Gospel Story Finder

By worldly standards falling in love is an easy thing to do. Unfortunately, falling out of love can be easy as well. But falling back into love after falling out is extremely difficult. People don’t fall back into love; they climb back in. This can be a long, difficult journey, but it is extremely rewarding. I know from experience.
“Heavenly Father, I don’t know what to do!” I had stormed out of the house after a particularly nasty argument with my husband. It was November and very cold. I left without shoes or a coat, but I was so upset I hardly noticed. Our marriage wasn’t physically abusive, but it seemed we fought all the time—or at least whenever he was home, which wasn’t very often. He stayed late at work almost every day and seemed to spend the rest of his time at the golf course. I couldn’t blame him. Home was just as miserable for him as it was for me. So there I was in the cold, wearing just a thin T-shirt and jeans, pouring out my misery to Heavenly Father. As I prayed I realized I no longer loved my husband. I didn’t particularly like him either.
It seemed I had two options. I could leave and get a divorce, or I could stay and be miserable. Neither option seemed very inviting. If I left, my marriage would fail and I would have to give up my hope for an eternal family. I would force my children to suffer because of my decision, and they would spend their childhood in a home with only one parent.
On the other hand, if I stayed, I would be ignoring the fact that we were failing anyway. I would not have an eternal family, because we certainly weren’t heading toward the celestial kingdom. I would be forcing my children to live in a very unhappy home because Mom and Dad didn’t like each other and could barely look at one another without taking offense.
“Heavenly Father,” I prayed, “neither choice is good. Please tell me what to do.”
That’s when a new thought entered my mind. The right choice was one I had ignored. I could stay, love Mark (name has been changed), and be happy. That seemed a much better choice. Although I had no idea how I was to accomplish such a thing, the thought of having my happy family back made me feel I could turn around and go home.
During the next few weeks I tried to fall back in love with Mark but found only frustration. My best efforts seemed to fail. I tried to be nicer to him. But when I cooked him a fancy dinner I knew he liked, he showed up late. When I did small things for him that I thought showed love, he didn’t notice, which upset me even more. Despite all my efforts, he didn’t experience the miraculous transformation I was hoping for. After three weeks I was closer to giving up than ever before.
I returned to Heavenly Father in prayer. I’m ashamed to say it wasn’t the most humble of prayers. “It won’t work,” I informed Him. “Mark’s too much of a jerk. I can’t love him if he’s not willing to help me out a little. I tried and it didn’t work.
“Can’t You help me?” I asked. “Can’t You make him a little nicer? Could You please just fix him?”
Almost at once came the strong impression: “Fix yourself.”
“I’m not the problem,” I thought. I was sure of that. I started listing all Mark’s terrible traits that just couldn’t be overlooked and that were, most definitely, the problem.
Again inside my troubled mind I felt, “Fix yourself.”
“OK,” I prayed more humbly now, “I will but I don’t know how. Please guide me. Please tell me what to do.”
Each day I prayed, pleading with the Lord to guide me. I knelt in many lengthy prayers, informing Him how important this was, trying to convince Him to help me, but it seemed nothing came.
Insight finally arrived through our Gospel Doctrine teacher. During class we read Moroni 7:47–48: “But charity is the pure love of Christ. … Wherefore, my beloved brethren, pray unto the Father with all the energy of heart, that ye may be filled with this love, which he hath bestowed upon all who are true followers of his Son, Jesus Christ.”
We discussed what charity is. It is love that Jesus Christ has for each of us. I learned that the Savior knows what is good in each of us. He can find something worthy of loving in every person.
The teacher referred us back to the scriptures. “It says in verse 48 that charity is a gift from the Father that is bestowed on you. Charity is not something you can develop on your own. It must be given to you. So there’s a neighbor who makes you angry or someone you don’t like. What’s the problem? The problem is you don’t have charity, the pure love of Christ, toward him or her. How do you get it? You need to ‘pray unto the Father with all the energy of heart’ and ask Him to give you charity toward that person. You need to ask to see that person through the Savior’s eyes so you will be able to see him or her as good and lovable.”
This was my answer. If I could see Mark from the Savior’s perspective, I couldn’t help but love him. It seemed such an easy thing to do, much easier than anything I had tried so far. I would just ask for charity, God would give it to me, and that would solve my problem. But I should have known Heavenly Father would require at least a little work from me.
I knelt in prayer that night and asked for charity toward my husband. I asked to feel a portion of the love that Jesus Christ felt for Mark, to see the good things about him that He could see. Then the thought came to me very strongly that I should already know good things about Mark and I should name them. I thought for a long time. I hadn’t focused on good things in quite a while. Finally I said, “He looked nice today.” I was prompted to say another thing. “He takes out the garbage when I ask.” Another. “He works hard.” Another. “He’s good with the kids.” Another. I couldn’t think of anything else.
The next night before bed I asked for charity and was again prompted to say good things about Mark. This was hard work. I wasn’t used to focusing on the positive. I was used to cataloging all his faults so I could correct them.
I soon realized I would be saying good things about him each night for a while and decided it would be infinitely easier if I paid attention throughout the day. The next day I watched closely and came up with 10 good things about him—a new record! This became my goal: 10 good things before I went to bed. On good days it was easy. On bad days the last three were along the lines of “His hair looked good” or “I liked the jeans he wore.” But I did it every night.
After a while I started making myself name 10 positive things each time I had a negative thought. With those odds, I didn’t let myself dwell on Mark’s faults very often.
Slowly something wonderful was happening. First, I began to realize that Mark wasn’t the big jerk I thought he was. He had many wonderful traits that I had overlooked or forgotten. Second, in the absence of my nagging, Mark started fixing a lot of the bad habits I had hounded him about for so long. As soon as I stopped feeling I had to be responsible for his actions, he started taking the responsibility upon himself. I was enjoying my time with Mark, and there was more of it because he stopped working so many hours.
We had come so far, but there was still one problem: I felt no love for Mark. It just wasn’t there. I longed for that feeling of connection, the feeling that we belonged together. I had been praying every day for five months now, asking to feel the love that Christ felt for him. I pleaded with God even harder to give me love for Mark. “I am happy with our progress,” I told Him. “Our family is much stronger than ever before. If this is the best I can have, I will be satisfied. But if I could just love Mark, even a little, that would be the most cherished blessing I could receive.”
I remember vividly the moment that blessing was bestowed. We were playing games at my parents’ house one evening. I looked across the table at Mark, and suddenly, out of the blue, the strongest, most vibrant, most intense love I had ever felt hit me almost like a physical force. My eyes welled up with tears, and I was awed by the strength of my feelings. There, sitting across from me, was my eternal companion, whom I loved more than words could express. His infinite worth was so brilliant I couldn’t believe I had ever been able to overlook it. I felt to some degree what the Savior felt for my Mark, and it was beautiful.
It has been several years since that special evening, and the memory still brings tears to my eyes. It’s frightening to think I almost gave up, almost missed this experience.
My marriage is very good now—not perfect, but very, very good. I refuse to let my love slip away again. I make a conscious effort each day to nourish the love I have for Mark. And I feel the deepest gratitude to a patient, loving Heavenly Father for helping me fix myself.

