Gospel Story Finder

Once during a counseling session, a wife shared some deep, personal feelings, and her husband sat nodding his head occasionally but saying nothing. When she finished, I felt they had shared an intimate moment and had drawn closer. As they were leaving, the husband asked if he could use part of our next meeting to talk to me alone. With her permission, I agreed. The next time they came, he said to me privately, “I wanted to come in alone because last time I didn’t get much of a chance to talk, and I have a lot of things on my mind.”
Instead of sharing an intimate moment with his wife, this man had felt irritated that she had dominated the conversation. In the process, he had missed the entire conversation! Making an occasional summary statement or a comment about what the other person has expressed can help avoid that type of misconnection.

The afternoon wind rolled like a wave up the little hillock above the sea, tugging at Joby Kelsey’s huck shirt as he tromped up the crooked dirt road toward home. He was trying to keep pace with Lucius Potter, an aging fisherman with a mass of wild white hair that looked like the breaking surf. Lucius’s long beard jerking in the wind resembled a great tuft of dry seaweed.
The tall, craggy seaman paused at the crest of the hill and looked back longingly at the restless, swelling sea. “Hear that song, lad?” he asked. “Hear that mighty chorus swell?”
Joby stared at the pounding surf, feeling its power as it lashed the rocks below them. Then he turned to look at Lucius, whose face mirrored the excitement of the churning sea.
This wasn’t the first walk the boy had taken with Lucius Potter, nor was it the first time he had listened to the seaman’s tales expressing his love for a fisherman’s way of life. The pair had become quite close after Joby moved with his parents to the small fishing village along the rugged northern California coast two months before. Joby’s father had taken over the job of the retiring proprietor at The Tradewinds, a mercantile store at the edge of town.
It was summer, 1910, and there were few fences to restrict a young boy’s desire for barefoot wanderings across the grassy, flower-blanketed seaside slopes. Nothing to restrict him except, perhaps, the old man’s stories of the sea. Lucius told them with such passion and mystery and wave-slamming excitement that Joby regularly sought out the old fisherman. “Can you tell me another story?” Joby would ask eagerly. Lucius’s smile would deepen the lines of his weathered face, and another adventure would unfold as they tramped the beachline. Sometimes they would stop to watch seals slip in and out of the churning tidewaters or rest atop a great barnacle-laden rock in the dampness.
Lucius never tired of reliving his yesteryears when he’d hauled his nets down to the sea with his crew and set sail upon the capricious water. Fishing was his life.
What puzzled Joby and his parents were the tattered clothes Lucius wore and the small shack in which he lived—a crude little dwelling made of tin scraps and driftwood. And the old seaman was so thin! Why such an experienced fisherman with a sturdy, seaworthy skiff and ample nets didn’t fare better was a mystery. Someone told Joby’s father it was because the old man refused to hire a crew. Why, no one knew. It seemed obvious that he desperately needed help. But Lucius sailed alone, never allowing anyone to accompany him, even when seamen out of work volunteered their services.
“There was a time when he was a rather prosperous man,” someone had said. “He wasn’t rich enough to live in a big house, but he didn’t live in a shack, either. He always had more than enough to eat, and he wore the nicest clothes in the village.”
Joby looked earnestly and curiously at Lucius as his friend gazed seaward with a kind of disturbed, unbroken stare. Finally the boy’s curiosity got the best of him, and he asked Lucius once again why he didn’t take on a crew. As always, the old fisherman quickly avoided the subject, pointing out the hump of a great whale on the horizon. Then he got up abruptly and said, “The day will turn into night before we reach your place if we don’t get a move on.”
