Gospel Story Finder

“Where did you get your name?” Elizabeth asked Jenny as they climbed to the fork in the branches of the old cherry tree and settled in to enjoy the spring sun shining through the leaves.
Jenny had never thought about where her name came from. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “I guess from my mom and dad.”
“No—I mean, where did they get it from to give it to you?”
“Where did they get if from?” Jenny repeated, puzzled.
“Well, Mother said that they named me Elizabeth and hoped that I’d be as strong and courageous as my great-great-great- grandmother Elizabeth. She crossed the plains with a covered wagon, and she walked most of the way and never complained a bit.”
Jenny smiled, but something in the way Elizabeth talked about her grandmother Elizabeth made Jenny a little envious.
“And she got married when she was seventeen,” Elizabeth went on enthusiastically, “and she had nine children. Four of them died when they were little, but she kept on going. She made hats to earn money while her husband served a mission. I want to be just like her: strong and valiant and faithful and courageous and wonderful.”
“Is that all?” Jenny laughed good-naturedly.
“Are you sure you’re not named after one of your ancestors?” Elizabeth queried her friend. “Maybe a famous queen named Jennifer or something? We could have magnificent times pretending to be the women we’re named for.”
“Nope,” Jenny said a little sadly. “I’m not named after anyone. I’m just me.”
“Well, ask your mother. Maybe she’s just never told you.” Elizabeth made it sound as though you weren’t important if you weren’t named after someone else.
“I could pretend that I was named after someone,” Jenny said, wishing that she could change the subject.
“It wouldn’t be the same,” Elizabeth persisted. “Somehow when you’re named after a true blood relative, it makes all the difference in the world.” Elizabeth leaned closer and whispered, “It makes pretending seem almost real.”
Jenny smiled. Sometimes Elizabeth’s dramatic ways made Jenny feel as if they were on television or something, not just friends talking to each other.
“Jen—ny! Jen—ny!” her mother called from the back door. “Time for lunch.”
“I have to go now,” Jenny said, “but I’ll see you right after lunch.” She climbed down from the cherry tree and ran into the house.
Mother was at the sink, filling water glasses with one hand and holding Joey, who was crying, with the other. Jenny was still thinking about what Elizabeth had said. “Why did you name me Jenny?” she asked.
Mother looked up startled. “Because we liked the name. Don’t you?”
“Yes. But why Jenny and not Ann or Margaret or some other name?”
Joey cried louder and hit one of the glasses with his two-year-old fist, sending water spraying across the kitchen.
“Joey!” Mother cried and began wiping up the water while trying to calm Joey down.
Jenny took Joey from her mother and sat down. But she couldn’t quit thinking about her name. Why couldn’t I have been named after some fantastic, wonderful woman I could tell stories about? She hardly noticed her mother taking Joey for his nap or even the taste of her sandwich. Why don’t I have the name of someone I can dream about and try to be like?
“Is anybody in there?” Mother put her nose next to Jenny’s and peered into her eyes and laughed.
Jenny laughed too. “I was just thinking.”
“I could tell,” Mother said. “But what were you thinking so hard about?”
“My name. Why am I just Jenny and not Jenny named after some other Jenny?”
“What?” Mother looked even more puzzled, so Jenny started from the beginning and told her everything.
“I can see why Elizabeth likes being named after her great-great-great-grandmother. She must have been a wonderful woman. But you do have someone wonderful whom you can try to be just like.”
“I do?”
“We all do. Let me show you.” Mother got her scriptures, then sat by Jenny and opened them to section 20 of the Doctrine and Covenants. “Read this,” she said, pointing to verse 77 [D&C 20:77].
Jenny quickly read it. “That’s the sacrament prayer on the bread,” she said.
“What does that have to do with me being named after someone wonderful?”
“Do you remember when you were baptized and Dad and I told you about the covenants that you were making?”
“Yes. You said that taking the sacrament each week was to remind us to keep those promises. But I still don’t understand. …”
“Read this part of the verse again,” Mother told her, “starting with the second ‘O God, the Eternal Father.’”
Jenny found the words, “‘… that they are willing to take upon them the name of thy Son’”—Jenny stopped and read it again—“‘that they are willing to take upon them the name of thy Son.’”
“When we take the sacrament,” Mother explained, “and have been baptized as members of His church, we promise the Lord that we are willing to take His name upon us and to be called by His name.”
A warm tickle spread up Jenny’s back. “I do have someone I am named after!”
“Yes, but it is a very sacred thing. It is not something to pretend about in the cherry tree. It is not something to even talk about lightly with friends. But it is something that you should think about every time you partake of the sacrament—and every time you make an important decision! You are a member of Christ’s church. You should be like Him and live worthy of His name.”
“Wow! That’s a lot to think about.”
“It’s the most wonderful name you could ever hope to be called by. So don’t worry about Jenny being just a name. You have another name to live up to.”

In late September 2005, a group of Saints from the island of Chuuk in the Federated States of Micronesia made a journey west to the Manila Philippines Temple. This trip, which took them thousands of miles from their tiny island in the Pacific, was the first temple excursion from the island of Chuuk.
The group consisted of three sisters and two families from the Mwan and Mechitiw Branches of the Namoneas Chuuk District. They were accompanied by Elder Gordon and Sister Jerry Stewart, a senior missionary couple.
They spent four days doing temple work for themselves and for their ancestors. Members of the group expressed gratitude for the rare opportunity of receiving their temple blessings and felt it worthy of all their sacrifices to be able to do so. “I may someday be able to buy another little boat, but I will probably never have the chance to go to the temple again,” said Simion Anap, president of the Mechitiw Branch.
As part of the trip, President Anap’s family reunited with their daughter, Tersy, as she completed her mission in the Philippines Manila Mission.

