Gospel Story Finder

The girls both participate in research studies at Duke Medical Center in Durham, North Carolina. These studies are helping doctors find ways to help other people with their food allergies. When Hannah was five she chose to be a part of an egg allergy study. She told her mom, “I want to do this study to help others with food allergies even if it does not help me!” Ellen Joy started participating a month later in a milk allergy study.
The girls’ family has made sure that they all know how to use emergency medications for when an allergic reaction might occur. Even their younger sister, Mia, knows how!
Mia knows a lot about their allergies and is very careful to help her sisters. When Ellen Joy offers to get her little sister a drink, Mia will say, “Please don’t touch that, Ellen Joy! I have been eating cheese crackers, and cheese is on my cup.”
Their parents make sure they provide meals that are free of allergens. “For sacrament my mom brings rice cake, which I have instead of bread,” Hannah says.
Hannah and Ellen Joy trust that the Holy Ghost can guide them. Hannah said, “The Holy Ghost can help me anywhere! I have to wash my hands a lot and be careful and listen to the Holy Ghost to help me.”
When Ellen Joy was five, she wanted to eat her friend’s chicken nuggets. But she got a feeling that she shouldn’t, so she ate her own lunch. She found out later the chicken nuggets had milk in them and could have made her sick.
Ellen Joy and Hannah feel it is important to teach their friends how to be aware of allergies. Ellen Joy is currently working on a presentation to teach the girls at activity days more about food allergies. When Hannah’s friends want to hold her hands when playing, she first asks them if they have washed their hands. If they haven’t, they hurry to wash them before touching her.
When people ask Hannah and Ellen Joy for a list of things they can’t eat, the girls usually give them a list of things they can and do eat. Their list is long, healthy, and yummy!

One of the great blessings of my childhood was that my mother spent significant time reading to me and my younger brother Howard. She had a great sense of the importance of good books, and she used them to teach and entertain us. This all served to expand our limited young lives to matters far beyond our daily experience. The reading had begun when I was a runabout preschooler and Howard, who had been born with severe physical disabilities and could not run about, needed special attention. The blessing for me was that I got special attention too.
The books were wide-ranging and grew in sophistication as we grew. I remember nursery rhymes, poetry, folktales from Russia, the adventure in Thunder Cave—and the scriptures. Together we read parables, incidents such as the woman at the well, even the great abstractions.
One day Mother read: “Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up. …
“Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.
“Charity never faileth” (1 Cor. 13:4, 7–8; see also Moro. 7:45–46).
Howard interrupted the reading, as he often did, with a question: “What is charity?” He wanted to know the meaning of what we had just heard; I was still caught up in the way it sounded. I only wanted to go on with the reading, but I could tell Mother was pleased with his inquisitiveness. She taught us then, and later, that good questions can be important if we are truly searching to understand and that sometimes good answers that are good enough may take a lifetime of looking. Then she put down the New Testament and read from the Book of Mormon:
“But charity is the pure love of Christ, and it endureth forever; and whoso is found possessed of it at the last day, it shall be well with him [or her]” (Moro. 7:47).
There it was in one verse—the concentrated essence of a much larger whole, a definition given for a profound yet available truth. What I heard that day was clearly beyond my childhood comprehension, but the spirit of love was there and was as real as any of the other details of my young life.

David Whitmer. After leaving the church David Whitmer settled in Missouri and became a well-respected citizen of the town of Richmond. David is the witness whose testimony has been recorded the most because he lived so long. He died in 1888 at the age of 83. He was interviewed hundreds of times by many important editors and newspaper reporters of his time. And by members of the church who wanted to hear the words of the last surviving witness to the heavenly manifestation. He never in all these interviews deviated in the least from his written testimony. Towards the end of his life he alluded to the fact that thousands of people had sought his comments, as many as 15 to 20 a day. This posed no small problem to David who had the practical responsibilities of the farm and his livery business. One incident is telling of the responsibility that he felt.

An LDS missionary, Elder Moon wanted to have David talk to one of his contacts who had read the Book of Mormon.

They arrived at the Whitmer farm unannounced at dinnertime, after dark, and after an especially trying day in which David was caring for sick family members. David after a while tried to avoid the Elder by going to the livery stable to perform a necessary errand. The Elder persisted by following him and explaining that he had with him what we would call today a golden contact that wanted to hear David’s testimony. David Whitmer’s sense of duty about his testimony overcame his personal irritability. He turned to Elder Moon’s contact and stated.

“Well God Almighty requires at my hand to bear testimony of the Book of Mormon. It is the pure gospel of Jesus Christ, translated from the plates by the gift and power of God by Joseph Smith. I know I tell the truth.”...

I know I tell the truth.

Illustration by Chris Wormell
During a trip to see our extended family one summer, our 12-year-old, high-mileage minivan died and coasted to a stop. We were stuck. Fortunately, we were only five miles (8 km) from the small town of Limon, Colorado, USA.
The local mechanic gave us bad news. Our transmission needed to be replaced, and we would need to wait at least five days for parts. We were short on cash but did have our tent and some camping gear, so we opted to stay in the local campground.
Hundreds of miles from family and friends, we contemplated how we might get to a store to buy the groceries we’d need to survive. We decided to look up the local branch president in hopes of finding transportation. We called President Dawson, and within half an hour we received two calls from members of the small branch’s Relief Society. We happily discovered that one family lived within a block of the campground; they came to meet us within a few hours of our call.
Over the next week, the love and care we received from that small branch on the windy plains of Colorado overwhelmed us. The family who lived close by invited us to their home for dinner that first day, and we enjoyed a great evening of conversation with the parents while our children played with their daughter. The next morning we hitched a ride with another member to go shopping for food and supplies for our stay.
The generosity of branch members continued beyond our original request. They picked us up for church on Sunday. They helped us make memories at the town’s historic train museum. Our children took shelter in their homes during a passing hailstorm. One of the members even employed my husband for a few days to help us pay for car repairs.
Every evening, members of the small branch fed us and entertained our children in their homes. Toward the end of our stay, another family took us to their ranch, where our children learned to ride horses.
When we left Limon a week later, we left with prayers of thanks for a new group of dear friends who took us in and made us feel at home in Limon.

