Gospel Story Finder

I remember him as being fifty years old, tall and strong. He wore coveralls and heavy work shoes and dark glasses all the time. A friend of my father’s, he lived alone but worked for us now and again. His name was John, and he had been blind for more than forty years.
John lived in an unfinished, one-room house with crooked walls and a very crooked chimney. The house was untidy and smelled of damp and decay, fried food, smoked bacon, coffee grounds, and coal and wood smoke. John had built the house—that accounted for the crooked walls and chimney. He ate mostly bacon and eggs; fried potatoes, bread and milk—that accounted for the smell.
Although John’s house was about two and a half kilometers from our house, and about the same distance from a small store where he bought his food, he could confidently walk those gravel roads at a pace that I envied.
He did a little carpentry work for people in town if they weren’t too concerned about the quality of the finished product. One summer he worked with my dad to build an automobile service station. John would walk to our house, work with my dad during the day, eat a lunch my mother prepared while he sat on a pile of boards, and then walk back to his home that night. Dad always watched until John was out of sight.
During the spring and winter months, Dad drove a school bus taking local children to and from school. His bus route took him past John’s house four times a day. He would honk the bus horn, the school children would wave, and John would wave back from his window as if he could see the students’ faces. When John would oversleep and not be at the window, or if there wasn’t smoke coming out of the crooked chimney, dad would stop and shout from the bus doorway, “John, how are you going to get things done if you sleep until midday?” John would come to the window and give some excuse about his alarm clock not going off, and dad would drive on.
Remembering the way my dad used to communicate with John has built a lasting appreciation in my mind for my father. Dad didn’t study any books, or listen to any college professors lecture on how to help blind people to be independent. He just used common sense and was sensitive to John as a person. Dad checked on John almost daily to make sure he was well, but I never remember him asking such questions as: “John, are you all right? Is there something I can do for you? Do you need anything? Can I take you somewhere?”
Instead dad would ask: “John, I’ve been preparing a talk. Would you like to listen and see what you think of it?”
“John, I’m going to be constructing a building. What do you think of doing it this way? Could you help me?”
Dad always asked for help from John, and he always got help; but in reality dad was not getting anything—he was giving. In every contact he had with John, dad’s message was: you are a person, you are important, your opinion means something, you have a right to be here; human dignity is eternal and essential.
In those days, when you could no longer take care of yourself, you moved into an “old folks’ home.” At age seventy-one and ill, John decided to move into such a care center, and it was like opening a new door for him. There he regained his health and met a happy woman whom he called Sunshine. Sunshine had never been able to walk. John, with his strong arms and legs, was able to help her get around, and she was able to see for him. John changed his lifestyle, became reconverted to the Church, was married in the temple, and lived a new and happy life for thirteen years before he and his dear companion passed away. No one was happier for John during those last years than my dad who showed me how to serve others as the Savior would have served—with love, compassion, and respect.

One Thursday during my mission in Hong Kong, I was called to be a district leader and sent to a new area. I soon found there were no investigators there. But I was ready to begin the tracting necessary to find people to teach.
The next day as my companion and I and two other elders were about to eat dinner, the phone rang. An assistant to the mission president was calling to relay a challenge from the president: He wanted us to bring some investigators to church that Sunday. Sunday was only two days away!
I hung up the phone, told the other elders of our president’s desire, and suggested we begin fasting. All three of them supported me. We put our dinner into the refrigerator and said a prayer, telling Heavenly Father the purpose of our fast and seeking His divine help.
Then we left the apartment and started tracting. We did not have much success that evening, but on Saturday, we worked even harder and relied more on Heavenly Father. We had some success, but we weren’t sure any investigators would be at church the next day. But I knew we had done our part.
On Sunday when everyone arrived, we had seven investigators there. And of those seven, six were baptized within one month.
This miracle took obedience and hard work. I learned that, as the scripture says, “when we obtain any blessing from God, it is by obedience to that law upon which it is predicated” (D&C 130:21).

I also have some great memories of taking care of the family cow with my dad. We cleaned the barn, fed the cow, and got her into her stall. Then I held her tail while Dad milked. There is great discipline in having a cow. It has to be milked every morning and every night. It has to be milked in the summer, winter, spring, and fall. I didn’t particularly like the cow sometimes, especially when caring for it interfered with something I really wanted to do. But I developed a love for work and had some great conversations with Dad about baptism, priesthood ordinations, friends, and other important subjects while we were doing chores. I loved spending that time with my father. He is one of the men I most admire and respect.