Lucius had been invited by Joby’s parents to an evening meal, and along with his desire to keep ahead of any more of the lad’s uncomfortable inquiries, the thought of good food quickened the old man’s step.
Lucius was halfway through dinner when the soft glow of candlelight on Joby’s hair caught his eye. He gazed fixedly at the lad across the table, then noticed Joby’s parents staring curiously at him. Lucius spoke softly. “It’s the lad’s hair. It has a gold-dust shine just like lamplight reflecting on miller moths. Or like the gold on the waves at the last light of day.”
The Kelseys were often touched by Lucius’s poetic way of saying things, and the old fisherman always spoke with such deep reverence that it was hard to doubt what he said. That’s why the trio waited anxiously for Lucius to put the last forkful of potatoes into his mouth and wipe the leavings from his beard. They knew a colorful tale would follow—it always did.
“It’s the least I can do,” Lucius would say, “after a meal like that.”
Joby’s mother always glowed with appreciation. “Tonight,” she announced, “there’s blackberry pie—after your story.”
Lucius’s eyes grew as large as plump berries. “It’s liable to be the shortest story I ever told,” he replied, and everyone laughed.
The three Kelseys sat spellbound. Ocean waves seemed to roll and fall off Lucius’s tongue. Masts split, and men were hurled into the sea!
Suddenly Lucius stopped. Joby and his parents traded puzzled glances. The boy saw the same troubled look on the fisherman’s face that he had observed before as Lucius gazed out through the window at the heaving sea.
“Were you washed overboard, too, Mr. Potter?” Joby asked, caught up in the man’s story.
Then, as though the boy’s question had released a floodgate, Lucius’s painful secret tumbled out. He seemed almost relieved now in the telling of it … “Me and two others,” he sighed. “We were securing the rigging when the wave hit. I … I tried to save the men,” he said with anguish, “but I was the only survivor.”
“Is that why you never take anyone with you on your skiff, Mr. Potter?” Joby’s father asked gently.
Lucius nodded. “I never want anything like that to happen on a boat of mine again.” He rose from the table. “It’s late. I’d better go.”
“It wasn’t your fault in happened,” Joby’s mother consoled him.
“Mom’s right,” Joby chimed in. “You were in a storm.”
“It could’ve happened to anyone,” Mr. Kelsey added. “You have no reason to punish yourself, Mr. Potter.”
“Perhaps,” muttered Lucius as he turned toward the door and opened it. “But it’s a shameful thing when a man loses faith in himself.” He stepped out into the raven-black chill and was swallowed by the darkness.
“There must be something we can do to help him,” Joby said.
“I wish there were,” Joby’s father replied, “but I’m afraid the only person who can restore Mr. Potter’s faith in himself is Mr. Potter.”
Saturday morning the sea was furious as Joby climbed the brow of the great surf-battered rock where he had often sat with Lucius and listened to the old man’s tales. In two days the lad would be returning to school, and the times would be fewer when Lucius could tell him stories.
Lucius emerged from the dense fog on a small hillock above the churning water just in time to see a huge wave spill over Joby and dash him into the sea.
“JOBY!”
Lucius leaped across the narrow cleft that divided the steep hillock from the big rock, and gazed agonizingly into the seething water below. The boy was nowhere to be seen. Then, shouting louder than the thundering waves, Lucius doubled his fists and leaped into the sea.
The old fisherman carried the boy in his arms along the little path toward home. Tears streamed down his face—tears not of sadness but of indescribable joy. Joby was alive! Lucius had saved him.
One morning a few days later, Joby bounded out of the house with his schoolbooks slung over his shoulder. Multicolored autumn leaves fluttered about his feet. He paused to join his mother and father, who stood just outside the gate, staring toward the sea. A fishing boat bobbed in the sun-glazed water, and a crew could be seen pulling in a line of nets—Lucius’s crew! An old fisherman with a long, seaweedlike beard and a new pair of boots paused to wave at the trio on the hill.

