Gospel Story Finder

When Sadie was 13, she decided to work on Knowledge value experience 6 for Personal Progress. Sadie was going to memorize two hymns, learn the conducting patterns, and lead them in Young Women meetings.
One of the best places to practice was in the car. Sadie and her mother would put on some music and then figure out the patterns for different songs. It was a lot of fun, and Sadie loved it. “Mom and I would be in the car, and she would help me figure out how to lead. It was really hard, but I really liked it.”
Even the harder time signatures were fun for Sadie. “I ran into songs I couldn’t figure out. I could do the 4/4 time, but the 6/8 and 3/4 took a lot longer to figure out.”
Sadie led her hymns in Young Women and was able to complete her value experience, but conducting music for Sadie didn’t end there. She became a regular in Young Women.
Her Young Women leader mentioned to the ward chorister that if he ever needed a substitute in sacrament meeting, Sadie was capable of doing it. Soon Sadie was asked to lead. But that first time was hard. “I was really scared, and I just looked at my family the whole time. I was too afraid to look out at everybody else. The ward was nice about it. They were supportive of me learning.”
Then she was asked to substitute for a month or two. That’s when she gained confidence. She enjoyed going to the bishop and talking about the topics for sacrament meeting so she could select the right hymns.
When Sadie was 15, the bishop called her to be the ward choir director. “At first,” said Sadie, “I was really excited. Then I realized it was a big calling, and it would be a lot of work. But it’s been great. I’ve had a lot of support from people who sing in the choir and even from people that don’t sing. They will ask how they can help.”
Sadie has sung in choirs since she was seven, but she had never tried to direct one. Now she is clapping out the beats and teaching parts to the choir. “We’re not going to be the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, but we really try to focus on the words and the spirit of the song. If we miss a few notes, that’s fine, but if we have the Spirit with us, it’s a lot nicer.”
Sadie would never have guessed that just completing a value experience in Personal Progress would possibly lead to her future educational plans. She loves being a choir director and would like to go into music education and perhaps become a school choir director. “I love music. Now that it’s a part of my life, it really seems like a gift that has been given to me.” Sadie was chosen as a drum major in her school band.
Looking back, Sadie is a little surprised by where she has come since learning how to lead music with her mother as they drove in the car—something they never would have done without being motivated to fulfill her Personal Progress.
“I knew I would gain great things from Personal Progress, but I didn’t know it would shape what I would do every day and a possible career in college. It’s amazing.”

My wife, Harriet, and I love riding our bicycles. It is wonderful to get out and enjoy the beauties of nature. We have certain routes we like to bike, but we don’t pay too much attention to how far we go or how fast we travel in comparison with other riders.

However, occasionally I think we should be a bit more competitive. I even think we could get a better time or ride at a higher speed if only we pushed ourselves a little more. And then sometimes I even make the big mistake of mentioning this idea to my wonderful wife.

Her typical reaction to my suggestions of this nature is always very kind, very clear, and very direct. She smiles and says, “Dieter, it’s not a race; it’s a journey. Enjoy the moment.”

How right she is!

Sometimes in life we become so focused on the finish line that we fail to find joy in the journey. I don’t go cycling with my wife because I’m excited about finishing. I go because the experience of being with her is sweet and enjoyable.

Such hopes make our lives interesting and can often lead to unusual, even superstitious behavior. For example, my father-in-law is a huge sports fan, but he is convinced if he doesn’t watch his favorite basketball team on television, they are more likely to win. When I was 12 years old, I insisted on wearing the same pair of unwashed socks to every Little League baseball game in the hopes of winning. My mother made me keep them on the back porch.

I often saw young men passing by, dressed in a white shirt and ties, two by two. I thought they were Jehovah’s Witnesses.
And, since I was looking for the truth and didn’t know where to find it, why not try them? I said to myself.
When questioning them, they introduced themselves as missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
After two lessons, they invited me to attend sacrament meeting, and, miraculously, I finally felt inner peace. I finally felt at home because I had found the truth I was seeking.

