Gospel Story Finder

A taxicab driver in Washington, D.C., displayed a picture of his two children on the sun visor in front of him. “They are beautiful children,” I said. “You must love them very much to carry their photos in your cab. I have children, too, and grandchildren, and I miss them when I’m away from them.”
“Why are you away?”
“I’m here for Church meetings. Are you a religious man?”
“Yes, ma’am. I am a Christian.”
“So am I! That’s wonderful!” I said. “You and I are alike in two ways—we both love our children, and we both are Christian.”
“Ma’am, do you believe in the Holy Spirit?” he asked.
“I do. I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
He looked puzzled.
“Have you heard of the Mormons?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s another name for our Church,” I explained. “We believe in God, the Eternal Father, and in His Son, Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost.”
That started a discussion based on the first five articles of faith. The fifth article of faith led to our talking about the authority and power to seal families forever. This interested him—he had seen the beautiful Washington Temple.
I asked him if he’d like to know more. He said that he would, and he agreed to listen to the missionaries. I had him write his name and address for me, and as soon as I reached my hotel, I telephoned the mission office and gave his name to the elder who answered.

Ben Harrott from the Oldham Ward, Ashton Stake, was singled out from more than 4,000 entries to claim the title of RSPCA Young Photographer of the Year in this annual and prestigious competition which has been running for 32 years.
The event was held at the Tower of London, where Ben, along with his father, were invited to receive his award from one of the judges, Chris Packham of television fame.
Ben entered the 16–18 age group, where he won both the runners-up and winner’s certificate for his pictures. His picture of a shy mountain hare was awarded overall winner.
The judges said they chose Ben’s shot because they were impressed by his ability to capture this rare encounter with such a shy animal, as well as the “bravery of the near abstract composition”.
Chris Packham added “Ben Harrott’s stunning picture of a mountain hare really stood out. Ben is a really worthy winner.”
News of his award was printed alongside the winning picture in national and local newspapers, various magazines and was announced on local TV news.

Another recent sacred occasion was in 2023 when I was called to be an Area Seventy. My wife and I [were] invited to go to Salt Lake City to be sustained for my new calling. The night before my sustaining, I was very nervous, and I couldn’t sleep because I would see the First Presidency and Quorum of the Twelve Apostles in the morning. I only slept two hours that night. In those two hours, both my father and mother came to me, and they said, “Son you don’t need to be worried, we will be there with you to sustain you.” I felt more confident in the morning as I knew that they would escort me to the meeting. After my sustaining and training, Elder Gerrit W. Gong asked me to go to his office to be set apart. Elder Gong asked me to hold my wife’s hands while we were seated and being set apart. He pronounced my name, my wife’s name and all our five sons’ names and set me apart with many meaningful blessings and promises he gave. During my setting apart, while closing my eyes I saw them both sitting right in front of me and smiling at me, expressing their support in my new calling. Because of that, I knew that they accepted those ordinances in the temple that we did on their behalf.

Elder Oaks further illustrates what it’s like to hesitate to share the gospel with our friends:
“Consider that you are invited to a friend’s house for breakfast. On the table you see a large pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice from which your host fills his glass. But he offers you none. Finally you ask, ‘Could I have a glass of orange juice?’
“He replies, ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I was afraid you might not like orange juice, and I didn’t want to offend you by offering you something you didn’t desire.’
“Now, that sounds absurd, but it is not too different from the way we hesitate to offer up something far sweeter than orange juice. I have often worried how I would answer some friend about my hesitancy when I meet him beyond the veil” (Ensign, Nov. 2000, 81–82).

While I was serving in Venezuela, we taught a man who had investigated many churches but still had not found what he was looking for. He loved everything we taught him about the Church, but he did not feel he had received an answer through prayer. He began to have a lot of doubts. Then his doubts disappeared. He told us that he had been jogging in the park when he found a Liahona on an empty bench. He sat down and read it, and it answered his questions. He then was able to set a baptism date. Thank you for the Liahona!Elder Jordan Eves, Chile Viña del Mar Mission

Feeling the Christmas Spirit after a Hurricane
Photograph by Raul Sandoval
After Hurricane Maria, there was no light, no water, no phone service, and no Wi-Fi across much of Puerto Rico. Many power lines had been knocked down, and parts of the island were flooded. Recovery was slow and took months. Two brothers, Diego, 14, and Isaac, 12, share how they kept the Christmas spirit while living through the aftereffects of the hurricane.
Isaac says, “I felt the Spirit by praying that the light would come back on, that water and phone service would come back—everything.”
Diego adds, “We also sang to feel the Spirit. We sang Church hymns and Christmas songs. And we prayed that everything would turn out OK.”
At Diego and Isaac’s house, floodwaters skirted the family’s windows, but water didn’t go inside. That was a blessing. But a tree had fallen and blocked the only road to and from their home. This meant the family couldn’t drive to get supplies. They had to either walk to the tree and find someone to give them a ride or rely on others to bring them supplies. Fortunately, the family was prepared with food storage, including water. The tree was moved a few weeks later, but there was still a lot of work to do and there were still a lot of people in need.
As Elder Martinez pointed out, Hurricane Maria brought out the best in many people. Diego and Isaac’s family spread the Christmas spirit by helping others. Isaac says, “We passed out food that was donated to people who really needed it. We also passed out clothes, games, and school supplies.”
“Christmas was different,” Diego says. “Before Hurricane Maria there was more money to buy presents, but after there was little money to buy essential items like water, food, and gasoline.”
Even though Diego and Isaac couldn’t celebrate Christmas the way they were used to, they noticed something positive: “We spent more time together as a family. We were more united than before. This is a blessing we appreciate because we love our family.”
Diego says, “We didn’t feel upset that there weren’t as many gifts or that we couldn’t celebrate Christmas like we normally do. We knew that gifts aren’t Christmas. Christmas is the birth of Christ. That’s what’s important.”