“Walk and Not Be Weary” in the March New Era brought home to me just how important it is to prepare ourselves spiritually for the tests of life, to build up that spiritual reservoir so that in times of crisis we can survive, rise above the challenge, and conquer. My story is similar to Kris Logan’s, although it has nothing to do with skiing. I’m serving the Lord on a mission, but I’ve been having problems with my health. I’ve had to spend a great deal of time in the flat. A lot of that time has been wasted, but I’m just really beginning to realize that Heavenly Father is giving me this time to really prepare myself spiritually, not only for my mission but for life. The scripture quoted in the story, Isaiah 40:28–30 [Isa 40:28–30], is truly beautiful, and I, like Kris, “intend to wait upon the Lord.”
Sister Lesley BurtonAustralia Brisbane Mission

I sat alone at the edge of my bed, balancing my thick biology book as I attempted to study for the next day’s test. I slowly turned through the complicated chapter on cellular respiration, my jaw tight as I tried to concentrate. But it was useless.
I looked up at the glow-in-the-dark stars clustered above my bed, dull in the light of my lamp, the sharp edges blurring as my eyes filled with tears. I had done a horrible job that evening trying out for the play. It had been my first attempt at high school theater. Although untrained in the arts of dancing, acting, and singing, I had undertaken the challenging musical tryouts at the urging of my friends. I hadn’t done well. My dancing on the first night and my singing audition seemed about average. But tonight had been the final test, the portion I had counted on for success—a memorized humorous monologue, performed in under a minute, before the critical eyes of the director and audition board. I had prepared for my monologue days in advance, writing and memorizing the script carefully until I was certain I could perform it even in my sleep. But when I had reached the school, I couldn’t think clearly. I was not only nervous but also tired and worried about my two difficult tests scheduled for the next day. I tried to remember my lines, those words that I knew so well, but they slipped from me in fragments and spilled out shaky and uncertain.
A hot tear brushed my lips, and I tried to muffle a sob. Nothing seemed to be going right the past few weeks. Between the recent cold distance of one of my closest friends, the stress of my difficult schedule, and the nagging doubts of applying to college, I was finding my senior year to be nearly impossible. And now, after the embarrassment of tonight’s audition, I didn’t know how I could study or even sleep. I shut my biology book and placed it on the floor, emotions roiling as I buried my head in my pillow.
Then I heard my door open and the concerned voice of my mother. “Do you need a blessing?” she asked softly. I looked up, tempted to send her away. My puffy red face, streaked by wetness, held the imprint of my pillow’s seams. But I knew, even as I pulled myself into a sitting position so that I could see both my parents in my doorway, that tonight a blessing was what I needed most of all. I nodded wordlessly, sniffing a bit as I stood and followed my parents across the hall into their room.
I’ve heard of blessings given by pioneers. And even in modern times I’ve heard of blessings for fire victims, children in comas, and people who are not expected to survive. I had a testimony of the priesthood before that night. I had been given my patriarchal blessing two years prior and knew of the unique truthfulness and love it contained. But as my father placed his hands on my head that evening, I could feel divine power in his phrases, in the gentle pressure of his hands. His blessing swept past my superficial wants into what I needed to hear most. And as he concluded, my heart sang at the power in those words, those simple, healing words that I knew were not his. My father couldn’t remember what he had said, but I could, and my dark tangle of stress and fears had loosened into a soft and gentle peace.
I smiled at my mother, grateful for her inspired suggestion. As I turned around and hugged my father, I could feel in the warmth of his arms an echo of the love of my Heavenly Father and His Son, both watching and caring for me more than anyone else ever could. I felt so grateful for that single modest blessing, those quietly powerful, comforting words. That night I slept deeply for the first time in weeks, unworried and sure of my future as a beloved daughter of God.

