Gospel Story Finder

Ever since he was a child, Joseph knew he could rely on his oldest brother. Alvin was twenty-five years old now and could have acquired his own farm if he wanted. But he had chosen to stay on the family farm to help his parents get settled and secure on their land as they got older. He was serious and hardworking, and Joseph loved and admired him immensely.24

Maybe Moroni felt that Joseph needed his brother’s wisdom and strength to become the kind of person the Lord could trust with the plates.

Returning home that evening, Joseph was tired. But his family crowded around him as soon as he came through the door, eager to know what he had found at the hill. Joseph started to tell them about the plates, but Alvin interrupted when he noticed how weary Joseph looked.

“Let us go to bed,” he said, “and we will get up early in the morning and go to work.” They would have plenty of time tomorrow to hear the rest of Joseph’s story. “If Mother will get our suppers early,” he said, “we will then have a fine long evening and all sit down and hear you talk.”25

The next evening, Joseph shared what had happened at the hill, and Alvin believed him. As the oldest son in the family, Alvin had always felt responsible for his aging parents’ physical welfare. He and his brothers had even started building a larger house for the family so they could be more comfortable.

Now it seemed Joseph was looking after their spiritual welfare. Night after night he captivated the family with talk of the gold plates and the people who wrote them. The family grew closer together, and their home was peaceful and happy. Everyone felt that something wonderful was about to happen.26

Then one autumn morning, less than two months after Moroni’s visit, Alvin came home with an intense pain in his stomach. Bent over in agony, he begged his father to call for help. When a doctor finally arrived, he gave Alvin a large dose of a chalky medicine, but it only made things worse.

Alvin lay in bed for days, writhing in pain. Knowing he would probably die, he called for Joseph. “Do everything that lies in your power to obtain the records,” Alvin said. “Be faithful in receiving instruction and keeping every commandment that is given you.”27

He died a short time later, and sorrow settled over the house. At the funeral, a preacher all but said Alvin had gone to hell, using his death to warn others of what would happen unless God intervened to save them. Joseph Sr. was furious. His son had been a good young man, and he could not believe that God would damn him.28

With Alvin gone, talk of the plates ended. He had been such a staunch supporter of Joseph’s divine call that any mention of them brought his death to mind. The family could not bear it.

Joseph missed Alvin terribly and took his death especially hard. He had hoped to rely on his oldest brother to help him get the record. Now he felt forsaken.29

The Clothesline: Let me share another story about the growing up years in Shelley and my friend Mike. The city blocks that surrounded our homes were very large but also generally did not have many fences to create undue obstacles. This made for some great open spaces in and around many of the homes and provided a very efficient way to get through the block often without detection. I have heard that some of the local youth would use this as a means of running away, perhaps after pelting a passing car with snowballs or leaving the front porch of a home where the doorbell had just been pressed. I am not sure what possessed these youth to do such things since of course Mike and I primarily used these backyard areas as forms of exercise to relax our minds in between studying for upcoming chemistry or physics tests.
On once such studious occasion, we were moving at a high rate of speed through the dark center of the city block. I happened to be in front on this occasion when all of a sudden I heard this crazy noise that I don’t really know how to describe, associated with a thud, and followed by the moaning of a wounded soul. As I returned, making sure that no man was left behind, I found Mike crumpled on the ground in a heap and clearly in pain. Upon further review of the situation, I realized that we had run directly toward a clothesline. I had passed successfully under it without even knowing it was there. Mike on the other hand… well, not so much! The clothesline had caught him just above the eye and had planted him ever so harshly upon the ground.
I have had two primary thoughts on this experience over the years. First, we need to ever be conscious of those that we may be leading – either knowingly or not – and the paths upon which we might take them, with the second observation really being the polar opposite – we need to be conscious of those we might be following and the paths upon which they might lead us. Now, I was leading in good faith but without all the information or awareness of forces that surrounded us, and Mike was exerting the same faith in his following.

