Gospel Story Finder

When Ana finished her mission, she returned to her home in Ecuador’s capital city, Quito.
But she still wanted to serve. “Heavenly Father,” she prayed, “I want to keep serving, and I need to find a job. Please help me know how I can work and still help people.”
One day Ana’s prayer was answered. A man named Brother Mesa came to her house. He worked for the Church Educational System.
“Ana,” he said, “the Church needs volunteers to teach people how to read. Are you willing to help?”
“Yes!” Ana said. “Where do you need me to serve?”
He smiled. “Back in Otavalo!”
Ana smiled as she imagined being back in the villages she loved. She was grateful for the gifts Heavenly Father had given her to share—the gift of reading and the gift of the gospel. Both were miracles.

After I went home, I didn’t want to lose the connection to the Spirit that I had felt during the conference, so I made a goal to do what was necessary to keep my newfound foundation in the gospel firm and keep the Spirit with me.
Making changes was a little hard at first. I had to stop spending time with certain friends because they were not a good influence on me. I worked to give up some bad habits. I started taking church seriously. Making these decisions helped me fill my life with goodness. What has helped me stay consistently connected to the Spirit is setting aside time each day to study the scriptures, especially the Book of Mormon.
The teachings in the scriptures remind me what is really important in my life. When I feel lonely in my faith, especially with so few members here in Bulgaria, I allow the truths of ancient prophets to deepen my faith in Jesus Christ.
One of my favorite verses is Moroni 10:32: “Come unto Christ, and be perfected in him, and deny yourselves of all ungodliness; and if ye shall deny yourselves of all ungodliness, and love God with all your might, mind and strength, then is his grace sufficient for you, that by his grace ye may be perfect in Christ.”
It’s scriptures like this one that remind me of the light the gospel offers and keep me strong when I’m having a hard time. The scriptures always strengthen my foundation of faith.

On Sunday morning, December 9, 1849, at eight o’clock, about 30 children between the ages of 8 and 13 arrived in a small classroom that had been built in a home. They stamped their feet on the threshold, shook the snow off their coats and hats, then took their places on simple benches. They waited expectantly for the class to begin. It was a cold, snowy day outside, but the fireplace radiated a warm and friendly glow. Richard Ballantyne’s eyes shone brightly as he called the Sunday School to order. He led the boys and girls in a song, and then he gave a quiet but fervent prayer dedicating this room in his home for teaching children the gospel of Jesus Christ. His voice was rich, and his words rolled forth as words do under the spell of reverence and emotion. Thus we have the founding of the first Sunday School in the Salt Lake Valley.
Organizing a Sunday School was not foreign to him. In his native Scotland he had organized a Sunday School in the Relief Presbyterian Church, of which he was an active member. It was natural for him to have a great desire to educate young people in the knowledge of the gospel. He had been reared in a home where his father was fond of repeating from memory whole chapters of the Bible and then reciting them to his children. It was a home where they would not even take a sip of water without first taking off their hats and saying grace, as was also the custom before they would eat a meal.
Rumors were spreading around the Scottish home that a new prophet had been raised up in America. At first Richard paid little attention to these rumors, but as his religious questions became more perplexing, he openly sought further light and knowledge. It was in 1841 that Elder Orson Pratt appeared in Edinburgh. Richard listened to his message and investigated the Church for a year. Finally he was converted and was baptized in the North Sea. He said, “I was so convinced that Joseph Smith was a prophet and the Book of Mormon was the word of God, and that if I did not accept it I would be damned.” As was the case of many of those early converts to the Church, he sold his business and emigrated to America, taking with him his mother and some of his brothers and sisters. They arrived in Nauvoo on November 11, 1843, at a time when there was great turmoil in the city. They eventually left Illinois and made the trek to Winter Quarters. There he was married and soon made preparation for the long journey west. They arrived in the Salt Lake Valley in September of 1848 and immediately commenced building a home. It was in this home that the first Sunday School in the valley was held. When the chapel—the old 14th Ward—was completed, the Sunday School moved to the new meetinghouse.
Brother Ballantyne had a fervent desire to teach young people the gospel of our Lord and Savior throughout his entire life. Thanks be to the late Conway Ballantyne Sonne, a cousin of mine, for this history of the first Sunday School (see Conway B. Sonne, Knight of the Kingdom: The Story of Richard Ballantyne [1949], 7–48).

