Gospel Story Finder

One night his son was lying in the upper bunk bed as they read aloud alternate paragraphs from the last chapters of Second Nephi. President Romney heard his son’s voice break and thought he had a cold. As they finished, his son said, “Daddy, do you ever cry when you read the Book of Mormon?”
“Yes, son,” he answered, “sometimes the Spirit of the Lord so witnesses to my soul that the Book of Mormon is true that I do cry.”
“Well,” he said, “that is what happened to me tonight.”

A recent convert was hospitalized, the ward WhatsApp message said. Bishop called me and said that this new convert fell unconscious at home and was rushed by his wife and daughter to a nearby clinic for first aid. He asked if I had time to visit. I made my time available for such a cause. I went to the clinic to help these two sisters who did not have any other male member to assist them. These two sisters had a hard time making decisions. They were already worried and it was difficult for them to think what to do next. It was a blessing for me to assist them during their greatest need. As I was there assisting the family, Brother Vivek joined me.
We moved this brother to a hospital for better treatment. We administered to him. He was kept in the ICU for 24 hours and got treated. Members of our ward visited him and his family and offered prayers and comforted them with much prayers. Again the Lord helped this new convert and his family. It was nothing but a miracle, for he got discharged the next day. He was back home healthy and strong. This was again done because of the love of our Savior by following His example, love for the gospel, love for our own fellow beings and an opportunity to minister to others.

I recently went with priesthood leaders to visit the homes of four women in Honduras. These sisters and their families were in need of priesthood keys and authority, priesthood ordinances and covenants, and priesthood power and blessings.
Our last visit was at the home of a sister whose husband recently died in a tragic accident. A recent convert to the Church, she had not understood that she could receive her own endowment and be sealed to her husband. When we taught her that these blessings could be available to her and her deceased husband, she was filled with hope. Knowing that through temple ordinances and covenants her family can be sealed together, she has faith and determination to face the trials ahead.
This widow’s son is preparing to receive the Aaronic Priesthood. His ordination will be a great blessing to her and her family. They will have a priesthood holder in their home.
In each of the three homes we visited, a wise priesthood leader asked each sister if she had received a priesthood blessing. Each time the answer was no. Each sister asked for and received a priesthood blessing that day. Each wept as she expressed gratitude for the comfort, direction, encouragement, and inspiration that came from her Heavenly Father through a worthy priesthood holder.
These sisters inspired me. They showed reverence for God and His power and authority. I was also grateful for the priesthood leaders who visited these homes with me. When we left each home, we counseled together about how to help these families receive the ordinances they needed to progress on the covenant path and strengthen their homes.

