Gospel Story Finder

Tolosa district president Jose Medina and his wife, Felicitas, had their own trial of faith. Felicitas was active in another church but had doubts about it and was searching for the Lord’s true Church. She was praying fervently that she could find it while her children were still young, so she could teach them about it. Then one day while sweeping the floor, she found a pamphlet about Joseph Smith. To this day she doesn’t know how it got there because their house was located in a gated community missionaries were not allowed to enter. She read the pamphlet and wanted to know more about the Church, so she requested that the missionaries visit.
Her husband missed the first three discussions, but the missionaries told her to pray about what they had taught. Felicitas prayed, and she had a dream about the Savior. “It was as if it were the Second Coming,” she says. “People were rejoicing, but we were not because we were not a part of them.” She knew she had found the true religion, and she wanted her husband to share in her discovery.
Jose listened to the missionaries, but he wasn’t interested in baptism because he was a heavy smoker. He told the elders he believed in the Ten Commandments, and one of the missionaries asked him why he was not keeping all of them. The elder said one of the commandments was “Thou shalt not kill” (Ex. 20:13). “You’re killing yourself little by little by smoking,” he said.
Finally Jose agreed to be baptized, but because he was still smoking, the missionaries had to delay his baptism. Felicitas knew her husband needed extra motivation, so she told him she would fast one meal for every cigarette he smoked. “You will die then,” he replied, “because I smoke five packs of cigarettes a day.” But with the Lord’s help, he quit smoking and was baptized 15 days later.
Within three months Brother Medina was called as branch president. Later he served as district executive secretary and district clerk. He now serves as district president. Sister Medina has served as Young Women president and Relief Society president in both the branch and the district and has taught seminary for 10 years. “We love it,” she says. “It’s worth it. All the blessings we receive are from God.”

The bell rang. The first-grade students raced for the door.
“Quietly!” Mrs. Mills said.
Eric stayed at his desk.
“Aren’t you going out?” asked Mrs. Mills. Eric didn’t look up. “Recess is fun. Don’t you want to play?”
“Not really,” Eric whispered.
Eric didn’t like recess. Usually he just wandered around by himself. The other kids already had lots of friends. One boy called him names. He didn’t want Mrs. Mills to know.
“I’m sorry, but we have to go outside,” Mrs. Mills said. “I can’t leave you here by yourself.”
Eric felt like crying. He looked out the window again. He saw someone he knew. Eric smiled and waved.
“Who’s that?” Mrs. Mills said.
“That’s my brother, Pete,” said Eric. “He’s in fourth grade.”
Eric ran outside.
“Why aren’t you playing football?” Eric asked. The older boys always played out on the field.
“Because I’m going to the swings with you,” said Pete.
“Really?”
Pete led the way. They walked past kids hanging on the monkey bars and jumping rope. Eric loved being with his brother. Then they walked by the field where the boys were playing football.
“Hey, Pete,” one of the boys said. “Who’s the kid with the glasses?”
“He’s my brother, Eric. I’m showing him around today.”
“So you’re not playing with us?”
“No,” said Pete. “Today I’m with him.”
Eric smiled as they walked to the swings. A kindergarten girl was standing nearby.
“Want to swing?” Pete asked.
She walked over. “I just lost a tooth!” she said. She showed Eric.
“Cool,” said Eric.
Eric climbed on one swing. The girl climbed on another. Pete pulled back the first swing and gently let go. Then he pushed the other one. Eric felt the wind on his face. The girl was laughing. Pete made sure the swings didn’t go too high.
“You could play together again tomorrow,” Pete said.
“That would be fun,” the girl said.
Maybe, thought Eric, recess would be better from now on.

I learned about pure love from my mother. She was not a member of the Church.

One day many years ago, I visited my mother, who was struggling with cancer. I knew that she was going to die, but I was concerned that she was suffering. I didn’t say anything, but knowing me well, she said, “I see that you are concerned.”

Then to my surprise, she asked me with a feeble voice, “Can you teach me how to pray? I want to pray for you. I know you start by saying, ‘Dear Heavenly Father,’ but then what should I say?”

As I knelt next to her bed and she prayed for me, I felt a love never felt before. It was simple, true, pure love. Although she didn’t know about the plan of salvation, she had in her heart her personal plan of love, the plan of love of a mother for her son. She was in pain, struggling to even find the strength to pray. I could barely hear her voice, but I surely felt her love.

I remember thinking, “How can someone who is in such great pain pray for someone else? She is the one in need.”