My sister Rylee is allergic to nuts. If she eats any, they can make her stop breathing. One night we ate some salt water taffy, not knowing that some of the pieces had nuts in them. Rylee’s mouth started burning. Mom gave her some medicine, but it didn’t help. Next, Rylee’s throat started to burn, and she couldn’t swallow. Then her chest started to burn. It soon became hard for her to breathe.
Dad was out of town, so he wasn’t around to give her a blessing. Mom decided to call 911. The operator told her to stay on the phone until the paramedics arrived.
My sisters Kelsey and Haley and I were really worried about Rylee. We knelt on the kitchen floor and said a prayer asking Heavenly Father not to let Rylee die. Soon the paramedics arrived, but Rylee was already doing better. Mom was really surprised at her recovery.
Later, after everyone had left, we told Mom about our prayer and asked if she thought it had helped. She told us that it was probably the reason why Rylee was all right. I am grateful that Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers.Mason Cate, age 4, with help from his familyLayton, Utah

“I had never known the Holy Ghost was so powerful and so real,” Sister Wixom says. Years later the Holy Ghost gave her an overwhelming feeling of peace while she was praying about one of her children. Her hope now is that parents and Primary leaders and teachers can help children learn to hear the whisperings of the Holy Ghost.

There came an anxious knock at the crude wooden door of the dwelling of two elders. When the door was opened, they saw a small girl crying. She had been running and was gasping for air. The elders struggled to piece together her message, delivered amid sobs: Her father had suffered a severe head injury and would die unless the elders saved his life. Men of the village were at that moment carrying him to the missionaries. She pleaded for her father’s life, then ran to be with him.
The elders were in an area with no doctors or medical facilities. There were no telephones. The only means of communication was a rough road up a riverbed, and they had no vehicle. The elders were not trained in medicine. Besides preaching the gospel, they labored diligently to improve the sanitation in their assigned, remote village. But the people of the valley trusted them, and although they did not know how to care for a serious head wound, they knew Someone who did. They knelt in prayer and explained their problem to an understanding Heavenly Father.
They felt impressed to clean the wound, close and bandage it, and give the man a blessing. One companion asked, “How will he stand the pain? How can we cleanse the wound and bless him while he is in such suffering?”
They knelt again. “We have no medicine. We have no anesthetic. Please help us to know what to do. Please bless him, Father.”
As they arose, friends arrived with the injured man. Even in the dim candlelight, they could see that he had been severely hurt and that he was suffering greatly. As they began to cleanse the man’s wound, an unusual thing happened: he fell asleep. Carefully, anxiously, they finished the cleansing, closed the wound, and provided a makeshift bandage. As they gently laid their hands on his head to bless him, he awoke peacefully. Their prayer had been answered, and his life saved. The trust of the people increased, and a branch of the Church flourished.

Savanna P., age 14, Texas, USA
Speak about your religion more often or purposely do things to bring it up. I was in a similar situation and wrote, “I Love Being LDS” on my backpack. By doing so, I opened the door to several missionary opportunities and showed people that I wasn’t afraid to let them know I am LDS. Whatever you do, don’t let them get to you. Pray for them and for yourself. Soon you’ll find that if you focus on saving others’ souls, you won’t be as afraid to let them know the truth of our Father’s gospel.

We often hear the phrase “Trust in the Lord,” but what does that really mean when life gets complicated? For me, it was tested during my first year of nursing school at St. Paul University Dumaguete.
I was invited to serve as part of the health team for FSY 2022 in Bacolod. Though I was still a student, I felt honored and excited to help. But two weeks before the event, I discovered that FSY’s opening day fell on the same day as my final exams. I was torn. I wanted to serve, but I also needed to fulfill my academic responsibilities.
So I prayed, asking the Lord to help me find a way. The answer came quietly but clearly: Go.
I asked the FSY coordinators if I could travel solo to Bacolod after my exams. To my surprise, they said yes. That was the first miracle.
On exam day, my dad drove me to school. As we passed the FSY buses, I jokingly said, “Sana all!” He replied, “Just do your part, and God will do the rest.” Normally, I’m the last to finish tests, but that day I was done by 10 a.m.—miracle two.
Then came a twist: an announcement about additional face-to-face exams in the afternoon. I felt crushed. But after another prayer, a second announcement followed—the exams were moved online. Miracle three.
I rushed to the gate, praying for a ride. Just then, an empty bus heading toward Bacolod pulled up. Miracle four.
While traveling through the mountains of Mabinay, I received a message: the online exam would start in 30 minutes. That area had no signal. I prayed again. Suddenly, my phone showed full 5G. I joined the call, completed the exam, and submitted it. As soon as I logged off, the signal vanished. Miracle five.
I arrived in Bacolod safely and on time. Miracle six.
During FSY, seven youth developed high fevers. The health team and I stayed up all night caring for them— checking vitals, doing bed baths, and praying. By morning, all had recovered. Miracle seven.
On the way home, I checked for signal in the same mountain spot. Nothing. Brother Romil confirmed, “That place never has signal.” That moment reaffirmed everything. The Lord had truly intervened.

