Gospel Story Finder

When I was nineteen years old, my husband and I had our first son, Michael. At birth, Michael’s bile ducts were damaged, which meant that the bile had no way to exit his liver. Instead, the backup of bile caused extensive liver damage. His damaged liver grew to twice its normal size, encroaching on his stomach and making it difficult for him to eat. His eyes and skin slowly turned yellow. He developed abscesses of infection throughout his liver. At eight weeks of age, Michael had his first surgery to try to correct the structure of his bile ducts. Then, at nine weeks of age, Michael had another surgery.

Months went by. Our son seemed perpetually stuck in the intensive care unit, completely dependent on the miracle of modern medicine. Then came the day when specialists told us Michael wouldn’t survive much longer if he didn’t receive a liver transplant. And so our request for a transplant went out to every hospital in the United States that was doing pediatric liver transplants at the time.

By the time Michael was nine months old, his future looked bleak. We received word that no hospital would accept Michael as a patient on the transplant waiting list because his portal vein, which is a major blood vessel to the liver, was too small and was unlikely to support the blood flow needed for a new liver.

My husband and I prayed constantly, asking Heavenly Father for a miracle—and I have to say that God was good. Seemingly from out of nowhere, the transplant team at the University of Nebraska Medical Center changed their mind and agreed to take Michael as a patient, but only under one condition: we needed to move to Omaha.

We didn’t know anyone in Omaha, but again we prayed for help. And again, another miracle came. God was good. My in-laws knew someone in their ward who used to go to church with another family who, they thought, was still somewhere in Omaha. And, as it turned out, the Halls (George and Ginny) were still in Omaha. They came to the rescue, allowing me to stay with them while my husband finished his military training.

We were in Omaha just over two months when another miracle happened: Michael received a liver transplant. Yet again, God was good. Most of the first year and a half of Michael’s life was spent in the intensive care unit, and I can testify that I witnessed one miracle right after another. It was a tough time, but I could also see that during that time my family was blessed on many occasions.

Then the bottom fell out. You see, I thought our family was already enduring suffering in the valley, but I then came to realize that the valley was much deeper than I had imagined it could be. Michael caught a severe infection. At the time, he was taking immune suppression medication, which kept his immune system from attacking his new liver. The tradeoff was that his immune system wasn’t able to protect itself from other infections. I watched in horror as, within less than twenty-four hours, he went from being an active eighteen-month-old who was running around and playing to lying unresponsive in a hospital bed. His blood pressure and heart rate dropped. He went into shock. He started seizing. He quit breathing.

The physicians frantically intubated him so that a respirator could breathe for him. They desperately tried to maintain his blood pressure by infusing IV fluids as quickly as they could. The fluid eventually found its way into Michael’s lungs, which then became stiff and difficult to inflate with oxygen. To overcome this issue, the pressure was turned up on the respirator, which, in turn, caused Michael’s lungs to collapse. There was one problem after another.

Again my husband and I prayed for a miracle. This time, however, the miracle did not come as I had expected. Michael was comatose for almost six months. Every day was a horrific roller-coaster ride. One day he would be stable; the next day he would almost die.

Then Michael’s condition took a dreadful turn for the worst, and this time he continued to steadily deteriorate. The transplant team requested a family meeting. As we walked into the consultation room, I thought, “This can’t be good.”

I remember them saying that they couldn’t do anything else to save Michael’s life. The only option left was to sustain him on a new and, at the time, experimental heart and lung bypass machine called ECMO. That meant that Michael would have to endure yet another surgery. There was no guarantee that this surgery would work and that Michael would live, but he would surely die if we took no action.

My husband and I looked at each other, took a deep breath, and told the physicians that we wanted to try the surgery. Then my husband asked if we could have a quiet moment in the room with Michael before the surgical team took him to the operating room.

We shut the door to Michael’s room, and my husband and I stood on either side of Michael’s crib, looking across at each other. I took one of Michael’s hands, tenderly held it in my own, and closed my eyes as my husband offered a priesthood blessing. The blessing was the most beautiful blessing I had ever heard. My husband spoke calmly and deliberately.

I patiently waited for the part of the blessing when my husband would bless Michael with the power to overcome his illness. I had the faith that Michael would survive if my husband would just speak the words in the blessing.

But toward the end of the blessing, my husband’s voice cracked with emotion. “Michael,” he said, “as your parents, we love you very much. But we also know that your Father in Heaven loves you and wants what is best for you. Michael, if it is Heavenly Father’s will that you return to Him at this time, know that we will always love you and we will be okay. We will, in time, heal. And we will, at some point, be together again as a family.”

I started to tremble and cry uncontrollably. I opened my eyes and looked at my husband. Now, I use the word look, but it probably looked a little more like a glare. I couldn’t believe what he had said. No! It was all wrong. He was supposed to have blessed Michael to get better. My husband had blessed him wrong. I wanted to call for a do-over, but I figured that wouldn’t be appropriate. But Heavenly Father couldn’t take my only child away from me. We had survived so much against all odds. Why? Why would Heavenly Father get us this far only to call Michael home? For a fleeting moment I couldn’t help but think, “If God lets Michael die, then I will know that God is, in fact, not good.”

