Gospel Story Finder

“The gospel is a special gift,” Brother Hart told Addie’s Primary class. “One way we can share it is by giving a Book of Mormon to a friend.”
Addie squirmed in her seat. She didn’t know if she could be brave enough to give someone a Book of Mormon. Then she thought of Lane. If it’s just like giving a gift, she thought, then maybe I could give one to Lane.
Lane had moved to Addie’s fourth-grade class halfway through the year. She was quiet just like Addie was. And when Mrs. Naga gave Lane the desk next to Addie, they had both smiled shyly at each other. Soon they were laughing and talking and playing together at recess.
Lane loved books, and Addie decided that, just maybe, she would love the Book of Mormon too.
When Addie got home from church, she asked Mom for a copy of the Book of Mormon. Mom gave her one with a soft cover and beautiful paintings of scripture stories inside. Addie hoped Lane would like it.
Addie carefully wrote her testimony on the first blank page. “Dear Lane, I hope you like this book. It is one of my favorite books. It has lots of good stories, and I know it’s true. Thanks for being my friend.”
She signed her name and carefully slipped the book into her backpack. Her stomach felt all fluttery inside. Would Lane be happy to get it?
At school the next day, Addie could hardly sit still. She was so nervous. What would she say? What would Lane say?
Finally it was recess. Addie stopped Lane before they walked out to the playground.
“I have something for you,” Addie said. She reached into her bag and pulled out the Book of Mormon. “I hope you like it.”
Lane smoothed her fingers over the shiny gold letters on the cover. She smiled. “Thank you.” She put it in her backpack, and then she and Addie ran outside.
Addie could hardly stop smiling. She’d done it! She’d shared the gospel, just like a missionary.
But the next day, it was Lane who stopped Addie before they went out to recess. She quietly pulled out the Book of Mormon from her backpack and handed it to Addie.
“My mom doesn’t want me to read it,” she said. She stared down at the floor. “I’m sorry.”
Addie felt her cheeks heat up. “Oh,” was all she could say as she slipped the book back in her own bag. They went out to play hopscotch, but Addie didn’t feel much like hopping. Maybe tomorrow would be better.
When school was over, Addie waved goodbye to Lane. Then she ran home and hurried to her room. The door shut behind her with a dull thud. Addie pulled the book out of her backpack. She’d been so brave, and it hadn’t worked out!
She wiped away tears as she opened up the Book of Mormon to her testimony. She had been so excited when she’d written it. She still knew what she’d written was true, but now she felt sad instead of excited. Lane was one of her best friends. Was there any other way she could share the gift of the gospel with her?
Addie turned around as the door opened.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” __________________ asked.
Write your name in the blank and pretend you’re Addie’s big brother or sister who just walked in. What would you say to her when she told you what happened? How could you help Addie feel better? What other ways could she still share the gospel? Write and tell us!
There are lots of ways to share the gift of the gospel! Like being kind or being a good example.

(23) M. Joseph Brough’s father hears wise guidance from his mother.

Not too long ago I was assigned by the First Presidency to interview a man who had been excommunicated from the Church for adultery. It had required eight years for him to work his way through the long and sometimes painful process of reinstatement in the Church, and now he was sitting before me in an interview to determine his worthiness for a possible restoration of his priesthood and temple blessings. I asked him this simple question: “Looking back on this traumatic time in your life, how did it happen?”
Tears began to flow freely down his cheeks as he tried to respond. At last he was able to speak. “Brother Ballard,” he said, “it all started the day I picked up a pornographic magazine in the barber shop. It was the first time in my life I had ever seen anything like that, and it intrigued me. I wanted to see more and more. And then I wanted to see things that were progressively more explicit. And then it wasn’t enough to just look at pictures—I wanted to actually participate in some of the activities I was looking at. Eventually I was untrue to my wife and my family, and unfaithful to the covenants I had made with my Heavenly Father in His holy house.”
The man continued through his tears: “I’m not trying to shift blame for the choices I made. I knew better than to do what I did, and I alone am responsible for my sins. But there’s no question in my mind that exposure to pornography played a significant role in my spiritual decline.”