Mary Elizabeth sat in the July shade of the ferryboat landing’s rough wooden overhang, her head resting peacefully against Isadora, the ox her father used to draw his ferry back and forth across the Fox River. The huge animal was harnessed to one end of a horizontal pole; the pole’s other end was fitted into a revolving stone wheel about which the ferry cable was wound. It was Mary Elizabeth’s responsibility to lead the old ox around its well-trodden path when the ferry was in use.
Mary Elizabeth let her fingers move up the length of Isadora’s great horns. They felt strong and smooth and warm like the now-rubbed-worn railing her father had built long ago onto the sides of the landing to keep her from falling off. As long as she could remember, she had liked to sit on the edge of the jetty and dangle her feet in the water that ran cool and deep through the hot, towering redrock gorges. She’d tilt her head and listen for the lonely screech of a circling hawk, for the wind whining through the sandstone pinnacles above the cottonwoods across the water, and for the faint, scolding squeals of a prairie dog in one of the invisible washes beyond the skyline.
This afternoon Mary Elizabeth’s attention was fixed on the red cliffs across the easy roll of water. She tried to imagine what red was really like. It must be warm, she thought, because Mother often says that the evening sun looks as red as the earth here in southern Utah where we live.
Mary Elizabeth wondered a lot about things—more than most, perhaps, because she had been born blind. Though she lived in a perpetual nighttime, in her nine years she had come to know better than many people the earth beneath her feet and the secrets of life that flourished upon it in reverent profusion. She had developed her other senses to detect the finer sounds and smells, and her hands were always reaching out … touching … feeling life as she found it.
She knew well the melodies of God made in the windy wood just down from Red Owl Ridge and the hymns of the leaves that whispered to her ears. She detected the delicate scent of a wildflower on a windless day and the wee rustling in the greasewood when a jackrabbit scampered by.
It was the little things that she enjoyed most: the wet tickle of Isadora’s nose, the friendly sound of lapping water against the mossy landing timbers, the softness of the newborn fawn that Father had found, and the gentle music of the white-throated swift.
Most of all, Mary Elizabeth enjoyed being with Father. His strong arms could split wood with one stroke of his big broadax, or they could gently sweep her up onto his big, powerful shoulders. He would carry her to where the dirt was soft between her toes, and as they sat amid the fluttering sounds of aspens, his soft, easy voice would spin a tale. Or he would talk about something that Bishop Andrews had said on Sunday or about how good it was to see Brother Nielson’s boy baptized in the Fox River or about how Mother’s smile could light up the whole world.
Mary Elizabeth had felt that wondrous smile with her fingertips more than once. It was as soft as lace and every bit as smooth and warm and constant as the earth beneath her feet.
The young girl had accepted her blindness as a part of life, a part of God’s plan for her. Her mother had said that a body should not brood over something that couldn’t be changed, and Mary Elizabeth believed her.
Now as a wagon neared, the blind girl sensed a kind of penetrating sorrow. It seeped through her contentment and challenged her peace of mind.
Mary Elizabeth heard her father welcome the wagon’s occupants, Mr. and Mrs. Styles. Then he said hello to their son, Joshua. Once, when Mary Elizabeth had asked her mother why the Styleses used the ferry so often, she had been told that they took their boy to a doctor for treatment at a settlement upriver.
“What’s wrong with him?”
Mother had been quiet for a moment, then explained that Joshua had a disease called leukemia and that he was dying.
Suddenly Mary Elizabeth began to comprehend the strange silences that always seemed to accompany the Styleses’ visits and their mumbled, listless hellos when Father greeted them by the landing.
Because it was late in the day, Father invited Mr. and Mrs. Styles and Joshua to lodge with them that night. They must have nodded agreement, because Mary Elizabeth heard Joshua’s father instruct him to go into the house and lie down. Mary Elizabeth listened to the boy’s feet plod heavily across the long yard toward the house.
Mary Elizabeth tugged on her mother’s arm. “Can’t he stay outdoors a little while, Mother?” she asked quietly. “I could show him Isadora and—” She stopped upon hearing the warning sound of her mother’s shoe poking at the hard ground.
“Joshua’s parents … well, they don’t allow him to do much of anything, from what I hear, honey, … except to rest. He only has a couple of years left, and time is precious.”
Mary Elizabeth lay awake that night, feeling for the first time a different kind of pain. She spoke her thoughts to her hug-frayed rag doll. “Time is precious, Charity! A person shouldn’t waste it moping. There’s too much to be happy about.” She rolled over and listened to a chorus of piping frogs among the reeds. That’s funny, she thought. Somehow they don’t sound as happy as they usually do.
Even the owl’s wonderfully bewitching hoots didn’t seem very enchanting that night. There was something out of harmony with the proper order of things, at least in Mary Elizabeth’s way of thinking, and she wondered how she could set things right.
The next morning when Mr. Styles opened the door to the spare room given to Joshua the night before, the boy was gone. Mary Elizabeth was also absent from her room.
“Where do you suppose they’ve gone?” Mary Elizabeth’s father questioned. He stepped to the window. Through the glare of the morning sun on the soft river mist, he could see the children. Mary Elizabeth was walking Isadora, and Joshua was riding atop the ox’s great, swaying back.
Mr. and Mrs. Styles joined Mary Elizabeth’s father at the window and were taken aback. “Joshua’s riding an ox!” Mrs. Styles gasped.
“Isadora’s as gentle as a baby, folks,” Mary Elizabeth’s father reassured them.
Mr. Styles blanched. “But our boy is dying!”
Father put a kind hand on the man’s shoulder and spoke with gentle understanding. “We all are, Mr. Styles. It’s just a matter of when. In the meantime, don’t you think a little sun might help thin out the shadows?”
Joshua’s mother sighed. “You don’t understand,” she said, “the more Joshua tromps around, the weaker he gets, and the weaker he gets—”
“What my wife means,” Mr. Styles interjected, “is that we don’t want to lose our boy a day sooner than we have to.” He crossed the room and started to open the door.
Mary Elizabeth’s father counseled compassionately, “Did you ever stop to consider the possibility that you’re already losing him, Mr. Styles?”
“What do you mean?” Mr. Styles asked defensively.
“I’m just suggesting that maybe you could go to him more, not after him.”
Mr. Styles just stared, and Mary Elizabeth’s father smiled and continued. “Joshua needs you and Mrs. Styles. But I just can’t help but think that the way you two go around so stretchy-faced all the time has your boy feeling like he’s already dead and buried.”
Mr. and Mrs. Styles regarded each other silently, then went outside.
Joshua slid off the ox into the tall grass, laughing with simple glee.
“Take off your shoes, Joshua,” Mary Elizabeth said, encouraged at the sound of his joy. “The grass feels good between your toes, especially when it’s early wet.”
Joshua sat down, pulled off his boots, and worked his feet into the green dampness that tickled his toes.
Mr. and Mrs. Styles, unnoticed by Joshua and Mary Elizabeth, stopped a short way from the children, surprised at their son’s exhilaration. “He’s laughing!” Mrs. Styles exclaimed in a stunned whisper. “And so is your daughter,” she added to Mary Elizabeth’s parents, who had joined them. “I mean,” she went on, “you’d never know that she was blind by the way that she’s enjoying herself!”
Mary Elizabeth’s mother smiled. “She has a way about her, all right—a way of living, I guess you could say, a bright way of looking at things.”
Mr. Styles shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes. “I can’t remember the last time that I saw Joshua so happy.”
Mrs. Styles took her husband’s arm and blinked back her own tears. “When was the last time that we let him be happy—or ourselves?
“It has come to me,” Mrs. Styles added a moment later, “that you’re right,” she said to Father, “that maybe it isn’t always how much time we have that matters most, but rather what we do with that time.”
Mary Elizabeth listened to Joshua’s uninhibited laughter. Things were in harmony again. The owl in the lightning-split poplar tree would sound wonderfully enchanting again. And life would be, and was, sweet and fine. Each moment of it.

