I figured in two years I’d really be an old maid. But two years might give Allen time to join the Church on his own. It would give me a chance to find myself. And most important, it would be a chance to get closer to the Lord and serve his children more than I had ever done, I found an empty room and knelt in prayer, asking my Heavenly Father to help me make the right decision. When I stood, I felt a certain calm, even though I still didn’t feel that I had a positive answer.
As I made my way down the stairs and into the chapel, I met Emily and her baby in the foyer. It was her first time back to church since Julie’s birth. We talked for a minute and then entered the chapel. Emily and her mother sat in the row in front of me, and just before the meeting, Emily leaned back guiltily and whispered to me, “I forgot this was fast Sunday until I looked at the program. We just finished eating a turkey dinner at Ted’s, so I guess I’ll have to fast twice next month.” I smiled and just then my stomach growled uncomfortably, testifying to the fact that I had remembered.
Through the rows of heads and shoulders that I saw from my position on the fourth row from the back, I caught a glimpse of Karen and the rest of her family taking up an entire center bench. I was glad that she had made it but sorry I’d missed her before the meeting. I’d have to hurry to the front after the closing prayer to talk to her.
After the songs and announcements were over and after we had taken the sacrament, Bishop Edwards stood behind the pulpit and said, “This afternoon we have a special treat. I know many of you have known Karen Evans since she was a little girl.” Emily looked back at me and winked knowingly, but then turned her head sharply forward as the bishop went on. “Well, this afternoon Karen, now Karen Sanders, has brought her own little girl to receive a name and a blessing from her husband. Assisting in the circle will be her father and brothers.”
As I watched David take his little girl from Karen and carry her almost reverently to the front, I could see a side view of Emily. Tears were rapidly filling her deep blue eyes and streaming down her face onto Julie’s downy head. Her shoulders shook violently as she buried her head in her baby’s neck. Emily’s mother tenderly put her arm around her daughter’s throbbing shoulders, and I could see that she, too, was crying. Emily looked up, and I heard her gasp in a desperate whisper, “Oh Mama! Who is going to bless my baby?”
“I bless you, Melissa, with a sound mind and body,” I heard David Sanders say at the front of the room, “and that you will live a righteous life, that when the time comes, you will meet a choice son of our Father in heaven, one who honors his priesthood and who will take you to the temple of the Lord to be sealed to him for eternity.” Through the entire blessing and for the rest of the meeting, Julie’s baby shawl absorbed her tears.
And now, even though a year has passed, and even though the dark-haired women in this once strange country contrast vividly with blonde Emily, whenever my companion and I are out tracting, or we go to a branch meeting and I see a mother and baby alone, something grabs at my heart. For I keep seeing Emily.