Brother Bradshaw was old. At least that’s what the other kids said. But he didn’t seem old to Mikey. He remembered that for many years Brother Bradshaw had gone over to the church early each Sunday to sweep away the leaves from the walkways so that people wouldn’t slip. Now, since Brother Bradshaw had been in a wheelchair, Mikey had gone to his home each Sunday morning to push him to church. They became friends as they spent time together.
One morning, Mikey’s mom told him that Brother Bradshaw had passed away. Tears came to his eyes. “How could he?” he thought. “We were just talking last Sunday!”
The next few days were difficult for Mikey. He knew Brother Bradshaw was 91 years old, but he had never thought about him dying. He missed him so much. But as he saw Brother Bradshaw’s family arriving from out of town for the funeral, he knew that they missed him too. He knew how much Brother Bradshaw had loved his family, and he wanted to let them know that Brother Bradshaw was special to him too.
Mikey sat down and wrote them a note. He told them about how much he enjoyed knowing Brother Bradshaw and that he was his best friend. Then he delivered it to the Bradshaw house. But Mikey still felt like he should do something more. He thought and thought. What could he do that would be special for Brother Bradshaw?
Finally it came to him. Just before the funeral he went over to the Bradshaw home again and delivered another note. This one read:
“I swept off the church sidewalks this morning. It’s the last thing I can do for Brother Bradshaw, my good friend, here on earth. I can’t wait to see him again when I go to heaven. I am so thankful to Brother Bradshaw for sweeping off the sidewalks for me every Sunday. It was hard for me, and I know it was hard for him, and I never said thank you to him. My mom said he knows I am thankful, but that’s the first thing I am going to tell him when I see him in heaven.
Love,
Mikey”
As Brother Bradshaw’s daughter-in-law read the note her eyes began to glisten. “Oh, Mikey!” was all she could say, and she gave him a big hug. Mikey knew that Brother Bradshaw would like his gift.

I remember the first time that I really recognized the Spirit teaching me a principle. I was on my mission and had been trying to understand a particular passage in the epistle to the Hebrews. I had been pondering it for a few days. While reading before going to sleep one night, I suddenly felt knowledge and intelligence flowing into me. It lasted about twenty seconds, and I was filled with joy. I remember getting up afterward and dancing around the room for a few minutes. Although the knowledge of the particular doctrine was nice, the real joy of the experience was feeling the love and the Spirit of the Lord with me. Each time we feel the Spirit in our lives, we are changed somewhat for the better. The Holy Ghost is not only a revelator but is also a sanctifier (see Alma 13:12).

The second thrill happened after I retired from professional football. A young man became interested in the gospel through some discussions we had. I invited him to my home. He brought his girl friend with him, and the full-time missionaries taught them the gospel. They were converted. I had the opportunity of baptizing these two young people. A year later they came to Salt Lake City, and I had the privilege of going through the Salt Lake Temple with them when they were sealed for time and eternity.
The experience of seeing those beautiful young people accept the gospel and be united forever was a great thrill. It was a different kind of thrill than the touchdown pass. There were only a few people present in the “sacred silence,” but it was still very exciting.