About this same time, Elder Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985), then of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, visited Japan and encouraged the youth of the Church to achieve four goals: (1) receive as much higher education as possible, (2) serve a full-time mission, especially the young men, (3) marry in the temple, and (4) gain skills to support a family. Until that point I had never planned to accomplish these four things. But I later knelt and prayed: “Heavenly Father, I want to accomplish those four goals. Please help me.”
I knew that in order to stay on the path of the chosen, I needed to follow the counsel of the Lord’s servants. I committed to do all I could to follow Elder Kimball’s advice and to work hard to build up the Church.
For the next several years I continued to work toward my four goals. I served as a construction missionary for two years, helping build two chapels in my home country. Then I was called to serve a full-time proselytizing mission. Soon after returning home, I married in the temple the woman from the Matsumoto Branch who wrote me the letter. Later I landed my dream job in a foreign trading company. As I followed the word of the Lord and the counsel of the prophets, I felt that again I was on the path of the chosen. And I am striving to stay on that path today.

Our stake takes charge of providing sacrament meeting at a local care center. One Sunday, while waiting for the meeting to start, I saw an act of kindness I will never forget.
In the few minutes before the meeting, I decided to visit Verna, a resident who didn’t have any family visitors. I approached Verna’s room and noticed her standing in the hallway. Before I could reach her, she latched onto the arm of one of the Aaronic Priesthood boys who happened to be passing by. She looked up into his tanned face and cried, “David, my David, you have come to see me.”
The young man, a stranger, stopped. He didn’t ignore her or give her an awkward pat on the shoulder. He didn’t tell her that he was not her David. Instead, he smiled down at her, gently put his arms around her, held her tightly, and kissed her on the cheek as he would his own mother. While he carefully walked down the hall with his arm still affectionately around her, I heard her exclaim again, “Oh, David, my David.”
Tears sprang to my eyes to witness such a display of unconditional love. I was touched by this young man’s sensitivity and concern. He didn’t know Verna, but he knew her need, her loneliness. His example taught me what it really means to care for another human being.

When my friend Fernanda (not her real name) didn’t show up to class one Friday, I wondered what was wrong. “Is Fer feeling sick? Is she OK?” I asked as I ran over to some friends at the end of the day. “She isn’t sick,” another friend answered, “she just had to go to a psychologist.” When I asked why, she told me that Fernanda was suffering from depression and had been hurting herself. Shortly after I found out, Fernanda was admitted to the hospital for treatment, and we didn’t see her for a few weeks.
Even though we were friends, she hadn’t shared that part of her life with me. She had been hiding it from everyone because she was ashamed. She later told me that she didn’t want others to pity her or her situation. But I didn’t pity her—I just felt compassion.
That first day, I lay on my bed after school, my face buried in a pillow. I was emotionally exhausted but too anxious to sleep. My world was in chaos. I felt like I was in the middle of a storm, and so many thoughts and feelings whirled in the wind. I felt confused, lonely, and, most of all, so powerless to help.
What could I do or say to help her? How could we as friends pull together and lend our support? I couldn’t find any sort of solution to comfort my friends or myself. I prayed for inspiration but felt like my prayers just weren’t getting answered.
But the next week I had an epiphany. I was sitting in my early-morning seminary class when my teacher reminded us of the First Vision and how Joseph Smith asked Heavenly Father directly for help with his difficulties and concerns. My teacher then said, “If we seek out the Father and ask Him, He will answer us. We will never be alone.”
I realized that in my sadness, I had closed my heart off to my Heavenly Father. Even though I was trying to pray often, it wasn’t enough—I still had too much fear to find peace. I knew that He understood exactly how I felt and that He could help me. But I needed to open myself up to Him and truly trust that He could do it—I needed to exercise faith.
So I did. Over time, as I continued to pray and read my scriptures, striving to let the Savior take my burdens, I came to understand that eventually my friend’s depression would end. Despite the fact that the external chaos continued, I felt calm, balanced, in harmony. My mother kept encouraging me to seek out peace, saying, “Your friend will be OK and so will you. Stay strong in the gospel, and it will all work out.”
When Fernanda finally came back to school, I was able to provide strong support for her, but only because I had sought out and found peace through Jesus Christ myself. I tried my best to be a good listener, to be positive, and to share the gospel. I felt confident when I explained the plan of happiness and when I told her that our Father wants us to find joy, despite our challenges. It may take time, but it is possible for every one of His children.
There have been many situations in my life in which I have felt anguish and sadness, but because of the gospel I always remember where I come from. I know that I am a daughter of God and that He has a plan for me—and for Fernanda. We all walk distinct paths, but each is for our good because He loves us. Each path, each trial, has a purpose. And if we can find peace in those trials, we can share the peace we gain with others.

