Gospel Story Finder

Some years ago, a client seeking my professional advice described to me the nature of his business, which involved selling secondhand furniture and household goods in partnership with his father. They acquired their stock by attending auctions and market sales and by clearing unwanted items from homes. They were always careful to ensure that they could realize more money in reselling than they had expended in the purchase.
On one occasion, the son had contracted to clear the contents of a home following the death of an elderly occupant. Hanging in one of the rooms was a painting. Pausing to examine it, he considered the possibility that one day he would discover an antique or painting of far greater value than the previous owner had realized. But concluding that this painting was not in that category, he removed it from where it was displayed, carried it to his vehicle, and put it among the other items.
Later, as he and his father were unloading the vehicle, the father picked up the artwork, examined it carefully, and said, “I wish I knew more about paintings and how to tell if they are valuable.” The son responded that he was sure this one would not be classified as such. Nevertheless, the father felt it would be worth having the painting checked by a friend who managed an art gallery.
Several days later, the father’s friend informed him that the painting probably had a value of at least £12,000 (almost U.S. $29,000 in the early 1970s). Excited by the news, the father and son set out for the art gallery to collect the painting. This time they took a blanket in which they carefully wrapped the work of art. The son held it securely in his arms as they returned to the shop. The painting sold at auction for £12,500.
In telling this story, my client concluded by saying, “I can’t imagine why anyone would be prepared to pay so much for such an ordinary painting.”

I was born in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. As the eldest of eight children, I left school when I was twelve years old to help support my family. After I grew up and married, my wife, Ruda, encouraged me to go back to school, and I earned my high school diploma and a bachelor’s degree in accounting.
But even when I was the financial management comptroller for Petrobras, the biggest oil company in Brazil, and I had the respect of my colleagues, I was not satisfied. I did not feel happy; I felt confused. I thought that the solution would be religion. I had a wonderful wife and two children, Marcus and Marisa. (Later, another son and daughter, Raphael and Aline, were born.) We were not involved in a church at that time, and I told my wife that it would be best for us and for our children to find one. Many of my friends at work were members of different religions, so my family and I went to five or six different churches.
One day we found on our door a card with a picture of Jesus Christ on one side and the name The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on the other. I had never heard of this Church, and I asked my assistant at work, “What is this church?”
He said, “Boss, don’t go there.”
But Heavenly Father had heard my family’s prayers. A few days later, in April 1972, the missionaries knocked at our door. That changed our lives. We received all the discussions in one night. I asked and asked and asked questions. The missionaries answered my questions about the Church and about God and Jesus Christ and about the standing of black people in the Church. Elder Thomas McIntire and Elder Steve Richards were two very special missionaries, and they were prepared for that moment. All my questions were answered. The Holy Ghost testified all the time that these things were true.
When they left my house, I was completely changed. With respect and reverence, my family attended the meetings and activities, but we postponed baptism because of fear of negative reactions from our extended families.
Then we attended a district conference in Rio de Janeiro. The inspired messages from the pulpit prepared our hearts for an unforgettable moment. The counselor in the mission presidency bore his testimony about Jesus Christ, after which the congregation sang “I Need Thee Every Hour.” In that moment, the Holy Ghost reconfirmed the truthfulness of the things we already knew: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the Lord’s kingdom on earth, the road back to the celestial mansion of our Eternal Father.
My wife and I and Marcus—Marisa wasn’t old enough yet—were baptized July 2, 1972, the most important date in our lives. All the members of our branch attended our baptisms.
I had respect for all the doctrine and for the priesthood. Because I couldn’t hold the priesthood at that time, people often asked me, “What about the priesthood?” I told them that I had complete acceptance of it.
During the cornerstone laying of the São Paulo Temple, President Spencer W. Kimball motioned for me to come to him. I looked around to see whom he was looking at. He repeated the gesture. I did not understand. Elder James E. Faust looked at me and mouthed the words, “Come here. He wants to talk to you.” I went. President Kimball shook my hand and took hold of my arm and said, “Brother, what is necessary for you is faithfulness. Remain faithful, and you will enjoy all the blessings of the Church.”
A little more than a year later, in June 1978, we received a telephone call from a friend in Salt Lake City, Utah, telling us that President Kimball had announced the revelation* that all worthy males could hold the priesthood. I shall not forget that day. My wife cried. I cried. We kneeled to thank our Heavenly Father. After that, the phone rang many, many times. Friends from the United States and Brazil called us.
The hand of the Lord is resting upon Brazil. It is a special country. We have many challenges, but we have a very special people who are friendly and accepting of the missionaries’ message.