I plead that we will not procrastinate and that we will heed our Lord’s commandment to live the law of the tithe. I know of two missionaries who visited a very poor family. The family’s home was made of pressboard and sticks, with a dirt floor and no electricity or beds. Each evening the father, a farm laborer, spent his entire day’s wages on groceries for dinner. Departing from their humble home, the senior companion thought to himself, “The law of tithing will surely be a stumbling block to this family. Perhaps we shouldn’t bring it up for a while.” A few moments later, the junior companion, who had grown up in similar circumstances in his own country, voiced his own thoughts aloud: “I know the principle of tithing isn’t taught for four more discussions, but can we please teach it the next time we visit? They need to know about tithing now because they need the help and the blessing of the Lord so much.”
This missionary understood that “there is a law, irrevocably decreed in heaven before the foundations of this world, upon which all blessings are predicated—And when we obtain any blessing from God, it is by obedience to that law upon which it is predicated.” The Lord wants to bless this family and anxiously awaits their obedience so He can.

This is a story of anonymous service. No names will be named, no addresses given. But the youth involved will know who they are and that what they did was worthy of them as Latter-day Saints.
The flood disaster in Sugar City and Rexburg, Idaho, received national news coverage. For months afterwards local news media reported on the cleanup efforts of tens of thousands of volunteer workers. Many of those were Latter-day Saint youth who saw a chance to help—to literally dig in up to their elbows in mud and slime and give aid to a brother in need.
One man in Blackfoot reported that he was terrified when he learned of the coming of the flood. His farm, his family, everything he had spent his life loving lay on the river bank. He couldn’t see how he could save anything. He said that all his neighbors were in the same situation. Before the flood waters reached Blackfoot and without a word to anyone, dozens of youths came in trucks loaded with sand and burlap sacks. For hours the young people filled and piled the bags, hoping to protect the land of the farmers they didn’t even know. They worked without food or rest, and then when all was done, they left. After the flood waters retreated, the youth were back—again without being asked. They spent more hours cleaning up and bailing mud and water. The farmers only knew that they were from a nearby stake—nothing else.

One of the most powerful reverence lessons in my life occurred nearly thirty-five years ago. After completing our studies at BYU, Diane and I moved to Honolulu to begin the next season of our lives. It turned out to be a long season—twenty-seven years. Only a call from a prophet caused us to leave Hawaii.

The Hawaii Temple—now known as the Laie Hawaii Temple, as there are two temples in Hawaii—was first dedicated by President Heber J. Grant on (appropriately) Thanksgiving Day, November 27, 1919. It was the first temple built outside of Utah, except for the temples in Kirtland and Nauvoo. For nearly six decades it served the Saints in Hawaii and, for much of that time, those throughout the Pacific and Asia. In the mid-1970s there was need for the temple to be closed, enlarged, and renovated. Consequently the temple had need for rededication, which occurred on June 13, 1978.