Several years ago I realized that while I had a testimony of the gospel in general, there were some principles to which I was not yet fully converted. Although I had no problem with tithing or the Word of Wisdom for instance, I did struggle with the principle of eternal marriage—my eternal marriage.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be married; on the contrary, I did—desperately, or so I told myself. I dated locally and had some long-distance relationships. I dated constantly, even to the point of exhaustion. But I became an expert at identifying what I considered to be “flaws” in each of the women I dated. I always justified breaking off a relationship but usually not until I had strung her along for a year or two. Over time I worked myself into such a cycle of failure that I was practically paralyzed with regard to courtship.
I had served a mission. I attended the temple regularly, fasted and prayed for the Lord’s guidance, and served faithfully in ward callings. I had strong family support. I counseled regularly with my bishops. I even spent a season working with an excellent Latter-day Saint psychologist. But I was miserable. I couldn’t figure out how to get married.
People sympathetic to my plight told me that I just hadn’t met “the right one” yet. Others told me, “You just have to take the plunge.” But I had too many doubts and irrational fears to allow me to do so.
I figured marriage would take nothing short of a miracle. Even though I knew I was responsible for my own life and that I couldn’t expect any bishop to solve my problems, I hoped that each new bishop I worked with might be able to help me. They were all concerned and told me to stay close to the Church, continue to serve, and try my best.
When I was 45 years old, our ward’s bishopric was changed. When the name of the new bishop was announced, my heart sank. The man who had been called was someone with whom I had nothing in common. I foolishly determined that I would have to wait for the next new bishop.
One Sunday not long after, I was on my way to priesthood meeting when this bishop asked if I would come into his office right then for a temple recommend interview. In his office I began my well-rehearsed tale of woe: Nothing was going right for me. Every woman I had dated had some intolerable failing. And maybe I wasn’t really cut out for marriage in this life anyway.
The bishop dismissed my complaints, looked me in the eye, and asked, “Do you want to be married or not?” I had to answer that I thought so but that I wasn’t really sure anymore. He continued, “I want you to go home and decide if you really want to be married. If the answer is no, then I’ll feel sorry for you, but you can stop dating and quit beating yourself up over it. If the answer is yes, then come back, and we’ll work on it.”
At that moment, I received the undeniable impression that his counsel would help me.
I walked out of his office sobered. After church I went home, and with a brief but intense wrestle, I decided that the answer had to be yes. I did desire marriage, and I was willing to submit to the counsel of this bishop, whatever it was.
Making this decision was the turning point in my quest to be married. For decades I had been halfhearted in my efforts. Marriage had not really been a high priority for me, even if I had pretended it was. Only when it was convenient did I give marriage serious attention, but other things, such as my professional pursuits as a concert musician and a university professor, usually took precedence. What I needed to learn was how to approach the goal of marriage with the same commitment.
When I returned to counsel with my bishop, he spoke as plainly as anyone had ever done. He was not interested in my litany of excuses. He simply said, “Let’s find the glitch—the place where relationships always fall apart for you—and then fix it.” At first I was taken aback, but then I found his directness refreshing. I knew I could trust him. It took some energy and courage to get out of the deep rut I was in, but I began to gain more confidence that I could do it.
His first direction to me was to start looking anew for a companion who had, in his words, faith, integrity, and goodwill—enduring qualities that really mattered—instead of merely some surface qualities I considered essential. (In my mind, she needed to be a blonde, a soprano, and a gourmet cook.) My charge was to cherish her with the same kind of love, to the degree that I could, that our Heavenly Father has for each of us.
