Gospel Story Finder

Marta dug a hole in the dirt. She put a tomato plant in the hole and patted the dirt around it. Then she planted some round onions. Next, Marta carefully put watermelon seeds in the dirt.
Marta gave the garden water every day. Finally the garden was ready. Mom picked tomatoes. Marta pulled onions out of the ground. Dad carried a watermelon into the kitchen. Mom used the tomatoes and onions to make sauce for spaghetti. Dad cut the watermelon into sweet, juicy pieces. Marta said, “My favorite foods are the ones we grow!”

With no family or friends, Todd, 23, is one of the loneliest people at the Desert Development Center for mentally and physically handicapped people. A product of drug-using parents, he has never had a single friend, a single visitor. On this day Sean White, a teenager in the Las Vegas Stake, took his hand and did not let go of it all day. He was patient and kind to Todd, and stayed by his side, talking to him and offering his friendship. A simple thing. But after Sean left, Todd quietly told a staff member, “This is the best day I have ever had.”
Sean was one of 300 teenagers from the Las Vegas Stake who participated in a service-oriented youth conference. They conducted a field day patterned after the Special Olympics for some 80 handicapped people at the center where Todd lives. And because they did, at least one young man had the best day of his life.

About 10 years ago I felt impressed to paint a portrait of the Savior. Though I am an artist, this felt a bit overwhelming. How was I to paint a portrait of Jesus Christ that captured His Spirit? Where was I to begin? And where would I find the time?
Even with my questions, I decided to move forward and trust that the Lord would help me. But I had to keep moving and leave the possibilities to Him. I prayed, pondered, researched, and sketched and was blessed to find help and resources. And what was a white canvas started to become something more.
The process wasn’t easy. Sometimes it didn’t look as I had hoped. Sometimes there were moments of inspired strokes and ideas. And many times, I just had to try again and again and again.
When I thought the oil painting was finally complete and dry, I began to apply a transparent varnish to protect it from dirt and dust. As I did, I noticed the hair in the painting start to change, smear, and dissolve. I quickly realized that I had applied the varnish too soon, that part of the painting was still wet!
I had literally wiped away a portion of my painting with the varnish. Oh, how my heart sank. I felt as though I had just destroyed what God had helped me to do. I cried and felt sick inside. In despair, I did what anyone would typically do in a situation like this: I called my mother. She wisely and calmly said, “You won’t get back what you had, but do the very best you can with what you’ve got.”
So I prayed and pled for help and painted through the night to repair things. And I remember looking at the painting in the morning—it looked better than it did before. How was that possible? What I thought was a mistake without mend was an opportunity for His merciful hand to be manifest. He was not done with the painting, and He was not done with me. What joy and relief filled my heart. I praised the Lord for His mercy, for this miracle that not only saved the painting but taught me more about His love and power to save each of us from our mistakes, weaknesses, and sins and to help us become something more.

