Gospel Story Finder

Frequently the need of the widow is not one of food or shelter but of feeling a part of ongoing events. Elder H. Bryan Richards of the Seventy once brought to my office a sweet widow whose husband had passed away during a full-time mission they were serving. Elder Richards explained that her financial resources were adequate and that she desired to contribute to the Church’s General Missionary Fund the proceeds of two insurance policies on the life of her departed husband. I could not restrain my tears when she meekly advised me, “This is what I wish to do. It is what my missionary-minded husband would like.”

The gift was received and entered as a most substantial donation to missionary service. I saw the receipt made in her name, but I believe in my heart it was also recorded in heaven. I invited her and Elder Richards to follow me to the unoccupied First Presidency council room in the Church Administration Building. The room is beautiful and peaceful. I asked this sweet widow to sit in the chair usually occupied by our Church President. I felt he would not mind, for I knew his heart.

As she sat ever so humbly in the large leather chair, she gripped each armrest with a hand and declared, “This is one of the happiest days of my life.” It was also such for Elder Richards and for me.

I never travel to work along busy Seventh East in Salt Lake City but what I see in my mind’s eye a thoughtful daughter, afflicted with arthritis and carrying in her hand a plate of warm food to her aged mother who lived across the busy thoroughfare. She has now gone home to that mother who preceded her in passing. But her lesson was not lost on her daughters, who delight their widowed father by cleaning his house each week, inviting him to dinners in their homes, and sharing with him the laughter of good times together, leaving in that widower’s heart a prayer of gratitude for his children, the light of his life. Fathers experience loneliness as well as mothers.

When Hurricane Irma came through my town in Georgia, it did some damage. We were out of school for two days, and we had no power. Then we started hearing about the destruction in Florida. So many homes were flooded and damaged by winds. Families lost many of their belongings. My family started making plans to go down with the Mormon Helping Hands teams for the weekend relief efforts. I was sad that I wasn’t old enough to go help.
Then a teacher at my elementary school heard that my siblings were going down to help. She offered to send school supplies. I was so excited when I heard about this because now I had a way to serve. I started collecting backpacks. With the help of my Primary friends, we collected and put together 63 backpacks. We filled them with school supplies to give to children impacted by the hurricane. I learned that you are never too young to serve. If you have a desire to help others, Heavenly Father will provide a way.

Géoffroy walked out of class with his friend Théodore. Both boys were 16, and they lived in Benin, a country in Africa. They were going to a new school to learn about farming. It was their first time living away from their families. They had to study and work for long hours every day.
Géoffroy pulled his backpack up on his shoulder. “I think I might drop out. These classes are so hard.”
“No!” Théodore said. “Don’t drop out. You need to rely on God. If you do, you will succeed.”
Théodore’s words stayed with Géoffroy for the rest of the day. Géoffroy had been raised as a Christian, but he had never tried to rely on God. He knelt on the floor but didn’t start to pray yet. He was nervous. But if he didn’t get help from somewhere, he would never be able to pass his classes. Slowly Géoffroy bowed his head.
“Father in Heaven,” he said, “please show me how to rely on you. Will you please help me pass my classes? I promise to serve you the best I can for the rest of my life.”
From that time on, Géoffroy felt braver and more determined. Classes were still difficult, but he knew that God was willing to help him if he did his part. Géoffroy put aside his fears and worked hard.
He did well in school. Eighteen months later, he was finally ready to graduate. He had done it!

While studying at Brigham Young University as a young, single returned missionary, I attended a priesthood session of general conference in the Tabernacle on Temple Square. President Ezra Taft Benson, then-President of the Church, urged every returned missionary to take marriage seriously and make it a top priority in his life. After the session, I knew I had been called to repentance and needed to act on the prophet’s counsel.
Thus, I decided to go to my home country, Brazil, to find a wife. Before leaving for Brazil on a two-month internship, I called my mom and some friends on the phone and came up with a list of about 10 young women—each of them a potential wife.
While in Brazil, after much pondering and prayer, I met, dated, got engaged to, and set a date to marry one of the young women on the list. It was not record-breaking time for students in Provo, Utah, to date and become engaged, but it was fast by Brazil standards.
A few months later, I married Elaine. She is the love of my life and a choice blessing.
I am not suggesting that everyone should make a similar list, but I am suggesting—maybe more than suggesting—that we always act when our living prophets speak.

I came upon this campus in the early '70s with much persuasion by loving parents who felt their son was going wayward and heading towards the wrong direction. I wasn't overly excited about coming, but I told my parents I would to please them. There wasn't much time to apply since school was starting in a few weeks. In retrospect, I was very blessed to even get into CCH. I already had three siblings attending this university and I would be the fourth child to enter. However, I did have a slight problem, my hair was too long. It was by today's standards very unacceptable. My brother, Jay, took the buzzer gave me a decent haircut.