The January night was cold and dark. Six-year-old Brigitte huddled next to her nine-year-old sister, Wanda, both of them trying to stay close to the wood-burning stove. Black paper covered the windows so that not even a bit of light would show through to show enemy planes where to bomb. Papa held out a paper, straining to read it by the light of one tiny candle.
“I am to report to Augsburg (Germany) for military training by February first,” he said. “I have been drafted.”
To be without Papa? It was unthinkable! Papa with his funny stories. Papa, who had always kept the family safe. Brigitte looked at the shadowy faces of Mama, Papa, and Wanda. They were sad faces, but without tears.
Papa’s voice was calm. “Over three-fourths of Nuremberg has already been bombed. We ourselves had to find a new home when a bomb tore the hole in our kitchen. Elizabeth, I think that after I am gone, you and the children should try to find a place to stay away from here. It will be safer in the country.”
Mama nodded her head. “My sister Margarete is already looking for a place for us.”
Shuddering, Brigitte remembered the bombs hitting the top floor of their apartment building before they could escape to the shelter. She remembered burning mattresses being flung out of windows. And she remembered being pulled along to the bunkers by her father’s strong hand as they ran through the street in terror, the upper part of it engulfed in flames. That time there had been no warning.
As though reading her mind, Papa said, “Gitte, remember the time Mama covered you with blankets in the shelter to try to block out the noise and screaming? You had been crying. I know that you were very much afraid. Then you heard one of our neighbors say, ‘I want to sit by Mrs. Baier—she has such strong faith, nothing ever happens to her.’ You pushed the blanket off and looked at Oma (Grandmother), who was sitting quietly. Do you remember what you did then?”
“Yes, Papa. I crawled into Oma’s lap, and I stopped crying.” Brigitte smiled. “I always want to be just like Oma.”
“We must all have faith like Oma,” Papa agreed. “Ever since I was baptized when I was fifteen years old, I have never doubted the truthfulness of the gospel. This war will be over soon, but I will never have peace in my heart until I can move us to America and we are sealed in the temple. I have to leave you for a little while now, but we will be together again, and then, somehow, we will get to America.”
Mama smiled. “Yes, George, I’m sure that your dream will come true when you come back to us. You could have gone there after your mission in 1931. I’m glad you stayed here to marry me, instead.”
Papa grinned back at her. “I thought we could go in 1936, after Wanda was born—we even gave her an American name—but by then the government wouldn’t let us out of the country.”
“You were the branch president, however—perhaps you were needed here for a while. I was really frightened, though, when the police came to our home to search for Church books.”
“I was, too, Elizabeth, but no harm came to us.” Papa looked at his two little girls. “I want to give you each a father’s blessing before I leave. And don’t ever doubt that Heavenly Father will take care of you. He won’t ever leave you.”
Brigitte felt comforted after she was given the blessing. Somehow it made her feel like Papa was always close by, even after he had to go away.
Aunt Margarete found a place for them to stay in the country with a kind farmer and his family. Brigitte started school in the nearby village. There was no word from Papa since he had written that he was being transferred. Every day Mama faithfully wrote to him.
“Mama! Mama!” Wanda cried one day as she hurried home. “The Americans have come. The war is over! Surely Papa will be home soon.”
Mama looked up from the stove where she was cooking potato pancakes, wiped her brow with her apron, and sighed. “I hope so, Wanda. I wish we would have some word of him.”
Although the long war was over and there were no more alarms, no more hurrying through the streets to get to the underground shelter when the bombs came, there was no word yet from Papa. Was he alive? Mama still wrote to him. But it had been two years. …
When she came home from the post office with a letter one day, Brigitte and Wanda both ran to her crying, “Is it from Papa?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Oma needs us to come back to Nuremberg. Opa (Grandfather) is very sick. She needs help taking care of him. We must leave right away.”
What about school? Brigitte wanted to ask. But she kept silent. Oma needed them. They walked over an hour, and then two American soldiers gave them a ride in a jeep to Nuremberg. All of the American soldiers treated the people with kindness.
“Oma, let me sweep this floor for you,” Brigitte said, hurrying to take the broom from her grandmother. Opa did not have much longer to live, and Oma looked worn out. Brigitte watched for every chance to help her.
Mama had been called to be Relief Society president. “I don’t know what we’d do without this help from the Saints in America,” she said, opening a big box of food to distribute to people in need.
Brigitte loved the powdered milk that came in some of the boxes. How she loved to put a bit of the white powder on the end of her spoon and lick it off. Mmmm!
Spring came. Opa died in March, and Mama, Wanda, and Brigitte planted a garden where he had always planted one. He had always been so proud of his garden. In the years before he got sick, he had risen at five o’clock each morning and hurried to it, a small part of a shared lot about a twenty minute walk from their apartment.
The garden wasn’t doing very well, though, and Mama was discouraged. “Throw these plants away, Brigitte. They’re so scraggly and the soil is very poor. I don’t think they’re worth bothering with.”
Brigitte looked at the plants with their drooping leaves. They looked dead already. She started to pull them up, then stopped. Opa always worked hard in his garden, she thought. I can’t give up on these plants. I know he wouldn’t. She carefully loosened the dirt around each one and gave them a drink of water. “Please help them to grow, Heavenly Father,” she prayed. Every day she came to the garden and watered it or pulled weeds or both.
One day after she had worked in the garden, she returned home to find her mother sitting and rocking back and forth with tears chasing each other down her cheeks, clutching a letter. “Papa’s alive! This letter is from him. He is a prisoner of war in France and has been clearing the forests there. He didn’t get any of my letters, so he wrote to our friend Peter Loscher in America to see if he could find out if we were all right. Peter sent him our address.” She started to read from Papa’s letter:
“I am so happy to finally know how to reach you and to find that you are safe and well. I am too. My biggest problem is lack of food. Sometimes I have been so hungry that I have had to eat insects. But my faith remains strong. Once when I was clearing a forest, I climbed to the top of a high mountain, where I was able to be alone for a few minutes. I asked the Lord for renewed strength to endure it here. I haven’t forgotten our dream—surely we will be together soon!”
(To be continued)