When twins James and Jeremy Ruesch were eight months old, their mother, Lisa, hurt her arm and was not able to care for the two energetic babies during the day while her husband was at work. When babysitters volunteered to help out until she healed, James and Jeremy were split up between two tenders. They screamed the entire time they were apart. Once back together, the babies were quiet and content. After that, Lisa never tried to separate her boys. For 19 years they have rarely been apart, and even then for no more than a day.
Now Jeremy and James are going their separate ways. They left on the same day for their respective mission fields: Jeremy to the Paraguay Asunción North Mission and James to the Argentina Rosario Mission. Getting to the point where each is prepared and enthusiastic to serve a mission is part of their life story.
James and Jeremy graduated from high school in Raleigh, North Carolina, but they can’t say Raleigh is their hometown. Their father is in the military, so they have had many hometowns as they have moved with him on his different postings. But wherever they have lived with their father, mother, and younger sister, Tori, they have set a fine example of Latter-day Saint values that has affected each school and each group of friends in every town where they have lived.
Their dad, Gary, says it has been one of their accomplishments to move into a new school and raise the level of behavior and language among their classmates.
At first glance, the Ruesch brothers seem identical, although they hate dressing the same. As a child, Jeremy fell against the edge of a table and ended up with a scar near his left eye. That’s one sure way of telling them apart, and they often catch people looking for the telltale scar. The other is that Jeremy is left-handed and James is right-handed. Their track coach, however, has taught them to use the same leading leg over the high hurdles, one of the track events in which they excel.
The ongoing joke is that Jeremy is the smart Ruesch and James is the athletic one. It’s funny because the difference in their straight-A grades is measured in 10ths, as is the difference in their race times on the track—differences that are hardly noticeable except to them.
Jeremy says, “We are so similar in behavior, in attitude, in common interests, in the way we react to the environment around us. I don’t think there are a lot of things I could distinguish between the two of us.”
James continues, “We are who we are because of each other. We’ve always had a good friend as well as a brother with the same values. That has helped when we’ve moved around.”
It helps, too, that their outgoing personalities ease the way in making new friends. And they’re not afraid to let their new friends know they are members of the Church.
“People are going to ask,” says Jeremy, “What is the difference between your church and my church? What do you guys believe? They’ve been told things about LDS people by their pastors and parents, but then they know us. And they know that we’re good kids, and they see the example we are at school and the decisions we make. They know some of the things they’ve been told can’t be true. It doesn’t fit us.”
James says, “People accept Jeremy and me and know our standards. We’re the Mormon twins. For example, we’re involved in a lot of athletics. In the locker room it can get kind of sensitive to the ears. Jeremy will say, ‘Hey, watch the Mormon ears.’ He says it in a joking manner but letting them know that it offends us, and that we don’t like hearing that kind of thing. After a while, people will say, ‘Sorry, forgot. Mormon ears.’”
Jeremy continues, “And pretty soon other friends say, when someone else is swearing or taking the Lord’s name in vain, ‘Hey, whoa, we’ve got Mormons around. Can’t say that around these guys.’”
Their friends learn that there are certain activities in which Jeremy and James won’t participate. If they suggest something to do, they might stop and say, “Well, the Ruesches can’t because they’re Mormon, so we’ll do something else.”
Day-to-day life offers opportunities for the Ruesches to teach. “When we get to know new people, they find out that we don’t drink ice tea,” says James. “Because we live in the South, they simply cannot believe we’ve never had tea, ever, not one sip.”
“They find it hard to believe that someone can have such strong convictions,” says Jeremy. “We have to explain that our beliefs are a part of our lives. Our values are a priority.”
Jeremy and James have a strong sense of individual worth, but as twins the whole idea of individuality is an interesting one for them to think about. When they are faced with temptations, they only have to glance at each other before one or the other will say what they are both thinking. They know they can rely on each other to make the right decisions.
“I don’t know if I really do feel like an individual,” says James. “Jeremy and I are best friends for life. I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve been apart for more than a day. We’re always together. Other guys can call up one friend, and the two of them will hang out. If it’s Jeremy and I, we have to call another friend to come and hang out with us.”
“We are who we are because of each other. Growing up, we’ve each had a great friend with the same values,” says James.
But what if you don’t have a twin to be there always supporting you and encouraging you to make the right decisions?
Jeremy and James have some advice, the same advice they give to their 12-year-old sister, Tori.
“I know if my sister picks good friends with good families, it will help. She’ll turn out better with the support of awesome friends.”
James says, “You can’t make people like you, but you can make yourself more likable. Be kind to people. Be interested in what they are doing and what they have to say. Talk to people. Choose friends who will build you up.”
As Jeremy and James were growing up, they developed strong testimonies of their own. “The faith of a child,” says James, “that’s where it started. We do family scripture study every morning at 5:45. I owe my parents everything. I’ve been blessed, and I’ve tried to do what I know is right. That has built my testimony. I’m taking my testimony to heart, applying it, understanding it, believing it.”
“You take seminary,” says Jeremy, “and really start studying the scriptures. The more I study, the more I learn and understand about the gospel. Every little thing makes sense. The things I’ve learned in seminary have been a huge boost to my testimony.”
Now the Ruesches are taking their testimonies to the world. They are separated for the first time in their lives, yet they are united in the message they are teaching in another language in other parts of the world.
They are more than willing to dress the same. But more importantly, their message is the same. It’s a twin thing.

That’s why it hurt so much when we had to bury him. One minute he was racing across the street to meet me. And then he was in Tom’s arms, quiet and broken and looking at me with large sad eyes as if to say, “I’m sorry.” His dying didn’t take long. The car had hit him a mean whack.

