Gospel Story Finder

Father told me the story of Grandfather Durham, who had been inspired to compose a melody called “The Nephite Lamentation.” Thomas Durham had been promised in a patriarchal blessing that he would hear music as it was sung in the heavens. My father related how one night my grandfather had a dream. In it he saw twenty-four men by a stream. They looked very sad. Their leader arose and addressed them. Then he heard a melody played on what sounded like a trumpet. The impression came to him that it was a dream concerning Moroni and the last twenty-four Nephites. He awoke. In the late hours of the night he went to his little organ and played the tune he had heard and wrote it down. Later, a choir in the Parowan Ward in southern Utah sang the tune to the words of “O My Father.” It was published in modified form in the old Primary songbook as arranged by Henry E. Giles.

“But, Mom! Pleeeeease!” Mom had to understand. Putting the new toy in the bathtub was important. It was the home base. The underwater explorers needed it so they could rescue sea creatures!
“The explorers have to have a home,” Eli said.
“If you put it in the water, the stickers will come off,” Mom said. “That’s why I already told you no.”
Eli was standing at the door, holding his toy. He moved toward the tub. He really wanted to put the base in the water.
“Eli?” Mom said.
He stopped.
“Remember, choices have consequences,” she said.
“Consequences?” It was a big word.
“Consequences are good things or bad things that happen because of choices we make,” she explained.
“So something bad will happen if I put my home base in the water?” Eli asked.
“The stickers will come off. But something good will happen if you don’t,” Mom said. “It will last longer. And you will also know that you were obedient.”
Eli sighed. He thought about the home base being under water. At first it would be fun. Then the stickers would get soggy.
But if he kept it dry he could use it over and over. And the stickers would still be good.
Eli set the base down. “I’ll leave it here,” he said. Then he headed toward the tub.
“Good choice,” Mom said.
Eli smiled. It felt good to obey Mom.
And you know what? The underwater explorers still had an exciting adventure. Eli just had to dry them off before they went to home base.

The first is to be righteous. Being righteous doesn’t mean being perfect or never making mistakes. It means developing an inner connection with God, repenting of our sins and mistakes, and freely helping others.
Women who have repented change the course of history. I have a friend who was in a car accident when she was young, and from that, she became addicted to pain medication. Later on, her parents divorced. She became pregnant from a brief relationship, and her addictions continued. But one night, she looked at the chaos and mess of her life and thought, “Enough.” She cried out to the Savior Jesus Christ to help her. She said she learned that Jesus Christ was stronger than even her terrible circumstances and that she could rely on His strength as she walked the road of repentance.
By coming back to the Lord and His ways, she changed the course of her history and her little boy’s history and her new husband’s. She is righteous; she has a wide-open heart for others who have made mistakes and want to change. And just like all of us, she isn’t perfect, but she knows how to repent and to keep trying.

Some years ago, while visiting the members and missionaries in Australia, I witnessed a sublime example depicting how a treasury of testimony can bless and sanctify a home. The mission president, Horace D. Ensign, and I were traveling the long distance from Sydney to Darwin, where I was to break ground for our first chapel in that city. En route we had a scheduled stop at a mining community named Mount Isa. As we entered the small airport at Mount Isa, a woman and her two children approached. She said, “I am Judith Louden, a member of the Church, and these are my two children. We thought you might be on this flight, so we have come to visit with you during your brief stopover.” She explained that her husband was not a member of the Church and that she and the children were indeed the only members in the entire area. We shared lessons and bore testimony.

Time passed. As we prepared to reboard, Sister Louden looked so forlorn, so alone. She pleaded, “You can’t go yet; I have so missed the Church.” Suddenly the loudspeaker announced a 30-minute mechanical delay of our flight. Sister Louden whispered, “My prayer has just been answered.” She then asked how she might influence her husband to show an interest in the gospel. We counseled her to include him in their home Primary lesson each week and be to him a living testimony of the gospel. I mentioned we would send to her a subscription to the Children’s Friend and additional helps for her family teaching. We urged that she never give up on her husband.

We departed Mount Isa, a city to which I have never returned. I shall, however, always hold dear in memory that sweet mother and those precious children extending a tear-filled expression and a fond wave of gratitude and good-bye.