David peered down at the chewed rope end in his hands. Dusty had freed himself again. Dropping the rope, the boy ran to the coop. He opened the door and counted the chickens, pointing his flashlight at each one. They clucked softly and blinked their eyes. All 18 were there. The week before there had been 20 hens, but Dusty, the yearling Labrador retriever David had bought for hunting, had killed two. After the killing, David had promised his father that he would work with the dog, tying him up until they could be sure he would do no more damage.
The boy walked quickly back to the post where his dog had been tied. “Dusty,” he called softly; then he glanced beyond the house at the sky. The glow in the east was becoming brighter.
He moved out past the haystack and whistled. He heard something moving beyond the fence in the field and crawled through. A dark form became Dusty, who bounded toward the boy, then crouched down, front legs forward, and barked. David reached for the rope, but the dog bounced away, ready for their usual romp.
“Dusty!” The words shot out. “Come here!” The dog came closer, and David grabbed the end of the rope. Even in the half-light David could see something smeared around Dusty’s jaws. He put out his hand and touched it; his fingers felt sticky. He ran his hands over the dog’s body—no cuts or breaks. Small tufts of something like fur clung to the black-red around the dog’s mouth. The dog had killed a cottontail once. David took some of the stuff in his palm and shone the light on it. Despite the blood he saw that the pieces were yellow, kinky. It was sheep wool.
David climbed under the fence, pulling Dusty behind him; then he leaned against the stack of hay. The dog could have gotten into the sheep hides that were tacked to the shed wall, but that wouldn’t explain the blood. “Stupid dog!” David jerked the animal back to the post where he untied the short rope and retied the long end onto Dusty’s collar. Just to be sure, he ran to the pelts, moving his fingers along their edges. They were untouched. Watching the back door of the house, he walked back to Dusty and stood next to him. He thought of their neighbors who had sheep—Johnsons, Morgans, Franklins, Mitchells.
Several years before, David had seen a sheep-killing dog shot. The recollection raced through his mind. He moved toward Dusty, then hesitated. Working the knot loose from the post, David quickly led him to the water trough. He tied him and sprayed water from the hose over Dusty’s head and chest. The dog shrank back, but the boy pulled him up again. Then, with a curry comb from the tack room, he cleaned the half-dried blood from Dusty’s hair and rubbed him all over with a gunny sack before tying him up again. He took the short, chewed piece of rope and put it in a paper sack in the trash barrel.
By now it was light, and David hurried to finish the chores. He looked at the back door. With his brothers grown and gone, David was responsible for the chores. For once he was glad his dad hadn’t come to help as he sometimes did. He had fed the pigs and chickens and was just separating the calf from the milk cow when his dad called from the back door. He tried again to get the stubborn calf in its pen before he left, but his father shouted, “Just come! I’ll do that later. Hurry!”
David went into the kitchen and followed his father through the house out to the truck. Climbing in, he looked across at his father’s grim face. “Something’s got into Morgan’s sheep. I saw them when I was down watering the cows.” David turned away, staring out the window. His hand gripped the seat edge. He didn’t look at his father all the way there.
At the pasture, David walked to open the gate. The sheep were huddled in a corner. The boy put his shoulder against the post to free the loop from the top. As he swung the gate around, he saw that halfway down the field several sheep lay quiet in the grass.
“Leave it open,” his dad called from the window of the truck. “I phoned Morgan, and he’ll be here soon.” David climbed back into the truck. They drove into the pasture and stopped by the first dead sheep. David opened the door and walked over to the carcass of the ewe.
His father stood next to David, shaking his head. “Probably a pack of dogs.” The boy looked up, the corners of his mouth turned down. A few flies crawled slowly over the flesh and yellow fat where the wool above the ribs had been laid back.
“Rotten deal,” his dad muttered, looking down the field at the other sheep. David nodded as he pushed on one of the sheep’s legs. It moved loosely.
“Davie.” He turned to see his father pointing down the road to where dust billowed from behind a truck. “It’s Morgan. He’ll want to know about Dusty.”
David bent over as if examining the sheep. “He’s tied up,” he mumbled without looking up.
“Are you sure? He hasn’t pulled himself loose?”
David put his hand out, touched the sheep on the neck, then pulled back quickly. It was warm and reminded him of the time he had touched the shot dog.
“David!” The bullet had crashed into that dog’s shoulder, smashing it. David looked at the truck turning into the pasture.
“No. He was tied up. I checked him this morning.”
David felt his father’s eyes on him; then he heard “Good.” The boy stood up. He watched his father walk toward Morgan, who was getting out of his truck. The two men shook hands.
“You see what did it?” Morgan leaned over the dead sheep.
“Nope. Too sloppy for coyotes though.” David’s father pushed a flap of loose skin on the side of the ewe with his shoe.
Morgan stood and turned toward David. “I think you’re right. I’m looking for dogs.” He was still looking at David, who was unable to move. There was silence; David heard his father’s steps, then felt his hands on his shoulders.
“Well, you’ll have to look somewhere else.” Morgan scowled for a minute, then turned back to the sheep. “Help me get them out of here.” David hadn’t moved, but stood looking at the ground. When his father called, he slowly came to help them. Bending over the body, they each grasped a leg, then lifted the sheep up, flopping it over into the truck. They drove on to the next dead sheep and tumbled it in with the other.
The last one wasn’t dead yet and tried to get up when they came. Morgan pulled a .22 from in back of the seat and shot her behind the ear. In the truck bed the bodies looked strange, sprawled together, their legs sticking out.
“I’ll call them that have dogs around.” Morgan’s voice was bitter. “We can’t have this happening.” The door to his truck slammed; dust followed him up through the field.
They got into their own truck. David picked at a torn place in the knee of his pants. Then he stopped and stared out the window.
“How much would those three cost now?” David looked up at his father.
“Oh, about $300.”
David played with the knob of the bin. He had $43 in his savings account. Summer was over, the time when he could make some good money, and he had spent quite a bit just getting Dusty. Even if he did pay back every cent, who would let him keep a sheep-killing dog?
“That’s sure a loss to Morgan.” His dad turned into their driveway. “I hope they find the dogs.”
David nodded, “Yeah.” He walked slowly up to the front door, then moved faster as his mother called out, “Hurry! The bus’ll be here any minute.” She was taking food out of the oven, where it had been kept warm, and setting it on the table. David put his school clothes on, then washed, his eyes showing in the bottom of the mirror. He reached for the soap, then stopped and listened. His mother had said something about a pack of dogs. “Was Dusty with them?” she asked.
“No.” It was his father’s voice. “Davie said the dog was still tied.” David refocused on his own image in the mirror, and then he bent over and scrubbed his hands. At the table he pushed the eggs into the potatoes on his plate.
“Are you feeling all right?” his mother asked, laying one hand on his arm.
“I’m just not hungry.” David moved his chair back and excused himself.
“Those sheep all torn up don’t exactly make for a good appetite, do they?” His father wiped his hand across his mouth.
In his room, David sat on his bed. Dusty wouldn’t try to get loose during the day, and tonight he’d tie him double tight. David would tie him with baling wire. He couldn’t chew through that.
“The bus’s here.” David took his book bag from his mother’s hand and ran out the front door. He climbed onto the bus and sat with the other sixth graders from the valley.
Butch, Mr. Morgan’s son, was talking with the other boys. “Yeah, there was six or seven dead.” David started to say something, but then stopped. “Dad said he’d shoot any dog anywhere around them sheep.” Butch went on, the others still watching. “I didn’t find no blood on my dog, but I chained him up anyway.” David thought of the Morgan’s dachshund, then laughed nervously with the other boys.
