Gospel Story Finder

The prison guard brought a letter to the jail cell. The three young men inside were very surprised, for none of them had received mail or visitors for weeks. One prisoner had been charged with murder; another had been arrested as a tramp. The third—and youngest—was an American who had been brought to the prison because he was distributing missionary tracts and telling the people in Austria about Joseph Smith and The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Thomas Biesinger was alone the morning two police officers pulled him out of bed and informed him that a Protestant minister had signed a complaint against him. He was taken to a small dirty jail cell that was furnished with only three hard-straw mattresses. No food or drink was given to him for more than twenty-four hours, and he wondered if he would ever live to leave the place.
The two prisoners already confined in the cell and many of the guards spoke only in ridicule to the heartsick and homesick young elder. They believed he was a leader from America who had come to Austria to persuade people to become Mormon slaves.
Now the three inmates watched the guard wave the letter in the air. No one moved. Finally the guard motioned for Elder Biesinger to take the envelope.
A letter! What an unexpected break in the long days that had stretched into more than a month of lonely imprisonment.
The letter was about Elder Hammer, his former companion who had gone to Germany two weeks before Elder Biesinger’s arrest. The letter reported that Elder Hammer was critically ill with smallpox and desperately in need of help.
Elder Biesinger begged for permission to visit his friend for just a few days. He promised to return and spend extra time in jail, but permission was denied. Finally the jailer agreed to let Elder Biesinger write a letter to his companion, provided the prisoner would go before the judge and receive approval for the letter to be sent.
All day and all night Elder Biesinger offered fervent silent prayers for his sick companion and for guidance in writing the letter. At last he began to put on paper the thoughts that came to him. He promised in the name of Jesus Christ that through the power of the priesthood Elder Hammer would live and be able to return to his family in America.
The next morning the young prisoner appeared before the judge. When the judge read the unusual letter, he was silent for a long time. He looked at the young man before him and then reread the letter. Finally the judge finished reading, was silent a moment, and then quietly gave permission for the letter to be sent.
Although there had been little hope for Elder Hammer’s recovery, the promise given in the letter was soon fulfilled!
Some weeks later Elder Biesinger was released from prison, and he began once more to try to teach the people in Austria who would listen. One person who listened and was later baptized a member of the Church was a police official who had been greatly impressed by the missionary while he was in prison.
Before long another elder was sent from the Swiss and German Mission so Elder Biesinger would again have a companion, but soon after his arrival the two young men were visited by police officers who gave them only twenty-four hours to pack and leave the country.
After World War I, Elder Biesinger was again called to go back to Austria. This time he stayed long enough to help establish a strong mission in that country.
Today many people in Austria are members of the Church. There are branches in Vienna, Braunau, Innsbruck, Salzburg, and other areas. Church members are viewed with much more favor by the government and other people than they were when Thomas Biesinger wrote his remarkable letter from a dirty little jail cell and blessed a desperately ill elder.

On another occasion, I shared a hospital room with a delightful woman in her eighties who had broken her hip. Despite her intense pain, she was determined to walk again and was full of faith and optimism. A few weeks after the hospital stay, I took my daughters to meet this good woman and her husband. We had a wonderful visit. They told us many stories of faith and love for the gospel. Now, four years later, the girls still retain an impression of the faith, joy, and love that comes from growing old in the gospel.

Another missionary, who served in Colorado, USA, was sent home from his mission for disciplinary reasons and excommunicated from the Church, but he was later rebaptized. “Coming home was hard,” he says. “I felt lost and empty. At times, the most difficult part of coming home was [finding] the motivation to keep going to church, reading the scriptures, and praying. The simple things were the hardest.”

But he found strength in the support of friends and family and in working to repent.

“Setting goals, meeting with my bishop, and going to the temple when I was worthy were keys in being able to come closer to my Heavenly Father,” he adds. “I remember times when I couldn’t meet with my bishop or accomplish some goals; the adversary was always right there, tempting me.”

His recovery was made possible by “always remembering that I have a Heavenly Father who loves me and wants me to be happy. Having a testimony of the Savior’s Atonement and of repentance, we can always come closer to God no matter how distant we might feel.”

“Looking back on my mission,” he continues, referring to the months he served before the events that led to his being sent home, “I still feel like it was one of the best experiences I’ve ever had. I learned a lot, and although it didn’t turn out the way I had planned, I was still able to see lives change because of the gospel. I made some mistakes, but my testimony has grown so much more as I’ve striven to repent and keep moving forward.”

He wants others who returned early because of their choices to know that “the world isn’t over. Coming home is a first step toward repentance. Once you go through this process of repentance, you will have gained so much. That heavy burden will be lifted. There is no better feeling than knowing you are in the right in the sight of God.”

“Just love them,” adds the missionary who served in Colorado. “Encourage them to always remember the atoning sacrifice of Jesus Christ.”