On the first day of registration, all students have to go through a standards line where our hair and clothes were checked by a university representative. I don't think today we have a standards check during registration, but in our days the dress and grooming standards were enforced on the first day of registration. When this school staff rep took a look at my hair which had already been cut, he told me it was too long that I'd have to cut it to pass registration. I gave him a long sad story of what it took for me to get here and how I just cut my hair and it was this long. Basically I asked him to give me a break. He shook his head and told me, "I'm so sorry, brother, cut it or no school." My brother took the buzzer again and eventually I made it through registration. I knew then, that someone was about to make some major changes.

It all started with the surprise gift Dad brought home to his three daughters. Peering inside a chirping cardboard box, we girls squealed with delight. Baby ducklings! We couldn’t wait to reach in and grab one. We jostled Dad so much, he almost dropped the box.
“Take it easy, girls!” he chuckled. “There’s one for each of you!”
I was surprised at how tiny that little duckling felt in my hand. In my gentle clasp, its warm body felt like the size of a quarter, and it weighed about as much too.
“Wow, it’s so light!” I exclaimed. “No wonder baby ducks can float!”
Dad laughed again as he walked off to join Mom in the kitchen. Dad was big on surprises, especially the ones that made his family smile. That’s when I remembered the wading pool. It would be the perfect home for our new ducks.
“Nora, get that old plastic pool out of the garage,” I ordered my sister.
With our backyard hose pumping clear, cool water into the pool, we began to examine our ducks and set about to name them. Mine had a little speck of brown on his rounded bill and ridiculously giant webbed feet.
Suddenly I remembered my friends. They would laugh at how enthusiastic I was over these new pets. Then I realized my friends wouldn’t be by for the next few days. Their parents had given them permission to go camping in the nearby mountains. Bike riding on an old dirt trail, choosing a campsite, pitching a tent. They’d have a ton of fun and be home the next day, laughing and talking about their campout. My mom hadn’t given me permission. She said I was too young!
With the wading pool full, we girls gathered around, greatly anticipating this moment. We set our flapping, quacking birds on the water and ZOOM, right to the bottom. All three sank!
We plunged our hands into the pool and rescued the poor choking birds. What had gone wrong? We weren’t asking them to do something difficult, like swim. All they had to do was float. Isn’t that easy for a duck?
“What happened?” my sister wondered.
“Maybe we surprised them!”
We all agreed it was like babies when they learn how to walk. They just have to fall sometimes. We agreed to give it another try.
“One, two, three, go!”
Plunk! Plunk! Plunk! straight down like balls of lead.
Fortunately for the ducklings, none of us had the heart to follow through on our theory that they just needed practice. When Nora suggested we use the blow dryer on their feathers, we all scrambled into the house. Gently, my two sisters aired out the poor birds with my pink blow dryer while I looked up the phone number from the name on the cardboard box.
“Hello, sir? We’re the ones that just bought—well, our dad just bought—three little ducklings. Yes, sir. Well, there is a problem with our ducks. You see, we prefer our ducks to float.”
What this man had to say was an eye-opener for me. I didn’t realize I had learned quite so much until I heard myself explain it to Nora and Suzy: “You see, the downy feathers do not repel water. They soak it right up. We have to wait another week or two for their bodies to make the waxy oil that will waterproof their feathers.”
“But that’s not true,” Nora argued. “I’ve seen baby ducks follow their mother on the river. They were just a few days old.”
“The man explained that to me. When ducks are born, the mother wraps her wings around the babies to keep them warm. The oil from the mother’s wings rubs off onto her babies. With their mother, they can stay afloat. On their own, they need to get a little older before they’re safe in the water.”
That’s when my brain trailed off to the mountains somewhere, thinking about my friends in their tent. Maybe Mom just wanted to keep me under her wings for a little while longer. I stroked my duckling’s tiny back with one finger.
“We’ll keep you out of the pool for now, little one,” I promised him. Then, as an afterthought, I added, “Do you miss your mom?”

A recent issue of the Church News carried the story of a group of farmers in a small Idaho community. May I read briefly from that account?
“It is 6 a.m. in late October, and frost already hangs in the air over the sugar beet fields of Rupert, Idaho.
“The long arms of the ‘beeters’ stretch out over twelve rows, slicing the tops off sugar beets. Behind them, the harvesters thrust their steel fingers into the soil and scoop up the beets, pulling them up toward a belt and into a waiting truck.
“… This is the Rupert Idaho Welfare Farm, and those who are working here today are volunteers. … At times more than 60 machines [are] working in harmony together— … all owned by local farmers.”
The work goes on throughout the day.
“[At] 7 p.m. … the sun has set, leaving the land dark and cold once again. The farmers head home, exhausted and happy.
“They have finished well another day.
“They have harvested the Lord’s sugar beets” (Neil K. Newell, “A Harvest in Idaho,” Church News, Mar. 20, 2004, 16).
Such remarkable volunteer service goes on constantly to assure supplies for the storehouses of the Lord.