Presiding at the rededication was the president of the Church, Spencer W. Kimball. With him were his first and second counselors, N. Eldon Tanner and Marion G. Romney. Also attending were Ezra Taft Benson, the president of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, and others of the Twelve and the Seventy. It is not something you would see in the larger Church of today, having that many of the senior Brethren together for an event away from Church headquarters. But that was our blessing in 1978.

I was a young priesthood leader at the time and was asked by the temple rededication coordinating committee to be responsible for local security and transportation arrangements for President Kimball and his party. I do not want to overstate my responsibilities—they were simply supportive and “behind the scenes.” However, what my assignment did allow was proximity to President Kimball. For a weeklong period that included three days of temple rededication sessions, a solemn assembly, and a large regional conference, I observed the president of the Church close-up. I watched him teach, testify, and prophesy with authority and with power. I saw his tireless effort to minister to “the one,” asking to meet privately with individuals he noticed in meetings or along the way. I witnessed him continually being used as “an instrument in the hands of God” (Alma 17:9). I was profoundly impressed!

At the week’s conclusion we were at the airport for the departure of President Kimball and his associates. Again, emphasizing my limited and supportive role, I share the following. President Kimball came to me to thank me for my meager efforts. Physically he was not very tall, and I am a large man. He grabbed me by my jacket lapels and sharply yanked me down to be at his height. Then he kissed me on the cheek and thanked me. After walking away a few steps, President Kimball returned. He grasped me in the same way and pulled me down again. This time he kissed me on the other cheek and told me that he loved me. Then he departed.

The year before, a biography of Spencer W. Kimball had been published, written by his son and his grandson. At that time I had obtained it and read it, and I found it interesting. However, after this very personal experience with Spencer Woolley Kimball, I went home from the airport and pulled that thick volume from our library shelf, feeling an intense desire to read it again. Over the next several days—every waking hour I was not otherwise obligated—I was reading and reflecting. You see, I was now reading about someone whom I deeply loved. I was now reading about someone who I knew loved me. I was now reading about someone for whom I would do anything, because I knew whatever he asked would be for my own best good.

Through the exhilaration of that experience I had another experience. This one is too personal to share, but through it I felt deeply ashamed. I comprehended that I did not have that same love and respect—reverence—for Those who matter the most: the members of the Godhead and, specifically, God’s Only Begotten, the Savior and the Redeemer. This motivated me to study His “biography” and, through prayer and fasting and pondering, to know that I was now reading about someone whom I deeply loved. I was now reading about someone who I knew loved me. I was now reading about someone for whom I would do anything, because I knew whatever He asked would be for my own best good.

My dear friends, I testify that this knowledge has made all the difference in my life and in our family. I hasten to add that it has not magically made us without blemish and it has not necessarily made life easy. That would be contrary to God’s plan. But what it has provided is hope—“a perfect brightness of hope” (2 Nephi 31:20). There has never been a thought of giving up, quitting, or retreating. I wish the same for you.

All these experiences were a fulfillment of a blessing I had received before leaving on my mission that said I would bring many people into the Church who would become great leaders. But now I was facing a transfer that I was not excited about, completely unaware of what was in store for me in my new area. The transfer was to Agoura Hills, California. I believed my mission president was an inspired man, but why Agoura Hills? The area was very affluent but very low in baptisms. You could count on one hand the baptisms in that area for the past several years. I had been one of the top baptizers in the mission for several months, but now all that would probably change. Then I remembered the words from a song that was sung at my farewell: “I will go where you want me to go, dear Lord.” So I went.
It is every convert’s dream to find the missionaries who baptized him and let them know about the change they brought to his life with the gospel. I also had that dream, especially because so many members of my family had been baptized after the elders left our area. I was now serving a successful mission. I had a sister attending Ricks College, another sister on a scholarship at BYU, and a brother and a sister both preparing to go on missions. I had lost track of the elders who had converted me. I wanted to find them and let them know how many lives they had touched.
My second Sunday in Agoura Hills, just before sacrament meeting started, a man in the ward came up to me and asked me about myself. I told him I was from Wyoming, and he said they had sent a son on a mission to Wyoming. A sensation of electricity ran through my body, but I knew it was not likely that this was one of the elders that I knew. So I asked, “What mission? The Colorado, Utah, or Montana mission?”
He said his son had served in the Billings Montana Mission, and when I asked him if he had ever been in Lander, Wyoming, where I was converted, the man answered yes again. I asked him a few dates and names and soon discovered that the man I was talking with was the father of one of the elders who had converted me. I said, “Your son is one of the elders responsible for bringing me and my family into the Church.” The man immediately introduced his wife, and tears filled her eyes as she realized that she was seeing a direct result of the sacrifices she and her family had made to send their son on a mission. Brother Miller introduced me to other members of the ward, and every time he told them who I was he choked up. I sat in sacrament meeting with tears streaming down my face as I thought of the mysterious ways the Lord had worked in my life. Who could have predicted that Elder Miller would come to my home and I would go to his almost nine years later?
I was able to see Elder Miller again, and he looked the same except for the three little daughters clinging to his leg. I finally had the chance to tell him thank you. He too was overcome with emotion as he told me what a feeling of satisfaction he had, seeing someone he had taught having as much success in the gospel as my family and I were.

