Gospel Story Finder

As a member of the Church, you can expect that the full-time or the ward or branch missionaries will ask for the opportunity to help you make a list of people with whom you could share the gospel. The missionaries may suggest you think of relatives, neighbors, and acquaintances. They may ask you to set a date by which you will try to have the person or family prepared to be taught by the missionaries. I’ve had that experience. Because we in our family accepted that invitation from the missionaries, I was blessed to perform the baptism of a widow in her 80s, taught by sister missionaries.

When I placed my hands on her head to confirm her a member of the Church, I felt impressed to say that her choice to be baptized would bless generations of her family, after and before her. Even after she passed away, I was able to be in the temple with her son as he was sealed to her.

In 1997 my husband was called to preside over the England London South Mission; we began our missionary service in July. Many things were new to me. Embarking on our first round of zone conferences, I hoped to get to know our missionaries, and I hoped they would get to know me. July 11 found us on the stand in the Maidstone stake center chapel for a conference with 75 missionaries.
As we sang the opening hymn, I was suddenly overcome with nausea and dizziness. I turned to my husband and told him I was sick. My husband, an ear doctor, noticed an abnormal jerking in my eyes. He quickly summoned two missionaries to help me out of the meeting and into a classroom. What an awful introduction! Becoming sicker by the minute, I received a priesthood blessing from my husband and a faithful missionary and was then taken to the mission home. Every bump in the road and motion of the car worsened the queasiness and vertigo I felt. Soon I had completely lost my sense of balance and could no longer hear in one ear. Medical tests indicated a probable inner ear blood clot and the possibility of never regaining my balance or the hearing in my right ear.
I was scared, worried, and angry. While I believed my husband and I had been called of God, I wondered, “How can I assist the Lord in this great work if I cannot hear or even walk?” With no other family members or close friends to turn to for help, I felt completely alone. I needed a miracle. Believing I had done God’s will in accepting callings and trying to do what was right, I pleaded with Him to make me well. I was sure I had sufficient faith for a miracle.
With treatment, my balance gradually improved. But the hearing in my right ear did not return, leaving me deaf in that ear. This made me feel more discouraged. Why me? I was serving a mission for three years! Did I deserve this? Unlike Joseph, I did not view this affliction as an opportunity for good. I was more like Joseph’s brothers who, upon finding their money in their grain sacks and fearing an evil stratagem, wondered, “What is this that God hath done unto us?” (Gen. 42:28).
I had forgotten that the same Lord who can turn water into wine can make our weak things strong (see Ether 12:27), that “all things wherewith you have been afflicted shall work together for your good, and to my name’s glory” (D&C 98:3).
Nine years later, with my own deeper perspective, I realize that countless blessings have come from those afflictions in England. For example, like Joseph of old, I was imprisoned—not by bars but by vertigo—in a land far from the help of my extended family. But just as Joseph found support from friends, I found support from my fellow missionaries. Senior couples whom we had barely met came to the mission home and assisted me with my responsibilities to greet arriving missionaries and bid farewell to those departing.
When you hear with only one ear, understanding others when they speak can be extremely difficult, especially if they are on your bad-ear side. By necessity I have become a better listener as I focus more directly on those speaking to me. Looking directly at them helps me better grasp what they are saying and sense what they are feeling.
Partially losing my hearing has helped me develop patience for others, especially those with disabilities. It has helped me find faith to accept affliction. It has given me clarity to realize that instant, miraculous cures are not always the Lord’s will. In fact, sometimes just the opposite is true.
Would I want to go through this experience again? No. Yet has my soul been stretched and expanded from this and other challenges like it? Absolutely. Of course, while the growth has come, my hearing has not; the residue of affliction often remains. What then?
In February 2002 I was sitting across the desk from President Gordon B. Hinckley. He asked, “Bonnie, how is your health?” I answered that my health was fine, although I could not hear in my right ear because I had lost that hearing in the mission field. He then asked, “How is the hearing in your other ear?” “Fine,” I said. “Well, then,” he replied, “just turn your head.” He then proceeded to issue my current call. President Hinckley understands the principle of doing the best with what we have and making adjustments when we need to compensate.
While afflictions are never easy, all of them can give us experience and can be for our good (see D&C 122:7). To grasp those blessings, we might need to turn our heads, lean a little closer, or listen a little better. Yet in those small, humble efforts, we will find that His grace is sufficient (see Ether 12:27).

