Gospel Story Finder

When I was young, my mother was the only member of the Church in our family. Each Sunday she would go to church alone because my dad wanted his children to go to the Methodist Church. But my dad didn’t go to church at all.
Things changed in 1989. I was baptized, and within two months of my baptism, my dad was converted to the Church as well. He later became my bishop.
It was an amazing change for my dad, and I remember it very well. I now want to be like him. Here’s why.
Before my dad became a Church member, he was doing all the bad things of the world. He drank all the time. I saw my dad drunk. I saw him smoke. He just stayed home and watched TV. We weren’t very happy.
It’s totally different now. He’s very calm, and he talks to me about incorporating the teachings of the gospel into my life. Every night before we have our evening prayers, he talks to all of us about the gospel and its importance.
Before, we used to try to have evening prayers, but my dad wouldn’t participate. He didn’t seem to care. But now he makes it a priority that we all gather together each night to thank Heavenly Father.
It’s been great to see the change in my family that the Church has brought. Because of the age I’m at, I know if my dad had gone on as he was before—not obeying the Word of Wisdom and smoking and drinking—I might have followed his example and felt like those were the things I should do. And he couldn’t have told me to stop because he was doing it too.
But he’s a member of the Church, and because he lived that other life, he knows that it won’t bring me happiness.
My dad also stresses that since I’m the oldest son, my younger brothers and younger sister are looking up to me. He says that they will follow me and I need to be a good example so they will follow me in righteousness. That’s what I’m trying to do.
It’s been a real blessing to me to have a father who honors the priesthood. He always talks to me about the priesthood before I give a talk or bless the sacrament. He reminds me that I’m a priesthood holder and that I should be proud of it because not all men have the priesthood.
So many teenagers here in Western Samoa drink and smoke and do things they shouldn’t. My dad’s example is like a protection to me.
With my dad leading the way, it’s been so much easier following the teachings of Jesus Christ. And for that I’m grateful.

When I was set apart as a new bishop of a young single adult ward, there was a line of young single adults outside my office door waiting to meet with me. Guess what we discussed in that first interview?

Pornography.

And for the next three years, trying to help young adults overcome a compulsive habit was a big aspect of my calling, so I knew I needed to learn as much as I could. I fasted, prayed, attended the temple, counseled with other leaders, reviewed all available resources, attended addiction recovery classes, and learned from those working to find recovery. I want to share some hope-filled thoughts about what I’ve learned.

Hi! My name is Breana Johnson, and I am a Merrie Miss. I have been working on my Gospel in Action program. I had a hard time thinking up a goal for the family area. I wanted to do something different, but I also wanted to do something my whole family could learn from. Most important, I wanted it to be fun for my seven sisters and my mom and dad.
When my mother came home from a women’s conference in our stake, she told me about the different classes she had attended and the many things she had learned. I could tell without even asking that it had been fun, so I decided that for my family goal I would organize the Johnson Family Conference.
I wrote a note to everyone in the family who could read, asking them to prepare a five-minute class on “How Our Family Can Be Happier.” The note also told them that the conference would be the following Sunday at four o’clock and that the theme would be “The Secret Is Love.” My sisters got excited and asked me all about what we were going to do.
All week our house was buzzing like a beehive. Everyone was getting his or her class ready but keeping it a secret from everyone else. I decided to do my class on sharing with others.
I made a program for every member of my family by folding sheets of paper in half. On the front I wrote, “Johnson’s Conference.” Below that, in red letters, I wrote, “The Secret Is Love.” On the inside I wrote the program:
Opening prayer: Mariah
Opening Song: “As I Have Loved You”
4:10 Den—Mom’s lesson
4:15 Living room—Dad’s lesson
4:20 Laresa’s room—Laresa’s lesson
4:25 Talena’s room—Talena’s lesson
4:30 Nursery—Breana’s lesson
4:35 Family room—Anissa’s lesson
4:40 Mariah’s room—Mariah’s lesson
4:45 Dining room
Closing prayer: Mom
REFRESHMENTS IN THE KITCHEN!
When my littlest sisters discovered what was going on, they wanted to do a class, too, even though they couldn’t read. So I helped Kirsha and Meleah learn a flannel board story, which they gave in the family room after Anissa’s lesson.
When Sunday finally came, everyone was ready and excited. We started in the dining room, then traveled around the house to each class. It was fun to go into the different rooms and find posters and pictures waiting. And in each room we were given handouts with a scripture or a picture or a poem that would help us remember what had been taught there. By the time we finished, I had a whole bunch of cute things to hang on the bulletin board in my bedroom.
After all the lessons, we met back in the dining room and had a special family testimony meeting. Testimonies were borne by each person in our family. It was a very special time. I felt a lot of love for my family, and I could tell that the rest of my family felt the same way.
After the testimony meeting, we had a closing prayer. Then I served the fudge pudding cake I had made. We lingered at the table, talking and laughing. We were having such a great time that no one wanted our family conference to end.
Finally some of my sisters started to leave. But before they went, they all said that they wanted to have another Johnson Family Conference sometime. I felt very happy. Maybe I’ve even started a new Johnson family tradition!