“Yatchaih gong,” our MTC teacher, Sister Tong, said. “Jyu.”
This was our cue to say the word Jyu—meaning “Lord”—together as a class.
“Jyu,” we repeated in unison.
“Yatchaih gong,” she said again. “Jyu.”
We went through this listen and repeat drill on the word Jyu for several minutes. See, this word is one of the more common errors foreign missionaries in Hong Kong make. In Hong Kong, we speak Cantonese, the second-most common Chinese dialect. And Cantonese has seven tones. That means you can often say the same sound in two different tones, and it will mean completely different things.
Take this word Jyu, for instance. If you say it as a rising tone, it means Lord. But if you say it as a high-falling tone, it means pig. So you can see why this was such a big deal to the MTC teachers.
Now Sister Tong had each of us repeat the word Jyu individually. All 10 of us got it right, except my companion, Elder Heywood.
“Jyu,” he said, with a high-falling tone. We all snickered, but Sister Tong didn’t find it amusing. She was concerned about Elder Heywood. And for good reason. He just couldn’t get those tones down. And if you can’t say the right tones, nobody in Hong Kong will understand you.
I met Elder Heywood my first day at the MTC when we both went to our assigned dorm room to unpack. That’s when I discovered he was going to be my companion for the next two months.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“New Mexico,” Elder Heywood said. “How about you?”
“Philadelphia. Ever been there?”
“Nope. Been to the west coast a few times but not to the East.”
Oh boy, I thought. Here we go. My older brother had warned me about companion problems. He said there would be elders I just wouldn’t get along with because we’d have nothing in common. So this was my first test.
That was the beginning of our relationship.
Later that first day in the MTC, we went to dinner in the cafeteria.
“So, tell me, Elder Heywood,” I said. “What did you do before your mission?”
“Ranched. Sheep, you know. New Mexico has lots of open spaces.”
“How about you?” he asked.
“I played ball. Basketball. Started at power forward for my high school team in Philadelphia. We had four players sign on with Division 1A schools this year. Me? I was offered a scholarship at St. John’s. But I passed it up so I could serve a mission.”
We finished our dinner and went to our first classes. Afterward we walked back to our dorm.
It seemed to me that Elder Heywood and I were about as different from each other as two people could be. We stayed together—as missionaries are supposed to—but we didn’t talk much. We just didn’t have much in common to talk about.
We spent most of our time in class, practicing our Cantonese sounds and tones. So a good part of our time was spent each day drilling our sounds and tones over and over and over again. When we weren’t drilling them with our teacher, we were using a cassette tape and headphones.
After four or five weeks, most of us in my MTC group had our tones down pretty well. But not Elder Heywood. He would massacre them. No matter what, it seemed, he just couldn’t say the words right.
After two months in the MTC, we boarded the 747 to fly to Hong Kong. It was the first time Elder Heywood had been on an airplane. In a way, I kind of felt sorry for the guy. There was no way he would be successful in such a far-off, exotic place as Hong Kong. I knew it and the rest of my MTC group knew it. The only problem was, Elder Heywood didn’t know it.
Once we arrived, we were assigned senior companions and went to our new apartments. I quickly forgot all about Elder Heywood and the problems he must have been having.
Months passed, and soon I was made a district leader—the first level of leadership in the mission. Just one month later, I was made a zone leader, a Z.L., as we called them.
When I had six months left on my mission, the president called me into his office. I knew what was about to happen.
“Elder Goodman, I’m releasing you as zone leader,” President Wong said. “I’m calling you to be an assistant to the president.”
I did it. I finally had what I saw as the most important position a young elder could have. I would have a desk. An office. Direct access to President Wong. I couldn’t wait to write home about this.
Well, I’m here to tell you that being A.P. isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
For the next three months, I spent most of my days dealing with problems missionaries were having. Illnesses. Expired leases on apartments. Lost keys. Lost companions. I started to long for the days when I was out among the Chinese people teaching the gospel. But I didn’t dare admit to myself or anyone else that what I really wanted was to be released as A.P. and sent back out as a normal, everyday missionary.
One day, I had a great idea to spice things up. I approached my companion.
“You know, we have some missionaries who are extremely successful, and others who are not,” I said to Elder Johnson, the other A.P. “I think I’m going to put together a profile of a successful missionary. What do you think?”
“Well, that depends,” Elder Johnson said. “What do you mean by the term ‘successful missionary’?”
“Obvious. Somebody with lots of baptisms.” I could tell Elder Johnson didn’t like this idea.
“What’s the matter?” I said, confronting him.
“Uh, as long as you have the time, I don’t mind if you do this. You’re an agent unto yourself,” he said, quoting scripture.
That afternoon, I started listing all the qualities I thought a successful missionary in Hong Kong must have: strong language skills, an understanding of the culture, social skills, a sense of humor, ability to extract referrals from Church members, ability to eat local cuisine, a sound understanding of Chinese history, and a robust doctrinal background. Of course, language skills were at the top of my list.
I showed my list to Elder Johnson.
“Interesting,” he said. “But are you really going to show all this to President Wong?”
“Why not?”
“Well, it just seems, well, like you’re not focusing on godly attributes.”
“What do you mean, godly attributes? Like what?”
“Like faith, charity, and enduring to the end.”
“But you can’t quantify those,” I protested. “Besides, those are things you’re born with. These other things—like social skills, speaking skills, that stuff—you can learn.”
“But what is most important, what really defines a successful missionary, is his faithfulness to the Lord. To the mission rules. To himself. You know that as well as I do.”
He was right. I did know all that. But I continued my argument anyway.
“See,” I said, still trying to make my point and convince my companion, “if we identify what makes a first-class missionary, then we’ll be able to shape, to form, to mold new elders and sisters when they first come to the mission field.”
“Okay, okay. If you really feel this strongly, go ahead with your project,” Elder Johnson said. “But remember, I’m not with you on this one.”
Neither was the Spirit. Not even close. And you know what? I knew it! I didn’t let my heart yield to the promptings of the Spirit.
The next day, after reviewing my list of qualities, I set out an action plan. First, I would go through the mission records and pick out the missionaries who have had the most baptisms since they’ve been a senior companion. I would give extra points to those who baptized adults, because it seemed tougher to baptize them than it was to baptize teenagers. And I would give the most points to those who baptized entire families.
Once I had those figures tabulated, I would then set out to determine retention rates. See, it’s one thing to baptize, but another thing to keep those converts active in the Church.
And when all that was done, I’d present my work to President Wong. I was certain he’d be so proud of me.
Well, it took four days to go through the mission records. I tallied the results like a bomber pilot tallies direct hits. And it got pretty exciting, at certain points, to see which missionaries were taking the lead over other missionaries. In a perverted kind of way, it was actually kind of fun.
But then the fun stopped. I was shocked.
Guess who had the most baptisms as a senior companion during the past year.
Elder Heywood.
This didn’t make any sense. Elder Heywood’s Chinese was horrible. So I reworked the numbers, just to make sure they were correct.
They were.
And not only did Elder Heywood have the most baptisms, but he had the most families baptized and the most adults baptized as well—and he had only been a senior companion for eight months.
I was stumped. I showed the results of my research to my companion, Elder Johnson. He didn’t seem surprised. But he questioned my motives.
“You were trying to prove Elder Heywood isn’t a good missionary, weren’t you?” he asked. “Is it really that difficult for you to admit that, baptisms or not, he’s doing a great job? Elder Heywood’s humble, he works hard, and from everything I can see he’s enduring to the end. So even if he didn’t have any baptisms, I’d still rank him pretty high on the success chart.”
I was embarrassed. Big time. In China, we call it losing face. I lost mine to the point that I thought I would never find it.
“It looks to me like Elder Heywood wouldn’t score too highly on that worldly list of yours. But according to your own research, he’s the best we’ve got. Give that some thought.”
I followed Elder Johnson’s advice: I thought! My thoughts led me to the scriptures and the teachings of the living prophets about missionaries and their work. I discovered that my conclusions about being a successful missionary were just not true, so I fasted and prayed for forgiveness.
After about another week, I knew what I had to do. I went in to see the president.
“I know you’re not supposed to aspire to callings,” I began. “But I believe I know what the Lord wants me to do.”
“Yes, Elder Goodman? What would that be?”
“I need to be released as your assistant,” I said, my voice cracking and my eyes welling with tears. “I have two months left on my mission, President. I want to have a second chance. I want to end my mission the way it began.”
“You want to go back to the MTC?” President Wong asked, half joking.
“Well, in a way. I want to learn how to be a real missionary. I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and, well, I’ve discovered that I really don’t know all that much about how to be a good missionary. And to do that, I’d like to go back to my MTC companion. I’d like to be released and made junior companion to Elder Heywood.”
Two days later I was gone from the air-conditioned mission office and sleeping on the top bunk with Elder Heywood below.
For two weeks I did nothing but observe. I listened. I watched. I followed. And my heart began to soften. Then one morning during companion prayer, the secret to Elder Heywood’s success dawned on me.
It was Elder Heywood’s turn to pray. “And please bless us as we work with
Thy chosen people in Hong Kong,” he prayed. “They are Thy children. They are our brothers and sisters. We love them, and all we want to do is bring these sheep into Thy safe fold.”
He paused. It seemed like he was listening to a prompting from the Holy Ghost. “And please bless Elder Goodman,” he continued. “Help him to know how much I love him. He’s a good man. He wants to do good works. He wants to find the sheep. Please bless him that he’ll have the desires of his heart, that he will be led, that we will be led together to the lost sheep up in the dark mountains that we may bring them to Thy fold. But most of all, please bless Elder Goodman to know I love him.”
Tears flowed from my eyes. What he said touched my heart. His words took away my breath. He was so genuine. So real. I could tell he meant everything he said. This was no canned prayer. It was really from his heart.
Elder Heywood closed the prayer. I cried. I kept my head buried in my hands so he couldn’t see me—although I knew he could hear my weeping. He put his large, rough hand firmly on my shoulder.
“You’re a good missionary,” he whispered. “I’m glad we’re companions again. I always did look up to you.”
He patted my back again, then left the room. He closed the door softly behind him. I prayed for several minutes more, silently and vocally, begging for forgiveness, for humility, for charity, for strength.
I felt the Spirit overcome me in a way that had never happened to me before. I was overwhelmed with emotion, with love for God and man.
I came out of the bedroom to find Elder Heywood sitting at the table, his language book open and his headphones on. Here he was, less than two months away from going home, practicing his sounds and tones. Everyone else in our MTC group must have stopped working on those a year ago. But not him. He loved the Chinese people too much to stop practicing.
Several weeks later we found ourselves at the mission home having our final supper in Hong Kong. President and Sister Wong hosted our MTC group. Following dinner, we had a testimony meeting.
When it was Elder Heywood’s turn to speak, he expressed love for his Heavenly Father, his family, his friends, and most of all, he said, for his companions. Especially his current one, Elder Goodman.
Then it was my turn to speak. I shared my feelings about Hong Kong. I bore testimony of the Savior and His gospel. I testified the Book of Mormon is the word of God. Then I expressed my love for the Chinese people, for President and Sister Wong, and for my companion.
“I just need to tell you that Elder Heywood has taught me a lot about finding lost sheep in the mountains,” I said. “It takes love. And he’s an expert at that, you know.”
To this day, we’re still best friends.