“Killed by a bunch of long-haired hippies who didn’t even stop after they ran over him,” Tom sobbed when Mother came running out of the house. The boys had been long-haired all right, but I don’t think that had anything to do with it. Tom’s letting his hair grow now, and it hasn’t changed him much. I don’t think those guys meant to kill Joey, or to leave him lying there. They were scared maybe, because they came so close to hitting me.

For a long time after that, I’d go to bed at night and live it all over again. Sometimes I’d imagine that Joey didn’t get hit at all. Other times he’d only break a leg. But most of the time it would all happen the same way, except the boys wouldn’t say, “We got ’im. Let’s dig outa here.” They’d stop and say how sorry they were. And I’d say, “It’s all right fellows, I know it was an accident.”

My dad says it’s easy for kids to want to drive a car fast when school first lets out. I can see how that would be because I used to start running right from the school steps and never stop till I could see Joey with his nose poked through the hole in our fence, waiting for me. He never ran into the street even though it was hard for both of us to wait until I could hug him up again.

That day I couldn’t wait. “Here, Joey,” I yelled from the top of the street. “Come on, Joey.” He gave a leap through the fence and we both ran full speed. It seemed Joey was just a touch away when the car hit. And then he was gone forever.

When I was a young boy, my parents had a tradition of buying the children baby ducklings at Easter time. They became our pets. Near our home, in Minnesota, there was a small pond. As the ducklings grew, we would allow them to live in it. Each day I would feed them. All I had to do was whistle and they would come to me. They knew that my whistle meant easy food. As the spring turned to summer, the ducks grew bigger and fatter. They were bred not to fly. They were grateful for my free hand-outs.
From time to time, wild ducks would join them. These ducks were different. They were smaller in size. They could fly. And each winter, when it turned cold in Minnesota, the wild ducks would fly south to warmer weather. The wild ducks would never join the others when I fed them. They were afraid of me.
One day, though, a wild duck decided to join the tame ducks. He wanted an easy meal. At first, he did not trust me. But slowly he grew accustomed to my presence. He, too, began to enjoy the free meals. His life was different though. Initially, he could have it both ways. He would eat his tasty meal and then would fly off to be with the wild ducks.
After a while, I noticed a change. He stopped flying. And then I noticed why. All his free meals made him fat. He was no longer able to fly. Perhaps this story would have had a happy ending, but as mentioned earlier, winter in Minnesota brings cold, snow and frozen ponds. One day my mother told me that a man would be coming to take the ducks away for the winter. She said he had a farm and would take care of them. When the time came to say good-bye to my ducks, not only did the tame ducks go, but the wild duck was taken as well.
A few days later, I asked my mother about the ducks. She confessed to me that the man who took them was going to eat them. She just wanted to spare me the pain of telling me. I suspected that this was the case. This happened about 60 years ago, but the experience remains clear in my memory.
I remember the wild duck. This duck had freedom, but he gave it up for what he thought would be an easier life. What he thought was a free hand-out became his prison.

I had a friend at the University of Iowa who was a psychologist. He once brought to me some optical illusions. The interesting thing about them is that they don’t depend upon translation; they don’t depend upon language. They look the same to all, no matter what language they speak. “Lael,” he said, “What do these look like?”

I said, “They look like a bunch of scratches on a piece of paper.”

He said, “I know, but if you were forced to a decision, what figures would you say these look like?”

I said, “Well, I don’t know. They look like squares—just a group of squares to me.”

Then my friend got a grant from the government, went to South Africa, went deep into the bush as far from civilization as he could get, and he held these same optical illusions before the people there and asked, “What do you see when you look at this?”

In whatever language they use, they said, “We see essentially vertical forms.”

Then he came back and said, “I don’t know how to understand this. People in America tend to see rectangles when they look at the optical illusion; people in Africa tend to see vertical structures when they look at it. Why is this so?” He concluded that it is due to the fact that people in America live in what he calls “carpentered societies.” Americans live in a world of rectangles. You’re looking at one now. You’re seated in one. The floor is one, the shape of the proscenium arch is square. This is an easy way to build. It’s the cheapest form of construction. You and I are used to seeing rectangles, whereas those who live in jungles, I suppose, are used to seeing vertical forms. This illustration lends emphasis to the concept that we see, not really what we see, but what we know. In other words, what we think we see is determined by what we know, or what happens in front of the eye is not as important as what happens in the back of the eye.