I’d like to give a view of what the Church is like over here in Vietnam. The base I’m at is a composite base with Air Force, Army, Navy, Seabee, and Vietnamese armed forces stationed here. There are Mormon members in each group. There is one Vietnamese member-family and they have several children, two of whom attended church this morning. They are certainly cute, and as are all Oriental children, they are well-mannered; but they are full of zest and giggle and wiggle as do all children. I haven’t learned all their names yet, but one of them is called Nga. Their father is an enlisted man in the Vietnamese Air Force.
You never know about this Church! While driving my jeep this morning, I picked up an Air Force sergeant who was walking toward the west side of the base where we have our meetings. I asked him where he was going and he said rather vaguely, “Over by the fire station.” I knew right away he meant where the Mormons were meeting because no American goes over to that side of the base on Sunday—everything is closed down. So I prodded him a bit to see how far I had to force him before he’d tell me he was a Latter-day Saint. I asked, “Where near the fire station?” “Oh, anywhere will be fine.” “Do you mean where the Mormons are meeting?” I asked. “Yes, I do,” he said in surprise. I held out my hand and introduced myself. We drove along and came upon another man walking. This time he was a young soldier in combat fatigues. He was carrying a zippered book that looked suspiciously like a three-in-one. As we pulled up, I called out, “Going to priesthood?” “Hey, yeah!” was the startled reply. He climbed aboard. After introductions he asked, “Where have you been stationed?” I said in Ohio. Then I said I had also been stationed in Puerto Rico, and his face lit up. “‘Hey, do you know President Burke Adams?” “Sure do,” I said, adding that I was his counselor for awhile. “That’s it,” he said. “I was in the Florida Mission and I met you in Puerto Rico. We even ate dinner together once.” So two and a half years later and 10,000 miles away, our paths crossed again. When we got to the meeting place, there were ten Mormon servicemen present. We had priesthood, Sunday School, and fast and testimony meetings. During it all I couldn’t help but wonder if Joseph Smith and those who were with him in New York on April 6, 1830, really knew what they were starting. Over a hundred years later and thousands of miles away, a small group of American servicemen, a couple of Vietnamese, and a Chinese were to meet in humble circumstances to enjoy the gospel’s message. Our meeting was no doubt being duplicated thousands of times in other parts of the globe. We sat on crudely fashioned benches worn smooth by the seats of combat uniforms. Here priesthood bearers sincerely confessed their weaknesses and their gratitude and in reverent silence partook of the sacrament while jet and prop-driven planes from the air base nearby roared overhead.
Virgil KovalenkoVietnam

I previously mentioned pornography. It easily becomes an addiction of the worst kind. Let me read to you from a letter I received from a victim:

“I would like to share something with you that I have not been able to share with anyone else. I am a 35-year-old male. For most of my adult life I have been addicted to pornography. I am very ashamed to admit this, … but for the most part, my addiction is as real as that of an alcoholic or a drug addict. …

“The main reason for my writing is to tell you that the Church can’t do enough to counsel the members to avoid pornography. I was first introduced to this material as a child. I was molested by an older male cousin, and pornography was used to attract my interest. I am convinced that this exposure at an early age to sex and pornography is at the root of my addiction today.

“I think it is ironic that those who support the business of pornography say that it is a matter of freedom of expression. I have no freedom. I have lost my free agency because I have been unable to overcome this. It is a trap for me, and I can’t seem to get out of it. Please, please, please plead with the brethren of the Church not only to avoid but eliminate the sources of pornographic material in their lives. Besides the obvious things like books and magazines, they need to turn off cable movie channels in their homes. I know many who have these services and claim that they are able to screen the bad things out, but this is not true. …

“Pornography and perversion have become so commonplace in our lives that the sources of this material are everywhere. I have found pornographic magazines by the roadside and in dumps. We need to talk to our children and explain how evil these things are and encourage them to avoid looking at them when they come across them. …

“Finally, President Hinckley, please pray for me and others in the Church who may be like me to have the courage and strength to overcome this terrible affliction.

“I am unable to sign my name, and I hope that you will understand.”

Joseph Smith counseled all the members living in Missouri to gather to either Far West or Adam-ondi-Ahman for protection. However, Jacob Haun, who was the leader of the settlement of Haun’s Mill, didn’t want to leave his property. He counseled the others living there to stay; they would defend themselves if necessary.
On October 30, a mob of about 240 men approached Haun’s Mill with the intent of carrying out the governor’s extermination order. While the men in the settlement sought protection in the blacksmith shop, the women and children fled into the woods as the mob attacked. David Evans swung his hat at the mob and cried for peace, but the mob only shot at him. The mob also fired on the unarmed women and children.
Amanda Smith grabbed her two daughters and escaped across the millpond on a walkway. When the mob finally entered the blacksmith shop, seven-year-old Alma Smith saw them murder his father and brother. He himself was severely shot in the hip. His mother later found him, and through prayer and by following the instructions of the Spirit, he was healed. At least seventeen people were killed at Haun’s Mill and thirteen others were wounded.
Things were getting more tense in Far West also. The state militia took over the city. In November 1838, many of the Church leaders were arrested and taken to prison. It was at this time that Joseph Smith and other brethren were taken to Liberty Jail, where they spent four difficult months. While they were there, the rest of the Saints got ready to leave Missouri and move to Illinois. As they prepared to leave their homes, Amanda Smith and many others were harassed by the mobs.
But the Lord was watching over them. One day Amanda had gone into a cornfield to pray. As she was leaving it, a voice spoke to her, a voice as plain as any she had ever heard. It repeated a verse from a hymn: “The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose / I will not, I cannot, desert to his foes; / That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake, / I’ll never, no never, no never forsake!” (Hymns, 1985, no. 85.)
From that moment Amanda had no more fears. Like the other Saints who remained faithful and obedient, she knew that the Lord would watch over her.