It was one of the first warm days of early spring. The windows of our church were open for the first time that year, and bright, warm sunlight spilled in long rays into the chapel. A small, spring wind came through the windows carrying the fragrances of unseen blossoms. My grandparents and several aunts and uncles were sitting proudly with my parents. I was sitting on the front row of the chapel with the deacons. It was my first time passing the sacrament.
The sacrament song ended.
The bishop nodded to us, and in a single motion we stood and walked to the table. The white cloth was removed and carefully folded, and then the prayer was spoken. I felt the importance of the words and the ordinance as I never had before. With my relatives and what seemed like the entire congregation watching me, I tried to move with as much reverence and dignity as I could. I felt a strong feeling of pride to be able to pass the sacrament. It was a great honor. When the meeting was over, nearly everyone in my ward congratulated me.
Several months passed, and in that time, along with the other members of my quorum, I began to forget, a little, the honor of holding the priesthood and of passing the sacrament. We began not to remember what the ordinance stood for. It became a chore. Something we had to do. A job we were given because no one else wanted to do it.
This attitude began to affect the way we performed the ordinance. They were small differences. We were sometimes late for sacrament meeting. Occasionally we didn’t dress as appropriately as we should have. And we talked during the meeting, not loudly and not during the sacrament service, but enough that it was noticed. They were small things, but they took away from the sacredness of the ordinance we were charged with.
The bishop asked our adviser to talk to us about it. Every Sunday morning for weeks he tried to explain to us the importance of what we were doing, of the priesthood of God, and of the ordinance of the sacrament. He told us of the sons of Aaron, of Gethsemane, and Calvary. He was an older man, and we could tell he felt strongly about the things he was telling us. We would straighten up a little. Then a few Sundays would pass, and we would slip back again.
One Sunday after our priesthood class had ended, our adviser stopped us.
“You don’t have to worry about the sacrament today,” he said. “It’s been taken care of.”
We were surprised and curious, but we were also glad to get out of the job, even if it was just for one day. We came into the meeting late as usual, during the song, and sat on a middle row. Sitting on the deacons bench with our adviser were the high priests of our ward. They were the oldest and most respected men in our ward. Two of them had been bishops, one a stake president. All held or had held positions of honor and leadership. The song ended. They rose, and the prayer was said.
By their bearing and by their reverence it was easy to see they felt great respect and honor for what they were doing. It was no menial task for them. They were all dressed in dark suits, white shirts, and ties. But it was more than the way they were dressed or even the way they carried themselves in performing the ordinance. The congregation was silent. The sacrament became something deeply felt and sacred. There was something deeper, something much more significant. There was a spirit to it. A feeling deeper than words.
The windows in the chapel were open that Sunday. It was late fall, and the fragrance of fall came in through the windows. I could see patches of a blue sky. Leaves were falling from the trees. I was humbled. Passing the sacrament wasn’t a job no one else wanted. It was a job I had been given as a sacred trust. It was the greatest of honors.

