Gospel Story Finder

As a boy, I made a startling discovery in Sunday School one Mother’s Day which has remained with me all through the years. Melvin, a sightless brother in the ward, a talented vocalist, would stand and face the congregation as though he were seeing one and all. He would then sing “That Wonderful Mother of Mine.” The bright, glowing embers of memory penetrated human hearts. Men reached for their handkerchiefs; women’s eyes brimmed with tears.

We deacons would go among the congregation carrying a small geranium in a clay pot for presentation to each mother. Some of the mothers were young; some were middle-aged; some were barely hanging on to life in their old age. I became aware that the eyes of each mother were kind eyes. The words of each mother were, “Thank you.” I felt the spirit of the statement, “When someone gives another person a flower, the fragrance of the flower lingers on the hands of the giver.” I have not forgotten the lesson learned, nor shall I ever forget it.

My brothers and sisters, I am sure each of you has been touched by the stories of the Church’s great relief efforts to members stricken by floods or earthquakes. Our hearts go out to these people in need. There are, however, other needs—social-emotional needs—that can be just as devastating as any natural disaster. And these needs cannot be met with truckloads of food or clothing. I would like to illustrate several of them in my talk to you today.
Let me begin by reading a letter which relates the tragic story of a young man who became entangled in a way of life which led him to violate the most sacred of God’s commandments:
“I know not why I write this letter. Perhaps I grasp at last straws before it’s over or whatever. I seek help, without hope of receiving it. Not because I doubt that the Church is true, but because of my sins. Let me say here, I love my parents and do what I am able to help them, but my strength is going, and what flicker of spiritual life there is left in me spends itself on writing this letter.
“At a very young age,” this young man continues, “I became convinced that my father didn’t love me. It stemmed from an encounter when one evening I went to kiss him good night and he brushed me away. I’m sure he doesn’t remember, and it had no significance to him, but I was devastated: my entire sense of security and my world crumbled into ashes as I stood there.
“Not knowing what else to do, I ran from this new stranger in a panic to my mother and whispered tones to her of my calamity, which she denied, but did not convince me. That night I watched my father as I stood in the shadows of my darkened bedroom. I swore to myself that I would close the door until he sought to open it. I would ignore him until he sought after me.
“He didn’t notice. If he did, he never asked me what was wrong. Well, needless to say, through the next years I went through the motions and rebelled to get his attention, which I got in the form of anger. At any rate, I developed into a homosexual, a vitiating disease, and was soon entrenched in my prison. I didn’t know myself. And I have felt for more years than I can remember that the Lord didn’t love me either. From age seventeen to about twenty-three I began using drugs. …”
Well, you can imagine where his life went from there. This young man closes his letter with these words: “Thank you for your time. Can you help me? Is there reason for me to help myself? Can you convince me? Can you spare the time? I’ve not much left.”
Yes, young man, there is help available to you.
We know that the Lord does love this young man, as he loves all of us. This individual has since been referred through the priesthood to an LDS Social Services agency. Hand in hand, his priesthood leader and his LDS Social Services caseworker will help this brother learn what he didn’t learn at his father’s knee—that the Lord loves him and that the gospel’s plan of repentance and forgiveness is available to all.
In this next situation, Janet, as I will call her, was involved in serious transgression. After discovering that she was expecting a child out of wedlock, her bishop referred her to LDS Social Services. Instead of being condemned by staff personnel as she had feared, she found love and understanding—the love and understanding that she needed to help her repent. With the help of her bishop and the agency, she began to seek the Lord’s forgiveness. She was introduced to foster parents who lovingly accepted her into their home. She attended church regularly and studied the gospel. An unwed parents group sponsored by the Church helped her to realize the magnitude of her transgression and to resolve to start a new life. She began to more fully understand herself and her relationship to her Father in heaven.
“I went through an awful lot,” she recalled. “But I felt like such a load was lifted by being able to share the burden with those who understood. I’m so grateful for all the help I received from my Heavenly Father.”
In the final story, Verinda, a vibrant young Apache girl, was accepted into the Indian Student Placement Service. She later gave this testimony:
“When I first participated in this program eight years ago, I got off the bus with only the clothes on my back and a few small possessions in a shoebox. I came from a humble home. My people are humble. But you have opened your hearts unto me. For that I am thankful. Now I can go home with a brand new suitcase of clothes. But that is not my wealth. I am wealthy because that which is inside of me is as precious as all of the wealth in this world. I have a testimony of the gospel. I know that Jesus is the Christ and that God lives and answers prayers. I now have a goal—something I can strive for.”
Brothers and sisters, these three stories are in sharp contrast to the world around us. Today, we suffer not only from physical pollution, but from mental pollution as well. Perversions of our basic values are offered as the “new morality.” Cheating and violence are often accepted as a means of achieving individual and group desires. Working mothers and weekend fathers abdicate their parental responsibilities. Husbands and wives separate at the smallest argument. Natural affection is waning. I remember as a bishop an incident of a couple who lost custody of their two young children—one in diapers, the other too young for school. Each day the mother and father went to work and left their children locked in the house to fend for themselves. When questioned by the judge, the mother was quite surprised. She said that they had always left sufficient food for the children to last until suppertime! Can you imagine such an attitude?