My husband looked at me with a sad but determined expression and said, “It’s time we turn this over to Heavenly Father and His will. We need to have the faith to let Michael go, if that’s what God wants.”

I was angry. I was sad. I wanted to scream. But I also couldn’t deny how strong the Spirit was in the room. The two of us stood in silence for a few seconds with only the sound of the heart monitor bleeping in the room.

“Okay,” I finally said. “If it’s Heavenly Father’s will, I’ll accept it.”

I remember walking with the surgical team to the end of the hall. Michael lay in his crib, surrounded by a half dozen people who pushed him in his bed with all of the life-sustaining machinery and tubes that were attached to him. My husband and I kissed Michael, told him that we loved him, and went back to the waiting room, where the surgeon would be able to find us to report on Michael’s condition after attempting the surgery.

About thirty minutes later Michael was wheeled back to the ICU, right past the waiting room where my husband and I were seated. We were confused. We had been told that the surgery would take several hours. As we stood up to follow the entourage of medical professionals pushing Michael back into the ICU, the surgeon caught us.

“I don’t know what happened,” he said, “but before we started the surgery, Michael’s condition stabilized. At this point we don’t need to resort to surgery. We’ll wait and see if he continues to stabilize.”

And he did. That day was a major turning point in Michael’s recovery. Every day, he continued to improve. He never needed the surgery, and a few months later he came home for the first time in almost a year. It was another miracle, and God was good.

This story has a good ending. Today Michael is thirty years old and happily married with an adorable son, and he is sitting with my family in the front row.

The question remains though: If Michael had died that day in the ICU, would that have meant that God was somehow missing, that God didn’t care, or that God was not good? I testify that Heavenly Father remains all powerful, all knowing, and ever present. I learned, in a very painful way, a profound lesson that day: that I needed to have faith in God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. I needed the faith to accept Heavenly Father’s will, regardless of what that entailed. And I needed the faith to maintain my testimony in times of happiness and in times of sorrow, during my time on the mountaintop and while in the valley.

Shortly after completing his missionary service in England and returning home, Brother Durrant was drafted into the Army and sent to Korea where he served for a year and a half. In this time, he rose to the rank of PFC, or Private First Class, a level just above the lowest level of enlisted personnel. I mention this not because being a PFC is a bad thing, but because it played a role in this story.

While he was there, Brother Durrant said he grew to love the Korean people, even though he did not speak their language. Since he did not speak Korean and the Korean people spoke very little English, they came up with a middle language that allowed them to communicate with each other. For example, if there was a Jeep that was running really well he might say to his Korean colleague, “this a number one Jeep” and he would say, “Ah, number one.” And if the Jeep were sputtering and not performing well, he might say, “this a number ten Jeep” and he would reply, “oh, number ten Jeep.” So they had a scale on which they ranked things: they ranked Jeeps, and men, and all sorts of things. And if something was number one, then it was the very best.

During this time of war, the Korean people would come onto the Army grounds to perform work that the Army personnel did not like to do and which the Koreans were happy to do because they were paid for it and so it worked out well for everyone. As they would come onto the grounds, there were no sidewalks to walk upon, only pathways that went from one building to another. As they would walk down these dirt paths, they often became narrow and on either side of the paths were the grass and the weeds and the rocks. Often as you approached someone coming the other direction, someone had to get off the path and stand in the weeds while the other person passed by on the path. After he had been there just a few weeks, he observed that it was the Koreans who always got off the path and the U.S. soldiers walked passed them on the path. Brother Durrant felt that this was wrong and said he made a point to get off the path and let them pass by while he stood in the weeds. It was a little thing, but he felt good in doing it and he had to be quick to get off the path or they would beat him to it. As he did this, he would smile and say a simple Korean greeting as they passed by him. When he did this, they would look at him, smile, repeat the greeting he had given them, and then look again at him as they were walking away. Though it was not a big deal, they seemed to be impressed with his efforts to get off the path and to let them stay out of the weeds.

During the time of the Korean War, Christianity had only recently been introduced to the people of Korea. Sometimes the people would become confused with what the Bible said and the way the Christian soldiers conducted themselves. Their actions and behaviors did not clearly reflect the teachings from the Bible.

The heart of this story was an experience that Brother Durrant had one evening when he had been in Korea for just over a year. On this particular night, he went to get dinner and he was one of the last soldiers to arrive. In the Army, when you go to the mess-hall for your meals you stand in a line with the other soldiers to get your food and if you are the last person to get in line, you could have a very long wait. Since the line was very long and he knew it would be quite a while before he could get his dinner, he decided to go sit with five of his friends, who already had their food, and visit with them while he waited for the line to go down. Had he been a higher rank than PFC, a Korean waiter would have gone through the line for him and brought him his food and he could have avoided the lines altogether. But since he was a Private First Class, this did not happen for him and so he sat and visited with his friends and waited. While he was seated and talking with his friends, not aware of what was going on around him, he suddenly felt someone standing at his side. He looked up and there was a Korean man, about 30 years old, working as a waiter in the mess-hall, standing next to him with a beautiful tray of food. The waiter was about to put the tray down in front of him and Brother Durrant attempted to stop him, feeling that the waiter had made an obvious mistake. But the man gently pushed the tray in front of him and said as he looked down at him, “I serve you, you a number one Christian.” Brother Durrant said nothing at that moment, but said that he always remembered this as the greatest compliment that anyone ever paid to him: “I serve you, you a number one Christian.”