Years later I started visiting many churches, but I never felt at home. One day I returned home from work, and my landlady told me that my wife and I must move out by the next day. I could not think of any wrongdoing or problems that would cause her to ask us to leave.
I went to a friend’s house to ask for help in quickly finding a new apartment, and there I met the missionaries. They introduced themselves and said they could answer my questions at the end of the lesson. As they taught about the Prophet Joseph Smith and the Restoration of the gospel, I thought about how I had moved from one church to another without finding the truth. I made an appointment with the missionaries, and they taught my wife and me. Soon we were baptized and confirmed.

I have a friend like you. More than forty years ago we were in the mission field together. In the years that followed he went off to war. In his loneliness he picked up with careless companions. He married out of the Church. He followed habits which had made him feel he would not be welcomed. He moved from one part of the country to another. His identity was lost.
One Sunday I found myself in a California city for a stake conference. My name and picture had been in the local newspaper. The phone rang at the stake center as the stake president and I entered the building that morning. The call was for me, and the caller identified himself. He wanted to see me. I excused myself from the meeting I was to have held early that morning and asked the stake president to carry on with it. I had something more important to do.
He came, this friend of mine, timidly and somewhat fearfully. He had been away for a long time. We embraced as brothers long separated. At first the conversation was awkward, but it soon warmed as we discussed together days spent in England many years ago. There were tears in the eyes of this strong man as he spoke of the Church of which he had once been so effective a part, and then told of the long, empty years that had followed. He dwelt upon them as a man speaks of nightmares. When he had described those wasted years, we talked of his returning. He thought it would be difficult, that it would be embarrassing, but he agreed to try.
I had a letter from him not long ago. He said, “I’m back. I’m back, and how wonderful it feels to be home again.”

Aunt Jennie gave me a scrapbook for my birthday. The cover is red with “My Book of Remembrance” written on the front. The pages inside are thick and gray.
I decided to put the supplies I need to work on my scrapbook in a box. I put in markers, scissors, glue, and tape.
Mom is helping me fill my book with things about me.
On the first page I glued a picture of me, and I wrote my name below it. Then I wrote, “My eyes are green. My hair is brown. I am six years old.”
On the next page I glued a special letter Grandma sent me. It is the first letter I ever received.
Last month I made a card for my dad. I colored purple flowers all around it. Dad said I could glue it in my book.
On another page I drew a picture of my mom, dad, brother, our pet cat, and me. I added a photo of the whole family and wrote, “We are a family.”
Mom helped me find a picture of the temple to glue in my book. I want to remember that we can be together forever.
I drew a picture of my house and the tree I like to climb. I also wrote my address and phone number.
If you read my book of remembrance, you will learn lots of things about me. You can fill a book with things about you too. When people read it, they will learn about your history!