On 27 June 1844 Elder Taylor, Elder Willard Richards, also of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, the Prophet Joseph Smith, and the Prophet’s brother Hyrum were in Carthage Jail awaiting word from the governor. While the four friends waited in prison, Elder Taylor sang the hymn “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief.” The mood was somber and melancholy. “Shortly Hyrum asked him to sing the song again, to which he replied:
“‘Brother Hyrum, I do not feel like singing.’
“‘Oh, never mind; commence singing and you will get the spirit of it.’
“Soon after finishing the song the second time, as he was sitting at one of the front windows of the jail, he saw a number of men, with painted faces. … The mob reaching the landing in front of the door, and thinking it was locked, fired a shot through the key hole. Hyrum and Doctor Richards sprang back, when instantly another ball crashed through the panel of the door and struck Hyrum in the face; at the same instant a ball … entered his back, and he fell exclaiming, ‘I am a dead man!’ …
“… Elder Taylor took his place next [to] the door, and with a heavy walking stick … parried the guns as they were thrust through the doorway and discharged. …
“… Streams of fire as thick as a man’s arm belched forth from the ever increasing number of guns in the door-way, yet calm, energetic and determined, Elder Taylor beat down the muzzles of those murderous guns.
“‘That’s right, Brother Taylor, parry them off as well as you can,’ said Joseph, as he stood behind him.”
But as the gunfire continued and more mobbers pushed their way up the stairs, Elder Taylor sprang for the open window.
“As [Elder Taylor] was in the act of leaping from the window, a ball fired from the door-way struck him about midway of his left thigh. He fell helpless on the window sill and would have dropped on the outside of the jail—when another shot from the outside, striking the watch in his vest pocket, threw him back into the room. … He drew himself as rapidly as possible in his crippled condition under the bedstead that stood near the window.
“While on his way three other bullets struck him; one a little below the left knee—it was never extracted; another tore away the flesh to the size of a man’s hand from his left hip and spattered the wall with blood and the mangled fragments; another entered the forepart of his left arm, a little above the wrist, and, passing down by the joint, lodged in the palm of his left hand.”
While he lay in pain, he heard the mob shout that the Prophet had leaped from the window.
“Dr. Richards … confirmed his worst fears—the Prophet was dead!
“‘I felt,’ says Elder Taylor, ‘a dull, lonely, sickening sensation at the news.’”12
Several days later, Elder Taylor discovered that one ball of shot, aimed at his heart, had smashed into the crystal of his pocket watch, preventing him from falling from the jail window. He said, “I felt that the Lord had preserved me by a special act of mercy; that my time had not yet come, and that I had still a work to perform upon the earth.”13

I had always seen God’s love when reading the Bible, but I could never find any church that taught it the way I understood it. When the missionaries taught me about the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ, I felt so vindicated and a peace like I had never felt before. Finding the restored gospel of Jesus Christ was a long-awaited answer to my prayers to better understand God’s love for me.
God sent two angels in the form of two sister missionaries, Sister Hanah Otera Kershw (USA) and Sister Shelda Wandera (Kenya). They helped me understand my Heavenly Father’s love for me and to see myself as His cherished daughter with a divine identity.
When this truth sank deep into my heart, I was ready to make an everlasting covenant with Him. I got baptised on 17 March 2019. My love for God grew. I felt my Heavenly Father’s love through the missionaries.
I realised that everyone’s relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ is personal and unique. The restored gospel led me to have a desire to learn more about Them and Their character traits. I’ve learned that my Heavenly Father is kind and loving. He loves me completely and He knows me by my name and who I can become through faith in Him. I learned of the Saviour and of His willingness to do the will of the Father. Pondering His love and willingness to give up His life for me deepened my faith, my gratitude, and my own willingness to follow Him.
I know that as I show gratitude for all that Heavenly Father has done for me, it is one great way to allow Him to do more. Counting my blessings brings me joy and helps me to know how much Heavenly Father loves me. I’m grateful for my bishop, Rodgers Makosa, for his commitment to serve God. Not only did he teach me in word and example how to be a righteous disciple of Jesus Christ, but he also helped in giving me a vision of what I can become and helped me prepare for a mission and for the temple. I felt very humbled to receive my call in 2021 to serve as full-time missionary in the Ghana Accra West Mission.
This calling is a blessing to me, and it gives me more joy to participate in the work of salvation for all of God’s children and to share to others how the restored gospel of Jesus Christ has blessed my life. I know that when I read the Book of Mormon and pray, it helps me learn about who I am and who Heavenly Father wants me to become.
Sharing the restored gospel of Jesus Christ with others here on my mission has helped me to hear Him and has prepared me to be part of this great work and to help gather Israel as the Lord promised. Joseph Smith’s First Vision is evidence that God the Father and the Son Jesus Christ knows each and every one of us by name. When God the Father addressed and called Joseph Smith by name saying, “This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him” (Joseph Smith—History 1:17).
Oh, how grateful I am for the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.