Harry was fighting in a torrent of rain and blood one night on New Guinea during World War II. Shrapnel from enemy mortar shells ripped his stomach apart, and he lay dying in a muddy foxhole. As he pled with God to send a rescue crew, he closed his eyes and a dreamlike picture of his sweetheart flooded his mind’s eye. The image of returning to her and raising a family together gave him the will to live until a British officer named Abel scooped him onto a stretcher. Harry returned home to marry the girl of his dream, and soon they joined the Church. Fifty years later, their posterity is among the strength of the Australia Devonport Stake. Harry was kept alive—physically and spiritually—by his dream of family love.

When I was 15 years old, my parents were hit by a drunk driver on their way to the Los Angeles California Temple.
When my brothers and I arrived at the hospital, we were informed that my dad had already passed away and that my mom had suffered massive traumatic injuries.
My mom ended up surviving, but her life was nothing like the one she had before. After the accident, she was no longer able to move, speak, eat, or drink. For the next 18 years until her passing, she lay in a hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, or propped up in a wheelchair.
For years, I thought it was my unrighteousness that had caused my parents’ accident. I had the mistaken belief that I had done something wrong to incur the displeasure of a wrathful God upon me. I thought that no matter how hard I tried, God was against me, and I was doomed to a constant state of misery.
That was the story I told myself, and it was extremely destructive. That narrative colored the way I viewed everything in life.
Like Laman and Lemuel, I also told myself a false narrative for a long time. I believed I had been wronged and robbed, mainly by God. I had sought my whole life to do the right things and felt I was being presented with one trial after another. I too felt angry.
I lived with this perspective until a friend explained to me that we all suffer and said that I should consider how I am labeling my suffering.
My first impression was, How dare he? How could he understand what I had been through?
But then my thoughts slowly changed, and I felt embarrassed at the rage I felt as I pondered.
I wondered: Do I really think Heavenly Father is punishing me? Do I think everything in life is unfair? Do I only focus on my suffering and nothing else? Do I see the world like Laman and Lemuel did?
Hoping to better understand my mindset and the narrative I had been telling myself, I started writing. I wrote and rewrote my life story, exploring different life choices to see what might have happened if the accident that transformed my life hadn’t occurred.
As I looked back on my life and considered alternative paths, I realized that if I had been able to pursue my own interests, I likely would’ve gone down some wrong paths and may not have gained the strong testimony that I have today. As extremely hard as it was to go through the experiences I did, I wouldn’t have gained the strength, courage, and faith in Jesus Christ that those years of hardship had developed.
Due to my parents’ accident, I was forced to make critical, life-altering decisions at a young age that caused me to stay true to Heavenly Father. And though I chose Him over and over again, I was furious about it because I thought He was being unfair and punishing me.
However, after 20 years, when I decided to stop kicking and screaming and told myself a new story, I started viewing myself through the eyes of a loving Heavenly Father. I realized Heavenly Father would guide me in and through tragedy. Knowing this gave me great hope and confidence in Him and how I could live my life. If I was on Heavenly Father’s side, then who could be against me? (see Romans 8:31). With this perspective in mind, I started to make changes, and my life got infinitely better in numerous ways—and with surprising speed:
I began to love, support, and care for myself as a loving parent would.
I made it a daily practice to exercise, journal, and immerse myself in the scriptures.
I sought meaningful relationships that brought connection and community into my life.
I met with a therapist to better understand myself and the consequences of my choices.
I developed my talents and pursued my goals.
I served others and attended the temple often.
I stopped blaming God and others for the circumstances of my life and started taking responsibility for them.
I woke up each morning excited to start the day; life became joyful.
I have experienced change firsthand through the actions I’ve taken. As I have relied on the Savior, He has helped bring true joy into my life.