My bishop also helped me discover the flaws in my quest for marriage. I conceded that they were not in the women I had dated, as I had maintained for so long. Rather, they were in my own erroneous thinking and unrealistic expectations. He laid out some new rules by which I was to date.
First of all, I had to prepare for change. I was very comfortable in my way of living, and even though I desired marriage in an abstract way, I felt it would upset my routine. I would have to start doing some things differently. I’d been doing it my way for more than 25 years, repeating the same mistakes, and obviously it hadn’t worked. Because I was 45, I had to understand that I didn’t have an unlimited amount of time to date.
Second, dating was not to be about entertainment but rather about identifying a companion who was also seriously interested in and prepared for marriage. This was to be a time for becoming acquainted not just with someone’s personality but also, more important, with her spirit.
My bishop also taught me I would be able to tell within a few dates whether a woman had the essential qualities I was looking for. If they weren’t present, it was time to move along. To break my pattern of unproductive long-term dating, the bishop gave me a startling ultimatum: I was to follow any serious dating relationship through to marriage or rejection. After a reasonable period of time, I could not turn back unless the woman I was dating turned me down. Previously, my habit had been to walk away rather than commit. This time I would not be allowed to retreat as I had done so often before. In an uncharacteristically bold move, I agreed to the terms.
I started to recognize a few things. For one, I realized that what some call “chemistry” comes after honest and mature conversation, not before. This is one of the most common mistakes people make—they pursue a relationship only if they feel an immediate physical attraction. Some single people also prefer superficial topics to serious discussions and hard questions, avoiding the latter in the vain hope that once “true love” sets in, somehow all the real-life problems will disappear. Actually, it’s the other way around. If at the outset you practice honest communication and learn to answer the hard questions, then trust develops. This trust erases fear, which is usually the cause of cold feet, lack of commitment, and ultimately a shaky relationship.
Most important, I learned that love is not about just me. It is primarily about caring for the other person. I had to work on humbling myself and relinquishing the arrogant attitude that maybe no woman was good enough for me.
It would be nice if I could say I married the very next woman I met. I dated a few women very briefly and had one longer dating relationship in which I was ultimately turned down. But I exercised faith and followed my bishop’s instructions, even though I didn’t get immediate results.
The year after I adopted these changes in attitude and perspective, I took a second look at a woman I had known for years. We had actually dated before, but this time I saw her in a different light—as a prospective eternal companion who is delightful and beautiful in every way because she has the qualities that are enduring (and many bonus qualities as well). She was generous enough to give me another chance, and now she is my wife and the mother of our precious children. I love her deeply. Ten years ago, I could not have imagined such fulfillment.
What brought about this conversion? (And it was a real conversion—a turning in a different direction.) I believe the change came about because a bishop taught me how deeply Heavenly Father loves me and wants me to be happy and have all the blessings He has already promised me. My bishop helped me rearrange the priorities in my life, which had become distorted. He spoke plainly and did not allow me to be distracted by the excuses I had given for so long.
Now I know what conversion feels like. I have had that mighty change of heart regarding this principle, and it has made all the difference in my life. I can trace the moment of my conversion to that day in my bishop’s office when it was revealed to me that if I would follow his counsel, I would be blessed.
Indeed I am.