While I was on my mission, I missed my best friend’s wedding.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her all day. We’d met as college roommates, and she quickly became like a sister to me. I knew that Heavenly Father had guided me to meet her.
But now, I couldn’t be there to celebrate one of the biggest moments of her life. And I was furious.
Before my mission, my life wasn’t perfect, but it was good. I loved college and had just formed the best friendship I’ve ever had. I was pretty happy.
I knew that serving a mission would be challenging. Still, I had this expectation that serving a mission would be the best 18 months of my life—with minimal hardship.
But six months in, my friend’s wedding became the newest entry in a list of hard things I hadn’t expected. Moving to a foreign country and learning a new language made me lonely and anxious. The rejection I experienced as part of missionary life was mentally exhausting. Honestly, I just wanted to go home.
I was tired and frustrated, and I didn’t feel like God was offering me the hope and happiness that I desperately needed. Only after exhausting every other option did I turn to a promise from my patriarchal blessing: that I would feel Heavenly Father’s love through the scriptures.
I realized that in my anger and loneliness, my perspective had become narrow. I’d been so focused on what I was missing that I’d failed to see what I had gained: a closer relationship with my Savior.
I realized I needed to repent for my poor attitude. It took time, but as I pleaded for my Redeemer’s help, I was reassured that “in this life I shall have joy” (Moses 5:10).
I was still sad that I missed my friend’s wedding, but in time, the Lord answered my prayers. I was so happy for my friend, and I found so much joy in my testimony that Heavenly Father really does see and love every one of His children. I gained so much more than I missed out on.

Just to illustrate this, one day when President Cowley and I were traveling, we arrived at the home of Brother Stewart Meha, a great and wonderful Maori man. He was in every way a pure patriarch. He had never been ordained a patriarch—he just was one, and he presided over his large family as a true father and leader. President Cowley and Brother Meha spent all afternoon sitting on the porch just talking about the Church and other interesting things. I listened to them part of the time and then visited with the kids and others who lived in this little area near Brother Meha’s home. Incidentally, there were two or three other homes in this little Maori village, but I discovered that most of the people living there belonged to his family. They were his children and his grandchildren.

When it came time for the evening meal, Brother Meha stood on his front porch and, in the Maori language, shouted out to all of his large family, “Haere Mai Ki Te Kai.” Then he said, “Haere Mai Ki Te Karakia.” This simply meant “Come on home for supper” and “Come on home for prayer.” Soon family members came from every direction. We all assembled in his home in the big front room. This room had very little furniture in it, and everybody gathered in a large circle. Brother Meha was at the head of the circle and on his left was President Cowley. I was next to the president. On Brother Meha’s right was a little child about eight years of age. All around the rest of the circle were the other children with some adults in between.

Finally Brother Meha said to the little boy on his right, “You start.” I bowed my head in anticipation of the little boy’s prayer. Instead of praying, he quoted a scripture, after first reciting the chapter and verse. Then the young person next to him gave a scripture with the reference. After about four scriptures had been given, I realized that we were going around the circle with each person quoting a different passage of scripture. One youngster started to quote one that had already been used, and he was quickly corrected. I immediately began to think of a scripture that I could quote when my turn came.

I had been in the mission field just a little over a year and had mastered two wonderful passages of scripture. I mentally polished up my first scripture and had no sooner silently rehearsed it than one of the young people gave that exact scripture. This, of course, slowed me down for a minute, but I thought I was okay because I still had one in reserve. I worked a little on it, only to hear someone directly across from me quote it. I then became panicky as I realized I could not think of another scripture I could give. My turn was coming closer and closer, and I felt tension building up within me. My mind went totally blank.

In my moment of greatest concern, President Cowley nudged me with his elbow and, out of the side of his mouth, said, “Quick—tell me a scripture. I can’t think of a single one to say.” I then realized that the two of us were in the same desperate situation. At that moment it was my turn. I bravely said the first article of faith. President Cowley followed by quoting the second article of faith, and then Brother Meha prayed. I think that night he prayed for the mission president and the missionaries a little more than usual. When the prayer was finished, a little boy about eight years of age came over to us and said, “I guess you two guys don’t know that the Articles of Faith are not allowed in our scripture study.”