Then the answer came clearly to my mind: pure love. She loved me so much that she forgot about herself. In her most critical hour, she loved me more than herself.

Brett was excited. He had just gotten a letter from his big brother Tony. Tony was a missionary. Before Tony left, Brett promised him that he would do missionary work too.
Brett, did you know that when you serve others, you are doing missionary work? I can’t wait to hear about all the missionary work you are doing. Love, Tony
Mom, I want to serve others so I can do missionary work like Tony. What can I do?
I know Mrs. Hampton could use some help raking her leaves on Saturday. Would that be a good way to do missionary work?
Yes! Then I could write Tony and tell him all about it.
The next Saturday, Brett sat down to write Tony a letter.
Dear Tony, I hope you are having as much fun as I am doing missionary work. We helped Mrs. Hampton today in her yard. She gave us a plate of cookies. Dad asked her if she wanted to come to church with us, and she said yes. Love, Brett
Brett folded the paper and stuck the letter and one leaf from Mrs. Hampton’s yard inside an envelope.
I can be a missionary too!

I would hope someday that our great-grandson Mark and others of our posterity would have similar spiritual experiences and that they would feel the spiritual power and influence of this gospel. I hope that Mark and others will have opportunities such as I had when I was in the temple when President Spencer W. Kimball received the revelation regarding the priesthood. I was the junior member of the Quorum of the Twelve. I was there. I was there with the outpouring of the Spirit in that room so strong that none of us could speak afterwards. We just left quietly to go back to the office. No one could say anything because of the powerful outpouring of the heavenly spiritual experience.
But just a few hours after the announcement was made to the press, I was assigned to attend a stake conference in Detroit, Michigan. When my plane landed in Chicago, I noticed an edition of the Chicago Tribune on the newsstand. The headline in the paper said, “Mormons Give Blacks Priesthood.” And the subheading said, “President Kimball Claims to Have Received a Revelation.” I bought a copy of the newspaper. I stared at one word in that subheading—claims. It stood out to me just like it was in red neon. As I walked along the hallway to make my plane connection, I thought, Here I am now in Chicago walking through this busy airport, yet I was a witness to this revelation. I was there. I witnessed it. I felt that heavenly influence. I was part of it. Little did the editor of that newspaper realize the truth of that revelation when he wrote, “… Claims to Have Received a Revelation.” Little did he know, or the printer, or the man who put the ink on the press, or the one who delivered the newspaper—little did any of them know that it was truly a revelation from God. Little did they know what I knew because I was a witness to it.

This story took place in the USA.
“Magnolia! Lily!” Dad called. “Time for scriptures and prayer!”
Magnolia flopped on the floor next to their dog, Raindrop. Lily snuggled in her favorite blanket.
Family scripture time was fun. Sometimes they acted out the scripture stories together. It helped Magnolia picture the stories. Plus, Raindrop always helped when there were animals in the stories!
Dad opened his scriptures and read a verse. Then he passed the big, heavy Bible to Magnolia. They each took turns reading.
“And be ye kind one to another,” Magnolia read.*
She frowned. People weren’t always kind to her at church.
“Mom, Dad, can I talk to you about something?” she asked.
“Of course,” said Mom. “What is it?”
“At Primary yesterday, some kids told me we aren’t a good family because Dad isn’t a member of our church.”
Magnolia’s dad belonged to a different church. He went to sacrament meeting with their family on Sundays. He gave talks about the Holy Ghost at Lily’s and Magnolia’s baptisms. Everyone said he did a great job. He was an amazing dad.
“What they said made me want to cry.” Magnolia sniffed. “Why do people have to be so mean?”
Mom and Dad looked at each other.
“I’m glad you told us what happened,” Dad said. “Mom and I love each other very much. And our family is very important to us.”
Mom nodded. “And our family is important to Heavenly Father too. He loves all His children.”
Raindrop snuggled up to Magnolia. She scratched his ears.
“Heavenly Father knows us, and He knows we love each other,” Dad said. “No family is perfect, but we can keep trying our best.”
“But it still hurts when people say mean things about our family,” Magnolia said. “Jesus taught us to be kind to everyone. Saying mean things doesn’t seem like following Jesus.”
“You’re right,” said Dad. “Maybe when you feel like saying something mean, you can remember how you felt when others were unkind to you. Then you can say something kind instead.”
Magnolia took a big breath. “OK.” She was glad she could talk to Mom and Dad.
“Time for a family sandwich!” Dad pulled Lily and Magnolia into a big hug and squeezed them tight. Mom wrapped her arms around all three of them. Raindrop ran circles around everyone.
“I can’t breathe!” joked Lily. Magnolia laughed.
“Now remind me—whose turn is it to read?” Dad asked. He let go of the girls and picked up his scriptures.
“My turn!” said Lily. “And it’s Dad’s turn for prayer.”
When they finished reading, everyone knelt to pray. Magnolia felt peaceful as she listened to Dad say the prayer. She knew Heavenly Father loved her family.
Illustrations by Constanza Basaluzzo