Several years later, while speaking at a priesthood leadership meeting in Brisbane, Australia, I emphasized the significance of gospel scholarship in the home and the importance of living the gospel and being examples of the truth. I shared with the men assembled the account of Sister Louden and the impact her faith and determination had made on me. As I concluded, I said, “I suppose I’ll never know if Sister Louden’s husband ever joined the Church, but he couldn’t have found a better model to follow.”

One of the leaders raised his hand, then stood and declared, “Brother Monson, I am Richard Louden. The woman of whom you speak is my wife. The children [his voice quavered] are our children. We are a forever family now, thanks in part to the persistence and the patience of my dear wife. She did it all.” Not a word was spoken. The silence was broken only by sniffles and marked by many tears.

Some years ago I had the opportunity to address a business convention in Dallas, Texas, sometimes called “the city of churches.” After the convention, I took a sightseeing bus ride about the city’s suburbs. Our driver would comment, “On the left you see the Methodist church,” or “There on the right is the Catholic cathedral.”
As we passed a beautiful red brick building situated upon a hill, the driver exclaimed, “That building is where the Mormons meet.” A lady from the rear of the bus asked, “Driver, can you tell us something more about the Mormons?” The driver steered the bus to the side of the road, turned about in his seat, and replied, “Lady, all I know about the Mormons is that they meet in that red brick building. Is there anyone on this bus who knows anything about the Mormons?”
I gazed at the expression on each person’s face for some sign of recognition, some desire to comment. I found nothing—not a sign. Then I realized the truth of the statement, “When the time for decision arrives, the time for preparation is past.” For the next fifteen minutes I had the privilege of sharing with others my testimony concerning The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Shortly thereafter I boarded a train in Osaka for Yokohama and a ship that would take me home. Brother and Sister Sato came to the station to say good-bye. Many tears were shed as we bade one another farewell.
It was a very chilly night. The railroad station, what there was left of it, was very cold. Starving children were sleeping in the corners. That was a common sight in Japan in those days. The fortunate ones had a newspaper or a few old rags to fend off the cold.
On that train, I slept restlessly. The berths were too short anyway. In the bleak, chilly hours of the dawn, the train stopped at a station along the way. I heard a tapping on the window and raised the blind. There on the platform stood a little boy tapping on the window with a tin can. I knew he was an orphan and a beggar; the tin can was the symbol of their suffering. Sometimes they carried a spoon as well, as if to say, “I am hungry; feed me.”
He might have been six or seven years old. His little body was thin with starvation. He had on a thin, ragged shirt-like kimono, nothing else. His head was shingled with scabs. His one jaw was swollen—perhaps from an abscessed tooth. Around his head he had tied a filthy rag with a knot on top of his head—a pathetic gesture of treatment.
When I saw him and he saw that I was awake, he waved his can. He was begging. In pity, I thought, “How can I help him?” Then I remembered. I had money, Japanese money. I quickly groped for my clothing and found some yen notes in my pocket. I tried to open the window. But it was stuck. I slipped on my trousers and hurried to the end of the car. He stood outside expectantly. As I pushed at the resistant door, the train pulled away from the station. Through the dirty windows I could see him, holding that rusty tin can, with the dirty rag around his swollen jaw.
There I stood, an officer from a conquering army, heading home to a family and a future. There I stood, half-dressed, clutching some money which he had seen but which I could not get to him. I wanted to help him, but couldn’t. The only comfort I draw is that I did want to help him.
That was years ago, but I can see him as clearly as if it were yesterday.
Perhaps I was scarred by that experience. If so, it is a battle scar, a worthy one, for which I bear no shame. It reminds me of my duty!

