Gospel Story Finder

In 1968 when I made my first visit to the German Democratic Republic, tensions were high. Trust and understanding did not exist. No diplomatic relations had been established. On a cloudy and rain-filled day I journeyed to the city of Görlitz, situated deep in the German Democratic Republic near the Polish and Czech borders. I attended my first meeting with the Saints. We assembled in a small and ancient building. As the members sang the hymns of Zion, they literally filled the hall with their faith and devotion.
My heart was filled with sorrow when I realized the members had no patriarch, no wards or stakes—just branches. They could not receive temple blessings—either endowment or sealing. No official visitor had come from Church headquarters in a long time. The members could not leave their country. Yet they trusted in the Lord with all their hearts.
I stood at the pulpit, and with tear-filled eyes and a voice choked with emotion, I made a promise to the people: “If you will remain true and faithful to the commandments of God, every blessing any member of the Church enjoys in any other country will be yours.” Then I realized what I had said. That night, I dropped to my knees and pleaded with my Heavenly Father, “Father, I’m on Thy errand; this is Thy Church. I have spoken words that came not from me but from Thee and Thy Son. Wilt Thou fulfill the promise in the lives of this noble people.” Thus concluded my first visit to the German Democratic Republic.

Some time ago I spoke with a priesthood leader who was prompted to memorize the names of all of the youth ages 13 to 21 in his stake. Using snapshots of the young men and women, he created flash cards that he reviewed while traveling on business and at other times. This priesthood leader quickly learned all the names of the youth.

One night the priesthood leader had a dream about one of the young men whom he knew only from a picture. In the dream he saw the young man dressed in a white shirt and wearing a missionary name tag. With a companion seated at his side, the young man was teaching a family. The young man held the Book of Mormon in his hand, and he looked as if he were testifying of the truthfulness of the book. The priesthood leader then awoke from his dream.

At an ensuing priesthood gathering, the leader approached the young man he had seen in his dream and asked to talk with him for a few minutes. After a brief introduction, the leader called the young man by name and said: “I am not a dreamer. I have never had a dream about a single member of this stake, except for you. I am going to tell you about my dream, and then I would like you to help me understand what it means.”

The priesthood leader recounted the dream and asked the young man about its meaning. Choking with emotion, the young man simply replied, “It means God knows who I am.” The remainder of the conversation between this young man and his priesthood leader was most meaningful, and they agreed to meet and counsel together from time to time during the following months.

That young man received the Lord’s tender mercies through an inspired priesthood leader. I repeat again, the Lord’s tender mercies do not occur randomly or merely by coincidence. Faithfulness and obedience enable us to receive these important gifts and, frequently, the Lord’s timing helps us to recognize them.

When the Manti Utah Temple was under construction some 120 years ago, George Paxman worked as a finish carpenter. He and his young wife, Martha, had one child and were expecting another.
While hanging one of the heavy east doors of the temple, George suffered a strangulated hernia. He was in terrible pain. Martha laid him in a wagon and took him to the town of Nephi, where she put him on the train and took him to Provo. There he died. Spurning marriage, she remained a widow for 62 years, supporting herself with needlework.
Now permit me to diverge from this narrative to say that when I was engaged to marry my wife, I gave her a ring. When we were married, I gave her a wedding band. She wore them for years. Then one day I noticed that she had taken them off and was wearing this little gold wedding band. It had belonged to her grandmother. The ring had been given her by her husband, George. The ring was the only thing he left in this life. One day in the spring, Martha was housecleaning. She brought all of the furnishings out to give the house a thorough cleaning. Upon shaking the straw from the mattress, she looked down, and the ring was gone. She looked everywhere most carefully. It was the only physical remembrance of her beloved husband. She raked through the straw with her fingers but could not find the ring. Tears fell from her eyes. She went to her knees and prayed that the Lord would help her to find the ring. When she opened her eyes, she looked down and there it was.
Now I hold it in my hand. It is too small for all of you to see. It is 18-karat gold, old and scarred and bent. But it represents faith, the faith of a widow who pleaded with the Lord in her extremity. Such faith is the wellspring of activity. It is the root of hope and trust. It is this simple faith that all of us so much need.