It was Houston’s transfer to the Benin City stake that introduced him to Raymond. Raymond arrived in Benin a few days later directly from his missionary training in Lagos. Houston joined Raymond and his companion to proselyte on Raymond’s first day. When Raymond expressed his fear about teaching a discussion on his first day, he remembers Houston’s encouragement: “Elder, go ahead and do it. I had the same experience. If I did it, you can do it, too.”

Raymond recalls, “I was filled with strength and confidence. And when I finished the discussion, Houston tapped me on the knee and said, ‘Elder, you came out okay.’ This experience kindled a feeling of respect for him. And as our paths have crossed many times since our missions, that feeling has only increased.”

Another great spiritual influence in my life was President N. Eldon Tanner, who served as a counselor in the First Presidency. I first met him when he was my branch president and I was in the Royal Canadian Air Force. He wrote my parents a beautiful letter about me, which my mother kept and which I found after she died. He was very considerate of those of us who were in the air force.
When I moved to Calgary, he became my stake president. He had been the minister of mines and resources in the Alberta Provincial Government and had resigned from that position and gone into private business. A transcontinental pipeline was being planned, and it would be very expensive. The people who were going to finance it were reluctant to risk their money. They said, however, that if Eldon Tanner was the president of the company, they would be happy to put their money into the project. When President Tanner went to the project’s first meeting, he was told that the board meetings would be on Sunday. Eldon Tanner said, “Not if I’m president.” He explained his Church obligations and his belief in Sabbath observance. So the board of directors changed their meeting to another day. President Tanner was president of that company until he was called to be a General Authority. He was a spiritual giant, a wonderful model to pattern my own life after.

Sometimes the Lord reveals truth to us when we are not actively seeking it, when we are in danger and know it not. I remember that on one occasion I had been driving for long hours alone on high Bolivian mountain roads a single lane wide. As I approached a sharp turn an impression came into my mind: “If my wife were here she would tell me to honk the horn.” I did, and as I turned the corner I saw a jeep skidding to a halt; it had heard the warning sound. Had I not done it I would have been in trouble. Not two hours later the same thing happened, this time with an ambulance.

Then the unthinkable happened. I received a gut-wrenching, life-shattering phone call.
“Call 911!” my distressed husband yelled. “I’m pinned under the tractor!”
I called for help and then made it in record time to the land he had been clearing, passing a long line of emergency vehicles on the gravel road to our property in Pea Ridge, Arkansas, USA. Barry was alive, but he was indeed pinned beneath the engine of a tractor that had flipped.
Using hydraulic rescue tools, emergency workers lifted the tractor and pulled Barry free. His legs, soaked in diesel fuel, looked broken in several places. He was rushed to a trauma center, where he received a priesthood blessing before having his legs X-rayed.
We were surprised that not one bone was broken, but the back of one of Barry’s legs had been severely burned by diesel fuel. The crush injury had also led to toxification of his kidneys. His life was in jeopardy.
After Barry spent five tense days in the hospital, his toxin levels finally began to drop. Months of dressing changes, skin grafts, surgeries, and hyperbaric oxygen therapy followed. Once he felt well enough, Barry resumed his sales job from home.

When Anna’s joy over her conversion wasn’t shared by friends and relatives and when she couldn’t persuade them to accept the gospel, she decided to emigrate to the United States with a group of Norwegian Saints intent on going to Zion. It was 1883, and in the fall of that year she arrived in Logan, Utah. She was determined that her family’s first obligation should be to Heavenly Father because of His many blessings to them. Her next obligation was to see that her boys received the best education possible.

On 10 May 1940, as the specter of Nazi infamy moved relentlessly toward the English Channel, Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill was summoned to the post of prime minister of England. He hastily formed a government and on May 13 went before the House of Commons with his maiden speech.

I would say to the House, as I said to those who have joined this Government: “I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat.”

We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many, many long months of struggle and of suffering. You ask what is our policy? I will say: It is to wage war, by sea, land, and air, with all our might and with all our strength that God can give us. . . .That is our policy. You ask, What is our aim? I can answer in one word: Victory—victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror; victory, however long and hard the road may be. [Churchill: the Life Triumphant, American Heritage, 1965, p. 90]

Six days later he went on radio to speak to the world at large. He said:

This is one of the most awe-striking periods in the long history of France and Britain. . . . Behind us . . . gather a group of shattered States and bludgeoned races: the Czechs, the Poles, the Norwegians, the Danes, the Dutch, the Belgians—upon all of whom the long night of barbarism will descend, unbroken even by a star of hope, unless we conquer, as conquer we must; as conquer we shall. [Churchill, p. 91]

Then two weeks later he was back before Parliament. “We shall not flag or fail,” he vowed.

We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender. [Churchill, p. 91]

I share these lines with you not only because they are among the most stirring calls to patriotism and courage ever uttered in the English language, but also because I relied on them personally once, when I was just your very age.

Exactly twenty years ago last fall I stood on the famous white cliffs of Dover overlooking the English Channel, the very channel which twenty years before that ran as the only barrier between Hitler and England’s fall. In 1962 my mission was concluding, and I was concerned. My future seemed very dim and difficult. My parents were then serving a mission also, which meant I was going home to live I-did-not-quite-know-where and to pay my way I-did-not-quite-know-how. I had completed only one year of college, and I had no idea what to major in or where to seek my career. I knew I needed three more years for a baccalaureate degree and had the vague awareness that graduate school of some kind inevitably loomed up behind that.

I knew tuitions were high and jobs were scarce. And I knew there was an alarmingly wider war spreading in Southeast Asia, which could require my military service. I hoped to marry but wondered when—or if—that could be, at least under all these circumstances. My educational hopes seemed like a never-ending path into the unknown, and I had hardly begun.