Years ago a friend of mine went to a large university to study under the ranking authority in the field of counseling and guidance. This professor quickly took an interest in this personable, intelligent young Latter-day Saint. He attracted attention as he moved through the course work required for a doctor’s degree.
He chose the Latter-day Saint bishop as the subject for his dissertation. All went well until he described the ordination of a bishop, the power of discernment, and the right of a bishop to spiritual guidance.
His doctoral committee felt that such references had no place in a scholarly paper, and they insisted that he take them out. He thought he might at least say that Latter-day Saints believe the bishop has spiritual insight. But the committee denied him even this, for they would be quite embarrassed to have this spiritual ingredient included in a scholarly dissertation.
He was told that with some little accommodation—specifically, leaving out all the references to revelation—his dissertation would be published and his reputation established.
He did the best he could. His dissertation did not contain enough about the Spirit to satisfy him and too much to be fully accepted by his worldly professors. But he received his degree.
I asked this friend what was the most important thing he had learned in his study of bishops. He answered, “I learned that the mantle is far, far greater than the intellect, that the priesthood is the guiding power.”

If we follow up, the Lord will not let us down. I have seen the unspeakable joy that accompanies testimony-driven inviting and faithful follow-up among members of the Church the world over. While in Argentina recently, I encouraged members to invite someone to church before this general conference. An eight-year-old by the name of Joshua listened and invited his best friend and his friend’s family to an open house at their ward in Buenos Aires. Let me read from a letter I just received that explained Joshua’s invitation and his faithful follow-up:
“Every few minutes [Joshua] would run out to the gate to see if they were coming. He said that he knew they would [come].
“The evening wore on and Joshua’s friend did not come, but Joshua did not give up. He faithfully checked the front gate every few minutes. It was time to start putting things away when Joshua started to jump up and down announcing, ‘They are here! They are here!’ I looked up to see an entire family approaching the church. Joshua ran out to greet them and hugged his friend. They all came in and seemed to enjoy the open house very much. They took some pamphlets and spent lots of time getting acquainted with some new friends. It was great to see the faith of this little boy and to know that Primary children can be missionaries too.”

My grandfather used to graze his cattle each summer in the beautiful, lush, high mountain valleys east of our town in central Utah. However, the cattle craved and needed supplemental nutrients from licking rock salt. The rock salt came from a salt mine some distance away. Grandfather replenished the salt at the salt licks by putting a packsaddle on a sturdy horse and filling the packsaddle with rock salt. I called the packhorse Slowpoke for good reason. Grandfather put me on Slowpoke with the saddle loaded with rock salt. He gave me the reins so I could guide the horse up the mountain following Grandfather on his horse.
My horse Slowpoke was slow, but I didn’t push him because he carried such a heavy load. It took a full day to ride up the mountain to the salt licks and to unload the rock salt from the pack animal. As the day got warmer, my sweaty legs would sting as they rubbed against the lumps of rock salt in the packsaddle. It was a joy when we crossed a stream and I could get off the horse and get rid of the sting by washing and drying my legs.
Grandfather would sing most of the day. Mostly he sang the songs of Zion. But one song he sang that impressed me greatly was “Show me your companions, and I will tell you what you are.” Looking back on it, taking salt to the mountain valley was an enjoyable experience, while the additional nutrients from the rock salt fortified the cattle.

On Sunday Keith was getting ready to leave for church when the doorbell rang. It was a group of his friends holding bats and balls and baseball mitts. “Hey, Keith,” his neighbor Matthew said, “we’re going to the school to play, and we need another baseman. Can you come with us?”
“No,” mumbled Keith, feeling self-conscious in his Sunday clothes. “I’m going to church.”
“See!” an older boy in the back spoke up loudly. “That’s a Johnson boy for you.”
As the group walked away, Keith could still hear the big boy’s voice. “His brother made the whole school team lose because he wouldn’t play on Sunday, either.”
Keith felt tears sting his eyes, and he quickly closed the door.
“Who was that, Keith?” asked his mother.
Keith spoke sadly. “My friends don’t like me because I can’t play with them on Sunday. Sometimes I wish that I wasn’t a Johnson boy!”
Keith’s mother sat him on the couch next to her and put her arm around him. “Sometimes it’s not easy to do the right thing. It wasn’t always easy for Jason either.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No. But he knew that he had an even greater name to live up to than just Johnson. It’s the same name you’ll take upon you when you are baptized.”
“Jesus’ name?”
“Yes, and you’ll also promise to always remember Jesus and keep His commandments, just as you always think about Jason now and try to do all that he would do.”
“You mean Jason is trying to be like Jesus?”
Keith’s mother nodded.
“Now I really want to be like Jesus and Jason.”
Later, as they entered the church, the bishop shook Keith’s hand. “How’s the Johnson boy?” he asked. “Are you getting excited about your baptism?”
“You bet!” Keith grinned. “Bishop, is it all right if I invite my neighbors Matthew and Mrs. Peters, and my teacher Mr. Lee to my baptism?”
“Sounds like a good idea to me.” The Bishop winked at Keith’s parents and said, “It sounds just like something Jason would do.”