At one point in my life, I had a highly paid job with great responsibility and recognition. One day my wife said, “You are so busy in your work. You should pray and think about whether you should find a new job that would make you more available to serve the Lord.” We prayed and received a confirmation by the Spirit that I should change jobs. But I was still a little resistant. When I prayed about it, I told the Lord the name of the only company I would consider working for if I quit my job.
Three weeks later, I contacted a recruiting agency and had an interview. In the end, the person said one of his clients had just requested a new director. It was the company I had mentioned in my prayer. It’s a small company that has such openings only every 10 years or so. It was a miracle.
I jokingly told my wife, “I have good news and bad news. The good news is I’m going to be hired by that company. The bad news is I think the Lord has something in store for me.”
I signed on with that company on a Friday. On Saturday I was called as the stake president.
My wife and I placed greater value on the promptings of the Spirit and serving God than in material blessings or our intellectual satisfaction or social recognition. We sought the Lord’s will and received spiritual confirmation that everything would be all right. That was one of the greatest experiences in my life.

When my son, Monty, was young, he had a strong desire to become an Eagle Scout. In his early years of Scouting he worked very hard and it appeared that by the time he turned 16 he would have his Eagle. Well, once he began driving and became interested in sports and girls, his desire to become an Eagle Scout began to fade.

About a month before turning 18, when he would no longer be eligible to receive his Eagle, he had one more required merit badge to finish. I remember one evening he came to me and said, "Dad, I only have one more merit badge to finish my Eagle and only one month to do it in. How can I make me do it?" Monty did receive his Eagle Scout award after some hard work and disciplined effort. Over the years I have thought many times of that statement: "How can I make me do it"?

Christmas was coming, and the first grade class of Mrs. Blackhurst and Mrs. Saunders at Barratt Elementary in American Fork, Utah, had really looked forward to making gingerbread houses. Best friends Jessica and Brooke were in the class together. When the long-awaited day arrived, each carefully and lovingly decorated her gingerbread house with candies and icing. They were really pleased with their finished creations.
After school, they could hardly wait to take their treasured gingerbread houses home to show their families. As they walked down the hall, Brooke’s gingerbread house slipped off its plate and fell to the ground. It splattered all over the floor of the school. Heartbroken, she and Jessica picked up the pieces and continued their walk home.
At home, Jessica cried and cried because she didn’t know how to help her friend feel better. Then Mom suggested, “Why don’t you give her your gingerbread house?” Jessica thought about it and decided that even though she loved her gingerbread house, that’s what she would do.
She took it to Brooke’s house and gave it to her. Brooke stopped crying and asked Jessica if she wanted to stay and play. The girls shared the broken gingerbread house, and they both felt happy. Brooke felt good inside to know that she had a true friend.
Later, Brooke’s dad told Jessica that her sacrifice was the most Christlike thing he had seen all season. Jessica said that she felt good and that she learned that if you do Christlike things, you will feel happy too.

