Gospel Story Finder

Hi! My name is Juan Bautista, and I’m from Argentina. I shine my light by sharing the gospel.
My best friend Facundo and I have known each other since we were five. We both love football! I invited him to a lot of Church activities.
Once when Facundo was having dinner with us, he asked, “Why does your family always pray?” I said it’s because Heavenly Father blesses us, and this is how we thank Him. He was amazed!
Facundo came to a family home evening when my brother Benjamin was getting ready for baptism. Facundo felt the Spirit, and he asked if he could get baptized too! My father then talked to Facundo’s parents.
The missionaries taught Facundo’s family. Then Facundo and his sister Augustine both got baptized! His parents come to church, but they haven’t been baptized yet.
Facundo asked my mom if he would ever know as much as I do about God. She smiled and said that if he studies his scriptures and prays, he could learn even more!

Mary Fielding Smith remained faithful to the end of her life. She paid tithing, even in her poverty. When someone inappropriately suggested she not contribute a tenth of the potatoes she had grown that year, she responded, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Would you deny me a blessing? … I pay my tithing, not only because it is a law of God, but because I expect a blessing by doing it.”2 She established a farm in the Salt Lake Valley and taught her children the gospel. President Joseph F. Smith later said, “She taught me honor, and virtue, and truth, and integrity to the kingdom of God, and she taught me not only by precept but by example.”3

This story took place in the USA.
Kevin turned around in the computer chair. He hit random keys on the keyboard.
“Mom, can I play the racing game yet?” he called.
Mom looked in from the kitchen. “After you finish your homework.”
Kevin sighed. How was he supposed to focus on homework? He was so close to beating the next level of his favorite computer game. And his homework was, well, homework.
He guessed he could at least start on it. He scrolled through a website. It sure didn’t look as cool as the racing game.
Then Kevin saw a link. He clicked on it. The link took him to a website with pictures of people wearing no clothes.
This is bad, he thought. I should leave it. Kevin looked over his shoulder. No one was watching him. He looked at a few more pictures. He was just curious.
Kevin started to feel a little sick inside. He quickly closed the website. He tried to go back to his homework. It’s OK, Kevin thought. I just saw just a few pictures. But the bad feeling didn’t go away.
Kevin felt like he should talk to Mom about the website. But he was scared. What if she got mad?
That night, after dinner, Kevin helped Mom wash the dishes.
“Are you feeling OK?” Mom asked.
“Yeah,” Kevin said.
But he wasn’t OK. He felt like he was going to cry. The feeling that he should tell Mom came back. But Kevin was still scared.
Heavenly Father, please help me, he prayed silently. He felt a little better.
“Can I talk to you?” Kevin asked.
“Of course,” Mom said. “What do you want to talk about?”
Kevin looked at the floor. He wasn’t sure how to start. “When I was doing my homework, I looked at a site that had pictures of people without clothes. I was just curious. But now I can’t forget what I saw.”
“I’m glad you told me,” Mom said. She gave Kevin a hug. “Curiosity is normal. You know that those things are bad, and you shouldn’t be looking at them. But the good thing is that you were honest. You’ll feel better now because you told me.”
“You’re not mad?” Kevin asked.
“Of course not,” Mom said. “I love you. I want to help you. And so does Heavenly Father. He can always help you make things right.”
The sick feeling left Kevin’s stomach.
“I was scared to tell you,” he said. “But I felt better after I said a prayer.”
“It sounds like the Holy Ghost helped you be brave!” Mom said.
Kevin had felt calm and peaceful when he prayed. But even before he prayed, he had felt like he needed to talk to Mom.
“I think the Holy Ghost helped me the whole time,” Kevin said. “He told me the pictures were bad. And He told me I needed to tell you what happened.”
“I’m always here if you need to talk about things like this,” Mom said. “I won’t get mad. Let’s work together to make a computer safety plan.”
Kevin smiled. “That sounds like a good idea to me.”
Illustration by Laura Catrinella