Often in the temple, and as we engage in family history research, we feel promptings and have impressions from the Holy Ghost. Occasionally in the temple the veil between us and those on the other side becomes very thin. We get additional assistance in our efforts to be saviors on Mount Zion.
Several years ago in a temple in Central America, the wife of one of our now-emeritus General Authorities assisted a father, a mother, and their children in receiving eternal covenants in the sealing room, where the temple mirrors are located. As they concluded and faced those mirrors, she noticed there was a face in the mirror that was not in the room. She inquired of the mother and learned that a daughter had passed away and accordingly was not physically present. The deceased daughter was then included by proxy in the sacred ordinance. Never underestimate the assistance provided in temples from the other side of the veil.

A few weeks before school started, I was sitting on the porch with my friends Grace and Ron when the discussion turned to how much Grace disliked her father. This wasn’t a new topic for her.
“He always embarrasses me in public just by being there. It is just so annoying when he always …” She went on to talk about her father’s failings and how he wasn’t living up to her expectations.
Ron decided he would take over the conversation by talking about his family and how he didn’t think his mom was home enough and that he didn’t like the way she dressed. He didn’t think he should have a curfew or that his dad should yell so much.
The whole time I just sat on the porch swing waiting for them to ask me what I didn’t like about my family. I couldn’t say I didn’t love my family. Moving five times in my lifetime had given my brother, sister, and me really tight bonds. We depended on each other and stuck up for one another. Our closeness was something my mother was very proud of.
Then Grace said, “What about your family, Scott?”
I didn’t say anything for a minute. I was choosing my words carefully, knowing the things I said would represent what I believe in. When I finally spoke, I felt the Spirit guiding my words. There were no interruptions from either of them as I spoke of how much my family means to me and that I hope to spend eternity with them. I encouraged them to be more patient with their families. I told them to look at the big picture.
I ran inside the house and got my copy of the proclamation on the family by the First Presidency and Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. I read to them the seventh paragraph, focusing mostly on what qualities we should base our family relationships on: “Happiness in family life is most likely to be achieved when founded upon the teachings of the Lord Jesus Christ. Successful marriages and families are established and maintained on principles of faith, prayer, repentance, forgiveness, respect, love, compassion, work, and wholesome recreational activities” (Liahona, Oct. 1998, 24).
After reading that, I said, “This is what my family believes. This is what we want to be and are striving for. I know if I can do all that, then I will be able to stand tall on the Judgment Day with my family, knowing we are going to live together forever.”
I didn’t know how well my friends took this information because of a long pause from both of them. We just sat there for a while, pondering what had been said.
Later a thousand thoughts went through my mind. I was proud I was preparing for a mission by sharing the Church’s teachings on families with my friends. But was I doing it appropriately? And what would they think if I tried to explain more about the gospel?
As I was getting ready for bed, I flipped through my scriptures and turned to section 4 of the Doctrine and Covenants. Here we are told if we serve the Lord in missionary service “with all [our] heart, might, mind and strength,” then we “may stand blameless before God at the last day” (D&C 4:2).
Of course, my friends and I still have our disagreements. But I realized no one ever loses a true friend just by talking about religion and beliefs. Although Grace and Ron didn’t join the Church, I have continued my friendship with them. It felt good to explain my beliefs to them. Just because they didn’t immediately change what they believed about families or religion didn’t matter. I know there are hundreds of stories about the value of perseverance in missionary service. Mine may end up one of them.

Not content with merely being very good, the post gets together every Wednesday to practice their routines and become even better.
In the ward cultural hall balloons squeak as several clowns practice making balloon animals under Howard’s guidance. Others work on a skit. Brother Buchanan’s voice is heard. “Remember to work the crowd. Don’t just stand around. Work the crowd. Get them involved!”
Howard is demonstrating an airplane. Dr. Funnybones, experimenting, suddenly discovers that he has created a monkey hanging from a branch. Several other clowns stop to look. “How did you do that?”
Dr. Funnybones looks at his creation in awe. “I have absolutely no idea.” There is a camaraderie here, a palpable warmth and love, but there is also a serious sense of taking care of business. The Explorers have often prayed that they can make a difference in the lives of those they clown for. Now they are working hard to become part of the answer to their own prayers.