Prodi sat up in bed with a jolt. His heart was beating fast.
Rain pattered on the roof as he sat in the darkness. He could hear water dripping from the African fig tree outside his window, and the air felt sticky and warm. Prodi took a deep breath and tried to relax. It was just a dream.
He crawled out of bed and peeked into his parents’ room. Mama and Papa were sleeping peacefully. His little sister, Célia, was curled up in her bed too. Everything was OK. His family was safe.
Prodi climbed back into bed and tried to go back to sleep. He tossed and turned, then tossed and turned some more. He knew his dream wasn’t real, but it had been so scary! Even though he was tired, he was afraid to fall asleep again. What if he had another nightmare?
Prodi lay on his back and looked at the ceiling. He tried to think of happy thoughts. “Heavenly Father, are you really there? And do you hear and answer every child’s prayer?” A wave of warmth came over Prodi as he thought of the words to his favorite Primary song. Sister Kioska had taught them that Heavenly Father was always watching over them. They could pray to Him anytime, anywhere.
Prodi knew what to do. He got out of bed and knelt down to pray.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” he prayed, “I’m really scared. Please keep my family safe. And please help me to go to sleep and not have any more bad dreams.”
Prodi finished his prayer and climbed back in bed. His body relaxed, and his mind felt peaceful. Soon he was asleep.
When morning came, Prodi woke up to the warm sun shining through the window. He could hear pots clanging in the kitchen and got up to find Mama. Célia was at the table eating leftover cassava. Mama was warming some up for him to eat too.
“Bonjour,” Mama said. “How did you sleep?”
“I had a really scary nightmare,” Prodi said. “But then I said a prayer. Heavenly Father helped me feel safe.”
“I’m sorry you had a bad dream,” Mama said. She hugged Prodi close and didn’t let go for a long time. “But I’m so glad you said a prayer. It sounds like Heavenly Father really helped you.”
“He did,” said Prodi. “I was able to fall asleep again, and I didn’t have any more bad dreams.” Prodi hugged Mama tight. He was glad to know that no matter how scared he felt, Heavenly Father was just a prayer away.

Eric’s father had a tiny farm out in the country. He had taken the family to work on the farm, but Eric remained at home in his shed, alone. Meanwhile, his sores enlarged to huge wounds and infection entered into his bones, a life-threatening condition called osteomyelitis.

When he was 18, Eric saw his friend Emmanuel Ofosu-hene speaking English with an obruni (white man). The obruni was a Mormon missionary, Elder Old. “I only spoke Twi, but Emmanuel interpreted for me: ‘I am so sick I think I will die. Can you help me know what to do so I can go to heaven?’

“Elder Old and his African companion sat with me and taught me. For some reason, they started with the Word of Wisdom. I knew they were speaking the truth because I already knew coffee and tobacco were bad.” They also gave Eric a brochure about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and invited him to church.

“When I went, I saw this Church was different,” he says. “It was reverent.” Even though it took him an hour to push himself to church in his wheelchair, Eric loved the meetings. “I wanted to go up front and be with people,” he says. “But I stayed at the back because I knew I smelled bad.”

Eric told the missionaries, “What I am learning is true.” He also told them he wanted to be baptized, but doctors had warned him not to get his wounds wet. “I will rely on God to provide answers,” he said. He attended church for about a year and then became too ill and weak to wheel himself there.

Eric’s mother, Lucy, met the missionaries, studied the gospel, and was baptized in 2015. But because her broken leg had never been properly set, it was painful for her to walk. Attending meetings was a challenge for her, as well.
Eventually, Eric was taken to the hospital again. In Ghana, patients have to provide their own water, food, bedding, medicine, and bandages. If they have no money, they are not treated. Eric’s mother and sisters did what they could. Eric received food and medical attention infrequently, so he grew weaker.