This story happened in the USA.
The smell of spaghetti sauce made David’s stomach rumble. “When will dinner be ready?”
“Just a few more minutes,” Papá said, stirring the sauce. He glanced over at David. “What are you working on?”
David held up his Children’s Guidebook. “I’m trying to pick a new goal. But I’m not sure which one to do. They’re all good.”
“What are some of the options?”
David flipped through the guidebook. “Sing a Primary song, serve your neighbors, welcome others . . . .” Then he saw another one. “Oh! Papá, will you help me learn how to cook?”
“Of course,” Papá said. “I’m going to make my special Sunday breakfast tomorrow. Will you wake up early and help me?”
“OK!” David said.
The next morning, David woke up early and met Papá in the kitchen. While Papá got out the ingredients, David washed his hands.
Papá showed David how to hold a knife and cut fruit safely. He had David mix all the pancake ingredients. Then it was time for the best part. Bacon!
David used tongs to carefully turn the bacon over in the pan. The bacon sizzled, and some grease splattered onto his fingers. “Ouch!” David said.
“Careful,” Papá said. He turned on the faucet and had David hold his hand under the cold water for a minute. Then he gave David an oven mitt to wear to protect his hands from the hot grease.
“Cooking is tricky,” David said.
“Yep,” Papá said. “Learning new things is hard work. That’s why you have to learn the right methods.”
“And practice a lot,” David said. “I learned in Primary that not even Jesus knew everything at first.”
Dad nodded. “Even He had to learn things a little at a time.”
They finished cooking the bacon and put all the food on the table. The whole family loved it.
Their cat, Nacho, meowed under the table.
“I think Nacho wants some too!” David’s sister Sarah said.
David helped Papá in the kitchen a lot after that. Papá showed him lots of recipes in their recipe book. David learned how to measure ingredients for cookies, how to scramble eggs, and how to make his favorite drink, horchata. The more he practiced cooking, the more confident he felt.
Then one Sunday morning, David finally felt ready. “Papá, can I make breakfast on my own today?” David asked as he joined Papá in the kitchen.
“All right,” Papá said. “I’ll be right here if you need any help.”
David got out the things he needed and started working. He sliced the strawberries and bananas the way Papá had shown him. He flipped the pancakes carefully without burning any.
And when he cooked the bacon, he knew just what to do. He wore an oven mitt and an apron to keep the grease from splattering on him.
When he was done, David put all the food on the table. The rest of the family sat down. His younger sister Emily said a prayer, and they started eating.
“This is really good,” said his brother, Jeremie. “Thanks, Papá.”
“Actually,” Papá said, “David made it all on his own.”
“Really?” Jeremie said. He looked at David. “You’ve gotten really good!”
David beamed. It had taken a lot of practice, but it felt good to make breakfast for his family. He couldn’t wait to try more recipes.

Steve Crandall sat bolt upright in bed.
“Your mother’s pains have started.” His father’s face was lined with worried creases. “Can you come help me clear the road to the highway?”
Steve was already struggling to pull on long underwear, sweaters, socks, pants, parka, boots, muffler, gloves. His heart was racing.
Shoveling snow, opening the garage door, starting the jeep, hitching the drag, swinging open the jeep door for his father—Steve fumbled with numb fingers while his heart beat with the fury of the wind swirling up the snow drifts.
Through the roar and clanking of the old jeep, his father shouted, “Take it easy, Steve. We’ll make it. Your mother has had nine kids before this, including you.”
Steve was glad to be able to hide his face in the parka hood. He was quiet for a moment. Then he let his memory wander and thought back to the time when Mom had Julie. There had been no special precautions that time; Dad had just helped Mom to the car, and they drove off to the hospital.
That seemed a long time ago and many miles away in a place where everything was so much different. This was Alaska. It was 50° F. below zero. The hospital was 51 miles away, and there was no telephone in their house. This time Dad paused to give Mom a priesthood blessing before helping her to the car. This time, Dad, Steve, and his two sisters prayed together in the car that they would make it down the road before the baby came. But this time, too, when it was all over and little Rachael took her place in the Crandall clan, 16-year-old Steve felt older somehow. It was as if he had been a part of something that was much more real than he had ever experienced before.