The final miles of a 25-mile bicycle ride can be grueling. But for 120 young people from the Beaverton Oregon Stake the miles were pleasant for two different reasons: (1) their course had been planned so that the last five miles meandered along the scenic banks of the Willamette River in Champoeg State Park near Portland, and (2) they knew that each mile was furthering their goal of helping a family with 13 developmentally disabled adopted or foster children.
The service project was coordinated by youth chairmen Lee Oakley and Julie Haddon of the sponsoring Tigard First and Second wards. Enough money was raised (through pledges from sponsors) to help Mr. and Mrs. Floyd Grisham and their daughter, Jacqueline, to convert their garage into a playroom for the 13 disabled children who share their home with them.
Youths from the Gabriel Park, Mountain View, Tualatin Valley and West Hills wards, as well as from the Tigard wards, cycled through level farmland for 20 miles before reaching the park. Beautiful weather; a lunch of tacos, soft drinks and ice cream; and a chance to meet the Grisham family and talk with them at the end of the ride helped ease any muscles strained during the ride.
The young Latter-day Saints patterned this service project after a walk-a-thon held the year before and based it on the following criteria: the service should help someone residing within stake boundaries; it should include direct contact with those they were helping; and it should include people who were not members of the Church. The choice of the bike-a-thon for the Grisham family met all the requirements, since the Grishams are not members of the Church. Each participant received a certificate for his service.

When the war was almost over, the four other trainers and I received orders to go to Berlin. Hitler was there at that time, and it was the last phase of the war. The Russians were advancing, and the British and Americans were already very close to where I was.
We said we would go to Berlin, but I had prayed about it already, and I had the feeling that I should go home. We knew there was no use in going to Berlin because the war was lost. “Günther,” I said to my best friend, “I am not going. I am going home.”
“I’ll join you,” he decided. I asked him about his hasty decision and he said, “I have watched you all the time. I have noticed that you are quite religious, and I have admired you. I trust in your decisions because I think they are made with some guidance from above.”
The other three trainers decided to go with us, and the five of us left, supposedly for Berlin. As soon as we got out of sight, we hurried into the forest and changed into the civilian clothes we had with us.
The Americans had already arrived and were on the main roads next to the forest. We stayed way up on the peak of the mountain because there we were still quite safe. Our trip home would take us two to three weeks. We slept in the forest—five of us under one blanket—and had to rotate positions every hour because the two on the ends would get so cold. The food we took with us lasted three days. The rest of the time we ate berries we picked in the forest, and once in a while German families gave us food.

“When I was eleven, the Fourth of July was a real big event in Spanish Fork. World War II had begun, and the whole town was having a parade to send off the men who were leaving to serve in the war. The night before the Fourth I went outside to play. I sat on the porch, and my mother said, ‘You’re not going to go anywhere, are you?’ I said, ‘No, I’ll stay here.’
“Then my friend Mark came across the street and said, ‘I have a big box of firecrackers. Let’s go up to Janet’s and show the girls how to light them!’ I forgot that my mother had asked me to stay home. The only thought in my mind was to go up to Janet’s and light some firecrackers.
“We lighted all the firecrackers that would light, and the remainder we put in a cardboard box and set on fire. Mark and I were both burned in the resulting explosion. In fact, our faces, chests, hands, and arms were burned so severely that it didn’t look like we were going to make it.
“Sister Hill, Janet’s mother, came out when she heard the explosion, and she saw five kids on fire. Somehow the fires were put out, and she calmly took us into the house, knelt us down in the living room, and offered a prayer. Then she called the doctor, and we went down to Dr. Moody’s office.
“He operated on my face to put it back together. Before he started, I asked my father to give me a blessing. Dr. Moody was also an elder, so the two of them administered to me. My father said in the blessing that if I would have faith, the Lord would make me well. You have to remember that at that time my father was an alcoholic. But when he said that the Lord would make me well, I knew it was true.
“Then Dr. Moody began to work on me. I didn’t have any anesthetic because they were afraid of shock. into my mind came the words of one of my mother’s favorite hymns:
O how praying rests the weary!
Prayer will change the night to day;
So when life gets dark and dreary,
Don’t forget to pray.
(Hymns, no. 31.)
“I couldn’t speak, but I could hum. For the whole two and a half to three hours while the doctor was trying to fix my face, I hummed that hymn. When he was finished with me, I looked just like a mummy. My face and arms were all wrapped up with bandages. It appeared that I had lost the sight of one eye and severely damaged the other. My hands were as black as shoe leather, and they were hard and crinkled.
“All five of us were healed and back in school in the fall. Janet had a severely damaged finger, Mark had burns on his face, as I did, and on his arms, but we were all back in school. Someone in the ward had placed our names on the prayer roll in the temple. To Mother that was tantamount to saying, ‘Don’t worry, if your names are on the prayer roll in the temple, you can just count on being healed.’ And we were.”