After I finished high school, I was working to save money for a mission. Soon my desire to serve a mission became lost because I enjoyed the money I was making. It would have been a sacrifice to go on a mission because the money I earned helped support my family. Each time I started filling out my mission forms, I thought about the money I would be giving up, and I dropped my forms and continued working.
As my friends left on missions, I felt bad because I knew I should also be getting ready to go. This caused me to examine myself. I thought, “Sustaining the prophet and my leaders is not just raising my right hand. It’s doing what they say and obeying our Heavenly Father’s commandments.”
Now was the time to serve a mission, so I submitted my mission papers to the bishop. It was the second happiest day of my life. The happiest was the day my bishop called me to his office and gave me a white envelope with my mission call to the Nigeria Ibadan Mission. My heart was full of joy.
In the missionary training center, I became better acquainted with the doctrines of the gospel and learned marvelous things. I was also able to receive my endowment in the temple. I am so grateful for my decision to come on a mission, and I have never regretted it. I too have grown spiritually on my mission. I believe it is because I am helping people receive the same gospel blessings that have brought so much happiness to me and my family.

A few weeks ago, Ruby and I were up in Oakley, Idaho, for a couple of days, restoring our old family home. I had a phone call from Lenore Romney in Detroit, Michigan. Lenore is the wife of George Romney. She said, “George died this morning.” She wanted to know if I could arrange to attend the funeral. I told her I would be honored to come but that I would need to arrange it with those who are my superiors in the Church.
After I hung up the phone, I walked up the street from our old family home. I walked across the canal over to the area where the Romneys used to live. George’s father’s name was Gaskell Romney. My father was their bishop. I looked at the area. The house wasn’t there anymore. Then I walked along the old irrigation canal bank. I looked at the area where my father baptized me. I looked at where George and I used to swim. Swimming suits in those days were a pair of bib overalls, not the high-fashioned kind you see today but the real denim, old-fashioned bib overalls. We cut the legs off and cut the pockets out so we wouldn’t drown. That’s all we had for swimming suits. We used to sit on the canal bank in a little bit of sunshine and shiver because it was so cold. But swimming was our main recreation. George and I were about the same age. He was my friend. He was my pal.
As I walked along the canal bank, thinking about George, I thought of a poem by Rosemary and Stephen Vincent Benét that they had written about Nancy Hanks, the mother of Abraham Lincoln. Abraham Lincoln was only seven when Nancy Hanks died, and they loved each other very much. But in that tender poem, the Benéts reflected that if Nancy Hanks came back today, she might ask, Whatever happened to my boy, Abe? Did he get to town? Did he learn to read? Did he ever amount to anything? (See “Nancy Hanks,” in Edwin Markham, comp., The Book of American Poetry [New York: Wm. H. Wise and Co., 1936], pp. 791–92).
George’s mother had died while he was a teenager. She didn’t get to see what he became. At the funeral, I was honored to be there with the governor of the state of Michigan—a state of some nine million people, where George had been elected governor three times. The governor said George Romney was a great man who never allowed service to man to obscure service to God. The Detroit News said George Romney used his religion as a compass to chart his public life.