Twenty years later, in the mid-1970s, the blacks’ reaction to apartheid had gone from peaceful protests to violent outbursts. One of the flash points for the violence was Soweto, where Julia was living. She said, “Soweto became unlike any place we had known—it was as if we were in a battlefield.”

Julia feared that her wound of bitterness would reopen: “It had been over 20 years since John’s death, but I could still feel the pain of that time.” In an effort to seek healing, both for herself and for her people, Julia thought, “Perhaps if I can teach the children to love working in the soil, all is not lost.” She established a community garden that symbolized hope to people who knew only fear and anger.

As she worked with the children in her community garden, she would teach them: “Let us dig the soil of bitterness, throw in a seed of love, and see what fruits it can give us. … Love will not come without forgiving others.”

She said, “I knew deep in my heart I was breaking up the soil of my own bitterness as I forgave those who had hurt me.” The lump of bitterness that remained after John’s death started to dissolve.

Like Peter, we also may receive inspiration that seems contrary to our traditions or social norms. I was a teenager in the 1970s and shared certain biases about sister missionaries. I decided early on that I would never go on a mission. It was not until I went to BYU and met other women preparing for missionary service that I realized that my stereotypes were unfounded and that I was limiting my opportunities for growth. As I considered the option of missionary service and prayed for guidance, the Lord confirmed to me that I should go—a decision that continues to bless my life.

David sat on the front row of the chapel and bounced his leg. He was nervous. He had just left Primary and become a deacon. The older boys were going to show David and the other 11-year-old boys how to pass the sacrament.
David’s autism sometimes made it hard for him to learn new things. Moving out of Primary had been hard for him. And now passing the sacrament seemed so scary. What if he made a mistake and everyone laughed at him?
Jacob, one of the older boys, sat next to David. “We’re happy to have you with us,” Jacob said. He gave David a high five. “You’ll do great.”
David smiled. That made him feel a bit better.
The other young men showed the 11-year-olds what to do. They showed them where to go and which rows to pass to. They practiced walking down the aisles in the chapel. They showed the boys how to hold the sacrament trays.
“Mom, look!” David said when he got home. He held his arm up. “This is how I hold the tray. Carefully, like this. Because I’m representing Jesus, and I want to show my respect.”
The young men practiced with David and the other boys after church on Sundays and during weeknight activities. They walked through where they should go. David practiced holding the tray.
Soon, the day came when he would pass the sacrament for the first time.
“How are you feeling about it?” Dad asked.
“I’m still nervous,” David said.
“Let’s talk through what you’ve done to prepare,” said Dad.
“Well, we’ve read scriptures about the priesthood as a family,” David said. “Holding the priesthood means I represent Jesus. I trimmed my nails so my hands will look nice. And I’ve practiced a lot!”
“I think you sound well prepared,” Dad said.
When he got to church, David sat on the front row with the other deacons. Jacob sat next to him. David thought about how he was going to represent Jesus when he passed the sacrament. What if he still messed up? He glanced at Jacob, and Jacob smiled at him. David smiled back and took a deep breath.
When it was time to pass the sacrament, Jacob helped David pass the tray down the first few rows. David was glad to have someone with him.
David looked at the people as he passed the sacrament. Many of them were sitting with their heads reverently bowed. Some looked thoughtful. David felt peaceful. He was representing Jesus. He was grateful he could help others think about Jesus Christ.
This story took place in the USA.