In June 2020 the young women of the Huddersfield Stake were thrilled when Sister Becky Craven of the General Young Women’s Presidency personally invited them to participate in a pilot project.
The project was to mark the 150th anniversary in 2020 of the organisation of the worldwide Young Women program.
Each young woman would be set a challenge to do 150 positive things.
Sister Craven said, “The Young Women sesquicentennial celebrates 150 years of growth in young women striving to improve themselves, develop their talents, serve others and strengthen their testimonies of Jesus Christ. Maybe you will choose to read 150 pages of scripture or index 150 names. You may decide to share 150 smiles or 150 encouraging texts with a friend who needs a lift or a boost.”
Girls ranging from 11 to 18, from all over Huddersfield Stake responded enthusiastically to the challenge and took to social media to share their inspiring and thoughtful projects. Some projects were creative; 150 origami flowers given out prayerfully, 150 bath bombs kindly given, 150 positive messages drawn and placed. Other projects were spiritual in nature, for example, 150 conference talks studied, reading The Book of Mormon in 150 days, and 150 names of ancestors found for temple work.
Some girls wrote to neighbours, prepared and performed favourite songs, baked treats, knitted squares, and sought for and completed service opportunities—one girl picked up over 500 pieces of rubbish from her local woods.
A beautiful feeling of helpfulness and searching prevailed as hearts were turned towards the Saviour in trying to become His hands.
Sister Craven was grateful for the effort shown and generously spoke to Huddersfield Stake Young Women in a special fireside at the beginning of November. The girls were excited to hear that she had presented and shared their efforts with President Russell M. Nelson.
Overall, the most exciting thing was that young women saw what a difference they could make to the people around them. They have had a glimpse of what they could all do when they listen to the Spirit and do what they are guided to do to lift those around them.
This collective offering seems to be a very fitting tribute to an organisation that focuses on personal growth and encourages young women to deepen their private relationship with the Saviour. You can follow their journey on Instagram by following #strivetobe and #my150.

In her bedroom Mom opened a small box and lifted out a silver handheld mirror.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, fingering the letter B etched on the back.
“This was my grandmother’s mirror,” Mom said. “When I polish this mirror, I try to imagine what Grandma Beatrice saw when she looked into it. Maybe at first she saw a young girl, like you, dreaming of her future.
“I can imagine the light of happiness she saw in her eyes when she looked at her long braids in the mirror before her baptism. Did you know she wasn’t able to be baptized until she was 18 years old?”
“And then after her marriage to Grandpa, she had a baby daughter who lived only two days. I imagine the eyes she saw in this mirror then were swollen with tears.
“Many years after that, she would have seen her joyful reflection as she prepared to go to the temple to be sealed to her husband and three children.
“As an older woman, she may have used this mirror to place a hat on her head before going to her Relief Society meetings.
“And finally, as a gray-haired widow, she may have seen the brave determination in her eyes as she lived for many years alone but faithful to the end.”

Would you like to hear about a missionary who was prompted to make a wise choice? He was new in the work and was assigned to labor in the city of Oshawa, Ontario, Canada, with a veteran missionary as a companion. They called at the home of a family by the name of Pollard. They knocked, and Mr. Pollard let them in. He invited them to present their material. After he had heard their message, and after he had prayed with them, it seemed as though the spirit of the adversary came over him, and he became angry with the elders and told them to leave and never come back again. As he showed them to the door, he said, “You can’t tell me that you really believe Joseph Smith is a prophet of God, anyway.” The door slammed shut. The two dejected missionaries walked away.