The bus speeds past more and more houses. Just a few fields and we are in the outskirts of the next town. Then we pass the all too familiar mining villages. The pit heaps of red shale blend into the scenery, looking almost like the canyons and valleys we see in cowboy films. The likeness ends there. The smoke-blackened terrace houses crowd upon each other, almost as if they had been fighting to see which could be built closest to the pit head. Each little house fronts onto the street, but the backyard contains the most precious possession of all—the pigeon hut. No one seems to know why, but miners seem to have a love for these remarkable birds, cherishing and loving them almost as if they were human.
The skies grow darker as we move farther south. I close my eyes, trying to forget the hectic day of preparation. Finish work early, overnight case to pack, and picnic case to fill. Then the agonizing wait for the bus. Had it crashed? Perhaps it hadn’t turned up at all, or could they have forgotten about me and decided to take a different route onto the motorway?
Daylight is now well and truly gone and the lights of the oncoming traffic glare off the wet road surface. Little people in their little cars going—who knows where? My heart fills with warmth as I anticipate tomorrow and its events.
The northern conurbations have been left behind now. There is more countryside, but, sadly, all we see of its beauty is the occasional light twinkling from some ancient farmhouse kitchen, a small candle in a saucer of darkness. The endless drone of the engine goes on and on, though it is almost drowned by the constant, excited chatter of our fellow passengers. The passengers, between the ages of 12 and 90, take the opportunity of having a chat. Six hours later everyone knows someone just a little bit better, and all are grateful for the time spent together. The first time, I brought a book to read, but then I realized there were better things to do.
It is now 10:00 P.M. and we are getting very tired. Still the endless drone of the engine arid the swish, swish as cars pass by in the other direction. Heads start nodding onto tired shoulders. One woman sits with her head resting on the seat and a warm traveling rug over her legs. It is easy to tell that she has made this visit before. My eyes begin to close as I, too, lapse into that uncomfortable halfway stare that is neither sleep or consciousness, and the endless motorway sounds are ever present.
The frequency of the villages and townships tell me that we will soon be near to the city. By the city, I mean the city. The city of millions of people, the city of ancient buildings and modern tower blocks. The city of beauty and splendor, and the city of poverty and filth. The old capital of the Commonwealth, and the modern capital of inflation. The city of Queen Victoria, Dickens, and Florence Nightingale.
We leave the motorway and enter the endless semidetached suburbia of North London. The streets, shops, and houses soon become as monotonous as the darkened countryside. We pass the place where the bus broke down on the last visit and its occupants had to spend the night in the uncomfortable seats. People reminisce and laugh at their past troubles. And so we continue onward through the city. People unfamiliar with the city excitedly look as others point out landmarks. We pass Hyde Park corner, Buckingham Palace, Lords cricket ground, Westminster Abbey, and finally the “Old Man” himself, that most famous and historic of all rivers—the Thames. The icy blackness reflects the embankment lights and winds away into the distant darkness. Then we are through. Through the glamour of the old floodlit buildings and famous streets, the expensive hotels and statues. Now we are south of the river, into the slums. There are old buildings here also, but these are old buildings of a different kind—with boards over windows, crumbling plaster on walls, and in many places, absolutely crowded with unwilling occupants. Fortunately we soon make our way through the most depressing parts and again return to semidetached anonymity. The shops and their wares begin to look all the same, and we long for a return to the countryside, for then we know that the journey will be almost ended. The gardens become larger, and we know that soon we will be there. After almost two hours of endless buildings, the trees spring upon us with an alarming suddenness. The narrow leafy lanes of Surrey seem welcoming and quiet. We have come a long way from the pit villages and Yorkshire, and yet this seems like home too. Driving is difficult when the road is only wide enough for two cars. The last village passes by, and everyone sighs with relief. It is after midnight, and we are tired. Only four or five hours sleep and we shall have to arise and finish the last little part of the journey. Heavy heads touch pillows. The long ride has acted as a perfect sleeping pill, and eyes soon close.
Who on earth is that knocking on the door when I have just gone to sleep? 5:00 A.M! Never! I am sure it is only five minutes since I closed my eyes. We all have a light breakfast and go out to the coach. It is still dark and very very cold. The last sleepy-head is hurried out into the coach, and we yawn our way back into the narrow lane, now completely empty of any traffic. We go a little way and pass the elegant homes of the well-to-do, probably businessmen, executives, some even in the millionaire class, and all of them asleep, not able to share in our excitement. We round a bend in the lane and there it is—the London Temple! Less than a mile away, all floodlit with its white walls reflecting the light over all the countryside. We catch our breath at its beauty and secretly urge the driver to go faster so that we can be sooner inside those sacred walls. The people queue at the door, their recommends clutched in freezing fingers. I hold my recommend with that other precious piece of paper. We are here at last, my grandmother and I. Perhaps it is only her name on the paper, but she has come here this day just as surely as I.

Illustrations by Maryn Roos
Matt and Mandy’s family is moving to a different city because of Dad’s job.
I’m leaving all of my friends behind!
Don’t worry, Matt. You make friends a lot easier than I do.
Yeah, I guess. But I still don’t know where my new school is. Or where my class will be. I’m sure I’ll get lost.
It’s scary right now because the future is foggy—like that day last winter when we got lost driving home from the movies.
That was actually kind of a fun adventure …
But we have each other, and we have the gospel. And if we hold on tight to those things, everything will work out.
Hmm. Fog? Holding on tight? Hey! It’s like Lehi’s dream in the Book of Mormon—holding on to the iron rod.
I guess it is.
And guess what else. Mandy, you know you’ve been looking forward to being old enough to go to the temple to do baptisms for the dead?
Mandy: Yes?
Well, our new home will be much closer to a temple.
Cool!
(To be continued.)