My physical disability has made my life difficult and sometimes discouraging. My early teen years were especially trying because I encountered some unpleasant prejudices. In May 1989, when I was 13 years old, a high school in our town rejected my application simply because of my physical handicap, which confines me to a wheelchair. Then, in my first year of secondary school, one of my teachers gave me a disappointing grade. I felt it was because of my physical disability.
At the time I didn’t know how to accept these kinds of unpleasant events in my life, nor did I know how to thank Heavenly Father for the lessons they teach me. But through prayer and scripture study, I have discovered that I can be grateful even with these afflictions and, at the same time, be good to those people who reject and discourage me.
As I read the words of the Apostle Paul in 2 Corinthians 12:7–10, I found that he compared his own adversity to “the messenger of Satan to buffet” him. He prayed that the Lord would remove his affliction, but instead he was told, “My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.”
Over the years, I have felt my Savior’s encouragement; it has made me realize His great sufficiency over my physical weakness.
On 27 March 1993 I graduated from high school with an honorable mention. Our mayor offered me a job at the city hall. While working, I was able to finish my career course in journalism.
Dealing with my physical disability and afflictions will never be easy. But I know that through my faith and determination and the Lord’s inspiration I may be able to say, like the Apostle Paul, “When I am weak, then am I strong” (2 Cor. 12:10).

A busy teenager in a rather large family complained about the amount of time that family prayer was taking. As the wise mother was praying the next day, she intentionally left that youngster out of the prayer. As the prayer concluded, the busy child said, “Mother, you left me out of the prayer!” The loving mother explained that she was just responding to the youngster’s complaint. The busy child complained, “Don’t leave me out.”

One morning I was rushing through a busy airport on my way to attend a stake conference. Just after I went through the immigration formalities, an announcement was made that my flight was delayed. I stood there watching many people rushing up and down and just as I turned around to continue walking towards my boarding gate, someone tapped me gently on the shoulder and said, “Sir, let me polish your shoes for you”. Before I could protest, he pointed out that my shoes were dirty, and it looked like I was heading out for a very important meeting.
I looked down and realized that he was right, and since I now had some extra time, I walked with him to his chair and sat down. As he polished my shoes, he asked me where I was heading to; I explained to him that I had a church engagement. He commented, “we live in a very busy world… everyone is rushing up and down and people just don’t have time for others and for God.” He told me how he used to make time to pray and to read his Bible. I asked him why he had stopped, and his answer was, “I am busy, we are busy, the world is busy as you can see. Everyone has somewhere to run.”
As I walked away from him, I thought to myself, “are we too busy for each other, for our loved ones and for God?” I have ever since pondered this question. How well am I doing in inviting all to come unto Christ, make and keep sacred covenants and become His lifelong disciples? Our Area vision asks that we extend this invitation to Father in Heaven’s children, who may be at different stages along the covenant path.

For a while when he was 14, Aleksey Kulikov was a man without a country.
Though his mother was from St. Petersburg, she had taken work in Nuremberg, Germany. While there, she and Aleksey met the missionaries, studied the gospel, were baptized, and became active Latter-day Saints.
Now they had to leave Germany. The government said noncitizens on work visas must return to their homelands. To make matters worse, Aleksey and his mother were told their papers were no longer valid in Russia.
“Officially,” Aleksey explains, “we had no citizenship anywhere.”
Things seemed pretty dark, but Aleksey and his mother knew about faith.
“I remembered what the missionaries taught me,” Aleksey says. “If you have problems, then pray about them. So we asked Heavenly Father to bless us.”
From then on, the trip became easier. “We found out we did have Russian citizenship. When officials found out we were carrying all we owned, they waived the luggage restriction. At the Lithuanian border, some kind soldiers took pity on us and kept us from being forced off the train. They even called ahead to the next border and asked them to let us pass. So we came without trouble to St. Petersburg.”
After six years, they were home. But what would the city be like, now that the Soviet Union was gone? What would the Church be like, compared with their wonderful friends in Nuremberg?
“We were delighted with what we found,” Aleksey remembers. “The city had a happier feeling. Some beautiful buildings were being renovated. But best of all, we found there is a new dawn of the Church in St. Petersburg. We knew the gospel had been restored, but now we know it’s been restored here too.”
Aleksey is now 17, a member of the Nevsky Branch. His greatest desire is to serve a full-time mission, “perhaps in Germany.” But it doesn’t matter where he’s called. “I know there’s gospel light to share wherever you go,” he says.