Because the Lord is kind, He calls servants to warn people of danger. I can still remember my mother speaking softly to me one Saturday afternoon when, as a little boy, I asked her for permission to do something I thought was perfectly reasonable but which she knew was dangerous.
She said, “Oh, I suppose you could do that. But the choice is yours.” The only warning was in the emphasis she put on the words could and choice. Yet that was enough for me.
Her power to warn with so few words sprang from three things I knew about her. First, I knew she loved me. Second, I knew she had already done what she wanted me to do and had been blessed by it. And third, she had conveyed her testimony that the Lord would tell me what to do if I asked Him. Love, example, testimony: Those were the keys.

Years ago, as a young missionary, I was assigned to a group of seventeen small islands in the South Pacific. At that time, the only means of travel between islands was by sailboat. Because of misunderstandings and traditions, it was difficult to find people willing to listen to us. However, one day a member told us that if we would be at a certain harbor on a particular island when the sun set the next day, a family would meet us there and listen to the discussions.
What joy that news brought! It was like finding a piece of gold. I was working alone at the time but quickly found four other members who were experienced sailors who agreed to take me to this island the next day.
Early the next morning the five of us started out. There was a nice breeze that moved us swiftly along the coast, through the opening in the reef, and out into the wide expanse of the vast Pacific Ocean.
We made good progress for a few hours, but as the sun climbed higher and the boat got farther from land, the wind began to play out and soon quit altogether, leaving us bobbing aimlessly on a smooth ocean.
Those familiar with sailing know that to get anywhere, you need wind. Sometimes there are good breezes without storms and heavy seas, but often they go together. Sailors do not fear storms, for they contain the lifeblood of sailing—wind. What sailors fear is no wind, or being becalmed.
Time passed. The sun got higher, the sea calmer. Nothing moved. We soon realized that unless something changed, we would not arrive by sundown. I suggested that we pray and plead with the Lord to send some wind. What more righteous desire could a group of men have? I offered a prayer. When I finished, things seemed calmer than ever. We continued drifting.
Then one of the older men suggested that everyone kneel and all unite their faith and prayers together, which we did. There was great struggling of spirit, but when the last person opened his eyes, nothing! No movement at all. The sails hung limp and listless. Even the slight ripple of the ocean against the side of the boat had ceased. The ocean seemed like a sea of glass.
Time was moving, and we were getting desperate. This same man now suggested that everyone kneel again in prayer and each person in turn offer a vocal prayer for the whole group. Many beautiful, pleading, faithful prayers ascended to heaven. But when the last one finished and everyone opened their eyes, the sun was still burning down with greater intensity than before. The ocean was like a giant mirror. It was almost as though Satan was laughing, saying, “See, you can’t go anywhere. There is no wind. You are in my power.”
I thought, “There is a family at the harbor that wants to hear the gospel. We are here in the middle of the ocean and want to teach them. The Lord controls the elements. All that stands between us and the family is a little wind. Why won’t He send it? It’s a righteous desire.”
As I was so wondering, I noticed this faithful older brother move to the rear of the boat. I watched as he unlashed the tiny lifeboat, placed two oars with pins in their places, and carefully lowered it over the side.
He looked at me and softly said, “Get in.”
I answered, “What are you doing? There is hardly room for two people in that tiny thing!”
“Don’t waste any time or effort. Just get in. I am going to row you to shore, and we need to leave now to make it by sundown.”
I looked at him incredulously, “Row me where?”
“To the family that wants to hear the gospel. We have an assignment from the Lord. Get in.”
I was dumbfounded. It was miles to shore. The sun was hot, and this man was old. But as I looked into the face of that faithful brother, I sensed an intensity in his gaze, an iron will in his very being, and a fixed determination in his voice as he said, “Before the sun sets this day, you will be teaching the gospel and bearing testimony to a family who wants to listen.”
I again objected, “Look, you’re over three times my age. If this is to be, let me row.”
With that same look of determination and faith-induced will, the old man replied, “No. Leave it to me. Get in the boat. Don’t waste more time talking. Let’s go!” At his direction we got into the boat, with me in the front and the old man in the middle, his feet stretching to the end of the boat, his back to me.
The glazed surface of the ocean was disturbed by the intrusion of this small boat and seemed to complain, “This is my territory. Stay out.” Not a wisp of air stirred, not a sound was heard except the creaking of oars and the rattling of pins as the small craft began to move away from the sailboat.
The old man bent his back and began to row. Dip. Pull. Lift. Dip. Pull. Lift. Each dip of the oar seemed to break the resolve of the mirrorlike ocean. Each pull of the oar moved the tiny skiff forward, separating the glassy seas to make way for the Lord’s messenger. Dip. Pull. Lift. The old man did not look up, rest, or talk, but hour after hour he rowed and rowed and rowed. The muscles of his back and arms, strengthened by faith and moved by unalterable determination, flexed in a marvelous cadence like a fine-tuned watch. It was beautiful. We moved quietly, relentlessly toward an inevitable destiny. The old man concentrated his efforts and energy on fulfilling the calling he had from the Lord—to get a missionary to a family that wanted to hear the gospel. He was the Lord’s wind that day.
Just as the sun dipped into the ocean, the skiff touched the shore of the harbor. A family was waiting. The old man spoke for the first time in hours and said, “Go. Teach them the truth. I’ll wait here.”
I waded ashore, met the family, went to their home, and taught them the gospel. As I bore testimony of the power of God in this church, my mind saw an old Tongan man rowing to a distant harbor and waiting patiently there. I testified with a fervor as great as any I have ever felt that God does give power to men and women to do His will if they will have faith in Him. I told the family, “When we exercise faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, we can do things we could not otherwise do. When our hearts are determined to do right, the Lord gives us the power to do so.”
The family believed and eventually was baptized.
In the annals of history, few will be aware of this small incident. Hardly anyone will know about this insignificant island, the family who waited, or the obscure, old man who never once complained of fatigue, aching arms, painful back, or a hurting body. He never talked about thirst, the scorching sun, or the heat of the day as he relentlessly rowed uncomplainingly hour after hour. He referred only to the privilege of being God’s agent in bringing a missionary to teach the truth to those who desired to hear. But God knows! He gave him the strength to be His wind that day, and He will give us the strength to be His wind when necessary.