This young missionary turned to his senior companion and said, “We didn’t answer Mr. Pollard’s question.”

The senior companion explained the futility of attempting to return. But the young elder said, “I’m going back. I won’t feel right until I do.”

They returned to Mr. Pollard’s door and knocked on it. He opened the door and said, “I thought I told you fellows to leave.”

The next decision took all the strength of character and all the fortitude that this young man could muster, for his senior companion did not give him much help. I heard Mr. Pollard himself describe the experience. He said, “That missionary looked me in the eye. He hesitated for a moment, and then said, ‘Mr. Pollard, as we left your home, you made a statement that we really didn’t believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. Mr. Pollard, I want you to know that I know that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, and that this work is true.’”

After this declaration, the missionaries departed. Mr. Pollard later told me that all the rest of the day and that evening he kept hearing those words echoing through his ears: “I know that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I know it. I know it. I know it.”

The next morning he telephoned the missionaries and asked them to come back. They returned to his home and taught him the gospel. They taught his wife the gospel. They taught his children the gospel. All became members of the Church. If you could have accompanied me to the district conference I attended a few years back and heard this man stand on his feet and thank his Heavenly Father for the choice that a young missionary made to return and to bear his witness, you, my brothers and sisters, would be forever anxious to “choose the right when a choice is placed before you.”

Nearly 30 years ago I desired to attend a general conference of the Church and drove 14 hours to be in Salt Lake City for the conference. I entered Temple Square at 8:00 A.M., where the line outside door number 10 was all the way across Temple Square and halfway down the south side of the Assembly Hall. I was nearly 300 feet from my goal. The usher called out that the Tabernacle was full. People dropped out of line, and I inched forward.
At five minutes before 10:00 I was the only person standing in front of my chosen door. The door opened, and the usher said, “Are you still here?” He closed the door, and my heart sank. As the choir began to sing the opening hymn at 10:00 sharp, the door opened one more time, and the usher beckoned me inside. He placed me on half a seat and behind a post, but a welcome seat it was! I was able to sustain the Lord’s chosen leaders and hear their counsel that special day.

Ten years ago I was left alone to ponder this very idea in the stark white, sterile environment of a hospital room. My dear wife, Mary, had just been wheeled away to have an operation. My first response was to pray for her to be returned to me alive and well. My first prayer was almost one of a demand for her return because of the good life she had lived, her husband and children needed her loving care, and because in some way, because of our lives of service, her return to health was a debt owed us. Upon concluding the first prayer a heavy feeling lay upon me. There was not the feeling of peace, comfort, or reassurance I had anticipated. What was wrong? Why hadn’t I been comforted? Why did I still have so much fear?

After a few minutes of apprehension and deliberation, I knelt to pray again for a second time. This time, however, my prayer was one of acknowledging the Lord’s hand in our lives, giving thanks for the many blessings we had received together as companions in over twenty years of marriage, and expressing that I would accept the outcome of the operation to be in God’s hands and that his will would be done. After concluding the prayer, I was ready to accept the will of God as it affected Mary’s life and mine.

At the conclusion of the prayer a sweet, comforting spirit of peace rested upon me—not because I was assured of Mary’s safe return to health, but because of the assurance that I would accept my Heavenly Father’s will and trust in him and in his son Jesus Christ to be given the strength to meet the trials of this mortal probation.

After a few more minutes of reflection, I felt the need of more spiritual strength. I reached for my Bible that was on the bed stand and casually thumbed through it, stopping at the book of Job, and began to read, preoccupied at first and then studying more and more intently because my searching questions were being answered.

After a few hours my sweetheart was returned to the hospital recovery room—our crisis now a learning experience. I have often pondered what I would have done if she had departed this frail existence to leave me alone in this cold and dreary world without her love.