When the full-time missionaries came to my home in France to do a service project, my parents were not active members of the Church, and I hadn’t been baptized. Soon the missionaries taught me the gospel, which I loved. And soon my parents returned to church.
“Who’s going to baptize you?” the missionaries asked me.
“My father,” I replied.
My father, who was from Italy, was a good man. He taught me to see people as Jesus would see them. Sadly, he died a few weeks before my baptism.
Later, when I received my mission call, I was so excited that I asked my mother to open it.
“You’re going to be happy,” she said, crying. “You’re going to your father’s home country!”
I had dreamt of serving in Italy. Missions are about serving people, not about serving in areas. But I prayed that I would serve in Italy, specifically the city of Gaeta, where my father’s ancestors had lived since the 10th century.
After serving in Rome and Sicily, I received the glad news that I was being transferred to the area that included Gaeta. Before that transfer in early 2023, my companion and great friend Elder Jack Beck gave me a gift I will never forget. Elder Beck is a talented artist. From a small picture I had of my father, Elder Beck drew a beautiful portrait of him.
I looked at that portrait every day during personal study. It gave me strength to share the gospel.
As soon as I was assigned to Gaeta, I sought out my relatives. When I showed my father’s older brother the portrait, he wept. He hadn’t seen his brother for years and had no pictures of him.
I taught my uncle that one day he would see his brother again—not in a portrait but in person. I taught him that through the gospel, he could live with his brother again in love and peace with the Savior.
I saw great miracles in Gaeta as I shared with family members the good news that because Jesus Christ overcame death, loss of loved ones is only temporary (see Mosiah 16:8). I testify that through His atoning sacrifice, the Savior has made it possible for our families to be gathered eternally.

As a brand-new chemistry graduate student at the University of California, San Diego, my faculty advisor, Dr. Charlie Perrin, gave me the relatively easy task of replicating the experiments of a student who was leaving our lab. The results from that project were going to be published in the Journal of the American Chemical Society, which is a top journal in my field.

When I finished the experiments, my results were the opposite of the original findings. I repeated the experiments several times, but each time the results didn’t match. I began to panic. My failure to replicate felt like evidence that I was terrible in the lab. I took my results to my advisor, and he was surprised. He suggested a series of modified molecules on which I could repeat similar experiments.

I worked hard. I purified materials. I read literature techniques. I did a mountain of experiments. I talked about ideas with my favorite friend in chemistry, Julie, and at the end of a long day I would come home and worry out loud to my husband, Dan. In the end, what we learned is that the original results were inaccurate. Eventually we published a paper in the same journal, retracting the first claims and proposing a new conclusion. In fact, the title changed from the original “Symmetries of Hydrogen Bonds” to “Asymmetry of Hydrogen Bonds.”

Charlie Perrin became one of my heroes. He valued learning truth over protecting his reputation. Every time I entered his office with new ideas or new results, he welcomed them. He felt that even an unexpected or “wrong” result taught us something.

I learned so much from this experience—including that ice cream soothes my soul after a long day—that has shaped me over the years. I learned that experiments help us gain truth, that we can become stronger from struggles, that meaningful results require a lot of time and effort, and that working with others is essential.

It was Saturday night, and we were bored, so my brother and I decided to go pick up a movie. As I was browsing through an aisle in the electronics department, my brother pointed to a movie and told me his friend had really liked it. I read the description on both the back and front covers. It looked innocent enough, so I told him to go ahead and purchase it.
When we came home with the movie, I opened the case and went to turn the movie on. As I did, I picked up the case, turned it over, and was shocked to find—as I had failed to notice at the store—that the movie was rated R. My mother came in a few seconds later to call us together for family prayer.
During the prayer, my mind was racked with the decision of watching the movie or putting it away. My brother had just spent all this money on the movie, and I had already opened the case, thus eliminating the possibility of returning it! Why hadn’t I checked the rating? I couldn’t possibly tell him he had just wasted his money and I was not going to watch the movie. Maybe I could watch it once and never again.
Suddenly, I was reminded of an upcoming youth temple trip. I knew what I needed to do—keep the standards and be worthy to attend the temple. I could not willingly disobey the words of the prophets. I told my mom and brother of my dilemma and surprisingly, my brother said it was fine to get rid of the movie and would not ask me to pay him back for it. I am glad I made the right choice, and I am thankful that I upheld the Lord’s standards.

I was worried. My Primary teacher had asked me to give a talk the next week in sharing time. “You could bear your testimony about prayer,” she had said. We had just talked about prayer in our class.
I had prayed many times. I always said my own prayers, and I often prayed during family prayer. I had prayed for blessings on the food many times too, and I had prayed in Primary before. But now I wasn’t sure I had a testimony of prayer or if I understood how prayer could help me. “Does someone really hear me when I pray?” I wondered.
I went to the kitchen, where my mother was getting dinner ready.
“Mama,” I said, “how can I bear my testimony of prayer when I’m not sure I have a testimony of it?”
My mother put her arm around me. “Why don’t you give a lesson about prayer in family home evening tomorrow, and we’ll talk about it together,” she said.
My mother helped me find stories and conference talks about prayer. Then I began to prepare for family home evening and for my Primary talk.
When I gave the lesson on Monday, my mother and father told me how prayer had helped them. I gave my Primary talk the next Sunday too, but I didn’t feel much different. I still wondered if I had a testimony of prayer. I prayed sincerely about my doubts, but the answer didn’t come right away.
One day my father came home after looking for work all day with no success. He was very sad. He had been out of work for many weeks. I ran to him and hugged him, as I always did.
“Don’t be sad, Papa,” I said. Then suddenly I felt something in my heart. “We need to pray,” I said.
“Right now?” my father asked.
“Yes, right now,” I said. “I believe Heavenly Father will hear us.”
We knelt together and prayed, asking Heavenly Father to comfort us.
After the prayer we read the scriptures, as we did each night, and then sat together and talked. I noticed that little by little our sadness was replaced with the happiness we always had in our home. I felt different—as though we were safe and protected, and I knew that everything would be all right. It was a wonderful feeling.
Mama noticed it too. “Can you feel it, Lucas?” she asked quietly. “The Holy Ghost is comforting us, helping us know that we are not alone.”
“Yes, I feel it,” I said. I knew that Heavenly Father heard our prayer.
It was a night that I will never forget. Now I have my own testimony of the power of prayer.