He worked as a driver for a local cacao company in his hometown until civil war and unrest led him to move to Abidjan in 2004. There he encountered Latter-day Saint missionaries and learned about the restored gospel.
He was baptized on March 25, 2005, and his testimony has only continued to grow from there.
“Six months after my baptism, President [Gordon B.] Hinckley invited all the members around the world to read the Book of Mormon. Following President Hinckley’s invitation, my mind began to open, and the message of the Restoration became clearer for me to understand,” Bishop says.
But it was those missionaries’ initial love and interest in him as a person that first piqued his interest.
“My conversion did not begin with the [gospel] teachings. . . . I was only impressed by the missionaries; I loved their mark of attention towards me.”
And those missionaries probably had no idea how much that “mark of attention” would mean to Bishop. It became a huge focal point in his life and how he now shares the gospel with others.

For a girl who directs high school plays, sews costumes, memorizes Shakespeare, studies Russian, and performs on her school’s dance team, it’s a wonder she finds time to do anything else—especially take care of her diabetes. Adrienne was diagnosed with diabetes when she was 11, but she hasn’t let that get her down.
“There’s really no point in being sad about it,” Adrienne says, “because it’s not going to change it. You might as well make the best of the situation and do things a normal kid would do.” She makes sure to take care of herself physically and spiritually. She tries to do constructive things that make her happy. “If you do all you can, pray, and have faith in Heavenly Father,” she says, “then He’ll help you accomplish the rest.”
Adrienne has been a resource to many around her. Before moving to Utah, she was asked to teach a class on diabetes at a science museum in Minnesota. “It’s fun being able to bring something exciting out of a trial like this,” she says.
She’s also discovered that the gospel is a strength. “The Savior went through a lot more than I did. And I know that He always understands. You try your hardest, and if that’s all you can do, then don’t stress.”

My husband and I now have four kids. We’ve learned the dance and the juggle of parenthood. In the beginning, I began most days at 4:00 a.m. to get some painting in before my kids woke up. I tried to paint six days a week, even if some days only allowed 30 minutes. I started each painting session with prayer, knowing I wasn’t much without the Lord’s help. I prayed not only to be enabled in my art but also to know what was most important that day and committed to putting His purposes first. Progress wasn’t fast, but it was steady.

Fast forward 12 years from my graduation day. I was having a moment of discouragement. Life seemed too full. Motherhood had been more challenging than I had anticipated. I sat at my easel crying, wondering if I would ever really be able to become the great artist I had dreamed of being. I felt impressed to pull my old journal off the shelf, and I turned to my entry on April 30, 2006, the day after my graduation. I had totally forgotten my remarkable experience with President Nelson! Somehow the whirlwind of life had almost eroded it from my memory. There before me were words from the current prophet, “Absolutely!” The tears turned to ones of gratitude as I looked back at all I had been able to accomplish since that time, and I also looked forward with hope.

A few months later, I got a call from one of the Ensign magazine’s designers, asking if they could use one of my paintings on the inside cover of the November 2018 general conference issue. I was floored! Growing up, the first thing I had always done when getting the Church magazines was to peruse them for paintings. Now one of my pieces would be in there! Then, when I was told that they wanted to pair my painting with words from President Nelson, I could see the hand of God encouraging me forward.

I still have a long way to go on my artistic journey, but I’m so thankful for President Nelson’s hope in the Lord and in us. I’m thankful for his optimism and his confidence. I know that as we exercise faith in the Lord we will be able to do great things, even things we once thought impossible. “For with God nothing shall be impossible” (Luke 1:37).