DJ walked out of the church building with the other kids who had come to the Saturday activity. They’d already had a lot of fun. He couldn’t wait to see what was next.
Brother and Sister Jones led the group to the back parking lot. A bunch of plastic chairs were set up in a really weird arrangement—not in rows at all.
“So,” Brother Jones said, clapping his hands together and smiling, “who wants to try our obstacle course?”
DJ’s hand shot up. Awesome! He loved obstacle courses! This one looked kind of easy, but that was OK. It would still be cool.
Sister Jones nodded to DJ, then turned to the other kids. “You’ll all have a chance,” she said with a smile. “But I’m afraid it’s not as easy as it looks.”
She pulled a blindfold from her pocket.
DJ stared at the blindfold, then back at the chairs. This was going to be a lot harder than he’d thought.
“Don’t worry, DJ,” Brother Jones said. “You’ll have help. Who would like to be DJ’s helper?”
This time his friend Sam’s hand went up first. Sister Jones sent Sam to the other side of the obstacle course. “OK, Sam, your job is to tell DJ how to get through without running into any chairs. If he needs to go left, right, back, or forward, you tell him. Understand?”
“Yup!” Sam said.
Brother Jones placed a hand on DJ’s shoulder. “DJ, listen closely to Sam’s voice. If you bump into a chair, you’ll have to take three steps back and keep trying. Ready?”
“I think so,” DJ said. It still sounded fun, but he was starting to wish he hadn’t volunteered first. He’d probably bump into at least two or three chairs.
Brother Jones tied on the blindfold. “Good luck!”
“OK,” Sam said. “Walk forward three steps.” DJ started moving his feet. It felt so strange, walking in the dark like that.
“Now another two steps,” Sam said. “Yeah. Now one more. Good. Now turn left.”
As DJ kept dodging the chairs, he started feeling confident.
“Turn right,” Sam said a minute later. But DJ didn’t listen right away. He thought for sure he remembered a straight path right about there. He could get through faster if he kept going the way he was headed. He took a step or two without turning.
“Wait,” Sam said. “I said turn right!”
“I will in just a—” DJ bumped right into a chair. It slid across the ground. Oops …
“That’s OK,” Brother Jones said. “Just back up and try again.”
DJ felt silly. He should have listened to Sam. He carefully backed up three steps.
This time Sam talked him all the way through without another bump. The other kids clapped as DJ took off his blindfold and gave Sam a high five.
Sister Jones pointed at the chairs. “Our lives can be like this obstacle course,” she said. “It’s not always easy to see problems on our own. But we have a helper too. Can anybody tell me who that helper is?”
Shayla raised her hand. “The Holy Ghost!” she said.
Brother Jones nodded. “Exactly. He can help us avoid hidden dangers. Now who’s next?” All the other kids raised their hands at once.
DJ decided right then that he would always listen to the Holy Ghost. He knew then he would be safe from hidden dangers.

Jim tried his best to wipe away the tears before he got home. He didn’t want Mom to see that he had been crying.
Randy, a boy in his class, stopped Jim every day after school and called him names. Jim tried not to let it bother him, but when Randy started saying mean things about Jim being a Mormon, Jim couldn’t hold back the tears.
As Jim opened the front door, Mom looked up from the sofa. She could see that something was wrong. “What happened?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Jim mumbled.
Mom patted the cushion by her. “Tell me, please.”
Jim sat on the sofa next to her. “There’s this boy at school named Randy who keeps calling me names,” Jim said. “Today he said Mormons are weird.”
“That must have hurt,” Mom said.
Jim nodded. “What can I do?”
Mom gave him a quick hug. “I think you can figure out something. Just remember that Heavenly Father loves Randy—just like He loves you.”
Jim thought about his problem. “Maybe I could invite Randy home and make cookies,” he said.
“I think that’s a great idea,” Mom said.
The next day, Jim worked up the courage to talk to Randy. “Hey, Randy,” Jim said. “We’re going to make cookies at my house tomorrow. Do you want to come?”
Randy squinted at Jim and raised an eyebrow. “What kind of cookies?” Randy asked.
“Chocolate chip.”
“Sure. They’re my favorite!” Randy said.
The following day, Randy and Jim walked home together. Mom was waiting for them.
“Hi, Randy. It’s nice to meet you,” she said.
“Nice to meet you too,” Randy said.
“Come into the kitchen and we’ll get started,” Mom said.
In the kitchen, she pointed to the sink. “Wash first.”
After the boys washed their hands, Jim showed Randy how to measure the ingredients and mix them together.
By the time they spooned the cookie dough onto the baking pan, Randy was smiling. “Can I put them in the oven?” he asked.
“Sure. They need to bake for 12 minutes,” Jim said as he set the timer.
When 12 minutes had passed, Jim carefully removed the pan from the oven. Randy started to reach for a cookie, then stopped. “Can I have one?”
Jim smiled. “Yes. But they need to cool first.”
When the cookies had cooled, Jim and Randy each took two. Mom poured glasses of milk for them.
“These are great!” Randy said after he’d finished both cookies and his glass of milk. “Thanks for inviting me, Jim. Thank you, Mrs. Sheridan.”
Mom placed some cookies on a plate and covered them with foil. “These are for you to take home and share with your family.”
After that, Randy no longer teased Jim. The boys played together after school and on the weekends. Jim was glad a simple act could help him make a new friend.