Now, brothers and sisters, that was an excellent example to me of family prayer and how children can be taught the scriptures. If we would just gather together and have prayer, it would probably be the finest teaching experience that a mother and father could give to their children.

A week later the fire was still burning when Latter-day Saints gathered to hear President Boyd K. Packer, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, speak. He pronounced an apostolic blessing upon them. After the meeting, he shook hands with every person, including 16-year-old Tori Gross.
“President Packer reminded us that we lost our houses, not our homes,” Tori says. “When a boy at school said he was homeless, I said, ‘You’re not homeless, you’re houseless.’ Our house burned to the ground and so did part of the new house we are building. But our family survived. Since the fire, I feel closer to Heavenly Father, and I rely on the gospel more.”

This is an example of a simple childhood act that represents being present for another. This is the nugget of living and being present as the ‘evidence of things hoped for.’ The impact from this experience has already created an optimistic lens of how I see the world and my life in the future with kids and grandkids. This was a special powerful spiritual lesson from my youngest grandson Willie.

One day, we finally had a chance to practice all our preparations for riding a bike. We had talked about the rules of the road. The importance of looking for safe places to ride and being smart about being safe on the road.

We plotted our course in the empty parking lot. We put together our bike safety equipment. We laced our shoes to protect his feet, special knee pads and elbow pads, and a helmet. Then after a few attempts to get our balance, we took off. It was a blast as he pretended to put out fires from his Blaze and Blippy replica bike. If you do not know who Blaze and Blippy are all you need to do is consult with a five-year-old for up-to-date TikTok and YouTube influencers.

As we took a rest, we dismounted from our bikes. He dropped his bike on the ground, he was still learning the nuances of pedals, brakes, and handlebars. Then we started to walk across the parking lot. I grabbed his hand to guide him to the spot we were headed to.

As we approached the cross-way path, he stopped walking. I strengthened my grip, preparing for him to bolt from my hand at any moment. As I stepped into the walkway, he gripped my hand, with both of his and stood his ground. I am thinking, now you want to be like this, you stubborn little guy? Then I finally looked up to see the car coming down the road.

He did not say a word, he just simply held my hand, present in the moment, following the instructions he learned from papa. I taught him, ‘always look both ways before you cross the road.’ He learned and was obedient to live that principle, in the moment.

A simple act, gracious, and present from a little boy saving his ‘papa.’ A lesson papa will always remember of his being faithful to his lessons and that he could persistently be present enough for both of us to be safe and healthy.

As I looked back on my earliest experiences growing up in Cuba, one memory always stood out. I could vividly picture my beloved little brother Raúl being sick. I could see my mother caring for him, periodically crying desperately, and my grandmother frantically seeking help. I could see the whole family bending over his bed, weeping. I always seemed to witness my brother’s pain and my family’s tears from some high perch. For some reason, that scene remained in my memory, but I never talked about it.
When I was 10 years old, my mother died, leaving five children. I grieved over her death, but it was even more painful to watch as my brothers and sisters and I were split up. No one wanted to take all five of us, so each set of grandparents took two children, and my father’s sister took my youngest brother, Orlando. Because of my rebelliousness, I was eventually sent to a school for orphans, where I grew up sad, alone, and bitter.
When I turned 16 I began looking for my brothers and sisters. I found only three of them because Orlando had moved with my aunt to the United States. Then, not long after I had located him, Raúl was electrocuted while learning to work as an electrician.
Shaken by the loss, I confided to my grandmother my memory of Raúl’s sickness. My grandmother asked, “What are you talking about? Raúl was not ill. That was you. One night you became so sick the doctor gave you up for dead. We were in despair and wept over your bed. We never knew why your heart started beating again.”
I was so shocked I didn’t ask my grandmother for more information, but questions about the meaning of life began to torment me: Why had my life been preserved? What was I to do? What did it all mean?
Ten years later, I moved to the United States. There I found my brother Orlando. But I had yet to find the answers to my questions. I began seeking answers in various churches. But though each contributed bits and pieces, none of them had all the answers I needed. I prayed that God would help me come to know the truth.
Then one day in the spring of 1986, Latter-day Saint missionaries came to my house. They answered every question I had. And when I studied the Book of Mormon, I was moved to tears by the testimony I gained of its truthfulness. I was baptized in July. A little more than a year later, I arranged for Raúl’s vicarious baptism in the temple. Then he and I were sealed to our parents forever.
Finding the gospel has changed my life. Surrounded by my brothers and sisters in the gospel, I have never felt lonely since. I understand that my life has a purpose and that, as long as we rely on the Lord, pain can teach and strengthen us.
I find joy in the expectation that members of my family are waiting for me beyond the veil of mortality. I know that someday my spirit will leave my body again. But I know that because of Jesus Christ my spirit and my body will one day be forever reunited, and I can live with Him and with my family eternally.

One father could not forgive his son for departing from the path he had been taught. The boy had friends the father did not approve of, and he did many things contrary to what his father thought he should do. This caused a rift between father and son, and as soon as the boy could, he left home and never returned. They rarely spoke again.