In 2005, President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) asked members of the Church to read the Book of Mormon by the end of the year. I had never read the Book of Mormon all the way through by myself. My family decided we would take President Hinckley’s challenge; we were determined to follow the prophet. I began by reading a chapter a day, and soon found that I could read several chapters a day. I felt good knowing that I was doing what the prophet had asked me to do. Christmas came, and I forgot about my goal. On New Year’s Eve I still had 115 pages left to read. I spent most of the day reading. That evening I finished the Book of Mormon. I learned never to procrastinate what the prophet asks us to do.

Not long ago while sitting on the stand during the closing session of a youth conference, just as the young priest conducting the meeting stood to bring the meeting to a close, Kathy, sitting next to me, jumped up and unhesitatingly slipped in front of the young man, took her place at the pulpit, faced the audience, raised both hands in front of her with outstretched fingers, and said, “I’ll bet you’ve all been wondering why I’ve been wearing this ugly green nail polish.” A soft ripple could be heard across the audience, and I realized I was not alone in my curiosity.
“Well,” she said, “it’s like this: I knew my responsibilities as one of the leaders of this conference were big. I knew I had some real challenges ahead, and I didn’t want to be sorry after the chance was gone that I didn’t do what I really wanted to do.
“You see, I needed something that would remind me of what I really wanted to do and help me through the things I didn’t want to do. So I thought of a plan. And it worked! You see,” she went on, “I wanted something that would remind me of what I really wanted to make myself do. I knew my fingernails would always be right there.”
After further details, and bearing a strong testimony of the joy that comes when you do what you should, she took her seat. From this insight I was reminded of the message of the Apostle Paul as he was counseling the Corinthians:
“When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things” (1 Cor. 13:11).
Kathy had helped us all understand the importance of reminders, but it was the combined voices of young people singing the closing song, resounding like a sacred sermon, that brought forth new appreciation for sacred reminders. They sang:
I marvel that he would descend from his throne divine
To rescue a soul so rebellious and proud as mine;
That he should extend his great love unto such as I,
Sufficient to own, to redeem, and to justify.
(“I Stand All Amazed,” Hymns, no. 80)

As I rounded the last corner on my way to see the missionaries, I felt a strong force trying to keep me from going. It was like walking against a 100-kilometer-per-hour wind, which I had done before, only it was stronger. But this was a spiritual “wind,” not physical. I was just about to give up and turn around. I knew this force wanted me to doubt everything, but I finally said, “No, no. I know there’s a God.” I felt that truth deep in the roots of my soul. I knew He would battle this force for me.
I reached the chapel door, just a normal chapel door, but I had to pull with all my might to force it open. When I entered I saw some members and felt their spirit, and the opposing force was gone, broken. I felt the sweet peace in my heart again, and felt it even more strongly several days later as I was baptized and confirmed. I still feel it to this day.

He has to laugh a little when he recalls one of his camping experiences as Scoutmaster of the Spring Lake (Utah) Troop. “We enjoyed a very nice overnight camp by the shores of Utah Lake. Our transportation on that occasion was a wagon and two horses provided by a local farmer. Not being a farmer myself, I left the details to the assistant Scoutmaster. The result was fine for the Scouts, but not so good for the horses—we forgot to provide any hay for them!”

“Many years ago, before you were born, Daddy and I bought this house. I was expecting Rachel and became sick not long after we moved in. I had to stay in bed for about a month. One day, not long after I became ill, Sister Chester came over. She cleaned the kitchen; made dinner for your dad and me; and washed, dried, and folded all the dirty clothes. I tried to get her to stop, but she smiled that special smile of hers and said, ‘Just being neighbors, girl. Just being neighbors.’

“She came over almost every day to fix dinner and do chores until after I had Rachel. On days when she couldn’t come, she sent her granddaughter over with dinner.

“Now that she is older and can’t do as many things as she used to, it is my opportunity to help her. Doing things for others helps us to feel useful and good inside. Besides, it is what Father in Heaven wants us to do.”