At church, I turn the sound off on my phone and keep it in my pocket unless I’m using it for scriptures. During the sacrament, I don’t use it at all. I keep it out of my hands to avoid the temptation to use it.
William W., age 17, Virginia, USA

In the military service during World War II, I associated with some fine young men of great promise. But little by little, I saw some of them turn from the decent, God-fearing qualities of Dr. Jekyll and revert to the baseness of a Mr. Hyde. For some, it began by drinking coffee because the water was foul, and the water decontamination pills had such an unpleasant taste. The coffee led some to take an occasional drink of beer. Every soldier serving overseas was allocated a ration of cigarettes and an occasional bottle of whiskey, which were worth considerable money.

President George Albert Smith once gave this advice: “If you cross to the devil’s side of the line one inch, you are in the tempter’s power, and if he is successful, you will not be able to think or even reason properly, because you will have lost the spirit of the Lord.”

Some soldiers stayed on the safe side of the line and never experimented with nor trafficked in these addicting substances, even though they were given to us free. But others would sample the cigarettes or alcohol as a diversion to the challenges of the war. A few were even drawn away into immorality, believing that the stress of war justified lowering their standards and letting the Mr. Hyde side of their personalities take over.

After the war, those who had become addicted to tobacco, alcohol, and immorality found that they could not readily shake off these bad habits. The young men who had started out with such potential crossed that line inch by inch, robbing themselves and their families of the promised happiness and experiencing instead divorce, broken families, and heartaches.

Those who never lowered their standards did not succumb to these addictions. They came through that stressful period of their lives stronger and more prepared to lead productive, exemplary, and happy lives as faithful fathers and grandfathers of righteous families. They have also served as honored and respected leaders in the Church and in the community.

Example 2. I now want to describe how all Church programs and initiatives are gathered together in one in Christ. Many additional illustrations could be presented; I will use only a selected few.
In 1978, President Spencer W. Kimball instructed members of the Church to build up the strength of Zion throughout the world. He counseled the Saints to remain in their native lands and establish strong stakes by gathering the family of God and teaching them the ways of the Lord. He further indicated that more temples would be built and promised blessings for the Saints wherever they lived in the world.
As the number of stakes increased, the need was intensified for member homes to “become [places] where family members [loved] to be, where they [could] enrich their lives and find mutual love, support, appreciation, and encouragement.” Consequently, in 1980, Sunday meetings were consolidated into a three-hour block to “reemphasize personal and family responsibility for learning, living, and teaching the gospel.” This emphasis on family and the home again was affirmed in “The Family: A Proclamation to the World,” introduced by President Gordon B. Hinckley in 1995.
In April of 1998, President Hinckley announced the construction of many more small temples, thereby bringing the sacred ordinances of the Lord’s house closer to Latter-day Saint individuals and families throughout the world. And these enhanced opportunities for spiritual growth and development were complemented by related increases in temporal self-reliance through the introduction of the Perpetual Education Fund in 2001.
During his administration, President Thomas S. Monson repeatedly exhorted the Saints to go “to the rescue” and emphasized caring for the poor and needy as one of the Church’s divinely appointed responsibilities. Continuing the emphasis on temporal preparation, the Self-Reliance Services initiative was implemented in 2012.
Over the past several years, essential principles about making the Sabbath day a delight in the home and at church have been emphasized and reinforced, thus preparing us for the Sunday meeting schedule adjustment that was announced in this session of general conference.
And six months ago, Melchizedek Priesthood quorums were strengthened and aligned more effectively with the auxiliaries to accomplish a higher and holier approach to ministering.
I believe that the sequence and timing of these actions over many decades can help us to see one united and comprehensive work and not just a series of independent and discrete initiatives. “God has revealed a pattern of spiritual progress for individuals and families through ordinances, teaching, programs, and activities that are home centered and Church supported. Church organizations and programs exist to bless individuals and families and are not ends in themselves.”
I pray we can recognize the Lord’s work as one great worldwide work that is becoming ever more home centered and Church supported. I know and testify that the Lord is revealing and “will yet reveal many great and important things pertaining to the Kingdom of God.”

