Gospel Story Finder

The second reason is much more personal because there is another story that comes out of that Stake Conference. But it’s a story that President Monson never knew about. The Sunday General session convened the next day at the Kangaroo Point Chapel. It generally took my family about an hour and a half to get to that chapel, but for Stake Conferences we would always leave our home at about 7:00 am for the 10 o’clock session. My mother and grandmother always wanted to get there early so that they could get “a good seat in the chapel.” I must have been around 12 years old at the time, and I remember that I certainly did NOT appreciate my mother’s preparation. Frankly, I did not like attending Stake Conference. I thought that it was boring. As kids we weren’t just sitting for the 2 hours of the Conference: we ended up sitting for about 6 hours, taking into account all of the driving and all of the sitting before the session started. There was absolutely no way that my mother would let us run around while we were waiting for the session to start—we spent that time sitting in the pew! On this particular day my Mum was even more eager to be there early enough to get good seats because an Apostle of the Lord was going to be there and we didn’t have that opportunity very often as I was growing up.

Some forty years later, there are only two things that stand out vividly in my mind about that Stake Conference: the first is that President Monson told a joke—surprise, surprise!, and the second is the impact that joke had on me.

How I wish that President Monson was here to recount that story in his own inimitable style! Of course, I don’t do it justice, but the story is not my point. The point is that, on that day, this 12 year old girl, who most certainly did not want to be at Stake Conference, was mesmerized by this large, imposing, and entertaining speaker who I had never heard of before, but whom I would never forget. That day was the first day that I remember enjoying Stake Conference. Six months later I came back with a very different attitude, and I have loved attending Stake Conferences ever since. President Monson knew something of the impact he had on the Louden family, but he never knew the impact that he had on this young kid. I will be eternally grateful to him for that.

I was not a member of the Church as a child. It wasn’t until I was an adult and a businessman that I was baptized.
My father was also a businessman. He was very worried when I joined the Church. He said, “You don’t drink alcohol anymore. That will be hard in meetings where everyone is drinking together.”
But I wasn’t worried. I decided that when someone offered me alcohol, I would say, “No, thank you.” Then I would order something else.
Years went by, and I did this many times. After a while, my coworkers noticed. If I was offered alcohol, they said, “Mathias doesn’t drink. Bring him something else.” More and more of them stopped ordering alcohol too. “I don’t want any either,” they said.
Once, some visitors came to a meeting. They were the only ones drinking alcohol.
They asked me, “Why isn’t anyone drinking alcohol? Are they all members of your church?”
“No,” I said.
I didn’t preach to my coworkers about the Word of Wisdom. I was just firm in my beliefs, and they noticed my example.

Bing! As Kiconco B. sat in her home in Georgia, USA, another picture came into her mom’s inbox. It was from Kiconco’s uncle who was working in Uganda, the country where Kiconco had been born 12 years earlier. Kiconco expected to see the pictures and texts that her uncle sent every Sunday, but what she didn’t expect was the impact this picture would have on her and her summer.
In the picture, a group of children were huddled together. Normally, Kiconco and her mom looked at the pictures and then deleted them, but this time, the Spirit inspired them not to. Kiconco looked at the children more closely. “They were wearing clothing that was ripped and didn’t fit them properly,” Kiconco, now 13, says. “They were wearing rags,” Kiconco’s mom adds.
Kiconco was especially drawn to the two girls in the picture. She asked her uncle about them and found out that they were sisters being raised by their widowed grandmother, Nuliati. Her uncle then sent another picture of the two girls with their grandmother in front of their home, which had dirt floors and grass for a roof. Kiconco’s mom says, “They were standing right in front of their little house that was so beat up.” When the rainy season hit Uganda, their home would turn into a mud puddle. This made it hard for the family to cook because they couldn’t light a fire. It also made it difficult to sleep because there wasn’t a dry place to lie down.
This picture touched Kiconco. She told her mom, “I’m going to help this family.” At first Kiconco decided she was going to send her clothes to the two girls in the picture. But then she says, “I decided to think bigger and brainstormed with my mom. Sending clothes wasn’t enough. It would help them more just to have a house. They had clothes. They just needed a house more.” And so Kiconco decided to raise money to give them a home.
When Nuliati heard that Kiconco was going to help them get a house, she fell to her knees and cried. She had been praying that God would help her. Kiconco’s mom says, “She got to the point that she suffered so much that she thought God didn’t know she existed.” But God had been listening to Nuliati’s prayers, and they were answered in a unique way.
Kiconco knew she would have to raise money to help give the family a home. She decided to complete small projects and to send the money to her uncle in Uganda, who had found a contractor to build the house. It would take a lot of time and energy, but Kiconco went to work. She says, “When you help people and serve them, it makes you feel good. And it makes them happy—and everyone around you.”
She babysat, made and sold bread, watched people’s dogs, and painted fingernails. Every day, Kiconco tried to find projects so she could continue to raise enough money to build the house. She packed and moved boxes, cleared poison ivy, harvested corn, and washed decks. Little by little Kiconco made progress toward her goal. As she earned money, she sent it to her uncle so that the contractor could start building Nuliati’s home.
Raising money was hard work, and every now and then, Kiconco was worn out. “Sometimes I didn’t want to work anymore. I just wanted to stay home,” she says. Kiconco’s mom adds, “She really was sacrificing her whole summer.” But on those days, Kiconco felt God helping her move forward.
Kiconco’s mom started a GoFundMe page and posted about Kiconco’s project on social media. A stranger from Chicago saw the post and told her grandson about it. He donated the money he earned from mowing grass. One of Kiconco’s school teachers told her Sunday School class about Kiconco’s goal. The members were so touched that they donated money. One of Kiconco’s friends also told her grandmother about it. Her grandmother told the members of her church, who were so happy to hear about it that they also donated money. A woman from Kiconco’s ward also sewed a quilt and sold it to raise money for the family. Kiconco’s friends and family donated to the cause too. Overall, 35 people donated money to Kiconco’s project.
When Kiconco started receiving help from others, she said, “Wow! This could actually work!” From the support of others, Kiconco gained an extra boost of energy and found more work. Finally, after many hours of hard work, Kiconco had raised enough money to finish building Nuliati’s home.
The week before Nuliati and her granddaughters moved into their new home, it rained every single day and night, and the little grass roof the family slept under didn’t keep out the water. Their new home had a tin roof and cement floors. Here, they could sleep and cook during the rainy season.
Even though the home was finished, Kiconco knew the family didn’t have any furniture. In fact, they had never owned beds or even blankets. Kiconco wanted to help but didn’t know what else to do, because they had sent all of the money they had raised, and there weren’t any more jobs for them to do to raise money. Then Kiconco told her mom, “I think you might need to take the money from my savings account and go and buy them three beds so they don’t have to sleep on the cold cement floor.”
The next morning, Kiconco’s mom prepared to go to the bank but felt she should wait for the mail to come before she went. When the mail finally came, to Kiconco’s surprise, she found two envelopes that each had a check donating to the project. Kiconco’s mom says, “We opened the mail, looked at each other, and laughed. We almost did a dance!” Now, Kiconco had just enough money to buy furniture for the family. She says, “I knew God was helping me.”
Kiconco immediately sent the money to her uncle, who bought the family three beds, blankets, a table, and chairs.
When the truck pulled up with the furniture, the family was so happy and grateful. Kiconco’s mom says, “Even after they moved in, they felt like it was a dream. They were just amazed at the whole thing.”
Kiconco says, “It made me happy to finally look at the family’s home and to look back at what I had done. It was awesome!” To other youth who want to help others, she says, “Just have faith. You can do anything if you believe you can.”
Kiconco’s mom adds, “It really strengthened our faith because we never got stuck in any stage of building the house. Every time we ran out of funds, something big would happen.”
Nuliati and her two granddaughters still walk barefoot and don’t have electricity. But when they walk home in the drenching Uganda rains, they can dry off, cook a meal, and rest. Kiconco says the most important thing she learned was that “when we serve others, we are serving God.” Kiconco’s small and simple projects came together to bless a family.