Let me share with you some great examples from my experience. Two Christmases ago we received a phone call on Sunday evening. The caller did not identify himself, rather he asked if we would be home. My son said, “Yes,” but before he could tell him it was our family home evening, the caller said, “Fine, then tell your folks to expect a visitor about 9:00 P.M.” Family home evening was held and the caller forgotten. Then refreshments were served, and right in the middle of the activity, the doorbell rang. Our son answered the door and, lo and behold, there was Santa Claus. Now I know this was the real Santa Claus because I looked at his boots. He had real boots on, not vinyl coverings. He came into the living room smiling and laughing. He shook hands with everyone; then he had each of my children sit on his knee, and he visited with them. Then he turned to me and he said, “Bishop, will you come over here?” So I went over and sat on the floor Indian-style in front of him. He said, “Santa Claus wants to do something.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope and he said, “I want you to give this to some needy person this year.” Tears came to his eyes as he passed me the envelope. I opened the envelope and there was a fresh, crisp $100 bill. Then Santa said, “I’ll come back next year and give you another one and see what you did with the first one.”

I took the $100 bill and put it in my wallet. Everytime I opened my wallet I was reminded to search for someone to whom I could give it. I went to many cities and countries, always watching and praying that I would give it to the right party. I saw many in need, many who could have used it, but I never felt impressed to give it away.

Then at the area conference in Sweden, I met a good friend of mine, Hakan Palm. I asked him if he knew anyone who needed this money. He told me of a lady whose husband had passed away. She lived way up in the north of Sweden above the Arctic Circle. She worked at a hotel as a cleaning woman to support herself and her two children. The missionaries who labored in that community knew she could never afford to go to the area conference without help, so they wrote home to their fathers. They told of the plight of this faithful Latter-day Saint who lived in such humble circumstances. The father of one of the missionaries wrote back to his son and sent enough money to get this woman and her two children to the area conference. It was an answer to her prayers. Now she could take her two children and the three of them could see the prophet, something she hadn’t even dared to hope would take place in this life.

She and her children traveled to Stockholm in pure faith. She did not have the slightest idea how they would get back home or what they would use for food and lodging while in Stockholm. Hakan Palm said $100 would take care of their meager needs while they attended the area conference and would pay their way back home. I think that a kind and loving Father in heaven knew her needs and put the $100 bill in its trajectory course (as Elder Neal Maxwell would say) to provide this family with the means to see the prophet.

Since publishing her book, Mirror, Ana Carolina has appeared on television talk shows, has been featured in newspaper and magazine articles and has held public autograph sessions. She has been compared to several well-known Brazilian poets whose talents also were discovered when they were children. All this sudden success has caused some concern for her parents. But how does Ana Carolina feel about becoming famous? “My life is going to change only a little,” she says with confidence.

While on a mission tour recently, I met a young missionary by the name of Elder Tshiambwe. He came from a small village in a remote part of Africa. He wanted to serve a mission but was unable to afford even the basic requirements, such as a passport, needed to prepare for a call to serve. He and his father came up with a plan. Using his bicycle, Elder Tshiambwe would transport bananas from the many small banana growers in the region to the markets in the larger villages. His banana transportation business earned him a small but steady income from which he was able to save for his mission. For several years he saved and planned for his mission. When he was finally ready, he received a call from the President of the Church to serve in his native country. He is now returned from his mission, but it is no surprise that he served with honor and distinction. He had learned in his youth that he was an agent, not an object. He had the ability to act, not simply be acted upon. Elder Tshiambwe was an agent with power to act and to take control of his life. I am confident that he will go forward and do many good things in his life as a result of these lessons learned.