One of Michael’s scenes is in a schoolroom with other boys his age. These boys are extras, called in to dress in costume and fill up the rest of the desks in the background. Erika Anderson, 18, is working as extras’ coordinator for the film, and it is her job to see that the boys are where they should be when they should be. Erika is rather young to have such an important position, but she’s been working in films for several years. Her father, David, is a film distributor and producer, and Erika has had a chance to work in different ways on films since she was 10.

“The first thing I ever did,” says Erika, “was be an extra. Then I worked on a commercial shoot in New York. I was a production assistant. My dad was in charge, and I helped run errands and time the shots.” Erika was recommended for the BYU film job, and Peter Johnson, the producer of the film and director of the Motion Picture Studio has been pleased with her work. “She shows such integrity in her work. She’s always there, always on time. We give her instructions, and she does what we ask. We never have to follow up with her.”

Erika has learned a lot about the importance of doing a good job. “What I’ve known all along is whenever a job is given to me, I have to get it done because someone is expecting me to do it. If you don’t hold your end up, everything can fall apart. I learned that at 13, so I’ve been practicing for a while.”

As extras’ coordinator, Erika describes her job this way, “When there are kids, I’m in charge of the kids. When there are adults, I’m in charge of telling them where to go and getting them all there and getting them committed to do it. It’s really hard, but it’s rewarding to see it all come together.”

Erika’s first thoughts after being told that they needed 250 extras for the scene in the marketplace outside the temple at Bountiful was, “Where am I going to find 250 extras on a Tuesday?”

Erika and her supervisor, Kathy Bessinger, casting director, did find them. They sent the call out to wards in Salt Lake and Orem areas. Then buses were arranged, lunch and dinner ordered for the crowd, and makeup and wardrobe people alerted. On this Tuesday, they had the crowd of extras they needed to shoot the scene.