I’ll tell you another little story about a young man who called me one day. You may have heard me tell this. He said, “Is this Bishop Richards?”
I said, “Yes, sir.”
“Well,” he said, “I’m in trouble.”
“What’s your trouble?” I said.
He said, “I’ve been keeping company with a girl for three years, and she heard you talk the other night and now she won’t go out with me any more.”
“Why won’t she?”
“Because I’m not active in the Church.”
I said, “Good for her. I’m glad to know that there’s at least one girl in Israel who’ll listen to an old man like me. Now,” I said, “what are you going to do about it?”
He said, “What can I do?”
“Get active in the Church,” I said, “and then go back.”
“How can I?” he said.
I said, “You go talk to your bishop. If he doesn’t help you, you come back to me and I will.” He hasn’t come back.
I tell you, brothers and sisters, this, we are told in the Book of Mormon, is the time to prepare ourselves to meet the Lord, and if we’re going to do that we’ve got to set our goals and build upon solid foundations. It’s a time to work and not just to sit around and do nothing.

On one occasion I was organizing a new stake on Upolu Island in Samoa. As is customary, we were conducting interviews with local priesthood leaders, asking each to suggest a few names of brethren of stature to be considered for a call.
One dignified branch president had walked from the other side of the island. He stood before us in a white shirt and tie, with a lavalava, or skirt, tied about his waist. He wore no shoes; he had never owned shoes.
I asked for names. He gave but one: “Bishop Iono will be our stake president.” He was right, for that had already been revealed to me. But I did not feel he should make the announcement.
So I asked for other names, for we had counselors and others to call as well. He replied, holding up his finger, “Just one name.” “But,” I said, “suppose he could not serve, would you not like to name others?” This humble priesthood president then asked me a question, “Brother Packer, are you asking me to go against the witness of the Spirit?”
How marvelous! This wonderful man had reminded me that each member of the Church, in prayer, can receive confirmation that the fifth article of faith has been honored.
“We believe that a man [and this applies to sisters as well] must be called of God, by prophecy, and by the laying on of hands by those who are in authority, to preach the Gospel and administer in the ordinances thereof.”

I have one final experience to share that is very recent and very tender. A few weeks ago, two members of our Provo young single adult ward lost their lives in a tragic car accident. These young women and their two other roommates were a tightknit group. Naturally, the surviving roommates were extremely shaken and mourned the loss of their friends. Upon learning of the deaths, the father of one of the surviving roommates immediately packed a bag and drove eight hours through the middle of the night to reach his daughter. He could have waited for daylight to leave, but he knew what she needed and ran to her as fast as he could.

This father emulated the very way that Christ succors us. Jesus Christ knows us. He knows what we need, and He comes rushing to rescue us in all circumstances. He sends friends, family, ward members, leaders, and special sacred experiences to help us know that He is near and that He loves us perfectly.

I think possibly I have told this experience that I had myself. I saw a young man when I was stake president; he was a very able young man; he had been trained in agriculture, and we needed an agricultural adviser in our welfare committee. He wasn’t active in the Church. I knew that he wasn’t keeping the Word of Wisdom, but I called and asked him to go to lunch with me one day; and as we sat and talked, I told him what I wanted of him. I said, “You are the best prepared, able young man to do this job. We need you, and you need activity.”
We talked for some time, and he said, “Well, President Tanner, you know that I don’t keep the Word of Wisdom.”
I said, “Well, you can, can’t you?” Probably that wasn’t fair.
And he said, “President, that is a different approach. My bishop came to me last month and asked me if I would take a job in the ward. I told him that I wasn’t keeping the Word of Wisdom. And he said, ‘Well, we will get somebody else.’”
So I talked with him for a little while longer, and I said, “Listen, brother, you need activity in the Church, but we need you, we really need you.”
After we had talked a little while, he said, “Do you mean that if I took a position like this I couldn’t even have a cup of coffee?”
I said, “Yes, that is exactly what I mean. Any leader must be a leader, and you must be an example. If you were taken into a stake committee, we would expect you to live the gospel the way a man should live it.”
He said, “Well, then, I shall have to think it over.”
I said, “You think it over. But remember, you need activity, and we need you.”
He said, “Well, I will let you know.”
He didn’t call me the next day. He didn’t call me the next day, and he didn’t call me the next day, and he didn’t call me the next day—and he didn’t call me the sixth day. And I thought, well, he doesn’t want to admit that he can’t keep the Word of Wisdom.
On the eighth day he called me. He said, “President Tanner, do you still want me to do that job?”
I said, “Yes, that is the reason I called you and talked to you about it the other day.”
He said, “Then I will do it, and on your terms.”
And he did it, and he did it on my terms. He was a single man, but he was thirty-some years of age. He came into activity, and there was a young woman who was stake president of the Mutual, a very fine young woman, and he met her and became very well acquainted with her and fell in love with her and married her.
And then he became a bishop and then he became a high councilor and then he became a member of the stake presidency. You know, it has given me a great deal of satisfaction to know that that young man became active, and his family is active. He has children now that are active.