“What about your dog, Jimmy?” Butch still had them all listening. They turned to Jim Mitchell.
“That’s none of your business!” The boys, even Butch, were silent. Then Butch said, “Well, you’ve got to realize we just can’t have sheep killers around here.” But now the other boys were turning away.
David looked at his hands. He and Jimmy, sitting in the same seat, didn’t talk at first. Then Jimmy turned to David. “There was blood on our dog. Dad said we’ll probably have to get rid of him.” David said nothing but looked out the window on the opposite side of the bus. The bus passed their own field where his dad was just climbing onto the swather. David waved, making only a small motion, then leaned his head against the seat in front of him and looked at the floor.
Although the other boys moved straight to the lawn to play football after the bus unloaded, David went inside to the library. He found the book which he had read after Dusty had killed the chickens. It had told him that “once an animal gets a taste for blood, it isn’t easy to break him of that habit, but sometimes tying the victim around the dog’s neck will help.” They had left the chicken tied to Dusty until it was greasy and stinky, but it hadn’t worked. He had killed another chicken and now some sheep. David smiled at the thought of Dusty with the sheep tied around his neck. But he soon frowned again. “Once an animal gets a taste for blood. …”
The bell rang, and David went to his class. He watched Jimmy Mitchell, who sat staring at his desk, supporting himself with one hand to his forehead. No man in the valley would keep a sheep-killing dog. He looked across at Butch Morgan. He was chunky, like his father, and had plump cheeks and pink skin. He thought of Mr. Morgan’s .22. Dusty’s head would flop over; his body would crumple. He shook his head, bending over his book again.
“David,” he looked up at the teacher. “Will you work the first division problem for us now?” David walked to the front of the room, trying to remember how these problems should be done. He scratched the numbers onto the blackboard, then returned to his seat. He realized that he had forgotten to invert before he multiplied.
History seemed to go overtime, and the class dragged on through science. Finally the day was half over. David stood in line for lunch. Before he knew it, the secretary was holding out her hand for his ticket. He fumbled for his wallet and took out a ticket. He started to put his wallet away, but then he stopped, running his fingers across the deer pattern his dad had cut into the leather. It had been perfectly formed and carefully shaded, unlike store-bought things. He slowly folded the wallet and put it in his pocket.
David ate his lunch alone, away from the others. He then went back to the library and read more from the book about dogs. He turned the pages awhile, then put it away, walking to look out the window. Whatever the book said, people in the valley would remember that Dusty was a killer.
Butch, Kenny, and the others were out playing ball. David watched as Jimmy marched across the playground and pushed Butch down. David moved through the door and joined the group just as a teacher broke up the fight. Butch ran for the building, one hand across his face, his nose bleeding. The teacher walked away with one arm around Jimmy’s shoulders.
“What happened?” David asked.
“Oh, Jimmy called home and found out that his father shot their dog,” Kenny Jesperson answered, kicking his foot against the pavement.
David walked back to his class, his hands in his pockets. Jimmy came in and slumped into his seat. David watched him for a long time, but he turned quickly when Jimmy looked up. David felt his face turning red; he hoped no one noticed. He sat staring at the page.
The rest of the day was as slow as the morning. At last it was over. David wished the bus driver would go faster, but he went at half speed as usual. Then the bus stopped, and he was running from it, going around to where Dusty was tied. The dog wiggled his entire body in greeting. David found several loops of baling wire and hooked them together, trading them for Dusty’s rope. David held his arms around the dog and felt the fur against his face. He got some food and poured it into Dusty’s dish. The dog gulped the food, noisily crunching the pieces with his teeth.
David walked into the house. His mother was washing the dishes, singing as she dipped the plates into the soapy water. Half-afraid, David asked, “Where’s Dad?”
“Out in the machine shed.”
David hesitated; then he turned through the door and moved his feet several steps toward the shed. He stopped in the yard, returned to the kitchen through the back door, and walked to his room.
David lay on his bed. “They would shoot him if they knew.” He took off his shoes and slowly pulled off each sock. He walked to his dresser where the family picture stood. His older brothers were there and his dad was directly behind David in the picture, his hands on David’s shoulders. The boy held the picture; then he put it back. He finished dressing and left to do the chores.
“No TV tonight, eh?” His mother smiled as he walked through the kitchen. He shoved the screen door, letting it slam behind him. When he turned at the back gate, she was standing behind the screen, wiping her hands and watching him.
He put the milk bucket on the post next to the gate of the cow pen and walked over to dump wet barley to the grunting pigs. They ran in circles around him until he slopped it into their trough. The chickens ran to the fence, pecking at his feet as he filled their food and water containers. Some of them flapped their wings, trying to fly to the food. As David turned, he saw his father, squatting before Dusty, scratching the dog’s ears. Dusty wagged his tail. His dad’s back was toward David, who watched unnoticed. His dad stood; David turned to get grain for the cow. He poured the grain in front of her, and then sat on the milk stool, his head against the cow’s flank. He milked fast until his forearms ached.
“How was school today?”
“All right, I guess.” He turned his back to the milking.
“Only all right?” His dad was smiling. David kept milking. His father walked away, and soon David saw him return, pulling the strings off a bale of hay he had brought for the cow.
“I helped Morgan dress out the last sheep. It was good it wasn’t completely wasted.”
“Yeah.” David’s hands hurt, but he milked harder and harder.
“About through out there?” his mother called from the house. “Dinner’s ready.”
His father looked over at David’s nearly full bucket. “We’ll be right there,” he shouted back to the house. As David stripped the last of the milk from the cow’s teats, his dad climbed the fence to let the calf out of its pen. David finished and walked to the gate, where he stood waiting for his father. He looked at the ground. Tomorrow he would ride to school with Jimmy, sit in the same classroom. His legs and arms felt weary. When he was smaller, if he were tired his mother would hold him, rocking in the chair.
“Davie?” His father had already passed through the gate and was turned back, waiting for David. “Is something wrong?”
David’s chest tightened again. He thought of eating dinner tonight with his mother and father watching. He shook his head, blinking his eyes quickly. Then, gripping the pail handle, he moved through the gate. The boy heard the gate shut; then he felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, turning him around.
“What’s the matter, Davie?” David leaned against his father’s chest, feeling the man’s arms around him. He felt the cloth of his father’s shirt, rough on his face. He felt warm, but then the fear made his body grow tight again. He stepped back, still gripping the handle of the bucket, and looked up. His father’s face was puzzled. David began quickly.
“Dusty …” He waited, eyes down, until he could talk again.
“Yes?” His father took a step closer.
David took a breath. “Dusty was one of the dogs that killed Morgan’s sheep.”
His dad stared at him. “How do you know?”
“There was blood and wool on him this morning.” David kept his eyes on the ground. “I washed it off.”
His father’s shoulders seemed to sag; he looked away from David. The boy hesitated, then walked to the house, putting the milk bucket on the table. His mother looked at him, but neither said anything. The door opened and David’s father came in and rested his hand on David’s shoulder.
“What do we do now?”
David touched his father’s arm, then walked to the phone. “I’ll call Morgan.”
“Come on.” His father moved toward the door. “Let’s drive over there.” He told David’s mother what had happened; then together they walked through the back door of the kitchen. The screen door banged shut behind them.