It wasn’t long ago that Lem Guluka became our new bishop. I had never met him before, so I had no strong feelings about his being called. He was a smart-looking man and a convert from Africa. He started performing his duties the very day we sustained him. He’d come to our lessons in Young Women and hold youth activities at his house. The first time he did this, most of the youth were still in the “getting to know you” stage. One of us asked what his favorite animal was. He replied, “The rooster.” The rooster? I was surprised at such an odd response, and the others seemed to share this reaction. Then he broke into an imitation of a rooster’s strut. By this time, we were in hysterics. It was then that I realized how much his calling had really affected me.
I grew to love this man, my bishop, who could make us laugh and who was always there when we needed him. It made me think of our Savior, Jesus Christ, and how getting to know Him, as a convert myself, made a big difference in my life. Bishop Guluka is the most Christlike person I know. As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we gain testimonies by drawing closer to God and His Son. Likewise, by befriending our Church leaders, we can receive guidance. I learned that lesson through one of my most reliable friends—the bishop.

I was recently in Canada, where I visited, among other cities, the city of Regina. There we were hosted by President D. Lawrence Penner, president of the Saskatoon Saskatchewan Stake. He is a wonderful man, an excellent executive. When he was 20 years of age, he was baptized. It was a huge step for him. He had been referred to the missionaries by members of the Church. They immediately looked him up. They talked to him. They taught him. They baptized him. They encouraged him, as did his local Church officers. He was ordained to the Priesthood. He was given things to do. A year later, he was called on a mission and served in Japan. He returned the stronger for that experience. With the encouragement of many people who have helped him along the way, he today stands as the presiding high priest of this great stake of Zion. He is the husband and father of a good family, all of whom are active. He is an example of the kind of man who should be coming into the Church as a convert and remaining to become a leader.

Fortunately, like many of you, I came from a home where that kind of influence was available. Near my eighteenth birthday I was drafted into World War II. I found myself in an entirely new environment. I had always been taught in my home to take time out at night to pray, but I found this a little delicate, where in a typical barrack, there would be over fifty men on a floor. I used to try to get a bunk near the end of the room, where there would be a little privacy, and I would wait until the lights would go out before I would crawl out of bed to say my prayers.
I remember at Fort MacArthur everything went well for the first few nights and then finally one night, shortly after the lights went out, I crawled out of bed and knelt down to pray. About that time two half-stewed characters came in, flipped on the lights, and aroused all of us. A couple of fellows across the aisle from me saw me on my knees. Typical of that kind of environment, they started to poke fun. One of them, pointing to me, shouted so all could hear, “Hey, holy Paul, pray for me!” I felt a little chagrined and somewhat embarrassed and I thought to myself, “Now, what do you do?”
My mother had taught me a great principle. She used to say: “In delicate situations, use a sense of humor. It always helps.” So while still on my knees, I squared my shoulders, looked at both of the soldiers, and said: “Would you give me your full names because I don’t think the Lord knows you.” Later, I’m pleased to say, they did come to know the Lord because they too took time-out.

Accepting President Hinckley’s challenge to read the Book of Mormon by the end of last year, the young women of the Fayetteville First Ward in Arkansas decided to mark their progress with quilting squares. The young women sewed the squares together and created quilts to give away to a home for neglected and abused children.
Each square on every quilt represented 40 chapters read from the Book of Mormon. So with just a little math—7 quilts, each with 16 squares, each square representing 40 chapters—we have 4,480 chapters. “Not only were our testimonies increased,” says Linda Connor, the ward Young Women president, “we were able to serve others through this project.”