When Noah moved here, his new friends helped him adjust to life on the island. Now, as the oldest in the group, he’s helping them get used to life in Young Men. “I was worried about being accepted and getting to know the others,” Noah said about starting Young Men. “Going to the activities really helped.” Noah’s favorite Primary song is about the army of Helaman, and that’s how he sees the priesthood quorum—as being together, united.
His advice? “Be yourself.”

Elder Pratt’s two former companions traveled on to Tahiti, where their teaching met with far less success. After a few months, Elder Rogers traveled west to a small group of islands and Elder Grouard sailed to the island of Anaa in the Tuamotus. Elder Rogers again met with little success and much opposition. When rumors finally reached him of the death of the Prophet Joseph Smith, he began to fear for the safety of his family in Nauvoo, and he returned to America. He died during the exodus from Nauvoo.
The people of Anaa, on the other hand, came to greatly love Elder Grouard. He was the first white missionary of any religion to come to their island, and many of them accepted the truth he taught. He baptized over 600 people, organized five branches, and called local officers to serve. He wrote to Elder Pratt and asked him to come to Anaa, as there was too much work for him to do alone.
Elder Pratt responded to his companion’s invitation, and a conference of the Church was held on Anaa with more than 800 in attendance. At this time Addison Pratt decided to travel back to Church headquarters to request more missionaries to help in the work in the South Pacific. Leaving Elder Grouard behind, he traveled first to California, then to the Salt Lake Valley, arriving in September 1848, one week after his wife and four daughters had arrived there from Winter Quarters.
He shared his experiences with the Saints, taught Tahitian classes, and prepared to return to Polynesia. In 1850 he set out with a new companion, James S. Brown, and the promise that his own family and other missionary families would soon follow. They did follow, and despite growing problems with the French government in the islands, the missionaries and their families served until 1852, when they were forced to return to America.
Forty years passed before LDS missionaries were allowed back into French Polynesia. When they returned, the missionaries found that many members had remained faithful despite the lack of contact with Church headquarters, but many others had fallen away. The work began anew in 1892 and has continued with a few interruptions to this day. The gospel truth has shone in these islands for 150 years!
There are now four stakes in the Society Islands, and a beautiful temple stands in Papeete, on the island of Tahiti. The stories of the early missionaries are remembered and shared often by those who now send their own sons and daughters as missionaries to other countries and other islands.*