My life is a witness to God’s guiding hand, even amidst profound challenges. My father and mother divorced just days before my birth, leaving me to be raised by my maternal grandparents. When I was two years old, my mother remarried, and I was left struggling to understand my place in the world. Diagnosed with a speech condition, I faced additional challenges in communication.
One of the most defining moments of my life occurred during a severe illness in my early years. I was pronounced dead, and my family wept over me. Yet my grandfather arrived from the farm and declared with unshakable faith, “Michel is not dead. He is the one who will build this house, even great story buildings.”
His words were a powerful reminder of God’s foresight and purpose for my life.

Halfway through my senior year of high school, I received a huge surprise. My parents had been called to preside over the Uruguay Montevideo Mission, which meant they’d be moving to the other end of the world with my four younger siblings. I was already stressed about graduating high school, but now I’d be attending college all alone, with my family on a different continent. I was terrified.
My transition from high school to college was extremely hard for me. While I was surrounded by kind roommates and thousands of students, I had never felt more alone. The pressures of school were overwhelming. I didn’t know what I wanted to study and found the classes challenging. I was also struggling through an emotionally manipulative relationship, which took a huge toll on my mental health. My fear of the future overwhelmed me.
Soon my feelings of depression, fear, and loneliness made it hard to function. Even normal routines felt impossible. One morning, I was asking Heavenly Father to give me the strength to make it through the day. “I can’t keep doing this alone,” I prayed. In a rare moment of mental and emotional clarity, I had the words come to my mind “You don’t have to.” Peace flooded my mind. The storm in my mind was calmed.
The next few months (and years) weren’t easy. My feelings of depression and loneliness didn’t instantly go away. But for the first time, I understood on a personal level what it meant to have a Savior. I knew He understood my challenges and my pain. I knew He was the only one who could help me, and He did.
Years later, I’m a returned missionary, a college graduate, and happily married. And I know I wouldn’t have achieved any of those goals if I hadn’t trusted in the Lord.

A few years passed, and a pair of young missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints came to our home. With my wife and our five children (the other three lived with their mother), I began to hear the discussions, attend church, and get acquainted with the members and their beliefs. After several months we made the wise decision to join the Church, and 17 years have now gone by.

Third, an opportunity for development. My children taught me a great lesson one day. We had moved from California to New York where I had accepted an employment opportunity and we were in the process of finding a new home. We started close to the city, but each day that passed we would move further out to find a home more suited to our needs. In Connecticut we found just the one. It was a beautiful home nestled in New England’s radiant forests. We were all pleased with the selection. The final test before making an offer for purchase was to ride the train into New York to check out the commuting time. I made the trip and returned very discouraged. The trip required an hour and a half each way. I returned to the motel where my family was waiting for me and gave them the choice of having a father or this new home. Much to my surprise, they said, “We will take the home. You are not around much anyway.”
The shock of that statement was overwhelming to me. If that statement was true, I needed to repent fast. My children deserved a father. Is it not our obligation as fathers to spend as much time as possible with our children, to teach them honesty, industry, and morality?