In March of 1977, Errol Bennett joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and then refused to play soccer on Sundays. In response, Napoléon Spitz, the president of Bennett’s club and the Fédération Tahitienne de Football (FTF), called a meeting of FTF members and declared that his entire club would stop playing soccer on Sundays. After some discussion, all the affiliated clubs agreed to reschedule matches during the week.
Bennett’s decision to not play on Sundays did not hinder his success. Central Sport won the Tahitian championship eight consecutive times from 1972 to 1979 and claimed the South Pacific Tournament title four times in a row. The club also made it to the seventh round of the Coupe de France, achieving a memorable 3–0 victory over US Orléans in Papeete during the 1978–79 season.

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.

In 1830 almost everyone in Kirtland, Ohio, was talking about the “Golden Bible” that missionaries had brought from New York. Many people were excited about the gospel, had been baptized, and were telling friends about their new faith. Others were offended by this new religion and went about warning their neighbors against it. It seemed that there was not even a mousehole where the Church was not being either commended or condemned.

All this talk caused a great curiosity about the Church and the Book of Mormon. Twelve-year-old Mary Elizabeth Rollins, a recently-baptized member, wanted to see the Book of Mormon, but at that time there were very few copies of it available. When she heard that a neighbor, Isaac Morley, had one, she went to his home to see it. When she first glimpsed the book, an overwhelming desire came over her to read it. Gathering her courage, she asked if she could take the book home and read it while Brother Morley attended a missionary meeting that evening.

Brother Morley hesitated but finally said, “Child, if you will bring this book back before breakfast tomorrow morning, you may take it.”

Mary hurried home with the book, threw open the door, and exclaimed to her uncle and aunt, “Here is the ‘Golden Bible!’”

Immediately her aunt and uncle sat down with her and begin taking turns reading until late at night. Mary got up the next morning as soon as it was light enough to see and memorized the first verse. Then she hurried to Brother Morley’s house to return the book.

Upon greeting her, Brother Morley said, “I guess you did not read much in it.” When Mary showed him how far they had read, he was surprised. “I don’t believe you can tell me one word of it,” he said. Mary repeated the verse she had memorized and told him the story of Nephi. At that, Brother Morley gazed at her and said, “Child, take this book home and finish it. I can wait.”*

Recently, some members of my family determined it would be fun to bicycle from Bozeman, Montana, to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, in the United States. This 225-mile journey would take us three days, and we would cross the Continental Divide on three occasions. We determined that traveling through the mountain passes with good weather would be a wonderful experience that would help us appreciate God’s creations.

After careful planning and preparation, two of my sons and my only daughter and I set out on the first day to cycle to our overnight stop in Big Sky, Montana. The morning was perfect, and we expected a delightful journey. However, as we traveled along, dark clouds gathered and brought rain, which eventually became sleet and hail and made us extremely cold and wet and miserable. As we concluded day one of our journey and reached our overnight destination, I was reminded that life can be just like that day. Fortunately, we had prepared for all types of weather conditions; had we not done so, it would have been difficult to complete our journey that first day. At each stage of life’s journey, we should set out full of hope and optimism, but we should be prepared nonetheless to face opposition or hardship at some point.

On day two of our trip, we headed to West Yellowstone. Everything was as it should be—the bicycles were running smoothly, our legs rested, as we progressed toward our second destination. It was then that I realized if we are not careful when everything is going just right in life, there can be a temptation to forget our Heavenly Father and give credit to ourselves for our happy state. Don’t make that mistake.

On day three of our journey, I learned that even though we may have some uphill struggles in our lives, our attitude will determine how we face them. On that day we crossed the Continental Divide three times, rising from an elevation of 4,800 feet to 8,300 feet. Climbing steep mountain passes on a bike requires the right attitude to get to the right altitude. It’s the same with life. By setting worthwhile goals and keeping your eyes fixed on them, you will learn self-discipline and accomplish much. Yes, there were times when climbing the steep mountain grades was as much as I could bear, but I didn’t give up, because I was fixed in my purpose.

As our family concluded the 225-mile bicycle journey, we learned that no matter how difficult things can become on this road we call life, great happiness is waiting for those who keep the commandments and endure to the end.