Finally, I’ll always remember a man I met when I was driving a delivery van through downtown Seattle. I was earning money for my mission. I met a wide variety of people, but Larry was the most interesting by far. I had just run some boxes into a store and was hustling back to my van when he came up alongside and extended his hand.
“Hi, my name is Larry. Will you be my friend?”
“You bet,” I agreed with a smile. It was plain that Larry was mentally disabled. I’m sure some thought it was funny he would walk up to a total stranger asking for friendship. But I believe Larry was only innocently asking out loud the same question so many ask silently, Will you be my friend? If we would all just say, “Sure,” wouldn’t it be cool? Cool-aid.
We all know how it feels to be thirsty, so thirsty we can hardly stand it. I’m convinced that’s how many in the world feel right now, thirsty for attention, approval, acceptance, and love. We can do something about it! By giving cool-aid—the coolest aid of real selfless service—to those around us, we can quench the thirst that our brothers and sisters have and leave joy that will last longer than the purple mustaches on my upper lip ever did.

Today is the 47th anniversary day of my baptism in 1962. One small high school boy was introduced to the Church by his classmate. I did not know much about the gospel and church when I was baptized but I developed the testimony and faith in Jesus Christ and became to like the Gospel. I have been blessed in so many ways except for my physical height. It was not a problem at all because still I was able to marry a beautiful woman who is taller than me and now my wife. I love this gospel because it always gives me hope and helps me get the positive thinking and attitude. I always try to serve “with an eye single to the glory of God.” I like this scripture, “Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you.” And I testify that this is a true word of God.

Some five and a half years ago, my wife, Christina, began to experience some unusual physical symptoms. She wasn’t sick, but something wasn’t right. It did not seem, at the time, to be serious. Doctors began some tests. I can still clearly remember receiving a message that our physician wished to meet with both of us at eight o’clock that night in his office. I didn’t know doctors made appointments for eight o’clock at night. Since I was supposed to be somewhere else at that time, I inquired if we might postpone the appointment until the next day. “No,” the answer came back, we needed to meet that night. Confused and somewhat apprehensive, we kept the appointment. The doctor explained that tests showed Christina had cancer in multiple places in her body. The outlook for a cure was not promising.

Now, as have many of you, we have friends or relatives who have faced this threat. And we have tried to do what we could to help make that burden somewhat lighter. But I did not understand even the beginnings of what they went through until this happened to Christina.

That night we met with our children. We felt we should be honest with them. One daughter was so overwhelmed she ran out of the house and down the street and collapsed into the arms of a startled but compassionate neighbor.

I felt I should give Christina a blessing. We discussed with our children beforehand that receiving a blessing does not always mean the person will be healed. The result of the blessing was peace. We did not know what the outcome would be, but we felt great peace.

Christina was the only one, I believe, who slept soundly that night. With great faith she accepted the will of Heavenly Father in this matter—regardless of the outcome. Some weeks later, exploratory surgery revealed Christina did not have cancer, although she did have a serious but manageable illness. Everyone was relieved—everyone but Christina, who said she felt a deep sense of gratitude at being given more time on earth. Relief was not the emotion she felt, for, either way, she fully trusted her Heavenly Father.

When we face serious challenges, sometimes we find it difficult to trust in the Lord. But trusting in Him brings us the hope we need in order to face our challenges.

That’s what happened with members of the Gatrell family, who live in Sister Jean A. Stevens’s ward. Sister Stevens, first counselor in the Primary general presidency, said the family held tight to the gospel and to their temple covenants after Brother Gatrell was diagnosed with cancer. Doing so gave them hope in God’s promises that they would be together again after this life.

Through the difficult days before her husband passed away, Sister Gatrell said, “I knew the Lord was watching over us. If you trust in the Lord, truly you can overcome any of life’s challenges.”5

The gift of the Atonement gives us the hope of eternal life—something we need when we suffer trials or the death of a loved one.

“Our loving Heavenly Father gave us the gift of His Beloved Son, Jesus Christ, as our Savior,” said President Henry B. Eyring, First Counselor in the First Presidency. “That great gift and blessing of the Atonement of Jesus Christ brings a universal inheritance: the promise of the Resurrection and the possibility of eternal life to all who are born.”6

Although they lived in town, where Henry’s father was a businessman, the family owned a fruit farm several miles from Provo. Elder Taylor recalls that “for several years we moved to the farm for the summer. Father would travel by bicycle or horse and buggy to his work at the Taylor Brothers Company. We learned to spray the fruit trees, to irrigate them, and to harvest the fruit. Night irrigating was a cold, unpleasant task, and it discouraged us from wanting to become farmers.
“Mother gloried in farm life. She had a beautiful garden and enjoyed picking the various kinds of vegetables and fruits when they were ripe. In the evening she delighted in walking along the brow of the hill and in admiring the magnificent sunsets. I suppose from her enthusiasm most of us children developed an appreciation for sunsets and other beauties of nature.”