Or the time I attended an Especially for Youth conference. I had heard rumors of girls dancing every dance with boys from all over the country. Knowing there would be a dance at the beginning, middle, and end of the week, I was ready to have the time of my life! The fact that there were two or three girls for every boy at my session that year left my hopes shattered when I went home having only been asked to dance once the entire week.

This was the second time I had entered this town, and I remembered the first time 17 years before when I was seven years old. It had been a little cooler, a little later; the streets had been darkening, street lights shining, but the sounds, the noises, had been the same.
Only the feeling was different because then it was all new and I was frightened. Instead of my very own, hard-earned, bought-and-paid-for sports car, I had been sitting, small and still, in Grandpa’s black and white sedan with the worn, creaky seats, the dusty dashboard, and the smell of Grandpa emanating from every corner, every fiber, circling around me, descending on me, yet all culminating on the person of that tall, broad figure sitting beside me. The car seemed to live and breathe as if it were a part of the man who had driven it year after year, smelling always of the same shaving lotion, the hot chocolate he drank for breakfast every morning, the solution he soaked his teeth in every night, the mints he sucked on after every meal. Clean smells, sweet smells, Grandpa smells that had been woven through his clothes, grown into his scratchy face, and soaked into the ends of his fingertips.
I didn’t know him. We had lived far away. Every year my mother and father had talked about going to see Grandpa and Grandma, but money was short, and we needed a new bathroom. The next year I broke my arm. The next year … well that was the year I had come, without my parents, who lay, to my bewilderment, in pretty boxes called caskets under the ground. The car and the night had claimed them. I didn’t understand.
Grandpa had waited at a red light, perhaps the same one I was waiting at now, and looked down at me. I must have looked very tiny to such a man, my skinny legs sticking out from my little skirt, my thin hands clutching my eyeless teddy bear, my pale face turned toward him, round, red eyes waiting.
Then he smiled that smile, that special smile. Not a broad one, not a hearty one. Such a slight upturn of lips, a simple rounding of cheeks, a curving of heavy eyebrows. But it was mostly his eyes that, dark as they were, shone deep into mine, sparkling dark like black diamonds. I sat startled, my mouth dropped, and for just a moment I felt certain that he was this Heavenly Father that my mother had told me about so often. He put his big hand on my neatly parted hair, touched the side of my face, then lifted one long blonde braid with his fingers. His words were simple, like the rest of him.
“Move closer, Blondie.” He put his arm around me, pulling me close. “Grandpa’s gonna take care of you now. Don’t be afraid, little Blondie Boo.” The light turned green and he drove on.
The warmth of his body helped me forget how cold my mama and daddy were in those boxes, and the tears that fell were no longer frightened but relieved. With my wet face against his side I slept.

One day a grandson of President Tanner’s approached him and said, “I have observed you and other successful men, and I have made up my mind that I want to be a success in my life. I want to interview as many successful people as I can to determine what made them successful. So looking back over your experience, Grandpa, what do you believe is the most important element of success?”
President Tanner replied that the Lord gave the greatest success formula he knew of: “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you” (Matt. 6:33).

After that first visit to Queenstown, Brother Raubenheimer and I departed for Ilinge, where we met with branch president Augustine Mjiba and the more than seventy Saints there. They met in a rented school classroom with a corrugated metal roof and a dirt floor. They share the building with another religious group, which uses African drums to lead its singing. But in spite of the interruptions by the drumming and singing, we felt the Spirit in abundance and experienced a warmth and love for the Saints who meet in such conditions.