Have you ever had a completely life-changing moment—the kind that seems to ruin everything? I have, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
One minute, my siblings and I were sitting on the living room couch, quietly waiting. The next, it felt like my whole world was crashing down.
My dad’s casual explanation of his decision to file for divorce contradicted everything I thought I knew. I thought we were a happy family. I thought daily scripture study and family prayer were supposed to keep us together.
From that point on, a lot changed. My happy childhood memories began to sour. My parents both got remarried. My siblings started choosing sides.
I wondered what had happened to my life.
It felt so unfair—why did someone else’s decision get to ruin my life?
Or did it? For a while, my parents’ divorce felt like the most important day of my life. But a talk by Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles made me rethink this.
He taught, “The most important day in the history of mankind was the day when Jesus Christ, the living Son of God, won the victory over death and sin for all of God’s children.”
Then he added that the most important day in our lives is the day when we commit to follow Jesus Christ—a day he hoped would recur “over and over again throughout our lives.”
So, yes, while my parents’ divorce did change my life, the Atonement of Jesus Christ changed the trajectory of human history. And that’s not all; I’ve learned that because of the events of Easter, Christ can change the trajectory of my life—every day.

While Parley never returned to South America, his grandson Rey L. Pratt played a pivotal role in establishing the Church there. He and Rulon S. Wells accompanied Elder Melvin J. Ballard of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles to Argentina in 1925 to open a mission. A few years earlier, members from Germany had settled in the bustling city of Buenos Aires and started teaching their friends and neighbors.
Within a week of Elder Ballard and his companions’ arrival in the city, they baptized the first converts on the continent. Then, early on Christmas morning, they gathered under a grove of willow trees in a park. At the direction of Heber J. Grant, the President of the Church, and through the apostolic authority he held, Elder Ballard offered a prayer to dedicate South America for the preaching of the gospel.
“I turn the key, unlock and open the door for the preaching of the gospel in all these South American nations,” he prayed, “and rebuke, and command to be stayed, every power that would oppose the preaching of the gospel in these lands.”
Finding more people interested in their message, however, proved difficult. The missionaries spent countless hours contacting people in the streets and handing out thousands of tracts, hoping to attract attention to their meetings.
Having had only limited success, Elder Ballard uttered a remarkable prophecy about the future of the Church in South America shortly before he returned home. To a small handful of Saints he testified that “the work will grow slowly for a time, just as an oak grows slowly from an acorn.” But unlike a sunflower that shoots up in a day, “grows quickly and thus dies,” the gospel would spread gradually. “Thousands will join here,” he pronounced. “The work here is the smallest that it will ever be.” Elder Ballard further predicted that the mission “will be divided into more than one mission and will be one of the strongest in the Church.”
At the time, Elder Ballard’s declaration about the destiny of the Church in South America seemed almost as unbelievable as Joseph Smith’s prophecy uttered decades earlier. Nevertheless, as Elder Ballard prophesied 100 years ago, the Church through the decades has extended across the continent in the Lord’s time.