Did the father feel justified? Perhaps.

Did the son feel justified? Perhaps.

All I know is that this family was divided and unhappy because neither father nor son could forgive each other. They could not look past the bitter memories they had about each other. They filled their hearts with anger instead of love and forgiveness. Each robbed himself of the opportunity to influence the other’s life for good. The divide between them appeared so deep and so wide that each became a spiritual prisoner on his own emotional island.

The following day, Sunday, Craig and I met at the Sacred Grove. There the thick canopy of trees keeps the grove in almost total shade, and we found some relief from the early afternoon sun as we walked and talked. The damp forest earth muffled our footsteps. The stillness was broken only by the whine of insects, bird calls, the occasional low voices of other visitors, and our own quiet conversation.
“Craig, do you remember the first time you came to this place as a young boy?”
“No. But I remember that when I was young, this was mainly a place to catch frogs and to look at the signs telling the ages of some of the trees. It started to make an impact on me when I was about 12. And then, when I hit 14, I realized that Joseph Smith had been my age when he had the First Vision.”
But living in the so-called cradle of the Restoration does not guarantee a testimony. “Before I reached out and made the effort, this was just another historical place,” Craig explains. “Before, I was going to go on a mission. But I was going to do it because everyone wanted me to go. I mean, I sort of wanted to go. But last year really decided it.”
Last year. It was during pageant time. Craig, as a cast member, had been assigned to one of the study groups. And in that same group was a young woman from Utah named Jana.
“We became great friends; there was kind of an automatic bond. I couldn’t believe she had such a strong testimony. To see how much she loved the Church, well, it just blew me away.” That level of spirituality became Craig’s goal, not only for himself but for the kind of woman he wanted eventually to marry.
One day, the study group went to the Sacred Grove. When they got there, they split up, and Craig went into the grove by himself.
“I was sitting there alone on one of the benches, thinking about what had happened here, and just started to cry. The Spirit witnessed to me that it was all true.”
The experiences of that summer were a turning point for Craig. For one thing, he saw the kind of young woman he would someday want to marry. And he realized that he would need to do better in school to prepare to someday support a family. He had always been able to do pretty well in school if he applied himself. Now he applied himself and raised his grades one full point.
His feelings toward his family were also affected. “It made me draw closer to my younger brothers and sisters. I had always considered them brats. Now I try to understand them a little more,” Craig says.
Does he have to work hard to maintain his testimony? Craig’s emphatic yes almost seemed out of place in our quiet surroundings. “You have to be active in the Church. It helps so much to be around other young people with the same standards. Reading the Book of Mormon is really important too. But you can’t just read it and then stop and say, ‘Okay, now I’ve read it.’ “ Craig is currently into his third reading. “And of course there’s prayer. You have to make a habit of it. Even on the nights when you are so tired you think you could just pass right out.”
One more question: “Craig, how do you feel about your priesthood now?”
“I believe in it a lot more. I believe in its power. The priesthood does work.”
We continued our walk, back out of the grove and down the path across the meadow toward the Joseph Smith home and the parking lot. The route to Craig’s house would take us within sight of the Hill Cumorah. His words came back to mind: “Before I reached out and made the effort, this was just another historical place.”
True. And before young Joseph Smith reached out and made the effort, he was just another young man. He was a young man of great promise, true, but he had to reach out. And it was the reaching out and the Spirit’s sweet answering witness that made the difference, not the place. That’s why it doesn’t matter if it’s a young man in Bangor, Maine, or a young woman in Bangkok, Thailand. The process is the same. And the effect.
And Craig Record in Upstate New York? In some ways, this article was about him because he is not unique. He is an average guy who loves basketball and motorcycles. Who is a pretty good student when he applies himself. Craig is just an example of what happens when you reach out for a testimony and then act on that witness. He’s an example of how a fairly average guy can also be pretty outstanding in the ways that matter most.
Survival Tips
Wherever you live, live righteously.
Study the Book of Mormon.
Make a habit of prayer.
Gain a testimony and share it.
Associate with those who bring out the best in you.

In 2022, the Australia Southern River Stake held a Christmas musical devotional. The music was from Kenneth Cope’s Greater than Us All album, which details the Saviour’s life from birth to death. I participated as a narrator, using scriptural references to contextualise each song. I have always felt the Holy Spirit through music, so it was an incredibly uplifting experience to be a part of a beautiful devotional, enhanced by the talented members of my stake. There, the Spirit confirmed to me the truth of the Saviour’s life and the significance of His birth and Atonement; the tomb really was empty on the third day.
I especially liked the song “His Hands,” which testifies of the significance of Christ’s ministry and of His love for me. The devotional was the perfect way to start the Christmas season. As we focused on the life of our Saviour, I gained a greater appreciation for His sacrifice. I also invited a friend—who belongs to another Christian denomination—along, and she told me afterwards that the lyrics helped her reflect on her own relationship with Jesus Christ. I’m so grateful for the testimony I have developed and cultivated through the music of the Church.