I knew the changes my life needed.
I should be studying my scriptures deeply. I should be exercising regularly. I should participate in hobbies I once loved. These were all things that would improve my spiritual, physical, and mental health. I knew that—that’s what I was taught from a young age.
But I just couldn’t bring myself to do them.
Why? Because the changes required a major shift in my lifestyle, and I couldn’t sustain them.
I’d try and fail. Things would go well for a week or two, and then I would fall back into old habits. So, I decided to take a more gradual approach—one step at a time, “line upon line” (2 Nephi 28:30). With that in mind, I focused on truths of slow, sustainable goal setting:
Routine is vital to me, and I noticed my mornings and nights felt rushed and unproductive. I was often tired and didn’t accomplish everything I needed to. To make a change, I started with an important, foundational habit that set up a good pattern for me to continue changing.
For me, the foundational step was my bedtime. I set a goal to read scriptures at night and to go to bed earlier. Over the course of several weeks, I shifted my bedtime by one hour per week. I made a conscious effort to stick to this plan and be consistent.
My efforts weren’t perfect every night, but over time, I began to notice a significant improvement. I shifted my bedtime by several hours, and with that, I was able to get more sleep than ever before. And once I was better rested, it was easier to incorporate scripture study.
This method of changing my habits did wonders for me, so I started using it in other areas of my life. I started working on things like my temple attendance, exercise and nutrition, and hobbies. One good habit can lead to forming more good habits. Figuring out what foundational habit you want to create can help you start on the path to healthy change.
Breaking my goals down into steps made them seem smaller and more manageable. For one week, I would focus on a small aspect of my goal and discuss my progress with my husband. The following week, I would add another small aspect. If I stopped, I knew I had added too much too quickly, so I would go back to the previous step that I had already mastered.
Repentance is change, and like all change, repentance is a process. Making these small changes every week helped me experience the joy of repentance. I felt supported and empowered by Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, which improved my quality of life drastically.
My motivation for change has increased with these principles. I have implemented many small changes, but over time, the impact of small acts has been large. Becoming better and increasing motivation will be a lifelong pursuit, not a one-time event.