At times a small mistake can fester and bring distress and heartache to him or her who harbors and dwells on the matter, leaving it uncorrected. All of us are subject to such an experience. Let me share with you an example with a beautiful ending. I recently received a note, with a key enclosed, which read:

“Dear President Monson, Thirteen years ago this summer my husband and I stayed at the Hotel Utah. As a memento of our vacation, I took this hotel key and have felt bad about it ever since. I know that the Church owns the former Hotel Utah, and so I am returning this key to you—to the Church—in an effort to set this right. I am so sorry for having taken the key. Please, please, forgive me.”

I thought to myself, What honesty; what a sweet spirit the writer must possess. I replied as follows:

“Dear Sister, Thank you for your thoughtful note and for the Hotel Utah key which you returned. My heart was touched by your sincerity. Though the key itself weighed very little, apparently this has been a heavy burden for you to carry for such a long time. Though the key was of very little worth, its return is of far greater value. I am honored to accept the key and know that you are certainly forgiven. Please accept the enclosed gift with my warmest wishes.”

The key was returned to her, mounted on an attractive plaque.

President George Albert Smith taught a very important lesson on the disposition of tithes. He told of inviting a boyhood friend, whom he had not seen for some time, to accompany him to a stake conference. This friend had achieved success in the financial world. As they were driving home from the conference, he told President Smith about his method of paying tithing. He said that if he made ten thousand dollars, he would put one thousand dollars in the bank for tithing. Then, he said, when someone needed money for a worthwhile cause, he would write them a check. “Little by little I exhaust the thousand dollars,” he said, “and every dollar of it has gone where I know it has done good.” Then he asked President Smith what he thought of that plan.

President Smith replied: “I think you are a very generous man with someone else’s property. You have not paid any tithing. You have told me what you have done with the Lord’s money, but you have not told me that you have given anyone a penny of your own. He is the best partner you have in the world. He gives you everything you have, even the air you breathe. He has said you should take one-tenth of what comes to you and give it to the Church as directed by the Lord. You haven’t done that; you have taken your best partner’s money, and have given it away.”

About a month later, the two men met on the street, and President Smith was happy to learn that his friend was paying his tithing as the Lord has directed. (See Improvement Era, June 1947, p. 357.)

Recently an attractive young woman came to my office with her parents. She came from a good family, but she had lost her way and now was in serious difficulty. She was unmarried and expecting a child and wondered what she should do. My heart went out to her. I think she loved the Lord. She had forgotten that those who love the Lord keep in contact with him and keep his commandments. She had control of her emotions until I asked her if she said her prayers. Then she began to cry.

How important it is that we communicate daily, and more often if necessary, with our Heavenly Father. He always loves us whether we are good or bad. It takes effort on our part, however, if he is to bless us.