Snow had fallen all day, covering everything. Raybell and Linda had come out of their Primary class into the front foyer where everybody’s coats and boots were. “Look at Judy’s raggedy old brown boots,” Linda had said. “Judy is so mean. She’s always saying something rude, even to the teacher. And I know she stole my new pen that I got for my birthday.”
“How do you know?” Raybell asked.
“I saw her with it. I’m pretty sure it was mine.”
“I wonder if she stole my candy bar out of my desk too,” Raybell said.
“You know what we could do?” Linda whispered. “We could put snow in her boots.”
Before Raybell could say anything, Linda grabbed them and started out the door. Raybell went after her, and together they filled the toes of Judy’s boots with snow and put them back in place before Judy came out of her class.
When Judy came into the foyer, Raybell and Linda stood nearby and watched her. Judy pulled on one boot and quickly pulled her foot out again. Linda giggled a little, but Judy didn’t seem to hear. She looked into her boot and frowned. The look in Judy’s eyes made Raybell feel a little sick inside. Judy picked up her boots and went outside. As she passed Raybell and Linda, she looked defiantly into their faces. She emptied her boots, pulled each one on, and trudged across the snowy field to her house. Raybell and Linda stood on the church steps watching her and then went home without saying much.

Delwyn and Jill Jensen, who served a military relations mission in Germany, tell how a simple interaction with a military member helped her to find again—and then move forward along—the covenant path.
When she joined the air force, this young woman stopped attending church. “But when we reached out to her with a text, she responded right away,” Sister Jensen says. She began attending church regularly, helping with service projects and sharing her testimony of Jesus Christ.
As the Jensens worked with her, they found she was reluctant to meet with the bishop. But with their love and gentle encouragement, she finally made and kept an appointment. “Afterward, she reported it was one of the most positive experiences of her life,” Elder Jensen said, “and the bishop gave us a similar report.”
The Jensens continued to support her in preparing to go to the temple and in receiving a patriarchal blessing.

The 49 Montgomery Alabama Stake youths piled out of their vehicles. Rakes, shovels, and axes were unloaded from auto trunks as they began to tackle the weeds, leaves, and debris around the old Magnolia chapel. They were continuing a tradition of service for the Church that stretches back nearly 80 years to the night of Saturday, May 8, 1897, when Henry McCoy and Grover Surginer passed a group of riders hurrying through the dark, wooded lane. The men’s faces were covered, which caused the pair to wonder.
“I recognized one of the horses, though. It belongs to John Garrett,” one of them commented as they continued to the bowery erected for the conference sessions being held in Magnolia.
When the men got to the crossroads where the bowery was located, they discovered that the seats, made of planks and sawed blocks, had been heaped together and ignited. The two men quickly put out the blaze.
The next day the members met again in conference despite the blackened ends of the seats. For them, persecution was nothing new. The missionaries had been tarred and feathered before and had eggs thrown at them. Converts reaped the ire of relatives and neighbors alike, but they didn’t quit. Service to the Church has continued into modern times.
Some of the youths were directed to begin digging around a stubborn four-foot stump. It wasn’t long before thick roots had to be chopped through with the axes as the young people laboriously dug deeper in their attempt to remove the old stump. It had been a stately tree when the Church took hold in that part of the state.
The tree had been young when Olivia Tucker McCoy joined the Church. In her diary she wrote: “We were baptized Oct. 3, 1897. My husband’s father had given him the place he settled on with the understanding that he would help him work and pay for that place and the one his father bought, but as it was his father’s he never got the deed. So, after we joined the Mormons his father told him he would have to move.”
Their little daughter had been burned in a fire in December, and they asked for time before moving the child but were ordered out. On January 3, 1898, “We put her in the wagon on a bed, moved to what they called the Coates place, and rented the same from Jim Smyly.
“The Christmas of 1898 I spent with my sister, a Mrs. Guinn, the one I lived with when I was married. But the folks didn’t seem just the same. You see, I had joined the Mormons and I was reminded of it.”
Nor did the early Saints forget it either. In 1913, with the aid of Elder Sellers from Vernal, Utah, and Elder Joseph E. Ward from Parowan, Utah, the Magnolia chapel was built. It stands now as the oldest LDS chapel in Alabama.
Before construction began, a mob gathered to drive the elders out. Mrs. Willie Autrey, a nonmember, stepped out with her gun and turned the mob away. So the Magnolia chapel was built and has stood through the years as a monument to the dedication of area Saints, early and modern.
The youths raked the weeds and leaves from the Church’s cemetery. The area around the building began to look neater, although the stump was not yet removed. The diggers were making progress when they stopped briefly for lunch.
Despite the persecution in the early days, a number of families joined the Church. Later many moved west—the Martins, Sealeys, Cranfords, Torberts, and others—leaving only a few to use the chapel and the adjoining cemetery.
Today, the old LDS chapel in Magnolia is used for socials only. A newer, larger building stands next door and is used by the 50 members of the Magnolia Branch.
The young people returned to work. The ancient, worn-out fence was pulled down, the rotted wood piled for a bonfire. That afternoon they held a testimony meeting, followed by a hot dog and marshmallow roast, which concluded at 7:00 P.M.
Perhaps as they worked or relaxed, they recalled some of the stories told about the chapel, including the time it caught fire during a conference in 1937. The blaze was caused by a defective flue to the pot-bellied stove. A bucket brigade was formed, and water drawn from the well was passed up to Heber B. Martin, who doused the burning wood.
The chapel has been the scene of a number of talks by various Church authorities, including mission president Charles A. Callis, who presided over the Southern States Mission for about a quarter of a century and later became a General Authority.
Sometimes as many as 30 missionaries would be in attendance at the conferences in Magnolia. Today, conference is held in the Montgomery stake center 100 miles east of Magnolia, but the small chapel, while no longer in official use, still stands as a reminder of the heritage of the Alabama Saints.