Alex’s testimony was strengthened further following a dream he had in which he was called on a full-time mission. He began preparing but didn’t wait until he was 19 to begin sharing the gospel, starting with his own family.
“Alex always prayed for and encouraged his family,” says Bishop Sayas. “And he would always encourage his older brothers to attend church. The effort to bring his family back succeeded because of Alex.”
“It was Alex who was always working with us and with ward members on our behalf,” Carmen says. “They told us he was always praying for his parents to return to church. We’re grateful he didn’t give up on us.”
If Latter-day Saints are good examples, Alex says, others will eventually take notice. “If we are happy and content in the Church, others are going to want to partake of our happiness. If we endure and move forward, miracles can occur.”

“What’s this?” Sam asked Mom, poking the pile of clothes on the kitchen chair.
“Sister Fernandez brought them over for you,” Mom said. “Why don’t you try them on while I finish making the salad?”
“OK!” Sam grabbed the clothes and headed to his room.
First he tried on a couple of T-shirts, one red and one blue. They fit just fine. So did the church pants, which was a good thing. His own church pants had been looking kind of short lately.
Next Sam tried on some jeans. Jeans were great for playing in, and they had lots of pockets. Sam slipped his hands into the front pockets. His right hand felt a piece of paper, and he took it out to see what it was.
The paper was a dollar bill.
“Oh!” Sam held the dollar in both hands. With a dollar, he could buy a candy bar or a bag of chips or a soda. If Mom took him to the dollar store, he could even buy a toy.
Sam sighed and set the dollar bill on the dresser. It wasn’t his.
Except—Sister Fernandez had given him the clothes, hadn’t she? So in a way, she had given him the dollar. She wouldn’t care, Sam thought. She wouldn’t even remember.
Sam started to leave the room. He tried not to look at the dollar on his dresser, but his eyes went back to the money. He didn’t feel right about keeping it.
Sam picked up the dollar and took it to the kitchen. “The clothes all fit,” he said to Mom. Then he showed her the dollar. “I found this in one of the pockets.”
Mom put down the salad spoon and fork she was holding. “What do you think you should do?”
“I should give it back to Sister Fernandez.”
Mom looked at the clock. “We have time for a quick trip,” she said.
When Sam and his mother got to Sister Fernandez’s house, she welcomed them inside.
“I like the clothes,” Sam said. “But I found this in the pocket of the jeans.” He held out the dollar.
Sister Fernandez looked pleased as she accepted the money. “That reminds me of when I was a girl and found some coins in the couch cushions. When I took them to my mother instead of spending them, she was so proud of me!”
Mom put her arm around Sam’s shoulders. “Just like I’m proud of Sam.”
“Sam, would you do me a favor?” Sister Fernandez asked.
Sam nodded.
“I’d like you to buy a treat for an honest boy I know,” Sister Fernandez said, and she gave the dollar back to Sam.
“Thank you!” Sam said. His heart felt full. He knew it wasn’t because of the dollar in his hand.
That night at dinner, Mom told the rest of the family what had happened.
Sam’s little sister Rachel stopped slurping her soup and said, “So you got a dollar today!”
“You got some new clothes too,” Dad said. “But that’s not all, is it?”
“No,” Sam said. “I got something better. I got to do the right thing.”

If you were an explorer in Antarctica, you’d have the opportunity to meet another fantastic father, the emperor penguin. This stately bird has a seemingly impossible task as a father. In the middle of winter the mother penguin lays a single egg on an ice pack. For a few days she and the father penguin take turns incubating it. Then, because the mother needs to go to the sea to feed, she leaves the egg to the father to keep warm while she is gone. Through the worst part of the Antarctic winter, with temperatures ranging from -40° F (-40° C) to -100° F (-73° C) and with raging winds, the father covers the egg with his sagging belly. For most of two long, hard months this father stands faithfully holding his egg, usually huddling for warmth with a group of other penguin fathers.
When the penguin chick hatches, the father continues keeping it warm and protected as it huddles at his feet. If the mother has not yet returned, he also feeds the chick with a fluid secreted in the lining of his stomach. When the mother does return, she takes her turn caring for the chick while the father goes to feed at sea—finally! After gorging on fish and restoring his needed body fat, he returns and both he and the mother collect food for the chick. The father penguin continues providing warmth, protection, and food until the young penguin is about six months old and can fend for itself.