A man wrote a General Authority about how the power of the Atonement helped him with his problem of same-gender attraction. He had been excommunicated for serious transgressions that violated his temple covenants and his responsibilities to his children. He had to choose whether to attempt to live the gospel or whether to continue a course contrary to its teachings.
“I knew it would be difficult,” he wrote, “but I didn’t realize what I would have to go through.” His letter describes the emptiness and loneliness and the incredible pain he experienced from deep within his soul as he sought to return. He prayed mightily for forgiveness, sometimes for hours at a time. He was sustained by reading the scriptures, by the companionship of a loving bishop, and by priesthood blessings. But what finally made the difference was the help of the Savior. He explained:
“It [was] only through Him and His Atonement. … I now feel an overwhelming gratitude. My pains have been almost more than I could bear at times, and yet they were so small compared to what He suffered. Where there once was darkness in my life, there is now love and gratitude.”
He continues: “Some profess that change is possible and therapy is the only answer. They are very learned on the subject and have so much to offer those who struggle … , but I worry that they forget to involve Heavenly Father in the process. If change is to happen, it will happen according to the will of God. I also worry that many people focus on the causes of [same-gender attraction]. … There is no need to determine why I have [this challenge]. I don’t know if I was born with it, or if environmental factors contributed to it. The fact of the matter is that I have this struggle in my life and what I do with it from this point forward is what matters” (letter dated Mar. 25, 2006).

I have had the opportunity of flying a number of different high-performance jet fighters during my time in the air force, and flying each of them has been a unique experience. However, at one point in the past, I was flying a small two-engine turboprop airplane called the OV-10 Bronco. It was an observation aircraft, and in it I performed forward air controller duties. The OV-10 was fully acrobatic, cruised at speeds ranging from 200 to 400 mph, and looked a lot like a oversized dragonfly with a large, clear bubble canopy protruding out the front. This allowed the pilot to see nearly all the way around the aircraft with an unobstructed view, and it flew slow enough and was maneuverable enough that you could locate and mark the position of targets using 2.75-inch rockets that it carried in pods located under its fuselage.

I not only flew this aircraft into combat but also flew it for two years while I was assigned to Bergstrom Air Force Base in Austin, Texas. Although I was assigned to Bergstrom, I was away from home about half of the time, as we supported all of the army and air force units west of the Mississippi.

Shortly after our arrival in Austin, Vicki and I were asked to visit with our stake president early one Saturday morning. He talked with Vicki and me for some time, during which I laid out in pretty graphic detail my travel and temporary duty schedule. Despite that heavy travel schedule, the stake president extended the call for me to serve as the elders quorum president in our ward. As he concluded that interview, he must have sensed my concern over what I thought would be a very difficult assignment made even tougher by my being gone almost half of every month.

He looked me in the eye and promised me that if I would do my best—the absolute best I could when I was home—and attend my meetings, work hard, and pick good men to be my counselors, the Lord would bless me with success in this calling. And then he added that the Lord would protect and watch over me while I was away from my family.

I was buoyed up by his promise of success in this calling in a large and recently organized ward, but quite frankly didn’t think much more about the promise that I would be protected and watched over. I was, after all, young, confident in my abilities, and a combat veteran. I felt I could handle the OV-10 very well.

Several months later I was returning one Saturday evening from a two-week flying training assignment at a western base and stopped, along with a second airplane, in El Paso, Texas, for gas. It was late, and the two other pilots—in the second OV-10 in the formation—argued that we should spend the night in El Paso, get a room, have a good meal, sleep late on Sunday morning, and get home mid-afternoon on Sunday. I was also tired and hungry and agreed it would sure be great to get a good night’s sleep, but I recalled the guidance of my stake president and knew that he would expect me to be at the early Sunday morning priesthood executive committee meeting and the other meetings that would follow. So I convinced the others to gas up quickly and get on our way. I called Vicki. She and our two-year-old son would be at the base in just a little under three hours to pick me up.