As the crowds milled around the booths, a distinguished looking group of men in dark hats and coats appeared carrying a bucket, an easel, and some pictures. One of the men upended the bucket and mounted it while another set up the easel. Soon the crowd was being treated to an authentic 19th century street meeting—authentic, that is, except for the bullhorn that the preacher used. The meeting started with four of the missionaries singing “Sweet Is the Work” in beautiful harmony, followed by a gospel sermon and another hymn. Wags from the local wards provided some unsolicited heckling, but the elders handled it in fine form, turning the barbs back on their assailants. Then a man from the Spanish Branch wandered by and shouted, “Puras mentiras!” (It’s all a lie!) in a voice of pious conviction.
“What this good brother says is true—whatever it was he said!” the missionary exclaimed, pointing his cane for emphasis. Another street meeting was held every quarter hour or so, with a different stake or full-time missionary preaching each time.

Remember the May 1992 Mormonad? It depicted a basketball player, quite a bit shorter than his teammates, holding the MVP trophy. The coverline read, “Don’t Sell Yourself Short.”
Well, Ty Church hasn’t.
At about the time he posed for that Mormonad, Ty, at only five-feet-two inches tall, broke into the starting lineup as a sophomore on the Olympus High School varsity basketball team in Salt Lake City. During his three years as a starter, Ty never missed a game, and was instrumental in the Titans’s successful 1993–94 hoop season. As a senior, Ty was the second leading scorer in the state tournament, he broke a Utah high school record by scoring 21 points in the first quarter of a game, and he helped Olympus to a second-place state finish. But now the basketball heroics have been put aside for a couple of years.
These days, Ty is known as Elder Church. After graduating from both high school and seminary, he became a full-time missionary last September. With an eight-week stay in the MTC behind him, Elder Church, 19, is now serving in the Czech Republic Prague Mission.

When Joseph Smith died, the walls of the Nauvoo Temple were less than halfway done, and soon it became apparent to President Brigham Young (1801–77) that the Saints would again be driven out. So he asked the Lord: “Should we stay here and finish the temple, knowing that we will have to abandon it almost as soon as it’s done, or should we go now?” The answer came clearly, “Stay” (see Brigham Young diary, Jan. 24, 1845, Church Archives; Ronald K. Esplin, “Fire in His Bones,” Ensign, Mar. 1993, 46). The ordinances of the endowment and of sealing were so important that the Saints needed to stay.

And so for the next year, they poured all they had into the temple. Toward the end, their homes were being burned around Nauvoo, and the Saints were preparing to go west just as they were finishing the temple. In December 1845, enough of the temple was completed that the Saints could dedicate part of it, give endowments to those who were worthy, and seal husbands and wives to each other.

Over the next few months, they worked around the clock to prepare everyone spiritually for the great trek west. To me it’s profound and sacred that I am sealed by that same power to my wife, children, parents, and generations who have gone before and generations yet unborn. That is what the Restoration has made possible.