When our second son, Dave, was 12 years old, he was home alone one afternoon when the telephone rang. It was one of the Laurels in our ward who was calling. Her car had a flat tire and she had been unable to find anyone to help her fix it, so she called to see if my wife, who was president of the Young Women of the ward, could help her. Dave said, “I’m home alone, but I can ride my bike and help you change the tire.” When he hung up the phone, he remembered he hadn’t asked her where she was. He went into his bedroom, knelt down, and asked the Lord to take him to this girl. Then he went out, climbed on his bicycle, and rode directly to where she was.

Some time ago a couple came to my office with very heavy hearts. They had a priest-age son who was an Eagle Scout, a Duty to God Award winner, a good student who had been conscientious in school and on his part-time job. Then one night he just walked away from home and didn’t return. He had been gone for several weeks, and they were heartsick.
I asked them if they had pleaded with the Lord to know where their son was. They assured me they had. “Have you pleaded with all your strength?” “Yes, we have.” “Have you pleaded with every particle of your being?” “Well,” they said, “maybe not every particle.” I said, “You go home and pray again—this time with every particle of energy and strength of your being.” They said they would.
That afternoon the couple knelt down and pleaded with the Lord. At six o’clock the phone rang. It was their son, calling from Banff, Alberta, Canada. After talking to him for a few minutes and finding that he was safe and in no danger, they asked why he had called at that particular time. He replied, “The bishop this evening had the strongest impression to have me call home. He came over to my apartment and said he would not leave until I called home.”
We need to understand that some things demand pleading with the Lord. When we come to know that without his help we cannot possibly accomplish our desires, then we must learn to plead to whatever extent necessary.
Great blessings are wrought through prayer. The God of heaven would not expect us to pray to him if he had no intention of answering our prayers.
One of the choicest experiences of my life was to kneel in prayer in the office of President Spencer W. Kimball. I felt President Kimball’s overpowering love for our Father in Heaven as we knelt together. He taught us much about prayer through his example. We need to learn that we should pray as though everything depended upon God, and then work as though everything depended upon us. When we follow through on our part of the agreement with our Heavenly Father, answers always come. May we have gratitude to God, who is always available to answer a simple prayer of a believer.

When I was 11 years old, I learned that my Boy Scout troop would be going on an 11-day, 50-mile backpacking trip to Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico. I was four feet, eight inches tall and 80 pounds. My 40-pound pack was half my body weight. And I was two years younger than all the other boys in our troop. I was intimidated and didn’t want to be the weakest link in the group.
To prepare, my dad and I spent many early mornings at the local high school climbing bleachers and walking around the track. To practice hiking with extra weight, I would load my school backpack with every book I owned. So probably a whopping two or three books.
When we got to the Philmont base camp, I saw the foothills and mesas that led to the backcountry, and I got so pumped. All my work was about to pay off. But my initial excitement was quickly punched in the gut. The New Mexico monsoon storms had us hiking in the rain nearly every day. On the second day I came down with hypothermia after getting caught in a rain and hailstorm. By the third day, the hip strap on my backpack had bruised and rubbed my hips raw. My discount hiking boots that I got from the Payless shoe store, which went out of business in 2019, probably for making substandard quality shoes, left my feet with several blisters. On day four, we hiked nearly nine miles and climbed up what seemed like 2,000 vertical feet to a camp called Lookout Meadow. My legs were spent beyond what I thought possible.
On the seventh day, bruised, tired and sore, we camped at the bottom of Mt. Philips, the second tallest peak in the scout ranch, at 11,700 ft. The next day we were expected to climb the peak with full packs. To my little eyes, this mountain was insurmountable and well beyond my ability. Doubt and fear tempted me to quit that very night. I’m not exactly sure how I got to sleep, but it was a tender mercy.
The next morning, feeling a bit more rested, we got up and hit the trail before sunrise. Guided by the light of our mini mag flashlights, we hiked more switchbacks than I could count. Going back and forth had me dizzy and demoralized. But the sun eventually rose, and I was thankful for the warmth and energy it brought. We climbed to what I thought was the top of the mountain only to realize that it was a false summit and we had to keep climbing. This happened more than once. After hours of climbing, we crested the final ridge and stepped onto the real summit. The view took my breath away, and it wasn’t just from the thin air. I could see streams meandering through the valleys below with mountains all around climbing above the tree line. The world seemed to go on forever.
And it was at that point that I felt all the work was worth it.
However, as good as the view was, it was the entirety of the experience that has meant the most to me in these last 35 years. It was real adventure. Unfortunately, I didn’t come home any taller, but I did come home stronger [and] with the desire to climb taller mountains and tackle bigger challenges.