When I was 13 years old, my family lived on property in Granger, Utah, and every Saturday morning, my brother and I would get up early to start our chores. On one particular Saturday, my chore was to mow the lawn. We had a pretty big yard, so I had to get up extra early to get everything done before it got too hot.
As I was putting the lawn mower away in the shed after I’d finished, I heard the door to the back of our home close. I looked up and saw my father motion for me to come over and sit with him on the back porch steps of our home. We sat shoulder to shoulder, admiring the beautiful sunrise, as I waited for him to speak to me.
After a while he asked me, “Son, tell me about what you want to do in your life. What are your goals? What are your thoughts about the future?”
I told him my goals and dreams, including things like amazing sporting accomplishments and becoming an attorney. When I finished, he said, “That’s wonderful. You can accomplish anything in this life with our Heavenly Father’s help.”
Then he said, “Son, there is something that I would like to talk to you about, and I want you to know that I have prayed about what I’m going to share with you now. And I have prayed that the message I will give to you will be imprinted on your soul.
“What I am going to say to you will greatly affect how you deal with the challenges and the heartaches you will certainly face in your life. And it will come to influence how you face the successes that you have in your life more than anything else that I know to say to you.”
He paused, and I curiously waited to find out what this amazing piece of advice would be.
“Protect the private times of your life,” he said. “You know those moments of your life when you think, ‘There’s no one else around, nobody else knows what I’m doing, and nothing that I’m going to do during this moment will have any negative effect on anyone else’? You know those times?
“What you do in those moments, during these private times of your life, will determine the level of confidence you will have before God and men. It will determine your ability to concentrate and focus on difficult and complex challenges in your life more than anything else I could teach you. And it will have more to do with how you grow and raise your own family and how you strive to draw near to our Heavenly Father than anything else I could say to you. Son, protect the private times of your life.”
I listened carefully to that advice. And just like he said, that moment became locked in my mind and in my heart. Those words are forever imprinted on my soul.
“You know those moments of your life when you think, ‘There’s no one else around, nobody else knows what I’m doing, and nothing that I’m going to do during this moment will have any negative effect on anyone else’?”
As I reflected on what my dad taught me, I realized that my father was not only referring to the importance of staying away from things like pornography and misconduct. He was advising me to fill those private times with positive things. About a year after that conversation, I finished reading the Book of Mormon on my own for the first time. And I came to receive a witness by the Spirit, in a private moment, that the Book of Mormon is the word of God. And I was able to make the connection between the importance of it being the word of God and this being the Lord’s Church.
In those private moments, I gained a testimony that the prophet of my youth, President Spencer W. Kimball, was a mouthpiece of the Lord. And it is on that foundation that I have continued to know that each prophet after, including President Russell M. Nelson today, is the Lord’s chosen, called, and anointed mouthpiece to the world.
For me, those private moments have been the foundation on which my testimony rests.
Since that morning on the back porch steps of my childhood home, protecting the private times of my life has meant not only doing those things that guarded each moment against error or sin but filling those moments with spiritually and physically uplifting activities. Some of those include listening to good music, praying, reading the scriptures or other wholesome books, and physical exercise. I try and fill those private times with a focus on developing my talents and working on my hobbies. I have found that doing so brings me lasting joy rather than momentary happiness.
Protecting the private times of my life has meant not only doing those things that guarded each moment against error or sin but filling those moments with spiritually and physically uplifting activities.
During my youth, as I worked on protecting the private times of my life, I made personal goals in areas where I wanted to improve, such as setting goals to read the Book of Mormon, improve my race time in the 400-meter run, serve a full-time mission, and attend a university. I strived to use the time I had to progress and develop my skills. Setting and striving to achieve those goals has blessed my life with better physical health, strengthened testimony, inner peace, and lasting joy.
I am so grateful for the advice my father gave me all those years ago to protect the private times of my life. I know his counsel has helped me to confront the challenges of life and feel the confidence of knowing that I have a Father in Heaven who loves me and to whom I can go during sweet hours of prayer, all during the private times of my life (see Doctrine and Covenants 121:45–46). As you protect those moments in your life and fill them with wholesome, uplifting activities you will see and feel our Heavenly Father’s blessings of peace, increased confidence and lasting joy pour into your life.

Grandpa smiled. “Lisa, did I ever tell you the story about the tree that began to sprout leaves in the winter? At the time, people called it a miracle. It brought new hope to many who needed it. Later it was discovered that a steam pipe near the tree had a leak and the warmth made the tree think it was spring—time to wake up and time to show its leaves. People talked about it for months afterward. Many felt it was a message from God, telling them that they should never despair.”