As a young missionary in Japan, I received a knock on our apartment door just before bedtime. I was surprised to see our mission president standing in the rain at the apartment’s threshold.
He said, “Elder Gilbert, get dressed. We are going to see Elder Matsuo.”
Elder Matsuo’s father was dying of cancer. I immediately assumed what had happened, but as I got into the mission vehicle, President Matsumori turned to me and explained that the missionary’s mother had been killed in an accident.
He then said, “Pray that we will be able to empathize and understand what will comfort this missionary.”
I felt overwhelmed and inadequate. I can still remember the windshield wipers going back and forth as we drove in silence. Suddenly the Spirit brought Alma 7:12 to my heart:
And he will take upon him their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people.
I knew that the Atonement of Jesus Christ allows us to overcome sin. I knew that through Christ we could overcome death. But that night, on the Osaka freeway, I learned that Christ could also comfort us in our struggles—in our ­suffering—when life isn’t fair. I didn’t know what that young missionary was facing, but through the miracle of the Atonement, there was One who did.
For any of you who are struggling with challenges that don’t seem fair, don’t turn to the world for answers. Please turn to the covenants that bind you to Jesus Christ. He can comfort you in a way no one else can.

One day someone called me at work, claiming to be from the governor’s office and wanting to know if I would be interested in a position as the governor’s assistant. I laughingly asked, “Who is this?” He explained that the call was legitimate and invited me to come the next day for an interview. I went with a sinking feeling that it could be a joke. It wasn’t. The interview went well, and I was hired on the spot.
In my new job I used the skills I had gained from years of speaking in church. The governor could not attend all the events to which he was invited; therefore, his staff members were expected to speak in his place. All those talks in church and from serving in leadership positions had given me the experience I needed to speak in public alongside senators, local and national dignitaries, and celebrities. I served as the governor’s assistant for seven years until we both retired.

Let me tell you a story that I hope connects gaining power through temple covenants.

It was Friday, June 28, 2013. Sister Gwilliam and I found ourselves in a waiting room at a doctor’s office; it was here that our third child Elise received a life-changing diagnosis. The weight of uncertainty and complexity coupled with shattered dreams of the future rained down on us. I don’t have time and can’t portray this moment effectively here, but it was so heavy. Again, this was Friday, June 28. On Sunday, June 30, I was ordained as the bishop of a newly created ward. On Wednesday, July 3, we welcomed our fourth baby into the world. In six days, we had a life-changing diagnosis, a new calling, and a new baby. To top it off, I was working full-time and was a full-time doctoral student with a dissertation due in just a few months that I had completed the research on but hadn’t started writing. I had just turned 30, and the weight of the world seemed to crash down on my shoulders.

Over the next few months, I rarely slept more than 3–4 hours a night. I typed almost all of my dissertation standing up between 10 p.m. and 3 a.m. because if I typed sitting down, I would fall asleep. Replicating this day-after-day was taxing, but I kept two commitments: Honoring the Sabbath day and attending the temple regularly.

I boldly testify that regular temple attendance not only changed me, but changed this whole experience.

The story I just told is about me—my life—but I was not the main character. Heavenly Father and His beloved Son, my Savior, Jesus Christ were the principal characters. While I fought fatigue and intellectual and physical exertion, they blessed me with grace and power which I believe stemmed from making covenants and being endowed with power. That endowment blessed my mind and body to do things I otherwise wouldn’t have been able to do. I’ll be honest, there were times when I felt frustration, anger, and even some despondency, with so many nights with so little sleep, the pressure and stress would mount. Elise rarely slept, and remember, we also had the new baby.

In my extremity, I looked up to heaven probably more than once and asked, “God, where are you?”

Perhaps you have felt this before? This soul-reaching, life-stretching moment that has brought you to the edge of faith and capacity? In desperation, have you ever asked, “God, where are you?”

It’s a good question.

Well, where is He?

Would you like to know the answer? He was exactly where He said he would be! “Where are you, God?” we may ask, and I think we could get the response, “Where I told you I would be! I am at my house, in the temple. Where will you find me? You’ll find me there.”

I testify that we can find Him in our homes, in classrooms, in nature, but for today’s conversation, we can find Him and His power in the temple.

It was during this period in my life that regular, consistent time in the temple became an integral part of my life. It was the needs in my life coupled with temple worship where I really felt I was given enhanced power that enabled clear thinking in my intellectual pursuits, greater power to fight fatigue, and my vision and ability to recognize the presence of God were enhanced and more focused. In short, I was powerfully enabled to overcome the burdens of life, I came to know that my path was indeed watched over and I had the energy and capacity to walk that very path.

I could go on and on, but my declaration is this: One of the ways God helps you in the fight of mortality is giving you temples. More temples in more places than you can imagine. As the Doctrine and Covenants teaches, it is here that you can not only “enter upon the threshold of the Lord’s house,” but also “feel [His] power.” [21]

I am absolutely convinced from my past (and current life experiences) that a real Redeemer endowed me with real power in a real temple that enables me to receive “divine means of help or strength, given through the bounteous mercy and love of Jesus Christ. It is through the grace of the Lord Jesus, made possible by His atoning sacrifice” that I received then and do receive now, “strength and assistance to do good works that [I] otherwise would not be able to maintain if left to [my] own means.” [22]

I testify it is real. It is absolutely real. After those life-changing six days described earlier, I submitted my dissertation after three months of middle of the night writing which ended up being over 300 pages, because I had divine help.