“Working on Daughters in My Kingdom as a graphic designer was a rare and extraordinary experience. In our first meeting, Sister Julie B. Beck, Relief Society general president, bore her testimony to us that the book was coming forth under revelation and the instruction of living prophets. From that first day, revelation guided everything. Every time any one of us read from the book’s pages, we were touched by the Spirit and changed for the better. It happened to me, and I watched it happen to editors, designers, illustrators, production artists, and press employees.”—Tadd Peterson

The Lord has promised, “I will tell you in your mind and in your heart, by the Holy Ghost, which shall come upon you and which shall dwell in your heart.” I began to understand this as a young missionary in Scotch Plains, New Jersey. One hot July morning my companion and I felt prompted to look up a Temple Square referral. We knocked on the door of the Elwood Schaffer home. Mrs. Schaffer politely turned us away.

As she began to shut the door, I felt to do something I had never done before and have never done since! I stuck my foot in the door, and I asked, “Is there anyone else who might be interested in our message?” Her 16-year-old daughter, Marti, did have an interest and had fervently prayed for guidance just the day before. Marti met with us, and in time her mother participated in the discussions. Both of them joined the Church.

Resulting from Marti’s baptism, 136 people, including many of her own family, have been baptized and made gospel covenants. How grateful I am that I listened to the Spirit and stuck my foot in the door on that hot July day. Marti and a number of her dear family members are here today.

Illustration by Brooke Smart
When I was about halfway through seventh grade, my mom told my siblings and me that she had felt prompted to remove us from public school and teach us at home. I didn’t think much would change.
I gained new friends in the homeschool group and strengthened friendships I had at church, but I still thought that my old school friends were my “best friends.” Toward the end of eighth grade, I started to contact my old friends more and more, and as I did, I realized just how much we had all changed. Whenever I spoke to them or texted them, the feeling I got was not a positive one, and I constantly felt the pull of the adversary tempting me to ignore Church standards. I started trying to impress my old school friends so that I could be accepted back in their group.
Eventually, I realized that trying to impress others was not making me happy and that spending time with those who shared my standards did make me happy. I stopped trying to impress my old friends. Though I soon lost touch with them, I no longer felt the adversary’s pull on me. I felt free and happy that I had released myself from the spiritual prison I had created.
I believe in the importance of surrounding yourself with people who support you in living righteously. Now I am blessed with good friends who help me live the standards in the For the Strength of Youth and who encourage me to build my testimony.

A young adult woman had a gift for writing and some personal experience with depression. When her teenage sister was dealing with a difficult situation at school, she was able to recognize that her sister was slipping into despondency. Heeding the Spirit’s promptings, she wrote her sister a series of beautiful notes, expressing her love and confidence, one for each day of an especially trying two-week period. In that small choice to meet her sister’s need, this young woman was living her mission.

Raking leaves wasn’t as easy as Shannon had thought it would be. And it wasn’t as much fun as it looked. The rake was taller than she was and was hard to hold.
“Do you want me to help you?” her mother asked.
“No, thank you,” said Shannon. “I want to do it by myself to surprise Dad.”
The autumn air was crisp like the crunchy leaves crackling under her feet. But the sun shone brightly, and, feeling hot from the exercise, she took off her sweater.
“Would you like a glass of lemonade?” Mom asked.
This time Shannon said yes.
“Dad will be pleased with your surprise.”
“I know.” Shannon finished her drink and hurried back outside. She wanted to be done before Dad got home.
She raked and raked and raked. Finally there was only a giant pile of colored leaves in the middle of the yard. She could hardly wait to show her surprise to Dad.
Mom called to her from the kitchen window. “Guess whom I hear pulling up.”
Shannon ran around the house and down the sidewalk to greet her father. A sudden gust of wind almost swept her off her feet, but Dad caught her and gave her a bear squeeze. “I’d better hang on to you,” he said, laughing. “I don’t want my favorite daughter to blow away.”
“Come to the backyard, Dad,” she said, pulling him along. “I have a surprise for you.”
Just before they got there, Shannon said, “Now close your eyes and don’t open them until I say so.” She led him the rest of the way, going slowly so that he wouldn’t trip. “My pile of leaves!” she wailed. “It’s gone everywhere!”
Dad opened his eyes. “Don’t feel bad, honey,” he said after she’d choked out what had happened. “It was a wonderful surprise.”
“How could it be wonderful when it’s not even there anymore?”
“Well, a pile of leaves isn’t really the surprise—it’s knowing that a special little girl worked very hard to do something nice for her dad. The wind can’t blow that away, no matter how hard it tries.”
Shannon brightened up. “Really?”
“Really,” Dad said and kissed her forehead. “I bet the two of us could rake up these leaves again in no time if we did it together.”
Shannon smiled. “I’ll get the rake.”