My struggle with pornography began during my youth, when others introduced me to inappropriate materials and behaviors. The gospel was not a major part of my life then. Although my family had attended church through my Primary years, by the time I was 13 or 14, we stopped going altogether. As a result, the teachings of the gospel did not really play a role in my decision making.
It never occurred to me to tell my parents what neighbors and so-called friends were introducing me to. I was too embarrassed to bring up what I had seen and experienced. I had no idea how to deal with it. For decades to come, my pornography addiction would remain my secret.
Shortly before I graduated from high school, a seemingly small miracle happened, an event that would turn my life in another direction. Despite the distance between my actions and gospel standards, one Sunday morning I followed a strong prompting to go to church and pay tithing. When I arrived at the chapel, I asked for people I knew. One of the names I gave was the Young Men president I had when I was a deacon, the last time I had attended church. He was now serving as bishop of the ward.
That good bishop helped bring me back into the Church. I confessed my sins, and he worked with me to set up a progress plan. Over several months I repented. I advanced in the priesthood. I held a calling. I was doing so well, in fact, that I was called to serve a mission, and I had a period of several years when my addiction was under control.
When I returned home from my mission, I did not struggle with pornography; I simply did not have access to it. That changed in the late 1990s, when the Internet became increasingly pervasive. I accidentally stumbled across some pornographic images online, and I returned to pornographic sites over and over again during the following months. The web had ensnared me.
I wanted to reach out to someone for help, but I wasn’t sure whom—or how. How could I talk to my parents about this? How could I admit to my bishop that even though I had made so much progress, I couldn’t stop engaging in this immoral behavior? I desperately wanted to stop, but I was too embarrassed by my weakness to confide in anyone, so I kept my addiction to myself.
I didn’t even tell my wife, whom I married in 2000. I wanted to tell her about my struggle when we were dating, but I was terrified that she would look down on me or, worse yet, refuse to marry me. So I lied. And I continued to do so in our marriage. I found myself being sneaky to prevent being caught. I hid pictures on my computer. When my wife asked me about particular Internet links, I denied knowing what she was talking about. Addictions are like that; they create great liars. I knew it was creating a wedge in our marriage and causing her great pain, but I would not acknowledge that I had a problem. What mattered most to me was not my behavior but how people perceived me.
My double life—and the resulting loss of the Spirit—made me vulnerable to increasingly serious sins, including infidelity. My wife had strong impressions that something was wrong and told me about them. With great remorse, I admitted to what I had done.
That was my lowest point, the point at which I realized that I had to change. Sitting across from me was the woman I loved. She loved me. I had betrayed her. I determined then to do whatever it took to save our relationship and our family.
I began meeting with my bishop regularly in working through the repentance process and Church discipline. He recommended I attend meetings of the addiction recovery program, offered through LDS Family Services. I had never heard of the program. I learned that the group held free, confidential meetings based on the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, adapted into a framework of the doctrines and principles of the Church.
I admit that during the first few meetings, I thought, “I don’t need to be here. I don’t really have a problem with pornography. I can quit any time.” That, of course, wasn’t true.
With my bishop’s encouragement, I continued to attend. My pride began to melt away, and I began to work the steps of the program: honesty, hope, trust in God, truth, confession, change of heart, humility, seeking forgiveness, restitution and reconciliation, daily accountability, personal revelation, and service. For the first time in a long time, I was living a “sober” life, a life free of pornography. Recovery isn’t ever really “over,” but I had been introduced to a new level of freedom. It came because as I participated in the 12 steps, I came to understand what was behind my addiction.
I learned that most people battling addictions have turned to some kind of “self-medication” to fill the voids they feel in their lives. Pain, sorrow, loneliness, fear, or other kinds of discomfort can act as triggers that can entice people to use this self-medication to make them feel better. Some people use prescription drugs. Others use illicit drugs. Others use alcohol. For me, pornography offered the short-term, artificial “quick fix” I thought I needed.
Knowing what triggered my addiction was one thing. Avoiding environments that aided my addiction was another. This stance requires being vigilant 24 hours a day, seven days a week for the rest of my life. I cannot get online “just to browse.” In fact, if I am by myself, I don’t go online at all. I can’t look at an ad and entertain thoughts in my mind. We don’t have cable TV in our home. When I commute to work, I avoid taking certain roads because I know there are billboards along those roads that could trigger inappropriate thoughts. If I start to slip and my mind begins to wander, I turn to my wife, to my bishop, and to prayer for strength.
My addiction affects the most minute parts of my life, but taking these precautions is worth it. I cannot neglect these defenses because I know what my addiction can do to me and to those I love.
It’s not just a matter of avoiding the bad, though. I also must make constant, conscious efforts to turn to the good. Several of the 12 steps have helped me do this by bringing me closer to God.
Every day when I wake up, I get on my knees and thank Heavenly Father for giving me the opportunity to repent of my sins and to come to Him through the Atonement of His Son, Jesus Christ. I ask Him to let me know His will so that I can do it. I ask Him to lead me away from temptation. I pray as though I rely on Heavenly Father every minute of the day—because I do—and I keep that prayer in my heart throughout the day. I pray again each night. I also spend some time in the scriptures daily so that I can focus my thoughts on virtuous things. If I don’t make these a habit, I don’t have the Spirit in my life. And left on my own, I am not strong enough to resist temptation.
For a long time I believed I could overcome my behavior anytime I wanted to by my own willpower. But I failed miserably. After a while I got tired of doing it on my own, especially when “on my own” wasn’t working. I realized that I could not do what I needed to do without the Lord’s help. Ether 12:27 helped me understand this better. The Lord told Moroni, “My grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.”
Once I went to Him, still doing all I could do (see 2 Nephi 25:23), I realized that I could do much better and become much more with His help than I ever could dream of by relying on my own merits (see Alma 7:14).
My wife and I now serve as facilitators at the addiction recovery program meetings. She has learned—and is helping others understand—that the Atonement is for not only those who are working to overcome an addiction but also those who have been affected by the addiction through no choice of their own. If we turn to the Savior, His grace can work in all of our lives.
To those who are battling addiction and to the people they love, I can attest that there is hope. There is always hope in the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I am deeply grateful to Jesus Christ because He literally saved me from the chains of sin. Addiction is like being held by chains that “bind the children of men, that they are carried away captive down to the eternal gulf of misery and woe” (2 Nephi 1:13). When I realized I was in trouble, I didn’t know where to turn. I was desperate because I could not free myself from my predicament. But the Lord could free me. When I turned to Him, He was there to help.
I can relate with Ammon: “Yea, I know that I am nothing; as to my strength I am weak; therefore I will not boast of myself, but I will boast of my God, for in his strength I can do all things” (Alma 26:12). I know that God can help us do all things, including overcoming the chains of addiction.