All it took was a call to Gary’s Creek Missionary Baptist Church in Tennessee for Chris Collier to find the perfect Eagle Scout project.
Chris, a member of the Memphis First Ward, Memphis North Stake, says, a little nervously, “This is something that’s never been done before.” Gary’s Creek church asked him to document its cemetery—the oldest black cemetery in Shelby County.
Chris first needs to meet everyone involved and decide how much help he will need on the project. He drives to Gary’s Creek Cemetery on a road paved over the old stagecoach line. As soon as he steps out of the car, he has to swat at a mosquito. It’s the height of Tennessee heat in August, and it’s so humid you can practically drink the air. But that isn’t going to stop Chris.
There’s a group waiting for him at the gate to the cemetery. Mr. Lacy, who has many ancestors buried here, greets Chris. “This cemetery is a gold mine for genealogists,” Mr. Lacy tells Chris as he adjusts his wide-brimmed hat. “Think of all those people’s stories buried under the ground.” Mr. Lacy has uncovered the story of one of his ancestors buried here—Joseph H. Harris, better known as “Free Joe.” He wrote two books about Free Joe’s adventures and is turning them into a Hollywood screenplay.
Chris walks through the cemetery with his notebook and camera. The huge trees’ heavy branches droop in the heat, and thick emerald grass covers some of the grave markers completely. There are all types of people buried here, from tiny babies to Civil War veterans. Some of the markers are simple rusty spikes in the ground; others have hand-carved names in aged, chipped stones. Nobody can tell what they say, except for the caretaker, Mr. Brooks.
Mr. Brooks has been caretaker of Gary’s Creek Cemetery since 1939. He moves slowly around the cemetery with the help of his cane and quietly points out different grave markers to Chris. Mr. Brooks is the only one who knows the names on and locations of all the graves. His father was caretaker before him.
“I used to walk around the cemetery with my father while he helped me memorize the graves,” Mr. Brooks says. Many of the graves are unmarked, and the only documentation is in Mr. Brooks’s memory. If Mr. Brooks dies, the information dies with him. Chris isn’t going to let that happen.
Leslie Louthain, the director of the LDS family history center in the area, and her husband are also here to help. She gives Chris tips on how to put all the information in a database. He’ll give one copy to the Gary’s Creek church and send one to the Church’s Family History Library in Salt Lake City.
Sister Louthain thoughtfully examines a grave marker near the woods until she discovers there is more than family history in this cemetery.
“There are snakes in those trees!” she shrieks. Her husband laughs, and she heads for higher ground.
As Chris wraps up his first visit, he sighs. “I’m feeling a little overwhelmed. This one cemetery could be a lot of separate projects,” he says. But he isn’t afraid to plunge in anyway.
Chris doesn’t feel so overwhelmed when he comes back with a big group of teens to help him. The ladies from Gary’s Creek church provide lunch, and it isn’t as hot, because now it’s well into autumn.
Chris divides up the teens into groups to document the graves, with the help of Mr. Lacy and Mr. Brooks, of course. You can barely tell who belongs to which church because everyone is mixed together, trying to get all the information recorded.
As Chris wraps it all up, everyone is pleased. The members of Gary’s Creek church can rest easy, knowing the information in their vast cemetery has been preserved, and Chris’s group can be satisfied knowing they’ve helped preserve information for future family history work.
The cemetery seems a little more peaceful now, thanks to Chris, because the richness of its history won’t be lost. Who knows what stories might later be uncovered?
As Chris takes a reflective look around the cemetery, Mr. Lacy says, “Family history is going to be what brings religions and races together.” And in his little corner of Tennessee, Chris helped do just that.

Although my husband and I came from families with religious and moral principles, we were not satisfied with the way our own family of five was progressing spiritually. I attended the same church we had been reared in, accompanied by our three children—Beverly, Janice, and Ralph. My husband, Raúl, didn’t go to church because he thought that all churches were businesses. He thought they were highly commercialized and that many of the leaders profited from the members’ donations. He also believed religious literature should not be purchased but should be given to people who are interested in it.
In February 1986 my husband chanced to see two Latter-day Saint missionaries walk by our house, and he called them over. His intent was to ask them if the church they represented was interested in buying a lot to build a meetinghouse on. My husband is in the real estate business, so he saw this meeting as a sales opportunity.
The missionaries were not able to give him any information on that matter, but they didn’t miss this chance to ask him if they could set up an appointment for a discussion about the restored gospel. My husband was certain this was just another church like all the others he had come in contact with before, so he asked them to come back the next day. He intended to show them that their church just used God to do business.
We received the missionaries the next day with a bit of suspicion. But as they proceeded to talk to us about the Church and its history, we began to feel something very special in our hearts. When they left they gave us copies of the Book of Mormon, and my husband asked how much he owed for them. To his surprise, the books were free. His surprise was even greater when he realized that this Church was not a business. He became interested and started asking the missionaries all kind of questions.
We went to church every Sunday after that, and by 15 July 1987 our whole family had become converted. We were baptized and later were sealed for eternity as a family in the temple. Our son, Ralph, served as a full-time missionary and later married in the temple. Our two daughters have married returned missionaries in the temple, and we now have nine beautiful and healthy grandchildren.
My husband and I have served in many callings in the Church and have continued to grow spiritually and to help the gospel grow in our branch, located in the southern part of our beautiful isle of enchantment, Puerto Rico. My husband has presided over the Salinas Branch twice. The work has been hard, but we know that our example as a branch has left many seeds scattered over our little town.
What more could we ask of our Heavenly Father? Our gratitude is eternal. What started as a simple sales conversation and an effort to prove the Church was a business came to be the greatest possible celestial transaction for our family—the opportunity to be united with each other, with our Savior Jesus Christ, and with our Heavenly Father.