I will tell you of an experience I had before I was a General Authority that affected me profoundly. I sat on a plane next to a professed atheist who pressed his disbelief in God so urgently that I bore my testimony to him. “You are wrong,” I said. “There is a God. I know He lives!”
He protested, “You don’t know. Nobody knows that! You can’t know it!” When I would not yield, the atheist, who was an attorney, asked perhaps the ultimate question on the subject of testimony. “All right,” he said in a sneering, condescending way, “you say you know. Tell me how you know.”
When I attempted to answer, even though I held advanced academic degrees, I was helpless to communicate.
When I used the words Spirit and witness, the atheist responded, “I don’t know what you are talking about.” The words prayer, discernment, and faith were equally meaningless to him. “You see,” he said, “you don’t really know. If you did, you would be able to tell me how you know.”
I felt, perhaps, that I had borne my testimony to him unwisely and was at a loss as to what to do. Then came the experience! Something came into my mind. And I mention here a statement of the Prophet Joseph Smith: “A person may profit by noticing the first intimation of the spirit of revelation; for instance, when you feel pure intelligence flowing into you, it may give you sudden strokes of ideas … and thus by learning the Spirit of God and understanding it, you may grow into the principle of revelation, until you become perfect in Christ Jesus.”1
Such an idea came into my mind, and I said to the atheist, “Let me ask if you know what salt tastes like.”
“Of course I do,” was his reply.
“Then,” I said, “assuming that I have never tasted salt, explain to me just what it tastes like.”
After some thought, he said, “Well, I, uh, it is not sweet and it is not sour.”
“You’ve told me what it isn’t, not what it is.”
After several attempts, of course, he could not do it. He could not convey, in words alone, so ordinary an experience as tasting salt. I bore testimony to him once again and said, “I know there is a God. You ridiculed that testimony and said that if I did know, I would be able to tell you exactly how I know. My friend, spiritually speaking, I have tasted salt. I am no more able to convey to you in words how this knowledge has come than you are to tell me what salt tastes like. But I say to you again, there is a God! He does live! And just because you don’t know, don’t try to tell me that I don’t know, for I do!”
As we parted, I heard him mutter, “I don’t need your religion for a crutch! I don’t need it.”

Over the years, Brazil has become famous for its skilled soccer teams, white beaches, and tropical climate. But the force behind this pulsating, vibrant culture is perhaps its greatest resource: its warm, fun-loving people. Having a good time and being with friends and family are the central components of most activities. And among the most important and anticipated days in any Brazilian young woman’s life is her 15th birthday celebration. Families sometimes save money for years to put on an extravagant night of dining, dancing, and gift-giving for this coming-of-age celebration.
Priscila Vital, a member of the Rio Negro stake in Manaus, Brazil, had to make a difficult choice about how to celebrate her 15th birthday. Priscila’s birthday would come while her mother, Francilene, was in the middle of a 17-day stake caravan trip to the São Paulo Brazil Temple. Francilene had saved money for three years to go to the temple for the first time, and she had enough money to either take Priscila with her or throw a traditional 15th birthday party upon her return. Priscila’s decision was further complicated because most of the relatives in her tight-knit family were members of other churches and had been eagerly anticipating her birthday for several years. They did not understand the importance of going to the temple.