A Primary teacher shared the following example. “Today,” she said, “our five- and six-year-old class made love necklaces. Each child drew pictures on strips of paper: one of themselves, one of Jesus, and some of members of their family and loved ones. We glued the strips into circles that looped through each other to make a chain that we turned into love necklaces. As they were drawing, the children talked about their families.
“Heather said, ‘I don’t think my sister loves me. We are always fighting. … I even hate myself. I have a bad life.’ And she put her head in her hands.
“I thought about her family circumstances and felt that maybe she did indeed have a hard life. But after Heather had said this, Anna, down at the other end of the table, responded, ‘Heather, I am putting you in my necklace between me and Jesus because He loves you and I love you.’
“When Anna said that, Heather crawled under the table to get to Anna and threw her arms around her.
“At the end of class, when her grandmother came to pick her up, Heather said, ‘Guess what, Grandma? Jesus loves me.’”

The best high school cross-country runners in the western U.S. gathered in Fresno, California, recently to see who was the fastest of them all. And when the dust had settled, it was discovered that the first-, second-, and third-place winners in the freshman division were all LDS.
Jeremy Call, who came in first, had one of the fastest times ever recorded for a freshman. He’s a member of the Bountiful 27th Ward, Bountiful Utah North Stake, and loves going to seminary. He’s also into Scouting, school, and basketball.
Christopher Merkley was second. He’s a member of the American Fork First Ward, American Fork Utah Stake. He has high grades (especially in science), loves studying Church history in seminary, and is completing his Eagle rank in Scouting.
Marc Lawson, of the Fresno Fifth Ward, Fresno California North Stake, was third. All five of his brothers and sisters, plus his parents, run competitively. Marc is active in seminary and is in his teachers quorum presidency.
No one realized the three top finishers were LDS until after the race. But they all became fast friends as soon as they found out.

My paternal grandparents had two children, a son (my father) and a daughter. After serving a mission and military service in Hawaii, my father returned to the islands in 1946 to establish himself professionally and raise his family. His parents lived in Salt Lake City, as did his sister. She married in 1946 and four years later was expecting a child. There is something very special for parents to anticipate a daughter (in this instance an only daughter) giving birth for the first time. No one knew that she was carrying twins. Sadly, she and the twins all died during childbirth.
My grandparents were heartbroken. Their grief, however, immediately turned them to the Lord and His Atonement. Without dwelling on why this could happen and who might be to blame, they focused on living a righteous life. My grandparents never had wealth; they were never among the socially elite; they never held high position in the Church—they were simply devoted Latter-day Saints.
After retiring professionally in 1956, they moved to Hawaii to be with their only posterity. The ensuing decades found them loving their family, serving in the Church, and mostly, they just enjoyed being together. They never liked being apart and even spoke of whoever died first finding a way to help them reunite soon. Nearing their 90th birthdays and after 65 years of marriage, they passed away within hours of each other by natural causes. As their bishop, I conducted their double funeral.

As a young boy living in Mexico, I was given the job of watching our cattle in the field as they grazed. One day I became bored with this chore and went to play, leaving the cattle unattended. I played all day, returning to my chore only when it began to get late.
As I approached the field, I realized that the cattle were gone! I could picture my father’s face—how disappointed and angry he would be! I was his eldest son. He had taught me to be responsible, and he was proud of me. How would he feel about me now? Quickly I searched for the cattle from one end of the field to the other. I couldn’t find them anywhere!
As I wondered what to do, I remembered something my father had taught me—if I ever needed help, I could pray to my Father in Heaven, and he would help me. I needed help then! I knelt and asked Heavenly Father to help me find the cattle. Then, sure that I would find them, I searched again.
But the cattle were nowhere to be found! I became angry. I had prayed, as my father had taught me. Why hadn’t Heavenly Father answered my prayer?
I stormed home. I had almost forgotten about the cattle and how upset my father would be. I wanted to know why my prayer hadn’t been answered. My father listened patiently as I explained what had happened. In his wise way, he asked me what I would have done the next day if Heavenly Father had helped me find the cattle. “Would you leave the cows again, thinking that your Father in Heaven would find them for you?”
After some thought, I replied, “Yes, that is probably what I would do.”
My father told me to kneel again—this time to ask for forgiveness and to promise that I would never again leave the cattle to go and play. I did as he said. Then, humbly, I once more asked Heavenly Father to help me find the cows. With my father by my side, I returned to the field and found the cattle there.
I learned an important lesson that day. Heavenly Father does not give us what we want just because we want it. He answers our prayers when we have done our part. And he answers them in a way that will help us become better people.

A few days after Thanksgiving, my three-year-old son, Drew, started to get sick. He woke up every morning, ate breakfast, got dressed for the day and seemed fine, but as the day progressed, he became lethargic and wouldn’t eat.
This continued for several weeks. Finally, on Friday, December 18th, I carried Drew into the doctor’s office around 3:00 in the afternoon. Drew couldn’t stand or walk and his skin was ashen.
I looked at the doctor and said, “This is how he has been every afternoon and evening for the past three weeks.” The doctor took one look at Drew and immediately admitted him to the hospital. They ran tests but could not figure out what was wrong with him.
The next day, Drew was transferred to another hospital. That Sunday morning, I was feeling crestfallen. After two days of numerous tests from two different hospitals, no one knew what was wrong with my son. To top it all off, it was the Sunday before Christmas. My favorite sacrament meeting of the whole year is the Christmas program and I was going to miss all the beautiful songs and talks in our ward.
As my husband and I were walking with Drew toward the room in the hospital where a sacrament meeting was to be held, I was miserable. I approached the table where the programs were, picked one up, and was still walking forward and looking down when I bumped into someone.
I looked up and said, “I’m sorry,” but no one was there. As I looked into the room where sacrament was to be held, it looked like an auditorium. On the stage there were chairs for the speakers, a piano, and a table set for the sacrament with a few chairs behind it. The room was sparsely filled with sick children and their parents, many hooked up to their portable IVs.
As I scanned the room, I felt the presence of angels. We took our seat and tears flowed down my face as I felt God’s love for His children who were sick and suffering, stuck in a hospital with all manner of illnesses at the most wonderful time of the year.
It turned out to be the most beautiful sacrament meeting of my life.
The doctors never did find out what was wrong with Drew. He was given medicine to treat his symptoms and then released from the hospital the next day. He has had no repercussions since, but that Christmas sacrament meeting will stay with me forever.