“Visits to this house are certainly a waste of time,” my visiting teaching companion said as we knocked on the weather-beaten door of a small and sagging house located behind another house. “We never find anyone home.”
I glanced at her and nodded, as the peeling paint dug deep into my knuckles with the repeated firm raps; but we lingered, hoping today might be different. It wasn’t, and we finally walked back along the heavily overgrown path to the street.
“Well, we’re really (see Matt. 5:41) trying to see this woman,” I said as we climbed into the car. “Even locating her place was a monumental accomplishment.”
Hidden from view by a larger house in front of it, the shabby little place had been difficult to find when we had made our first visit six months earlier. Altered ward boundaries had brought a few new families into our ward from another ward, and this sister had been added to our district. When the address seemed incorrect, we had persisted, and after stopping at two service stations and inquiring at several doors, we had finally followed the overgrown path and discovered the small house. But that discovery was followed only by disappointing silence.
Since no telephone number showed on Judy Kearns’s information card, we had checked the directory service, only to learn that she had an unlisted number. A look at the ward records showed us that she was an inactive convert of three years who was supporting two small children by herself.
With each visit we had left a friendly note asking her to telephone us, but there was no response. We had even left some fruit at her door and had stopped by on a weekend, but we were always met by empty silence.
“Just another lost cause,” I thought as we drove down the street toward home, but my conscience nagged. Had we really gone the extra mile? What was the extra mile? By gospel standards, it was not just filling an assignment, I remembered, but caring enough to magnify an opportunity to successful fulfillment. True, we had put our toes into the extra mile, but that was only a tiny distance, and full steps could be taken.
That night, after four telephone calls, I managed to locate the visiting teacher from Judy’s previous ward. The information I got was vague, but I did get the unlisted telephone number. As I hung up, a little stirring of excitement lifted my spirits, and I eagerly dialed her number, only to be met again with the disappointment of prolonged, hollow, unanswered ringing. I tried again the next day and evening, but with no success.
While I was on my way home from a late-afternoon dental appointment several days later, the thought flashed into my mind that Judy, too, might be on her way home. It was the end of the normal working day, and she must go home once in a while. Would she resent a visit at such an inconvenient time? On a quick impulse I swung the car in her direction and decided to take a chance. Stopping my car at the curb and looking down the long driveway, I could see the usual empty car stall, so I switched off the motor to wait. When twenty-five minutes had ticked by I shifted nervously, knowing my own family would be arriving home wondering where Mom and the usual dinner aroma was.
Uneasily I waited another fifteen minutes and was just getting ready to leave when an old, weather-beaten Volkswagen pulled into the driveway and filled the stall. By the time Judy had unloaded two small children from the car and located her house key, I was on the porch explaining who I was and expressing delight in finally having the opportunity to meet her. She responded with a cool, uncomfortable attitude, but my friendliness won and she invited me into her small living room.
I initially centered my attention on her young son and daughter, while they showed me their art work from nursery school and described in detail the skinned knee under Gary’s bandage. This gave Judy a chance to relax and observe me. Slowly she warmed up to my interest in her children, and she hesitantly began sharing some of her struggles to protect them from the ravages of a shattered marriage. I learned that her husband had left her and the children to find what he called his “personal freedom.” In her determination to survive, she began working at a job that did not pay much and was taking night classes to become a dental assistant. She had placed the children in a neighborhood christian church school, and was attending Sunday services there as well. It really didn’t matter where they went to church, she said, as long as they went.
My visit was short, but I had established a relationship and made an appointment for another visit on her day off. At the door, I looked straight into her eyes and bore my testimony to the truthfulness of the gospel, and begged her not to deprive her precious children of the chance to share in its beauty. Her eyes filled with tears and I squeezed her hand as I left.
Anxious to take another step for Judy, I tried to communicate with her home teacher. After three telephone calls devoted to locating someone with the latest list of assignments, I learned that the ward executive secretary would be the one with whom to talk. He wasn’t home when I called, and after repeated attempts all evening, I finally gave up.
Two nights later, I tried again, only to find he had left her records at church and that I should call the clerk’s office in a few nights to get the information. I called as suggested, but no one answered, and I began wondering if it really was important to contact the home teacher.
My visiting teaching companion was delighted when she learned I had actually made an appointment with Judy, and she brought new enthusiasm to our efforts as we approached the little house in the rear. Judy was waiting for us and received, with appreciation, the still warm cookies we had baked for her. The first part of our visit was light and friendly, but then Judy began sharing her fears and concerns for her children, the devastating feelings of inadequacy she had, and the agony of her financial struggles. We offered sympathy and dried her tears, but I knew more must be done. At the door I asked about her home teacher and learned she had never seen one since coming into our ward boundary. I was indignant! How could six months have passed without an assignment?
Sunday morning I was at church early to talk with the executive secretary. On investigation, we found that Ray Greer, a responsible, dedicated elder, was Judy’s assigned home teacher. I was baffled, and tried to locate him at church, only to learn he was on a two-week vacation. I was amazed at how many obstacles cluttered this extra mile I was trying to walk and I determined not to let them stop me. With that in mind, I contacted Ray on the day he arrived home. As I asked my questions, he looked at me in blank confusion. He knew nothing of Judy Kearns, or of an assignment to be her home teacher, and we quickly realized that the communication chain had dropped a link someplace along the way. I handed him Judy’s unlisted number, gave him notes on my information, and told him my urgent concern for her. He expressed appreciation for my help and seemed eager to correct the situation.
In a few short weeks the extra mile had turned into a miracle mile. It was the miracle of God’s organized plan in operation, the miracle of dedicated men honoring their priesthood, the miracle of women who care. It was thrilling to see the process in full operation, to see people eagerly following the Lord’s outlined programs. It was exciting to know that I belonged to his church.
Ray not only had an immediate visit with Judy, but he also invited her to share dinner and home evening with his family that week. At that gathering the children responded to each other, and soon Judy was enjoying the deep interest of Ray’s wife, who offered to come and drive them all to Sunday School. Judy was hesitant, but the children were eager, and she finally agreed.
Coming back to church gave Judy a new awareness of the importance of the restored gospel, and before leaving she had met the bishop, talked with the Relief Society president, and agreed to let one of the Primary officers pick up her children from nursery school to attend Primary. When the bishop learned that Judy would soon be a trained dental assistant and was concerned about a job, he asked the ward employment director to start looking for dentists who might be prospective employers. By the time Judy was certified, he had three good interviews waiting. She was offered all three jobs and chose the highest salary offer.
A few weeks later the Relief Society president visited Judy to request her help in giving some information about dental care to the night Relief Society. Judy responded and enjoyed meeting other working sisters who shared many of her same problems. She became a steady supporter of Relief Society. Then the bishop decided it was time for a Church calling. Junior Sunday School seemed to fit her schedule best, and in a short time Judy was one of its outstanding teachers.
Then Ray Greer, who had been concentrating on finding her a better place to live within the ward boundary, found an excellent home for them. While the elders moved her belongings, the night Relief Society put paper on the shelves and the Sunday School officers prepared food to make it a party. Judy had become special to a lot of people and a very vital part of our ward.
On the fast Sunday when Judy stood to bear her testimony for the first time, the chapel was especially quiet as we all listened closely. She humbly acknowledged her new-found security in the knowledge that the Lord walked with her and that his gospel brought the serenity to overcome fear and inadequacy. Tears of gratitude flowed down her cheeks as she expressed love for all those who had helped lift her life with their caring. As she finished, most of us reached for our handkerchiefs and sensed the elation of shared victory. Wiping my eyes, I marveled at the beautiful process that had brought about Judy’s transformation. And I knew, incredible as it seemed, that it had all begun with some meager efforts to go the extra mile in my visiting teaching assignment.
I realized that day with a new clarity that, insignificant as we may feel in the service of God, each of us possesses the ability to put His great plans into operation, to release marvelous power that changes and builds lives, to provide the outlet for dedicated, vibrant service. But this tremendous potential can move ahead only when we create the momentum, when we release the dams and allow God’s magnificent glory to go forward and make the extra mile a miracle mile!