“All of my aunts and uncles wanted me to stay and have the birthday party, especially because I’m the only girl in my family,” says Priscila. “When I decided to go to the temple, it was a good opportunity for me to show them just how important this was to me.”
As a witness of the increasing faith of Manaus’s members, each year between 150 to 200 members in Manaus go on a multistake caravan to the temple in São Paulo, the most accessible temple in Brazil. Because of the dense forest that surrounds the city, the only way to travel from Manaus to São Paulo is by boat or plane. Plane tickets are very expensive, so eight years ago the stake presidencies in the city arranged a yearly temple caravan by chartering a boat and buses for those desiring to go to the temple. By sharing the costs, the members have enough money to travel to the temple with their families.
The caravan begins by traveling for four days by boat to Porto Velho, a Brazilian city near the borders of Peru and Bolivia. From there, members board chartered buses to take them an additional three days and nights to São Paulo, where they stay in Church-owned apartments next to the São Paulo Brazil Temple. For four days they do temple work, then make the reverse journey homeward.
Priscila prepared for her temple trip by studying general conference talks about the temple with her mother, reading Church magazines, and studying the scriptures. She also gathered the names of four generations on her father’s side of the family so she could perform vicarious baptisms for them. Priscila’s mom compiled the family history information for four generations of her side of the family.
Once the 185 members departed Manaus by boat, Priscila and the five other young women in the caravan helped tend the Primary-age children and fixed meals. At night they slept in hammocks on the boat deck to try to stay cool in the hot jungle temperatures.
“Being on the caravan was so spiritual because everyone was so excited and anxious to go to the temple,” Priscila comments. “Most people had never been to the temple, so almost no one knew exactly what to expect. Everyone sang songs and read scriptures together. We were so united.”
The bus ride was the most difficult part of the journey because the buses traveled both day and night for three days, and the members were unable to move around much. As a result, many of the members had severe pain and swelling in their legs.
When they arrived at the temple, Priscila immediately went to the baptistry to do baptisms for the dead, while her mother went to a different part of the temple to receive her endowment. Priscila spent every day in São Paulo in the temple, even though it was the first time she had been to the large metropolis.
“I spent my 15th birthday in the temple. When the baptismal font coordinator discovered it was my birthday, he told me he had a present for me,” Priscila explains. “So many people come to the temple that most patrons can do the baptisms for only five people. He gave me a large stack of names of people who needed their baptismal work done for them. He couldn’t have given me a better present.”
Priscila’s mother comments about other changes that happened in Priscila’s life: “The caravan spiritually influenced her. She was a light for all of the other members. Everyone came back different. On the bus ride home, we felt that our appearances and faces had changed; we were all so happy.”
Priscila’s example and willingness to share the gospel helped many of her family members and friends join the Church. One of them, her aunt, recently returned from serving in the Brazil Recife Mission. Now Priscila is encouraging her father and two brothers to prepare to go to the temple so they can be sealed as a family—something she hopes will happen soon.
For Priscila, giving up her 15th birthday celebration was no sacrifice. “When it was time to come home, I didn’t want to leave,” Priscila remarks. “All I want to do is save money so I can go back to the temple as quickly as possible.”