When I started my final semester of college, I thought I’d finally know what I was doing with my life. I was a senior, about to graduate; surely I’d mastered being an adult. But trying to juggle classes and jobs and social life and health quickly turned into a nightmare. Going to school at Brigham Young University–Idaho should’ve made it easier, but being surrounded by so many members of the Church was overwhelming. I felt like I didn’t belong. I never doubted my testimony or the Lord, but I didn’t have a lot of confidence in my own abilities.
I’m a native Floridian who loves to be in the water, so to have a little taste of home, I decided to take a swimming course that semester. It was perfect. I already knew how to swim … or so I thought.
Swimming laps is very different than casually playing in the pool. And I learned that the hard way. During one of my first classes, only five seconds into a lap going back and forth down the swimming pool, I already couldn’t breathe. Pulling myself forward in the water took more energy than I thought it would. I knew how to swim, but I didn’t know the proper strokes or techniques, and all the other swimmers in my class were breezing past me in the water.
As soon as I finished a few laps, my instructor came over to me and said:
“You’re kind of flailing. Try to focus on how your body moves with the water, instead of trying to get to the other side of the pool as fast as possible.”
I left class soaking wet, exhausted, and humiliated.
Later that day, I sat down with my scriptures and pushed swimming from my mind. Thinking about how that class went just made me feel stupid.
But the embarrassment was far from over.
As I prayed and reflected, I kept thinking about my imperfections. I compared myself to who I wanted to be and definitely did not measure up to the expectations I had for myself. Failing at swimming opened my eyes to all the ways I was failing or not progressing in every other aspect of my life. Not only did I fail to measure up as a swimmer, but I also felt like I wasn’t being the best disciple I could be. I was impatient, lazy, and easily annoyed. I’d been working on becoming a better person all my life, but I still could only see all my imperfections.
I began repenting and apologizing, telling Heavenly Father that I knew exactly what I was doing wrong and asking Him to show me what else I needed to change. I told Him I was so sorry, but I was going to work on becoming a better person as much as I could.
Before I even finished my prayer, I felt a clear impression from the Spirit saying that even though I was flailing, Heavenly Father was pleased that I was trying. This impression brought peace and a feeling of joy. I even laughed as I felt just a glimpse of Heavenly Father’s intimate awareness of me and how I was feeling.
I realized in that moment that He knew I was holding myself to an impossible standard. He didn’t expect me to suddenly be perfect, just like how my swimming instructor didn’t expect me to become an Olympic swimmer in a day.
Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles recently taught: “I believe the Savior Jesus Christ would want you to see, feel, and know that He is your strength. That with His help, there are no limits to what you can accomplish. That your potential is limitless. He would want you to see yourself the way He sees you.”1
That’s one thing the Savior can do for us—He can change how we see ourselves and our imperfect efforts.
President Gordon B. Hinckley once said: “Please don’t nag yourself with thoughts of failure. Do not set goals far beyond your capacity to achieve. Simply do what you can do, in the best way you know, and the Lord will accept of your effort.”2
By the end of that semester, I wasn’t flailing anymore. I could glide through the water without any problems, and it wasn’t because I suddenly became an expert overnight. It’s because I showed up to class every week, knowing that whatever happened, I would just try to do my best.
As I struggled to get through my last semester, the Lord knew that I was trying. And instead of condemning me for my imperfections, He helped me find joy in my efforts—even if they were messy and uncoordinated. He could see that behind all my mistakes was a girl who just wanted, more than anything, to be a good disciple … and a good swimmer.

The young missionary had spent the morning scrubbing the floors of the mission home, washing and ironing his shirts, and mending his socks. Then, since it was preparation day, he had decided to visit the university library. Finding nothing of particular interest in the book stacks, he pulled out his own copy of the Doctrine and Covenants and began reading section 76—Joseph Smith’s vision of heaven.
He became so absorbed in the Prophet’s description that he didn’t notice the passing of time, and it was night when he finally left the library. As he walked across the spacious lawn toward the streetcar, he looked up into the heavens: “There was no moon, but the sky was clear. … The Southern Cross and other brilliant stars, visible in the Southern Hemisphere, shone with unusual grandeur. As I gazed in wonder, I seemed to see beyond the stars the things I had been reading about. I could not then and I have not been able since to recall walking across the lawn.”
Retelling this experience in 1965, President Romney said: “Since that Saturday evening in Sydney, Australia, forty-three years ago, I have never been content to view life through the lens which reveals only the narrow span between mortal birth and death. I cannot remember of having made, during the intervening years, a single voluntary major decision or judgment without testing it by my knowledge of revealed truth.” (Address delivered at Brigham Young University, 27 May 1965, p. 20.)