One case, in particular, touched me. It was about a boy from Mexico who was dying. When my dad went to see the patient, he found the mother by the boy’s bedside, weeping.
“Hola, Señora Garcia,*“ said my father, who had served a Spanish-speaking mission. Startled to hear Spanish, the woman told my dad she had brought her son from Mexico to receive care. They continued to talk, and the woman told my father she was LDS. As the only LDS emergency room doctor at the hospital—and the only one who spoke Spanish—my dad was able to give the boy a blessing of comfort before he died and help the mother with funeral arrangements.

Wonderful Primary teachers also taught me many good things. My memory of names is very poor, and yet these people’s names are engraven on my soul. I think there is a cement of love that permanently binds such people’s names to our hearts and our minds. Most of all, I remember their love toward me. My Primary teachers demonstrated that love in lots of ways. I remember them coming over to see me when I was sick. If I ever missed Primary, they were there to find out why and to check on me.

When I was a very young boy I had pneumonia, and both my lungs filled up with fluid. My father asked me if I wanted a priesthood blessing. I told him I did. I remember asking him to call my uncle to come. When they placed their hands on my head and through the holy Melchizedek Priesthood called down a blessing of heaven, I felt different. I felt something flow into me, and I knew that the priesthood was very real. The doctor had told my mother that I was in very serious condition, but the next morning I felt great. My mother took me back to the doctor, and he checked my lungs. They were completely empty of fluid.

I would like to tell you children that I love you. I think about you all the time. I want you to know that I personally pray for you, and that I care about what is happening in your lives. I have great hopes for you. This world is just as beautiful now as when I was growing up, and I hope you see the beauty around you. I know that the Savior cares about every child individually. I want you to know that. He knows you personally and cares about each one of you dearly, deeply. He wants you to succeed and be happy. I know this Church is true. If you live the commandments, you will always feel good, and the Lord will bless you.

Our cleanup person at school wanted to give us a treat for being nice. She put little bags of candies in our mailboxes (where we put our things to take home). Our teacher, Mrs. Richardson, showed us how to reach all the way to the back to make sure that we have all of our papers and things.
When Emily reached all the way back, she couldn’t find any candy, and she was sad. She told everyone that she didn’t have any candy, but no one else shared. I said, “I’ll give you my candy.”
She said, “Thank you.”
I felt good inside because I did the right thing. Mrs. Richardson told my mom what I did, because she thought it was really nice. My mom was very happy to know that I am trying to be like Jesus at school.

When I was 11 years old, I had a wonderful Primary teacher. One day in class, she walked in on a discussion among us 11-year-old boys about our mothers and how tough they were on us. Our mothers would insist that we make our beds, help with the dishes, take out the garbage, and even help with other housework.
Our teacher said nothing but went ahead with our lesson. At the end of the class, she said that on the coming Saturday morning we were going to have a special activity at her house.
That Saturday, we peddled our bicycles to her home. She gathered us around her dining room table where she had some liquids in bottles. She also had small, empty bottles for each of us. We poured so much of this and so much of that through a funnel into our bottles. We learned that we were making hand lotion for our mothers.
When we finished, our teacher gave us a small piece of paper on which she had written a verse. We each copied it down and taped the verse onto our bottles. We proudly took the lotion home to our mothers as a gift.
My mother was wise so, instead of using the lotion, she put it on the middle shelf of our bathroom’s medicine cabinet. It remained there through all my teenage years. Every day, as I opened that cabinet to get my toothbrush or comb, there on the shelf was the bottle with that handwritten verse. It was still there the day I combed my hair before leaving for my mission.
That verse impacted my life permanently. It said, “Bless the hands that never tire in their loving care for me.” That message, which I read every day, drove deep into my heart love, respect, and appreciation for my mom.