The first example is a child who had an extremely unhappy home life. His family moved from one state to another until he was eight years of age. He was often beaten by his father who was either too strict or not strict enough, according to his mood at the time. The boy spent many of his early years sleeping in buses, train stations, and cheap hotels. At the age of fourteen he was arrested as a runaway. Both family and friends classified him as untrustworthy, often violent, and a loner.

Earlier I mentioned three examples of people living in the most dire circumstances. The first young man’s life was a series of continuing arrests for everything from vagrancy to armed robbery and murder. Never recognizing the need to change, he was one day convicted of murder.

I shall never forget the experience we had in June of 1993 at a special meeting in Beijing, China, with couples who were then teaching English in North Vietnam and Mongolia. After two days of training and inspiration, we closed with this familiar song:
It may not be on the mountain height
Or over the stormy sea,
It may not be at the battle’s front
My Lord will have need of me.
(“I’ll Go Where You Want Me to Go,” Hymns, no. 270)
As we were singing, my wife leaned over and whispered in my ear: “But it might be ‘on the mountain height,’ or it might be ‘over the stormy sea,’ or it might be ‘at the battle’s front.’” The Lord surely had need for these beautiful people serving in this interesting area of the world. These wonderful missionary couples did not choose to come to these countries. Yet as we now look at the results of their service, I know that they were chosen by the Lord for their special calling.

“I am a convert to the Church. I started taking seminary before I even got baptized. Without seminary, I don’t know if I would have got baptized at all. Without seminary, I wouldn’t have the Savior in my life right now or know that I can be forgiven for my sins. I never really had Heavenly Father or Jesus Christ in my life. Seminary helped me find Them and have Them become forever a part of my life and my future kids’ lives.”

In these trying circumstances he began to fulfill his desire to be a missionary. He told his roommate about the Book of Mormon and gave him a copy to read. Charles, a Hopi Indian boy, immediately became engrossed in the book, and, when darkness came at the close of the day, he continued reading. He devoured the words of this book for three days and two nights, jealous of the time it took to eat or rest. Finally, when he had turned the last page, he rose from his bed and walked over near Don’s side and asked, “Don, where did you get this book? I have shared in the traditions of my people that we hold to be sacred. Many of our traditions are written in this book. Where did you get it?”
Don happily shared his testimony with this new friend as he told him of the restoration of the gospel and of its special meaning to them as Lamanites, a covenant race and descendants of the Book of Mormon people.
Soon after this Charles was released to go home, anxious to share this new message with family and friends. Don was moved to a rehabilitation center in Denver, Colorado. He was quite unprepared for what he encountered at his new residence in the paralytic ward. Everyone seemed depressed, discouraged, and despondent. Patients could not understand how Don, who was in an equally distressing condition, could seem so happy. Some of them asked, “Why are you always so happy and smiling?” Don replied, “My smile keeps the tears from my eyes, and my laughter keeps the lump from my throat.”