Flying is what Kathryn Young wants to do. To take the controls of a machine that can carry you above the clouds. To speed through the skies, dipping and looping above the jagged hills below. Yes, flying is what Kathryn wants to do.
And if Kathryn’s grandmother, Ethelyn Sowards, were still here, she would be cheering her granddaughter on. After all, flying is a tradition for the girls in her family. Kathryn’s grandmother was one of an elite corps of women pilots who served their country during World War II. They were not allowed in combat. But those women fliers were invaluable as pilots who moved planes from the factories to the air force bases or moved planes from base to base as needed.
Kathryn Young of the Manhattan Second Ward has been accepted as a cadet in the Air Force Academy in Fort Collins, Colorado. “My grandmother died when I was six, but I always heard about her flying.” There were stories about her grandmother’s flying ability, like the contests in the skies over the Texas cotton fields. Kathryn’s grandmother won most of the time.
Kathryn’s grandmother is an inspiration to her. She stayed home and raised her children and taught them the gospel. “I feel like she was ahead of her time. I’m the first person in my school to have applied to the Air Force Academy, let alone go. In that way, I may be like my grandmother.” Just knowing that her grandmother was a woman of faith, a wonderful mother and grandmother, and a great pilot lets Kathryn know that she can set her goals high and make them come true. Her grandmother did; so can she.

I witnessed a powerful example of this principle recently as I sealed a stately young couple in the Salt Lake Temple. After I had performed the sealing ceremony and they had exchanged rings and embraces, I asked them to share their feelings with those who were present. The new bride spoke first. Her brief remarks reflected both gratitude and emotion as she told how from her very youngest years she had desired to keep herself virtuous and had hoped to find a companion who shared her values and righteous aspirations. She confirmed the goodness of her new husband by witnessing that he was all she had hoped for and more.

Then the young man spoke. He, too, was tearful as he shared how at age fourteen he had inexplicably begun to pray to the Lord, asking that the wife of his future, whoever she might be, would be protected and would keep herself virtuous while preparing for an eternal marriage. He also told how he had committed himself again and again over those years to that same path. Then he expressed his great joy at having met this wife of his prayers and at his high hopes for a truly exceptional marriage. I am not a believer in predestined love, but I do believe that truly good people in due time will usually find other truly good people to marry. I also believe such people are worth waiting for. Virtue loveth virtue! Truth embraceth truth!

The Young Women of the mountain Home First Ward, Mountain Home Idaho Stake, made a quilt featuring the Young Women motto in the center. The corner blocks were class symbols, and the remaining blocks represented the Young Women values. Each girl selected a value and then a design to represent that value on her block. The girls embroidered or cross-stitched their designs. They learned to quilt as the blocks were assembled. The finished quilt was presented to the outgoing ward Young Women presidency.

One of the most spiritual experiences to come out of our mission occurred near the European supreme headquarters of the Allied powers, located in Belgium, during 1968. One evening one of our expectant American sisters became desperately ill and had to be rushed by an ambulance to a military hospital. Upon arriving, she was given diagnostic and x-ray examinations revealing a very serious obstruction that would have to be removed by surgery. Following the priesthood administration by her husband and another member of the branch presidency, she underwent the operation—only to have the same doctor who had examined her moments before find that there was no obstruction, in fact nothing wrong whatever.
While in the hospital convalescing for a few days she studied the scriptures and some other commentaries, and this attracted the attention of a medical orderly who was there on assignment as an American serviceman—a former alcoholic, incidentally. He wondered what this book with the strange title really meant. One week later he attended a Church activity with the husband of the woman in the hospital and committed himself to study the gospel. He and his family quickly went through the Book of Mormon and the discussions with the missionaries and were baptized into the Church. He has since read the standard works many times as well as all of the commentaries that he has been able to secure; and, in addition, he has been responsible for bringing many people into the church of Christ.

This is a story my father, Emlyn Davies, used to tell about a moment in his childhood when he learned something powerful about faith and prayer.
“When I was about 10 or 11, I went to a school camp by the seaside for a week. During the first few days, we played football, cricket, rugby—mostly team sports. We were told that if we did our best, there was a chance we could win a prize.
As I knelt in prayer that night, I asked Heavenly Father to help me win a prize. Well, the next day there was boxing and swimming. I couldn’t swim and I couldn’t box as far as I knew. I certainly wasn’t going to win any prizes. The events that I felt I could do, I entered but I didn’t win anything. That second night I knelt in prayer and asked Heavenly Father, ‘Please help me to win a prize.’ I had every confidence that I would. We call it faith, I suppose. But I really felt if I offered my prayers I would win.
At that age, I was very slim and could run very fast—100 yards was my race. I’d usually win and even look back at the others as I crossed the finish line. I thought, ‘This will be the one.’ I got through the heats and into the final.
On the day of the final run, I raced and felt confident. I was in front and thought I’d go even faster. But in that spurt to go faster I stumbled and fell. In the 100 yards you haven’t got time to pick yourself up and win again. So of course I didn’t win. I thought, ‘Well I don’t know now what my chances are to win anything.’ But that night I offered my prayers again and I said, ‘Heavenly Father, please help me to win a prize.’ I entered the tug-of-war; we didn’t win. I had entered everything I thought I could possibly do, but I didn’t win anything.
On the Saturday night they said they’d give the prizes out to the youth who had won. As the names were called I felt really sad. I felt I’d offered my prayers and I’d done my best, but I hadn’t won. Then one of the teachers called, ‘Emlyn, they want you up to the front.’ So I went to the front and the teacher said, ‘Now we have a very special prize. This boy is the bravest boy in all the camp. He’s brave because he’s the only boy who knelt by his bed at night and offered prayers. There are no prizes for saying your prayers. But we teachers got together and bought a prize for the brave boy.’ It wasn’t much of a prize but for me it was a great prize to have. I thought, ‘Well my prayers are answered again.’”