When I was a mission president in Australia, I once said to those of my missionaries in Tasmania: “Tomorrow we shall climb Mt. Wellington and hold our missionary meeting on the top. We shall there seek to commune with the Lord and partake of his Spirit.”
We made the climb, and while on top of the peak we visited a television broadcasting station. A bright young man explained to us in words I had never heard, and using principles I could not and do not understand, how the sounds and scenes of television were broadcast into the valley below.
That night, back in the city of Hobart, my two young sons and I sat before a television set that was tuned to the proper wave band, and we saw and heard and experienced what had been described to us in words.
Now I think this illustrates perfectly what is involved in the receipt of revelation and the seeing of visions. We can read about visions and revelations in the records of the past, we can study the inspired writings of people who had the fullness of the gospel in their day, but we cannot comprehend what is involved until we see and hear and experience for ourselves.
This Tabernacle is now full of words and music. Handel’s Messiah is being sung, and the world’s statesmen are propagandizing their people. But we do not hear any of it.
This Tabernacle is full of scenes from Vietnam and Washington. There is even a picture of men walking on the surface of the moon. But we are not seeing these things. The minute, however, in which we tune a radio to the proper wave band and tune a television receiving set on the proper channel, we begin to hear and see and experience what otherwise remains completely unknown to us.
And so it is with the revelations and visions of eternity. They are around us all the time. This Tabernacle is full of the same things which are recorded in the scriptures and much more. The vision of the degrees of glory is being broadcast before us, but we do not hear or see or experience because we have not tuned our souls to the wave band on which the Holy Ghost is broadcasting.
Joseph Smith said: “The Holy Ghost is a revelator.” And, “No man can receive the Holy Ghost without receiving revelations.” (Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith [Deseret Book Co., 1968], p. 328.)
Moroni said: “… by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.” (Moro. 10:5.)
The Comforter knoweth all things; he is commissioned to bear witness of the Father and the Son, to reveal, to teach, and to testify—and he is broadcasting all the truths of salvation, and all the knowledge and wisdom of God, out into all immensity all of the time.
How this is done we do not know. We cannot comprehend God or the laws by which he governs the universe. But that it does happen we know because here in the valley below, when we attune our souls to the Infinite, we hear and see and experience the things of God.
The laws governing radio and television have existed from the time of Adam to the present moment, but only in modern times have men heard and seen and experienced these miraculous things. And the laws have always existed whereby men can see visions, hear the voice of God, and partake of the things of the Spirit. But millions of people everywhere live and die without tasting the good word of God, because they do not obey the laws which implant the revelations of the Lord in their souls.
And may I say that the only way to gain true religion is to receive it from the Lord. True religion is revealed religion; it is not a creation of man’s devising; it comes from God.
Man did not create God, nor can he redeem himself. No man can resurrect himself or assign himself to an inheritance in a heavenly kingdom. Salvation comes from God, on his terms, and the things men must do to gain it can be known only by revelation.
God stands revealed or he remains forever unknown, and the things of God are and can be known only by and through the Spirit of God.
True religion deals with spiritual things. We do not come to a knowledge of God and his laws through intellectuality, or by research, or by reason. I have an average mind—one that is neither better nor worse than the general run of mankind. In the realm of intellectual attainment I have a doctor’s degree, and I hope my sons after me will reach a similar goal. In their sphere, education and intellectuality are devoutly to be desired.
But when contrasted with spiritual endowments, they are of but slight and passing worth. From an eternal perspective what each of us needs is a Ph.D. in faith and righteousness. The things that will profit us everlastingly are not the power to reason, but the ability to receive revelation; not the truths learned by study, but the knowledge gained by faith; not what we know about the things of the world, but our knowledge of God and his laws.
Joseph Smith said that a man could learn more about the things of God by looking into heaven for five minutes than by reading all the books ever written upon the subject of religion. Religion is something which must be experienced.
I know people who can talk endlessly about religion but who have never had a religious experience. I know people who have written books about religion but who have about as much spirituality as a cedar post. Their interest in gospel doctrine is to defend their own speculative views rather than to find out what the Lord thinks about whatever is involved. Their conversations and their writings are in the realm of reason and the intellect; the Spirit of God has not touched their souls; they have not been born again and become new creatures of the Holy Ghost; they have not received revelation.
It is the privilege and the right of every member of the Church to receive revelation and to enjoy the gifts of the Spirit. When we are confirmed members of the Church, we receive the gift of the Holy Ghost, which is the right to the constant companionship of that member of the Godhead, based on faithfulness. The actual enjoyment of this gift depends upon personal worthiness. “God shall give unto you knowledge by his Holy Spirit,” the revelation says to the Saints, “yea, by the unspeakable gift of the Holy Ghost. …” (D&C 121:26.)
Speaking of the revelations received by his father, Nephi said: “… he truly spake many great things … which were hard to be understood, save a man should inquire of the Lord. …”
Of these same revelations, Laman and Lemuel said: “… we cannot understand the words which our father hath spoken. …”
Nephi asked: “Have ye inquired of the Lord?”
They replied: “We have not; for the Lord maketh no such thing known unto us.”
Then Nephi came forth with this glorious pronouncement: “How is it that ye do not keep the commandments of the Lord? How is it that ye will perish, because of the hardness of your hearts?
“Do ye not remember the things which the Lord hath said?—If ye will not harden your hearts, and ask me in faith, believing that ye shall receive, with diligence in keeping my commandments, surely these things shall be made known unto you.” (1 Ne. 15:3, 7–11.)
It is the right of members of the Church to receive revelation. Joseph Smith said: “… God hath not revealed anything to Joseph, but what he will make known unto the Twelve, and even the least Saint may know all things as fast as he is able to bear them. …” (Teachings, p. 149.)
Also: “It is the privilege of every Elder to speak of the things of God; and could we all come together with one heart and one mind in perfect faith the veil might as well be rent today as next week, or any other time. …” (Teachings, p. 9.)
Religion must be felt and experienced. In the record of the ministry of the resurrected Lord among the Nephites, we find this account: Jesus “knelt upon the earth; and behold he prayed unto the Father, and the things which he prayed cannot be written, and the multitude did bear record who heard him.
“And after this manner do they bear record: The eye hath never seen, neither hath the ear heard, before, so great and marvelous things as we saw and heard Jesus speak unto the Father;
“And no tongue can speak, neither can there be written by any man, neither can the hearts of men conceive so great and marvelous things as we both saw and heard Jesus speak; and no one can conceive of the joy which filled our souls at the time we heard him pray for us unto the Father.” (3 Ne. 17:15–17.)
Then of a subsequent prayer the scriptural account says: “And tongue cannot speak the words which he prayed, neither can be written by man the words which he prayed.
“And the multitude did hear and do bear record; and their hearts were open and they did understand in their hearts the words which he prayed.
“Nevertheless, so great and marvelous were the words which he prayed that they cannot be written, neither can they be uttered by man.” (3 Ne. 19:32–34.)
Religion comes from God by revelation and deals with spiritual things; and unless and until a man has received revelation, he has not received religion, and he is not on the path leading to salvation in our Father’s kingdom.
I bear testimony of these things because I have received revelation—revelation which tells me (among other things) that Jesus Christ is the Son of God; that Joseph Smith is a prophet, through whom the knowledge of Christ and of salvation has been restored for this day; and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is in literal reality the kingdom of God on earth. And of these things I do testify, in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

Governor Ford wanted Joseph to be tried again at Carthage, Illinois, Joseph felt that if he went there, he would probably be killed, so on June 23, 1844, he rowed across the Mississippi River to avoid arrest. In a letter, Emma pleaded with him to return and surrender. Joseph also learned that some of the Saints were calling him a coward for leaving. “If my life is of no value to my friends,” he said, “it is of none to myself.” He returned to Nauvoo, and on Monday, June 24, he and the others charged in the case went to Carthage to surrender.
When they got to Carthage, they were released on bail until a circuit court judge could hear the case. Joseph and Hyrum went to talk to Governor Ford. While there, they were rearrested on charges of treason.
Joseph and Hyrum were again jailed; John Taylor and Willard Richards went with them.
On June 27, 1844, shortly after 5:00 P.M., a mob rushed up the jail stairs to the room where the prisoners were being held. The culprits tried to break through the door, but were unable to. Shooting through the door, they hit Hyrum, who fell, saying, “I am a dead man.”
Joseph went to the window where he was shot twice from inside the building and twice more from outside. He fell out of the window to the ground and died. John Taylor was shot four times and lay under a bed, severely wounded. Willard Richards was not injured during the shooting.