Then Eric received some unexpected visitors. Missionaries, Sister Peprah and Sister Nafuna, had seen his photograph at the church and came to see him in the hospital and brought him food. It had been a year since he had been to church, but he told them he still wanted to be baptized.
A few days later, Eric’s sister visited him and found him very ill. She ran home and told their mother. Though their mother had suffered permanent leg damage in the accident with Eric, she walked to the hospital, wincing with every step. “You must come home,” she told Eric. “If you’re going to die, I at least want you near.”
The next morning, the sister missionaries came to the house. “You weren’t at the hospital,” Sister Peprah said. “So we came here.” With them were Elder and Sister Wood, senior missionaries from New Zealand. They took inventory of needs and promised to return.
A few days later, Eric’s father took the family back to the farm—except Eric, who found himself alone again and without food or water. When Elder and Sister Wood returned and discovered Eric alone and hungry, they brought him food and water. They returned the next day and noticed fluid running down his leg and found a huge open ulcer on his thigh. They immediately took Eric back to the hospital.
The Woods learned of a medical humanitarian team from the United States that would be coming to Ghana. The team would perform surgery for Eric without cost. The surgeon treated the ulcer on Eric’s leg. But when he saw the severity of Eric’s wounds, as well as the osteomyelitis, he determined he could not do all the necessary procedures in Ghana. Based on his recommendation, the humanitarian organization initiated a process that would eventually bring Eric to the United States to receive additional treatment and permanently close his wounds. In addition, a shelter in Winneba, Ghana, run by members of the Church, agreed to have Eric live there when he returned so that he could attend school and complete his education.
While in Utah for surgery, Eric visits the reflecting pool near the Salt Lake Temple. Eric says he loves the feeling of peace he finds at the Salt Lake Temple.
Elder Wood, an engineer by profession, rebuilt Eric’s hand-pedal tricycle. He performed a similar overhaul on his wheelchair. He also counseled with President Cosgrave of the Ghana Kumasi Mission, a medical doctor. They felt Eric could be baptized if proper precautions were taken.
Eric shows his tricycle to his mother and siblings after senior missionaries repaired it.
“Elder Wood wrapped my body in plastic, with tape around the plastic,” Eric explains. “Then he carried me into a font filled with water treated with disinfectant. I was baptized on June 26, 2016.” Eric had relied on the Lord, and the Lord had provided a way.
Today, Eric is studying to become a computer technician. But also feels he can influence others through music—he likes to rap in Twi. His upbeat message talks about how God rescued him. One of his favorite scriptures says, “Look to God and live” (Alma 37:47). And he still says, “I see God in everything.”
He adds, “I don’t want anyone to think the way Heavenly Father has blessed me is identical to how He will bless them. But He will bless those who trust Him. When you have to deal with hard things, pray and trust God.”
Eric looks forward to a bright future. He’s studying to be a computer technician and also feels he can inspire others with music.

One day I witnessed evidence of the Spirit and the courage to follow the counsel. It was in a second-grade elementary classroom. The student teacher held the children captive with her story-telling skills. In great detail, she told of a cross old man whose name was Mr. Black. In contrast, the account was given in similar detail of a Mr. Brown, who was kind and thoughtful and loved by everyone. At the conclusion of the story, the teacher asked the children, “How many of you would like to have Mr. Brown for a neighbor?” Every hand in the room was raised. Then, almost as an afterthought, she asked the question, “And is there anyone who would like to have Mr. Black for a neighbor?”

A little boy in a faded green shirt near the back of the room began to raise his hand, bringing a ripple of quiet amusement from the children. Hesitating only briefly, he looked around at his friends and still mustered the courage to hold his hand high and dare to stand alone in his difference. When called on for an explanation of his single vote, he spoke in a soft tone. “Well,” he said, “I’d like Mr. Black to be my neighbor because if he was my neighbor, my mom would make a cake for me to take to him, and then he wouldn’t be that way anymore.” A hush fell over the room. Everyone felt something wonderful that they couldn’t explain. A little child broke the silence like a benediction: “Oh . . . I wish I’d said that.”

We had all made a quick decision about who would be the best neighbor, but only one—just one—had a spirit within, the discernment that allowed him to see what might be.