I have seen the law of the harvest fulfilled in my own family.
Some years ago I was visiting family, when the bishop asked me to conclude the sacrament service. As I was coming down from the stand, a woman approached me with her seven children and introduced herself as Sister Rebecca Guzman.
She asked, “Elder Rasband, do you know Rulon and Verda Rasband?”
I beamed and replied, “They are my parents.”
You can see where this is going. With Rebecca’s permission, who is here with family in the Conference Center, I share her family’s story.
My parents, Elder Rulon and Sister Verda Rasband, were serving as a senior couple in the Florida Fort Lauderdale Mission. They were proselyting and by divine guidance knocked on the door of Rebecca’s home. She was just a teenager and loved listening to the music of the Osmonds, in particular our friend Donny—who is here with us today. She had listened to their media interviews and learned they were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She felt there was something different about them, and thinking it might be their religion, Rebecca spent two years researching the Church’s beliefs in the school library. So, when a kindly-looking couple knocked on her family’s door and introduced themselves as Latter-day Saint missionaries, she was taken back.
“My mother told me to get rid of them,” Rebecca later wrote, “but my heart said, ‘No.’ I looked into their faces, and I felt so much warmth and love. The memory still brings tears to my eyes and deep emotion to my heart.”
Rebecca invited them in, and my missionary parents shared a message with her, her two younger sisters, and, despite her objections, her mother.
Rebecca described to me: “Both your parents were wonderful in explaining any questions we had. I can still see their faces as if there was light surrounding them. We always hugged your mother when she left, and she always made a point of helping my mother feel comfortable and respected. Your father always had a sparkle in his eyes as he was teaching us about Jesus Christ. He tried to include my father in discussions and eventually won him over. My father was a chef at a local country club and started cooking dinners for your parents, including making your father’s favorite, key lime pie.”
When Elder and Sister Rasband asked Rebecca and her family to read the Book of Mormon, Rebecca did so in five days. She wanted to be baptized immediately, but the other members of her family were not ready. After four months, Rebecca insisted she be baptized and join the true Church. She recalled, “Every fiber of my soul knew it was true.” On April 5, 1979, missionaries baptized 19-year-old Rebecca, her mother, and two sisters. My father was a witness at the baptism.
When I met Rebecca and her family at church, we took a photograph of her family with me. I took it home to my elderly mother, and she held it close to her heart. Then she said to me, “Ronnie, this is one of the happiest days of my life.”

Editor’s note: President Heber J. Grant’s life is a lesson in the power of practice and persistence. As an ungifted athlete, he worked so hard that he became the pitcher for a championship baseball team. While he was a bookkeeping student, classmates made fun of his writing. “Hentracks!” one boy said. “Lightning has struck the ink bottle,” jeered another. Heber vowed that someday he would teach penmanship, a prediction that came true. His calligraphy eventually won awards for excellence and gained national attention. In 1901, Elder Heber J. Grant, then serving as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, was called by the First Presidency to initiate missionary work in Japan.

The three other elders and I were excited to visit Nikko shrine, one of the best-known tourist attractions in Japan. We thrilled at the sculptured gardens, waterfalls, gently arched bridges, and carved stone monuments.
In the town near the shrine, we entered a curio shop which was set back from the road. The shop had apparently seen better days and was now overlooked by most tourists who favored the modern shops along the thoroughfare.
As we chatted with the owner, we found that the shop had been operated by his family for more than three generations. Many interesting objects attracted our attention. As we browsed, the owner brought over a guest book and asked us to sign it. He said that his grandfather had started the “sign-in” tradition almost a hundred years ago and that there were now several large volumes of signatures from foreigners who had visited the shop.
After we signed our names, he proudly showed us some of the signatures of royalty and of other famous personalities. He added that he wanted to share with us the most prized signature he possessed. Our new-found friend excitedly opened one of the older volumes and pointed to a signature: Heber J. Grant!
The signature was beautiful, with full, exact strokes. President Grant had given his address as simply “Salt Lake City, Utah,” and had written the date alongside. I don’t remember the date he wrote (our visit to the shop took place in 1974), but it was sometime during the period when President Grant presided over the Japanese Mission, probably around 1903.
From the experience, I learned of President Grant’s desire to become an accomplished penman and of the pursuit for excellence which he incorporated into every facet of his life. It was an unusual testimony to me of the importance of striving for perfection, and the lesson is one I will never forget.
Even though the shop owner (at that point) knew nothing about President Heber J. Grant or about missionaries and their mission, among the thousands of signatures included in his guest register, the most prized was the signature of a president of the Church!

SISTER RELKEN:Good afternoon. It is fun for me to tell my side of things. So Nathan actually got baptized in my home ward. It was at the end of the summer, beginning of fall, so I had actually already gone up to college for the semester. Where I went to school was in the mountains of North Carolina, and it was about an hour and 15 minutes from my home ward, but that's still in the same stake; our stake spanned about a two-and-a-half-hour radius at the time. And so I was really excited when I heard from my friends all about this guy who had walked across the street, and that he had asked to be taught by the missionaries, and that he would be baptized. I just happened to be going home that weekend to visit my family. And since I had formerly been a ward missionary that summer, I thought, "You know, I haven't been released yet; I think it's my duty to go to this guy's baptism and show my support." Let's face it: when a single guy gets baptized, you go. It's true.