by Jeanne McInelly
The silent dignity of the Arkansas House of Representatives was pierced with shouts of “Contact! Contact!” A hundred Arkansas seminary students were clamoring for points in the final scripture chase contest of the year.
“Hold it down! Quiet, quiet! Let’s remember where we are,” cautioned the teacher. “Are you ready? Here’s the clue for scripture number seven.”
It all began the month before in seminary officers meeting where plans were being laid for the next Super Saturday.
“Hey, our lesson is on good government next month.”
“Wow, let’s all go to Washington!”
“No, we’ve got roadshow practice that morning.”
“Well, how about having our lesson at the state capitol building at Little Rock?”
“You’ve got to be important to get in there.”
“Well, so who’s more important than LDS seminary students from all over the state—in our Sunday best?”
“It’s worth trying for. At least after we ask they’ll know there are Mormons in Arkansas.”
Within a week officials were approached, permission was received, and the secretary of state had agreed to speak to the group. Bright picture postcards of the capitol building arrived at all 12 seminary classes around the state announcing the news.
“We’ve got the state capitol building for the next month’s Super Saturday! Be sure to dress up. Now we’re the VIPs.”
The morning of the activity, prior to the lesson, the seminary officers met in a plush committee room complete with microphones at each desk and swivel executive chairs.
“Such class! We ought to meet here every month.”
“So this is what my license plate fee pays for!”
For the lesson students climbed the white marble stairs leading to the assembly room where a seminary fife and drum corps brought in the flag. The Arkansas secretary of state, Kelly Bryant, was a special guest speaker. Some visitors touring the building paused to admire the group and to ask, “Are these kids some special committee for the governor?”
As part of the lesson students impersonating prominent Book of Mormon characters gave campaign speeches in an effort to win votes from the group and gain imaginary seats on the Zarahemla City Council. As this was in progress, one of the state representatives, returning with his wife for some papers, paused to listen and chuckle at King Noah as he confused his interrogators with evasive answers and political double talk. “He sounds like one of us at a press conference,” laughed the representative.
After the lesson students were treated to a tour of the governor’s conference room. Their enthusiasm and good deportment won them a rare peek at the chambers of the state supreme court. “Nobody gets to see these rooms except on court day, but for you I’ll make an exception,” said their guide.
Picnic lunches under the sweet Magnolia trees on the capitol grounds rounded out the impressive day. Between crunches of potato chips, conversations were overheard:
“You know, one of our seminary group just might be a state legislator here someday.”
“Yeah, that kid who played King Noah seemed like he had potential.”

While her mom and dad were out of town, Aliza H., 18, was taking care of her younger siblings. It was a clear day at first, but soon the sky started getting darker and darker, the wind picked up, and small whirlwinds filled with ashes started spinning.
“I had a really strong feeling, like, ‘Don’t drop them off,’” she says. So she went back and checked her eight-year-old brother out of school. While she was waiting for him, she heard one of the office staff on the phone with the police. “When she hung up, she said, ‘You’d better call your parents and figure out where to go, because the whole town’s being evacuated.’”
Because of that spiritual prompting, her brother was the first one checked out of school, Aliza was able to avoid traffic jams, and with the support of Church neighbors, she was able to get herself and her siblings to safety. “I will always remember what the Spirit told me that day,” she says.

Carrie Laub, in Hebron, remembered when she and her mother went out to the watermelon patch and enjoyed a watermelon. Her father ate with them and then went to work, but her mother stayed with her and continued eating. In a few minutes her father came back and said, “You still eating?” and the mother replied, “I am going to eat enough so in the winter when they are all gone, I won’t wish I had eaten some more when I had a chance.”