I have always been interested in animals and birds and when I was a little boy and the other children wanted to play cowboy, I wanted to go on safari to Africa and would pretend I was hunting the wild animals.
When I learned to read, I found books about birds and animals and came to know much about them. By the time I was in my teens I could identify most of the African animals. I could tell a klipspringer from an impala, or a gemsbok from a wildebeest.
I always wanted to go to Africa and see the animals, and finally that opportunity came. Sister Packer and I were assigned to tour the South Africa Mission with President and Sister Howard Badger. We had a very strenuous schedule and had dedicated eight chapels in seven days, scattered across that broad continent.
President Badger was vague about the schedule for September 10th. (That happens to be my birthday.) We were in Rhodesia, planning, I thought, to return to Johannesburg, South Africa. But he had other plans, and we landed at Victoria Falls.
“There is a game reserve some distance from here,” he explained, “and I have rented a car, and tomorrow, your birthday, we are going to spend seeing the African animals.”
Now I might explain that the game reserves in Africa are unusual. The people are put in cages, and the animals are left to run free. That is, there are compounds where the park visitors check in at night and are locked behind high fences until after daylight. They are allowed to drive about, but no one is allowed out of his car.
We arrived in the park in the late afternoon. By some mistake, there were not enough cabins for all the visitors, and they were all taken when we arrived. The head ranger indicated that they had a cabin in an isolated area about eight miles from the compound and we could spend the night there.
Because of a delay in getting our evening meal, it was long after dark when we left the compound. We found the turnoff and had gone up the narrow road just a short distance when the engine stalled. We found a flashlight and I stepped out to check under the hood, thinking that there must be a loose connection or something. As the light flashed on the dusty road, the first thing I saw was lion tracks!
Back in the car, we determined to content ourselves with spending the night there! Fortunately, however, an hour or two later we were rescued by the driver of a gas truck who had left the compound late because of a problem. We awakened the head ranger and in due time we were settled in our cabin. In the morning they brought us back to the compound.
We had no automobile, and without telephones there was no way to get a replacement until late in the day. We faced the disappointment of sitting around the compound all day. Our one day in the park was ruined and, for me, the dream of a lifetime was gone.
I talked with a young ranger, and he was surprised that I knew many of the African birds. Then he volunteered to rescue us.
“We are building a new lookout over a water hole about twenty miles from the compound,” he said. “It is not quite finished, but it is safe. I will take you out there with a lunch, and when your car comes late this afternoon we will bring it out to you. You may see as many animals, or even more, than if you were driving around.”
On the way to the lookout he volunteered to show us some lions. He turned off through the brush and before long located a group of seventeen lions all sprawled out asleep and drove right up among them.
We stopped at a water hole to watch the animals come to drink. It was very dry that season and there was not much water, really just muddy spots. When the elephants stepped into the soft mud, the water would seep into the depression and the animals would drink from the elephant tracks.
The antelope, particularly, were very nervous. They would approach the mud hole, only to turn and run away in great fright. I could see there were no lions about and asked the guide why they didn’t drink. His answer, and this is the lesson, was “Crocodiles.”
I knew he must be joking and asked him seriously, “What is the problem?” The answer again: “Crocodiles.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “There are no crocodiles out there. Anyone can see that.”
I thought he was having some fun at the expense of his foreign game expert, and finally I asked him to tell us the truth. Now I remind you that I was not uninformed. I had read many books. Besides, anyone would know that you can’t hide a crocodile in an elephant track.
He could tell I did not believe him and determined, I suppose, to teach me a lesson. We drove to another location where the car was on an embankment above the muddy hole where we could look down. “There,” he said. “See for yourself.”
I couldn’t see anything except the mud, a little water, and the nervous animals in the distance. Then all at once I saw it!—a large crocodile, settled in the mud, waiting for some unsuspecting animal to get thirsty enough to come for a drink.
Suddenly I became a believer! When he could see I was willing to listen, he continued with the lesson. “There are crocodiles all over the park,” he said, “not just in the rivers. We don’t have any water without a crocodile somewhere near it, and you’d better count on it.”
The guide was kinder to me than I deserved. My “know-it-all” challenge to his first statement, “crocodiles,” might have brought an invitation, “Well, go out and see for yourself!”
I could see for myself that there were no crocodiles. I was so sure of myself I think I might have walked out just to see what was there. Such an arrogant approach could have been fatal! But he was patient enough to teach me.