It was at the beginning of our Primary lesson, when we are especially reverent, that Sister Gentry said, “I want you all to close your eyes.”
We all shut our eyes, wondering what she was going to do next.
“Very good. Now I want you to picture yourself walking up to the doors of the meetinghouse. As you look around, you see that the grass hasn’t been cut in a long time and that big clumps of weeds are growing here and there.
“You enter the building,” Sister Gentry continued, “and walk down the hall toward the chapel. The hallway is littered with crumpled papers and broken crayons. The walls have scribbles on them and dirty handprints. A big cobweb hangs in the corner.
“Passing the rooms down the hall, you see dirty dishes and stale food left from a party. There is litter on the floor. The windows are dirty, and the carpet is badly stained from spills that were never cleaned up.
“Entering the chapel, you notice the shabby seats. On closer inspection, you see dust under the benches and in the corners. Discarded programs are sticking up behind the hymnbooks. And candy wrappers and cracker crumbs are scattered on the benches and floor.”
Sister Gentry paused for a moment. “Now open your eyes and tell me how you felt during your imaginary tour.”
We all agreed that we felt dirty and sad and wouldn’t want to go to such a place again.
Sister Gentry explained that our meetinghouse is the Lord’s house, a sacred place. And we all need to do our part in keeping it clean and beautiful so that His spirit will be there.
After Primary was over, I walked down the hall to the bishop’s office to wait for my dad, who’s in the bishopric. I noticed how clean the walls were. I didn’t see any stains on the carpet or cobwebs in the hallway. The classrooms were spotless, with the chairs lined up neatly. The windows were shiny and clean.
I stopped as I passed the chapel. I could see papers and programs that had been left on the benches and behind the hymnbooks. The picture Sister Gentry described popped into my mind, and I quickly collected all the trash that had been left there. I felt bad for those people who didn’t understand how special the Lord’s house is.
As I was looking for the nearest trash can, I spotted my dad watching me with a quizzical look on his face. I looked back at the clean chapel, and a happy feeling came into my heart. “I’m just doing my part to keep the church clean,” I told him.
Dad gave me a quick squeeze, and we both knew that the Lord’s spirit was there that day in our beautiful building.

Years later I thought of that moment again. My wife and I were being taught by the missionaries. The missionaries asked me, “Do you believe that you can become like God?” I had never thought about it. But I thought, “If Heavenly Father is actually my Father, He would want the best for me, like my dad did. He would want me to be able to become like Him.” So I said to the missionaries, “Yes, I believe I can be like my Heavenly Father.”
The moment I answered, I knew what I said was true.

Rosi dropped her backpack to the floor. She had just finished her second day in her new class. And it had not been a good day.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked.
Rosi slumped down on the couch. “Some kids in my class said mean things to me,” she said. “About my brown skin.”
There weren’t many people at school who had skin the same color as Rosi’s, so she felt like she didn’t belong. But the teasing made her feel a hundred times worse.
Mom looked worried. “I’m sorry,” she said. She gave Rosi a hug. “I’ll talk to your teacher about it.”
But the next day at school, Rosi got teased again. One boy in her class was mean to her all day.
Rosi felt sad. But she also felt angry. Sometimes when he was rude to her, Rosi argued back. But it didn’t make her feel better.
One day when Rosi got home from school, she ran straight to her room. She was tired of being teased. She was tired of feeling like she didn’t belong. She put her face in her pillow and cried.
What am I going to do? she thought. She didn’t want to feel like this for the rest of the school year.
Rosi wiped her eyes. Then she looked up at the little statue of Jesus that was on her bookshelf. Mom had given it to Rosi to help her remember Jesus.
Maybe I should pray, she thought. She got down on her knees and folded her arms.
“Dear Heavenly Father, I’m really hurting inside. My classmates are mean to me because of my brown skin, and it makes me feel awful. Please help me.”
It felt good to tell Heavenly Father about her feelings. She knew He was listening. She felt warm and loved, like a soft blanket was being wrapped around her. She felt that her skin color was beautiful. She was a child of God, and He loved her.
When Rosi finished praying, she had an idea. Maybe there was more she could do to help at her school.
The next week, Rosi and her mom talked to the people in charge of the school about what was happening in her classroom. Rosi looked out for other kids at school who were being bullied and became friends with them. She tried to ignore the boy who teased her. And at church on Sunday, she shared her testimony that Heavenly Father loved everyone.
Things at school didn’t get better right away. But when it was hard, Rosi remembered how she felt during her prayer. She was a child of God, and she was loved. And because she knew that, she could do anything.

I remember hearing one such story when I was a young man. It was about President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985), and I had heard it so many times that I figured I could probably tell it in my sleep.
One stormy night, President Kimball saw a pregnant young mother and her two-year-old daughter in an airport. The mother couldn’t pick up her child because of the threat of miscarriage, so she scooted the sobbing child along with her foot.
Grumpy passengers looked at her judgmentally and said unkind things under their breath, but President Kimball immediately offered to help.
With the mother’s permission, he picked up and consoled the child and gave the girl a piece of gum. Then he kindly spoke to those in line and asked if the young mother could move to the front. The once-grumbling passengers immediately agreed. He spoke with the clerk and got them on the next available flight, ensuring them a safe and much faster trip home.

In 1946 I was assigned by President George Albert Smith to go to war-torn Europe to reestablish our missions from Norway to South Africa and to set up a program for the distribution of welfare supplies—food, clothing, bedding, and so forth.
We established headquarters in London, England, and then made preliminary arrangements with the military authorities on the Continent. One of the first men I wished to see was the commander of the United States forces in Europe. He was stationed in Frankfurt, Germany.
When we arrived in Frankfurt, my companion and I went to seek an appointment with the general. But we were told by the appointment officer, “Gentlemen, there will be no opportunity for you to see the general for at least three days. He’s very busy, and his schedule is filled up with appointments.”
I said, “It is very important that we see him, and we can’t wait that long. We are due in Berlin tomorrow.”
He said, “I’m sorry, but he can’t see you.”
We left the building, went out to our car, removed our hats, and united in prayer. Then we went back into the building and found a different officer at the appointment post. In less than fifteen minutes we were in the presence of the general.
We had prayed that we would be able to see him and to touch his heart, knowing that all relief supplies contributed from any source were required to be placed into the hands of the military for distribution. Our objective, as we explained to the general, was to distribute our own supplies to our own people, through our own channels, and also to make gifts for general feeding of children. We explained the Church welfare program and how it operated.
Finally he said, “Gentlemen, you go ahead and collect your supplies, and by the time you get them collected, the policy may be changed.”
We replied, “General, our supplies are already collected. They are always collected. Within twenty-four hours from the time I cable the First Presidency of the Church in Salt Lake City, carloads of supplies will be rolling toward Germany. We have many storehouses filled with basic commodities.”
He then admitted, “I’ve never heard of a people with such vision.” His heart was touched as we had prayed it would be. Before we left his office, we had written authorization to make our own distribution to our own people through our own channels.