I can tell you from experience something about how to help if you are the one sent. Shortly after I was called to the Quorum of the Twelve, I got a phone call from President Faust, counselor in the First Presidency. He asked me to come to his office. I went with some concern as to why he would take the time to visit with me.
After some pleasantries, he looked at me and said, “Has it happened yet?” When I looked puzzled he went on to say, “I’ve been watching you in meetings. It seems to me that you have been feeling that your calling is beyond you and that you are not qualified.”
I said that doubt had come to me, as if I had hit a wall. I expected that he was going to reassure me. I told him that I appreciated his being aware of my doubts and asked for his help. But I was surprised by his kind, firm reply. He said, “Don’t ask me. Go to Him.” Then he pointed up to heaven. Now years later I sit in that same office. When I walk into it I look up and remember him and how he taught me by example how to help those who are feeling overwhelmed in the Lord’s service. Find a way to send them with confidence to Him. If they will follow your counsel, they will gain the strength they need and to spare.

My friend Marcia had moved several times in her young years as her father’s work required it. She was now ten years old and facing another new school. Marcia’s mother could see the concern on her daughter’s face and sat down with her to discuss what was bothering her.
Marcia talked about the challenge of joining classes at midterm and trying to get in step with the subject matter, teacher, and other students. Mother pledged her support to help Marcia make the adjustment. Then tears welled up in Marcia’s eyes. In all honesty, she shared with her mother, “I can overcome the difficulties with the academics and the new teachers. But Mother,” she said, with tears trickling down her freckled cheeks, “I just hate eating my lunch alone.” Marcia needed someone to recognize her situation and invite her to join a group and get acquainted.
Laura was someone who recognized a potentially awkward situation and did something to avoid it. She and Kate were best friends. The two of them included others in their circle of friends. A few of these girls planned a party, inviting all in the group except Kate. Laura, after becoming aware of what had happened, told the others that she would not be able to accept their invitation unless Kate was included. This kind, loyal act of a friend who followed the golden rule (see 3 Ne. 14:12) prevented pain and sorrow.
We become kind by doing kind things. The Apostle Paul said: “And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you” (Eph. 4:32).
The Merrie Miss motto is I Will Follow God’s Plan for Me. God’s plan for us includes our being kind. My challenge to you is to search for opportunities to be kind. The promise is: you will be happy. I pray that each of us will develop a desire to be kind to others and to ourselves and continually act upon that desire.

Romero had been looking forward to this day. He and his mother planned to go to the park. But before they could leave, his mother was called away to help a sick neighbor. Romero’s mother promised they would go to the park when she returned if he would do some chores while she was gone. Romero said he would.
After his mother left, Romero started to do the things she had asked him to do. Then his friend José came by. Romero remembered his mother’s promise that they would go to the park if he was obedient. He told José he couldn’t play because he had work to do. Romero’s mother was happy when she found he had done what she asked. She kept her promise, and they spent the afternoon at the park.

In 2017, Sister Anne Papworth told this story in a BYU-Idaho devotional:

I'd like to share an experience I had with a Foundations English 101 class and their research paper. Because we were working on a long assignment, I'd broken the essay into several smaller (and hopefully easier) sections. The introduction was no problem for the students, and they felt comfortable with the summary that followed. But then we got to the hard part: the synthesis section. This wasn't something they had done before, and I knew that many students would struggle with this part of the assignment. But I wasn't too worried, because I had planned for this. First, we studied the concepts of synthesis. Then we looked at and analyzed writing samples, studying how others had completed this assignment. But eventually it was time for the students to try it themselves.

That day's homework was to come to class with a draft of the synthesis section so we could workshop their essays and identify where they were still struggling. However, the morning this draft was due, a massive outbreak struck campus. At least, that was my thought as I walked into a room with about half of my students missing. It wasn't a flu epidemic that had kept students out of class that day, but an epidemic of a different type. Throughout the day I received emails from absent students who explained that they'd tried to write this section, couldn't figure it out, quit trying, and, because their homework wasn't done, decided to skip class.

Now, the students who did come to class hadn't completed the assignment perfectly, but they came, having done what they could on their own. And because they did, they had a foundation to work from as we looked at their questions and addressed their confusion. As they walked out of class, these students were laughing and joking with each other, very different emotions from the frustration they'd expressed at the beginning of class. Many sighed with relief and expressed appreciation: "Thanks. Today's class answered so many of my questions."