I just recently moved here from the Philippines, and it has been very hard to be away from my family, friends, and loved ones. Many times I feel so alone. While I was waiting for my New Era subscription to be processed, I would borrrow the New Era from the ward library. The first magazine to arrive was the April 1994 issue. It gave me so much inspiration, especially when I opened the Mormonad poster and saw the words that went straight into my heart: “You Are Never Alone.” Every single article in that issue just made me realize how much I feel my Savior’s love and the appreciation I have for the Atonement in my life. Thanks for that wonderful issue.
Evelyn T. BautistaSt. Louis, Missouri

A defining moment of Elder Von G. Keetch’s life came as he was completing a judicial clerkship with Chief Justice Warren E. Burger and Justice Antonin Scalia of the United States Supreme Court and preparing to enter full-time law practice.
He could have worked in any city in the United States for a multitude of big law firms. Instead, he and his wife, Bernice Pymm Keetch, prayed for inspiration to know what they should do. After a period of searching, the couple returned to Salt Lake City, Utah, where he went to work for the law firm of Kirton McConkie.
At the time, Elder Keetch thought he might be sacrificing his ability to work on cutting-edge legal cases in order to be near family. Instead, as the chief outside legal counsel for the Church, Elder Keetch argued constitutional issues and precedent-setting cases on religious liberty. He has represented almost every major religious denomination in the country. “I have loved being able to work for such a great client and being able to work on such great issues,” he said.

“Tillman dribbles downcourt. He’s double-teamed by O’Neal and Hardaway. Wow! Somehow he got free. Slam dunk! The crowd is going wild. Tillman comes up with a steal. He stops behind the three-point line. It’s good! Robert Tillman has single-handedly brought his team …”
“What do you think, Robert?”
“Uh, obey the commandments.”
“Good. That is one thing you can do. Now, Sylvia, what else can you … ”
Hah. Sunday School is the same every week. Every answer is “obey the commandments,” or “read the scriptures,” or “pray.” All I have to do is use one of those answers. No listening required. I’d rather be watching basketball anyway. Someday I’ll be playing professional basketball. Boy, I’ve got to practice more. But Mom wouldn’t let me play on Sunday anyway. I don’t know why she won’t let me. I go to church, so why can’t I have the rest of the day off …
“Robert, do you have any ideas?”
“Obey the commandments.”
“That’s what Jerry said.”
“Oh, I meant read the scriptures.”
“Very good.”
Man, this is so easy. The answers are so simple. I don’t need this. What I need is a math tutor so I don’t fail math. If I fail math, I won’t be eligible to play basketball. I have to play. If I don’t, it’ll rule out my chances of getting a scholarship. Without that, I can say good-bye to the pros. I thought the Holy Ghost was supposed to help me. And I need help with my homework. What have I done wrong? What am I supposed to do to get help from Heavenly Father? I don’t do anything wrong. I don’t drink or smoke. I don’t even have a girlfriend. I don’t swear. I wish someone would just tell me what I am supposed …
“Brother Tillman. Please wake up and tell us what we can do to stay close to our Heavenly Father.”
“Oh, sorry. How about pray?”
“Very good, Robert.”
Pray. That’s the answer to almost all the questions in this class. I wish math was as easy as this class. Sunday School is so easy, and I know all the answers. Pray. Obey the commandments. Read the scriptures. It’s easy. If I do all of those things, my problems will disappear. That means if I do all those things, I will get help with my math. Well, it hasn’t worked so far. I read the scriptures. Just today in priesthood, I read a scripture. President Hunter said to read the scriptures every day. Well, I don’t read every day, but … I guess I don’t read much at all. I have homework, basketball, my friends.
I do everything else. I pray. At least I used to say my prayers every night. Sometimes when I stay up doing homework, I’m too tired to kneel down. In the morning, I don’t have time. I’d be late for school if I took time to say my prayers all the time. I’m sure Heavenly Father wouldn’t want to hear prayers from me when I’m tired. Well, maybe he would.
I do keep all the commandments. I don’t kill, I don’t steal, and I don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. I keep the Sabbath day holy. Most of the time. Well, I suppose I do have some work to do there …
“What would you say, Sylvia?”
“Listen to the Holy Ghost.”
“That’s right.”
That makes sense. The answers to the questions are easy to say in class. They’re just words there. It’s life where it gets more difficult. There, you can’t just say the words. You have to put in the effort too. I guess I’ve never really thought about it that way before. I definitely need Heavenly Father’s help. I better get to work.