When Olivio was seventeen, he played on a team for the Angloan military. All the boys in the country were required to go into the military for an indefinite amount of time. He also made the national team.
That’s when Olivio began to dream of playing ball in Portugal. He was fluent in Portuguese. (Angola is a former Portuguese colony, and Portuguese is the official language.) And what’s more, Olivio heard that they actually paid professional players salaries in Portugal. He would be able to send money home to his family.
It took Olivio a few years to get a visa to go. But once he arrived in Portugal, it took him only a few days to find a professional team that wanted him. At six-foot-seven, he not only had the stature they were looking for, but he also had the skill.
And it took him only a month to find something else. “I was on the metro, and I saw these two boys—they were only boys, but they were wearing nice suits—and they said they wanted to talk to me, so I said okay.
“They started to teach me the discussions. The Joseph Smith story surprised me, but it felt good. Everything felt good. One week later I went to a conference. I attended the meetings, and afterwards I was baptized. Baptism is for the remission of sins. I was a good guy, but I knew I needed to be baptized.”
Little did Olivio know what that baptism would lead to. When he wasn’t playing basketball, Olivio was at church. “I tried to go to church all the time. Every time I would go, my mind would open up, and I would learn something new. It felt good.”
Then one day, about a year later, one of Olivio’s American teammates said, “Hey—you’re Mormon. Don’t Mormons go on missions? Are you going to quit the team and go too?”
That started Olivio thinking. “The things I learned made sense to me, and I said, ‘Well, if these things come from God. I have to explain them to other people.”
But leaving basketball—that would be tough. Olivio had just made the Portuguese national team, and his professional team had offered him a very lucrative contract—lots of money, a car, and a luxurious apartment.
“It was a difficult decision to leave basketball, so I decided to get my patriarchal blessing. There it said that I was going to serve the Lord, so I decided to do it. God prepared me to come here and find the gospel by giving me these talents to play basketball. I don’t have a problem leaving it to serve him. I think I can help many people.”
And now, Elder Olivio Gomes Manuel, who left northern Portugal almost two years ago to serve in southern Portugal, is helping many people. He’s well known throughout the mission for his good nature and easy smile, his hard work, and his gentle rapport with the people he towers over.
That isn’t the kind of fame that makes you a star on national television—it’s more the kind of fame that makes you a star in the eternities. And while he won’t make lots of money from gigantic contracts and endorsements, he knows that his eternal reward will be far greater.
Still, you see his eyes light up when you put a basketball in his hands on preparation day. Watching him glide around the court, you realize basketball is as natural for him as swimming is to fish. It seems to be what he was made for. Oh, once his mission is over he would like to use basketball to earn a university education. But then he wants to return to Angola “to help the Church and help the people grow there.” Elder Manuel speaks mostly Portuguese now, but he remembers his native language, an African dialect called Quinbondo, and he knows English as well.
Even though the end of this tale is far from written, it’s already a success story as tall as Elder Manuel himself. After all, the richest pro in the world can’t buy his way into heaven. And no matter how many autographs you’ve signed, if your name isn’t written in the book of life, your fame won’t mean a thing.
Elder Manuel has already gained more success than he ever hoped to, and his secret is simple: “I listen to God, and when I do what he says, he blesses me.”