I would like to share with you a personal experience. When I served as bishop many years ago, a fine young man in our ward had fallen in love before being called to serve his mission. He made it known that he was going to get married and would not be available for missionary service. I worried how I was going to approach this young man because I felt an urgency as his bishop to see that he served our Father in Heaven as a missionary. When I invited Doug into my office, I approached him in a different way than I had ever approached a prospective missionary. I was prompted to say, “Doug, the Lord wants you to serve a mission.” Doug said he was not going to serve a mission because he was going to be married. I asked him to get together with his sweetheart and his parents and to fast and to pray. I asked him to come back within a week and tell me what he was going to do about the fact that he had been called to serve the Lord.
One week later, with a great deal of emotion, Doug said to me, “Bishop, we did what you asked us to do. I cannot ignore a call from the Lord. I desire to serve. How do I proceed?” Doug served his mission. In fact, he served as a counselor to his mission president. Upon returning, he married his sweetheart. She waited for him—that is not always the case, and it may not always be best that they do—but in Doug’s case it worked out. He has since served as a bishop and presently serves as the first counselor in his stake presidency. His mission was one of the most important training periods of his life.

When I was a boy growing up in Denmark, my friends and I liked to play tag. But one day we grew tired of playing the same old game, so we sat down and tried to think of something new and exciting to do.
“Let’s go to the harbor,” one friend suggested. “We can look at the boats and watch the fishermen.”
We all liked that idea, so we hopped on our bikes. Sure enough, there was a lot more action there! Sailors washed their boats while other fishermen cleaned and sold fish. Until the fish were sold, they were kept alive in well boxes—floating crates with small holes to allow water to flow in and out. The boxes bobbed between the boats and bumped into each other as the waves rushed in.
It wasn’t long before we were bored of just watching.
“Let’s play tag,” a friend suggested.
“Again?” another boy groaned.
My friend pointed to the well boxes with a sly grin. “Out there.”
Soon we were all leaping from box to box, which was much more exciting than playing tag at home. The slippery boxes jostled with each incoming wave. One time I fell off and landed with a splash. Sputtering seawater, I pulled myself back onto a crate and leaped onto another one. My foot broke right through it! Fish nibbled at my toes. It tickled, and I shrieked in laughter.
“Hey, you boys!” a gruff voice called. I looked up to see an angry fisherman coming toward us. “Get away from those well boxes before you break them. If you don’t get out of here, I’ll tell your parents!”
We scrambled back to shore, took off our wet socks and tied them to our bicycle handlebars, and took off. Our clothes dried in the wind as we pedaled home.
My clothes may have dried, but the smell of fish gave me away. When I walked in the door, Mother took one sniff and asked what had happened.
“I went to the harbor with my friends. I was playing on a well box, and I slipped and fell in the water,” I admitted.
To my surprise, Mother’s eyes filled with tears. “Jens, you must never play there again. Think of what could have happened! You could have been hurt or even drowned.” She hugged me tight. “I would be so sad, Jens. What would I do without you? You must promise never to play there again.” I gave Mother my word.
But a few weeks later, my friends came over and invited me to go with them to the harbor. Remembering the fun we’d had last time, I got on my bike and followed them. I forgot all about the promise I had made to my mother.
“You’re it!” A friend tagged me and jumped onto a bobbing well box.
I was about to chase him when suddenly I saw my mother’s face, just as if she were right in front of me, her eyes filled with tears. My heart stopped. I had broken my promise!
“I have to go home now,” I called to my friends.
“What?” one of them whined. “Why? We just got here.”
“I have to go home,” I repeated, climbing onto my bike.
My friends complained and tried to coax me into staying, but I wouldn’t listen. One by one, they all headed for home, too.
I put my bike away as quietly as possible and went to my room. I felt sick with shame that I had gone where I had promised Mother I would not go.
After a while Mother came into my room. “I can tell something is bothering you, Jens. What’s wrong?”
Lowering my head, I said quietly, “I went to the harbor with my friends today. I forgot that I had promised you I wouldn’t. But as soon as I got there, I remembered. I came right home. So did my friends. Mother, I’m sorry I forgot!”
When I looked up, Mother was beaming. “Jens! I’m so happy you remembered. Because you did, you set an example for your friends and none of you were hurt.”
A while later she brought me a glass of milk and a piece of freshly baked cake. Mother made the best cake in the whole world. I was grateful for the warm treat—but more grateful for the warmth of remembering to do right.