I’ve also learned about service from my father. On a family trip to São Paulo, my father gave a bag of apples to a young man asking for food. Later that day, my father gave our sandwiches to another man. He said, “He needs these more.”

“That’s about it for announcements and assignments. Oh, but I would like to see Greg and Tom Glenn after class, if you boys wouldn’t mind.”
“Uh oh,” I thought to myself as I poked my brother in the side and let out a nervous laugh. Trouble was waiting for us, for sure. I suddenly became very pious, bowing my head, folding my arms, and hoping that the closing prayer would go on forever.
We knew all too well what Brother Reed wanted to see us about. Tom and I hadn’t been on time to priesthood meeting for weeks. Sometimes we didn’t come at all, and sometimes we sneaked silently through the door and slipped into the back row at the very last minute, just in time to get our sacrament passing assignments and leave.
Now, it wasn’t that we were sleeping in or fooling around at home. On the contrary. We were wide awake every morning at 4:30 to do the chores on the dairy farm where we lived. Dad had recently had a heart attack, so it was up to Tom and me to milk the cows and clean the place, and do all the other dairy work. We had the cows on a fixed schedule which easily got us to school during the week for 8:30 classes; but on Sundays, finishing everything, then showering and dressing for priesthood at 7:30 was rough. It was an awful lot of work, and we thought we were doing pretty well to make it to priesthood at all.
Evidently, though, our priests quorum adviser didn’t think so. After everyone else filed out of the room, Brother Reed pulled a chair up close, so he was only about a foot or two away from us. Although he didn’t touch us, we could sure feel him, sitting so near.
“Boys,” he said in a surprisingly gentle tone, “there’s really something missing from the quorum when you’re absent. What am I doing wrong? Are my lessons bad, or is it something I do personally?”
Talk about throwing us a curve! We thought we were going to be chewed up and spit out in little pieces, but here was Brother Reed, thinking he was the reason we were late. We both started explaining simultaneously that it wasn’t his fault at all, but that we just had to take care of all the chores at the dairy.
“Well, would it be of any use to you if I came over early on Sunday and helped with the work a little? It would be a privilege for me, and it might help you get to priesthood on time. What do you say? What time does the work start?” he asked, wearing the most sincere look I’d ever seen on a man’s face.
Tom and I had the same thought at the same time. We couldn’t let him do that. First of all, 4:30 was far too early to drag anyone out of his bed and away from his family on a Sunday morning. Second, we didn’t want him to have to suffer the subfreezing weather. And third, there wasn’t that much he could do anyway. We were not about to give him any of the grubby work.
So when he asked us when we started, we pushed the clock back an hour and told him 3:30 A.M., thinking no one in his right mind would get up that early, no matter how helpful he felt. We thanked him for his generous offer, shook his hand, and assured him that we would try to make more of an effort to be at our meetings on time in the future.
We didn’t think about it much for the rest of the week, until Sunday when I groggily crawled out of bed at about 4:15 in the painfully cold morning. I looked out the window and was shocked to see Brother Reed’s ancient wreck of a Rambler silently parked in the driveway. I threw my clothes on, raced outside, and tapped on his car window.
“Good morning,” he said cheerily as he rolled down the window. His words formed small icy clouds in the air between us. He reached out to shake my hand, and I noticed his grasp was one of the coldest I’d ever felt. I could have kicked myself. It was obvious he’d been waiting in the driveway for some time—probably since 3:30. And his financial state was such that he didn’t have enough money to run the car’s motor—and heater—while he waited.
“Come on inside while Tom gets dressed,” I said as I led him to the house. Then I raced upstairs to hurry Tom into some kind of working condition.
In a few minutes, the three of us were trudging through the snow to the barn. The one thing we hadn’t exaggerated about was the amount of work there was to do, and Brother Reed pitched in the best he could.
At one point in the milking process, though, Brother Reed paused for a second and rather timidly asked, “Do you suppose I could have just a little sip of that milk? I’ve almost forgotten what fresh milk tastes like, we’ve been using the powdered kind for so long.”
Our hearts went out to our quorum adviser. It seemed he sacrificed for everyone. Not only did we give him a drink, but we packaged several gallons for him to take home to his family. It was the least we could do for him.
Well, maybe not the least. The hour for class to begin was drawing nearer and nearer, and the work still wasn’t finished. Finally Brother Reed told us he would have to go home and get ready for church. “Now I understand why it’s so hard for you boys to get to class on time,” he told us as he stood up and wiped the sweat away from his forehead. “I’ll try to be a little more understanding in the future.”
You should have seen the look on his face when he arrived at church to find Tom and me already seated there, clean, with scriptures in hand. We had decided that if he cared enough to go that excruciatingly cold extra mile to help us, we could work a little faster and help him. I can’t honestly say that we were both on time for every meeting from then on, but we did always see that at least one of us was there every Sunday.
And we found that Brother Reed’s lessons were actually quite good. But none of them ever matched the lesson he taught us about service and love before priesthood meeting on that cold winter morning.

Congratulations! I wanted to let you know what a fine magazine you are producing.
Being an elder in the area I am in, it seems the job of encouraging our membership never ends. We have 3 Anglo members and 28 Lamanite members in a 150-mile radius. Thus, communication with our branch is difficult. The New Era is a great spiritual help. Thanks.
Elder Gary McAndrewsCarlyle, Saskatchewan, Canada

An assistant to the president of the priests quorum tells this story: “Our priests quorum has 18 members. We make a point of remembering birthdays and school achievements and things like that of all our quorum members—especially the few that are inactive. We even visit their homes on these special occasions. It’s made a big difference in their attitude. They know we care about them.”

When I was a lieutenant in the air force, our squadron selected as its motto “Return with Honor.” We realized that this motto applied to all members of the flight. It did not just apply to us as individuals. We flew jet fighter planes in a fingertip formation. For a moment, fold your thumb under your hand and look at the back of your hand with your fingers extended. You will see a flight of four planes with the leader and three wing-men. You are protected on the left and on the right, and the leader is concentrating on his goals. If for a moment you will separate and put two fingers on either side, you will still see a leader and a wingman, one plane ahead of the other, and one plane on the wing to protect. We all knew and were taught from bitter experience that a “loner” out of formation was unprotected and would surely be destroyed.