I was a senior in high school and had joined the cross-country team mainly to get in shape for track and field events that took place later in the year. As part of our training, every morning before school our coach would have us run to his home, which was four miles from the school, and then run back again.
Several times after having made the eight-mile run my coach asked me if I’d “found my second wind yet?”
I’d always ask, out of breath, “What’s a second wind?”
To which he would reply, “You’ll know it when you find it.”
After several weeks of arduous training we finally had our first cross-country meet. It was well over eight miles long, with no stops and only an orange cone indicating the halfway mark. Knowing how difficult the last four miles had been for me every morning, I began to doubt myself even before the race began. But out of respect for my coach and with my competitive spirit, I positioned myself at the starting line.
The gun went off and we were on our way, trying to pace ourselves so we would have enough energy to finish. As usual, I could feel the burn and fatigue starting to build up with every stride I was taking. Well into the race I wobbled around a corner looking up a hill that seemed to be Mount Everest, only to see the halfway sign marked by the orange cone. I was exhausted. By this time I was feeling the temptation to quit. But relying on competitive drive still left in me, I made it to the top, with a weak, staggering run.
Suddenly something happened that I can’t explain fully. As I reached the crest of the hill, the words of my coach came to my mind, “Hey, Marler, have you found your second wind yet?”
At that moment, the question and the answer, “You’ll know it when you find it,” all came to light. As the burn, aches, and pains flooded through my body, as I was gasping for every breath, my whole body suddenly felt as if I had never started the race. I felt as if I was at the starting line, waiting for the gun to go off. I knew for the first time what a second wind was. I was able to finish the race and assist our team in winning the overall competition.
After the race I found my coach, and seeing the expression on my face, he said, “You found your second wind, didn’t you, Marler?” I will never forget the moment or the feeling I had. I know that anyone else who has experienced a second wind during a race can relate and will know what I have experienced.

Our first meeting occurred 30 years ago. I was a newly appointed secretary to the stake MIA. She was a board member from one of the wards. My job was to call the roll at our stake leadership meeting. In those days when we had a standing roll call, I remember a particular evening when I was calling out the various wards. I had no difficulty in making an accurate count of the young men in attendance; then I started on the young women’s roll. Suddenly my eyes met a charming, beautiful young woman. I completely lost my ability to count. I confess to the Church Historian today that those records that are in the archives of the Church are not accurate for that particular meeting.
Eight months later I was kneeling at an altar in the house of the Lord, holding her hand, and hearing the most glorious words ever to be uttered on earth, “For time and all eternity.” I realized that I was receiving the greatest gift of God. I was being sealed in marriage by one having the authority to act for the Lord in uniting myself and my lovely companion together for time and all eternity, if I would but live worthy of her. We had only been married a few days before I found out I had married a woman with great empathy in her heart for her fellowmen. All of those wonderful aromas which came from the air around her kitchen were not all intended for me, for when she would find someone in need, she could not rest until she had made an effort to supply a relief.

In 2009, I was offered a job teaching Scottish literature at a university in Scotland. I was thrilled by the opportunity but uncertain as to whether I wanted to leave BYU permanently or move my family out of the United States. So BYU generously allowed me to accept that position on a half-time basis, and for a couple of years, my wife, daughters, and I divided our time between Utah and Aberdeen, a beautiful Scottish city on the North Sea. While we loved the diversity of our experience and so many of the people we met in Scotland, we knew we couldn’t sustain a split existence, so we began pondering where to settle long-term. I thought exhaustively through our options and also sought guidance in prayer. And for a long time—weeks, then months—I received no answer. Or rather, I felt inspiration but no confirmation, no clear impressions to stay or go. Instead, I felt directed to wait and reflect on reasons why I might choose one path or the other, examining less what I should do and more the person I would be in making the decision. It was an important exercise, but my uncertainty persisted. And I was beginning to grow anxious.

I was at this place in life on the second-to-last Sunday of March 2012 when my ward’s priesthood quorum leader announced that the following week a man from our neighborhood, a lifelong member of the Church now in his eighties, would be attending our services for the first time in more than fifty years. “When you see him,” the leader encouraged us, “say hello; make him feel welcome.” Fair enough, I thought, though it didn’t seem like anybody in our friendly group would need such encouragement.

The following week, the last Sunday of March, this man, Jerry, joined us for priesthood meeting. I liked him instantly: he carried an air of understated elegance and stood and introduced himself in a soft, plainspoken voice. When the meeting adjourned, I stepped into the hallway for a couple of minutes. Sunday School, our next meeting, was held in the same room. When I returned, there was an open seat next to Jerry, so I took it and extended my hand.

I have forgotten the topic of our Sunday School lesson that day. I remember, though, that it was based on the Book of Mormon, and all Jerry had was an old Bible. So, as the teacher moved through the lesson, I opened my scriptures so that Jerry could follow along.

When the class ended, people began filing to the chapel for sacrament meeting. But Jerry remained slumped in his chair, staring at the floor. I stayed there with him.

“Everything alright?”

He blinked a couple times, formulating a thought. What he finally emitted was dour. “That discussion went over my head. Everyone here knows so much about the gospel and I know so little. I feel like I’ve wasted my life. I should never have come back.”