I grew up in California about 30 miles from the beach.

One of my first memories of the beach is when I was four or five years old. After spreading out our towels, setting up the picnic, and establishing base camp, I promised my parents to be careful as I ran down to the water to play. I played the "don't get caught by the wave" game. This is where you get as close to the water as possible; then, when a wave comes in, you run away to avoid getting wet. Then, as the water retreats back into the ocean, you follow it as closely as possible without getting wet. Then the next wave comes in, and you do the same thing. Up and down, down and up. Over and over again. Some other kids joined in the fun, and at one point one of them threw a ball into the water. We focused on it as it went up and back with the waves. I was enjoying myself and having lots of fun. I played for a long time before getting tired and noticing that my friends had all disappeared, so I decided to take a break.

I ran up to where my family was, but the towels, the picnic, and my family were gone. I ran through all the many people, looking for my family, but they were nowhere to be seen. I was confused.

Then I started to cry. I cried as I walked and ran aimlessly through the crowd in random directions.

A kind lady, a stranger, lifted me into her arms and began to comfort me. I, being an astute child, recognized that she was a stranger, and so I cried louder. But she was kind and gentle. She said not to worry and that we would find my parents, and then she started to walk up the beach in the wrong direction.

It was a fact that I was lost, but I knew she was even more lost. I kicked her and tried to get away, but she held me tight and continued to walk and talk softly for several minutes. Then, suddenly, I saw my dad walking quickly towards us.

The handoff was made, and my rescuer disappeared. I started to think, "Wow, she was really nice," and I wondered how she knew which way to walk. I was glad I hadn't succeeded in kicking her away. My dad took me back to our towels and family, and I was saved.

At the time, I felt it very important that I not be responsible for getting lost. I blamed my parents for not watching me close enough; I blamed my new friends for leaving me; I blamed the ball that kept me hyper occupied; I blamed the crowds on the beach; in the end, I blamed the whole beach. I didn't know the word at the time, but I made myself into a victim.

My dad taught me, however, that it was my responsibility to look up often to make sure I knew where our towels and family were. He promised that if I did that, I would not get lost again.

I played all the rest of the day, but I made sure to look up often and, as a result, never got lost again.

While studying geology in college, I learned that what I had experienced is called longshore drift. This is where waves hit the beach at an angle and wash up as far as they can go; then the water returns to the sea by the shortest possible route, which is straight downhill, not back along the same angle it came up in. The net effect of this continuous motion is to move the sand in a series of arcs along the beach face.

For example, it's estimated that one million cubic yards of sand per year are moved southward across the beach at Santa Monica, California.[2]

I was like a piece of sand. By following the waves up at an angle, then straight down, over and over again, I had made my way down the beach quite a distance without even knowing it. I thought I was just going up and down in the same spot, but I wasn't. I was unintentionally drifting, and in that process I got lost. My family hadn't moved; I had. My family wasn't lost; I was. I hadn't intended to get lost, but I did.

David discovered an interesting person sitting behind the main character in one of his cartoons.
The guy didn’t have a name, but he was just the sort of person David was looking for. In learning to be a cartoonist, David had been fiddling with different drawing styles. Then when he was drawing the background people in a cartoon, suddenly he found he had drawn a guy with just the right look. He had a pudgy nose, no forehead, his mouth in danger of sliding down his neck, and a soft slouching body. And the expression on his face was one of being slightly amused at life’s absurdities. He was the perfect model for the character in David’s new cartoon strip called Larger Than Life.
“I liked him more than the main guy,” said David Gallagher, a young cartoonist whose low-key sense of humor comes out in his cartoon strip. His characters, who find themselves caught in some odd moments, usually have a slightly dumbfounded look. “The emotions and expressions are always toned down,” said David. “I thought it would be funnier just to be subtle about things in my cartoons.”
It’s working. A growing number of people are finding that David’s quick wit and quick pen do tickle their funny bone.
While in college, David is putting to good use the doodling habit he has had since he was a little boy. Growing up in Massachusetts, David and his childhood friends loved the animated movies. At eight, his goal in life was to become an animator. “I learned about animation cells by reading books about Walt Disney,” he said. “I drew my own animation cells. I’d draw on acetate with a marker, and then I’d paint the back of it. My favorite character was one I called Foxy Fox.” Just for fun, he would draw comic books and give them to friends at school.
By the time he was in high school, David gave up on cartoon characters. He used his artistic talent in more realistic drawing. “I never thought I’d be a cartoonist,” said David, “because you have to be a comedian. I was shy, and never very funny. I was serious growing up and hated to be called silly.” The bemused look on David’s face could be a mirror of one of his cartoon characters as he pauses, then laughs, “Nothing like I am now.”
After a mission to Germany and a semester abroad at the BYU Jerusalem Center, David’s interests seemed miles away from art and cartoons. He began an intensive study of the Arabic language and changed his major to Near Eastern studies.
But hidden somewhere in his brain was that pudgy, chinless, slouching character waiting to make an appearance. David started thinking about cartooning again when a friend encouraged him to do a couple of cartoons and take them to BYU’s student newspaper. The publisher liked the cartoons and began running them twice a week. David was kept busy coming up with new ones.
When David had enough cartoons for a portfolio, he began sending them to cartoon publishing syndicates, hoping to sell them to other newspapers. He got some good feedback, but no takers. That’s when David and his wife, Sage, decided to try syndicating his cartoons on their own. They had brochures printed up with some sample cartoons and mailed them out to hundreds of regional and college newspapers. So far, his cartoons are running in 17 newspapers. Not enough to make a living, but a start.
How does he come up with his ideas for cartoons? “That’s the number one question people ask,” said David. “To meet my deadline, I have to come up with one every day. I’m never quite sure if they are funny until the next day or the next week when someone reacts. The worst thing is having to explain a cartoon. It takes all the humor away.”
In developing an idea, David first starts with something that strikes him as odd. When he runs across a funny sign or hears a phrase that interests him, he’ll write it in a calendar he keeps in his back pocket. Then when he’s ready to do a cartoon, he looks over those ideas. He works on the caption first. Only when the wording is exactly right does he start to draw.
For example, David thought there might be something funny about the signs he sees on doors that say, “This door must remain unlocked during business hours.” Then he tried to imagine a situation where that sign would be funny.
“I had an inmate at a prison write this on a sign,” said David, “and post it on the prison door with a guard reading it and unlocking the door. The caption said, ‘Mel knew it was a long shot, but somehow it worked.’”
Another idea. David noticed a treat that people make by dehydrating fruit puree, called fruit leather. It was only a small humor leap to have his pudgy character browsing through a rack of brand-new fruit-leather jackets.
The hard part is coming up with one good idea after another, day after day. A cartoonist doesn’t get a vacation unless he can create cartoons in advance. It’s tough, but David has taken on even tougher challenges in his life.
As a teenager, David was the only consistently active member of the Church in his family. He has an older brother and sister and a younger brother. “Having to stay active alone can either push you away or pull you in. I guess it pulled me in.”
David said, “I looked up to several people in my ward. I wanted to be around people who understood the gospel. To me the Book of Mormon is so obviously good and right. It just exudes this goodness. When you read it you feel like the Lord is right there and nodding his head. I’ve had to do a lot of soul searching, but I felt like I had the testimony to see me through.”
His interest in the gospel also led to his college major. He wanted to learn more about the ancient land of the prophets, but during his stay in Jerusalem he became more interested in the modern Middle East. “I get very emotionally involved when I hear reports from the Middle East. It’s a powerful place, and it has its own beauty. I find the Arabic language an incredible challenge,” said David.
That challenge might be the thing that leads David away from cartooning. He presently works for a computer firm specializing in Arabic software. And he would love to continue his Near Eastern studies into graduate school.
But right now there’s this slope-shouldered, big-nosed, bemused fellow with no forehead that keeps popping up in the strangest places. And he’s making a lot of people laugh.