The students who skipped class that day because "the assignment was just so hard" were now even more behind. They still didn't have a draft, and now they didn't have the additional information and feedback to help them work through this difficult section.12

It's ironic! But avoiding the problem often increases the problem. In the long run, it’s easier to just show up.

And there are schools there. Schools that feature superlative female basketball players. The winning tradition has become a legacy that many of the little girls in town dream of joining. “I’ve always wanted to be on the team,” says Gaylene “Gidget” Gallagher, an energetic guard. “I’ve been trying to learn how to play since I was little. When the coaches finally started us in a program, I spent all my time in the gym.”

It was the same for Collette. “When I was just little I remember my dad saying, ‘Here—take this basketball and go dribble it around the house—and don’t use both hands!’”

Once Collette got to high school, basketball seemed to dominate just about everything else. “You just go to practice, come home, study, and go to bed,” she says. “You have no social life. Except after the games you might go get pizza or something, but that’s about it. All during the summer, you just practice.”

All that work seems to have paid off for Collette, who fits most people’s description of the all-American girl. In the summer of 1987, she was selected to be on a high school superstar team that traveled to Israel. She has managed to be active in seminary, Mutual, and student council, and she is rated second in her class academically, so you can tell she finds time for some other interests.

During the season, practices last at least three hours a day. And in the summertime, some of the players have been known to practice up to 12 hours a day. Coach Cluff, a loving, fatherly man who knows how to take charge, uses basketball as an opportunity to help his players learn the gospel.

“I’m simple enough to believe that everything is spiritual with Heavenly Father,” he says. “Whether it’s basketball, math, science, or whatever.” He always makes sure that there’s a prayer both before and after a game. “Kids can learn a lot about their Heavenly Father through basketball, if they use prayer, and hopefully those lessons will stick with them for the rest of their lives.”

What are some of the lessons they’ve learned? They’ve learned to stick to their standards, for one. “The community knows we’re not the partying type,” says Collette. In fact, the town residents know just about everything about the players on their championship team, from their grade point averages to the color of dress they wore to the prom. “The community knows that we’re probably the straightest people in the whole town. We can’t give in to temptation, even just a little bit, or everything will go down. Not just our reputation, but our abilities and our potential.”

“And it’s not always easy to set a strong example,” adds Paige. “It’s hard in a small town. You don’t have much to do that’s exciting. Everything gets real old real fast, so a lot of kids just turn to things like alcohol and drugs, and they think that makes them happy. I’ve seen them go through a lot of pain, and I’ve been able to avoid all that by following the Word of Wisdom and keeping my standards where they should be.”

They’ve learned that the missionary work they do through example is invaluable. Over the years, several team members have joined the Church thanks to the examples set by their LDS counterparts. And most of the LDS players today bring friends to Church activities and seminary. You might think there would be a certain breach between the LDS and non-LDS players, but they go out of their way to be unified.

“There’s never a division between the LDS girls and the others,” says Moni Ahlcrimn, a raven-haired forward with a sparkle in her blue eyes. “But they do watch us, and many times they kind of follow along with what we’re doing.”

Gidget thinks that that cohesiveness is the main reason for Kirtland’s success on the courts. “You have to be truly dedicated to teamwork to win,” she says. “We work so much together as a team. One of the reasons the other teams lose is because there’s conflict from within. But we really help each other. I think the main reason we do so well is that we’re like one big family.”

But even on a winning team, there are lessons to be learned about defeat. Angie Harris, the team center, hyperextended her knee during the second quarter of the first game of the record-breaking season, and was sidelined for the rest of the year. At least two surgeries have been necessary to get her back on her feet, and she’ll probably never play school ball again. Many players might be bitter over this, but not Angie. She reads the scriptures faithfully every day, and from them she’s learned that “the Lord isn’t going to give you challenges that you can’t handle. This injury wasn’t that bad. I played on the state championship team last year. This keeps it from going to my head.”

Oh, and of course there are the basic lessons to be learned about taking care of the temple which is your body. These girls are so into fitness that in the few seconds of spare time they have left over, they do things like coach little girls’ softball, work as a lifeguard at the community pool, play church volleyball and softball, compete on the school track team, and run just for the fun of it. That’s the main reason Moni is involved in basketball at all. She’s only been playing about three years, but she says, “The running is what I like best. I play to stay in shape.”