Not too long ago, my son and I went to a professional track meet. It was a good night. We saw two or three world records broken. One, as I remember, was in the 880. If you’ve been to one of these meets, you know the way to tell whether or not the person is going to break a world’s record. There are simulated lights around the track that flash on and off at the pace of the world’s record. You watch those blinking lights go on and off around the track and know that that’s the pace that will have to be bettered in order to beat the world’s record. You watch the man running, and you watch those lights, and you can tell how close the record is to being broken. The runners in the 880 got off to a furious start; almost everybody was ahead of the light. At 440, one person in particular was still ahead of the light. As they came into the final lap and he made his move, he was a good quarter of a track ahead of the light. He finished strong and broke the world’s record, and the place was in pandemonium. It was exciting to watch.
The thing that interested me about the winner, though, was that, when he passed the 440 mark and was ahead of the light, he didn’t’ stop and jump up and down. You see, nobody gives you credit until you’ve crossed the finish line. And the race is not through until you’ve crossed the finish line. Although you may be ahead at the 440 mark, it can all go for naught if suddenly you stop to say, “I made it this far.”
Perhaps in the Church there is danger of this feeling. We’re taught, many of us, in our youth to respond to the question “What do you want to do?” by saying, “Well, I want to go on a mission and maybe I want to graduate from college.” (It’s not important what you do professionally as long as you become as good as you can be at whatever you decide.) Our youth conclude by saying, “And I want to get married in the temple.” So we pass those marks. We pass the 110 and the 220, the 440, and sometimes we’re into the final lap, or maybe we’re not that far along, and perhaps that final lap consists of temple marriage. We get married in the temple, and perhaps we have fulfilled all the goals we have set for ourselves.
Tragically enough, some of us in those kinds of circumstances, after baptism and temple marriage, don’t understand that from that point forward we simply have to finish the race. Tragically enough, some who don’t realize the fact begin to run into problems, and some of them stop before they’ve crossed the finish line. Some marriages go in the wrong direction. Some people who had everything going for them suddenly haven’t been able to make their marriages work, and they have some difficulties.
The objective is not temple marriage alone. The objective is being married in the temple, then keeping the covenants, and then crossing the finish line—living your marriage a day at a time. Someone once said that you get married in the temple and then you spend the rest of your life learning to live together and putting together an eternal relationship. It’s not all glory. You have to do it a day at a time. You have to lay your foundation. You have to accomplish the things you need to accomplish a day at a time. You need to learn to know each other and you need to work out your problems. You need to learn to be loyal to each other, and when the humdrum pace of life sets in, you need to see things through. A day at a time, make your marriage and your relationship and your love a little stronger and a little better. Temple marriage is no guarantee in itself that you’ll have a successful marriage, although it is a tremendous beginning, a tremendous beginning. But from that point forward, your marriage will be the sum total of what you and your companion contribute to it. You don’t get very much out of your marriage that you haven’t first of all put into it. And if you establish that marriage relationship, that eternal marriage relationship, then you’ll have something going for you. But just because you’re on the starting blocks and just because you’ve pushed off into a temple marriage does not guarantee, without any effort on your part or without the living of the commandments, that you’re going to finish the race. You have to persevere, and you have to cross the finish line. There are a lot of older people who can tell you that. Marriage can become, and it should become, more beautiful as time goes on, as you honor the covenants, as you honor each other, as you put your marriage together, as you seek to finish the race.

“Harry de Leyer was late to the auction on that snowy day in 1956, and all of the good horses had already been sold. The few that remained were old and spent and had been bought by a company that would salvage them.

"Harry, the riding master at a girls’ school in New York, was about to leave when one of these horses—an uncared-for, gray gelding with ugly-looking wounds on its legs—caught his eye. The animal still bore the marks that had been made by a heavy work harness, evidence to the hard life he had led. But something about him captured Harry’s attention, so he offered $80 for him.

"It was snowing when Harry’s children saw the horse for the first time, and because of the coat of snow on the horse’s back, the children named him “Snowman.”