Illustrations by Natalie Hoopes
Ashley looked in the pet store window.
“Which kitten would you like?” Mom asked.
Ashley saw black kittens and striped kittens. Then she saw a gray kitten behind the others. He was so small. Ashley knew which one she wanted.
Mom and Ashley brought the gray kitten home. “What will you name him?” Mom asked.
Ashley watched him run.
“He’s so fast,” she said. “I’ll call him Speedy.”
Ashley took good care of Speedy. She gave him food and played with him every day.
Speedy liked to run outside. He chased bugs. He jumped in the grass.
One day Ashley went to the backyard. “Speedy!” she called. Speedy did not come. “Speedy!” she called louder. Speedy still did not come.
“Oh no! Speedy is lost,” Ashley said. She told Mom.
Mom and Ashley walked all around looking for Speedy. But they couldn’t find him.
Ashley started to cry. “I’m worried about Speedy.”
“Speedy will be OK,” said Mom.
“Can we say a prayer?” Ashley asked.
“Yes,” Mom said. “That’s a good idea.”
Ashley prayed for Heavenly Father to keep Speedy safe.
The next day Ashley still felt sad. Dad gave Ashley a hug.
“Maybe Speedy will be here when we get home from church.”
When the family got out of the car in the church parking lot, Ashley heard a soft sound. Meow, meow, meow.
Ashley’s eyes got big. “Speedy!” she called. He was high up in a tree by the car. Dad got Speedy down. Ashley held her kitten tight. “I’m so glad you are safe!”

One reader who was having a similar dilemma wrote to us: “Many of my friends were involved in alcohol and drugs. I wasn’t doing these things with them, but I knew I was putting myself in Satan’s path. It was very difficult to change friends, but I made myself very busy with church activities and went out with my friends from church on the weekends. When I did this, I didn’t have time to be in the wrong places with my other friends. I also spent a great deal of time praying and reading the scriptures so I could receive help, guidance, and strength from my Heavenly Father.
“It is still hard for me to hear my old friends say that I must not like them or that they must not be good enough for me, but through fasting and prayer the Lord has blessed me with the strength to handle this. The change was slow and even painful at times, but I don’t feel I have offended anyone, and my life has been richly blessed because of the choice I made.”

Every year my parents took me to visit Aunt Ruby and Uncle George, who lived on a farm. I enjoyed visiting them because there were so many things to see and do. I played in the barn, helped feed the animals, rode on the tractor, and explored their big red shed.
One time when I was nine years old, I was helping Uncle George feed the animals in the barn. “You sure are quiet this morning, Justin,” he said.
“I was thinking about what my Primary teacher said last week,” I told him.
“What did she say?” Uncle George asked as he threw some hay to one of the cows.
“She said making right choices will help me keep the promises I made to Heavenly Father when I was baptized. But it’s hard to always make the right choice.”
Uncle George nodded. “It is hard to always make correct choices. But when we live the gospel standards and follow the ‘strait and narrow path’ like the scriptures tell us to, the Lord will help us.”
I thought about the “strait and narrow path” for the rest of the morning. When we finished feeding the animals, Uncle George said, “Thanks for your help, Justin. What would you like to do now?”
“I’d like to go over to my friend Jeff’s, but Mom and Dad usually take me there.”
Tilting his hat back on his head, Uncle George said, “They’ve gone into town with Ruby. I can’t take you either, because I have to fix the tractor.”
He put his arm around my shoulders and led me to a big dry ditch. “If you get in this ditch,” he said, “you can follow it all the way to Jeff’s house. Can you do that?”
I told him I was sure I could. Before I left, he gave me two warnings. One, I was to stay in the ditch. If I got out, I could get hurt or lost. Two, I was to keep going, even if I got tired. Then he promised me that if I followed his instructions, I would have no trouble reaching my friend’s house.
At first I was nervous. The grass on both sides of the ditch was so tall I couldn’t see over it. But soon I began to see interesting things all around me, and I wasn’t afraid of being in the ditch. I found a small white snail shell and a lot of interesting plants. Then I found a pebble and put it in my pocket.
After a while, though, it wasn’t interesting anymore, and my legs were getting tired. My faith in Uncle George’s words began to waver. Maybe I had already passed Jeff’s house. Maybe I wasn’t even going in the right direction. My uncle’s warnings were still clear in my mind, but I carefully climbed to the top of the ditch so I could see over the tall grass and find out where I was.
Happily, I saw that only a fence and a large pasture stood between me and Jeff’s house. All I had to do was walk through the pasture, and I would be there. With my goal in sight, I forgot my uncle’s warnings.
I slipped through a hole in the fence and started across the pasture. All I thought about was the fun Jeff and I were going to have. I paid no attention to what was going on around me until I heard a loud snort and the snapping of breaking sticks. I turned around and saw a large bull charging toward me from the edge of the pasture.
Now I had a new goal—to reach the fence before the bull reached me. I knew the shortest distance between two points was a straight line, so I ran straight toward the hole in the fence I had climbed through earlier. I ran so fast I could hear the air whistling around my ears. All the time, I was silently praying that Heavenly Father would bless me to run faster than the bull.
The fence was getting closer, but so was the bull. I was sure I felt his hot breath on my neck as I dived through the fence to safety. He snorted loudly as he pushed his nose through the hole and realized he couldn’t reach me.
My life had been spared. Heavenly Father had answered my prayer. My heart was full of gratitude to Him.
Now all I wanted to do was return to the “strait and narrow path” and follow my uncle’s instructions. I knew there were no bulls in the ditch. It was a safe place.
I had learned that my Primary teacher and Uncle George were right. There is great safety in choosing the right and following the correct path. I realized Heavenly Father would always help me stay on the “strait and narrow path” if I would listen and obey.