“Why did I disobey my father?” I groaned, feeling my stomach lurch once more. “The wind—oh, please make the wind stop blowing.”
In desperation, I clung to the top of a 200-foot-high tree that swayed back and forth in the wind, knowing that at any time I could be swept away. How vividly you remember promises once they are broken.
As a young man, I spent summers working with my father in our sawmill in southern Washington. When I was 12 years old, high on my to-do list was topping a tree—that is, strapping on a pair of climbing spurs, climbing a tree, and cutting off its top. It involves considerable risk, but to me it looked exciting.
One Saturday as we ate lunch, I said, “Dad, do you know what I’m going to do this afternoon?”
“What’s that, Son?” he muttered, absently contemplating a broken sprocket on the conveyer belt.
“I’m going to climb Old Mossy.”
Old Mossy was a monstrous tree, untouched since the mill was built because the tree was so massive our small mill could never process it. Old Mossy stood almost 20 stories tall and was wide enough at the base to drive a car through if it were hollowed out. Every logger in the county knew about Old Mossy.
“Ouch,” I yelled as my father’s strong fingers bit into my shoulder.
“Dee,” he said with an intensity I had never heard before, “you are not to climb that tree. Do you understand? Old Mossy is a man-killer, and I don’t want you anywhere near it. I want your promise that you will never go near that tree with climbing spurs. Do I have your word?”
“I promise,” I stammered, a little shaken.
“Fine,” he said, rubbing my shoulder. “I’m going into town to buy a new sprocket. I want you to clean up around the mill while I’m gone. When I get back, we’ll knock off early and go see a movie. How does that sound?”
“That’s great, Dad,” I said as I rushed to complete my assigned task. I cleaned up furiously in anticipation of the movie, but my eyes were repeatedly drawn to Old Mossy. My work gradually ground to a halt as I stood there, completely captivated by my huge temptation. “Why, I could climb to the top and be down before Dad even returned from town,” I reasoned. “He wouldn’t even know.” With only a moment’s hesitation, I rushed to the storage shed and strapped on the climbing gear.
What a thrill it was to finally thrust those climbing spurs into the heavy bark and begin my ascent! I was so caught up in the excitement of the climb that I lost track of time. All at once, there I was—looking out over the tops of the other trees in the forest. The view was breathtaking. I hung there, luxuriating in the beauty of the moment.
I looked at the sky, at the horizon, and, finally, down at the ground. Immediately, nausea rippled through my body like a wave. I was suddenly so weak I could barely stand. I was more than 17 stories up with only two tiny climbing spurs and a rope as a lifeline. I shook with fright, incapable of anything but clinging to the rope.
Then the wind began to blow. The tree swayed back and forth, and I became sicker and sicker. How I wished I had obeyed my father! No young man ever felt remorse so quickly. How long I clung there, I don’t know, but it seemed like forever.
“Son,” I heard my father shout. “Son, can you hear me?”
Looking far below, I saw him lying on his back at the base of that monstrous tree, his head cradled in his hands, looking up at me. I will never forget that moment. He shouted, “I want you to listen to me very carefully. Take a deep breath and relax. You’re going to be just fine. Now, lean back against the rope and …”
Calmly and lovingly, he guided me step by step down the tree. When I finally reached the ground, I was weak and exhausted yet relieved and repentant. Dad untied the rope from my waist, helped me take off the spurs, and putting his arms around me, whispered, “Oh, my son, I love you so very much.”
Years have past, but in memory I still see my father at the base of Old Mossy, shouting, “Now, Dee, I want you to do exactly what I say.” My great faith in him gave me strength and courage to defeat the fear and sickness that had overwhelmed me. By obeying his instructions, I descended the tree into the safety of his welcoming arms.
From his example, I have realized that my Heavenly Father also loves me and will welcome me back when I repent for making mistakes. If I obey His words with exactness, He too will strengthen and guide me through the challenges of life so I can return to the safety of His warm embrace.

Elder Oaks was born in Provo, Utah, 12 August 1932, and grew up a worker. He began working for pay only three or four years after his father died, to help his widowed mother. Dr. Lloyd Oaks’ death (of tuberculosis) left his young widow Stella with three children: Dallin, eight at the time, and the oldest; Merrill, now a Provo, Utah, ophthalmologist; and Evelyn, now Mrs. H. Ross Hammond, of Salt Lake City.
“I was blessed with an extraordinary mother,” Elder Oaks recalls. “She surely was one of the many noble women who have lived in the latter days.” He lauds her as a woman of “great faith,” a “very skilled parent,” and a woman possessed of great natural executive ability. Many outside the family would agree. Before her death in 1980, Stella Oaks was known as a force for good in Provo, in both Church and civic service.
“She gave me a great deal of responsibility and freedom. She encouraged me to have a job,” Elder Oaks explains. From the time he first worked for pay, “at eleven or twelve,” he has been continuously employed.
That first job was sweeping out a radio repair shop. He had to learn to test the radio tubes he found on the floor, to find out which were good, and that led to an interest in radio. He threw himself into study with characteristic intensity. Before he was sixteen, he had obtained a first-class radiotelephone license, which allowed him to operate a commercial radio station’s transmitter, and found a job in radio. Station managers liked to hire a “combination man”—an engineer who could double as an announcer—“but my voice hadn’t changed,” he recalls, laughing. Before long, however, that change took care of itself, and he was working regularly as an announcer.