One of the missionaries who served with me had a difficult time getting along with companions. I was required to transfer them frequently because they could not take it. Finally, I asked one of my finest missionaries to become his companion, urging him to do all he could to help his fellow missionary love his work. As I approached a conference in the city where they were laboring, I feared he, like his predecessors, would ask for a transfer. To my surprise, when I asked how he was getting along with his companion, he responded: “We are doing great! We discovered we had something in common. Neither of us has been to Africa!”

One day during Truman's first year in graduate school, I came home to our little apartment in Cambridge, Massachusetts to find him sitting on the back steps studying, not Kierkegaard and philosophy, but Joseph Smith. It was not the first time! I'd like to say that I gently said, "Why are you studying Joseph Smith when you have a test on Kierkegaard tomorrow?" but that would be a lie. I think it went more like this, "What in the world are you doing? You can study Joseph Smith later!" I remember his reply to this moment. "Ann, I need to know what Joseph said about the issues I'm studying." Happily, he has never stopped.
Our family feels profound love for the Prophet Joseph Smith because of Truman. For a half century, we have lived with the kind of accounts we will share with you today, it was our dinner table conversation.

Last summer my Primary teacher taught us that we should be getting ready to be baptized. She gave us each a paper to take home. It said that after I am baptized, if I try to be good, repent when I make mistakes, and remember Jesus Christ, that Heavenly Father will forgive me when I do something wrong. I put the paper on our fridge so that I would remember.
One day I wanted to climb the trees in my front yard. Mom and Dad asked me to wait for their help so that I wouldn’t get hurt. I didn’t want to wait, so I climbed up by myself. It was fun until I fell out of the tree. I was hurt, but I didn’t want to tell Mom and Dad that I hadn’t waited for them, so I lied. I told them that I fell off a little fence in our yard. They asked if that were true, and I said, “Yes.”
When I went in to eat lunch, I saw the paper on the fridge. I felt bad that I had lied. I told Mom that I had really fallen out of the tree. I also said a prayer and asked Heavenly Father to forgive me for lying and said that I would do better. I felt good inside after that.

One Sunday night we were giving a fireside and I was speaking on the topic of modesty. I was talking about how when I was seeking an eternal companion I wanted to marry a girl who not only had a testimony, but also showed her faith by her works (James 2:17). An indicator to me if a woman was converted or not was if she followed the counsel of the modern day prophets, more specifically, I was looking for a girl who read the Book of Mormon everyday and wore a one-piece bathing suit. One young woman who attended the fireside later told me that when I said that that was the type of woman I had been looking for, it made a profound impact in her life. She said, "I remember thinking that I wanted an eternal mate who would want me to follow the teachings of the living Prophet. So when I got home that night, I was thinking about the second piercing that I had in my ear. I remembered reading President Hinckley's counsel to treat our bodies as temples and limit piercing to one in each ear. So, I decided to take it out because I wanted to be that person and do what the Prophet wanted me to do. I wanted my life to be in Heavenly Father's hands. I also decided to give away my four bikinis and all of my short shorts. Then, I bought a one-piece swimming suit. After doing all that, I really learned about what a gift our bodies are and I definitely felt an increase in the Spirit."