Crouched and shivering behind the hedge, I watched my little brother Nickie do his best rendition of an Indian scout sneaking across Brother Henry’s front lawn. First he edged his way around the power pole that held the street light, and then he skittered to the locust tree. He paused for a moment before dashing for the corner of the house where he waited a long time, listening, I suppose, for crunching leaves or whatever ten-year-old Indian scouts listen for.
Since there aren’t many crunching leaves in December, and there was apparently no danger, Nickie made his final sprint to the door. He laid his gift on the step, rang the bell, and dashed back to the hedge.
“Did they see me?” he gasped.
“Not unless they can see through the door,” I whispered. “They haven’t even opened it yet.”
We crouched behind the hedge in the yard next to the Henry’s and waited. It was cold, but not bad. Maybe it would snow. I hoped so. What snow we’d had so far had melted a couple of weeks earlier and now, three days before Christmas, the trees and lawns were bare, bleak, and un-Christmaslike. To me, Christmas just wasn’t Christmas without snow.
I was puzzled as I watched Nickie, sitting beside me on the cold, yellow grass. All of a sudden he seemed so excited about our Christmas project. His attitude had practically done an “about face” in the last hour.
Playing Santa to the Henrys was Dad’s idea. At home evening two weeks earlier he asked if the family wanted to do a Christmas project again this year. We did our first project about six years ago; I was Nickie’s age. We took some toys to the Sub-for-Santa program, and I remember that I wasn’t very excited about giving away my toys, except for a few old broken ones that I thought I could part with. Then at school I heard a man talk about how much some gifts had meant to his family. He cried, and I barely managed not to. I went right home and wrapped up my biggest Tonka truck. It was only two years old and still in great shape.
Every year since, our family has contributed to Sub-for-Santa. When Dad asked about this year’s project, I thought that he intended to do the same. “There’s a family in our neighborhood who could use some help,” he said. I was surprised; I never thought that there were people in our own neighborhood who would not have a good Christmas.
“Who?” the family asked, almost in unison.
“Well, you know the Arnold Henry family, don’t you?” Dad started.
I knew the Henrys only slightly. They had moved into the ward in September or October. There were three or four kids, all young. The oldest boy was about eight or nine. That’s all I knew about them, but some of my little brothers and sisters were acquainted with the Henry children.
“Brother Henry had a job at the steel plant, but they had a cutback,” Dad continued. “The bishop mentioned last Sunday that Brother Henry hasn’t yet found work.” Dad paused long enough for us to get his message, and unanimously we adopted the Henry family as our Christmas project.
The grass was damp, but Nickie and I continued to peer through the hedge at the house. “Why don’t they come to the door?” Nickie whispered impatiently.
“Did you hear the bell ring?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“The first rule of successfully rousing people,” I sermonized, “is to listen for the ring. You were in too much of a hurry.”
“I’ll do it again,” Nickie said.
I guessed that he wasn’t sorry to have to repeat his dramatic approach. I watched him go again. This time he crawled to the locust tree like an infantryman under fire. Too much TV, I figured, had programmed him against simply walking up to the door, ringing the bell, and then running. I thought how silly he would look to the Henrys if they opened their door and saw this ten-year-old boy elbowing his way across their lawn. And I thought again about the change I’d seen in Nickie in the last hour.
From the time that we had decided as a family to assist the Henrys, the bulk of the work had fallen on Mom. She’s a good organizer—or maybe prodder is a better word. Every day she’d ask, “Who has an idea for the Henry’s three-year-old girl?” or “What should we do about a tree? Will they have one or shall we take one?” She kept us interested and excited.
On the first day my littlest brother, Tommy, age four, ran to his room and came back with a toy car he wanted to give. I suggested that we take a small decorated tree, whether or not they already had one. Since I had an after-school job and was earning a little money, I offered to buy it as my contribution. My two sisters, Ann, 13, and Tricia, 7, started working together to make presents.
Everyone got involved except Nickie. I don’t know why, unless ten is a selfish age or something, but he just wasn’t very interested. When Mom pressed him for a commitment, he said he’d put in a “quarter or something” on a present. I could tell that she was disappointed because he wasn’t catching the spirit of the project. But I remembered how I felt at his age on our first Sub-for-Santa, and I couldn’t be too hard on him.
It wasn’t that Nickie wasn’t a good kid. Once when he was about three, a neighborhood friend complained to Nickie that he was hungry. Nickie went to the refrigerator, stuck his hand into a bottle of home-canned fruit, and carried a dripping peach half to his buddy. He can be generous all right. So Mom didn’t push him; I think she knows that sometimes good deeds just can’t be forced.
Finally, the big night arrived. The excitement mounted as we gathered the things together to take to the Henrys. Even Nickie seemed a little more interested, but I don’t think he felt as much a part of it because he hadn’t really contributed.