"Harry took good care of the horse, which turned out to be a gentle and reliable friend—a horse the girls liked to ride because he was steady and didn’t startle like some of the others. In fact, Snowman made such rapid improvement that a neighbor purchased him for twice what Harry had originally paid.

"But Snowman kept disappearing from the neighbor’s pasture—sometimes ending up in adjoining potato fields, other times back at Harry’s. It appeared that the horse must have jumped over the fences between the properties, but that seemed impossible—Harry had never seen Snowman jump over anything much higher than a fallen log.

"But eventually, the neighbor’s patience came to an end, and he insisted Harry take back the horse.

"For years, Harry’s great dream had been to produce a champion jumping horse. He’d had moderate success in the past, but in order to compete at the highest levels, he knew he would have to buy a pedigreed horse that had been specifically bred to jump. And that kind of pedigree would cost far more than he could afford.

"Snowman was already getting old—he was eight when Harry had purchased him—and he had been badly treated. But, apparently, Snowman wanted to jump, so Harry decided to see what the horse could do.

"What Harry saw made him think that maybe his horse had a chance to compete. In 1958, Harry entered Snowman in his first competition. Snowman stood among the beautifully bred, champion horses, looking very much out of place. Other horse breeders called Snowman a “flea-bitten gray.”

"But a wonderful, unbelievable thing happened that day. Snowman won!

"Harry continued to enter Snowman in other competitions, and Snowman continued to win.

"Audiences cheered every time Snowman won an event. He became a symbol of how extraordinary an ordinary horse could be. He appeared on television. Stories and books were written about him.

"As Snowman continued to win, one buyer offered $100,000 for the old plow horse, but Harry would not sell. In 1958 and 1959, Snowman was named “Horse of the Year.” Eventually, the gray gelding—who had once been marked for sale to a low bidder—was inducted into the show jumping Hall of Fame.

"For many, Snowman was much more than a horse. He became an example of the hidden, untapped potential that lies within each of us.”

It was late on a Saturday night, and everyone in my family was tired after a long weekend. To make things worse, my dad was once again out of the country for his job. I was about to go to bed when I realized that my mom was cleaning! As she worked, she began to sing a song by the Beach Boys: “Help me, Rhonda; help, help me, Rhonda.” A bit puzzled, I asked my mom why she was singing that song. She explained that since no one else would help her clean our house, maybe Rhonda would.
I suddenly realized that I was being completely unfair to my tired and overworked mother. I dropped what I was doing and said, “Mom, what can I do?” She replied, “Well, if you could rinse and put the dishes in the dishwasher, I would really appreciate it.”
When I finished the dishes, I did a few other small jobs. By the time everything was done, it was about 11:00 p.m. My mom was sitting on the couch for a minute to get some energy back, so I walked over to her and asked if there was anything else I could do.
She shook her head. Then with a tired but grateful smile she said, “Thank you … Rhonda,” and gave me a hug. Though I had helped lift my mom’s burden that night, I knew that I had given her just an hour of my time, compared to the thousands she willingly gives to my family. It was one hour I wouldn’t have wanted to spend any other way.

Several years ago a boy was electrocuted while retrieving his brother’s kite which had become impaled on a tree. The young man had climbed a 25-foot metal ladder and accidentally grabbed a power line. He fell to the ground lifeless, a hole blasted through his leg where the electricity had escaped. Two young men, defying all of the concerns and pressures of society, ran to the body. They had not yet served missions, but were soon to receive the Melchizedek priesthood. They placed their hands upon the head of the boy, called the others who were not witnesses to the event to kneel around in prayer, and they uttered a blessing. The Spirit was called upon and their faith utilized. Other blessings were given I’m sure. Within a week he was attending school again, slightly scarred with pink tissue, but alive as a reminder of two young men’s courage. Those two young men are here tonight.

For many young people, the high school years can be difficult. The pressure to fit in with the crowd—coupled with school, sports, and the struggle to find an identity—can create situations that make it hard to live life in harmony with gospel standards. I was certainly no exception. There were many times when I questioned both my ability to live righteously and my strength to overcome temptation. I watched a close friend, who was a Church member, fall to temptation. I saw him continually make poor decisions until he dropped out of school and began to refuse my aid and advice. As I saw most of my friends surrender themselves to Satan’s will, and as I felt a separation growing between us, I feared I would be the next to fall.