“I want to go to school like Christopher does,” grumbled Sarah as she watched the school bus pull away from the curb.
“You can go to school when you are five,” her mom assured her. “Come on, let’s go inside.”
“Carry me,” Sarah demanded.
“I can’t, I’m carrying Adam,” Mom answered. “I’m not strong enough to carry both of you. I can hold your hand if you’d like.”
Sarah took hold of the hand that Mother offered her. “But I wanted you to carry me,” she complained as they walked back into the house.
Sarah climbed up onto the couch. “It’s no fun being three,” she muttered. “Three-year-olds don’t get to do anything.”
Adam had fallen asleep, so Mom carefully placed him in the playpen. Then she sat next to Sarah, lifting the unhappy girl onto her lap. “Christopher goes to kindergarten—that’s what five-year-olds do,” Mom said. “Adam’s taking a nap—that’s what babies do. Let’s think of some things that three-year-olds do.”
“Like what?” Sarah demanded.
“Well, you can play with your modeling clay, or you can have a doll party, or I can push you in the swing, or you can do something else that you choose. What do you think?”
Sarah’s face brightened. “I want to paint, then have a fun party for my dolls, and then make cookies.”
Mom smiled, glad to see Sarah returning to her happy self. “All right,” Mom said, “let’s get you started.” She stood up and lifted Sarah high in the air before putting her down.
Sarah giggled. “And then I want to build a house out of my building blocks. Then I want to swing. Then I want to play with my clay. Then—”
“Slow down!” Mom laughed. “There are a lot of things that three-year-olds can do, but I don’t think that you can do them all today.”
“Maybe not, but I can try!”
Mom got out paper and paints and filled a cup with water for Sarah to dip her paintbrush into. “I know one more thing that three-year-olds get to do,” Mom said as she helped Sarah into her booster seat.
“What?” Sarah asked.
“When we go to church, you go to the nursery. But in January, all the children in the nursery who have turned three will go to Primary.”
“And I’ll go to class with Christopher?”
“Well, you’ll be in different classes, but you’ll go to Sharing Time together,” Mom explained. “And I think that you’ll enjoy Primary. It’s one of the best things about being three.”
Sarah carefully dabbed eyelashes on the big happy face that she had painted. “This is how I’m going to look when I go to Primary,” she said. “I love being three.”

Eli tried to be a good friend. But Will wouldn’t play with him.
“If you play with Eli, you can’t play with me,” Will told Jake and Danny.
Eli asked Will nicely, but Will said, “No. Go away.”
Eli tried to join in when the other boys played chase. But no one would chase Eli.
One day Eli brought some toys to school. A new girl named Emma watched him playing.
“Do you want to play with me?” Eli asked.
“Yes,” Emma said. “That looks like fun.”
Jake and Danny asked, “Can we play too?”
“Yes,” Eli said.
Will looked lonely.
“Come on, Will,” Eli said. “You can play too.”

Some time ago, we were in the kingdom of Tonga. A family home evening, with music and spoken word, was arranged by President Muti in his stake center. The home evening was in honor of His Majesty King Tupou the Fourth, the reigning monarch of Tonga. The king, his daughter, and granddaughters graciously attended, as did many of the nobles and diplomatic representatives in Tonga. Our members put on a superb program of song and verse. One of the king’s granddaughters sang a little solo entitled “How Much I Love My Grandfather.” Elder John Sonnenberg and I were invited to respond briefly, which we were pleased to do.
After the program was over, the king ignored the usual royal protocol and came over to graciously greet us and our wives as an expression of appreciation for the performance of his subjects who are members of the Church. Social protocol is observed in many places, but the expression of kindness is universally appropriate.