The Henrys live only four blocks away; and we thought it would be fun to walk. But because we had quite a few things to carry, including a decorated tree, we loaded the station wagon instead. As the holder of the family’s newest driver’s license—only—six months old—I took my now-unquestioned place behind the wheel and drove past the Henry’s house. Only the porch light was lit. “Great,” said Dad, who was facing backwards in the third seat, holding the tree out the rear window. “They’re not home. We can take our time.”
I made a U-turn and drove past the house from the other direction. Still no sign of life, so I coasted to the curb two houses away, and we unloaded. We must have looked comical strolling down the sidewalk like a Christmas parade in the dark. We were quiet, so as not to draw attention from the neighbors, and we kept an eye out for cars, hoping the Henrys wouldn’t return too soon.
After everything was positioned on the front step, right under the porch light, we went to the neighbor’s yard to watch through the hedge, but we weren’t very well hidden. It was cold enough that it wasn’t fun staring at the porch, and we were just about to leave when a car turned in the Henry’s driveway.
“Come on,” Mom said. “They’ll see us when they get out of the car.” We tried to look casual as we strolled down the walk to the car. But Nickie, his spying instincts aroused, insisted on staying.
“Dad, can I stay?” he pleaded. “I won’t let them see me. I just want to watch while they find all that stuff. Then I’ll run home. Okay?” Dad consented, so Nickie crawled back to the hedge while the rest of us got in the car and drove home.
We’d been home about ten minutes and were sitting around the Christmas tree talking about our adventure when the front door flew open. In ran Nickie, all out of breath. It was obvious that he was excited about something. Without saying a word he went straight to the tree and pulled out a square box wrapped in shiny red paper.
“What’s up, son?” Dad asked.
“I want to take this present to the Henrys, Dad. I … didn’t give very much,” he said.
I couldn’t believe it! Everyone knew what was in that package. Nickie’s Little League baseball mitt, which he had inherited from me and which had already snared more than its share of fly balls, had seen its day. Since the end of last season Nickie had been talking about getting a new one. “And if I happen to get it at Christmas,” he had hinted with ten-year-old subtlety, “I’ll have plenty of time to break it in before spring.”
When Dad and I handed Nickie the wrapped mitt for him to put under the tree until Christmas morning, we could tell from the grin on his face that he knew what it was. And now he was going to give it to a family he hardly knew! Up until ten minutes ago he was only willing to give them a quarter! It didn’t make sense.
“They’ve got a nine-year-old boy, Dad,” Nickie said quietly. Dad swallowed and looked at Mom. She had a strange expression on her face. I wanted to say, “Hey, man, you can’t give away your new mitt!” but Mom just said, “Are you sure that’s what you want to do, Nickie?”
“Yea, Mom, I’m sure,” he replied as he ran out the door.
No one said anything for a minute, and then Dad asked if I would go with Nickie. It was a little late for him to be out alone, and I knew that Dad wanted me to find out what was going on—if I could. By the time I grabbed a coat and ran outside, Nickie was already a block away. I couldn’t catch him, and by the time I reached the hedge, he was doing that Indian scout thing across the lawn.
Nickie was now back with me behind the hedge after his second dash to the door. This time, results. Brother Henry opened the door, saw the red package, and shouted, “There’s more!”
Suddenly the doorway was filled with little faces, all wearing expressions of disbelief at finding yet another gift on the doorstep. We watched them pick up the package, shake it, and pass it around. They even came down the steps and looked around the yard and down the street. Then they went in and turned off the porch light, and we started home.
Nickie wasn’t running this time; he was quiet. After walking half a block I asked him what had changed his mind.
“Well, after you left for home,” he began, “I sneaked up to the hedge and watched while the Henrys started into their house. They stopped dead when they saw the stuff on their step. Then the kids ran up the steps. They shook every present, walked around the tree, and looked up and down the street. Finally, they gathered up everything and went inside.”
Nickie stopped talking, and we walked a while without saying anything. It was getting colder.
“Then what?” I finally asked. What I really wanted to say was, “What changed you? What made you give away your baseball mitt that you’ve wanted for so long?” but I refrained.
“They’d all gone in except the oldest boy and his dad,” Nickie continued. “They were starting to bring in the tree when I heard the boy say, ‘Dad, do you think the Lord blessed us with these things?’ His dad said, ‘I’m sure he did, son, but what do you mean?’ Then the boy—his name’s David—said the funniest thing. He said, ‘Well, it’s just that these things were brought to our house while we were taking Christmas to some poor people.’”
My feet stopped. I looked at Nickie.
“They were what?” I gasped. “Taking Christmas presents to other people? Why … why, they don’t even have a job! I mean, they’re supposed to be the poor people!”
“That’s what he said,” Nickie went on. “Then his dad said that even though they didn’t have much money right now, they wanted to share what they had, and that these presents must have come from people who felt that same way.”
“Right then I decided,” Nickie continued,” and I’m glad I did. I’ll bet David Henry never had a you-know-what before.”
He grinned at me, and I knew the secret was out. It was all right to talk about it.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s run.”
I could have beat him home, but instead I kept an even pace. As we turned in our driveway and leaped up the front steps together, I noticed that it was just beginning to snow.