So I went to his baptism. And, actually, with the guy that I'd been dating at the time, he felt like he needed to join me to show his support as well. So we both went together. And during the baptism, I thought everything went well. He was baptized, and then there were some talks and the normal program. But then they stood up and said they would do things a little differently. Nathan had asked if he could stand up and say a few things. Well, this intrigued me. In all the baptisms that I've been to, the person being baptized had never asked to speak. So he stood up, and he just said that he felt like he needed to share some things he was feeling and about the amazing journey he'd been on. And while he was shaking all over, like a leaf--you could physically see him shaking--there was that surety in his voice, there was that boldness in his voice, and I knew, by listening to him, this is someone who recognized the truth and who was ready to live the truth. And I could tell that he had truly been changed; I could see that change of heart and feel it. And when that was happening, it's like the Spirit whispered to me, "This is what you've been looking for." And no, the Spirit wasn't telling me about him, the person, even though that would come later; it was telling me that that surety, that boldness--that's what I had been looking for, that while I knew the Church was true, I was still on my conversion journey. But I knew it was worth every effort to continue to where I could get to that point, where I could feel as sure as he did that day.

What impressed me too is, while he was standing there and speaking (I could tell he was so nervous as he bore his testimony), I just thought, "This is someone who is powered by the truth and will be guided by the truth." And he didn't know what the future would hold. He didn't know, at the end of the baptism, a redheaded girl would beeline it to the front to eagerly shake his hand (he does not remember that). I know he didn't realize that, less than two years later, he would be proposing to that girl in Sam's Club--yes, I said Sam's Club; that's a story for another day--and that we would be sealed in the Columbia South Carolina Temple for time and all eternity, that our journey then just a few years later would lead us out to Rexburg, Idaho, where we would start our family. He didn't know any of those things. He didn't know the trials he would face. He didn't know the joys, the hardships, the sorrows. But he knew he'd found the truth, and that truth can guide him along his way. And that's what he needed. And that's what all of us need.

As we got to know each other, our conversations sometimes evolved into debates, with Karen defending religion while I argued for science. Our discussions served mostly to frustrate her.
But Karen had a friend named Nese. Nese never said more than “Hi” to me in the halls at school, but she had listened closely to my conversations with Karen.
Nese never told me directly that she was a Latter-day Saint. She strolled up to my table in the library one day during study hall. “May I sit down?” she asked. At some point during the conversation, she said she was a member of the house of Israel. I assumed she meant she was Jewish.
We had classes all at the same hour, and during the remaining months of our senior year, Nese and I sorted through the many religious questions flooding my mind. She told me later she “just wanted to share her opinion with someone who wouldn’t laugh at her.” I would tell my ideas on a subject like life after death, and then she would explain her beliefs. Her confidence amazed me. It wasn’t until later that I found out she was a Latter-day Saint.
By then our talks were so enjoyable I began spending lunch hours with Nese and her Mormon friends. They were refreshing to be around. No smoking, no swearing, no improper jokes. Best of all, they never seemed to ridicule anybody—they respected each other’s feelings. It was different being with them, and I enjoyed it.
Towards the end of the school year, Karen invited me to a Gold and Green Ball, I had no idea what that was. I had never been to a dance in a church, and I had to dress in a suit! I was amazed to see a gymnasium in a church building.
But what went on in the gym surprised me even more. Adults and teenagers were talking, laughing, and even dancing together. My friends had always thought it was childish to like your parents. All over the nation there was an uproar about communication breakdown between parents and their children. But these people all seemed to be friends, regardless of age.
I asked Karen about it. She said it was because of the Church. As she took me on a tour of the building, I pondered what she had said. By the time I went home that night, I felt these people were unique, they were choice in some way I didn’t fully understand. They had a lot to be proud of.
After graduation my summer job took me away from my new-found group of friends. I was employed at a gas station, where I was unhappy because of my co-workers’ lack of concern. I was depressed, unhappy, and alone.
One afternoon in July, Nese and a friend drove up to the station. Just seeing them boosted my morale. They were planning to sing in the Oakland Temple Pageant and invited me to attend.
I’ll always remember that special evening. It was the first time I heard the story of Joseph Smith and learned the history of the Latter-day Saints I had grown to admire. At the end of the pageant, the audience rose and sang “The Spirit of God Like a Fire Is Burning.” (Hymns No. 213) How I wanted to know the words of the song so I could join the chorus! I felt completely full of respect and love.
The crowd left slowly. Standing in the parking lot, I looked up at the temple. A voice in the back of my mind told me that some day I would enter that building.
When fall came, Nese left to attend Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. I returned to Berkeley, California. Loneliness encompassed me again. Nese’s letters arrived regularly, two or three times weekly. I asked her why she was Mormon. The next letter bulged the envelope. It was a detailed explanation of her struggle to remain active and maintain a firm testimony while living with her inactive family.
I decided I had to go to church. That was a difficult decision because no one pushed me to attend. I had been allowed to come to the conclusion by myself.
I nearly changed my mind when I opened the door. I entered the chapel by myself, spotted an empty seat on the back row, and quickly sat down. Was I going to be all alone here, too? I wondered inside.
Then suddenly Karen, who had appeared from nowhere, was shaking my hand. “Good morning, David,” she said, grinning. I wasn’t alone anymore. She introduced me to people, showed me which class to go to, and sat beside me the entire time.
I was impressed to find a class I could bring my questions to and get answers. Furthermore, the teacher, Sister Booras, took time afterwards to thank me for coming. “You added a great deal to our class,” she said. I had never felt so at home before.
But I still didn’t have that spiritual testimony of the Church; I could believe in many of its teachings, but I didn’t know it was true. I kept attending the meetings anyway.
One month later, Nese urged me to come to Brigham Young University. I jumped at the chance and rushed to Provo for a whirlwind visit. She described her school as if it were part of her. As we walked around campus, all we talked about was religion. My mind was overflowing with questions again, as it had been in the high school library. I still didn’t see how everything fit together.
The thing that held me back was the principle of eternal progression. “It just can’t be right.” I said, “How can man, who was created by God, ever hope to be a god?”
We were standing in front of the Joseph Smith Building. Nese paused for a moment.
“Dave,” she said, “before we were ever created physically, we were created spiritually as God’s sons and daughters. A part of us, our spirit, comes directly from him as our Father.”
I finally understood! It all fell into place. My grin spread to a smile and erupted as a laugh. I couldn’t stop grinning. My mind jumped from doctrine to doctrine. “Yes, yes, it all fits!” I wanted to dance or sing or run.
There, on the steps of the Joseph Smith Building, the Spirit bore witness to me of the gospel plan. I knew in my heart I would join the Church.
I still had to read the Book of Mormon, learn to pray, and take the missionary discussions. But my life was changed from that moment on. I had found truth, purpose, and a life to fulfill. Five weeks later I was baptized.
Eighteen months later, my impression that I would one day enter the Oakland Temple came true, as I received my endowments one week before leaving on a mission. When I returned, Nese and I decided to continue the eternal journey we had begun with conversations at a table in a library. We were married in the Provo Temple.
Every time I look at my wife, I thank the Lord that there was a girl in my high school with enough faith to “just want to share her beliefs with someone who wouldn’t laugh at her.” She touched my heart and changed my life.