The youth I saw confined to a wheelchair was a startling contrast to the boy I remembered from the year before. I remembered him as a happy, 18-year-old Indian boy whose swift, strong legs had carried him up and down the basketball courts. But that was yesteryear. Today he was in a wheelchair. Today his dark eyes and handsome smile caused me to be amazed at his youthful courage.
I first met Don a couple of years ago and learned that he was a convert to the Church. His widowed mother lived in a remote section of the Navajo Indian reservation, and he was a participant in the Indian student placement program, a program that places Indian children and teenagers in foster homes during the school year so that they may get a better education. His school work was excellent; he played the piano skillfully; and with the same slim brown fingers he could paint beautiful pictures or strum the guitar in accompaniment to his clear soft voice. Don’s personality was pleasant, his standards were high, his testimony strong. He was soon to graduate from high school, and his plans were to spend a short time with his people on the reservation before returning to live with his foster parents, where he would work preparatory to receiving his expected call to the mission field.
Life seems to have a way of changing the most carefully made plans, but no one would have expected the traumatic experience that awaited Don. His fun on the reservation was cut short by painful events, and his mission began in a much different way than one would have imagined.
While riding in the back of a small truck with some of his friends, Don accidentally fell out onto the hard, black pavement and skidded painfully along its rough surface. That was the last thing he remembered until he awoke in a hospital bed, his body in physical torment.
An excruciating pain in his back persisted through the long night, and as the new day began, Don found himself unable to move his arms, hands, or legs. He was paralyzed from his neck down!
Following an emergency operation, he awoke in a recovery room conscious that the pain in his mended back was subsiding; but he was also painfully aware of his helpless limbs that refused to respond to his efforts to move them.
Don’s concerned doctors had little hope that this condition would ever change. As he lay helpless in his hospital bed, fighting back the tears of discouragement, he expressed the feelings of his heart to his Heavenly Father, asking for strength to endure and for a recovery from his affliction if it were His will.
Night after night while others slept, Don struggled through the long, dark hours attempting to move his helpless hands that lay inertly by his side. He would pray and try, pray and try, repeating over and over in his mind, “I can do it, I can do it, I can do it!” Then, as the early morning light filtered softly through the blinds of his window, he would surrender himself wearily to a merciful sleep.
On one such interminable night, Don’s heart suddenly pounded with excitement as an almost imperceptible movement was made by one of his fingers! Holding his breath in suspense, he moved his finger again!
There was no sleep for Don that night. A wonderful, elated feeling of hope buoyed his troubled spirit and gave him renewed determination to regain the use of his hands.
Each night became a new adventure as gradually, with great effort and perseverance, the use of his hands and arms slowly returned to him.
In the meantime, Don’s doctor had procrastinated the unwelcome task of informing him that he must mentally prepare himself to accept his paralysis as an unalterable fact of his young life.
With great difficulty, the doctor told this news to Don. It was a poignant moment for the good doctor who turned quickly to leave the room to conceal his emotion. As he left the room he stole a last glance at Don lying quietly in his bed. Just at this moment, Don reached his arm up to the head rail of his bed and pulled himself into a more comfortable position. The startled doctor could not contain himself. “Do that again, Don! Do that again!” he shouted with excitement. Soon the room was filled with nurses and doctors who came running to learn the cause of the great commotion. It was a moment to be remembered.
Although Don was happy to feel the strength gradually return to his arms and hands, he had to fight back the tears when he looked down at his helpless legs.
In these trying circumstances he began to fulfill his desire to be a missionary. He told his roommate about the Book of Mormon and gave him a copy to read. Charles, a Hopi Indian boy, immediately became engrossed in the book, and when darkness came at the close of the day, he continued reading. He eagerly read the words of this book for three days and two nights, resentful of the time it took to eat or rest. Finally, when he had turned the last page, he rose from his bed and walked over near Don’s side and asked, “Don, where did you get this book? I have shared in the traditions of my people that we hold to be sacred. Many of our traditions are written in this book. Where did you get it?”
Don happily shared his testimony with his new friend as he told him of the restoration of the gospel and of its special meaning to them as Lamanites, a covenant race and descendants of the Book of Mormon people.
Soon after this Charles was released to go home, anxious to share this new message with family and friends. Don was moved to a rehabilitation center in Denver, Colorado. He was quite unprepared for what he encountered at his new residence in the paralytic ward. Everyone seemed depressed, discouraged, and despondent. Patients could not understand how Don, who was in an equally distressing condition, could seem so happy. Some of them asked, “Why are you always so happy and smiling?” Don replied, “My smile keeps the tears from my eyes, and my laughter keeps away the feeling of unhappiness.”
With courageous determination Don took advantage of the special care he now received. Long after others would tire and leave the gymnasium, he would remain—trying, trying, trying. Through his valiant effort, accompanied by humble prayers to his Heavenly Father, he was finally strong enough to go up and down the parallel bars alone; and then he was able to walk with braces and crutches. His new mobility permitted him to attend church services. This spiritual comfort brought him great joy, but he was totally surprised by the reception he was given upon his return to the hospital. Everyone teased him for going to church! In his characteristic way, Don’s smile merely broadened at their taunting. He resolved to do something about the gloomy atmosphere in this, his new home, so he happily embarked upon the next chapter of his mission.
In the days that followed, he could be seen wheeling himself down hallways and into every room where patients would receive him, preaching the gospel to all who would listen. He became known cheerfully as “the prophet,” a title that he accepted graciously.
In the evenings he often sang as he accompanied himself with his guitar. Others began to join in, and the spirit spread. Friday nights soon became known as the time for singing and entertainment and patients joined together with singing and laughter. Patients began to smile and call each other by name.
All was not happiness for Don, however, for he longed to see his home, his family, and his friends. In spite of his high resolve, his vision clouded when he looked down at his crippled legs. Wonderful Church members tried to fill his hour of need, and Don said, “Through their kindness they put a smile on my face and laughter in my mouth.”
As time drew near for him to be released, he began to worry about his acceptance by friends and family upon his return.
The day finally came when his foster parents arrived. It was an ordeal for Don to get enough courage to ask the question that had filled his mind completely. “Do you want me to come back?” he asked apprehensively. They softly replied, “Of course, Don. We have a bed waiting for you.” The kind response was too much for him! This time his tears flowed freely and mixed with theirs in a demonstration of joy and love.
On the night of Don’s departure, a special program was held in his behalf. His many new friends shook the rafters with a song sung in his honor: “Too Many Chiefs and Not Enough Indians Around This Place.”
The courage and spirit of this young man had affected the lives of others and left an indelible impression.
Two of the residing patients and two members of the nursing staff who waved good-bye to Don had accepted the gospel of Jesus Christ as a result of his influence. Many looked to the future with new hope, and each felt a personal loss at his departure.
Upon his return home, Don’s numerous friends were out to greet him and welcome him back into their circle of friendship. Don soon found a job at an LDS mailbox bookstore that enabled him to meet the payments on his car, a vehicle equipped with special controls that would carry him to his work and to the Mesa Community College where he was enrolled for classes.
As I concluded my visit with him, he handed me a letter. “What is this?” I asked. “It’s a letter from my physical therapist in Denver,” he smiled in reply.
I unfolded the pages and began to read. “Dear Don,” the letter began, “I don’t know how to thank you. Yesterday was the happiest day of my life. It was the day I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
I hope I will remember the example of Don. I hope I will remember his parting words when I asked about his future. He looked directly at me and spoke with conviction: “I’ll wipe away my tears and let the wind of discouragement blow. I cannot fail, for God is with me.”

“Soldier!”
Meltiar Hatch leaped to his feet and saluted the man on horseback. The Mormon Battalion had been on the march since dawn. Meltiar had taken advantage of a break to bring his 16-year-old brother, Orin, to rest in the shade of a tree. He hadn’t heard the officer’s horse until it was right next to him.
Lieutenant Smith returned Meltiar’s salute. “At ease, soldier.” He looked down at Orin, who lay unmoving, his eyes closed. “Your companion looks to be very ill.”
“Yes, sir,” Meltiar said sadly. “He contracted the fever at Fort Leavenworth, but I know that in time—”
“Time? Time?” Lieutenant Smith loudly interrupted. “This troop has no time. The untimely death of our former commanding officer has set us back two weeks. We cannot defer to the sick and the weary. Leave him.”
Meltiar’s protests were ignored as Lieutenant Smith turned and gave the order to assemble. As the drums sounded, men began to scramble to collect their provisions and line up. Meltiar sat down heavily and put his head in his hands.
“Meltiar,” Orin’s voice was barely audible. “Forgive me. I joined up only because I wanted to finally be useful, like you were in Nauvoo. I never imagined it would end like this.”
“Well, none of us imagined we’d ever be led by Lieutenant Smith, either. Few of the non-Mormon leaders have been unkind; he’s just the worst of the lot. Let’s not forget the promises given by Brigham Young and the Twelve,” Meltiar said with conviction. “If we conduct ourselves properly on this march, our lives will be spared.” He put his pack and canteen in Orin’s hands. “Here is some extra food and some water. I must go now, but I’ll be back, I promise.” He got to his feet.
“I never meant to be a burden.”
“Brothers can never be burdens.”
When the battalion made camp for the night, Meltiar quietly slipped away and began his journey back to the place where Orin waited. Much in need of rest, he sat down by a tree and quickly fell asleep. Later, he awoke with a start. He couldn’t remember why he was alone in the woods in the middle of the night, but sensed that someone’s life depended on him. Meltiar shook his head to clear his jumbled thoughts.
His first thought was that he was still a messenger in the Nauvoo Legion.
He spoke aloud to himself. “The Prophet Joseph is dead. I couldn’t have prevented his assassination. However, I should have found help when my horse went lame, instead of trying to walk to Carthage. Then I might have been able to deliver the last message from his loved ones before he died.” He shook his head sadly. “But I was young and full of pride, just as Orin is now.”
At the thought of his brother, Meltiar stumbled to his feet. That’s whose life depended on him now! Weary as he was, he had to keep walking. The two previous nights, Meltiar had another soldier help him bring Orin back to camp on horseback. Each morning, when Lieutenant Smith discovered what had happened, he angrily ordered that Orin be left behind again. Last night Lieutenant Smith had informed Meltiar that if he wanted to keep up his “foolhardy venture,” he could no longer disturb the sleep of other men or beasts. That was why he was now alone and on foot. And he knew that he must be only about a third of the way back to where he’d left his brother.
Meltiar had prayed fervently for help when he’d set out. He knew he had an impossible task. Even if he had not been exhausted from lack of sleep, it would take him most of the night just to reach Orin on foot. Although Orin was much improved and could probably walk, he couldn’t travel very fast in his weakened condition. Meltiar knew that if he didn’t get back to the battalion before it pulled out at dawn, it would leave them both behind. But he also knew that he could never leave Orin.
Several times on these night trips, Meltiar had had the uneasy feeling that he was being watched. Now he was certain he saw movement by a large rock up ahead. He stopped walking and slowly reached for his pistol. But the pistol was gone! He must have dropped it back where he had fallen asleep. He started to reach for his knife but froze when an Indian stepped out of the shadows. In the light of the moon something glinted in the Indian’s hand. It was Meltiar’s pistol!
As Meltiar stood wondering what to do, he heard the sound of a horse approaching. Could someone from the battalion be following me? he wondered. Or could it be another Indian? The Indian appeared not to have heard the sound, but stood unmoving, the gun down at his side.
When the horse came into the clearing, Meltiar’s heart sank when he saw that it was an Indian pony with two riders. Meltiar closed his eyes and prayed for help.
“Meltiar?” a familiar voice said.
Startled, Meltiar opened his eyes to see that one of the riders had dismounted and was approaching him cautiously.
“Meltiar?” the voice repeated. “Is that you?”
“Orin?”
The two brothers rushed together in a brief, fierce hug, then turned to face the waiting Indians. The Indians had both mounted the pony, leaving the brothers’ guns and packs on the ground. One Indian slowly raised his hand in a salute. “Brothers,” he said before they turned and rode off into the shadows.
“That’s what he said when he came and got me,” Orin said. “I thought he meant that something had happened to you, so I went with him, even though I was scared. How did they know we were brothers?”
“They’ve been watching us these past few nights,” Meltiar said with sudden realization. “And maybe they could see how much we cared for each other. They could also see how much we needed their aid, so they helped us! Or—” he smiled at Orin— “maybe he meant that we are all brothers.”
“I’m grateful for their help,” Orin said softly, “but sometimes it isn’t easy to accept help from others.”
“I know what you mean.” Meltiar leaned on Orin. “But if you are as strong as you look, now it’s time for you to be useful. I need your help to walk back to camp. I hate to be a burden, but I am very tired!”
“I am much stronger now, Meltiar. Don’t worry,” Orin told him with a smile. “Brothers can never be burdens.”