A poignant experience with a former patient shows how gratitude for generosity and compassion can transform us. In 1987, I became acquainted with Thomas Nielson, a remarkable man who needed a heart transplant. He was 63 years old and lived in Logan, Utah, in the United States. Following military service during World War II, he married Donna Wilkes in the Logan Utah Temple. He became an energetic and successful brick mason. In later years he especially enjoyed working with his oldest grandchild, Jonathan, during school vacations. The two developed a special bond, in part because Tom saw much of himself in Jonathan.
Tom found waiting for a donor heart frustrating. He was not a particularly patient man. He had always been able to set and achieve goals through hard work and sheer determination. Struggling with heart failure, with his life on hold, Tom sometimes asked me what I was doing to speed up the process. Jokingly, he suggested avenues I could pursue that would make a donor heart available to him sooner.
One joyous yet dreadful day, an ideal donor heart became available for Tom. The size and blood type were a match, and the donor was young, just 16 years old. The donor heart belonged to Jonathan, Tom’s beloved grandson. Earlier that day, Jonathan had been fatally injured when the car in which he was riding was struck by a passing train.
When I visited Tom and Donna in the hospital, they were distraught. It is hard to imagine what they were going through, knowing that Tom’s life could be extended by using their grandson’s heart. At first, they refused to consider the proffered heart from Jonathan’s grieving parents, their daughter and son-in-law. Tom and Donna knew, though, that Jonathan was brain dead, and came to understand that their prayers for a donor heart for Tom had not caused Jonathan’s accident. No, Jonathan’s heart was a gift that could bless Tom in his time of need. They recognized that something good might come out of this tragedy and decided to proceed.
The transplant procedures went well. Afterward, Tom was a different man. The change went beyond improved health or even gratitude. He told me that he reflected every morning on Jonathan, on his daughter and son-in-law, on the gift he had received, and on what that gift had entailed. Even though his innate good humor and grit were still readily apparent, I observed that Tom was more solemn, thoughtful, and kindhearted.
Tom lived an additional 13 years after the transplant, years he otherwise would not have had. His obituary stated that these years allowed him to touch the lives of his family and others with generosity and love. He was a private benefactor and an example of optimism and determination.
When we remember the greatness of our Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and what They have done for us, we will not take Them for granted, just as Tom did not take Jonathan’s heart for granted. In a joyful and reverent way, Tom remembered each day the tragedy that brought him extended life. In the exuberance of knowing that we can be saved and exalted, we need to remember that salvation and exaltation came at a great cost. We can be reverently joyful as we realize that without Jesus Christ, we are doomed, but with Him, we can receive the greatest gift Heavenly Father can give. Indeed, this reverence allows us to enjoy the promise “of eternal life in this world” and eventually receive “eternal life … even immortal glory” in the world to come.