Volleyball season came. We knew we were the best team in the stake. For two years we had been knocking on the door, and this was our year. We had the veteran “senior” boys. We had the height; we had the talent. And we even had a mascot—Billie. We even let Billie play. Just hitting the ball was a major achievement, but everyone clapped and encouraged him, so Billie really felt that he was making a contribution.
Being at each game was more important than ever to him. During the regular season, Billie might have cost the team a few points, or even one game in a series, but everyone recognized the sparkle in his eye when he played and we all felt good because of our sacrifice.
Finally the stake championship came. It was the same rivalry that had been there for the last two years. This time we would win. We had beaten them during the regular season, and we would beat them in the championship. Perhaps as an extra precaution someone “forgot” to tell Billie about the game.
Saturday afternoon at game time some of our players were overconfident and had run down to the store for some pop. The first game started without them, but the second string was good enough. Then in came the bishop with Billie. Both teams were well coached. The game was close, but we lost. We couldn’t afford to hold back. We had to have the next game if we were to win two out of three.
Billie had been at the coach’s side the whole first game. “Now? Should I go in now? Do you want me to play now?” His persistence was distracting. The coach spoke firmly but kindly, “Go sit down; I’ll tell you when, Billie.”
At the end of the first game, Billie couldn’t wait any longer. Scores didn’t mean anything. The only thing that was important was playing. The coach looked at Billie; for a long minute he agonized. He had always played all the boys. Would he change the rules now? Was the principle more important than the game?
This was a unique group of boys. Just weeks before, the coach had told us that sometime in his life every coach should get a chance to work with a group like ours. He felt that we could understand principles. There wasn’t any choice; he had to let Billie play.
The other team served—right to Billie. Another serve—to Billie; and another. Again and again the serve was to Billie. The other coach called time-out; he was talking to his server. Another serve—right to Billie. The score was 11 to 0; no service had been returned. Finally a service went into the net, but it was too late. The final score was 15 to 6. It was our year to win, and we lost.
The other team walked off the court with heads lowered. We were fighting back tears. We didn’t understand. We went outside, and the coach tried to talk. “I thought I knew what was right.” Even he was fighting for composure. “I believe it’s important for everyone to play. I’ve always let everyone play. I hope I’m doing what’s right.” The bishop was there with Billie. He looked as if he wanted to talk but didn’t know what to say. Finally Billie broke in and said, “Well, we won another one!”
Something happened after that. The bishop gave a lesson in priesthood meeting on winning. He said something about an inactive father going to the temple because his handicapped son was loved by our quorum. He said that was winning. Somebody said if Billie could play volleyball he could come to priesthood meeting. All of a sudden Billie was really part of us. We’d invested a volleyball championship in him, and he was important to us.

In China we have nine-hundred million people. Yesterday about fifty Chinese Saints came in to see me. I took them through the Church offices and told them about our programs, and then I said to them, “We have been talking about China today.” (That was the day of the Regional Representatives meeting.) “We’ve learned of that people’s good qualities and that the Spirit of the Lord seems to be brooding over them, to bring the possibility of the gospel to them.” I asked all of those Chinese people who were here at conference, “Will you guarantee that in all your home evenings and in all your family prayers and in all your public prayers you will mention this to the Lord? Now, I know he can do it without our help; but I think he would want to know that we were interested in it and that we would appreciate it greatly.”

I marvel at the inspiration of the Prophet Joseph Smith when he penned the eleventh article of faith: “We claim the privilege of worshiping Almighty God according to the dictates of our own conscience, and allow all men the same privilege, let them worship how, where, or what they may.”
That noble expression of religious tolerance is particularly poignant in light of the Prophet’s personal persecution. On one occasion he wrote, “I am at this time persecuted the worst of any man on the earth, as well as this people, … and all our sacred rights are trampled under the feet of the mob.”
Joseph Smith endured incessant persecution and finally heartless martyrdom—at the hands of the intolerant. His brutal fate stands as a stark reminder that we must never be guilty of any sin sown by the seed of intolerance.

One afternoon when we were going home, there was a turtle in the road. We pulled over. My mom and I picked up the turtle and put it in the swamp nearby. Now the turtle is safe.