Caroline Hopkins Clark and her husband, John, had joined the Church in Great Britain and responded to the call of the prophet to gather with the Saints in Zion. The journey by ship was marked by unusually cold and wet weather, poor food, and unsanitary living conditions—all accentuated by severe seasickness. Her journal is laced with many comments such as: “Very wet and cold” (2 May 1866). “We remain very sick. Martha hasn’t been able to eat anything since she came” (8 May). After several weeks on the sea, they arrived in New York and began the trek by land to Zion. More hardships and heartaches awaited them. Her diary entry for June 14 reads: “Today’s journey is a sad one to us, on account of the death of our dear baby. It grieved us much. . . . John stayed behind to bury her.” After finally being united with the Saints in the Salt Lake Valley, Caroline sent a record of their journey along with a letter to the family she left behind in England. To the family and friends who thought her crazy to join with the Mormons and follow them to a desert valley on the American frontier, she wrote:

I have no doubt that when my sisters know that I have lost the baby, they will say, that it would not have died if I had stayed home. There is the same good here as there. . . . She was so well the beginning of the journey, but we know she is safe and that if we prove true to the gospel that we have embraced, that we shall have her again with the others at the resurrection. . . .

I dare say you would like to know if we have regretted our journeying. As yet we do not regret the time we left England. If we had the privilege to come back we would not accept it.

After Halloween, people’s attitudes toward me changed, and questions about my faith evolved into peers asking me for advice about their own lives. To my surprise, friends and acquaintances who had gotten over the initial shock of learning that I do not drink, smoke, or do drugs and that I am waiting to have sex until I’m married turned to me for guidance specifically on those topics.

I found myself reassuring friends who were feeling pressured into having sex that they had the power to choose, encouraging some to go to the school counselor to talk about mental health and addiction concerns, and even consoling someone who made a mistake that would likely lead to expulsion. I was baffled by the way many of my peers could transition from mocking me to seeking my advice.

Over time, I understood that being completely confident, open, and vulnerable about who I was drew others to me who were seeking a judgment-free space and a listening ear.

I am grateful for two of the many important lessons I learned that year. The first is that healthy laughter can dissolve apprehension and contention and is an excellent way to unify people. The second is that choosing to be confident in who you are brings remarkable opportunities to help others that would have never come otherwise.

There were many times when I wanted to hide my religion and be known for something else. But having a sense of humor and vulnerability about who I am allowed people to get to know me as Matteo, not just someone with different beliefs.