Sometimes Mutual night can be built around a fun activity, such as having a game night, playing sports, or doing service projects. And sometimes it can be more serious, with discussions on standards. But what comes out of these weekly activities is something more important: experiences that strengthen testimonies and friendships. For example, one ward planned a combined Young Men/Young Women activity of Dutch oven cooking. “We each prepared a dish, and while the dishes were cooking, we played games,” remembers John E. of Idaho, USA.
“It was a great experience,” says John, “because everyone was involved and had fun. I learned what I could do better next time, including giving better instructions on how to do Dutch oven cooking.”

He was sent by the Brethren as a missionary when he was fifteen years of age. At the age of five he had lost his father, and at fourteen he had lost his mother. The record shows that he labored in Maui and in Kohala on the Big Island. Then he was transferred to the island of Molokai as the presiding elder when he was sixteen years old. Every day he and his companion, Elder Thomas A. Dowell, visited the several small branches, proselyting, healing the sick, and casting out evil spirits. With the Saints, they read the scriptures and the beautiful teachings of the Savior, and retold the story of the Restoration. Many members were indifferent and had an apathetic attitude because of false reports about the Church and the Prophet Joseph Smith.
The two companions traveled from the east to the west on Molokai. Their food was scarce, and they traveled about thirty miles every day under the hot sun, without water. One day, Elder Smith’s companion almost didn’t make it. That day, they finally reached the home of Mr. and Mrs. Myers, a German family. This couple treated them kindly and so lovingly and gave them food and lodging for several days. Not only that, but Mr. Myers furnished Elder Smith with a good riding horse so he could visit several branches. Elders Smith and Dowell were guided by the Spirit every day. They worked hard and brought converts, as well as bringing so many back into activity.