Meanwhile, Elder Warwood was discovering his own unexpected path. “When we came out, I didn’t know what I was going to do,” he admits. When another senior missionary couple had to return home early, Elder Warwood inherited their bicycle maintenance responsibilities, in which he had little experience. “I know enough about bike repair to get myself in trouble,” he laughs.
The solution came through family. His brother Dan was planning to visit New Zealand for just one week with his wife. Sister Warwood suggested they extend their stay. “Gary could really use some help with bikes.” Her sister-in-law’s response was immediate: “Oh, Dan would love that.”
Dan, a skilled mechanic, ended up staying almost three weeks, teaching Elder Warwood everything about bicycle repair. “He fixes anything,” Elder Warwood says gratefully. “The Lord just provided that help.” Now he manages both mission finances and keeps dozens of bicycles running.

Renee and I were married in August 1976, and on August 17, 1978, our son, and only child, was born. This picture was taken literally minutes after his birth.

You will notice that I did not put a name for our son on that slide. We had talked about several names, but when he was born, we had not made a final decision. After he was born, I changed my mind about all of the names we had discussed and suggested that he be named after my father. Renee agreed, and so he was named David Parry Wilson.

To help you understand why we decided this, you need to know something about my father. I was blessed to be born into a wonderful family and had a great relationship with my mother and father.

My first recollections of my father outside the home were of Coach Wilson, the basketball and baseball coach at Logan High School, the only high school in the small town in northern Utah where I was raised. I subsequently learned that he had been an All-Conference basketball player at the University of Utah. While teaching and coaching at the high school, he continued his studies to earn a Ph.D. and became Principal Wilson, my junior high and then high school principal. At the same time, during my teenage years, he was Bishop Wilson, the bishop of my ward. He then became Professor Wilson, the head of the secondary education department at Weber State College. I even took a class from him, earning an A, I might add. He eventually retired as a vice-president at Weber State. As President Wilson, he served in a stake presidency, and then was Elder Wilson as he and my mother served as senior couple missionaries. For the past twenty years he has been Patriarch Wilson and has given well over 1000 patriarchal blessings. He is also Brother Wilson, a sealer in the Ogden Utah Temple. As a sealer, he has had the opportunity of performing the temple marriages of 10 of his grandchildren, including sealing my son and his namesake, David, to his eternal companion, Maile, a year ago. Most important of all, over the years he has been my loving and caring father.

I didn't know what type of legacy I might provide for my son and I still don't. However, I had no doubts about my father's legacy. My father has spent 87 years developing the David Parry Wilson brand. I wanted my son to have the responsibility of maintaining that brand image. I wanted to impose on him the discipline required to maintain the brand, the good name of my father, his grandfather. To paraphrase the definition of branding that I quoted earlier, by identifying him with my father's name, I wanted my son to have the responsibility of delivering the expected quality.

After his wife suffered a heartbreaking miscarriage during their first pregnancy, Solofo Ravelojaona felt that their prayers were answered a year later with their second pregnancy. He and his wife, Hary Martine, consider the birth of their daughter to be one of their greatest blessings. Solofo explains, “Because we asked God and He gave her to us, we gave her a name that, in Malagasy, means ‘God’s answer.’”

On Easter Sunday we had a unique lesson in our Young Women class. We were each given a paper to write down what happened during the days of the Savior’s last week in mortality. For the day of the Resurrection, we came together with all of the young women and listened to a narration of the final hours of the Savior’s life. As it neared the end, I stood up with several other young women to hold up portraits of the Savior.
When I stood up, I noticed that Meghan, an autistic girl in our Laurel class, was crying. I asked a friend to take my place, and I went over to Meghan. After the presentation was over, Meghan began filling out the space on her paper to describe the Savior’s last day. As she finished, my heart was filled with love and humility as I read what she had written from her heart—simple, innocent, and pure: “He will be with us forever.”