Shortly after World War II, I was visiting in Washington, D.C., and happened to pick up a New York newspaper. On the front page in a small box was reported an interview with a Russian historian who for a year had been visiting the United States and was about to return to his native land. I have forgotten the name of this historian, but I have not forgotten one of the questions reported to have been asked of him. The reporter said, “You have been in America for a year, studying our history and our people. Tell me, which of all the Americans do you consider the greatest?”
The Russian historian answered, “You have had only one great American—Joseph Smith, the Mormon Prophet.”
Giving a reason for his statement he said, “There is only one American who has advocated a way of life and has brought forth ideas, which, if followed, would change the whole society of the world.”
Delving into the life and teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith reveals a wealth of ideas so revolutionary that they could, if adopted, change the course of human history.
We don’t recognize how different from his times Joseph Smith was in his views:
He gave a new perspective of God, a restoration if you will, but a perspective at variance with that which prevailed. He proclaimed our Father to be a personal god, with a body—an individual who could speak and would speak to man—a person who would hear and answer prayers.
He brought forth new evidence that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, a resurrected being who had not only appeared in our day but had reestablished his church and was directing it.
He elevated man to a new position as the literal son of God and a god in embryo, who not only lived before appearing in the flesh but will live again after death and can, as a possibility, become a god.
He stated man to be the same species as God.
He declared that the whole purpose for the creation of this earth is for the benefit and eternal life of man—that our purpose in living is that we might have joy.
He taught that salvation will be universal, that all mankind will rise from the grave and can be forgiven of their sins upon repentance.
He announced that all the billions who have died might yet hear the gospel of Jesus Christ and, accepting it, have performed for them upon the earth all those necessary ordinances that lead to salvation.
These and countless other ideas are revolutionary. They are ideas that we still proclaim to the world and that, if accepted, could change the faith of all men.
Joseph Smith had some qualities that enabled God to use him and that would enable God to use you and me if we possessed them. For greatness is not handed to man upon a platter, and no individual can be an instrument in God’s hands except he possess the qualities that are inherent in leadership.
Intelligence
First is the quality of intelligence. Without opportunity for formal schooling, the Prophet was interested in almost every subject. In 1836 he was instrumental in bringing to the city of Kirtland, Ohio, where the Church was quartered, a Professor Seixas, a Hebrew scholar. The Prophet believed that the Church leaders should be familiar with the language. But how much Hebrew could you learn in 14 weeks, attending two or three nights a week? Only two students could read Hebrew with any degree of fluency afterward—Joseph Smith and Orson Pratt. The Prophet also appears to be the only one who publicly discussed various passages in the Bible from the Hebrew text.
Frequently we determine the intelligence of an individual by whether or not the views expressed in his lifetime withstand criticism in the years that follow. Some of the political views of the Prophet Joseph are interesting to review today:
He advocated a federal banking system—a type of reserve system that was not established in this country until 1917.
He urged Congress to place locks in the Mississippi River for the benefit of navigation. He didn’t live to see his hope fulfilled, but today the Keokuk Dam and locks, which permit large vessels to move on the river, have been built at the very spot advocated by the Prophet.
He proposed a prison reform system that is just beginning to be realized. Joseph contended that our prisons should become seminaries of learning if we expect to rehabilitate those who have violated the laws of our society.
It is not because Joseph Smith advocated these things that they have finally been adopted. But it does indicate that his views in many fields, in addition to religion, have proven to be realistic and farsighted.
Zeal for Learning
There is a second quality of the Prophet Joseph, a quality that you and I must have if we want to become leaders. It is a zeal for learning.
You may recall in the New Testament the story of a young student. He journeyed with his parents, Joseph and Mary, down to the feast of the Passover. We don’t know why the party with whom he traveled to Jerusalem left before the feast was over, but it appears as if they did; they were some distance on their way when Joseph and Mary discovered that their son was not with them. They went back and found him sitting at the feet—or standing before—some of the great Jewish teachers. At 12 years of age Jesus Christ had a zeal for learning.
Joseph Smith was of like nature. At the age of 14 he sought the true church. He would not give up until he found the answer. Throughout his life a zeal for learning was one of his great qualities.
This quality of mind is exemplified in the many languages he studied. He had a working knowledge of Hebrew and often studied the Bible in German. He also learned to decipher Egyptian. In an address to the Saints he made a list of some dozen languages and said, “If I live long enough, I’m going to master them all.”
Faith in a Living God
This zeal for learning might not seem so vital and might not have brought him to greatness save for a third qualification, for we have indeed had intelligent men and women in this world who have also had a great desire to know and whom we admire, but who have often lacked the third quality—faith in a living God.
What has this to do with learning? Joseph Smith indicates that often when he struggled with a problem and could not find the answer, he went to the Lord in prayer. If he prayed in faith, “the answer,” he said, “came into my mind, with such clarity and such sequence of thoughts that I knew it was of God and I dictated the answer to my scribe.”
No matter how intelligent we may be or how desirous to learn, without faith in God many areas are closed to us. But these were not closed to Joseph Smith.
I think that a vital example of his faith is found in his experience with the book of Genesis in the Bible. Any reader of that book runs into problems. For example, the biblical record indicates that Adam and Eve had three sons, Cain, Abel, and Seth. Cain killed Abel and that left Cain and Seth to perpetuate the human race. Anyone reading the Bible knows that is impossible.
Joseph Smith exercised great faith when he prayed to the Lord to reveal to him the original context of this book of Moses. The original writings had been lost to the world, but Joseph prayed to the Lord to reveal them to him. That revealed text we have today is the book of Moses in the Pearl of Great Price. It constitutes one of the greatest additions to biblical scholarship that has ever been given to the world.
Power of Introspection
Joseph possessed a fourth quality that is important to all of us. It is the power of introspection—the power to look within ourselves and see what kind of person we are.
Every morning each one of us looks into a mirror to examine our physical appearance—hair styling, makeup, general health. Have you ever thought how fine it would be to look within yourself—to meet yourself on the street and ask yourself what kind of a person you are, to interrogate yourself? Do you know your own faults, your own strengths?
Here is an interesting quality of the Prophet Joseph. He knew his weaknesses and his strengths. He declared, “I was a rough stone until the Lord took me in hand.” (History of the Church, 5:423.)
Most of us hide our weaknesses. When we read in the Doctrine and Covenants, sections 3, 6, 10, and 24, we find that the Lord frequently upbraided the Prophet Joseph for failure to follow fully the directions given him [D&C 3, 6, 10, 24]. A lesser man would not have recorded those reprimands, but the Prophet never spared himself. He acknowledged and corrected his errors.
When he translated the Book of Mormon, Joseph recognized his weakness in regard to the English language, for he had had so little schooling. He studied the language, and when the second edition of the Book of Mormon came from the press, he had personally corrected the grammatical errors of the first edition. If you want to see him at his literary finest, reread sections 121, 122, and 123 of the Doctrine and Covenants [D&C 121, 122, 123]. This beautiful writing stands as a monument to a man’s ability to rise.
The Prophet recognized in himself many weaknesses, but he set about to overcome them. He recorded that on one occasion a man came into his home and in a rage called him almost every name under heaven. The Prophet wrote that he was so incensed he kicked the man out of his house and all the way to the front gate. He then went back to his office and wrote in his journal how unbecoming of a prophet his actions had been. He never lost his temper again.
When he was imprisoned in Liberty Jail during that hard winter of 1838–1839, without a fire or proper food, Joseph heard lurid stories about how his people had been driven and massacred and the women ravaged. He pleaded with the Lord:
“O God, where art thou? And where is the pavilion that covereth thy hiding place?
“How long shall thy hand be stayed … ?” (D&C 121:1–2.)
It was a prayer of complaint. But when the Lord answered him, he said unto him:
“Thou art not yet as Job; thy friends do not contend against thee, neither charge thee with transgression, as they did Job.” (D&C 121:10.)
He reminded him that the Son of Man had descended below them all: “Art thou greater than he?” Joseph Smith did not complain again.
Love of People
Let me refer to a fifth characteristic of the man: love of people. No man can be great in this world without a love for his fellowmen. Emma said of Joseph that he would not even eat a meal alone but would have to invite a stranger from the street to share it with him. (See History of the Church, 6:166.) Written accounts are full of instances in which he stood for the defense of an individual. His own written account is full of situations in which he rebuked the Saints for criticizing one another.
The supreme evidence of his love occurred in June 1844 when, having had it revealed to him by the Lord that his enemies sought his life, he had planned to journey into the West and find a place for the Saints where they might be safe. He had crossed the Mississippi when word came from his wife Emma, “The Saints think you are a coward. They are charging that you are running away.” From Joseph came these famous words: “If my life is of no value to my friends, it is of no value to me. Hyrum, we are going back.” (See Essentials in Church History, p. 374.)
As he rode out of Nauvoo on his way to Carthage to give himself up to the sheriff, he turned in the saddle, and looking back upon the city of Nauvoo, said, “Oh, that I could but speak once more to my beloved people.”
On the highway he met Steven Markham who said to him “Joseph, where are you going?” He answered, “I am going like a lamb to the slaughter, but I am as calm as a summer’s morning. I have a conscience void of offense toward God and toward all men.” (Essentials in Church History, p. 376.)
This is the Prophet Joseph Smith who possessed these five great qualities: intelligence, zeal for learning, faith in a living God, the ability to look within himself and correct his own character, and a love of people. These five qualities, possessed collectively, helped to make Joseph Smith a fit instrument in the hands of God to be a prophet to this dispensation. These same qualities will greatly help us in our callings if we will but recognize and cultivate them.