It’s what’s inside that counts, at least that’s what Mom always said. And while Joshua didn’t understand everything that that meant, he was sure that his mom knew what she was talking about when it came to chocolate-covered cherries. They were one of his dad’s favorite treats at Christmastime, and they had become one of Josh’s also.
This wonderful candy was shaped like a little pitcher’s mound with a swirl of chocolate on top. And while the chocolate outside was good, it was the inside that Joshua really loved: a gooey, sticky, sweet, white cream and liquid surrounding a delicious maraschino cherry. The liquid center sometimes made it a little difficult to eat without making a mess, but that challenge was all part of the fun.
Sometimes he bit right into the top and looked down as if looking into a volcano with a red-hot-lava cherry. Sometimes this caused the side to break, and the hot lava came gushing out onto his hand, making him slurp and lick as quickly as he could to keep from getting sticky all over. Sometimes he tried to eat one in one gigantic bite. Being only six, that was a lot of candy in his mouth and sometimes a little juice squirted out onto his chin.
But his favorite way to eat a chocolate-covered cherry was to turn it upside down and carefully nibble off the bottom piece of chocolate. That left him with a little cup full of delicious syrup with a cherry floating in it like ice cream in root beer floats. Then he would sip a little juice and nibble a little chocolate. He could eat the cherry inside whenever he wanted, but he usually saved it for his last bite!
One Saturday before Christmas, Dad asked that magic question, “Who wants a chocolate-covered cherry?” The family had just finished lunch, and Joshua thought that it was the perfect time for just such a treat.
Joshua and his brother, Jacob, both cried, “Me! Me!” Jaclyn, their older sister, would certainly want one, too, but she had finished lunch early and was in another room on the computer.
“Wait!” Dad said. He was standing in the kitchen, holding the box of cherries with a sad look on his face. “There are only two chocolate-covered cherries left. What should we do?”
Josh thought about it. They could cut one in half. They had done that before with other candy. But cutting a chocolate-covered cherry would only make a big mess and ruin the candy. They could just quietly eat them in the kitchen, and Jaclyn wouldn’t even know. But he knew that that wasn’t really fair.
He started to think about the family home evening lesson they’d had that week. They had learned that Christmas is the celebration of Christ’s birth and how He came to earth to give us all a very special gift that only He could give. The family had talked about how Christmas isn’t about all the things you get but about showing love to your family and friends.
Suddenly a wonderful and terrible thought entered his mind. It was terrible because it meant missing out on his favorite treat. It was wonderful because it was what Joshua knew that Jesus would want him to do.
“Dad,” he said, “you can give mine to Jaclyn.” He almost couldn’t believe his own mouth was saying those words. But as soon as he said them, he felt a wonderful, warm feeling inside. It was as if his whole insides had become like the inside of a chocolate-covered cherry—sweet and happy.
“Are you sure, Josh?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Josh said, this time with a smile on his face.
Dad gave the last piece to Jaclyn, and Josh couldn’t believe that he could be so happy about not getting a chocolate-covered cherry.
That night, after pajamas were put on, teeth were brushed, prayers were said, and Mom and Dad had kissed everyone and tucked them into bed, Joshua lay awake thinking about his day. As the glow from the Christmas lights on the house filtered into his room, he thought about his decision to give the last chocolate-covered cherry to Jaclyn and how happy she had been and how wonderful that had made him feel. And then he realized his mom was right—it is what’s on the inside that counts!

Soon after my eighteenth birthday I was invited by my bishop (who happened to be my father) to work on the ward welfare farm. The assignment was to thin beets in the company of other priesthood holders. I was a master of this slavelike labor; I have a lame back to prove it. I could do an acre in one day if I started before sunup and ended long after sundown (providing I cared little about standing erect for several days).

I worked diligently up one row and down another, hoping to finish the task early. One of the older workers was my stake president, a banker by profession. It pleased me to see him digging in the soil and sweating under the hot sun. It was the first time I had seen this very proper and fastidious priesthood leader dressed in anything other than a dark suit, white shirt, and tie. I must admit that I enjoyed watching him get dirt on his hands. In fact, I was so carried away by this pleasure (heaven forgive me!) that I sped up the soiling by deliberately kicking up clouds of dust in his direction as I moved by.

On one move past President Roland Tietjen, he called my name and invited me to engage in conversation. I stopped, laid down my hoe, and sat on the soft ground. He asked, “Carlos, how old are you?”

I replied, “Eighteen.”

“Do you know how old I am?” he continued.

“Oh, about seventy” was my quick and foolish answer. (I missed the mark by many years!) Laughing without, and I suppose crying within, he said, “My time on earth is running out—yours is just beginning. Carlos, would you sell to me the next ten years of your life?” I thought to myself, what’s wrong with this money changer? Can’t he forget money and buying and selling for just one morning?

He was able to discern my thoughts and to note my discomfort. He quickly added, “I know that it is impossible for you to transfer to me part of your life. However, if it were possible, would you sell?”

With little hesitation I blurted out, “No, I would not.”

“Suppose I offered you $100,000 for those years,” he pressed. Again, I declined his offer, saying that I had things to do in the years ahead.

During the next ten years, my visits with President Tietjen were few and scattered. On each occasion he would refer back to the question asked in the beet field. He would say, “Will you take $90,000 for the remaining nine years? Eighty thousand for the next eight?” And on it went until ten years were gone.