“Go away! Go away!” Little Wolf shouted, looking back and racing over the carpet of pine needles as fast as his legs would carry him.
But the small bear cub kept making lonely little grunts as it followed him. The cub had lost its mother and was willing to accept anyone as a substitute—even a frightened Indian boy!
Little Wolf had been picking berries for his mother when he peeked through the bushes and saw the small bear standing awkwardly on its hind legs, stretching to nibble off the juicy berries that hung in clusters all along the branches.
The boy had stood quietly, grinning with delight as he watched the clumsiness of the small grizzly. He would have liked to pet him, but Little Wolf’s father, Chief Otoe, had taught him that it was very dangerous to bother the young of any wild animal.
There was nothing sweet and cuddly about a mother grizzly, especially if she felt one of her cubs was in danger. Certain that the cub’s mother would not be far away, Little Wolf had begun to slip backwards through the brush, away from the little bear. But he wasn’t able to glide silently through the forest as the braves could, and suddenly a small dry twig cracked like a whip under his moccasin.
The cub had seen the boy and eagerly loped toward him. All Little Wolf could think of was the cub’s mother. “Go away! Go back to your mother!” he kept shouting, as he ran toward his village.
Looking backward over his shoulder, the boy failed to see a big log lying in his path. He tripped over it and sailed through the air, then fell face down in the pine needles.
“My mother has always said they should have named me Clumsy Wolf,” Little Wolf grunted. “And she is right.” Sitting up, he tried to straighten the broken feather in his headband, which had flown off when he fell.
The cub caught up with the frightened boy. It pounced on him and pawed playfully at Little Wolf’s drawn-up knees; then it began to lap at his bare chest and nuzzle his chin. What would the braves think if they saw the Chief’s son being kissed by a bear!
Climbing over the logs, Little Wolf threw some sticks at the cub and limped into a clearing that surrounded a small cluster of tepees on the bank of a clear and sparkling brook.
No one laughed at the sight of the dusty, tired boy jogging into the village with a grizzly close behind. They were all afraid that an enraged bear might be close behind the pair. The mothers hurried small children inside the tepees. Several of the braves put arrows in their bows and stood waiting.
“I should have run the other way—away from the village,” Little Wolf panted. Now he had put everyone in danger! He always seemed to do everything wrong. Would he ever learn to be a real brave? Suddenly he snatched up the cub and, ignoring his mother’s cries, raced back into the forest as fast as he could go. If I can find the mother bear, he thought, I can return her cub. Then our village will be safe!
“Being little has some advantages,” he mumbled, beginning to tire. The little bear was heavy and kept turning its head to lap at Little Wolf’s chin, as if they were playing a game! The boy slowed and began to walk carefully when he approached the berry patch. Putting the cub down, he shoved it toward a branch hanging heavy with purple fruit. He sighed with relief as the little bear gave a grunt of pleasure and began eating. Now Little Wolf could sneak off.
A loud, sniffling grunt from the other side of the bushes made Little Wolf stiffen in sudden panic. Luckily he was close to a tall tree. There were no low branches he could leap to and grab, but climbing trees was one thing Little Wolf did well. Wrapping his arms and legs around the slender trunk, he shinnied his way up and into the thick foliage just as the mother bear appeared, accompanied by another cub.
Circling the cub, she sniffed suspiciously. Her eyes told her this was her cub, but her nose warned her that something was wrong. The cub smelled of man.
Breathlessly Little Wolf watched, his heart hammering in his throat. If the bear caught his scent and climbed the slender tree, it would snap under her weight, or bend until his hiding place hit the ground. Then he would have to leap out and run. He had seen bears run, and he knew that he would have little chance of making it to safety. Despite their lumbering walk, bears could run like the wind!
His father had taught him that the only way to escape a running bear was to go downhill. Because of their short front legs, they had to go slowly or they would become overbalanced and roll down the hill.
The little cub kept trying to approach his mother, but her fierce grunts kept him back. Bewildered, he stood quietly staring at her as she circled him warily, sniffling the ground. “Oh, no!” Little Wolf gasped as she came directly to his tree. Standing on her hind legs, she began to throw her massive head from side to side as she made angry sounds.
Little Wolf felt sick as he clung to the swaying branches and stared down at the huge teeth waiting for him. Seeing that she couldn’t dislodge him, the bear began slashing at the tree trunk with her claws. Tree bark flew in all directions as she tore at it. The boy knew that when the bear saw she could not knock the tree over, she would begin to climb.
Little Wolf had never heard a more welcome sound than the drumming of a tom-tom and the shouts of men who were running through the forest toward his hiding place. The shouting braves were led by his father, Chief Otoe. They had come to rescue him!
Concern for her cubs overruled the grizzly’s rage. Turning, she lumbered off, leading them away from the shouts.
“You were willing to sacrifice yourself for the tribe,” Chief Otoe said to his small son as they walked back toward the village. “It was a very brave thing to do, Gray Wolf.”
Little Wolf glowed with pride. His father had called him Gray Wolf, not Little Wolf. It was his first big step toward manhood!

I felt like I was drowning.
I was recovering from sinus surgery and was experiencing more complications than I had expected.
I had a fever, I couldn’t breathe through my nose, I couldn’t get my nose to stop bleeding, I was extremely dizzy, and the pain from the pressure in my head was almost unbearable.
I started panicking from the discomfort. This surgery was a new addition to my list of the worst experiences I had ever had.
Tears rolled down my face as I laid miserably on my couch.
That’s when my sweet husband, Jeffrey, came to sit by me. He handed me a tissue, took my hand, and asked, “What do you need?”
“A blessing,” I immediately answered.
Throughout my life, I have sought for the miracles Heavenly Father can provide. As a child, I learned about miracle-filled stories like Moses parting the Red Sea or Nephi retrieving the brass plates or the Savior healing others from incurable ailments. I always believed that God could also give me miracles like these, no questions asked.
However, as I grow older, I tend to hyperfocus on and long for miracles like those in the scriptures. Miracles that are instantaneous, tangible, and massive.
Much to my chagrin sometimes, no matter how much I strive to keep my covenants and exercise faith, it seems these types of miracles are a rarity. When my expectations for life are unmet and I am running out of patience while waiting on the Lord, my once-blossoming faith in miracles starts to wither.
I was feeling this withering faith regarding expectations about life around the time of this surgery.
So, when Jeffrey laid his hands on my head to offer me a priesthood blessing, imagine my surprise when he said, “As our prophet has taught, ‘seek and expect miracles’1 in this healing process and in life.”
Tears filled my eyes when I heard those words. I was desperate to feel relief, and I had faith in priesthood blessings, so I was hoping that being told to “expect miracles” meant I would feel instantly better. But Heavenly Father wanted me to learn something more.
I wasn’t healed immediately after that blessing.
However, in the minutes following, I felt peace, despite my pain. I pondered the words I had heard and started to recognize miracles I had already experienced since surgery.
I had felt strength beyond my own sustaining me through days of discomfort. I believed in my heart that the Savior understood the pain I was in (see Alma 7:11:), which deepened my gratitude for Him.
Another miracle was God’s power of the priesthood, my ability to call on Him for help, and Jeffrey’s ability to exercise that priesthood.
I also realized I had witnessed miracles of light as family and friends had reached out with love. A few even traveled far distances just to bring me a loaf of bread, a book, or a handwritten note (three of my favorite things).
This got me thinking—what miracles do I miss every day when I am too fixated on the Red Sea–sized miracles I long for?
I’ve realized that instead of waiting for earth-shattering miracles, I can seek and especially expect the small and simple miracles He and Heavenly Father shower me with daily—which are actually the big miracles (see Alma 37:6).
Each day of recovery after that blessing, I made a note of small miracles I experienced, from eased pain to waning dizziness to gratitude for my Savior. This made such a difference in my healing process and in my everyday faith.
Although I may always face health (and other) challenges that make life more tedious at times, my testimony continues to be refined as I look and reach for the Savior’s steady, reassuring hand each day. I have felt a new sense of determination to keep believing in, seeking, and expecting miracles, both big and small, trusting in His and Heavenly Father’s timing and way.