So before heading home I stood one last time on the cliffs of the country I had come to love so much,

This royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle . . . This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war. [Richard II, act 2, scene 1, lines 40, 43–44]

And there I read again,

We have before us many, many long months of struggle and suffering. What is our aim? . . . Victory—victory at all costs; victory in spite of all terror; victory, however long and hard the road may be. . . .

Conquer we must; as conquer we shall. . . . We shall never surrender.

Blood? Toil? Tears? Sweat? Well, I figured I had as much of those as anyone, so I headed home to try. I was, in the parlance of the day, going to give it “my best shot,” however feeble that might prove to be. Now at the same time in your life, I ask you to do the same.

When I was 16 years old, I met and befriended a lady with three children. We became trusted friends, although she was ten years older than me. She was having discussions with the missionaries, but at that time I was not interested. I was very frightened and stayed in the kitchen when they arrived.
One evening, when I was making food for the children, I overheard the missionaries speaking about life before birth and after death, and how we choose to have an earthly experience, just as Jesus chose to come to die for us. I felt overwhelmed on hearing this, because in my heart I always felt that we had been around forever.
Later that night I queried my friend for more information, and she told me about Joseph Smith. His story really captured my attention and I felt that it was true. I didn’t rush into anything, but weeks later when I was invited to a sports event at the Church, I decided to go to see the children having fun in the sun. And I really wanted to meet people and find out more about the teachings of the Church.
It was a beautiful day, and many people were there with their children. I was introduced to a few families and was asked if I wanted to meet the bishop. I entered the chapel and I remember the aroma to this day: it was the fresh smell of lovely, polished wood, old wood, and the smell of cakes baking in the oven. I’m not even sure if they were baking cakes that day, but that is what I smelt. It was lovely and clean and smelt homely.
When I walked through the building towards the bishop’s office, I had this overwhelming feeling of pure love and protection. I was very nervous, yet I felt such a strong sense of belonging. I will always remember the big beautiful smile on the bishop’s face, as if he was waiting for me to return home. I felt emotional and frightened at the same time because I didn’t know what to expect. These feelings were all new to me, but I felt this was a major part in my journey, my destiny, while not knowing at that time how my life would turn out. I was only 16 but I remember exactly how I felt that day. My dad had told me about these dangerous religious organisations, but there was no danger here. I only felt love, a love that I yearned to feel forever.
Feeling such love, I felt safe. I felt I was home. I knew this was so right.
This kindhearted man, the bishop, told me his name and spoke with authority, and he made me feel safe and very welcome.
He drew me in with his godly spirit. He drew me in with his smile. He drew me in with his love. He drew me in with his fatherly influence in the way he spoke to me. He drew me in.
He was a good decent man, and a fatherly influence on my shattered, insecure soul. It has taken me years to be who I am today. I was a canny, quiet kid, yet fiery when anyone hurt me. I carried so much pain. So, I love with my heart and soul, and am so overjoyed at the fact that I allowed Bishop Barratt to draw me into the gospel with his beautiful strong spiritual soul. He indeed saved me that day.
I dread to think how my life would have turned out if I had not been introduced to the Church at that time. Although I have had periods of inactivity, I have always stayed loyal to the teachings of the gospel. I have never stopped believing that the gospel is true, and during those times of inactivity, I knew with all my heart and soul that I would return.
Years on, I met my husband, and we were sealed for time and eternity. Bishop Barratt was a very important part of our gospel journey, yet sadly he was too unwell to make trips to the temple; but he did give many beautiful and sacred blessings to my husband. Over the years I would choose him to bless my children. As my children got older and had children of their own, they would also choose Bishop Barratt to bless their babies too.
Brother Ronald Barratt died in early 2021. His beautiful wife, Mary, gave my husband a few of Bishop Barratt’s tie pins, which will be treasured; it’s an honour to have something of his. It has been many years since Brother Ronald Barratt was bishop, but he brought honour to the title.
The Barratts carried out many acts of service in spreading the gospel and teaching people. They were firm examples. They stood strong in the Church through difficult times. They worked hard. Bishop Barratt also had an amazing operatic voice which could drown us all out when singing.
We all have amazing experiences with people in our lives who have been such wonderful examples. I am so grateful to many people in my life. Heavenly Father certainly knows what He is doing. He brings people into our lives for specific reasons. We are never alone, even if we sometimes feel we are.
Cherishing our surroundings and those who have helped us on our way is so important. Each person met on life’s journey can be vital to one’s spiritual growth and emotional wellbeing. Even in challenging times, people are helping to move us forward, to learn from one another through the good and the bad. Everything has its purpose. We see the beauty in others and in ourselves. We are all God’s beautiful precious creations.

One Friday in fourth grade, I was eating lunch in the cafeteria. After I threw my trash away, I couldn’t find my CTR ring. It was really special to me. I thought I had put it on my lunch box, but it was not there. It wasn’t under the table or in the trash can, either. I prayed, and later I asked my teacher to tell the custodians about my ring. I worried the whole weekend and prayed and prayed to get my ring back. On Monday morning, Mom and I went to the office, and the secretary held up a ring and asked if it was mine. It was! I know that Heavenly Father answered my prayer, and I still have my ring.Emily Rawlins, age 10Morrisville, Pennsylvania

President Aires is a friendly, outgoing man who radiates genuine love for people. But he was a skeptic—an atheist from a family of atheists—when he met the LDS missionaries. The missionaries first contacted his wife, Domitila, who warned them her husband would not want to hear their message. So they made three visits without discussing religion, getting to know him, before he asked what they wanted. As predicted, he told them he was not interested, but he gave permission for them to teach his wife. During the third lesson, however, the gospel message began to reach him too. He and his wife were baptized in July of 1977.
Brother and Sister Aires were the first Portuguese couple called to serve as missionaries, in 1984. Maturity and ability with the language gave them advantages over younger missionaries. They benefited, too, from knowledge of Portuguese society and culture, especially in dealing with married couples.