I was barely 17 when two missionaries knocked on our door; my mother was recently divorced and had five children. At the time I accepted only what could be proved by sight or touch or logic. So when my mother let the elders in, I was angry. I listened to the discussions but kept my distance. All the family members but me agreed to be baptized.
One night the elders came to our home. Elder Álvarez spoke to me in a tone I had never heard before: “We have taught you all you need to know and have invited you to change your life. Now we come in the name of Jesus Christ to ask you to kneel before that God whose existence you deny and ask Him if the things we have told you are true. Do you accept our challenge—or are you afraid?”
Afraid? That word was not in my vocabulary. I could ride a horse and hunt as well as most men. I would have put a rattlesnake around my neck if someone had dared me to.
“I accept,” I said.
It was hard to sleep that night. I kept thinking of the challenge I had accepted: Why had I done it? How could I bow down before an invisible being? The truth was, I was afraid.
The next day I waited until everyone left the house before I went to the top of the building. There, I knelt down and began, “Father in Heaven …” Then I stopped. A strong wind was blowing, and I felt vulnerable. My senses were tuned to every sound, and I didn’t dare open my eyes. I felt utterly alone.
Suddenly I felt protected, and I had the courage to go on. I asked to know if God existed. I asked for understanding. I asked to feel. I asked and asked. And before I knew it, I was crying—asking forgiveness for having doubted. I felt a burning in my heart and knew beyond any doubt that God existed and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was His Church. As I arose, I saw grit embedded in my knees and realized I had been praying for a long time.

I had a nephew who like me was persuaded by his parents to attend BYU-Hawaii. Both of his parents are graduates of this institution. They were very worried about him, knowing I was serving as a campus bishop they pleaded if there was anyway he could be in my ward. I arranged for that to happen without my nephew knowing and at the age of 21, he made his move to BYU-Hawaii. Every bishop on this campus will try their best to have a welcome interview with every student in his ward. When it was his turn for an interview, he basically talked first and said, "Uncle, I'm not going on my mission. I don't want anybody pushing me to go." I looked at him, smiled, and replied, "Well, welcome nephew to the BYUH 8th ward. I'm so glad you are here going to school and I know you'll have a wonderful experience on this campus." He looked at me kind of funny and we began to talk about him. That very semester, the 8th ward missionary farewells were almost twice a month. He was there at every farewell. He participated in the ward choir, in ward activities, intramurals and slowly I could see the change in him. I never mentioned the "M" word to him—mission. In the middle of the next semester he asked for an interview with me. My heart was pounding. I knew there was something good that would come out of this interview. As soon as he sat down, tears flowed from his eyes and he said, "Uncle, I think it's time for me to go on mission." If I could have jumped up in the air I would have, but I kept my cool and I asked him what made him change his mind. He said, "The spirit is so strong on this campus. You can't help but feel you have to give back to the Lord. But it wasn't until the night Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin came to speak at the stake fireside. You asked me to come with you and drive Elder & Sister Wirthlin back to Turtle Bay after the fireside. What Elder Wirthlin told me in the car confirmed what I had already knew I had to do, but I was stubborn and didn't want to listen. He told me if I served a mission, everything will fall into place for me." Well, my nephew did serve an honorable mission and has since graduated and has moved on to the next phase of his life.

When President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) was a young man, he and his family lived on a farm during the summer. He had this experience there:
“There was a dead tree I wished to pull. I fastened one end of a chain to the tractor and the other end to the tree. As the tractor began to move, the tree shook a little, and then the chain broke.
“I looked at that broken link and wondered how it could have given way. I went to the hardware store and bought a repair link. I put it together again, but it was an awkward and ugly connection. The chain was never, never the same.”1
Think of yourself as part of a chain—a family chain. President Hinckley said we should never let ourselves be a weak link in our family chain.

We are here to make choices and we will make many, many choices throughout our lives. When we are young, our parents help and encourage us, sometimes strongly encourage us, to make good choices. As we get older, though, we must learn to make those choices for ourselves. I recall an experience with my son Jimmy when he was about six years old, an age when you are starting to be more independent and wanting to make your own choices, or at least to have more input on those choices.

Jimmy was in first grade and we were living in Tucson, Arizona at the time. He had a friend in his class at school who had an earring and encouraged him to get one too. Jimmy came home from school and told us that he wanted to get an earring because his friend had one and he thought it would be a pretty cool thing to do. This was nearly twenty years ago, and even though the prophet had not given specific guidance for men not to wear earrings, neither Keri nor I felt that it would be a good thing for Jimmy to do. Not wanting to simply tell him no without an explanation or reason, and not really having a reason other than we did not want him to get an earring, I told him that I would think about it and let him know. After thinking about it for a few days, I sat Jimmy down and told him that we did not want him to get an earring because we needed to follow the example of our prophet and the other general authorities and since they did not have earrings, we should not have them either. I was expecting a little bit of resistance from Jimmy, and I was surprised when he simply accepted the decision and never asked again. A few days later, Keri picked up Jimmy from school and gave one of his friends a ride home. It happened to be the friend with the earring. As they were driving home, Keri overheard the conversation between Jimmy and his friend. His friend asked him when he was going to get an earring and Jimmy told him that he was never going to get one. When his friend asked why, Jimmy replied: “Our prophet does not have an earring and I might be the prophet someday, so I am not going to get an earring.” Though he did not fully understand at that age how one is selected to be the prophet, his heart was in the right place. He desired to follow the prophet and that desire helped him to in his choice to accept mine and Keri’s decision.