“Mom, guess what?” Nathan said as he climbed into the car after church. “The Primary president asked me to give a talk in Primary next Sunday.”
“Great!” Mom exclaimed. “What are you supposed to talk about?”
“I’m supposed to talk about all the blessings that I have from being a member of the Church.”
“Well, I think that you can give a talk about that. First, you should think about all the things that you are thankful for; then we can write them down on a blessings list,” Mom said.
“Mom,” said Nathan, “I want to be able to give my talk all by myself, with no one helping me this time, just like the big kids do.”
“OK, we’ll work on it,” Mom said encouragingly. “You keep thinking about the things that you’re grateful for.”
During the week, Nathan told his mom the things that he thought should be on his blessings list and Mom wrote them down. Every night before he went to bed, he and Mom sat down with the list and he tried to memorize it. But try as he might, he just couldn’t remember it all.
When Saturday morning came, Nathan was worried. “Mom, I still can’t remember my talk. What am I going to do?”
“Maybe if we say a prayer together, Heavenly Father will give us an idea.”
They knelt in the living room, and Nathan thanked Heavenly Father for all the things on his blessings list. Then he asked Him for help to find a way to give his talk all by himself.
After the prayer, Nathan and Mom sat quietly to listen for Heavenly Father’s answer.
Nathan’s mom jumped up. “I think that Heavenly Father gave me an answer. You sit right here, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Nathan sat very still, anxiously awaiting her return. When she came back, she had a big smile on her face and she was holding a big piece of paper. “Here are your talk ‘notes.’ Do you think you can read it all by yourself now?”
Nathan looked down at the paper. This is what he saw:
I am happy to be a member of the Church. I get blessings from Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father. The blessings are: my family, food, sunshine, my home, flowers, and my teachers. I am happy I can give my talk all by myself. I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
“When you see the pictures, say their names,” Mom explained. “You know the word my. The cloud with the sunlight coming through it stands for blessings, and you’ve already memorized the first part and the last two sentences. Do you think that you can give your talk now?”
On Sunday Mom and Dad came to listen to Nathan give his talk. He gave it perfectly. But before he said the last sentence, he looked up from his notes and said, “And I’m glad that Heavenly Father answers our prayers.”

Over the next few months, I started shopping for my mission attire. Coming from Scotland, I’m no stranger to cold weather so I was going to be well prepared. But every time I went to buy something like a winter coat, big woolly jumpers, hat, scarves, or gloves, I’d get the answer, “No!” I’d leave it a couple of days then go elsewhere. Again, the answer would be “No! Don’t buy that.” I couldn’t believe I was being prompted to buy certain clothes.
The promptings were very specific. I’d pick up clothes and I’d hold the hanger and wait for a yes or a no. I obediently bought according to those promptings. When I look back, I can’t believe how much the Holy Ghost kept prompting me and specifically telling me things each day—I was not asking for such clarity. I’ve never experienced this level of prompting ever since. That was how it was supposed to be—minute detail.
One morning I went downstairs and there on the carpet was the big fat white envelope. My heart leapt. I quickly grabbed it and immediately locked myself in the bathroom. I have a big family, and someone could have been lurking; I wanted to open it on my own.
I stared at the envelope, scared to open it. I kept thinking that it held the next 18 months of my life, my future. I was very anxious. I eventually opened it and scoured through the first few lines. I just wanted to know where I was going—it was the Greece Athens Mission. I’d never heard of this mission. I’d never heard of anyone even going to this mission. I would later find out that I was the first Scottish sister to go there. How cool! I would learn to speak Greek. l would serve my mission during one of the hottest summers they’d had, and another summer the following year. Greece was indeed a different, unusual place. The gospel was still in its infancy there; it had only been dedicated 25 years previously by Elder Gordon B. Hinckley (1910-2008).
I served my mission from May 1997 to November 1998. It was one of the best experiences of my life! I can’t believe that I hadn’t wanted to go. I could quite easily have missed out on this crucial experience. It was meant to be. I would never have chosen that path but it’s what Heavenly Father knew was right for me. Greece will always be a special place with special memories for me. Whenever I go back to visit, I get ‘goose bumps’ and butterflies in my stomach. When I left my mission, I left a part of my heart there, and there it will stay. It brought me so much happiness. It shaped my future. It put me on the right path, in the right direction. It was priceless. I loved it. I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. It changed me for the better. My favourite word is fantastic, and Greece was fantastic!

I was not a very impressive teenager and spent little time serving others. During this time my mother invited me to come with her to visit my great-aunt at a nursing home.

My cousin and her daughter Stephanie accompanied us on this visit. Stephanie was seven or eight years old. As we walked into the nursing home, she waved at everyone she saw. They lit up as if she were handing out sunshine and rainbows. I, on the other hand, avoided eye contact.

When we entered the room that my great-aunt shared with another elderly woman, I did my best to disappear into the background. Stephanie, however, jumped onto my aunt’s bed and began to regale her with stories.

I noticed something about this room. On my aunt’s side were signs of love and family. Pictures and crayon drawings hung on the wall, and flowers adorned a nightstand. The other side of the room was sterile and bare. There were no signs of any visitors; no cards or pictures hung on the wall.