When President Nelson spoke about using the correct name of the Church in the October 2018 general conference, his message was very clear to me: “It is the command of the Lord. …
“… To remove the Lord’s name from the Lord’s Church is a major victory for Satan” (“The Correct Name of the Church,” Liahona, Nov. 2018, 87, 88).
I realized that I needed to rethink how I approached my conversations with those around me, including certain clients at my work who had gotten used to calling me a “Mormon” and a member of the “Mormon Church.”
Committed to using the Church’s full name, I waited for the next opportunity to claim my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Sure enough, that opportunity came, again in a business context. “You Mormons are such kind people,” a potential client told me. “Well, thank you,” I answered. “As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we believe we’re all brothers and sisters.” Then the conversation continued with him and everyone else talking about the kindness of “Mormons.”
Although I had done my part in saying the full name of the Church, I still felt something was off. My friends and associates still viewed me as part of the “Mormon Church” and not necessarily as a follower of Christ, let alone as a member of Christ’s restored Church.
Over the next several interactions about my faith, I found myself beat back because of the awkwardness of saying the full, lengthy name of the Church multiple times in the same conversation. Everyone I spoke to seemed to give me odd expressions. And the conversation still always focused on “Mormons.”
I tried to make my interactions feel somewhat more natural. But this turned out to be much more difficult than I expected, particularly with individuals I didn’t want to offend. I didn’t want to be sheepish or complacent about living my faith, but I also didn’t want to come across as harsh, since many of these people had previously called me “Mormon,” with me accepting it. I also heard many members of the Church still calling themselves and other members of the Church “Mormons” at various meetings and other contexts.
I found myself asking whether using the full name of the Church was really that important in the grand scheme of things. The “Mormon” brand, after all, is quite positive in the minds of many people—being a “Mormon” had often been an asset to me. But in revisiting President Nelson’s talk, I was impressed that this really is that important, even if it did cause some awkwardness in conversation. So I recommitted myself.
The next time I had to use the Church’s full name, I was visiting a friend at a church of another faith. Someone came up to me and with a bright smile asked if I was a Mormon. “I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, yes,” I said. He started asking me several questions, each beginning with: “Does the Mormon Church believe … ?” And each time, I began my answer with the phrase: “In the restored Church of Christ, we believe …”
This banter went back and forth four or five times. When he noticed that I wasn’t accepting the title “Mormon,” he asked me point-blank, “Are you not Mormon?”
So I asked him if he knew who Mormon was—he didn’t. I told him that Mormon was a prophet, a historian, a military general, and a political figure in the ancient Americas. I am honored to be associated with a man who was so dedicated to the service of God and others.
“But,” I continued, “Mormon didn’t die for my sins. Mormon didn’t shed his blood for me or suffer in Gethsemane or die on the cross. Mormon isn’t my God. Jesus Christ is my God and my Savior. He is my Redeemer. And it is by His name that I want to be known at the last day, and it’s by His name that I hope to be known today.”
I felt the assurance of the Spirit supporting me in this short testimony to my new acquaintance. After a few seconds of silence, he said, “So, you are a Christian?”
“Yes, I am a Christian,” I responded, “and a member of Christ’s restored Church.”
Seeking to follow the instruction of the prophet seemed simple, but it turned out to take more effort than I expected. I’m still not perfect at following everything I’m asked to do. But in every case, I now make sure to use the full name of the Church.
I’m grateful for the Spirit that I feel when I get to testify to others about my Savior and my membership in His Church. And now I have a great way to naturally testify of Him and His restored Church whenever I’m asked about being “Mormon.”

When I became a deacon at the age of 12, I lived in New Jersey, 50 miles (80 km) from New York City. I dreamed of being a great baseball player. My father agreed to take me to see a game played in the old and storied Yankee Stadium, in the Bronx. I can still see the swing of the bat as Joe DiMaggio hit a home run into the center field stands with my father sitting beside me, the only time we ever went to a major league baseball game together.
But another day with my father shaped my life forever. He took me from New Jersey to the home of an ordained patriarch in Salt Lake City. I had never seen the man before. My father left me at the doorstep. The patriarch led me to a chair, placed his hands on my head, and pronounced a blessing as a gift from God that included a declaration of the great desire of my heart.
He said that I was one of those of whom it had been said, “Blessed are the peacemakers.” I was so surprised that a perfect stranger could know my heart that I opened my eyes to see the room where such a miracle was happening. That blessing of my possibilities has shaped my life, my marriage, and my priesthood service.