Last week several of us were in the office of my former missionary companion, Elder Gordon B. Hinckley, shortly after he had received his notice from the First Presidency as to when he would speak at this great conference.
Elder Hinckley turned serious and almost wan, then said, “You know, this frightens me terribly. It does every time general conference approaches.”
Elder Hinckley has been coming up here twice a year and performing ably for thirteen years. But can you see how one of us feels coming to this world-conference pulpit for the first, and perhaps only, time?
And so tonight, with your approval and President Smith’s permission, I should like to speak to only two of you here, as I respond to the request of the First Presidency to represent the Church Leadership Committee, headed by Elder Thomas S. Monson. I shall feel more comfortable chatting with only two of you, but you all may listen if you care to. The two are our two sons: Owen, a priest, and Kay, a teacher.
The General Authorities are concerned about you two boys, and your sisters too. Our Church leaders are aware of the tremendous challenges and opportunities facing all of our youth.
Four years ago the presiding brethren launched a leadership training program. It began with the General Authorities themselves, in a school-of-the-prophets meeting each Wednesday in the Church Administration Building. They taught themselves in the leadership skills of Jesus and his prophets. From this modern school of the prophets came outlines and source materials for leadership training in the stakes and missions—at stake priesthood leadership meetings, stake priesthood meetings, Saturday evening leadership meetings of quarterly stake conferences, and at similar meetings in the missions. There have also been leadership seminars for Regional Representatives of the Twelve. These representatives then conduct regional meetings twice a year for stake priesthood and auxiliary leaders. This year, leadership instruction has been extended to a bishops’ training course, to monthly quorum meetings of high priests, and to other areas.
This leadership training aims particularly to help young priesthood holders like you to better meet the challenges of this fast-changing world. And how it is changing!
In 1900 only 4 percent of the college-age group attended college. Now it is 40 percent. A national business magazine notes that “it is estimated at the present time that an engineering degree represents knowledge that becomes obsolete after ten years. Changes are coming so fast that degrees will soon be out of date after five years. …” Another publication reports that 80 percent of the jobs in the future will require less than four years in college, but will demand vocational-technical education for skills such as those of carpenters, auto mechanics, secretaries, and salesmen.
A book, The Year 2000, talks about some of the developments likely ahead for you: mining and farming on the ocean floors, three-dimensional photography, artificial moons for lighting large areas at night, and many others.
Even more sobering, though, are thoughts regarding other changes that some say are ahead: the phasing out of family life and of the moral code that helped make this and other nations great.
As priesthood bearers, we must be prepared to meet change and to resist with all our might those changes that would strike at the basic institution of the Church and of society generally—the home.
You will know wisdom, Owen and Kay, when you fully realize that the lasting lessons in leadership do not change. They are eternal. They helped make Noah and Abraham and Moses giants in the land, giants in character, in leadership, in bringing men and women closer to God. These same unchanging principles of leadership are helping Latter-day Saint priesthood leaders and holders become mighty leaders today, not only in the remarkable growth of the Church but also in government, business, education, and the professions of the world. These eternal principles can help you lead in a world that cries out for real priesthood leadership.
May I give you one or two examples. Let’s begin with that noble forebear of many of us—Joseph, who was sold into Egypt. As a youth he was rejected. His own brothers cast him into a pit and then sold him as a slave. While still a young man, he was bound in a dungeon because he turned away from a woman who tempted him. He was confined in that dungeon for over two years. When he was brought out, he was taken before the Pharaoh, who was troubled with a dream. He had heard of Joseph the prisoner’s reputation for interpreting dreams. Catch Joseph’s reply to Pharaoh’s request for an answer to his dream, Joseph’s first recorded words after emerging from the dungeon: “It is not in me: God shall give Pharaoh an answer of peace,” said Joseph. (Gen. 41:16.)
Joseph had kept the faith—faith in his Heavenly Father. He had remained free as a slave and as a prisoner because he had kept close to the Lord. Yet there are young men and women today who become slaves when they are free because they unfortunately reach for a pill when they suffer a reverse or feel rejected.
Remember some years ago, Owen, when you and I together prepared a family home evening lesson while on a vacation at Flathead Lake in Montana? The lesson was on David and Goliath. The account in Samuel said that Goliath was six cubits and a span tall. We figured that was nearly ten feet. (What a basketball center he would have been!) Samuel said that Goliath wore a coat of mail weighing 5,000 shekels. We did more figuring. That coat weighed approximately 160 pounds. Goliath was not only big; he was strong. Listen now to David the shepherd boy’s words as he faced the giant in the Valley of Elah, after Goliath had roared out his ridicule.
David replied, “This day will the Lord deliver thee into mine hand. …” (1 Sam. 17:46.)
Owen and Kay, you are going to face some Goliaths ahead—big challenges. Don’t fear them. Meet them. Move into them, knowing that the Lord is with you, if your cause is righteous.
There are more lessons to be learned from Nephi and Naaman, from Joshua and the brother of Jared, from Samuel of Israel and Samuel the Lamanite, and from many others. The most powerful lessons, however, you will find, come from that leader among leaders, Jesus the Christ.
And so, Owen and Kay, from the prophets and from the Prince of Peace, learn how to lead, beginning with yourselves. Stand on your own feet. Stand tall. Hold your heads high as though you are truly sons of God, which you are. Walk among men as holders of powers beyond your own, which you have, through the priesthood. Move on the good earth as though you are partners of the Lord in helping to bring immortality and eternal life to mankind, which you are. Walk quietly, as in stocking feet; but walk fearlessly, in faith. Don’t let the ill winds sway you. Walk as leaders with the priesthood in the government of God. Walk with hands ready to help, with hearts full of love for your fellowmen. But walk with a toughness in righteousness.
If you do, Owen and Kay, I promise you as your father and as the presiding priesthood bearer in our home that you will know the meaning of that blessing of a father of old to his son, when Lehi spoke to Jacob: “… men are, that they might have joy.” (2 Ne. 2:25.)
I give you this witness, in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