My aunt’s roommate sat alone in a wheelchair and did not acknowledge our presence. She was humming a tune and tapping the arms of her wheelchair, which made me uncomfortable.

Stephanie tugged on her mother’s arm and asked, “Mommy, what’s the matter with that lady?” Stephanie’s mother leaned down and whispered, “She needs love.” I was not prepared for what happened next.

Without hesitation, Stephanie ran over and jumped into the woman’s lap. She then began to tell her stories and ask all kinds of questions. The woman did not answer. Instead, tears ran down her face as she embraced Stephanie. For the next several minutes, Stephanie sat in her lap, stroking her hair and kissing her cheek.

I had never witnessed this type of unselfish love before, and I tried to hide my tears. Later, as we drove away from the nursing home, I marveled at how young Stephanie could be so selfless and so full of love and compassion for a complete stranger.

As I have contemplated this vast audience of priesthood bearers, and what I have in my mind and heart to convey to you this day, my thoughts have turned back to a bewildered and confused young man in a huge city. He had lost his way. In desperation he stopped a man on the sidewalk and said, “How do I get to such-and-such a destination from here?” After considerable thought, with the skyscrapers, dense traffic, confusing streets, winding rivers, freeways, bridges, tunnels, and so on in mind, the man said, “You can’t get there from here.”
I have often thought of this advice as I have contemplated particularly some of our youth in their present locations in life. Some are lost, bewildered, confused, scared, sick, insecure, and discouraged. What a tragedy to be in these straits and to be told, in answer to the questions “How can I get back to where I was?” or “How can I get to where I want to go?”—“You can’t get there from where you are.”
The disciples of the devil teach there is no way back: Live it up, everybody is doing it, be with the in-group, and it’s more fun to stay lost. The devil is an enemy to the ways of God, and enticeth to sin.
“Wherefore, all things which are good cometh of God; and that which is evil cometh of the devil; for the devil is an enemy unto God, and fighteth against him continually, and inviteth and enticeth to sin, and to do that which is evil continually.” (Moro. 7:12.)
What a happy day it will be when, in contrast to the experience this lost young man had in the big city, he or others can find someone who will say, “Yes, you can get there from here. Come, follow me.”
I humbly, but with all of the power in my possession, declare to our “lost” youth, young men and young women worldwide, you can make it back from where you are. The great social services program of the Church, operating as an arm of the priesthood, lends a helping hand to our young people with social and emotional problems. As President Smith has declared to us tonight, by honoring our priesthood we can help them find their way back to joy and stability.
Young people, be not deceived. God loves you. He cares about you. He wants you back in his paths, where there is comfort, companionship, and purpose. We as leaders need to effectively communicate to our youth that God loves them no matter where they are. We need to sacrifice our time and talents in this direction.
“But to do good and to communicate forget not: for with such sacrifices God is well pleased.” (Heb. 13:16.)
I pray to God that we in the future may communicate the positive, the happy, the abundant way of life to those around us.
I would like to share briefly with you a few experiences of some of our friends who are proving you can get there from where you are.
Roger Locke, a friend of mine, is presently confined in the Utah State Prison. (Incidentally, I have visited with Roger within the past few days and have his and Warden John Turner’s permission to share his name and thoughts.)
Incidentally, you young Aaronic Priesthood bearers, I would appreciate it if you would remember that when I go to the prison to visit, I have the same trouble as the inmates—in one respect. That is, it is easy for me to get in, but difficult for me to get out. The difficulty comes when I am stopped by prisoners who want to talk. During my last visit, a young man stopped me, and we talked for about fifteen minutes, time I didn’t think I had to spare. As I was leaving him he said, and I will never forget it, “Thank you for talking to me.” As I drove home that night, I recalled that in fifteen minutes I may have said twenty-four or twenty-five words; however, I believe that is the kind of talking and listening we need to have more of. But that is another subject. Let’s get back to Roger. He said:
“I don’t want to blame anyone back home for my being in prison today, but it is factual that I had no family relationships. I am involved in the family home evening program at the prison. Without the parents who have been assigned to me through this social services program, many times I would have given up. These people love me as if I were their own son. I have never had that, even when I was a small boy. Now, with their help and that of others, I believe I can now make it back a day at a time. I am not proud of being in prison, but I am proud of my recent experiences while being there. We have a tendency to blame others. We don’t want to blame our parents for not loving us, because we know they do, but maybe they didn’t have the guidance and direction in their lives to apply when they were bringing us up.”
Perhaps in the minds of many of us, Roger would be justified in believing he couldn’t make it back. He had detoured too long. But he doesn’t believe that. Instead, he is thanking those who are presently helping him and is sincerely grateful for the direction in which his life is moving today.
The Church attenders in prisons are unfortunately in the minority and are often classified by their associates in uncomplimentary terms, but this fine young man, bless his courage, is not ashamed to be identified at the Utah State Prison as a member of “God’s Squad.” He seems determined to make it back from where he is.