Since I had led from California to El Paso, it was the other pilot’s turn to lead our two-ship formation. It was probably about a two-and-a-half–hour flight from El Paso to Austin. About halfway it grew dark, and the weather started to turn foul. I flew in close formation on the leader for the last half of the flight. About 15 miles away from the air base, in darkness and in some rough weather, we let down to just below the clouds to begin our approach to the field. We lined up on initial, which meant we would fly down the runway at about 1,000 feet above the ground. Then, over the approach end of the runway, the leader would execute a 180-degree turn, and I would take five seconds spacing and do the same 180-degree turn, slow down, extend our gear and flaps, and turn to final approach, with us landing one behind the other. We were flying just beneath the ragged edge of some very bumpy cumulus clouds, in and out of rain showers.

The leader approached the runway and gave the signal for me to take five seconds spacing and then do my turn or pitchout to downwind. About the time we were approaching the field to land, a concerned wife and mother looked outside at the impending stormy weather and felt prompted to kneel with her two-year-old son and ask a loving Heavenly Father to protect and bring home a dad who had been gone for two long weeks.

I counted to five and pulled the throttles back on the engines powering the two three-bladed, eight-and-a-half–foot propellers to slow the aircraft down and snapped the airplane into a 60-degree banked turn. I pulled back on the stick to increase the G forces, which are needed to complete a level 180-degree turn to a downwind position parallel to the runway. The G forces also help to slow the airplane down from 300 mph to less than 150 mph in a matter of a few seconds.

Just as I pulled on the stick to tighten up the turn, the main oil line failed on the right engine. Oil pressure is needed to hold the propeller at the precise pitch, based on the throttle position. When the oil line failed, the propeller instantly feathered, causing the three propeller blades to rotate 90 degrees within the propeller hub and streamline into the relative wind. As they rotated, they created extremely high drag loads on the engine, similar to someone trying to pull three large oars through thick molasses. This excessive load caused the engine to fail, followed by an engine fire. This catastrophic loss of thrust on the right engine while I was in a steep left turn caused my airplane to yaw upward into the nighttime storm clouds. A relatively simple overhead pattern and landing to complete the mission had turned into a serious malfunction compounded by the inclement weather.

A key part of our training as we learn to fly is how to handle various emergencies that can occur in flight. With the illumination of the fire warning light, I instinctively followed the emergency procedures—first shutting down the engine and then discharging the fire extinguisher, taking care of the engine problem. However, during the time I was concentrating on accomplishing the emergency procedure, I experienced a severe case of spatial disorientation—meaning I was no longer sure which way was up or down.

During those few seconds in the darkness of the clouds, a few hundred feet above my awaiting family, my brain fought to make sense out of what I saw on the instrument panel. As I struggled to overcome the compelling instinct to follow other sensory perceptions, I recalled the final part of the promise my stake president pronounced as he called me to be an elders quorum president several months earlier. He promised that the Lord would watch over me if I did my duty. In those brief seconds of fear and confusion, I prayed that Heavenly Father would make good on that promise.

Now, brothers and sisters, with a clarity that I cannot explain but with a power I could never deny, I knew with a confidence that defied the situation that I must simply turn left. Despite being in the weather and lacking the visual cues essential to land from a overhead pattern, I followed the promptings and quite easily and quickly maneuvered out of the weather without further reference to the instruments, completing a descending turn to final approach and landing without further incident. The first hint the control tower had that there was a problem came as I radioed them on landing rollout—after saying another short prayer of thanks—telling them that they needed to get the fire trucks and a tow truck out to the end of the runway.

I have thought about that experience many times and marveled at the peace I felt as the situation deteriorated in those brief seconds of frantic action and confusion.