I am grateful to the Lord for my membership in His Church. My investigation of this Church was never through anyone but by the power of God. I and my family members had attended so many churches. Our membership would have been earlier, but rumors about the Book of Mormon scared us until I was pushed by God. I liked what the Church offered me in their classes. The lessons were according to my needs, which I extended to my family members and now, we are all members of the Church.
Before my membership, I had always returned home late, but now I have been able to overcome that so I have time to discuss with my family, teach my children, and look over their work. My family is a peaceful one now and I am grateful to the Lord for that. I know that God lives and that this is His Church, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen. —Sorba Brima, Quarter Branch, Bo-Sierra Leone West Stake

It was family home evening, and Dad was teaching the lesson. I slouched into a comfortable chair and glanced around the room at my sisters and brothers. We were there, prepared to listen—halfway—before rushing back to the really important things in our lives.
Suddenly Dad disappeared into the kitchen. I raised my eyebrows at Anna, my sister. She shrugged, silently communicating, “How do I know what he’s doing?”
He came bouncing out of the kitchen with an apron on, a large mixing bowl and an old cookbook in his hands. “Today for our lesson, we are going to make a cake. Then, for a treat, we will eat it.”
That sounded good to me. I could always handle a few extra snacks between meals.
“But,” Dad said, “we’re not going to use this cookbook.”
“Why not?” asked my sister Katie.
“Well, this book was written a long time ago,” he said as he checked the copyright date in the front. “1979. I’m sure they knew how to make a 1979 cake, but I really doubt the authors know anything about making a cake right now, in this century. The pressures that we’re under, the technology, it’s all really different.”
“But cake making doesn’t really change,” protested Anna.
“No book,” said Dad. He threw the cookbook squarely onto the kitchen table. “This is our cake, and we’re going to make it our way. We don’t need anyone to tell us how to make it. Let’s go around and each person can pick an ingredient to put in the cake.”
He started with me. “Um, OK, flour?”
“How much?”
“Two cups?” I hazarded a guess. “Really, Dad, I think it would be better if …”
He held up his hand to silence my protest as Mom rushed to get the flour and add it to the mixing bowl.
Joe was next. “Butter? One stick?”
We went around the circle. We added salt, sugar, milk, and eggs. I breathed a sigh of relief when Katie added baking powder. She bakes more than I do, and I had known it needed some kind of leaven, but I was unsure what.
It was Anna’s turn. “Cocoa powder,” she declared. I smiled. Chocolate cake is my favorite. This cake was turning out to be OK after all.
When we were all finished, it looked like cake batter and smelled good, too.
“Let’s grease and flour the pan,” suggested Katie.
“One moment,” said Dad. “I just thought of something that would be really good to add.” He handed the bowl to Mom and came back with some … was that Worcestershire sauce?
Amidst howls of protest, Dad added two large tablespoonfuls of the black sauce to our batter. We all looked on in shock and dismay.
Dad smiled benignly. “Were you going to grease and flour that pan?” he asked Katie.
“I guess so,” she replied uncertainly.
Dad looked at our crestfallen faces. He said, “I know most successful cakes don’t have Worcestershire sauce in them. In fact, if we looked in the instructions, there might be some kind of warnings against adding things like Worcestershire sauce. But,” he said with a sneer, “that cookbook is old-fashioned and ancient. We don’t need anyone telling us what to do. It’s our cake. We can do what we want with it. Also, I hear that everyone who is anyone is putting Worcestershire sauce into their cakes these days.”
Dad popped the cake into the oven and removed his apron. In stunned silence, we returned to our seats. Dad sat down, too. When he began to speak, the sneer was gone. He held up a set of scriptures, and his tone was reverent.
“When you pictured the cake we were going to make, you probably pictured something wonderful, maybe a chocolate cake with white frosting. You did not picture something disgusting.
“Right now I want you to picture the life you have ahead of you. Picture the ingredients you know you need to return to your Father in Heaven. Picture serving a mission. Picture marriage in the temple. Picture the career of your choice. Picture yourself making good choices and being a force for good in the world. These are the positive ingredients you put into life.
“But there are certain things that do not belong in a successful life, just as Worcestershire sauce never belongs in a cake, like drug use, sexual immorality, or dishonesty. No matter how Satan tries to disguise them, they are guaranteed roads to failure.
“Of course, our cake would have turned out better if we had read and followed the instructions.”
He held up his scriptures. “Your life will turn out better if you follow the teachings in here. It’s true that the scriptures were written a long time ago. It’s true that some of the values may seem old-fashioned to some of your friends. But, like Anna said, cake making doesn’t really change much over time, and neither do the rules for living a happy and successful life. Also, we have living prophets and apostles. They are the experts, just like the authors of the cookbook are experts. We all would do well to follow their teachings.
“If you keep sight of your eternal goals, you won’t let people talk you into putting destructive ingredients into your life. But if you just drift along, adding whatever yucky things are ‘in’ at the moment, you won’t make the cake—or the life—that you picture for yourself.”
We were quiet for a moment. Then Mom said, “Of course, we do have repentance.”
“That’s true,” said Dad. “Unlike cakes, lives get second chances.” The timer buzzed. Reluctantly, Katie went to the kitchen and removed the cake from the oven. It smelled terrible. Were they really going to make us eat that?
“Let’s go have a treat,” said Mom. As we got up to leave, my brother Joe put his hand on my dad’s shoulder.
“Good lesson, Dad,” he said.
We were pleasantly surprised to find another cake, white with chocolate frosting, that Mom had made using the cookbook. We all had a small bite of the nasty cake, however, just to see what it tasted like. It was as disgusting as it smelled.
For the price of a few wasted ingredients, Dad made a huge impact. For years now, I have remembered his lesson, and I have always been blessed when I have tried to avoid the undesirable ingredients of life.