That winter I decided I had to become like her. I tried ballet. I tried drama. I started doing many of the things in which she was interested. Nothing seemed right for me, and I became more frustrated. Although I had regularly prayed, I now developed an even greater need to communicate my thoughts with God. I spent many hours on my knees asking that I might gain peace of mind and understanding of DeNeece and my feelings toward her. It seemed my prayers were finally answered through DeNeece herself. Because of her deep concern for others, she sensed my growing struggle. She knew she needed to help me, so we walked and talked again in the snow.
“Michelle, I am glad you’re you. I’m grateful that you have shared your special talents with me. Help me to become more patient and understanding like you. Help me learn to be close to people on a one-to-one basis. You have so many of the refined qualities that I desire to have someday. Discover how special you really are; then be the best of what you can be. Don’t try to be another DeNeece; be a Michelle. Your gifts and talents will flourish, and we can grow together.”
I was very surprised to find that she desired some of the traits I had. She helped me see that I was trying to mold my ball exactly like hers, yet after many months of uncertain effort, my snowball was still quite small.

I’d like to tell you about a woman who grew up in a room filled with darkness—I’ll call her Jane.

From the time Jane was three years old, she was repeatedly beaten, belittled, and abused. She was threatened and mocked. She awoke each morning not knowing if she would survive until the next day. The people who should have protected her were those who tortured her or allowed the abuse to continue.

In order to protect herself, Jane learned to stop feeling. She had no hope of rescue, so she hardened herself to the horror of her reality. There was no light in her world, so she became resigned to the darkness. With a numbness that can come only from constant and unrelenting contact with evil, she accepted the fact that any moment might be her last.

Then, at age 18, Jane discovered The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The joy and hope of the restored gospel penetrated her heart, and she accepted the invitation to be baptized. For the first time, light entered her life, and she saw a bright path before her. She left the darkness of her world and decided to attend school a great distance away from her abuser. At last she felt liberated from an environment of darkness and evil—free to enjoy the Savior’s sweet peace and miraculous healing.

However, years later, after her abuser had died, Jane was again troubled by the horrible events of her youth. Profound sadness and anger threatened to destroy the wonderful light she had found in the gospel. She realized that if she allowed that darkness to consume her, her tormentor would have a final victory.

She sought counseling and medical help and began to realize that, for her, the best path for healing was to understand and accept that darkness exists—but not to dwell there. For, as she now knew, light also exists—and that is where she chose to dwell.

Given her dark past, Jane could easily have become vindictive, venomous, or violent. But she didn’t. She resisted the temptation to spread the darkness, refusing to lash out in anger, hurt, or cynicism. Instead, she held fast to the hope that with God’s help she could be healed. She chose to radiate light and devote her life to helping others. This decision enabled her to leave the past behind and to step into a glorious, bright future.

She became a schoolteacher, and today, decades later, her love has influenced the lives of hundreds of children, helping them to know that they have worth, that they are important. She has become a tireless defender of the weak, the victimized, and the discouraged. She builds, strengthens, and inspires everyone around her.

Jane learned that healing comes when we move away from the darkness and walk toward the hope of a brighter light. It was in the practical application of faith, hope, and charity that she not only transformed her own life but forever blessed the lives of many, many others.

The winters in France can be very cold, and they can feel even colder when you’re riding a bike. Right after Christmas while I was serving as a missionary in the Belgium Brussels Mission, my companion and I passed a little lady, also on a bicycle.
I immediately noticed this woman had no gloves. On impulse, I asked her if she would like my gloves because I had received a new pair for Christmas. She hesitated and then talked to me about other things. We stopped our bikes and talked some more.
Finally, I took off my gloves and put them on her hands and said, “Merry Christmas.” Her eyes filled with tears and she hugged me. I felt so strongly the love Heavenly Father had for her, and I told her how much God loved her. She said her husband was sick and she had left the house to run some errands. I asked her if we could come and see her, but she declined because of her husband’s illness. I will never forget what I felt as I watched her ride off. I felt the sting of cold on my hands, but my heart was filled with the love of God.
The lesson I learned was that through service we can come to feel the love God has for each of his children. It is often by our service that God blesses others and answers their prayers.
I was just thinking that Mom must have been inspired to send me another pair of gloves for Christmas.