I don’t care what anybody says, it’s just not easy to be your own personal matchmaker. But, in spite of all the discouragement and failure I’ve faced, I guess I’d still be at it if it weren’t for a mayonnaise jar filled with wheat.
It all happened because my turn to cook for my roommates was coming up fast, and they were fed up with the same old basic casseroles and meat loaf. They always looked to me for leadership—they think the simple fact that I’m the second oldest in a family of ten means I’m pretty smart and experienced. Granted, a family of ten is an experience, and in my own humble opinion, I’m pretty smart, but there’s only so much you can do with food. Nevertheless, I was determined to impress them with my culinary abilities, especially hoping that word of my success would get back to my current heartthrob, Rusty, who happened to be the best-looking guy in our student branch.
So I was racking my brain for something new and different to cook. I’d checked through our entire supply of cookbooks (which consisted of four—two copies of the Joy of Cooking, one Desserts for Two, and one Boys and Girls Jello Cookbook). I’d called my mother who was 1700 miles away, and after $6.49 worth of telephone time, decided it was another dead end. I’d also called my brother’s fiancée. After the conversation with her, I pitied my brother’s stomach, which would face her homecooked delights through all eternity, and turned to my last resort—my own imagination.
As I was sitting in the laundry room downstairs thinking about the food crisis, studying French, and listening to our basketball team trail the visitors by 24 points, the washer to which I had entrusted all my colored washables at once began to drool soapsuds and spit weird blue sparks at me. Soapsuds I can handle, but weird blue sparks are not normal. I raced upstairs to get the manager, not thinking to get my French book out of the potential disaster area. When we returned and the manager gingerly opened the door a crack, I groaned at the sight of my French book floating in the four inches of water that had leaked out of the machine.
In the face of pending financial catastrophe—the purchase of a new French book—I decided no amount of money was too small to save and so followed the manager back upstairs to get a refund of my 40 cents that the monster washing machine had so thanklessly gobbled. While I stood in the doorway and watched her rummage through a drawer for change, I noticed an unusual smell. I glanced around for clues as to its source. There was a strange bubbly noise coming from the kitchen, which I brightly assumed was something cooking. I also brightly assumed the noise was somehow connected with the smell. Usually a shy soul, I surprised myself by asking, “What’s that … (here I hesitated, but only for a second) … terrific smell?”
The manager, Mrs. Smith (honest, that’s her name), brightened by about 50 watts. “Oh, come and see it. It’s an old recipe that’s been in the family for simply generations! It’s called Palestine Stew, and it’s so very good. I personally think it’s what we’ll be eating in heaven.”
As I followed her into the kitchen, I fervently hoped we’d be eating nothing even remotely like it in heaven or on earth. From the smell, I could also guess why the recipe hadn’t left the family for “simply generations.” I stared at the big pot of bubbling brown stuff. In reply to my blank expression, she began to explain. “All it is is wheat and hamburger and tomatoes. It has to cook all day, and it’s delicious! Here, try a taste.”
I shook my head violently. It looked awful. But she had already dug a big spoonful of the mess out of the pot and, with a prizewinning smile, turned and stuffed it in my protesting mouth. What could I do?
I chewed the mouthful cautiously for a few seconds and stopped. It was weird, but the taste kind of grew on me. When I had finally swallowed, I stood thinking. It certainly wasn’t your basic casserole or meat loaf. And it looked pretty cheap—I mean, how much can wheat and hamburger and tomatoes cost?
Mrs. Smith was watching me carefully with a coaxing smile on her face, waiting for my words of praise. After long moments of thought, I took a deep breath and said, “It’s … it’s really good. Now, how did you say you make it?”
An hour later, armed with an index card on which the fateful recipe was written in Mrs. Smith’s eager hand, I combed the aisles of a nearby grocery store that boasted, “We have what you’re looking for,” finally realizing that in my case, they didn’t. Convinced there was no whole wheat in that store, I trudged home dejectedly with two cans of tomatoes and a pound of hamburger. My mind raced furiously, trying to decide where I could get some whole wheat. It wasn’t until I was almost at the door that I suddenly knew just the person to see about my problem.