While I served as bishop, one of the Mia Maids in my ward came in for her annual interview. It was a bright summer day, and the rays of the afternoon sun reflected off the dust floating in the air. She and I talked about the significance of the small things in life versus the highly visible parts of what we are doing.
Without any warning she suddenly burst into tears and wept and wept. I left the chair behind my desk and walked around to where she was seated and sat down next to her. I attempted to comfort her.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“I am so awful!” she cried out.
“What have you done that you think is so awful?” I asked.
“I am so cruel to my best friend. I deliberately play jokes on her to embarrass her in front of other people. I am just awful.” Then she cried some more.
“Could you give me an example of how you treat her?” I asked cautiously.
She described several situations that really were vicious, well-planned attacks on this other young woman that she claimed was her best friend.
“What am I going to do, bishop?” I remember her asking me.
As kindly and gently as possible, I explained to her that she must repent.
“How?” she asked.
“Well,” I said, “you have recognized that you are doing wrong toward your friend. That is the first step. Now you have to decide if you really want to repent. Do you really want to go all the way with this decision?” She nodded her head that she did.
Through the following days and weeks, this fine young woman worked hard at learning how to stop being quietly vicious. She changed her plans to hurt into plans that would help and lift.
She confessed her sins to me, as her bishop. Then kneeling together in prayer I listened while she confessed them to God. Finally, she went to her friend and made peace. In an attempt to make restitution, my young friend went out of her way to make life easier and less complicated for her true, understanding friend. I learned firsthand how it is equally as important to forgive as it is to seek forgiveness. Fortunately, these were two special young women.
Within a few months my young Mia Maid friend had forgiven herself—her friend had forgiven her weeks earlier—and she had been forgiven in heaven.
Her heart and mind are now at peace. I am certain that she still remembers how she treated her friend. That will help her remember not to ever do it again. However, she feels no heartache or torture of mind because she has fully repented.

Loy Bunseak, president of the Siem Reap Branch in the Cambodia Phnom Penh Mission, was nine years old in 1975, when he and his family had to leave their home. They—along with millions of others—were required to perform hard manual labor in the country’s vast fields.
During this time, President Loy lost both of his parents and five of his eight siblings.
Despite the hardships, President Loy always had at least one thing to help get him through his pain.
“I always had hope,” he says.
The determined hope that helped President Loy get through the trials of his childhood is the same hope that later allowed him to recognize the truth of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
Because Cambodia is largely a Buddhist country, President Loy grew up without a knowledge of Jesus Christ. He began to learn about the Savior when Latter-day Saint missionaries came to his home and told him and his family they had an important message to share.
“I had never heard of Jesus Christ until I met the missionaries,” he says. “I wanted to learn more about Him.”
After intense study and discussion, President Loy and his family were baptized in 2001.
“The missionaries helped me learn from the Book of Mormon, but I received my testimony of its truthfulness from God,” President Loy says. “I could see how living by the teachings of the Book of Mormon made my family happier.”