The first, Brent, grew up attending church and hearing daily sermonettes in his home on gospel subjects. In spite of this, he was deeply unhappy. He felt that he was fenced in by commandments and restrictions, supposedly imposed by God to dictate what he should not do, what he was forbidden to enjoy, and even what he must not think. Only a motivation to succeed, to have status in others’ eyes, kept him going in the Church. But “doing the right thing for the wrong reasons” brought him no happiness. He didn’t feel free.
He therefore began to seek happiness outside the Church. He discovered the “new morality” and became convinced that any suppression of or restriction upon his physical urges was wrong, that every commandment was a curse on life, that subscribing to religious and moral prescriptions was a way of hating one’s own body and the desires that affect it.
Tragically, supposing that all Church members obeyed the commandments for the same reasons he once did—out of selfishness or fear—he called them hypocritical and unloving. He told me that abandoning himself in total response to every physical desire was bringing him the first happiness he had ever known. Yet, even as he told me this, it was clear that his first exciting taste of what appeared to him to be freedom would turn bitter on his tongue. And I have learned since that, though it provided a momentary titillation of his senses, it is bringing him no peace. On the contrary, though he has tried to escape the guilt of disobeying the commandments by pretending that they are foolishness, that guilt is returning now to haunt him as never before.
What happened to Brent? Why did he leave the Church in order to find love, honesty, freedom, and happiness, the very blessings that others find in the Church? I think the answer is this: Even though Brent heard constant sermonizing in church and at home, he apparently never experienced much of the Spirit of God or tasted the joys of the gospel. Though bludgeoned all his life with words, he hadn’t felt the love and warmth that are fruits of the gospel. The words were merely meant to describe it. The words without the experiences were meaningless. Hence, when finally he encountered a way of life that promised to remove the restrictions that had condemned him and that he hoped would sweep away his guilt, his life in the Church seemed like a dingy black-and-white movie—the lamp of the projector being nearly burnt out—when compared with the technicolor of this alluring new way of life. The only version of the gospel he could compare to the luridly colorful worldliness that enticed him was pale and meaningless. Given these alternatives, how else could he have chosen?
Brent had never really tasted of the gospel; he had only heard descriptions of it. A man can learn all there is to know about water, that it is composed of molecules made up of two atoms of hydrogen and one of oxygen bonded together by a certain kind of chemical bond, and so on; but no matter how much he knows about it, unless he drinks of it he will die. So with Brent: he has never tasted the waters of life. And now he is headed on a collision course toward certain disaster, tragically, not knowing that he is.

I first heard about Sharon when my bishop requested that I go to our local hospital to administer to a woman who had been hurt in an automobile accident. I had just returned from visiting another sister in the same hospital, which was some distance from my office. Because I had not been able to get much done that day, I really didn’t want to make that trip again and was feeling somewhat annoyed at the inconvenience. As I drove toward the hospital, my thoughts were not very positive.
Sharon and her family had been on their way home from a vacation when their vehicle had collided straight into a large truck.
Sharon was seriously injured in the collision, with a deep cut over her eyes, a fractured arm, a broken nose, internal injuries, and a badly crushed skull. One of Sharon’s sons was killed in the accident. Another son had a broken leg. Her husband and the two remaining children were slightly injured.
In the hospital emergency room the doctor had examined her briefly and had told the staff he had no hope of saving her life. Sharon had asked for a priesthood blessing.
When I arrived at the hospital, another member of my ward was waiting for me, ready to help me administer the blessing.
My companion searched Sharon’s head for a place to apply the consecrated oil—a difficult task, because her skull was so severely injured. He finally located a small, clear area to one side of her head.
I searched my mind for the words for her blessing. I had never administered to anyone who was dying before, and I didn’t know what to say. I let the Spirit guide my words. I remember assuring her that she would live to raise her children, that her earthly mission was not yet over, that her family still needed her, and that her injuries would heal quickly.
This was startling to the hospital’s emergency room staff, which consisted of nurses and nuns. They were expecting last rites, and they were stunned to hear us tell a woman who was mortally injured that she would be all right.
One of the nuns who spoke with us after the blessing was excited to think that Sharon had a chance for recovery. The same nun called me the next day to say that Sharon wanted to see me.
She was sitting up in her hospital bed when I arrived. She had a bright smile on her face and a sparkle in her eyes. She thanked me for the blessing and asked me to read from the scriptures. As I was preparing to leave, she asked me to adjust her oxygen mask, which kept slipping off her face. As I reached for the head strap, I noticed that there was no sign of her skull injury. Her head was whole, with no evidence of bleeding or broken bone.
Two weeks later, Sharon walked out of the hospital with only her arm in a sling and a small bandage on her forehead. The incident had provided a rare opportunity for both of us. For Sharon it was a chance to demonstrate her extraordinary faith in the priesthood; for me, it was a time to renew my commitment to give priesthood service readily whenever it is needed.