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 added a word to the theme, “You Love Who You Serve.” I thought it should also say, “You Love Who You Serve With.” I didn’t know 75 percent of the people the first morning. We’d lived in the same stake for years and never spoken to each other. On a construction site, you have no choice. You have to say to the person next to you, “Grab the end of that board.” “Watch your head!” “Help me nail this down.” And people were great. If you asked them for an 18-foot board they got it. True, the physical structures were impressive, but even better were the structures built between each other.
There were lag times when there was no work for me, and I thought I’d have fun if I had nothing to do. But I really amazed myself. It got so I wanted to work.
Mr. Roney told us the quality of our work was A-1, top-notch. The look on his face as this place went up taught me I’m happiest when making someone else happy.
It appeared that there was no way we could finish two such big projects in just three days. We poured on the steam. At first a few people hung around the first-aid station and in the hay, drinking pop. But even the “resters” helped when the TV and newspaper reporters came out with their cameras. We wanted to work through dinner, but after a half hour, the adults made us come down. Funny, I’ve never refused food before. Dusk was stealing precious light. There were just a few things left to do. Thirty of us stayed to finish instead of going back to the city to clean up for the dance.
That evening we had a victory celebration! We danced in a barn we had built, and it didn’t fall down. After seeing each other at our worst for three days, our appearance mattered very little. The last day we had a testimony meeting in the barn/house, and 200 people sat on benches on the top floor. The sun streamed into the room, bathing everyone in the warm blond reflection of new wood. I thought, “We built this; we really did it.” We had saved the Dazey’s and Roney’s more than $20,000.00 in labor costs.
When the sacrament came to me, I thought of Jesus Christ in a whole new way. He was a carpenter. I remembered working along with my friends and feeling something. I glanced around. It wasn’t just my friends; the Savior was there too.
When I’m 82 I’m going to take my grandkids out to Duvall, Washington. I’ll hobble out to “my barn” and whap it good and hard with my cane to demonstrate how sturdy it is. And I’ll say, “This is the barn my friends and I built at youth conference in 1986. I don’t know what’s wrong with these young whippersnappers today. Why don’t they do something worthwhile?”
Following the barn raising, we asked ourselves, “What made the difference? Why did this youth conference work when other years we came up short? Why did one of our young men feel confident enough to build a shed for his grandfather? Why did the stake dance committee youth say, “Let’s do the same thing next year!” Why had we spent so much in previous years when this year’s costs were cut by one-half? Here are a few guidelines we followed that we feel made the difference.
1. Prayerfully decide on an activity.
In the beginning, a counselor in the stake Young Women presidency was given the assignment of prayerfully searching six years of New Era magazines for youth conference ideas. As she studied, she reflected on the flashy and expensive activities our youth had planned in the past. They seemed so unsatisfied, always wanting more and bigger the next year. She came to the realization that our stake could no longer compete with the world’s standards of fun and entertainment. It was chilling to speculate on a conference as dramatically different as a service project.
Coincidentally, when the adult specialists were called they had independently focused on the same idea as the Young Women counselor—a barn raising.
2. Prayerfully select specialists.
The Tanners were a new couple in the stake. No one was aware that he was a builder. Their expertise was crucial when setbacks developed. The manufacturer of the trusses wouldn’t assemble and deliver until three days after youth conference. Brother Tanner knew how to apply just the right pressure to get the trusses there on time. The plans for the barn/house were submitted with the standard load of 40 pounds per square foot, but the city said the structure had to have the barn specifications of 120 pounds per square foot. Five days before construction was to commence, Brother Tanner had to scrap the blueprints and completely redo the engineering, foundation, etc. He and another builder burned midnight oil to get the plans back to the city. Since no plans were approved, he couldn’t get the trusses. What a mess. It was a miracle to finally have everything approved and ready and be able to begin the projects. The Tanners started a new business and moved out of the stake soon after youth conference. They were there when we needed them most.
3. Prayerfully locate recipients.
The Roney’s are prominent members of the Catholic faith and the community. It was possible they might not accept help. Sometimes it is harder to receive than to give. When the high councilor approached Mr. Roney and suggested rebuilding his fallen barn, he was overwhelmed. A few minutes later he said, “I knew the Mormons took care of their own, but I had no idea they’d extend the help to others.” The Roney family showed profound appreciation toward us, allowing their daughter to attend girls’ camp, encouraging the stake to hold functions at their farm, and setting up a scholarship fund for our youth.
4. If the event is newsworthy, involve the media.
When the TV and newspapers were informed about the barn raisings, they said they’d send someone out for a few minutes. Although reluctant at first, the reporters were so impressed they stayed for up to three hours. Favorable segments appeared in newspapers and on local newscasts.
5. Publicize and recruit.
Getting the first registrations for the conference was like pulling bent nails. Then the committee held a fireside to drum up enthusiasm. One young man who put up a bit of a struggle when we tried to recruit him completely surprised us with his enthusiasm. The builders showed him what needed to be done, and he caught on like a pro. He worked up such an appetite that when we saw him in the chow line he held a plate loaded with vegetables. The Young Women counselor said, “Todd, I’m amazed you eat so many vegetables.” He turned to show his other plate of food. And this was only his first time through the line. It really touched us to see Todd, a young man with so much going for him, sit down with another boy who felt like he was somewhat of an outcast. The lonely boy had been struggling all day until Todd showed him the way to use his hammer and worked with him. Working side by side, the youth not only established bonds between themselves but with the adults as well. It was worth any effort to encourage each person to attend.
6. Meet often.
The committee met every two weeks from March to mid-June. We needed the meetings to try to tie down all the loose ends because so many unexpected ends unravel—like the T-shirts that weren’t ready, or the huge barbecues we borrowed which turned our hotdogs into charcoal strips, still frozen on the inside. The greased pig contest slipped away from us. The piglets were raised on a concrete floor. When released, they would only root in the grass and refused to run. The kids stood aching for action, but what’s the challenge in tackling a pig sniffing the ground?
7. Plan evening diversions.
After the games and climbing the greased pole, the bonfire featured an original song by Allen and Leony Hunt. The lyrics grew on us like muscles as we hammered:
“You love who you serve who you love,
Like a ripple in a pond it goes on and on,
We follow in the footsteps of the one who showed us how
To love who you serve who you love.”