As a teenager living in Somerset, New Jersey, Todd Christofferson participated in the cast of the Hill Cumorah Pageant near Palmyra, New York, for two summers. During the production his first year, young Todd remembered the words of a former bishop. He had encouraged the youth of the ward to never give up striving with the Lord until they had “burned into [their] hearts a testimony of the gospel.”
Todd had taken the words of his priesthood leader seriously and had prayed about his testimony from time to time. But there in Palmyra, the cradle of the Restoration, he determined this was the time and place he was going to get a sure confirmation.
“One night after the performance, I went to the Sacred Grove alone,” he remembers. “It was a beautiful summer evening. I took off my shoes, went in, and began to pray. I prayed very diligently for an hour, maybe more—and nothing happened.”
After some time, he gave up and left. Disappointment consumed him. What had he done wrong? Why hadn’t Heavenly Father answered his prayer?
In what seemed like no time at all, the two-week stretch of pageant performances ended, and Todd returned to New Jersey. About a month later, as he was reading the Book of Mormon at home in his bedroom, he received his answer.
“Without my asking for it, the witness came,” he recalls. “It came without words, but I received a very powerful spiritual confirmation—the kind that leaves no doubt—about the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith.
“Looking back on that experience, I realize that we can’t dictate to God when, where, or how He will speak to us. We just have to be open to receive what He disposes, when He disposes it. It comes according to His will.
“I’m glad that Heavenly Father didn’t respond to me that night in Palmyra. I might have thought that you have to be in a special place to get an answer to prayer or to gain a testimony. But you don’t have to make a pilgrimage to Palmyra to know that Joseph Smith was a prophet or that the Book of Mormon is true. You don’t have to go to Jerusalem to know that Jesus is the Christ. If Heavenly Father found me in Somerset, New Jersey, He can answer the prayers of anybody, anywhere in the world. He knows us intimately, and He can answer us whatever our place or circumstances.”

During her campaign to be elected as the student president, Sue introduced a theme, “Seek for the highest that is in you.” As high school students will do, some started making fun of the theme. But Sue persevered, using the theme for all the school activities throughout the year, and the ridicule died down. The school principal said, “There are always those who will take something positive and try to make fun of it. Sue was able to overcome that just by her pleasant attitude and by not taking herself too seriously or getting defensive when people would make fun of the theme. The theme became the accepted motto for the students that year.”

The first time he offered to take me fishing behind his place, I brought the stuff my friends and I used when we fished from the old country bridge.
“What kind of a rig you call that?” He looked at my large lead sinker and a treble hook with a wad of dried-up cheese stuck to it. “Here, let me see that. You’re not supposed to club the fish to death.” He took the sinker from the line. “And what’s this?” he said, pointing to the cheese. “You bring your lunch?”
“I usually use worms or cheese for bait.”
He shook his head. “I’ll teach you to fly fish. Then you’ll know something about fishing.”
He stepped a little ways into the river so he could get a free swing with his fly rod. “Look over there, just in front of the boulder.” He whipped the fly line back and forth a couple of times to let out line, and then cast. The fly landed gently on the water and glided into the swirling water downstream from the boulder. Suddenly the water boiled as a German Brown rose up and took the fly. He carefully fought it to his side and then reached down and swished it up in his net. “You think you can learn to do that?” he said as he reached down into the net and pulled out the trout and dropped him gently back into the water.
Nearly every weekday afternoon that summer I’d go over to his place with my rod, and we’d walk across his field to the river. He taught me how to cast a fly rod, and where to stand, and what kind of flies to use for each part of the summer. “You got to find out what they’re feeding on, Jamie. That’s the secret.”

A third fundamental in this exciting challenge of reclaiming the inactive is that of timing. The scripture rightly says:
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
“A time to be born, … a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.” (Eccl. 3:1–2.)
My stake missionary friend had another convincing experience that taught him never to regard people as unchanging or unchangeable. They are neither stones nor stars. They are in constant motion.
A doctor rebuffed my friend in his attempts to serve as a home teacher. This doctor was a Church member in name only. His door seemed to be permanently and tightly closed to representatives of the Church. Then one evening my friend was visiting the hospital and was surprised and saddened to find in one bed the intractable doctor. He humbly and courageously asked, “Wouldn’t you like us to give you a blessing?”
“That, above all things right now, would help me most,” affirmed the doctor, weak and dispirited. And that, said my friend, was what it took to reactivate this heretofore inactive brother. It seems that for everyone there is a time—if only the Spirit of God sensitizes our hearts to the action we should take!

Adriana bounced the ball to Selene. Boing! Selene caught the ball and bounced the ball back. Thud! Adriana didn’t catch the ball. Selene called Adriana a mean name. Adriana looked sad. “Please don’t say that,” Adriana said. “It hurts my feelings.” Adriana bounced the ball to Selene. “I’m sorry I called you a mean name,” Selene said. Selene bounced the ball back to Adriana. “I’m glad we can play ball together!” Selene said.