Because of the attacks on the United States on September 11, 2001, my grandma was stranded in Colorado. She was visiting my Uncle Bryan, and she could not get a flight home because they were all cancelled. She needed to get home so that she could take some medicine that would cost a lot of money to get in Colorado.
I asked my mom if I could fast for my grandma, even though it wasn’t fast Sunday. Mom thought that that was a good idea. My mom and dad and little sister all fasted and prayed with me, and my grandma was able to make it home safely and get back on her medicine that she needed to take.
I know that Heavenly Father answers prayers, and I know that He loves us and wants to help us.

I’m going to ask you to participate in a brief experiment. Start by standing in front of a mirror and reciting out loud to yourself the 13th article of faith\. You may remember it as the longest and last article you memorized as you were preparing to advance from Primary.
Analyze your feelings and mannerisms as you voice the words “We believe in being honest, true, chaste”; “we hope all things”; “we seek after these things”; etc.
Do you feel a little removed or distant from the expression of belief being made? Do the words seem to apply more to we than to me? Do they possibly convey a group but not a strong individual sense of conviction?
Now repeat article 13 again. But this time, personalize it by substituting and emphasizing the pronoun I wherever the pronoun we appears. Say the words slowly and thoughtfully: “I believe in being honest, true, chaste”; “I follow the admonition of Paul”; “I have endured many things”; etc. Do you detect a difference? Does it feel more like a part of you, something you truly accept and are personally committed to?
There is a critical difference between living our lives by rules and standards that seem imposed on us and living by standards that we regard as our own. Adopting as our own the standards of conduct God’s prophets have established is an important part of growing up and becoming converted to the gospel of Jesus Christ. For most young people it involves a gradual process of spiritual maturing during which the gospel standards become something we are, not just something we believe or do.
This important transition begins when we decide to make the gospel of Jesus Christ—God’s plan for our lives—our own personal plan for life. If we seek to obey the standards, requirements, and commandments which are included in God’s plan, we will come to know they are true (see John 7:16–17). If we then do our best to make right choices and to repent of mistakes and sins, we eventually experience what the scriptures refer to as a “mighty change” in our hearts (see Alma 5:14–26). At this point, standards are no longer a source of irritation or even something we reluctantly tolerate. Instead, they become our friends, and we appreciate and embrace them. In a sense they are us!
When we reach this milestone in our spiritual progression, some wonderful blessings and consequences will follow. Most importantly, we will experience the joy and peace of conscience that come as a result of worthiness. The earliest memory I have of the relationship between keeping God’s standards and experiencing happiness is associated with my own baptism. I recall the anticipation I felt as I awaited my eighth birthday and how sincerely I tried to exercise faith in Christ and repent of any wrongdoing. When the memorable day came, the ordinances themselves were most impressive. I vividly remember the warm water enveloping me and the equally warm spiritual feeling I later had as I was confirmed and received the gift of the Holy Ghost. The joyous feeling of being clean and close to God meant so much to me that I vowed I would never sin again. Unfortunately, my youthful good intentions failed a few days later when I responded in frustration to my older brother’s teasing by uttering what my parents had warned me was a “naughty” word. Much to my dismay, my ever-vigilant mother overheard me and came dashing out of the house with fire in her eyes! She marched me down a path to our dairy barn where my father kept a basin of water and a bar of soap. Pushing my head toward the basin, she began vigorously scrubbing my mouth out with soap, all the while impressing upon me her desire that I “never use such words again!”
Although it has been more than 50 years since that humiliating moment, I still remember perfectly the deep sadness I felt because I had offended my brother, my mother, and, most serious of all, my Heavenly Father. I learned then a lesson that the First Presidency has taught and which has been reconfirmed many times in my life: We cannot do wrong and feel right (see For the Strength of Youth, 4).
Through the years, I have also come to understand that the joy I experienced at the time of my baptism, and many times since, depends upon loving relationships with God, family, and others. God provides standards to protect those relationships from the damage that naturally accompanies sin. For example, sexual activity outside of marriage is enticing to some because it seems to offer closeness and belonging as well as pleasure. However, in reality it damages our relationship with God, brings pain to family and other loved ones, and cheats those who take part in it.
Another desirable consequence of accepting the gospel plan and its standards as our own is that we become more concerned about where we are going, or with the upward direction of our lives, than about how far we can go in pressing against and testing the outer limits of God’s laws. Young people who are becoming truly converted to the gospel of Jesus Christ are not interested in distinguishing the severity of their sins by using terms like heavy or light, petty or grand. Instead, they know by the Spirit that “the Lord cannot look upon sin with the least degree of allowance” (Alma 45:16), and they strive to avoid sin in all its forms. The idea of deliberately sinning now with the intent of repenting later is quickly rejected by them as being offensive to their Heavenly Father and contrary to His plan for happiness.
As our commitment to the gospel and its standards deepens, our understanding of God’s purposes is enlarged and our feelings about temptation and sin change. In our early years, some temptations may actually appear enticing, and we may struggle with exercising our agency in right ways. Indeed, we may make some mistakes. Thankfully, the gospel provides a way for us to repent and obtain forgiveness. As we progress in choosing and doing the right, we will eventually join King Benjamin’s people in having “no more disposition to do evil, but to do good continually” (Mosiah 5:2). Through obedience, growth even beyond this desirable state is possible—to that condition attained by the Saints in Alma’s day who became so devoted to God and His ways that they “could not look upon sin save it were with abhorrence” (Alma 13:12). What a wonderful result of obeying divine standards!
Another wonderful benefit of living according to standards we have internalized is that we gradually eliminate hypocrisy from our thinking and our behavior. The English word hypocrisy comes from a Greek word which means playing a part upon a stage. Until standards become part of our basic character, we sometimes play the role of a religious person without really being one. As we search for our true identity, we may behave like chameleons, frequently changing colors to blend with our surroundings. We act one way at school, another at church.
To most people, however, nothing is more appealing than someone who is “genuine” or “real,” and no one is more genuine or real than a young Latter-day Saint whose behavior consistently matches his or her standards. I know many young Latter-day Saints who live with this high degree of personal integrity. I have met them all over the world, and regardless of language or skin color or dress, they are similar in many ways. They are at peace with God and themselves. They are quietly confident and generally content with their natural abilities and endowments, even though they may not be among the smartest or the most attractive or athletic. They have close and satisfying relationships with God, family, and a variety of friends. Peer pressure really isn’t a factor in their choices between right or wrong. By making God’s standards their own, they have already decided how they will respond when temptation beckons. They also realize that in doing right they are not alone but are part of an ever-growing number of young Latter-day Saints the world over who love God and uphold His standards.
When we feel the closeness to God that comes with keeping His standards, we do not want to do anything to offend Him. Joseph’s experience in resisting Potiphar’s wife is a powerful example of this truth. His moral courage came from his relationship with God, as illustrated by his words: “How then can I do this great wickedness, and sin against God?” (Gen. 39:9).
When God feels as close and real to us as He did to Joseph, we will no longer view the gospel simply as a set of rules or standards to be obeyed. We will move to a higher plane and realize that our loyalty is really to a living, loving Father in Heaven who wants us to become like Him and to share eternally with our families in all He has. We must never forget that we are now becoming what we will one day be. His standards will help us become what He is. God bless us to succeed—on His terms!