At the April 2022 general conference, President Russell M. Nelson taught us, “Some trials are deeply private burdens no one else can see. Others are played out on the world stage.”1
This reminds me of the experience that I had with a good member named Sister Edna who was in my Gazcue ward. She was a person who was always smiling and full of enthusiasm for life.
One day she had an accident while riding her bike and, to her surprise, she unexpectedly slipped off the bike bringing her body silently to the ground. The fall was a strong blow to her body and they rushed her to the hospital. There, they discovered that the fall had caused extreme damage to her liver and other vital organs, and it was necessary for her to go into surgery. All the families and the members in the ward were worried about our dear Sister Edna.
It was just Sister Edna and her husband in their home at this time because her daughter was serving a mission in another country and her son had just joined the U.S. Navy.
As the days passed, the general infection from the accident caused the deterioration of her health and she went from one hospital to another for various surgeries. The sisters of the Relief Society would go to the hospital every day to bring her comfort and assist in her care. When the doctors had to forbid visits because of her delicate condition, the Relief Society sisters waited at the door, praying and waiting for encouraging news. Every day we prayed and fasted to invoke the powers of heaven.
One of the sisters shared her personal experience of this event. There was an evening when she had gone to bed very concerned about Sister Edna’s critical condition. She prayed fervently while imagining the tremendous physical pain Sister Edna was surely feeling. As she thought about this, she also felt Sister Edna’s indescribable pain in her own body as though she was the one who was hurt and beaten internally. This sister had so much love and empathy for Edna that she experienced for a moment the pain that Edna felt.
Later, thanks to prayers and medical interventions, Sister Edna made a miraculous recovery.

Let me tell you about one of my recent experiences. I was assigned to a stake conference to release the stake president, who had served for many, many years. It was a difficult stake to administer. The stake had been losing population. It was located near one of our major city centers. Industry had moved in. With the growth of industry, many of the members had moved out to the more suburban areas. Because of his assignment, he had stayed in the area to shepherd the flock. He had not found it to be a hopeless situation. Through his energy, effort, and great enthusiasm, the stake started to grow once again.
As the weekend progressed, his children came by auto and air, returning home to pay tribute to their father for his years of faithful service. I found a special spirit in this home. They were a very close family. How they enjoyed being together!
As I stood to address the conference in its final session, there seated to my left sat his entire family, tears streaming down their faces as they honored their father on this grand occasion.
Following the conference session, I had been invited to stay for family dinner before leaving for the airport to fly home. As the family gathered around the table, the father requested that we kneel in family prayer. Kneeling in prayer, I discovered their strength. This family understood their relationship to God, their Eternal Father. They understood their relationship to their earthly father and mother, to their brothers and sisters. The brotherhood and sisterhood existing in this family unit made it easy for them to stretch beyond their borders to friends and neighbors.
Being a guest in so many different homes over the last few years has certainly convinced me that a special spirit is clearly evident when a family prays together.