Restless and excited. Eager, yet uncertain. These were my feelings as the train sped closer to our destination.
It was June 1961, and I was journeying with sixteen other students on a Brigham Young University travel study tour to study French in Quebec, Canada. We would be there tomorrow, and it was natural that our anticipation was increasing.
As my anticipation grew, so did my apprehension: for I had two problems facing me. The first and most important was the challenge I felt to be a missionary, an exemplar of gospel living. Since the Church had begun stressing that every member should be a missionary, I had thought a great deal about it.
I had been brought up as a member of the Church in a small Idaho town where all the townspeople were Latter-day Saints. In fact, all of the surrounding communities were also predominantly Latter-day Saint, and most activity, social and civic as well as religious, centered around the Church. From there I went to the wholesome atmosphere of Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. The result was that at nineteen I had never really had any close associations with nonmembers.
On the few occasions when I had met nonmembers, I had wanted to tell them about the Church, but I would suddenly feel self-conscious and unable to speak, almost embarrassed to steer conversation in that direction. The Golden Questions “What do you know about the Mormon Church?” and “Would you like to know more?” would seem to lodge like a lump in my throat, and my voice would tremble when I wanted to speak with conviction. It was difficult to speak of what I felt so deeply, and I believed I was prying if I asked someone about his religion. Afterward, when the opportunity had passed, I would be angry with myself. If, like the apostle Paul, I was “not ashamed of the gospel of Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth” (Rom. 1:16), then why was it so difficult for me to tell others about this good news?
My second problem was a much simpler one. After we arrived in Quebec, Canada and registered at the Universite Laval, we would be expected to speak French for the duration of our summer-long stay. I had studied French only one year, and my command of the language was far from skillful. However, this problem was one that most of my fellow students shared, and I knew that one purpose of the travel study tour was to help us improve our French.
I was not the only restless one that day. Night had fallen, and the other occupants of the passenger car in which we rode were beginning to settle down for sleep; but our group was too full of expectation to think of sleep.
“Let’s go into the dome car and sing some French songs and practice our French,” someone suggested.
We filed out of our car and into the connecting dome car. A railway dome car consist of two levels: a lower level similar to a regular passenger car but with fewer seats, and a stairway leading to the upper level, or dome. The dome features a panoramic view through large curving windows from this lofty height. As we entered, we noticed that the lower level was completely empty. We climbed the steps into the dome and here found only two occupants, a young mother and her tearful little son.
After the mother assured us that our singing would not disturb them, we began to sing, hesitantly and with many misuses of French accents and stumbling over words. Quickly our meager repertoire of French songs was exhausted, and we drifted comfortably into the familiar music and language of our Latter-day Saint hymns.
It was comforting and strengthening to sing the hymns I’d sung since childhood, and I noticed the little boy stopped crying as we sang. Soon he fell asleep across his mother’s lap.
I don’t know how long we sang, but I recall the lifting of my spirit and the deepening of my conviction as we sang “I Know That My Redeemer Lives” and “O My Father,” and the happiness we felt as we sang “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Finally, we ended with “Come, Come, Ye Saints,” and as the last strains of “All is well” faded, we began to move quietly out of the dome.
I was first to leave the dome to descend to the lower level of the car, and I was unprepared for the sight that met my eyes. Dozens of upturned faces were looking toward us. Every seat, which had been vacant when we entered the dome car earlier, was now filled, and people were even standing and sitting in the aisles. Unknown to us, these people had gathered to listen as we sang.
A woman standing near the stairway touched my arm, and I saw that there were tears in her eyes. “You young people sing so beautifully,” she said, “because you sing from your hearts. Who are you, and where do you come from?”
“We’re Mormons, ma’am,” I replied. “We are students from Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah.”
“Mormons … ,” she murmured.
She was right. We had sung from our hearts, and my heart was still singing. I heard myself saying, “What do you know about the Mormons?”
“Well, I have heard your lovely Tabernacle Choir,” she replied.
“Would you like to know more about the Mormons?” I asked.
“Yes, I really would.”
“What do I do now?” I thought in panic. “I’ve finally asked the Golden Questions, but now where do I begin?”
Then a calm, sure voice behind me spoke, and I turned to see a returned missionary from our group reach out and take the woman’s hand in a warm, firm grasp.
“Perhaps you have heard of a man named Joseph Smith,” he said. “Let me tell you more about him.”
Soon he was telling of Joseph Smith’s first vision and explaining the coming forth of the Book of Mormon. Several people who had listened to us sing stayed to hear what this earnest young member of our group had to say, and some left their names and addresses with requests for missionary contact or for copies of the Book of Mormon.
I was filled with peace and joy. I had asked the Golden Questions, and my friend, the returned missionary, had shown me where to go from there. Only a short while before, we had sung about Joseph Smith’s first vision in “Oh, How Lovely Was the Morning.” From their earliest years in Primary, children in the Church hear the story of “the boy’s first uttered prayer.” What better way to introduce the gospel than to relate that beautiful story? This experience was to guide me many times throughout the summer ahead.
In years to come I was to learn to follow up the Golden Questions with an invitation to my home to see a film and meet the missionaries. And I have learned that there are many other effective ways to introduce the gospel to others. But I like to remember that night on the train when we sang from our hearts, unaware of our listeners. We truly did have something to sing about, and our message had been heard.

A few years ago, Amy and I were in Hong Kong on assignment from the university and attended a session at the Hong Kong Temple. After the session we received a briefing from the Asia Area Presidency on the state of the Church in Asia. In the course of the briefing, Elder Kent D. Watson showed a picture of an elderly Mongolian woman standing in front of her yurt, the traditional Mongolian tent. He went on to explain that this sister, a recent convert to the Church, had, over the course of many months, saved her money so that she could pay for the four-day train ride from Mongolia to Hong Kong to attend the temple for the first time. She did all this at her own expense without any monetary support from the Church. As I looked at the picture of this dedicated sister and thought of her four-day train ride, my own commitment to the temple seemed rather pale in comparison.

Rob: You usually don’t realize you have a problem until you are in so deep you can no longer see the light. That’s what happened with me. I was curious and justified my involvement with pornography by reminding myself that guys at school were involved with it too, and it didn’t seem like a big problem for them.

Rob: Curiosity turned to interest, and interest developed into a strong habit. Soon I was addicted. I would get home from school, go straight to the computer, and be there for hours. My social life suffered. So did my schoolwork, family ties, and—most important—my spirituality.
At the very time I most needed the promptings of the Spirit in my life, I was less and less able to feel anything. Life became a constant struggle against depression.
My soul hungered, and the only thing I fed it offered no nourishment. I would get discouraged with myself, so I would delve into pornography to feel better. But the pornography would upset me even more.

Rob: Through all those years I attended church, but I was mentally inactive. I kept going to church so I wouldn’t upset my parents. But I knew the lifestyle I was caught up in was wrong. I noticed a change in my own countenance day by day, year by year. I became calloused and hardened. I found myself lying to my parents, my bishop, everyone around me. Inside I was going through personal turmoil and spiritual torment.

Rob: I humbly bowed before the Lord in tears and pleaded for strength beyond my own. Night after night I prayed, and finally I knew I had to talk to my bishop about it. That was the hardest part—admitting to someone else that I had a problem. I kept thinking I could handle it myself and no one would ever have to know. I wanted it to be something just between God and me. But I finally matured to a point where I realized that was impossible. I approached my bishop and began a long and difficult repentance process.
Repentance may be difficult, but it is also comforting and filled with hope.
Speaking of those who struggle with pornography, one bishop says: “Help is available. The repentance process is just that—a process. It takes time to break negative patterns, and each small victory must be acknowledged, reinforced, and celebrated along the way. Sometimes those I have worked with still struggle, but at least they are not hiding anymore. They have begun to build a support system. They have realized they don’t have to face this challenge alone.”
A former bishop explains: “Besides my own family, I don’t think I loved anyone in my ward quite as much as I loved those who came to me with broken hearts, seeking forgiveness and peace. They cared more about what the Lord thought of them than what any person thought. I respected their courage and desire to make things right. I shed tears over them. I rejoiced when they were clean and whole again. And afterward I never looked at them as former sinners—only as beloved brothers and sisters.”
“Trust in the Lord,” counseled Elder Richard G. Scott of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. “He knows what He is doing. He already knows of your problems. And He is waiting for you to ask for help” (“Trust in the Lord,” Ensign, May 1989, 36).
I felt relief when I stopped pretending. Sharing the burden with my bishop and my family meant I no longer had to deal with this addiction alone. Now I hold on to this support system.
A problem that dominated my youth could not be overcome overnight. This road has been long and hard—and it continues. It isn’t enough anymore to look happy. I want to be happy. I am coming to know Christ and to understand the Atonement. The Savior gives me the strength I need so my self-confidence and self-respect grow each day.
I was honest with my bishop. And when my dad talked to me, I was honest with him too. We worked on the problem together. We decided not to have the Internet in our home for a while. That was a big help.
I’m turning 16 soon, and I’m glad I decided not to let pornography control my life. I feel better about myself, and I think about young women differently than I did before. With my bishop’s help, I’m preparing now for the temple, a mission, and a great marriage one day.
It took a lot of time and sincere effort to break bad habits. Eventually I was judged by my priesthood leader as worthy to serve a mission. The best feeling in the world was to go to the temple and know I am clean. The Spirit I wanted to feel during all those teenage years came flooding into my heart and life. I am so thankful for the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
The adversary still works on me, trying to get me to backslide. But I have learned to put on the armor of God every day. I know Jesus Christ loves me, and I love Him.
The best way to avoid a problem with pornography is to stay as far away from it as possible. But if you are struggling with pornography or any unworthy habit, please talk to your bishop or branch president. He loves you, he will be discreet, and he can help you put the power of the Atonement to work in your life. With the help of the Savior and His servants, you can gain the strength you need. You can become clean and confident and worthy in every respect.