On Friday morning in this historic tabernacle, and in the homes of Church members viewing or listening to the conference session, hands were raised to sustain a prophet, a seer, and a revelator—even the President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Our upraised hands were an outward expression of our inward feelings. As we raised our hands, we pledged our hearts. Could I for a moment mention the hands of that prophet, even President Harold B. Lee? I do so humbly and with his permission.
Some years ago, President Lee, directed by inspiration and revelation, called Dewitt J. Paul to serve as patriarch in one of the eastern stakes of the Church. The call humbled beyond words both Brother and Sister Paul. They wondered. They worried. They prayed for assurance and heavenly confirmation. Such did not come suddenly.
The vote of the people demonstrated their supporting approval. Then came the time for ordination. In a basement room situated two floors beneath the meeting hall in which the conference was held, Dewitt Paul nervously sat on a chair and, with a silent prayer in his heart, awaited his ordination. President Harold B. Lee then placed his hands upon the head of the newly called patriarch and began to speak. Peace replaced turmoil. Faith overcame doubt. Seated next to Sister Paul was a lifelong friend to whom Sister Paul had confided her concern. During the pronouncement of the blessing and ordination, she opened her eyes. As she did so she saw a ray of light shining upon President Lee as he placed his hands upon the head of Brother Paul. At the conclusion of the blessing, she hastened to tell Brother Lee of this confirmation of a call. She recounted how she saw the sunshine form the ray of light and how it brought a bright glow to the hands of President Lee. “Indeed, this is to you a confirmation of a sacred call,” said President Lee, “for as you look about this basement room, there is no window through which the sun might beam its rays.” Precious are the hands of a prophet.

Elvis H., 16, did not have ancestors who were LDS pioneers. He chose to walk for Norton Hunter, who was important to the pioneers because he made handcarts that they pulled and pushed across hundreds of miles.

Elvis started out with enthusiasm. After the difficult first day, he was excited to reach camp, but he couldn’t sleep because he was in pain. The next day, he was taken to the hospital, where he was operated on for appendicitis. “In my situation, if we were back in pioneer days, I probably would have been one of those graves on the way.”

Two partners in an e-commerce start-up company negotiated a contract with a large company to provide their customers seminars on this new field. The large firm provided seed money to help the small company get started. A few months later, the partners realized that, under the terms of the contract, they owed the large company about $40,000. If that amount had to be paid immediately, the small company would have to shut its doors. The original intent of the contract would not have required payment, but the wording of the contract was such that the small firm owed the $40,000. At the same time this was discovered, the large company changed the manager who was responsible for the contract. He probably did not know of the contents of the contract nor of the intent. The two partners had a choice--if they told the new manager about the $40,000, they could have to pay it and lose their company. If they did not tell him, the new manager may never find out and they could stay in business. The partners said to each other, "It's only money. We built our company on the principles of integrity. We can't let money stand in the way of that principle." They called the new manager and explained the situation. He asked for a few days to consider the matter. He later called back and said, "You have been men of integrity. We find that a rare commodity in today's business. Because we now know we can trust you, we want you to keep the $40,000." That year, the small company did over one million dollars in business with the large company and the relationship continued at that level for many years.

Introducing the gospel to my father was important to me. He attended another church and was an elder in that church but had been denied baptism because he was married three times. My mother was the first wife. He visited us and I told him about the missionaries. He did not think there could be truth anywhere else but in his Methodist church. As he learned more about the Church, he decided to be baptized. He had been sick off and on for a while. After he was baptized, he felt better and went home.
My hope was that he would stay strong in the Church. Every Sunday he would sit with the Book of Mormon and sing hymns. He especially liked hymns 44 and 45— “Beautiful Zion, Built Above” and “Lead Me into Life Eternal.” Some of his family members deserted him because of the truth that he embraced. They said that I took him from the family church. He told them that God brought the Church to him for his sake. He was given a blessing by President Albert Mutariswa, of the Nigeria Enugu Mission.
A branch was established in Ojantell and my father gave his own house to be used for the Church and there were many baptisms because of that. Before his death, he said that the Church would have access to his house for meetings until they no longer needed it. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints gave him a befitting burial. I plan to go to the temple and do the baptism for my mom and seal them together with his children.