It was just a year ago next week when the telephone rang in my office and I answered it to hear the voice on the other end of the line say, “This is Doug Snarr speaking.” My mind turned back some fifteen or twenty years to the time when Doug first came to my office. He had recently moved from Idaho Falls to expand his sign business into Utah. I had difficulty communicating with him at that time because he stuttered quite badly. But now, on the phone, he said without any stutter, “I want you to come over to the Salt Palace tomorrow afternoon at 4:40. I’m sending a ticket to you.”
I knew that it was important to Doug, or he would not have asked me to come; I said, “I’ll be there.”
The following afternoon at 4:40 I sat in the Salt Palace on the second row. My seat had been reserved. As I looked around, I estimated that there were approximately ten thousand people present. Again I looked at my ticket; it read fifteen dollars. Noticing that I had a better seat than some of the others in the audience, I reasoned that the average cost of a seat for one day was about twelve dollars. I multiplied twelve dollars by ten thousand people and I was impressed.
Don Hutson had been speaking when I arrived; he was an excellent speaker. He finished at five o’clock, and the person who was conducting the session came to the podium and introduced Doug Snarr. The lights went out, Doug stepped to the podium, and the spotlight came on. There stood Doug to give his talk. He told the audience that he had been raised in Idaho Falls; his father owned a potato farm about five miles west of the city. When he was young, he said, he stuttered so badly that he could not communicate. But while hoeing spuds he used to talk to the potato vines. As long as he talked to the potato vines he could get along quite well, but when he tried to talk to people he stuttered so badly that he could not be understood. As he stood in the field one day he looked to the east at the city of Idaho Falls and said to himself, “I must get into that city and meet people or I will never overcome my stuttering.”
One day he read an ad in the newspaper for a custodian in one of the stores in Idaho Falls. He knew that he could not get that job unless he offered something more than others would offer. Doug was quite a good artist, so he told the store manager how badly he wanted that job and said that if he got the job he would not only keep the store clean but would paint the display signs and thus save the cost of one employee. What employer could resist such an offer? Needless to say, Doug got the job of cleaning the store and painting the signs.
At the same time, Doug was going to high school, and there was a young girl in his class who he thought was the most beautiful creature that he had ever seen. He did not have the courage to ask her for a date, so he got one of his friends to set him up on a blind date with her. On the big night when he was to keep the date, he paced back and forth in front of her house for thirty or forty minutes, until he just about wore a path in the concrete sidewalk. Finally he got up the courage to knock on the door. The girl’s father answered the door and said, “Who are you?” When Doug tried to answer he could not say a word—he just stammered and stuttered. Just at the moment when he was ready to sink into oblivion, the young lady came tripping down the circular stairs. Seeing Doug, she called out to her father, “Daddy, meet Doug Snarr,” and saved the day.
After graduating from high school, Doug came to BYU. He registered for a class in religion; and on the first day, wanting to be as inconspicuous as possible, he slipped in the door and sat in one of the back seats. But the teacher looked down the roll, put his finger on one of the names, and asked, “Will Doug Snarr please come up and offer the invocation?” Doug walked to the front of the room and completely failed—he could only stammer and stutter. It was a disaster. After the class was over the teacher stopped him and said, “Doug if you will continue to come to my class, I promise that I will never ask you to pray before the class again.”
Doug said to himself, “That is not the answer. I must learn how to stand before a class and pray without stuttering.”
One day, while sitting in the barber shop waiting for his turn for a haircut, he opened a magazine and saw an ad about a school in St. Louis, Missouri, that taught people how to speak and to overcome stuttering. He jumped from his chair and, taking the magazine with him, hurried to his room. He packed his bags, took the next bus to Idaho Falls and, showing the ad to his father, said, “I want one thousand dollars to go to St. Louis, Missouri.”
His father said, “I’ll check it out first.” Three days later he said, “Doug, it’s a hoax. They can’t do it.”
Doug responded, “Nevertheless, I’m going to that school.”
His father said, “If you go to it, you’ll do it at your own expense.”
Doug had a friend who could talk. Since his friend could talk but could not paint signs, and since Doug could paint signs but could not talk, they made a good combination; they went into the sign business together. The traditional way to advertise with signs is to put a picture on a rectangular board. Doug discarded the rectangle and instead used the shape of the object he wanted to represent. It was a unique approach, and they were very successful. Within a few months—by September of that year—Doug had saved enough money to go to St. Louis, Missouri. As he boarded the train and they bid him goodbye, his family and friends said, “Don’t come back until you overcome your stuttering.”
Upon arriving in St. Louis, Doug went to the school and met the man who was in charge of it. He learned that the man had recognized that when stutterers sing they do not stutter. Therefore, he reasoned that if a stutterer could get a rhythm into his speaking he could overcome his problem. To get the rhythm, the stutterer swung his arm and spoke with the rhythm of his arm.
After several weeks Doug, feeling that he was not making enough progress, became despondent. He knelt and prayed to his Heavenly Father for help. While dong so, he suddenly realized that if he was going to expect help from the Lord, he had to do what the Lord had asked him to do. He got off his knees, called a cab, and went to the nearest branch of the Church. He arrived and found a sign on the meetinghouse door that announced the time for sacrament meeting—it was over for the day, but the sign also gave the name of the branch president and his address. Doug had the cab driver take him there. He knocked on the door; and the branch president’s wife answered. Doug said, swinging his arm in rhythm, “My–name–is–Doug–Snarr.” A little girl who had also come to the door ran into the other room and said to her sister, “Come see; there’s a man at the door that talks with his arm.”
Doug became a very good friend of the branch president, and his family, and they invited him to live with them. One day they invited Doug to go with them to visit the wife’s sister in a distant town. When they arrived and the sister met Doug, she said, “What you need to do is give a two-and-a-half-minute talk in Sunday School.” She picked up the telephone, called the bishop, and said, “Bishop, I have a young man here who needs to give a two-and-a-half-minute talk this Sunday. Can you arrange it? It was arranged.
The following Sunday, Doug stood at the pulpit holding on with both hands for fear of falling over. Then he realized that he could not use both hands to hold on the pulpit; he needed one of his arms to establish his speaking rhythm. He raised his right arm to the square to begin—then he realized that he could give that talk without the use of his arm. He put his hand back on the pulpit and gave his talk without a single stutter. Can you imagine how much that meant to him? He knew that he could overcome his problem of stuttering.
When Doug completed his schooling and returned home to Idaho Falls, the first place he visited was his girlfriend’s house. He knocked on the door; the father answered. Using his arm to establish the rhythm he said, “My–name–is–Doug–Snarr.” He married the girl; he said that it was the best thing he ever did.
Doug returned to the sign business and plastered Idaho with his unique signs. Then he came south to do the same on the highways of Utah. He also made it his goal not only to overcome his stuttering, but to go on tour and speak with the best thinkers in America. After preparing himself he noticed one day that a Positive Thinking Rally was being held in Dallas, Texas. He flew down to attend the rally and when it was over visited with Paul Harvey and his associates. He told them he wanted to be on their circuit. After two hours he finally convinced them.
“We’ll give you thirty minutes,” they said.
Doug responded, “No, I won’t settle for thirty minutes. I want just as much time as Paul Harvey or Don Hutson or Art Linkletter or Zig Zeigler or Ira Hays or any of the others, or I won’t go on.”
Finally, after another two hours, he convinced them that they should give him a full fifty-five minutes. They said “Be in Charlottesville, North Carolina, Wednesday of next week.”
So Doug made his debut in Charlottesville, and the morning following his talk the newspaper headlines read, “Charlottesville, North Carolina Adopts Doug T. Snarr.”
Back in the Salt Palace on the second row, I felt that this was really Doug Snarr’s homecoming. It was the first time that he had spoken in his own area. His friends and family were there, and the spotlight was focused on him. I have never in all my life heard a more dynamic speaker. He stole the show from Paul Harvey, Art Linkletter, Zig Zeigler, Ira Hays, and the others. Now, if any of you are called to serve a mission in Alaska, he will be your mission president in Anchorage—that is where he is today.