This past month the Canada Toronto Mission held a mission-wide seminar. I was asked to sing a song but couldn’t find one that fit our mission program, which we call SOAR (S—sacrifice; O—obedience; A—attitude; R—rededication). I prayed about my problem, and I was directed to the August 1976 New Era, which was buried in a pile of magazines. There I found the song “Let Me Soar.” I sang this for the seminar. It was a definite answer to prayer.

Before his death, the Prophet Joseph directed that a canvas tabernacle be built to shelter the Saints during large meetings. In 1845, as the temple was nearing completion, Elder Orson Hyde of the Quorum of the Twelve was sent back East to raise funds and to buy “about four thousand yards” of canvas to build what Brigham Young referred to as “the Tabernacle of the congregation in Zion.”
Brother Orson Pratt outlined the proposed location and design of the canvas tabernacle in a letter written on August 30, 1845:
“It is intended to erect a tabernacle of canvass in front of, and joining the Temple on the west. The form of this tabernacle will be that of an ellipse. … The area of its base will be sufficient to contain eight or ten thousand persons; its seats will gradually rise one above another in the form of an amphitheatre.”
The brethren the next day began to clear the ground for the construction of the canvas tabernacle. However, because of the intense persecution from their enemies, the Saints had to leave Nauvoo, so the canvas tabernacle was never built. Orson Hyde “loaded the canvas into wagons in 1846 and headed west with it.” Some have speculated that “the canvas was put to good use for such things as tents, tent ends and wagon covers” for the Saints in the exodus to the Salt Lake Valley.