I vividly remember my last night in the missionary training center. Six of us were leaving the next morning for Guatemala and El Salvador. Even though my experience at the MTC had gone well, that night I let fear get hold of me. “What if I don’t understand what the people are saying?” I thought. “What if I can’t say the words I need to say when the time comes to share what I feel?”
Looking up at the ceiling from my bunk bed, I received the impression that I needed to read from the Book of Mormon, specifically from Moroni 8. A little more than 14 months earlier I had joined the Church. As I had studied with the missionaries, one of the teachings that made a significant impression on me was that little children are innocent and not born in sin. I turned to Moroni 8:11, where Mormon clearly states this principle.
Reading the words that had helped me realize the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon before my baptism calmed me once again. Then I read on, and something truly inspiring happened. Mormon’s words in Moroni 8:16–17 spoke directly to me:
“Behold, I speak with boldness, having authority from God; and I fear not what man can do; for perfect love casteth out all fear. And I am filled with charity, which is everlasting love.”
The answer to my fears was simple: Love the people and your fear will go away! With that realization, my confidence was rekindled. I boarded the plane the next morning with anticipation. And when I arrived, I found that Mormon’s words had taught me a true gospel principle that night. As I began to meet people for the first time, I would say in my heart, “I love you and I care about you.” As I felt compassion for them, any feelings of fear would vanish and be replaced by charity and kindness.
That doesn’t mean that there weren’t times when I didn’t understand the language. (Once I accidentally referred to someone we were teaching as a lizard!) But people would simply laugh and help me to know what to say the next time. They also showed charity and kindness, and that made it easier for me to find the right way to share the feelings of my heart about the Savior, about the Restoration, and about the Church.
How grateful I am for the message I received by reading in the Book of Mormon that night. I found that, indeed, perfect love does cast out fear. (See also 1 John 4:18.)

Another young man lived on the outskirts of a large metropolitan area. There were no lights or water in the thin-walled, modest structure that served both as a home and a small shop. After his family’s conversion he attended seminary and developed an insatiable desire to learn. With great effort he entered the university, working part-time to buy books as well as to help support the family. When the desire to go on a mission became overwhelming, he had to double his efforts to save money for his mission. So he carried his books under one arm and his bag of wash rags, wax, and sponges in the other. Between classes he would go out and wash cars, then return for another class. The Lord blessed him with work. He multiplied his income until his leaders felt he had made the necessary sacrifice to help sustain himself.

There are scores of others, each one a lesson to all in the principle of obedience and sacrifice. A young lady with a great desire to fill a mission was counseled to buy ingredients, make cookies, and sell them at school during lunchtime. She did so. Then she bought more flour, baked more cookies, and continued this process for weeks, making a small amount of money each day to help toward her mission.

Are there not thousands of you listening today who are ready to match these two precious years of a young man’s life with sufficient additional funds from your abundance so that he can have the privilege of service? In this way, could you not become “nursing fathers and mothers” to these children of promise?

I call this matter to your attention for two reasons: First, time is of the essence! We need to get moving with the things of real import. The world must hear the gospel. Paul asks: “How shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher? and how shall they preach, except they be sent?” (Rom. 10:14–15.) And I ask, how shall they be sent today without sufficient means?

The second reason is the Lord counsels rather specifically about the wise use of property. “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.” (Matt. 6:33.)

Jacob counsels:
“Think of your brethren like unto yourselves, and be familiar with all and free with your substance, that they may be rich like unto you.
“But before ye seek for riches, seek ye for the kingdom of God.
“And after ye have obtained a hope in Christ ye shall obtain riches … to clothe the naked, and to feed the hungry, and to liberate the captive, and administer relief to the sick and the afflicted.” (Jacob 2:17–19.)

“When I was growing up, I had a great bishop, Bishop William F. Perschon of the Fourth Ward, one of the oldest wards in Salt Lake City. My twelfth birthday fell on a Sunday, and Bishop Perschon called me to the stand during sacrament meeting and told the congregation that I had been interviewed and was worthy to be ordained a deacon. After I was sustained, he announced, ‘We’d like to ordain him right now.’ He got a chair, and the stake president, who was there, ordained me a deacon in front of the whole ward!”