It didn’t take me the full decade to appreciate the profound lesson which my wonderful Church leader was trying to teach. He caused me to treasure those formative and crucial years between eighteen and twenty-eight. He also motivated me to make plans and to initiate actions that would enable me to claim the most of my opportunities.

Micah looked down, trying to find the right words. “A few years ago it was me that people like you stared at and laughed at.”
“How come?” Matthew asked. “I never saw you wear a brace.” He and Jason stopped limping and listened.
Micah shook his head. “I never did, but I did have an accident. I guess you’ve forgotten.”
Matthew looked puzzled. “How old were you?”
“I was six.”
“Matthew wasn’t living here then, Micah,” Jason reminded him. “But I remember now—it was at the rodeo.”
Micah nodded. “Yep. One minute I was just sitting there on the fence, watching the rodeo. The next, I was flat on my face, eating dirt.”
Matthew stifled a laugh. “What happened?”
“I was getting down to ask my dad for a hamburger, but my feet somehow got tangled up in the fence slats. I just flipped over and landed on my face.”
“What did it do to you?” Matthew asked, still trying to not laugh.
“Nothing, as far as I could tell. I just got up, ran over to where my Dad was sitting, and asked him for a hamburger. He kept staring at my face, and then he started asking me to smile and frown and stuff. When I fell down, I must have hit an important nerve in my cheek, because the whole left side of my face wasn’t moving.”
“Weird!” Matthew exclaimed.
“It was pretty funny at first,” Micah said. “But when we went to the doctor, he said that the nerve probably wouldn’t heal for six months and that it might not heal completely at all.”
“I remember when it happened,” Jason put in. “My mom sat me down and told me to not make fun of Micah. It was hard sometimes, because he really did look weird.”
Micah nodded. “I probably would have laughed at someone else, but there were a lot of things about it that weren’t funny. I couldn’t close my eye. I had to tape it shut at night so I could sleep. The doctor was afraid I might get an ulcer on my eye, so I had to keep putting eye drops in. I couldn’t use my mouth and tongue right, so I said some things funny, and anything I drank spilled out of the side of my mouth.”
Matthew pulled a face. “Gross! How embarrassing! But did any of the kids laugh at you?”
Micah’s face reddened. “Lots of them. Not everyone was like Jason and his mom. Most of the kids laughed and mimicked me. Even when I cried, some kids kept right on making fun of me.”
“I guess that would be pretty hard,” Matthew admitted. “But you look OK now.”
“Yeah,” Jason added, “I’d forgotten it even happened.”
Micah shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget how it felt to want to be just like everyone else and to not be able to. The hurt from people laughing at you is pretty tough to get over, too. I don’t like to make fun of people—even if they can’t see it. It’s just wrong.”