As an exercise, I ask students to keep journals taking note of their spiritual impressions—when and how they occur and how they respond. One student, Moe Graviet, gave me permission to share a portion of her journal. She recorded a set of spiritual impressions she had received shortly before a large assignment was due in another class. She was visiting her family and woke up in the morning eager to get to work but felt distinct spiritual impressions to do things a little differently: to go back to sleep and get a little more rest, to take time to pray and read her scriptures, and to spend time with her family. As the day progressed, she began to worry: If these were spiritual impressions she was receiving, did the Spirit want her to get a bad grade on her big assignment? Was the Lord trying to humble her? I quote here from her account:

I determined whether an impression was coming from the Spirit based on whether it felt peaceful or led in the way of peace. So when my sister wanted to go for a run, I went. When my mom needed help in the basement, I helped—and I wondered how in the world I was going to get my assignment done. But I kept feeling an extraordinary, counterintuitive peace—like the Lord was showing me how I could live life in a state of calm instead of panic. Of course, by the end of the day, the Lord blessed my mind with ideas and energy to get done all I needed to. In reflecting on this experience, I began to wonder if this is what it’s like to actually live under the influence of the Spirit—to live calmly, doing the right things at the right moments, and getting things done with joy and peace instead of stress. And I honestly began to wonder if I had done it all wrong these last four years of college and what things would have been like if I had been intentionally living each day like this. I wondered if I could have saved myself a lot of stress and hopelessness and why I didn’t trust the whole time.