Rex watched the dust cloud around his bare feet as he walked up the path from the river in the summer sunshine. As he came within view of the farmhouse, he saw his mother tending the vegetable garden out back. She was a hard worker; her pantry was filled with canned beans, beets, tomatoes, and sweet fruit for the winter. She sewed and baked and took care of her family, but when she had a moment to spare, she spent it on her little flower garden in the front yard.
It wasn’t much to look at. With the list of chores she tackled each day, it was difficult to find time to weed and water her flower patch. Each year when the seed catalog came with the mail, she spent a week’s worth of evenings sitting by the fire, carefully turning through the pages to find just the right seeds for the coming year.
Suddenly, something flapping in the front yard caught Rex’s attention. His mother jumped up from the vegetable patch and ran toward her flowers. “Scat! Get out of here, you old turkeys!” There, in her flower garden, a flock of turkeys made a mess of her summer efforts. All the stems had been snapped, the flowers ruined.
Rex ran to help his mother, shooing the flock back to Mr. Lukin’s farm. Like many of the local farmers, Mr. Lukin had recently traded in his hens for a pack of turkeys. But the turkeys’ wings were stronger than hens’ wings, and they had escaped.
“Get on home!” Rex’s mother yelled, her face red. The turkeys waddled single file, demolishing every plant in their path. “Rex, chase those turkeys back where they belong.” She looked sadly at the trampled flowers.
Rex quickly herded the turkeys back down the road, yelling and flapping his arms to spur them on. As the turkeys entered Mr. Lukin’s yard, Rex decided to make one last attempt to make them stay. Looking down, he grabbed a rock lying on the ground. He yelled and threw the rock with all his might, intending to give them a good scare.
Thunk. Rex watched with horror as the largest of Mr. Lukin’s turkeys toppled over. Oh no. Thoughts of old Mr. Lukin raced through Rex’s mind. The man had never been kind to Rex or his brothers. Walking over to the turkey, Rex gave the bird a nudge with his foot, hoping for some sign of life. Nothing—the bird was dead.
What was he going to do? Mr. Lukin would be furious. Looking around, he realized no one had seen him throw the rock. No one would ever know what had happened. Maybe Mr. Lukin would think the bird had died of old age or eaten something bad. Maybe Mr. Lukin wouldn’t even notice the bird was gone. Without another thought, Rex grabbed the turkey and hid it in the bushes. He wouldn’t say a word. No one would ever know. He turned and ran home as fast as he could, fueled by uncertainty and guilt.
His mother praised him for his quick work with the turkeys, unaware of the turmoil in Rex’s belly. How could he tell her what he had done? What would she think of him? As the sickness welled inside him, tears filled his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” his mother asked.
He ran to her arms, sobbing as he unloaded the whole story, complete with his fears of Mr. Lukin’s anger. Finally, as his sobs quieted, she pulled back to look at him. “Rex, take the bird to Mr. Lukin. If you tell him what happened—”
“Oh no! I couldn’t do that!” Rex panicked as he imagined Mr. Lukin’s angry response.
“Rex, believe me,” his mother said. “You will never have peace if you don’t face him and confess. Mr. Lukin deserves to hear the truth.”
“Mr. Lukin will be so mad! He’s mean and he’ll yell at me.” Rex’s eyes filled with fresh tears as he looked at his mother’s tender face. Then he thought of Heavenly Father. Rex realized Heavenly Father expected him to tell the truth.
Finally, looking down, Rex asked quietly, “Will you go with me?”
The walk to Mr. Lukin’s house was torture. Leaving his mother in the yard, Rex stepped to the front porch with the dead turkey. He cautiously knocked, praying Mr. Lukin wouldn’t answer. The door opened.
“Hi, Mr. Lukin.” Rex handed him the bird. “He dug in Mama’s flower beds and I had to chase him out. I threw a rock and he fell. I … I guess I killed him. I’m sorry! Oh, please don’t be mad, Mr. Lukin!” Rex looked at the ground, too frightened to watch the reaction.
There was a moment’s pause, and then Mr. Lukin spoke. “That’s all right, that’s all right. We’ll eat him for dinner today.” A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.
Rex couldn’t believe what he had heard. As he walked home with his mother, he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He realized that doing the right thing was truly easier in the end. Facing his consequences had been far less painful than living with the guilt.

Grace, a widow with short brown hair and shining eyes, was first. Her day hadn’t gone exactly as planned, she told us. She awoke with a terrible head cold—the first time in more than three years she had been ill. In revising her plans for the day, she decided to put together a scrapbook about her mother’s life, something she had been thinking of doing for a long time. Grace asked her sister to help, and they worked together to reconstruct their mother’s life story in pictures and words. It took most of the day, but the end result was a cherished scrapbook.
Grace found that her activities on that day opened up a new avenue to her. Her patriarchal blessing had said that she would work on her family history. “Because I didn’t understand family history, I just couldn’t get really interested in it,” she confessed. “But after doing my mother’s book, I decided to do one about my husband who died recently.”
She has since compiled histories of her husband, her son, and her daughter. “By cleaning out all the boxes of treasures and mementos I had been storing for years, I’ve found enough information to do the temple work for many of my ancestors,” she says. “I can see my work is just beginning. And I’m happy to do it.”