I began to realize, however, that whenever I was faced with a difficult decision, I had already made the choice. I knew what was right, and I had already decided that I was going to serve a mission.

Ever since I was young, I have been eagerly looking forward to serving a mission, and I don’t want to do anything to put that in jeopardy. This desire and goal to serve has been a tremendous blessing in my life. I think it has truly separated me from my friends in high school. This sense of purpose has helped me in all of my decisions. I have not even served a full-time mission yet, but already I can feel the blessings that I am receiving because of my choices.

My neighbor came across the street and said, “Hey, guess what we’re doing for youth conference? We get to build two barns.”
I grunted. “Two barns? Thrill city. Whoever came up with that dumb idea? Youth conferences are supposed to be fun.”
“We’ll have fun working.”
“Get real,” I told him. “I have a hard time cleaning my room.”
Maybe the adults thought I was Laman or Lemuel at the next stake dance committee meeting. I asked them, “Whatever happened to white river rafting for youth conference? Do you really expect us to get up at 5:00 A.M. on the first three days of our summer vacation?” One of the girls on the committee decided she wouldn’t go as she’d wreck her fingernails. She threatened to organize something for her own ward. None of our complaining did any good. The stake youth leaders stuck to their plan.
A fierce hailstorm pelted Duvall, Washington, the night before the conference. “Bummer, now they’ll have to cancel our exciting barn building extravaganza,” I said sarcastically.
Miraculously, the weather cleared, and I found myself standing with 180 kids in carpenter aprons, pockets full of nails and wearing a T-shirt that read, “You Love Who You Serve.”
We were given the choice of helping to build a barn/shed or a barn/house. I picked the barn/shed. It sounded easier. We banged nails. It wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t awful. Ward Roney, the to-be-owner of the barn/shed was a sturdy man, weathered by long hours on the tractor. He told me his favorite sound was the belch a cow makes when she’s in a warm shed eating hay. His old shed blew down in a bad storm, and the insurance wouldn’t pay to replace it. He was either brave or foolish to let a bunch of teenagers build his shed. Surely he realized we’d never finish the huge thing. If we could do it, one observer noted, it’d be an Amish barn raising by Mormons for Catholics.
Brother Beecham, the builder in charge of our shed, held the American Homes world record for the fastest home framed. The old record stood at 36 hours, and Beecham’s crew accomplished it in four. I got a kick out of watching him stroll across thin high timbers like they were sidewalks. With the construction boom in Seattle, I knew Brother Beecham was passing up a lot of money to teach us.
Normally, when I work I look at my watch every five minutes. Before I knew it, the walls were up, and we were ready for a crane to position the giant trusses of the roof. But there was no crane. Instead of machine power, we’d use muscle power, and some of the muscles were mine. The ground crew strained to position one truss. Then three of us on the roof pulled up the point with a rope as the ground crew hoisted. We cheered when the truss was securely nailed into place. What a team. Up there, 30 feet off the ground, a great sense of brotherhood developed between the “roof crew.” It was great up there. It was fun. I really developed a closeness to all of them as we worked and sweat and hammered our thumbs hour after hour.
The first day some of the girls were afraid to hit the nails on the head. By the second day they were mean. They’d developed aim and aggression in their hammering. Unfortunately, the girls used their new skills on the boys at the pie eating contest, which turned into a pie throwing war.
Meanwhile the people at the barn/house site made decent progress on the first floor. They were laboring for an LDS family of eight who’d used their savings to drill a well that turned out to be dry. The Dazey family was packed into a small trailer. They’d obtained a small, portable sawmill and cut logs into lumber. Building their barn/house was a dream come true. One of my friends who worked on the site said, “We were digging a ditch for the septic system. After a few hours, it got to where I started taking pride in the ditch and I thought the straight sides were kind of pretty. I’ve never felt that way about a ditch before.”