When I was a young girl, my mother, Lovina Anderson Low, told me, “You can be anything in life you want to be, Elaine, if you work for it.” She was right. Because of a heart ailment, she wasn’t well for a good deal of my growing-up years. By the time I was twelve or thirteen, I was taking care of the home—doing the washing, baking bread, and doing quite a bit of the cooking. Mother taught me the pattern for managing seasonal things: I canned fruits and vegetables in the summer, and I helped my father put carrots and potatoes in the storage pit in the fall. Sometimes I felt like I was asked to do too much, but I learned to do what had to be done.

Each student in my kindergarten class gets to be a VIP (Very Important Person) for one week and bring in their family to meet the class at the end of the week. When my family came, I was telling the other children about us and mentioned that my mom and dad were going to the temple the next day. When it was time for the class to ask questions, one girl asked what a temple was. I did my best to explain that it is where people get married forever and where people are baptized and do ordinance work for people who have died. The whole class listened, and I was glad I got to share something that is special to my family and me.

As a teenager, I dreaded church.
I believed the gospel was true, and I knew that attending church was necessary for me to continue to grow spiritually. But I often felt inadequate.
In my mind, I thought I couldn’t live up to everyone’s expectations of what a good member of the Church should be like (or what I thought everyone’s expectations were). Everyone else seemed to be bubbly, outgoing, eloquent, and always willing to bear testimony or say a prayer. But me? I was quiet and I felt anxious in social situations. So I didn’t feel like I had a light to shine as a member of the Church.
During college I moved into a new apartment, and my roommate introduced me to her friends in the ward. I immediately felt like I belonged with them because of their love and acceptance they showed me. I felt like they genuinely wanted to get to know me. To my surprise, I felt a great deal of my social anxiety subside.
I realized this sense of belonging didn’t come from a change in scenery, but from a changed perspective. I learned that I don’t have to be outgoing to be a disciple of Jesus Christ. There is strength in quiet. There is strength in listening and pondering. By recognizing my strengths as a more introverted person and tackling my weaknesses related to social anxiety, I found a middle ground that helped me survive—and even thrive in the gospel.
One question I asked myself was why I even went to church in the first place. I went to take the sacrament, to learn more about Jesus Christ, and to be worthy of the temple. But the scriptures also tell us that “the body [of the Church] hath need of every member, that all may be edified together” (Doctrine and Covenants 84:110; see also Ephesians 4:12).
While church meetings nourish our own testimonies, I realized that church is not only about me. We individually remember the Savior as we take the sacrament, but we are edified together as we share this ordinance as a congregation.
I was too concerned about what others thought about me and not concerned enough with the principle that should guide us in all our thoughts and actions: love. The prophet Mormon wrote, “I fear not what man can do; for perfect love casteth out all fear” (Moroni 8:16).
I realized that I don’t have to be best friends with everyone or be the most popular person in the ward. What is most important is not the quantity of my social interaction but the quality of my relationships. Instead of worrying about everyone at once, I just focus on connecting with one person each week at church.
Church is still a challenge sometimes, but as I have gently pushed myself to step outside my comfort zone and overcome my social anxiety, I have felt the Savior’s love for me and for all of His children. I am beginning to find my place. I know I’ve received grace through the Atonement of Jesus Christ to work toward overcoming my weaknesses and to use my strengths to build up the kingdom of God.

On one occasion I met with a couple who had been referred to me by a bishop. As the couple started telling me about all the complaints against each other, I attempted to guide their conversation toward the affirmative aspects of their relationship—qualities they had first admired in each other, the deep pleasures they had shared, the mutual goals they had set many years before.
They began to talk about their family, friends, and other important people in their lives; it was apparent that they really did enjoy this aspect of their relationship. This led to a review of their goal for financial security, which they had successfully met. As we talked further, the antagonism gradually drained away. After a few additional meetings, the couple agreed to give their marriage a second chance.

One of our daughters, after giving birth to a baby, became seriously ill. We prayed for her, administered to her, and supported her as best we could. We hoped she would receive a blessing of healing, but days turned into months, and months turned into years. At one point I told her that this affliction might be something she would have to struggle with the rest of her life.
One morning I remember pulling out a small card and threading it through my typewriter. Among the words that I typed for her were these: “The simple secret is this: put your trust in the Lord, do your best, then leave the rest to Him.”
She did put her trust in God. But her affliction did not disappear. For years she suffered, but in due course, the Lord blessed her, and eventually she returned to health.
Knowing this daughter, I believe that even if she had never found relief, yet she would have trusted in her Heavenly Father and “[left] the rest to Him.”