Allison crouched behind a bush and waited. Her bike lay behind her, just out of sight over the crest of the hill. Although she had been there for more than an hour, she waited patiently. She was sure they would come today, and she would be ready for them.
She had been ready all summer, ever since her family moved to the small town of Bethel shortly after school ended.
“Go out and ride your bike around the neighborhood,” her mother had urged her. “You’re sure to meet someone that way. There must be kids your age around here.”
So Allison had ridden her bike up and down the streets of Bethel. She saw older kids and younger kids but no one her own age. No one except a girl two streets over, and she was in a wheelchair.
“Well, get to know her,” Mother had encouraged her. “I’m sure she’s very nice, and there are a lot of things you could do together. Maybe she needs a friend too.”
“She can’t ride a bike,” Allison had pouted. Her bike had been just about the most important thing in life to her ever since she decided to train for the Tour de France international bike race.
“Well then, you’ll just have to wait until school starts in the fall,” Mother told her. “There will be kids your age in your class at school.”
So Allison continued to ride her bike around the neighborhood, feeling lonesome and sorry for herself.
Then she found the dirt track. She came upon it one day when she was riding along the country road on the edge of town. High weeds lined the sides of the road, and she almost rode right by the opening to the path.
Feeling the excitement of an explorer, she followed the path off the road. Insects flew from both sides of the weeds as she pedaled slowly along it. Several small mice and a rabbit scurried for cover as she passed.
She was about to turn around and go back, when she came upon a clearing surrounded by low, bush-covered hills. In the center of the clearing was an oval dirt track. Although it appeared to be abandoned, the track was still flat and smooth and ready for racing.
My very own race track! Allison thought as she started to ride around it. Then she noticed wheel tracks ahead of her in the soft dirt—two tracks, each about the same width as the impressions left by her own tires.
As she followed the tracks, she noticed that they were always the same distance apart. Here were two riders so in tune with one another that when one curved slightly to the left, the other followed in a perfect arc!
They must be best friends, Allison concluded, feeling the pangs of her recent isolation. They know each other well enough to ride together perfectly. I wish I had a friend like that.
Well why not? she wondered. Even if the mysterious riders weren’t her age, or even if they were boys, they still liked to ride bikes, and that was all that mattered.
So she waited. Two days in a row she sat just out of sight behind the bushes on the hill, anxious for the riders to come. She had it all planned. Once the two riders appeared, she’d walk her bike down the hill and meet them as if by accident. Then, if all went well, she’d have two new friends and they’d ride off together side by side.
Now, her third day of waiting, she heard a rustling in the weeds. They were coming at last! Allison caught her breath as she saw the girl in the wheelchair from two streets over wheel herself onto the track.
What’s she doing here? Allison thought angrily. What if the two bike riders who are supposed to become my best friends don’t come because she’s here?
She watched as the girl in the wheelchair picked up speed. By the time she was halfway around the track, her wheelchair was nearly flying as her muscled arms pumped furiously. Allison was impressed. Walking her bike, she hurried down to talk to the girl.
“Hi! My name’s Sandy,” the girl in the wheelchair offered as Allison approached. “That’s a nice bike you have.”
“Hi! I’m Allison.” Seeing a stopwatch fastened to Sandy’s chair, she blurted out, “How fast were you going?”
“Two seconds faster than last week,” Sandy answered proudly. “Don’t laugh, but I’m training for the Olympics. I’m sure wheelchair racing will be an official sport by the time I’m older.”
“Really? Good for you! Don’t you laugh, but I’m training for the Tour de France.”
“Well, let’s train together, OK?” Sandy motioned for Allison to come on as she took off down the track.
Allison grinned and hurried to catch up. When they’d almost completed a lap, she hit a rough spot and reached out to steady herself on Sandy’s wheelchair. Looking back, she noticed three perfectly parallel tracks in the dirt.

Despite having been raised with a solid foundation of daily scripture study, as an adult I have had periods where I have struggled to keep this up. Falling behind, I would devote a few hours to study as much as possible. Like a recharged battery, that spiritual nourishment would keep me going for a few days. But every day that I let that study slip by the wayside, the light that I felt would diminish. At that point, I’d commit to another one-off study session. And so, the pattern continued. However, inspired by the introduction of the Come Follow Me programme in 2018, I have established a pattern of daily study. I feel strengthened and uplifted in a way I never have had before. The feeling of closeness with my Saviour and Heavenly Father that such study has brought me is indescribable—my hope grows, and I have been able to have peace amidst the turbulence of life.