Bear and Chipmunk were sitting at their kitchen table. “Do you remember what day today is, Chipmunk?” Bear asked his friend.
“Tuesday?” said Chipmunk.
“Yes, it’s Tuesday,” said Bear, “but do you remember what else today is?”
Chipmunk looked at the calendar on the wall. “Why, it’s your birthday, Bear! Happy Birthday!”
“You remembered!” said Bear smiling. “Wouldn’t it be nice if someone baked me a birthday cake and gave me a birthday present?”
“That would be nice,” said Chipmunk. “Maybe someone will.”
“Maybe I’d better leave so that someone can get busy,” said Bear.
“Maybe you’d better,” said Chipmunk, trying hard not to smile until Bear was safely gone.
“I love birthdays, especially Bear’s,” Chipmunk said, opening the kitchen cupboard and taking out a cake. “I’m glad I baked this yesterday.” He mixed up a batch of honey frosting and spread it over and around the cake. “I hope Bear likes it.”
Bear was peeking through the kitchen window. “I will,” he said quietly. “I will!”
Chipmunk carried the birthday cake into the dining room and put it on the table, then went to the bedroom and took a big box out of the closet. Taking some wrapping paper out of the desk drawer, he wrapped the big box. “I hope Bear likes it,” he said.
Bear was peeking through the bedroom window. “Oh, I will,” he said quietly. “I know I will.”
Chipmunk carried the big box into the dining room and put it on the table next to the birthday cake. “There now,” he said. “Everything’s ready. I’ll call Bear.”
But Chipmunk didn’t have to call Bear. Bear was standing right there next to him! Chipmunk laughed. “Happy birthday, Bear!” he said.
“You really did remember, Chipmunk!” Bear said happily.
Bear opened the big box. His eyes shone with pleasure. “Oh, Chipmunk,” he said, “I’ve always wanted a pair of roller skates just like these!”
“Do you like them?” asked Chipmunk.
“I love them!” Bear said, putting them on and lacing them up.
“I’m glad.”
Bear stood up. “Let’s go roller-skating together right now, Chipmunk.”
“I’m sorry, Bear,” said Chipmunk, “but I can’t.”
Bear looked surprised. “Why not?”
“I don’t have any roller skates.”
“Well then,” said Bear, “why don’t you take the money Grandma Chipmunk sent you for your birthday last week and buy some.”
“I already spent it.”
“On what?”
“On something special.”
Bear looked down at the new white roller skates he was wearing. Suddenly he knew what that something special was. Bear didn’t know what else to say, so he just said, “Thank you, Chipmunk.”
“You’re welcome,” said Chipmunk, smiling again.
Just then the doorbell rang. Bear skated over and answered it. A delivery person handed Bear a big package. It was from Uncle Bear. Bear unwrapped it, and his eyes opened wide. “Look at these, Chipmunk!” he said, taking a pair of glowing purple roller blades out of the box. Bear had never seen such fabulous skates before!
Chipmunk hadn’t either. He didn’t say anything, but the pair of white roller skates he had given Bear for his birthday seemed quite plain and ordinary now.
There was a card in the big box. It said:
Dear Nephew,
I Hope you enjoy these.
Happy birthday!
Uncle Bear
P.S. If there is something else you’d rather have, please exchange these for it.
Bear looked at the glowing purple roller blades he was holding. He looked down at the white roller skates he was wearing. He looked at Chipmunk. Then Bear put the glowing purple roller blades back into the big box and skated out the front door with them. “I’ll be back soon, Chipmunk,” he called over his shoulder.
Chipmunk watched Bear disappear down the road. “He didn’t even take time to have a piece of his birthday cake before he left!” Chipmunk said sadly.
He was sitting in his favorite chair when Bear came back. Bear was still wearing the white roller skates Chipmunk had given him, but he was not carrying the big box from Uncle Bear. Instead, he had a little box. Bear skated over to Chipmunk and handed him the little box. “Open it, Chipmunk,” he said.
Chipmunk’s eyes shone with pleasure. “Oh, Bear!” he cried, taking a pair of little white roller skates out of the little box. “I’ve always wanted a pair of roller skates just like these!”
“Do you like them?” asked Bear.
“I love them!” Chipmunk said, putting them on and lacing them up.
“I’m glad.”
Chipmunk stopped lacing up the little white roller skates. “Bear,” he said, “where are the purple roller blades Uncle Bear sent you?”
“I exchanged them for those,” said Bear, pointing to the little white roller skates Chipmunk was wearing.
Chipmunk didn’t know what else to say, so he just said, “Thank you, Bear.”
“You’re welcome,” said Bear, smiling again.
Chipmunk finished lacing up his little white roller skates. He stood up. “Let’s go roller-skating together right now, Bear!”
“I’m sorry, Chipmunk,” said Bear, “but I can’t.”
Chipmunk looked surprised. “Why not?”
“I haven’t had a piece of my birthday cake yet! And honey frosting is my very favorite.”
Bear ate three big bear-size pieces of birthday cake. Chipmunk ate two big chipmunk-size pieces. Then Bear wiped his mouth with his napkin and said, “I’m ready, Chipmunk. Let’s go roller-skating together right now!”
Chipmunk wiped his mouth with his napkin and said, “Let’s!”
And the two friends did.

A few years ago, a Presbyterian minister moved into my community wanting to serve all her neighbors, not just her church congregation. As she reached out in our predominantly LDS neighborhood with friendliness, offers to help, and invitations to neighborhood parties, ward members began participating in her congregation’s service projects; together, she and neighbors of various faiths held a fundraiser that significantly helped an LDS family with dire medical expenses.
Apostle Orson F. Whitney (1855–1931) stated, “God is using more than one people for the accomplishment of his great and marvelous work. … It is too vast, too arduous, for any one people.”3 Great things can be accomplished when good people band together. Our neighborhood minister’s efforts led to the formation of a community interfaith committee that, along with our stake Relief Society, put on a women’s conference supplying hygiene kits and books to refugee agencies. These interfaith connections then enabled stake members to help a congregation feed a large refugee gathering and to step in when another church needed additional volunteers at a homeless shelter.

The technical phase of training began after boot camp as we headed East to Great Lakes, Illinois, and then to Orlando, Florida, before turning West to Idaho Falls, Idaho. We were young, married, and parents of a newborn and far from home. We wondered when we would see Polynesians like us again, so we were grateful to meet a Samoan sister in our ward in Illinois. What are the chances, we thought? Imagine then how overjoyed we were to go to church in Orlando and find Hawaiians, Samoans, Tongans, and Tahitians all in our ward! Of all the places we could have lived and all the possible wards we could have been in, what are the odds that we would find ourselves in a place that felt like home? Chance had nothing to do with it, shipmates. Once again, and time after time after time, over the entire course of our career in the Navy to the present day, the Lord reminded us that He knew who we are and where we are, and He cared about us.

My father received a promotion that necessitated moving to another town. In high school I was a stranger among my new classmates. On the first day in my American history class the teacher asked questions that served both as a preview of the course and as an attempt to arouse interest in history. Examples included
One of the questions the teacher asked was: Do any of you know the real name of the Mormon Church? While my classmates had readily answered or attempted to answer the previous questions, no one responded to this one. After what seemed like a long period of silence, I slowly raised my hand and said, “The Mormon Church’s name is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” Even today, many people do not know that answer. At the end of class, the teacher asked me to stay, and he politely asked if I was a Mormon. I replied, “Yes.”
He became my advocate. I believe he was a factor in getting my name on the short list of nominees for various honors and recognitions during my high school years.