I hope a personal example will help you as you do the spiritually invigorating work to learn for yourself what it means to be endowed with God’s power.
One day I received a text message from my daughter-in-law Amy: “Say a prayer for Dottie.”
My granddaughter Dottie hadn’t slept the night before. Amy had been up all night with her and said that Dottie was feverish. Amy gave her some medicine, but Dottie was still hot and restless. And my son Connor was traveling for work and not scheduled to be home for another two days.
When morning finally arrived, Amy found Dottie’s lips blue. Her hands were likewise blue and cold to the touch. Amy immediately had the impression, “Get Dottie to the pediatrician.” She heeded that prompting, called the pediatrician’s office, and was assured they would get Dottie right in.
Fortunately, the pediatrician’s office is across the street from my mom’s house. Amy felt impressed to drive by my mom’s house. My mother was working in her yard and happy to take Dottie’s four-year-old sister, Goldie, while Amy took Dottie to the pediatrician. It was an answer to Amy’s concern about needing to keep track of Goldie and attend to Dottie at the same time.
The pediatrician found that Dottie had pneumonia, likely from aspirating some bath water a few days earlier. Dottie was treated with antibiotics and spent the rest of the day in her mother’s arms, elevated to open her airways and ease her breathing.
I offered to pick up some dinner on my way home. And Amy let me, for which I was grateful. I wondered how Amy had managed after a sleepless night, the stress of having a sick toddler, and the need to attend to Goldie.
I walked in their home with the sack of take-out food and found Amy and the girls peaceful. There was a spring in Amy’s step and light in her countenance. She was calm, even facing another night alone with sick Dottie. She wasn’t afraid. She was confident. It was a peace that defied understanding. I just wanted to sit in the moment and soak it in.
Amy strives to keep her covenants with God and is blessed by His strengthening power. The Spirit had prompted her to take the actions she did to care for Dottie. And the Lord’s power enhanced her capacity to address her family’s needs in patience and love and with a calm reassurance that all would be well.

Elder Hunter related an experience he had during the time he served as president of the Genealogical Society: “I went to see President McKay one day after a computer representative told me that his company had developed a cylinder that would hold a billion bits of information. I was excited! This was a break-through for genealogical record keeping. As I told President McKay about it, I said, ‘Isn’t that marvelous?’ He replied, ‘What’s marvelous about that? You haven’t had use for it before, have you?’ I replied, ‘No, we are just at that point now.’ And he said, ‘Well, that’s the reason the Lord has provided it now.’”

A few years ago, I was struggling to feel the Spirit in my life. I wondered how Heavenly Father expected me to overcome challenges when I felt weak and insecure. I had so many doubts about my capacity to handle life.
I wondered if I just didn’t have it in me to do hard things.
One day when I was feeling lost, I traveled until I reached a quiet place where I could see the ocean and hear the birds singing. It was a place of solace—the perfect place to talk to Heavenly Father.
I poured out my heart in prayer, asking why I had to go through so many difficulties. I told Him I thought life was too hard and that I couldn’t keep going on my own. I told Him I didn’t know how I could handle the hard parts of life.
Suddenly, in that moment of vulnerability and desperation, I felt the warmth of the Spirit enveloping me—a gentle reassurance that I was not alone, that I’m never alone. And words of love and comfort entered my mind, reminding me of my divine identity, my potential, and my ability to do hard things with Jesus Christ.
After months of feeling alone and uncertain, I felt heavenly reassurance that I am capable—that I am a beloved daughter of Heavenly Father with a purpose. I’m endowed with spiritual gifts, and I’m bound to Him, the most loving and powerful being in the universe, because of my covenants. He reassured me that I can and am meant to face everything in life with the Savior on my side.
It wasn’t easy, but I took a leap of faith and decided to face things in life with reliance on Jesus Christ. I have been able to embrace so many opportunities and accomplish so much more than I ever thought I could.
I continue to face obstacles and challenges, and sometimes I feel that fear creeping in again, but when I reach for my faith in the Savior, I know that “perfect love casteth out fear” (1 John 4:18).