Many years ago I had the privilege of meeting a young man by the name of Jay. Jay was in a Sunday School class I had been invited to teach. When the bishop called me to this position, he said I was the fourth teacher in six weeks. He said the class had driven out the other three and that he would not let them drive me out. I told him I would take the class for as long as he wanted me. He referred me then to one of the officers in the ward who relayed the same message about the number of teachers. The officer then said:
“There is a young man in the class named Jay. He is an obnoxious kid and the real ringleader. If he gets out of line, you let me know; I will jerk him out of your class so fast his head will swim.”
I said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get along fine.”
“Well, you just let me know if there is any problem. We won’t have him drive you out of the class, too.”
I’ve always believed that if there is a discipline problem, it is the teacher’s fault and not the student’s. So I prepared well, and when I went to class Sunday morning, I was ready.
Jay was sitting on the end of one of the rows. He had a small radio in his pocket with one wire that went up and plugged in his ear and another wire that went over to the radiator. He sat through the entire lesson, tapped his foot on the floor, and seemed very interested in what was going on on the radio. He did not disturb me, and I felt I got through to the rest of the class that morning.
Each week I would prepare well and then go to the class. Each week something different came up, but Jay wasn’t offensive to me, and he didn’t disturb the rest of the class. So we got along fine.
About six weeks after I had been called to teach the class, the bishop met me as I went downstairs and said, “Would you please ask all of your class to be here 15 minutes early tonight for sacrament meeting as we are presenting individual awards.”
I told him yes. I went downstairs and told the class what the bishop had said, mentioned the fact that individual awards would be given and that all of my class would receive one, and would they please be there 15 minutes early.
Jay jumped up and said, “Do you know what I’m going to do with my individual award when I get it? I’m going to stand up right in front of the congregation and tear it in two.”
The class members gasped. I said, “Jay, why would you do that?”
He said, “Because I don’t need a piece of paper or an individual award or a certificate that tells me that I’m a good guy or a Christian. I come to church because I want to come. The piece of paper doesn’t make me different from what I really am inside.”
Well, I didn’t have an answer for Jay, and so I suggested that we might discuss this the last five minutes of the Sunday School period. I was stalling for time.
Five minutes before the class ended I said, “I believe now we are ready to attend to Jay’s question. Do you know, Jay is right. We should not have to have a piece of paper, a certificate, an individual award to get us to come to Church. An individual award is a crutch if that is the reason we come.
“Jay, individual awards aren’t for guys like you. They’re for guys like Vaughn Featherstone. When I was a deacon growing up, my mother wasn’t a member of the Church. My father was an alcoholic, and the first individual award I got I took home and put above my bed. I’ll never forget it. It made me someone. It seemed like for the first time in my life I really could be someone. I counted because here was a piece of paper that proved it. Now I know it was only a crutch. But tonight when they present individual awards and they pass you yours, would you just simply take it and go back to your seat and say, ‘Individual awards aren’t for guys like me. I don’t need them. They’re for guys like Vaughn Featherstone when he was growing up. He needed the crutch, and if it worked there, it’s all right.’”
Well, that afternoon came, and we all arrived about 15 minutes before sacrament meeting. I sat right behind the class, and they were called up to receive their individual awards one by one. Finally, Jay’s turn came. I believe the whole Sunday School class stopped breathing. He took the individual award, walked across the stand, and then back to his seat. I thought in my heart, “I’m getting through to this kid.”
The next week I found out he had tried out for the sophomore football team, and so I went over to his high school and watched the sophomores practice.
No one watches sophomores. They all go down and watch the varsity. So I stood there all alone watching the sophomores.
Jay went out for a pass; and as he came back in, he saw me and made a wide circle and came over. He said, “What are you doing here?”
I said, “I came to watch you play football, to practice, to find out if you are any good. I played football when I was in high school, and I think I can recognize if you are any good. I came to watch you.”
“Oh, you didn’t come to watch me. What are you here for?”
“No, Jay, I did come to watch you. I don’t know one other guy on the team.”
He went over to the huddle, and several times during the next 45 minutes I saw him look over to see if I was still there. I wanted to see him do something that I could talk about at Sunday School where I could talk about just him. So I went back a couple nights later and watched them practice again, and I had the information I needed.
When Sunday morning came, I stood before the class and said: “I went over to watch the sophomore team practice the other night, and I watched Jay. He’s terrific! He has great hands. If he gets within touching distance of a ball, he catches it. He has some great moves, and he’s fast as a deer. I’m sure if he continues with the talent he has as a sophomore, one day he’ll be all-state.”
Well, I don’t know if anyone else listened, but I want you to know that Jay was sitting on the edge of his chair, listening to every word I said.
I followed him the next year as he tried out for the track team. He hadn’t tried out as a sophomore but was doing so as a junior. When he went to the coach, the coach said, “I’m sorry, Jay. We have some good half-milers. We don’t need any more.” He mentioned one young man who had taken second place in the state the previous year and others who were very good, as well as some sophomores who had come up as juniors now, and he didn’t need Jay.
Jay said, “I guess you don’t own the track, do you?”
“No, but what do you mean by that?”
“Well, I guess I can come and run if I want.”
“I guess you can, but don’t get in our way.”
So Jay came down night after night, sometimes during the track practices, sometimes before, sometimes after—always running, running, and running. One night shortly after, they had a dual track meet, and I guess the track coach, softened by this kid’s terrible drive to be somebody, to accomplish something, came over and said to him:
“Jay, if you would like to run in this half-mile event, you can. If you can place, I’ll put you on the track team.”
Well, there wasn’t much of a chance. They had many good half-milers from both teams, but Jay got in the event.
The gun sounded to start them off; and when the tape had been broken, Jay had taken first place. I want you to know they had a new sweatsuit for him, and he was on the track team. He had a nice locker, and he became a permanent member of the track team. I don’t believe I missed one track meet during that season. I saw every one. I watched the papers and saw the times of other half-milers in other meets. Jay’s time was pretty good but was not as good as many other times across the state.
Finally came the BYU Invitational Tournament. I remember Saturday morning getting my wife up early, telling her that we were going down to BYU to watch the track meet. She said, “Well, it’s raining. They don’t hold track meets when it rains, do they?” “Yes, they hold the BYU Invitational.”
“What time does Jay run, and we’ll just go down and watch part of it.”
Well, I had deliberately not found out so that we could watch the whole track meet. So we bundled our three little boys up, and we got two or three blankets and drove down to BYU in our old ’37 Plymouth. I remember laying one blanket out across a bench about ten rows above Jay’s team. Then I put another blanket across our shoulders, and we sat there in the rain, knowing that eventually Jay would come over and check in with his track coach, and we would be able to talk to him.
In a few moments Jay came bouncing up and stood there in front of his coach. His coach threw him an orange, and as he peeled the orange, he happened to look up across the stands, and he saw me. Something happened when my eyes met his eyes. I can’t tell you what it was. I just know that something happened. He turned away, and in a few moments he came bouncing up the stairs, and he said, “What are you doing up here?”
“Jay, we came to see one of the greatest kids I know win the half-mile today.”
“Well, I’ll do my best.”
“Yes, and your best is winning. You don’t know anything else. You’re a great guy. You have an unconquerable heart, and you’ll win.”
He got just a little teary-eyed and then went back downstairs. Pretty soon it was first call for the half-milers, and second call, and third call. As they started to get ready, to take off their sweatsuits to prepare to run, I remember thinking about the other half-milers. There was one from Pocatello who was an excellent runner. I thought of another half-miler from Weber who had been running right around two minutes, and in those days that was a good time. So I just offered a little prayer: “Heavenly Father, put Jay in one heat, and put the boy from Pocatello and the boy from Weber in another heat. And then Jay can win. I can talk about him and build him up.”
Well, I watched Jay take off his suit. He was in the first heat. I looked around, and there was the boy from Pocatello taking off his sweatsuit. He was in the first heat. I looked a little farther and spotted the kid from Weber. He was taking off his sweatsuit. He was in the first heat. That’s the way the Lord answers my prayers sometimes.
Pretty soon they lined up, sprinted back and forth. Then I saw Jay look up once more, and he saw me. I was looking, watching. Something passed between us again, and then they were called to their marks.
The gun went off, and they took off around the corner. The boy from Pocatello and the boy from Weber stayed side by side way out ahead of everyone else as they rounded the first corner, and on around to the second corner, and down the straightaway to the 220. They were way out ahead of several—20 or 30 yards ahead of one, then two more, and another one, and then finally about 40 yards back was Jay. As they came around the 220, Jay was still way back there. They came around the far end of the 330 and around the first 440, and again Jay was way back, sixth or seventh in the race. I don’t know how far back.
Then as these two passed me, I was cheering for Jay at the top of my lungs.
“Get up there, Jay! Get up in there!” He couldn’t hear me. There were 10,000 people, it seemed, all around me, cheering and yelling for their runners.
As the boy from Pocatello and the boy from Weber got past the first 440, they were far ahead. Then the others came across the 440, and then Jay.
Then Jay did something I had never seen done before in a half mile. As he crossed the 440, he burst into a full sprint. He sprinted around one, around two more, and around another one, and another one; and then as they finished the 660, he had pulled up right in behind this boy from Pocatello and the boy from Weber. Then he started to slacken his pace; and as he did so, they picked up theirs. I thought, “Well, what a great run this kid has made today! What a great heart he has! He can’t stay in there now.”
But as they started to pick up the pace, he stayed with them; and as they came around the 330 on the second lap around the far end, I remember watching him with tears in my eyes as I thought of the great effort he was making. Then they came around the far corner, and both of these two men burst into a full sprint, straight down the last 100 yards. And as they burst down the straightaway, I thought, “Well, that’s it. Jay can’t possibly win now, but he’ll take third and what a great race.”
I saw them coming down the straightaway, and I thought my heart would stop. Jay began to move up in between these two fellows. The fellow on the right looked over his shoulder and could see Jay coming. With about 10 yards to go he dove for the finish line and slid across the finish line on his chest in the cinders. The fellow on the left looked over his shoulder and could see Jay about a half a stride behind. He threw his chest out and stumbled toward the tape with his chest out as far as he could push it to try to reach the tape before Jay got there. Jay burst between them and took first place. I stood up in the stands and tears streamed down my cheeks. I thought, “What a great kid he is—what a giant heart!”
Well, I had the privilege of graduating each year with that Sunday School class, 14 to 15, 15 to 16, 16 to 17, and then we moved out of the ward. A short time later Jay asked me if I would speak at his missionary farewell. After he was out in the mission field just a little under a year, he sent a letter to me and said:
“Dear Brother Featherstone, I thought I would like to let you be one of the first ones to know. I’ve been called to be an assistant to the president here in France.”
And I thought, “And someone once told me, ‘You let me know, and I’ll put him out of your class so fast his head will swim.’”
Something happened the other day in the temple that I’ll never forget. As I went through the temple with my three sons, I met Jay coming out of one of the rooms. As I talked with him, he said:
“I’ve been back to medical school on the east coast, and I’ve made contact with Russell Nelson. He has given me the privilege of being one of his assistants.”
And I thought, “Who is this Jay? We don’t know who he is yet. Russell Nelson has operated on our prophet and worked a miracle for the Lord, and Jay is going to work with him. Who is Jay?”