“Leave him alone!” I yelled to Laurie Hilton, the school bully. “Pick on someone your own size.”
I was tired of her picking on my little brother, Tony. If she treated him nicely—or simply let him alone—he would be fine. It was her fault that he cried. And I hated it.
“Pick on someone my own size?” Laurie sneered. “Like you?”
I wasn’t Laurie’s size. She was two grades older and a head taller. “Sure. Like me.” I tried to sound confident, but inside I was shaking. I didn’t want to fight. I just wanted her to leave Tony alone.
The bell rang and Laurie gave me a shove. “You’re going to get it after school.”
Still shaking inside, I watched her stomp away. I doubted I would really “get it” after school—Laurie would probably cool off by then. But just in case, I was going to avoid her.
My stomach was in knots even before I got to music class and found out I didn’t make the school play. I had really, really wanted a part. Any part. I didn’t have to be the star. But I didn’t even get to be an alternate.
And I sure didn’t feel any better in math class when I got my test back. I made a poor grade on it—even though I had studied hard.
“How did you do?” my best friend Audrey asked. She had helped me study the night before, and she had assured me I would make a good grade.
“Don’t ask,” I advised. I wadded up the test and threw it in the wastebasket.
I was careful not to look at Audrey. I knew what I would see if I looked into her eyes—sympathy. I could not take that. It would make me cry.
I wished I could be like Audrey. She was good at everything. She got the lead in the school play. She got straight As in math. She was beautiful.
It wasn’t fair. I wasn’t good at anything. Lately I felt like Heavenly Father had forgotten about me.
“I’m hopeless,” I told myself. “I wish I could forget about me, too.”
When I got home, I still felt like crying. I probably would have, too, if Tony hadn’t come in. “Why do you look so sad?” he asked.
I thought about telling him to get out of my room. After all, he had come in without knocking. Sometimes Tony can be a pest. But he actually looked concerned for me.
“I didn’t get the part in the play,” I told him.
“Oh.” He sat on my bed. “Well, you like to paint. Maybe you could help with the scenery.”
“It’s not just the play,” I said. “I did really badly on my math test, too.”
Then I went on to tell him how pathetic I felt—like I wasn’t good at anything.
“I’ll be right back,” he said. When he returned he had a drawing.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“It’s a picture of you.” He handed it to me. “I drew it in Primary.” He explained that his teacher had asked him to draw something he was thankful for. “So I drew you. Maybe you’re not a good actress. And maybe you’re not very good at math, either. I don’t know. But I do know one thing—you’re a good sister. In fact, you’re a great sister.” He put his arms around me.
And you know what? I felt a little better. “Thanks, Tony.”
“Something else,” he said, sitting back on my bed. “You’re really brave. You knew Laurie could hurt you, but you still stuck up for me today. You’re good at sticking up for people.”
When Tony left, I felt a lot better. He made sense. I’m not so good at some things, but that doesn’t mean I’m not good at other things. Maybe the things I’m good at are really important—maybe even more important than being a good actress or a math whiz.
Heavenly Father hadn’t forgotten about me after all. I knelt at the foot of my bed, figuring I should let Him know I hadn’t forgotten about Him either. And while I was on my knees, I thanked Him for all of my many blessings.