Several years ago, my son Jack and I had the opportunity to play the Old Course at St. Andrews in Scotland, where the game of golf began. It was simply amazing! Upon my return I tried to convey to others the magnitude of the experience. But I couldn’t. Photos, videos, and my best descriptions were totally inadequate. I finally realized the only way for someone to know the grandeur of St. Andrews is to experience it—to see the vast fairways, breathe the air, feel the wind in their face, and hit a few errant shots into the cavernous bunkers and burly gorse bushes, which we did with great efficiency.

As a young man just 19 years old, Joseph F. Smith (who later became the sixth President of the Church) was traveling from California to Utah with a small group of Latter-day Saints. As they set up camp one evening, a group of drunken men rode into their camp on horseback. The men had guns, and they threatened to kill any Mormons who came across their path. Some of the Latter-day Saints hid in the bushes by the creek. Joseph F. Smith, who had been gathering wood, boldly approached the fire. One of the drunken men, pointing his pistol at Joseph, said that it was his duty to kill every Mormon he met. He then demanded, “Are you a ‘Mormon’?”
Joseph F. Smith looked the ruffian in the eye and answered, “Yes, siree; dyed in the wool; true blue, through and through.” The man was so surprised by Joseph’s honest answer that he grabbed Joseph’s hand and said, “Well, you are the … pleasantest man I ever met! Shake, young fellow. I am glad to see a man that stands up for his convictions.” The drunken men then rode off and did not bother the Saints again (Joseph Fielding Smith, Life of Joseph F. Smith, 188–89).

Many years ago a fire destroyed a family’s house. A neighbor tried to comfort the family’s seven-year-old boy by saying, “Johnny, it’s too bad your home burned down.” Johnny thought for a moment and said, “Oh, that was not our home; that was just our house. We still have our home; we just don’t have any place to put it right now.” Johnny knew that the fire had not destroyed his family and their kind feelings for one another.

About two years ago the counselor in the stake presidency of the Sunset Heights Stake came to visit me one evening. We had just moved to a small house while our other home was being built, to be completed in March. It was just after Christmas. My daughter had announced that she had accepted a proposal and wished to marry in March. Some of you know well that getting a wedding ready for a bride is no small task. I still needed to prepare a national conference presentation for the last of March and had my regular heavy load as a faculty member for winter semester. The counselor wanted me to serve as the director of a stake dance festival for the youth focused on the Israeli culture. You guessed it—it was at the end of March. I knew a number of Israeli dances that would fit the occasion and felt I could do this calling because of my background, but now was not the time. I had too much to do!

He told me to think about it. I did for about two minutes, then said, “I’ll do my best. I have had too many blessings from to the Lord to shortchange him now.” I have never had any calling in the Church that went so smoothly. Leaders were called from all of the wards to help me teach the dances to the youth, others helped with the facilities and equipment, parents and ward members helped with costumes, and the dance festival came off wonderfully. I learned a very important lesson again: the Lord does want us to serve where we are chosen, and he will help those who serve him if they are willing and faithful. I still have young people and leaders mention their fond memories of the festival. I even now draw from this experience to keep my own spiritual well full.

How do you remember to choose the right? Elder L. Tom Perry of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles tells a story about a young boy and his friends who found a package of cigarettes: “They decided to go down on the cliff alongside some large boulders and smoke. … They lit up, and the young man said that as he was looking down at the smoldering cigarette that he held between his fingers, he saw his CTR ring. He quickly put the cigarette out. … He chose to choose the right, as he remembered what the emblem stood for” (“‘Choose the Right,’” Ensign, Nov. 1993, 66).