I learned the “why” of those interviews a long time ago, on a Sunday afternoon. It was the only bishop’s interview I ever had that wasn’t in the bishop’s office, but it’s the one that taught me best what a bishop is trying to do when he interviews an Aaronic Priesthood holder.
In those days, priesthood meeting was in the morning, and sacrament meeting was much later in the day. I was at home, thinking my priests quorum work was done for the day. The phone rang. It was the bishop. He asked if I would go with him, as his companion, to visit a poor widow who needed help. I jumped in the car when he came by, nervous about the unknown, but interested to see how a bishop helped the poor.
I didn’t see any food in the car. And my surprise grew when we drove down a dirt lane, in what I thought was a vacant lot, and pulled up in front of a house with no paint and a broken sofa on the sagging wooden porch. We were invited into the dark living room by a woman in a faded and soiled dress. We sat at a table. The bishop began by asking, “Now, where is that budget form I gave you to fill out last week.” Then, for what seemed an hour, he worked that woman through a budget, a plan to repair her house, and a commitment to change her habits. I never said a word. I realize now that the bishop was watching me out of the corner of his eye the whole time.
We drove off in silence, the puzzled priest and the thoughtful bishop. He pulled into the driveway of my house, and we began to talk quietly. He asked me what I thought of what I’d seen. I told him honestly that I had always thought helping the poor meant giving them something, not asking them to do something. And then he opened his scriptures and a black notebook and taught me something he called, “the welfare principle.” He talked about building self-reliance and told me how to help people develop it.
When I walked into my house that afternoon, I didn’t know that I’d had an interview with my bishop. I wonder now if he somehow knew that I would someday be a bishop. But whether he knew or not, he did something remarkable that your bishop or branch president wants to do for you.
First, he cared about me enough to plan that interview carefully to teach me priesthood service. He didn’t need my help that day. His counselors or a home teacher could have helped him more. The way he casually pulled open his little black notebook and opened it to the pages filled with scriptures and quotations showed that he was anything but casual in preparing to teach me how to give priesthood service.
Second, he turned from teaching to letting me talk about my goals for improving my ability to serve. I realize now that he was urging me to prepare to be his assistant in the quorum, a call that came within months.
Finally, he learned about how well I was living the gospel. His questions that day weren’t as direct as they were in some other interviews. But on that afternoon he asked if I had felt the Holy Ghost during our visit. And I realize now that my positive answer probably told him what he wanted to know about my personal worthiness.
What he wanted, and what your bishop wants, was to give me the best chance he could to honor my priesthood. He knew that took at least three things: some understanding of how to use the priesthood; a personal commitment to use the priesthood; and a life clean enough, both by avoiding sin where I could and repenting where I must, that I could have the companionship of the Holy Ghost. He was wise enough, too, to know that my parents had done much of that. They had taught me, they had helped me set goals, and they had urged me to be worthy.
But as the president of the Aaronic Priesthood and of my quorum, he could give me some things I couldn’t get anywhere else. He was the person through whom God could call me or withhold callings from me. And he had the keys of repentance for the ward, and so for me. I know now how much he didn’t want to fail the Lord on his errand to give me every chance to prepare for the Melchizedek Priesthood, for missionary service, and for temple marriage. And I know now how lucky I was to have such a bishop as Alvin R. Dyer.

When I heard about the Church’s “Light the World” Christmas initiative and the worldwide day of service, I thought, “What a nice idea. I’m going to do it.”
A couple of days before the worldwide day of service on December 1, a thought popped into my mind of whom I needed to help. Immediately, I thought, “Anyone but him!” This person had hurt me deeply for many years, but the more his name nagged at me, the more I knew that the thought had come from the Spirit.
I told my husband what I was thinking, and he said that serving this man would be good for me. Still, I felt extremely nervous at the thought of helping him. I knew I couldn’t do this on my own, so I prayed for strength and for someone to go with me. Eventually, I called the sister missionaries, and they agreed to go with me.
December 1 came, and I was so nervous that I felt shaky while I drove. We prayed together when we got to the apartment. I took a few deep breaths and knocked on the door. The man opened the door, but he didn’t seem to recognize me. I asked if he knew who I was. He thought I was just one of the sister missionaries. When I told him who I was, he was surprised but pleased that I had come to see him. An awkward moment arose when I told him that it was a worldwide day of service, and we wanted to help him in any way we could.
I delegated jobs to the missionaries, and we went to work cleaning his apartment. After a couple of hours, we finished and left. It wasn’t until I was driving home that I realized I was laughing and happy. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks: Heavenly Father had taken away all of my hurt, pain, bitterness, and grief. It was gone! And I was free from all the anguish I had carried for so many years. Heavenly Father had blessed me with the strength to finally forgive this person. It was marvelous how light my heart felt.
I am so grateful that I followed the prompting to help this man. My loving Heavenly Father knew I needed to have this experience so I could grow and become more of the person He wants me to be.

President George Albert Smith’s mother knew the Lord’s will; he told this touching incident of being taught to pray: “I was trained at the knee of a Latter-day Saint mother. One of the first things I remember was when she took me by the hand and led me upstairs to the bedroom. In the room there were two beds, the bed in which my parents slept, and a little trundle bed over on the other side. I can remember it as if it were yesterday. When we got upstairs she sat down by my little trundle bed. She had me kneel in front of her. She folded my hands and took them in hers and taught me my first prayers. I shall never forget it. I do not want to forget it. It is one of the loveliest memories that I have in life: an angelic mother sitting down by my bedside and teaching me to pray … That prayer opened for me the window of heaven. That prayer extended to me the hand of my Father in Heaven, for she had explained to me what it all meant, as far as a little child could understand …” (Sharing the Gospel with Others (Deseret Book Co., 1950) pp. 147–48.)