As long as I can remember, I have had a football at my side and a dream to be a professional player. My parents supported me as I pursued this dream. They also encouraged me to go to church. But as I got older I was at church only when I didn’t have a game. I knew that the gospel, Church activities, and my friends would help me a lot in life, but what I was really looking for was to fulfill my dream of playing football.
As I trained I began to have important friends inside the great football clubs. I had opportunities to play and even train with some of these clubs. I traveled throughout various countries to participate in tournaments, and I was very excited and happy with the possibility of living the life of a professional football player. On one of these trips to Asia, my dream was about to come true. A large club liked what they saw when they watched me play and wanted me to join the team. But my agent found some obstacles during the negotiation, and we ultimately didn’t close the contract.
At home my friends were filling out mission papers; others were returning from missions and telling with enthusiasm what it was like to be a missionary. Their eyes shone with emotion each time they spoke, and the Spirit was very strong. I felt the desire to serve a mission too; I wanted to have these same experiences. But I worried that if I chose to serve a mission, my football dream wouldn’t come true because I would lose physical fitness and agility. My desire to become a professional player was enormous; I had put off college and worked and lived only to fulfill this dream.
On my football trips I always brought a copy of the Book of Mormon. I loved the words of the prophets, their way of life, their determination to obey the commandments, and their good example for their people. I felt ashamed of not being an example for the other players and not putting the things of God first. Sometimes I tried to share my beliefs, but what I always heard was “Let’s enjoy the trip. Forget about this nonsense. Let’s go have fun!” I started to get irritated with the gossip, dishonesty, and other aspects of football life. Many times I felt alone and sad, and I knew there was a place where I always felt happy and had friends who cared about me—friends who were together at activities and dances, in seminary and institute classes—celestial friends. I missed these things very much.
One Sunday when I wasn’t traveling, I went to church in my home ward in Brazil. At the end of the meetings, the bishop called me into his office to talk. I knew that we were going to talk about a mission because everyone my age was returning home. The bishop challenged me to serve a mission, and I tried to change the subject, saying that I wasn’t prepared. I tried to put off the bishop in every possible way, but he persevered and convinced me of the value of a mission. We ended the conversation with a goal for my preparation.
Some months later I turned in my papers, and I also continued with my training. For the moment, I had managed to reconcile football and the Church in my mind. But little did I know that it couldn’t last for long. I would have to choose.
When my call arrived, my family gathered at home. We were all very excited. Then the telephone rang.
On the other end of the line, my football agent told me that he had obtained a good contract with a European club. My imagination soared! I could see the stadium full of people coming to watch the games. I thought of the beautiful house and car and salary I could have. My dream was about to be fulfilled. It was within my grasp—and then I looked at the envelope with the call sitting beside the phone.
My eyes began to fill with tears. For a moment my life passed as if it were a movie. On the phone, my agent asked me what I thought of the news. I was silent. I couldn’t talk, and my legs were shaking. I didn’t want this moment to be real, but it was! I had to make a decision, the most difficult of any decision in my life.
With my voice shaking, I finally told him that I had already obtained a better contract. I would be a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for two years. I thanked the agent for the opportunity and for his work and effort on my behalf. Then I hung up the phone and went to my room, where I cried for a long time. I knew that the opportunity wouldn’t wait for two years, and my football dream would not be realized.
I knelt and prayed to Heavenly Father, asking for comfort. I felt a quiet and sweet voice respond, comforting my heart by saying, “My son, you are already part of the best team in the world.” I reflected on these words and still reflect on them today.
Today, home from serving in the Brazil Fortaleza Mission, I don’t regret my choice in any way. The true Church of Jesus Christ is available to anyone who wants to be happy. And on my mission I learned that the best way to be happy is doing what Heavenly Father wants us to do. My mission was the best choice I have ever made in my life. It taught me that all who seek first the kingdom of God will have a place on the Lord’s team (see Matthew 6:33).