For several years, my parents didn’t know where I was. They were good people who tried to give me the best education possible and were understandably disappointed by my choices. When my father became ill, my mother persuaded me to return home to Washington, D.C. When I arrived, John found me a job on a crew building the Washington D.C. Temple.
I didn’t know it, but he had arranged for me to work with a crew of returned missionaries. I was stunned that John Howell, the lead foreman, would ask a crew member to pray at the start of each day’s work—something I had never seen with crews I had worked with previously.
One day at work, several of us were mounting one of the temple’s heavy front doors when it fell and smashed my finger as thin as a dime. John hurried over, looked at my finger, called for some consecrated oil, and gave me a blessing. My finger healed so quickly that I didn’t need to see a doctor.
On another occasion, I was given a razor blade and told to scrape bits of debris off the concrete floors.
“Why?” I asked one of our crew members. “Aren’t they putting carpet down?”
“Randy, you don’t know whose house this is, do you?” he responded. “We’re perfecting it for the Perfect One.”
The world was drowning in cynicism, bitterness, hatred, and fear, but the example and teachings of the young men I worked with filled me with hope. As crew members shared their beliefs with me, I knew they were being honest and authentic. They had given two years of their lives to serve others, and they were intelligently optimistic. I wanted their teachings to be true. I felt I was gaining the enlightenment I had been seeking and that the Lord was preparing me spiritually.
John Howell suggested I meet with the full-time missionaries. Instead, I opted to have my brother and one of his friends, another returned missionary, teach me. As they taught me, I wanted external, incontrovertible evidence that what I was learning was true. Without that proof, I didn’t want any further discussions.
When I asked how they knew the truth, they replied, “We have read and prayed and felt a witness from the Holy Ghost.” They told me I needed that same witness.
That night I went into a grove of trees near my neighborhood. I don’t know how long I prayed, but I did so with absolute intent. I repeatedly asked God the same four questions: “Is the Book of Mormon the word of God? Did You and Your Son appear to Joseph Smith? Is this the true Church of Jesus Christ? Am I good enough to be a member?”
The answer to each question came in a whisper to my soul—“Yes”—four times. Those whispers were accompanied by serene and sublime feelings.
With my head bowed, kneeling in prayer and drenched with tears, I exclaimed: “If this is the answer You will give to me, then I accept it and will commit my life fully to You and this gospel as You reveal it to me.” Words cannot express the thoughts, feelings, and truths that enveloped me.
The witness I received that night was incontrovertible, and it’s as strong now as it was then. Since that prayer, God has proved those answers to me in thousands of miraculous and practical ways.
“The Church is a miracle,” says Randy, pictured here a month after his baptism. “And my life in the Church has been miraculous.”
Soon after I was baptized in 1974, I attended my first general conference in Salt Lake City with my brother, John. I was surprised when Elder Boyd K. Packer (1924–2015) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, who had met my aunt in New York City three weeks before that conference, referred to John and me during his Sunday morning talk.
Quoting my aunt, Elder Packer said: “Two of my nephews have joined your Church. I can hardly believe the change that it’s made in their lives.”
Because of that profound change (see Alma 5:14), a fire burned inside me that I wanted to share. Soon, I found myself in Idaho as a full-time missionary. Halfway through my mission, my father, who was my greatest hero and best friend, passed away. My mother called my mission president and asked that I come home to give a eulogy. When my mission president left the decision up to me whether to leave, I told him I wanted to pray and fast for 24 hours before deciding.
That night I had a dream. My father appeared to me. In the midst of sublime and meaningful discussions with him, he told me, “Son, stay on your mission.”
I followed Dad’s counsel and stayed.
Because of the profound change that followed his conversion, “a fire burned inside” Randy that he wanted to share as a full-time missionary.
Six months after my mission, I held my mother’s hand as she took her last breath. Decades later, my wife, Lisa, found a letter from my parents in an old box. Dad had written it to me during my mission but died before sending it.
“Our hearts were and are and always will be full of love for you. I realize that things have not always been perfect, but that is life. … Christ did not say, ‘Follow me and it will be easy.’ He said, ‘Take up [your] cross, and follow me’ [Matthew 16:24]. He carried the cross, but we all have our splinters. Perhaps our place in heaven will depend upon how we handle ours. Son, we love you very much.”
Growing up, I was rough on my parents, but I never doubted their love. Since finding the Church, I have worked hard to thank them and honor them.
On February 17, 2018, two weeks before the Washington D.C. Temple closed for renovation, I was sealed to my father and mother, 42 years after they had passed through the veil into eternity. My oldest son, Randall, acted as proxy for my father, and Lisa acted as proxy for my mother. I felt that my parents, who had been sealed to each other earlier, were both there in spirit.
In the temple we find cords that bind us forever to our loved ones. I am certain of that.
When I was young, I didn’t want to get married or have children. But today my wife, children, and grandchildren are my greatest treasures. The Church is a miracle, and my life in the Church has been miraculous. With Joseph Smith, I say, “If I had not experienced what I have, I would not have believed it myself.”
Fifty years ago, I was a construction worker on the Washington D.C. Temple. I was convinced that my life had no happy future. Today I am an ordinance worker in that same temple, having accepted the Lord’s invitation to follow Him, receive His healing, embrace His ordinances, and strive to become like Him.
Randy and his wife, Lisa, serve in the Washington D.C. Temple, which he helped build 50 years ago.
Photograph by Leslie Nilsson
The restored Church is not a theory, a philosophy, or merely a community or culture. It is the true Church of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
I thought I would find what I was looking for in San Francisco. I didn’t. I found it in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and in the house of the Lord, “the crowning jewel of the Restoration.”

Recently I heard of an excommunicated man who stormed out of his Church court bitter and unrepentant. Many of us, if we had participated in that court, might have said, “Well good, he’ll have time to make his peace”; and others might even have thought, “Good riddance.” But one of the high councilors present spent three evenings a week for the next several years visiting this man until, mellowed, repentant, and regenerated, he was reinstated in the Church.
“Nothing is so much calculated to lead people to forsake their sin as to take them by the hand, and watch over them with tenderness.”

Countless were the reports we heard of those who were touched in some way—either directly or indirectly—by the events of that day. Rebecca Sindar was on a flight from Salt Lake City, Utah, to Dallas, Texas, on the morning of Tuesday, September 11, 2001. Her flight, like all others in the United States at that time of tragedies, was interrupted; the plane was grounded in Amarillo, Texas. Sister Sindar reported: “We all left the plane and found televisions in the airport, where we crowded around to see the broadcast of what had happened. People were lined up to call loved ones to assure them we were safely on the ground. I shall always remember the 12 or so missionaries who were on their way to the mission field on our flight. They made phone calls, and then we saw them huddled in a circle in a corner of the airport, kneeling in prayer together. How I wish I could have captured that moment to share with the mothers and fathers of those sweet young men as they saw the need for prayer right away.”