Imagine you are visiting Africa. As you look at wild animals through your binoculars, you notice a shape coming toward you. It’s an eagle owl! As it gets closer, you hold up your arm to defend yourself. But instead of attacking, the owl gently lands on your arm, making little noises and looking at you for a moment before taking flight once more. This really happened to President Boyd K. Packer, President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. He loves animals, and especially birds.

My father was a great teacher. He was a chemist. He even kept a blackboard in our basement for his children. He was eager to teach me mathematics. He spent hours trying to help me solve problems for my physics classes. He pled with me to think more often about those things that then seemed so uninteresting and unimportant. Years later I was called by the Lord to the Presiding Bishopric of the Church and given responsibilities for computing and communications systems. What a blessing I might have had if I had followed with my father the counsel I am giving to you now.

A mzungu in a tree? What was a mzungu doing up in a tree? And what was this tool he was using to cut through branches so quickly?
Such questions ran through the minds of Ugandans watching a foreigner (mzungu) using a battery-powered reciprocating saw to trim dead limbs from a massive shade tree. The tool itself was a marvel to the locals. Many of them had never seen anything like it before.
But even more amazing to them was the mzungu himself. Elder Roland Harris, a senior missionary from Utah, USA, trimmed branch after branch, cutting dead limbs from lofty perches. The people below were amazed that a foreigner would do such a thing for one of their own.
Ultimately, Elder Harris’s simple act of service would mark the beginning of a friendship with someone who had wanted nothing to do with the Church or anyone in it.
Elder Roland Harris and Sister Janet Harris were serving a 23-month mission in the Uganda Kampala Mission. Sister Harris, a registered nurse, was called as medical adviser to the missionaries. Elder Harris, a retired construction superintendent who can fix almost anything in the universe, cared for Church facilities and mission vehicles.
Shortly after arriving in Uganda, Elder and Sister Harris hired a local Church member, Mary, to assist in cleaning their home.
Mary had been baptized three years earlier. “We just grew to love her,” says Sister Harris. “She helped teach us the ways of Uganda.”
The more they got to know Mary, the more their friendship deepened. They learned quickly about her husband, Godfrey—a good man who nevertheless kept his distance from members of the Church, especially missionaries. “He wouldn’t let missionaries in his home,” explains Sister Harris. However, Mary still wanted Godfrey to meet them.
She invited the Harrises over for a brief visit. “We had no expectations,” Sister Harris explains. “We told Godfrey that Mary is our dear friend now, and we want to know her family.” Godfrey chatted with them but didn’t really warm up to the idea of getting to know them more than as acquaintances.
That all changed the day Elder Harris showed up with power tools, a ladder, and an offer to serve.
Godfrey and Mary’s home was surrounded by towering shade trees full of dead branches and overgrown limbs that stretched precariously above their roof.
Elder Harris set to work straightaway. He spent four hours in the treetops lopping off limbs up to 10 inches (25 cm) in diameter. The task was definitely overdue. “I was at least 20 feet (6 m) off the ground,” Elder Harris says. As people walked by, they could hardly believe their eyes.
For his part, Godfrey was astounded. “He thanked us profusely,” says Sister Harris. Even relatively simple activities like tree trimming can carry serious risk. “They have no money for medical attention,” Sister Harris explains. If someone fell out of a tree and broke an arm or leg, for example, they would likely have to heal on their own.
That large pile of tree clippings on the ground laid the foundation for a cherished friendship. “Godfrey would come out and greet us from then on,” Elder Harris says. Godfrey and Mary also began welcoming other Church members into their home.

There is something very sacred about the time of birth. I remember so clearly the coming forth of each of my own children. My firstborn came after three years of desperate waiting. He was very small, only five pounds. I felt so responsible. It seemed like such a miracle and there was a great surge of gratitude. Now I had a baby of my very own. With each child came a sharper realization of life’s challenges and possibilities. Rocking my babies to sleep, I sang them the lullabies which came to my lips—soft, private words, carrying my dreams for their future. I have marveled at this miracle of potential that we cradle in our arms: the ultimate of creation, a human child.

Recently I went to an Alzheimer’s care facility in Salt Lake City to visit a long-time friend, Mayre Nielsen, who is 97 years of age. I was escorted by a young woman attendant to Mayre’s bedside. As I greeted her, she looked at me with glistening eyes but did not speak a word. I said to her, “Mayre, do you remember when we first met?” Still there was no answer. I continued, “It was long years ago, when you were a member of the Primary General Board and accompanied Sister Monson and me to an assignment in Sydney, Australia.”
I stopped speaking, and the attendant said, “President Monson, Mayre doesn’t know people. She is unable to recognize anyone and doesn’t know who you are. I’ll show you what I mean.”
Turning to Mayre, the attendant said, “Mayre, do you know who this man is?”
Mayre looked at the young woman and said, as clear as clear could be, “Of course. This is Brother Monson.” She then turned back to me, took my hand in hers, and pressed it to her lips. The young attendant also had tears in her eyes as she looked at Mayre in disbelief. Mayre had remembered; Mayre had spoken.
The promise found in the third verse of the beautiful Christmas carol “O Little Town of Bethlehem” had been fulfilled:
How silently, how silently
The wondrous gift is giv’n!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of his heav’n.
No ear may hear his coming;
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him, still
The dear Christ enters in.
(Hymns, no. 208)