And they’ve learned to play, to eat, to drink and sleep—to live under pressure. Many people think the girls’ basketball program is the best thing that ever happened to Kirtland. “Now that we’ve got a streak going, nobody wants to be on the first team to lose,” says Coach Cluff. “The girls work real hard, under intense pressure from the community and from themselves and their teammates, to continue the winning tradition.”

With that kind of pressure, you can see why most of the girls are a bit relieved come graduation day when they hang up their tennies and go on to college. A few of them continue playing basketball—BYU’s star Karina Zapata is a product of Kirtland, and Collette hopes to play for a four-year university. Most of the players from the Kirtland basketball legacy, however, will give up ball in favor of books.

But they will never regret, and they will never forget, the things they learned from their magical years on the basketball team. Sure, their hook shots may fade, and they might not recall how they ever managed to pull down so many rebounds, but because they took their coach’s advice to “consider all things spiritual,” they’ll never forget the eternal principles they learned on a high school basketball court.

Many in this vast audience of priesthood bearers are holders of the Aaronic Priesthood—even deacons, teachers, and priests. Young men, some lessons in life are learned from your parents, while others you learn in school or in church. There are, however, certain moments when you know our Heavenly Father is doing the teaching and you are His student. The thoughts we think, the feelings we feel—even the deeds we do in boyhood—can affect our lives forever.

When I was a deacon, I loved baseball. In fact, I still do. I had a fielder’s glove inscribed with the name Mel Ott. He was the premier player of my day. My friends and I would play ball in a small alleyway behind the houses where we lived. Our playing field was cramped, but all right, provided you hit straightaway to center field. However, if you hit the ball to the right of center, disaster was at the door. Here lived Mrs. Shinas, who, from her kitchen window, would watch us play; and as soon as the ball rolled to her porch, her large dog would retrieve the ball and present it to her as she opened the door. Into her house Mrs. Shinas would return and add the ball to the many she had previously confiscated. She was our nemesis, the destroyer of our fun—even the bane of our existence. None of us had a good word for Mrs. Shinas, but we had plenty of bad words for her. None of us would speak to her, and she never spoke to us. She was hampered by a stiff leg which impaired her walking and must have caused her great pain. She and her husband had no children, lived secluded lives, and rarely came out of their house.
This private war continued for some time—perhaps two years—and then an inspired thaw melted the ice of winter and brought a springtime of good feelings to the stalemate.
One evening as I performed my daily task of watering our front lawn, holding the nozzle of the hose in the hand as was the style at that time, I noticed that Mrs. Shinas’s lawn was dry and beginning to turn brown. I honestly don’t know, brethren, what came over me, but I took a few more minutes and, with our hose, watered her lawn. I continued to do this throughout the summer, and then when autumn came I hosed her lawn free of leaves as I did ours and stacked the leaves in piles at the street’s edge to be gathered. During the entire summer I had not seen Mrs. Shinas. We boys had long since given up playing ball in the alleyway. We had run out of baseballs and had no money to buy more.
Early one evening, Mrs. Shinas’s front door opened, and she beckoned for me to jump the small fence and come to her front porch. This I did. As I approached her, she invited me into her living room, where I was asked to sit in a comfortable chair. She treated me to cookies and milk. Then she went to the kitchen and returned with a large box filled with baseballs and softballs, representing several seasons of her confiscation efforts. The filled box was presented to me. The treasure, however, was not to be found in the gift but rather in her words. I saw for the first time a smile come across the face of Mrs. Shinas, and she said, “Tommy, I want you to have these baseballs, and I want to thank you for being kind to me.” I expressed my own gratitude to her and walked from her home a better boy than when I entered. No longer were we enemies. Now we were friends. The Golden Rule had again succeeded.