I had made the commitment to serve a mission, but there is also mandatory military service in South Korea. After high school, many young men entered the military, fulfilled their mandatory service, and immediately pursued an education and found jobs. It was difficult to give another two years to missionary service. There were only a few Korean elders then.
When I turned 19, I kept my commitment and prepared and sent in my mission papers. I was called to serve in the Korea Busan Mission. One year later, I was drafted into the military. I was so sad that I had to stop my mission.
When I completed my military service three years later, I felt that I had not yet completed my mission. Everyone told me, “You already served a mission. The Lord understands your situation, so serving for only one year is OK.”
I asked my good friend from seminary what I should do. She said that she knew I would serve another year of my mission. Her trust gave me confidence and confirmation to serve more. I served the second year of my mission in the Korea Seoul Mission. By the time I finished, I was 25 years old. I later married that same friend and we were sealed in the Laie Hawaii Temple.
This experience taught me that you will be all right even when things do not happen the way you had designed. When your plans and vision fit with the Lord’s will for you, He will help you in your life decisions.

A. J. Cronin wrote about another kind of love when he told of the doctor of Lennox as the most unforgettable character he had ever met. He describes him as “a simple soul who had no wish to dominate an empire, but set out instead to conquer circumstances—and himself.”

Mr. Cronin first knew this doctor as a boy, “small, insignificant, and poor,” who hung on to a select band of adventurous youths in the town of Levenford in Scotland by the skin of his teeth—barely accepted by them.

The boy was lame—so lame that he had to wear a boot with a sole six inches thick. The minister’s son called him “Dot and Carry” for the way he limped along as he ran. That was shortened to “Carry.”

Carry was shy, with a smiling, continuing cheerfulness, and this the boys mocked as they ran away from him. Carry’s clothes were patched and mended by his mother, “a gaunt little widow of a drunken loafer,” who supported herself and her son by scrubbing out shops. Carry supplemented the family income by getting up at five o’clock every morning to deliver milk, and it often made him late for school. The headmaster was more sadistic than sympathetic, and he would embarrass the lad unmercifully—and such public embarrassments brought out Carry’s stuttering.

His mother had set her heart on her son’s becoming a minister, and so it was that Carry—who would have preferred the out-of-doors in the woods and the moors with the wild things—found himself studying for the ministry. He who had an unusual knack of healing was at last licensed to “cure souls” according to the kirk of Scotland.

But his first public sermon was a disaster. His carefully prepared sermon died as the terrible stammer took hold of him. His poor mother mercifully was taken by an apoplectic seizure, and after the funeral Carry disappeared from Levenford.

Carry drifted to teaching in a wretched school in the mining district. Next he surfaced as a student of medicine at the age of thirty. After his medical training he disappeared again.

At length Mr. Cronin and another of his boyhood friends—now a member of Parliament and a professor of anatomy—went to the Highlands for a holiday of fishing in the little town of Lennox.

Let me quote now from Mr. Cronin’s article:
The food at our inn was vile and the landlady a scrawny shrew. It was something of a satisfaction when, two days after our arrival, she slipped on the taproom floor and damaged her kneecap. Perfunctorily, we two renegades from the healing art offered our assistance. But the dame would have none of us. No one would suit her but her own village doctor, of whose skill and notable achievements she drew such an enthusiastic picture that my friend glanced at me and smiled.

An hour later the practitioner arrived, black bag in hand, with all the quick assurance of a busy man. In no time he had silenced the patient with a reassuring word and reduced the dislocation with a sure, deft touch. Only then did he turn toward us. . . . It was Carry. But not the shy, shabby, stammering Carry of old. He had the quietly confident air of a man established and secure. In a flash of recognition he greeted us warmly, and pressed us to come to supper at his home. Meanwhile, he had an urgent case to attend.

The two men went to his home with an “odd expectancy.” They found Carry had a wife “fresh and pretty as her own countryside.” There were children also, two girls and a little boy.

Downstairs Carry joined us with two other guests. Now, at his own table, he was a man poised and serene, holding his place as host with quiet dignity. His friends, both men of substance, treated him with deference. Less from what he said than what was said by others, we gathered the facts. His practice was wide and scattered. His patients were country folk, canny, silent, hard to know. Yet somehow he had won them. Now as he went through the village the women would run to him, babes in arms, to consult him in the roadway. Such times he never bothered about fees. More than enough came his way, and at New Year there was always a string of presents on his doorstep, a brace of ducks, a goose, a clutch of new-laid eggs, in handsome settlement for some quite forgotten service.

But there were other tales—of midnight vigils when in some humble home the battle for human life was waged: a child, choking with diphtheria; a plowman stricken with pneumonia; a shepherd’s wife in painful labor—all to be sustained, comforted, exhorted, brought back haltingly, their hands in his, from the shadows.

The doctor was a force now, permeating the whole countryside, wise and gentle, blending the best of science and nature, unsparing, undemanding, loving this work he had been born to do. Conscious of the place that he had won in the affections of the people, a man who had refused defeat and won through to victory at last. [A. J. Cronin, “The Doctor of Lennox,” Reader’s Digest Twentieth-Anniversary Anthology, 1941]

Love was life for Carry. His love literally meant life to others and for him a renewed life.