Samuel Taylor Coleridge once heard a farmer renowned for his productive acres, his sculptured gardens, and his bright children say that he hoped his children would grow up to be God-fearing, prayerful, religious people, but that he would never prejudice them in favor of religion by imposing religious principles on them or taking them to church. They would, he said, grow up and decide for themselves.

Coleridge answered the man, “Bravo! This is a very progressive idea. Why do you not apply it also to your fields and orchards and gardens in the future? Do not prejudice the soil to seed or weeding or cultivation, the trees to pruning or thinning, the gardens to bulbs or planting. Why not see if they will grow up and just decide to be what you hope they will become?”

One experience of wanting more holiness came for me in the Salt Lake Temple. I entered the temple for the first time having been told little of what to expect. I had seen the words on the building: “Holiness to the Lord” and “The House of the Lord.” I felt a great sense of anticipation. Yet I wondered if I was prepared to enter.
My mother and father walked ahead of me as we entered the temple. We were asked to show our recommends, certifying our worthiness.
My parents knew the man at the recommend desk. So they lingered a moment to speak with him. I went ahead alone into a large space where everything was sparkling white. I looked up at a ceiling so high above me it seemed an open sky. In that moment, a clear impression came to me that I had been there before.
But then, I heard a very soft voice—it was not my own. The softly spoken words were these: “You have never been here before. You are remembering a moment before you were born. You were in a sacred place like this. You felt the Savior was about to come into the place where you stood. And you felt happiness because you were eager to see Him.”
That experience in the Salt Lake Temple lasted only a moment. Yet the memory of it still brings peace, joy, and quiet happiness.
I learned many lessons that day. One was that the Holy Ghost speaks in a still, small voice. I can hear Him when there is spiritual peace in my heart. He brings a feeling of happiness and assurance that I am becoming more holy. And that always brings the happiness I felt in those first moments in a temple of God.