When Tropical Storm Washi descended on the Philippines in 2011, it flooded the area with a deluge of water and wind. Some 41,000 homes were damaged, and more than 1,200 people lost their lives.
Prior to the flooding, Max Saavedra, president of the Cagayan de Oro Philippines Stake, had felt prompted to create a stake emergency response team. He organized committees to fulfill various assignments—everything from search and rescue to first aid to providing food, water, and clothing.
As the floodwaters receded to a safe level, Church leaders and members mobilized. They accounted for the safety of each member and assessed the damage. One member supplied rubber rafts to bring stranded members to safety. The meetinghouses were opened to provide shelter to all who needed food, clothing, blankets, and a temporary place to stay. Clean water was a critical need, so President Saavedra contacted a local business that owned a fire truck, and they transported clean water to the meetinghouse evacuation centers. Members with professional medical experience responded to those who had been injured.
Once Church members were accounted for, President Saavedra and his team visited other evacuation centers in the city and offered to help. They brought them food and other supplies. Many of the members, though they had lost their own homes, selflessly served others immediately after the storm. As the rains stopped and the ground dried, Mormon Helping Hands volunteers from three stakes went to work distributing supplies as well as helping with cleanup.

As a young boy growing up in an active Latter-day Saint family, Ken G. had never had much trouble keeping his standards high. But when he started high school, things became harder and Ken sometimes felt isolated from the good influence of his family—especially at school.
“My high school friends were all really close to me even though they were not members of the Church,” Ken says. “We still had a strong connection. The problem was they started doing things that did not follow the standards of our Church.”
At home Ken never had a problem choosing the right, but he says that when he got to school and his family was no longer around to help guide him, he started making wrong choices. “I admit I did things that were not in line with the standards of the Church, so in seminary I always felt like I was the one being talked about in the lesson.”
That’s when Ken realized he wanted to make a change, but he didn’t feel strong enough to do it on his own. “So I made a resolution to pray for God to give me the strength and the courage to say no to my friends when they did bad things,” he explains. “And I feel that God answered my prayers. It became easier for me to say no whenever my friends asked me to do something wrong or tempted me. I already had the knowledge and knew what was right and wrong. But then, through prayer, I felt like I had the power and the gift to say no and to do what was right.”
Ken says the most important thing he learned from this experience is that “prayer is a sign of your humility, because you admit to yourself that you are weak and that only God can help you become strong” (see D&C 112:10).

When I was a young man, I accompanied a Protestant friend to his church service. There I heard a minister take on the subject of sin. It was an uneven contest. That minister really beat up on sin. He condemned it. He denounced it. He castigated it. He left no doubt in the mind of anyone that he was against sin. But he didn’t give the congregation one word of definition or explanation about what it was.

Professor Bloom complimented the patience of our Church leaders. Patience is born of justified optimism. Elder Heber C. Kimball, an early Apostle, provides an impressive illustration. He returned from a mission to England in 1838 to find that half of the members in Kirtland, Ohio, had left the Church. The Prophet Joseph Smith and several key leaders were imprisoned for five months. Five of the Apostles and two of the Three Witnesses had apostatized. Thousands of the Saints in Missouri were being mobbed and driven from their torched homes. Entering this bleak situation, Elder Kimball wrote: “I can truly say that I have never seen the Church in a better state since I have been a member of it. What there [is] left are firm and steadfast, full of love and good works. They have lost all their earthly goods, and are now ready to go and preach the Gospel to a dying world!” (in Orson F. Whitney, The Life of Heber C. Kimball, 3rd ed. [Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1967], p. 246).

At that same time, Joseph Smith penned these inspiring words from Liberty Jail: “What power shall stay the heavens? As well might man stretch forth his puny arm to stop the Missouri river in its decreed course, or to turn it up stream, as to hinder the Almighty from pouring down knowledge from heaven upon the heads of the Latter-day Saints” (D&C 121:33).