His words landed like a gut punch. Out of nowhere, I found myself in a crisis moment not of my own life but someone else’s, and I was completely unqualified to assess it. I did not know this man and was roughly half his age; my aim in sitting beside him had simply been to convey the welcoming spirit of our ward community. If he had said he didn’t understand a particular gospel principle, I might have filled in some gaps; if he had asked whether ward members socialized much outside church, I might have invited him over for dinner. What I was not equipped to deliver was judgment on the meaning of his life—on where it had been wasted and where it had been well spent.

But the occasion called for a substantive reply and for an understanding of this man and his circumstances that I simply did not possess. So I sat still: one second, two seconds, three—­praying silently to know what to say. And then, like a lightning flash, a thought burst into my mind.

I tapped his Bible. “When you get home today, I want you to open to Matthew 20. There’s a parable there about laborers in a vineyard. The Lord calls some workers early, some a little later, some later and then later still, and some at the last hour of the day. But if they go to work for him, he pays them all the same wage. The message is that it’s never too late for us to respond to God. In His eyes, we’re never too late.”

Jerry’s brow softened a little. “I like the sound of that.”

“I like it, too, and I believe it’s true. So today, after you get home, read that parable. And then, the next time we’re here at church, I want you to tell me what your impressions were as you read it.”

“Yeah, okay,” he pledged. “I can do that.”

The following week, the first Sunday of April, we didn’t hold meetings at our ward, as it was general conference, televised globally across the entire Church. One of the talks that weekend struck me with particular force. It was Elder Jeffrey R. Holland’s, and it was titled “The Laborers in the Vineyard.” Elder Holland expounded on that parable from Matthew 20 and then expressed this beautiful thought:

I do not know who in this vast audience today may need to hear the message of forgiveness inherent in this parable, but however late you think you are, however many chances you think you have missed, however many mistakes you feel you have made or talents you think you don’t have, or however far from home and family and God you feel you have traveled, I testify that you have not traveled beyond the reach of divine love. It is not possible for you to sink lower than the infinite light of Christ’s Atonement shines.

The Sunday after general conference, back at our ward building, Jerry found me. “Hey, did you hear Elder Holland?” he asked. “He spoke about that parable!” It was a message, Jerry felt, intended directly for him. He became a vital member of our ward: beloved of the regulars, a minister to those on the margins, and a pilgrim to temples in several western states. Meanwhile, our family eventually received our answer as to where we were best planted. I stayed at BYU and some three years later accepted a church calling requiring me to pay regular visits to wards across our stake. As it happens, one of these wards was Elder Holland’s, and I would sometimes find myself seated beside him on the stand. One day, a couple years into my assignment, I told him the story about the impact his talk had made on Jerry. He smiled and invoked a theatrical metaphor. “You seek inspiration to know what to say,” he remarked, “but you don’t always see heaven working in the wings.”

This story took place in Argentina.
Francesco sat on the sofa next to the window. He lined up his toy cars on the windowsill.
“Time to read scriptures,” Mamá said. Francesco and his brothers and sisters gathered in the living room. Mamá opened her Book of Mormon.
Francesco listened as Mamá read the story of Abinadi. He was a prophet who tried to teach the people. But they didn’t listen.
“Wasn’t he brave?” Mamá asked. “He had an important message from Jesus Christ to teach the people. And he didn’t stop trying!”
Francesco nodded. He imagined Abinadi teaching the people.
“Do you remember what will happen next week?” Papá asked.
“Yes!” Francesco sat up tall. “General conference!”
“That’s right,” said Mamá. “At general conference we can listen to our prophet.”
Suddenly they heard a sound from the street outside. “Today I have pumpkins, bell peppers, and tomatoes!” a loud voice called out.
Francesco knew that voice! It was Ramón, the fruit and vegetable seller. Every day he drove his truck down the street, telling everyone what fruits and vegetables he had to sell. He used a loudspeaker so people could hear him from inside their houses. Then they could go outside to buy food.
“I also have apples and tasty bananas!” Ramón’s voice called out.
That gave Francesco an idea. “Mamá! Prophets are like loudspeakers!”
“What do you mean?” his sister asked.
“Jesus uses the prophet to share His words, just like Ramón uses the loudspeaker. That way everyone in the world can hear Him!” Francesco smiled big.
Days passed, and soon it was time for general conference. Papá set up a projector so they could watch conference on the wall. It was kind of like a movie theater!
Mamá made chocolate chip cookies to eat while they watched. They were all excited when it was the prophet’s turn to speak.
“Get on the covenant path and stay there,” President Nelson said.*
“I want to do that!” said Francesco. “But how?”
“You’re already doing it.” Papá smiled. “You followed Jesus Christ by being baptized. And now you can stay on the covenant path by trying to follow Him every day.”
Francesco grinned. He wanted to follow Jesus Christ. And he could do that by following the prophet!
How can you follow the prophet?
Illustration by Carolina Farías