Develop the habit of singing, or if this is not pleasant, of whistling. Singing to one’s self brings less comment and question than talking to one’s self! My father once came home from a deer hunt empty-handed, but his heart was renewed and his spirit lifted because, as he recounted with great appreciation, one of his companions had frightened the deer away by always singing trumpet-voiced as he walked through pines and quaking aspen. Father was more enriched by the mirth of the song than he would have been by the meat of the venison.

Even in situations where there is conflict, we can still be kind and feel kind—for example, in giving feedback to others.
I had a professor down at BYU who showed me one way to give feedback. I had a few classes from him as I was learning to be teacher. As he observed my mini-lessons and during my student teaching, he always shared what he observed. He never said this was effective or that was ineffective, but his observations let me reflect on what my objectives were and if I met those. One time, I was trying to use a video clip as a teaching aid following a teaching strategy he had demonstrated the previous semester. He shared what he saw me doing, related some of the questions I had asked the students and when I asked them. He gave his observations of the students’ responses, and asked if I thought I had met my objective with the activity. When I stated that, no, I didn’t think I used this strategy correctly, he agreed and gave some helpful tips. What he didn’t do was try and read my mind or place a value on me as a person. I didn’t hear, “You’re not a good teacher” or “You really messed up.” Similarly, he never said, “You’re a good teacher.” Though his questions led me to what he was trying to teach me, he ultimately let me decide if I was being effective.

Later when he married and began raising a family, a sense of humor helped him deal with three children (and one wife) who possess a weakness for stray animals. Although he himself was raised in a family that believed animals belong in a barn, dad has survived over the years any number of dogs, cats, guppies, goldfish, turtles, lizards, rabbits, chickens, frogs, toads, chameleons, mice, rats, hamsters, guinea pigs, gerbils, parakeets, and one foul-tempered cockatiel named Doosey. I remember one winter when I brought home two full-grown cats and asked if I could keep them.
“Are they males?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Their names are Sam and George.”
That convinced him. “All right, but they have to stay outside.”
That spring Sam and George had 13 kittens between them. And they didn’t stay outside either!

When President Russell M. Nelson worked as a surgeon, many young people asked him how long it takes to become a medical doctor. He told them that after four years of undergraduate work, they needed four more years of medical school and then another five years to become a specialist.
“That’s too long for me!” some responded.
Then President Nelson would tell them: “Preparation for your career is not too long if you know what you want to do with your life. How old will you be thirteen years from now if you don’t pursue your education? Just as old, whether or not you become what you want to be!”5

Mom, this is Austin. He’s in my class. Is it OK if we play video games for a while? I haven’t used many of my minutes this week.
That’s fine. You’ll be playing our approved games, right?
Yup.
You have a time limit?
Yeah. I used to play video games too much, so now I have a limit every week. I was kinda mad about it at first.
But your grades have gotten better!
And I started playing real sports again, like basketball. Hey, let’s shoot some hoops before we play video games.
Watch this shot.
Throw it to me!
Gee, that’s pretty easy.
Especially when you’ve been practicing secretly.

A convert to the Church during his college days, Shawn first became acquainted with Mormons while visiting his cousins who lived across the street from a Latter-day Saint chapel.
“My folks would let me go to church on Sunday, and since my cousins lived close to the Latter-day Saint chapel, I would visit them and we would all go there together. I had always been impressed with the Latter-day Saint kids in school; it seemed like they could all get up in front of an audience and speak, and they also seemed outstanding in other ways. Then I started going to a lot of church activities. I liked MIA and the social activities. By the time I was junior in high school, I began attending church all the time and really tried to live the gospel. I lived the principles for about four years before I decided to be baptized,” said Shawn.