As President Uchtdorf spoke, my mind drifted to a time I met an unassuming member of the Church who was willing to lift wherever he was standing.
In 1985, I was stationed as a U.S. Army officer in a small town in Germany. I had served a mission in Germany 10 years previously. Upon arriving in 1983 as a soldier with my wife, Debra, and two young daughters, we began attending a serviceman’s branch of about 100 members strong. After two years, we decided to immerse ourselves fully into the German culture and began attending the small Bad Kreuznach Branch, which had about 12 members.
About the second week after we began attending, we noticed a new man there. He was in his mid-40s, and we learned that he was the high councilor assigned to our branch. He wasn’t there to conduct stake business, just to visit. We spoke for some time after church, and when we said goodbye, I figured we would next see him again in perhaps six months.
The next week, the high councilor was there again. I learned he lived about an hour away from our small town. During the remainder of his calling as a high councilor, he came to our branch two or three times a month. He was friendly, low-keyed, and encouraging. He always spoke with each member of the branch. And, with a branch that small, he was often asked to speak from the pulpit. Impressed with his dedication, in my mind I nicknamed him “the Faithful High Councilor.”
One Sunday he came to the branch services in the morning and then returned at 6:00 p.m. to attend a baptism. In between, he had gone to another branch. I have to admit that the thought actually crossed my mind, “What did he do to upset the stake president? Why else would he have been assigned to the smallest and most remote branch in the stake?” Maybe he wasn’t really the intelligent, humble, and likeable man I thought him to be. Maybe he didn’t like his home ward and used this assignment to get away. I couldn’t figure it out, so I just accepted it.
Several weeks after this baptism, I returned home after midnight on a Sunday morning. I had been training near the border between East and West Germany, and it had taken me three and a half hours to get home. I was exhausted when I walked in the door. My wife, Debra, was still up. She told me that “the Faithful High Councilor” had called. He wanted to meet with me. I asked, “Before or after church?” Church started at 10:00 a.m. I was hoping it was after church so I could sleep until 8:30.
“Before,” she said.
“9:30?”
“No. He has to go somewhere else on stake business. He wants you to meet him at his office in Frankfurt. He said to go to Gate 5.”
“What time?” I asked.
“Six,” she responded.
Now I was upset. It was already 12:30 a.m. In order to make the appointment at 6:00, I would have to get up at 4:30. That meant less than four hours of sleep. What was I going to do? I didn’t even have a phone number to call him the next morning to tell him I wouldn’t be meeting him. I dropped my clothes next to the bed and lay down without setting the alarm clock. As I lay there, these thoughts went through my mind:
If I didn’t meet “the Faithful High Councilor,” what would happen? If I didn’t show up at his office, I was sure he would make productive use of his time. The next time I spoke to him and explained why I hadn’t met him, he would respond, “Of course you made the right decision. I would never have asked you to come if I had known you were getting home so late. We can take care of that business now.” And besides, I wasn’t really a member of the branch. Sure, our records were there and we attended every week, but we were foreigners, spoke some pretty atrocious German, and would be moving in five or six months.
My conscience was almost clear. A few more minutes and I could drift off to sleep. Then I remembered the nickname I had given him and all the times “the Faithful High Councilor” had come to the branch since we had been attending. He came to that baptism late on a Sunday night. He came to a branch activity in the middle of the week. He always spoke to all the members and encouraged and inspired them. He never seemed judgmental or indifferent. He was respectful of the branch president and of his efforts. If he was disappointed in being assigned to this little branch, he certainly never showed it.
I got up and walked over to the dresser where my alarm clock sat. I set the alarm for 4:30 a.m. In deciding to meet “the Faithful High Councilor,” I was not concerned about what he would say or think if I did not. After all, I would probably never see or hear of him again after we moved. I decided to get up in less than four hours and drive 50 miles (80 km) to his office because I truly respected him for what he was, “the Faithful High Councilor.” I decided to follow his example.
I pulled my car up to Gate 5 at 6:00 a.m. that Sunday morning to be greeted by a security guard with a machine gun. He eyed my American Armed Forces license plate. He may have wondered if I was lost. Had “the Faithful High Councilor” decided not to show up? Not more than two minutes later, though, his car pulled up next to mine. He said, “Good morning, Don. Let’s go into my office.” The guard opened the gate and let us pass.
After some small talk and showing me around his office building, he came to the point of the meeting. He said he was calling me to serve as the councilor to the branch president. Not the first or second counselor—the only counselor. Before my arrival, there had been only two priesthood holders in the branch, and they had traded off every few years between being branch president and elders quorum president.
I accepted the call and served until I left three months later to attend a two-month training in the United States.
My memories of that time in my life faded as I leaned forward in my seat and refocused my attention on President Uchtdorf’s voice coming over the speaker system. I was truly impressed by the implications of his message. Unlike other times when I’ve wondered about the correlation between a speaker’s words and the speaker’s personal actions (in business, in the military, and, yes, even some talks I have heard in church), I had no doubt about President Uchtdorf‘s message. It wasn’t just the fact that President Uchtdorf’s accent reminded me of Germany and my experience with “the Faithful High Councilor.” It was the fact that President Uchtdorf was “the Faithful High Councilor.” The industrial complex we met at that early Sunday morning was the Frankfurt International Airport, where he was Chief Pilot for Lufthansa German Airlines.

In those days of struggle for the Church in England, the missionaries took part in organized sports and choral singing, trying to create a new Church image. Elder Ashton decided to give both a try. “I don’t know how well I did in the ‘Millennial Chorus’ audition,” he chuckles. “They didn’t ask me to be the chorus.” But he was more successful in basketball. In fact, he was captain of the missionary team, the “Saints,” which won a grand national championship in Britain and an all-Europe championship at Lille, France.