During the next few years, Mormon missionaries seemed to be all over the place. Even my barber was trying to preach to me! Several sets of missionaries came to visit me. Feeling somewhat ashamed about my treatment of the two I had left standing on the doorstep a couple of years earlier, I began inviting them inside, on the condition that they “leave their books in the car, and don’t preach to me.” I always felt uncomfortable when they came, and I would not allow any discussion of religion.
How was I to make them leave without being extremely rude? How? Then I got an idea. Sure, why not? It should be easy. I would just prove that they were wrong. I would show these people that their doctrines were false, and I would do it with their own scriptures. The next time they came, I would be ready.
If I were going to prove them wrong, I had to know something concerning what they believed. How could I find out what they believe? That Book of Mormon the two lady missionaries gave me years ago. Sure! I had put it away in some drawer or box. I soon found it. What did it contain—the story of Joseph Smith’s life? A history of Mormonism? I didn’t know. But one thing I did know: when the missionaries next came, I would be ready for them.
I took the book to work, where I had some free time throughout the day. The first chance I had, I opened the book. Why, this didn’t appear to be about Joseph Smith at all! I noticed a page in the front showing interesting things to look up—the Sermon on the Mount on the American continent, Columbus, the Savior in the Americas. What was I getting into?
Not finding anything about Joseph Smith’s life story in the book, I picked up some missionary tracts at a gas station owned by a Mormon. I wanted to find out about this Joseph Smith. I read about Joseph’s First Vision. Somehow it seemed different from what I remembered hearing years before. I read about an angel named Moroni and some gold plates. Returning to the Book of Mormon, I began reading it in my spare time.
Something strange began to happen. My hostility began to disappear. Indeed, my desire to prove the missionaries wrong disappeared. My brief curiosity after first opening the book was replaced by a desire to know. What was this strange power that seemed to literally reach out and pull me toward this book? What was happening to me? I had to know.
I found myself using all my spare hours to search through the Book of Mormon. I found something else too: a promise by an ancient prophet named Moroni—a bold declaration that I could know the truth of the book by asking God to reveal it to me. Alone one day, I bowed down before my Maker, and, holding the Book of Mormon in my hand, I asked Heavenly Father what it was that was pulling me to the book. Immediately—almost before I had finished my prayer—a recollection of my past habits and hostilities flooded over me. I begged for forgiveness, having not recognized my wretched state until then.
The next few days were about the same—I tried to cope with an overwhelming desire to immerse myself in studying the Book of Mormon. Then it happened. It was a Thursday night before the October general conference of the Church. I came home from work with a peculiar feeling growing inside me—a feeling I had never before experienced. I did not know what to think of it. It slowly grew in intensity. What a marvelous feeling! I remember thinking, “If this is what it feels like in heaven, I wish I were ninety-nine years old and about to die.”
Then came the testimony—that sureness of the missionaries that had disturbed me in the past. I knew! Joseph smith had been in the presence of the Father and the Son. Indeed, he had been visited by angels. I knew. Yes, indeed, I knew.

With covenants, obedience to gospel principles becomes rooted in our very soul. I am familiar with a couple where, at the time of their marriage, the wife was not active in the Church and the husband had never been a member of the Church. I will refer to them as Mary and John, not their real names. As children began to enter the picture, Mary felt keenly the need to raise them, as the scripture says, “in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.” John was supportive. Mary made some important sacrifices to be at home to teach the gospel on a consistent basis. She ensured that the family took full advantage of Church worship and activity. Mary and John became exemplary parents, and their children (all energetic boys) grew in faith and devotion to gospel principles and standards.

John’s parents, the boys’ grandparents, were pleased with the wholesome lives and achievements of their grandsons, but because of some antagonism toward the Church, they wanted to attribute this success exclusively to the parenting skills of John and Mary. John, although not a member of the Church, did not let that assessment go unchallenged. He insisted that they were witnessing the fruits of gospel teachings—what his sons were experiencing in church as well as what was happening at home.

John himself was being influenced by the Spirit, by the love and example of his wife, and by the urgings of his sons. In due course, he was baptized, much to the joy of ward members and friends.

While life has not been without challenges for them and their sons, Mary and John wholeheartedly affirm that it is in fact the gospel covenant that is at the root of their blessings. They have seen the Lord’s words to Jeremiah fulfilled in the lives of their children as well as their own: “I will put my law in their inward parts, and write it in their hearts; and will be their God, and they shall be my people.”

This sacred Easter morning, I’d like to share an experience that helped me understand how much we need Jesus Christ to guide us in our lives. I pray that the Holy Ghost will bear witness to you of the resurrected Christ and that our desire to follow Him will grow.
Several years ago, as a young lawyer, I was involved in resolving a border dispute between countries that had been at war. The work required me to travel on foot through remote areas that were part of the recent war zone. Thousands of land mines had been laid during the war. Expert deminers were there, working to deactivate the mines; however, to my surprise, not all locations of the mines were known. Consequently, on occasion people would accidentally step on them and be injured or killed.
To help me complete my work, I’d been provided a special guide named Winta. Winta was well known in the area. He was from a border town that had been attacked. He escaped and then volunteered to stay in the region throughout the war to observe the activities of the opposing army. He knew the terrain and what occurred during the war.
Because it was possible that some places I would travel had undetected mines, I was given the following instructions: Carefully follow your guide. Winta knows this border area from personal experience. Walk in his footsteps a few paces behind him. Where he goes, you go. Where he steps, you step. I was literally to follow in Winta’s footsteps.
For several days I followed Winta through many areas in the border region. At first I felt uncertain and apprehensive, hiking at times in abandoned trenches, destroyed villages, and other areas where the armies had been. The more we walked together and I remained safe, the more my confidence grew. Thanks to Winta, I completed my work without harm and safely returned home. As I followed in his footsteps, walking with my guide, I developed great trust and gratitude for him.