Early in 2003, just two years into our quinoa research project, I visited traditional quinoa production fields in the Bolivian Altiplano. There, highly diverse quinoa fields were partly infested with the local weedy goosefoot, and the two often cross-pollinated. Impoverished subsistence farmers who lacked mechanization would walk through the fields and separately harvest the black-seeded weedy quinoa, which they often consumed in popped form. Later, in early November 2003, I broke away for a day from a scientific conference in Denver to see what quinoa production looked like in the United States, visiting the main growing region around Alamosa in southern Colorado. The discouraged Colorado grower I met with complained that every three years they had suffered near-total yield losses due to pressure from insect pests and excessive heat. From those two experiences, my colleagues and I started thinking that maybe the solution to failed quinoa production in the United States was to cross it with lowland-adapted strains of goosefoot.

The next year, in 2004, we started collecting seeds from weedy populations, mostly in Utah and Arizona. Since then, our collection has expanded to include samples from hundreds of goosefoot populations growing in environments as diverse as the Sonoran and Mojave Deserts, the coast of the Gulf of Mexico, the Great Plains, California, and even as far east as the coast of New England. We are now crossing elite quinoas with these exotic goosefoot strains and producing breeding populations that we share with quinoa breeders in a dozen countries on four continents.

Two years ago, while revisiting the Colorado quinoa region, this time during the growing season, we noticed that the production fields had native goosefoot plants growing around their margins. In addition, the quinoa fields contained many plants showing intermediate characteristics between quinoa and the weedy form—just like we were accustomed to seeing in Andean quinoa fields in Bolivia and Peru. The next year we sampled fifteen plants showing varying degrees of goosefoot characteristics, and after DNA sequence analysis by one of my students, Jake Taylor, and Drs. Maughan and Jarvis, we confirmed the extensive introgression of goosefoot genes into this population. Interestingly, many years after the quinoa disaster of 2003, the problem was no longer failure to set seed; it was now a problem of heterogeneity due to the natural outcrossing process, which was converting quinoa into an adapted crop through genetic mixing with its weedy but native cousin. In other words, weedy goosefoot genes had literally saved the Colorado quinoa industry.

“I remember the excitement of being chosen as a crossing guard in sixth grade and how cold it was walking in the snow all the way to the school on the hill when I was in seventh grade. My biggest challenge was applying myself in school. I was more interested in sports and other things. Then, in junior high school, I was stimulated to learn so that I gained a balance in my life. I was able to pull up my grades and earn a scholarship.
“Serving a mission in Brazil was a great turning point in my life,” declared Elder Sorensen. “When I was twenty and had just completed two years of college at the University of Chicago on an academic/athletic scholarship, I had doubts about my going on a mission. When I returned home that summer, Mom said to me, ‘Well, now you can prepare for your mission.’
“Elder Sorensen told his mother that he had changed his mind and didn’t think that he would serve a mission. “I’ll never forget the hurt look on Mom’s face,” he recalled, “after I told her my decision. She didn’t scold me, but afterward she privately cried and prayed.
“I didn’t go back to school in Chicago that fall. With the help of Mom and Dad and a wise and understanding bishop, I accepted a mission call to Brazil and left for South America in 1940.
“It wasn’t very long after I arrived in the mission field and began studying the scriptures regularly that my testimony really began to grow. Since then it has never wavered but has grown stronger. I’m grateful to the Lord and my parents for guiding me at that very important crossroad.
“Children, listen to your parents. They love you more than anyone else does, except your Father in Heaven, who has an even greater capacity to love. If you follow their good teachings and example, you will always be happy that you did. And remember to follow the counsel and guidance of Church leaders, particularly your bishop.”

When I was presiding over the New England Mission, I attended a zone conference; and as we entered the room where the young elders were waiting, I saw, sitting in the back row, a tall and elderly man.
“I was baptized a few days ago,” he said to me. “I’m 74 years old, and I found the gospel only now in my life.”
In a pleading voice he asked if he might attend the meeting. “I just want to be here to learn,” he said. “I’ll sit on the back row. I won’t interrupt.”
Then, almost in tears, he poured out his regret. “Why did I not find it until now? My life is over. My children are all raised and gone, and it is just too late for me to learn the gospel.”
What a joy it was to explain to him one of the great miracles that occurs over and over again is the transformation of those who join the Church. (Or I might say of those who rejoin the Church.) They are in the world and they are of the world, and then the missionaries find them. Though they are in the world thereafter, they are not of the world. Very quickly in their thinking and in their feelings and in their actions, it is as though they had been members of the Church all of their lives.