For McKinzie Mower, going to the temple helped her testimony develop at a time when it could have easily wavered. She remembers attending church and praying regularly, but “I was just going through the motions.”
“Then one day, Brother Hatch told me they were going to the temple and said I would be welcome if I could come,” she continues. “I didn’t really want to do it, but then I thought about it and decided to go. After that first time, I just started going as often as I could, and as I did, spiritual things became more important in my life.”
McKinzie says the best part of going to the temple is the good feelings she gets from serving others. “I love doing something for people that they can’t do for themselves,” she explains. “Temple work is the ultimate example of that.”

I wrote my dissertation at the University of California at Berkeley on pion-nucleon interactions. I have never seen a pion and I have never seen a nucleon, and yet I published an article on them, and I expect the scientific community to take that article seriously. I never touched anything I worked with. It wasn’t tangible; I couldn’t get hold of it.
I wrote my dissertation on pions without ever seeing any pions. I don’t know whether they are green or round or square or fuzzy, but when we turned on the cyclotron beam in the meson cave (a room made out of 12-foot-thick lead-impregnated concrete blocks), the beam struck a hydrogen target and splattered particles in all directions. Certain detectors that I had designed and had placed in appropriate spots in the cave registered these particles by sending out electrical impulses. All I actually observed was a series of two-volt jumps in the voltage on some coaxial cables. By fitting the pattern of these blips together, I published what I claim is a scientifically accurate explanation of certain pion-nucleon interactions.

When I was a young boy, I took church attendance seriously and always said in my heart that I will go to a church that bears Christ’s name, so I was happy to attend a church that had “Christ” in its name. One day at school, one of my friends came to me and said: “Rich Boy, I want to invite you to my church on Sunday.” I asked him why he wanted me to go to his church and he said: “I want you to gain salvation!”
I was confused at the invitation to be saved because I attended church regularly and as far as I was concerned, we all worshipped one God.
On Sunday morning, my friend called to tell me to get ready for church because he was coming over to my house to pick me up. When I saw him approaching our compound, I quickly went to hide because I belonged to another church and didn’t know why I should visit my friend’s church.
After that, my friend would on occasion extend the invitation to come to his church again. One day, I decided that I would go with him to know the reason why he wanted me to accompany him. The first time I attended church with my friend, I felt the Spirit. I heard about the Atonement of Jesus Christ and I was so impressed. When we came back from church, I told him that I can’t go back to my church again. I wanted to attend The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
The next Sunday, i was contacted by some missionaries who asked me if they could visit me at home during the week. I agreed and set an appointment with them. I requested that they bring a copy of the Book of Mormon to me when they came to my house. The missionaries arrived and told me amongst other things “Brother Nimako, do you know that God loves you? The gospel we teach can bless you and your family.” I enjoyed their visit and scheduled another appointment.
I read my copy of the Book of Mormon and prayed. I pondered on the message the missionaries shared and what I was reading in the book of Mormon. I had a good feeling as I did this. I couldn’t wait to be baptised!
After my baptism on 30 January 2009, I was so active in Church, even more active than my friend who invited me, so I started to visit him with missionaries. I asked the missionaries to visit my mother also. I wanted her to be blessed by the gospel I had received.
On July 4, 2014, my mother was also baptised, to my greatest joy. I went on to serve a full-time mission in the Nigeria Benin City Mission. I stood as a witness of the truth. I testify that the gospel is true. I know that Joseph Smith saw God and Jesus Christ, and he was a true prophet. I know with all my heart that if we read the Book of Mormon daily and ponder and pray about it, we will know that Jesus Christ is our Savior and Redeemer.

Sister Hinckley’s maternal grandmother, Martha Elizabeth Evans, married George Paxman, the faithful son of a stake president. He knew carpentry, and they moved to Manti, Utah, where he worked on the temple there. They lived in a sod-roofed house and were happy companions sealed in the sacred covenants of the gospel.
Two months before their second child was born (Sister Hinckley’s mother), George Paxman was injured. He was setting in place the massive east doors of the temple. Perhaps one of the doors slipped a little and he strained to hold it in place.
Within the week he died an agonizing death as a result of internal injuries. Martha provided for her daughters by sewing for a living. She was a widow for sixty-two years, ever sweet, never losing faith. Her daughter’s daughter was to become the wife of an Apostle, a counselor to Presidents.