One day in 1961 while Elder Slagowski and I were knocking on doors in Wilhelmshaven, West Germany, an elderly widow graciously welcomed us into her humble apartment. I was so surprised that I asked if she really understood who we were. She assured us that she did and that she had been waiting for us.
She told us that two Latter-day Saint elders had knocked on her door decades before, when she was a young mother. Because she was busy at the time, she had turned them away. Afterward she felt terrible about it and vowed that if Latter-day Saint missionaries ever knocked again, she would invite them in.
Emma Henke had a keen mind, and she listened to our message intently, but she often seemed to have a distant, far-off look. She was kind to us and was always eager to share her meager fare, but we wondered if she truly comprehended the importance of our message. Finally we decided to put her on our callback list and just drop by from time to time when we were in the neighborhood.
A few weeks later we stopped in again. As we visited, Emma suddenly announced, to our surprise, her determination to be baptized!
It was only then that she began sharing details from her difficult life. During the last days of World War I, her infant daughter had died. In 1924 a nine-year-old daughter had succumbed to diphtheria. During the winter of 1941–42 she had received her last letter from her 21-year-old son, who was fighting on the Russian front during World War II. She learned of his death a short time later.
Emma’s husband, Hugo, had despised the policies of the Nazi government. She often pleaded with him to be more cautious. Early one day in 1944, after a government radio-beam locator tracked a British Broadcasting Corporation signal to the Henkes’ home, the Gestapo broke down the door and arrested him. He was sent to a concentration camp near Hamburg, and Emma and their last surviving child, a young son, were left to fend for themselves.
Emma went to the local Nazi official responsible for her husband’s imprisonment and pleaded on her knees for his life but to no avail. She later learned of Hugo’s death in March 1945. The official himself was subsequently sentenced to life in prison but had been released shortly before we knocked on Emma’s door. She said she often saw him speeding along the streets of the city in an expensive new car. On the day she requested baptism, Emma said she had finally found the strength to forgive him for taking away her husband and rejecting her pleas for mercy. She had resolved to leave judgment in the hands of the Lord.
Emma became a faithful member of the Church and found great joy and comfort in discovering the truths of the restored gospel. In November 1966, while hurrying across a public square in Wilhelmshaven on her way to a Relief Society meeting, she collapsed and died of a heart attack.
Sister Henke refused to become embittered by the trials of her life, and she died free of the rancor of revenge. Surely this dear sister enjoyed a marvelous reunion with those she had loved and lost.

My first Sunday home, I was lying on my bed and realized I hadn’t looked at Facebook since coming home. I opened it and was overwhelmed by the nostalgia of pictures and videos from before my mission. I love to dance and had started watching some dance videos when I heard my mom call up to my room, “Breanne! What are you listening to?”
I listened more closely and realized how inappropriate the background music was. I was pretty embarrassed that here I was—a freshly returned missionary—listening to music that wasn’t inviting the Spirit.
That experience helped me realize how easy it is to become more relaxed in how much we maintain our gospel standards when we aren’t full-time missionaries. I wanted to stay changed. I wanted to remain the person God had helped me become. Luckily, I recognized that, for me, what I was listening to wasn’t bringing the Spirit and was able to adjust.

Elder Hugh B. Brown shared a story that illustrates that God knows best:
I was living up in Canada. I had purchased a farm. It was run-down. I went out one morning and saw a currant bush. It had grown up over six feet high. It was going all to wood. There were no blossoms and no currants. I was raised on a fruit farm in Salt Lake before we went to Canada, and I knew what ought to happen to that currant bush. So I got some pruning shears and went after it, and I cut it down, and pruned it, and clipped it back until there was nothing left but a little clump of stumps. It was just coming daylight, and I thought I saw on top of each of these little stumps what appeared to be a tear, and I thought the currant bush was crying. . . . I looked at it, and smiled, and said, “What are you crying about?” You know, I thought I heard that currant bush talk. And I thought I heard it say this: “How could you do this to me? . . . I thought you were the gardener here.” . . . I said, “Look, little currant bush, I am the gardener here, and I know what I want you to be. . . . And some day, little currant bush, when you are laden with fruit, you are going to say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for loving me enough to cut me down, for caring enough about me to hurt me. Thank you, Mr. Gardener.” [Hugh B. Brown, “The Currant Bush,” New Era,January 1973, pp. 14–15; emphasis in original]

Arturo Toscanini, the late, famous conductor of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra, received a brief, crumpled letter from a lonely sheepherder in the remote mountain area of Wyoming:
“Mr. Conductor: I have only two possessions—a radio and an old violin. The batteries in my radio are getting low and will soon die. My violin is so out of tune I can’t use it. Please help me. Next Sunday when you begin your concert, sound a loud ‘A’ so I can tune my ‘A’ string; then I can tune the other strings. When my radio batteries are dead, I’ll have my violin.”
At the beginning of his next nationwide radio concert from Carnegie Hall, Toscanini announced: “For a dear friend and listener back in the mountains of Wyoming the orchestra will now sound an ‘A.’” The musicians all joined together in a perfect “A.”
The lonely sheepherder only needed one note, just a little help to get back in tune; he could go on from there. He needed someone who cared to assist him with one string; the others would be easy. Then, with all strings in tune—in harmony—the lonely sheepherder would have a source of companionship and joy and could play uplifting strains.

My mother taught me from a very young age to be hardworking and to serve others. When I was six years old, my family helped in building a new chapel in Porto Alegre, Brazil. Back then, ward members and construction missionaries built the chapels for wards and branches.
I remember going with my family to help build the chapel. I carried bricks from one place to another. I poured water on top of bricks. I carried tools from one workstation to another. I remember working hard and knowing that my hard work would help others.

Music has a sweet power to promote unity and love in the family. Not only is it an important component of family home evenings, but it can exert a continuing influence for good well beyond times when children are small. For my gift to the family last Christmas, I prepared a compact-disc recording of musical memories. I sat at the piano and recorded a variety of music that I had sung or played to the children through the years. They liked it. Some of the grandchildren told me that the CD was “cool.”
To illustrate the enduring benefits of worthy music in the home, I have asked our available daughters to sing for you tonight. Since their childhood, they have enjoyed singing together.
Daughters, I’m going to introduce you. Perhaps each of you can wave to the congregation as I mention your name: Marsha Workman, Wendy Maxfield, Gloria Irion, Brenda Miles, Sylvia Webster, Julie Wittwer, Laurie Marsh, Rosalie Ringwood, and Marjorie Helsten.
Our son’s wife, Britney, would like to have been here, but she is excused. She had a baby 11 days ago. Two other voices are missing—our deceased daughter, Emily, and her angel mother, Dantzel. Perhaps they are looking in from their windows in heaven. Our son, Russell, and I also enjoy singing with them, but we will not impose that upon you tonight.
To illustrate the multigenerational merits of worthy music in the home, our daughters will be accompanied by two of their daughters: Katie Irion Owens on the piano and Rachel Miles on the flute. They will sing and play for you “Jesus, the Very Thought of Thee.” After their music, I will resume my message.