During a tightly booked, 12-day global ministry tour last year through six European countries—where sleep often came during a night flight between countries—Elder D. Todd Christofferson met with government leaders, full-time missionaries, and local Church members.
Of note was a meeting with the Minister of Culture and Media in Croatia, where he offered Church assistance to help the many refugees flooding into her country from war-torn Ukraine. “We … found that there were a lot of different ways … we could collaborate, especially [in helping] those who are in great need,” Elder Christofferson said.

Last September, Gus left Delaware to attend BYU. He saw Sister Miller at Christmas when he went home, and he still stays in touch, even though she’s living at one end of the country and he’s 3,000 miles away. She misses his visits, but is happy Gus is going to college. In Gus’s place as Jack German’s home-teaching companion is Lance, Gus’s 12-year-old brother.
As for Gus, some things never change. No sooner had he settled in his new ward in Provo than he was called to be a home teacher.

Parents everywhere have a concern for their children and for their eternal happiness. This is depicted in the musical Fiddler on the Roof, one of the longest running musicals in the history of the stage.
One laughs as he observes the old-fashioned father of a Jewish family in Russia as he attempts to cope with the changing times brought forcibly home to him by his beautiful teenage daughters.
The gaiety of the dance, the rhythm of the music, the excellence of the acting all fade in their significance when old Tevye speaks what to me becomes the message of the musical. He gathers his lovely daughters to his side and, in the simplicity of his peasant surroundings, counsels them as they ponder their future. Remember, cautions Tevye, “in Anatevka … everyone knows who he is and what God expects him to do.”

One day when President Hinckley was about five years old, he was sitting on his front porch with some friends. A family of another race walked down the street in front of the house. Young Gordon and his friends made some unkind remarks about the people. His mother heard what they said, and she took them inside to talk with them. She told them that all people are sons and daughters of God. That day he learned that we must respect and help one another, regardless of race, religion, wealth, or anything else.

While I was serving a mission in Chile, I observed that the people loved to read the Liahona (Spanish). As missionaries, we loved to receive the magazine so we could give it to investigators, less-active members, or recent converts.
When we met with members, we always suggested, “Share your copy of the Liahona, because it is a great tool for people to learn about the Church and our values.”
Johnathan Wardle,Edgemont 11th Ward, Provo Utah Edgemont South Stake

We do this so that one day, when our son goes out to work or to hike in the mountains or to hunt beasts in the forests, as Enos did, he may remember what we taught him about Christ and about the joy of living the gospel. And who knows? Maybe this will be the day when he will finally feel the spiritual hunger that turns him to Jesus Christ so he can hear the voice of the Lord saying to him, “Thy sins are forgiven thee, and thou shalt be blessed.”

2 A few days later the New York Saints arrived in Jackson County. The Prophet and Bishop Partridge told the people to buy land in Missouri. Oliver Cowdery and William W. Phelps were to start schools and to prepare books that little children could read.

Many years ago when at the age of twelve I was ordained a deacon, my father, who was president of our stake, took me to my first priesthood meeting. In those days these meetings were held on a week night. I recall that we went to the Tenth Ward building in Salt Lake City, Utah. He walked up to the stand, and I sat on the back row, feeling a little alone and uncomfortable in that hall filled with strong men who had been ordained to the priesthood of God. The meeting was called to order, the opening hymn was announced, and—as was then the custom—we all stood to sing. There were perhaps as many as four hundred there. Together these men lifted their strong voices, some with the accents of the European lands from which they had come as converts, all singing these words with a great spirit of conviction and testimony:
Praise to the man who communed with Jehovah!
Jesus anointed that Prophet and Seer.
Blessed to open the last dispensation,
Kings shall extol him, and nations revere.
(Hymns, No. 147.)
They were singing of the Prophet Joseph Smith, and as they did so there came into my heart a great surge of love for and belief in the mighty Prophet of this dispensation. In my childhood I had been taught much of him in meetings and classes in our ward as well as in our home; but my experience in that stake priesthood meeting was different. I knew then, by the power of the Holy Ghost, that Joseph Smith was indeed a prophet of God.

“As young men in the branch we decided that we would set a goal to get together and jog. We really liked planning this together and as a group work on becoming more physically fit.”
Aaronic Priesthood holder in Guatemala