My sister had lots of wheat. And I’d been planning to meet her that evening on campus to watch her husband of three months who would be playing in an intramurals basketball game. What luck! I raced inside to the phone and made all the arrangements to get the needed three cups of wheat to the gym where I could pick it up. My sister probably didn’t bat an eye when I made my request. She was pretty used to me by then.
Well, as luck or fate or whatever would have it, my own branch basketball team also had a game that night in the same gym as my brother-in-law Brent’s game. Brent’s game was at 6:00, our game was at 7:15, and Rusty was our team’s six-foot-three center.
It took about 15 seconds of pleading to get my roommate Laurie to consent to go to the games with me. She hates basketball but is also in love with Rusty. I thought it wisest not to mention my current obsession with him. She falls in and out of love about every four days, but I knew that with me, it was the real thing. So, at 5:30 we went off to the gym to watch the games, and get the wheat, and admire Rusty in action.
Brent’s team lost their game by about 80 points. But I finally had the wheat, all three cups of it, in a mayonnaise jar. For some reason I felt really dumb sitting there holding the jar of little brown wheat kernels. I mean, how many people on an average college campus watch basketball games with a jar of wheat in their lap? So Laurie and I ran all over the building checking every wastepaper basket for a paper bag to hide it in. We were almost desperate—Rusty’s game was starting in ten minutes, we were missing the warm-up action, and still could find no paper bag—until we got to the women’s locker room and found three crumpled bags in a garbage can. We pulled some waxed paper and orange peels out of the best one, stuffed the jar in, and were back at the game with about four minutes to spare.
It was a great game. One of our guards is about five-and-a-half feet tall, really handy for sneaking between players’ legs and swiping the ball mid-dribble. We won with a score of 35–28, and Rusty made 12 of those points. We were really proud of him—or maybe I should say I was really proud. You see, Laurie had fallen in love during a time-out with a guy named Gordon who happened to be one of Rusty’s roommates. I was ecstatic—I had the wheat, we’d won the game, and Rusty was all mine now. Well, at least he would have been if he’d known I was alive. So, thinker that I am, I began plotting a way to get him to notice me.
I didn’t have to plot long. Laurie had gotten an invitation to ride home with Gordon—in Rusty’s car—and naturally I, as her roommate, was included in the invitation.
It would have been terrific, except for the wheat. See, Rusty has a really far-out car. But I’m kind of a klutz sometimes. I mean, with ten kids in the family, sometimes Mom was too busy to notice my bad manners and lack of finesse. So, when it was time to let Rusty open the car door to let us out, I was a little nervous. At a critical moment, the bag caught on the door handle and tore, and as I jerked it away, the jar hit the door frame and shattered. Those little kernels of wheat flew like bullets—slow bullets, granted, but they did fly. A lot of them simply fell in the gutter, but a lot more fell on the car seat and floor.
I guess it was pretty funny, but I sure didn’t feel like laughing. In the back seat, however, Laurie started to laugh and Gordon let out a guffaw that turned into near-hysteria. I guess being in love warps your sense of humor. I just sat, feeling a little silly.
Rusty looked down at the wheat swimming in the gutter and then at the floor of his beautiful car where the rest of the wheat had gradually settled. Then he looked at me. My face was burning. Rusty offered me his hand and helped me out of the car. I stood on the curb a second, not quite sure what to do. Rusty leaned over and whispered near my ear, “Don’t go away. I want to show you something.” So I stood, red and helpless and speechless, as Gordon and Laurie climbed out of the car, still laughing, and went inside.
I was afraid to look at Rusty. But he took my arm and steered me toward his apartment as he started to talk.
“Don’t worry about the mess. I was planning to wash the car later tonight anyway, and I’ll let you come along and help me vacuum it out. Right now I’m curious about what you needed that wheat for. Were you going to sprout it or something?”
I shook my head, trying to think of some way to explain Palestine Stew. “You see, it was for dinner tomorrow night. I was going to make this stuff that takes wheat and hamburger and tomatoes and needs to cook all day.”
He looked down at me. “It sounds really bad.”
I grinned. “You ought to smell it.”
He laughed as he opened his apartment door. He went straight to the kitchen and opened a cupboard door. There on the shelf were about ten mayonnaise jars filled with wheat. “You see,” he said, “my parents are really big on wheat. My mom even taught me how to make bread once before my mission, but I’ve pretty well forgotten now. But they still keep me supplied really well.” He grinned down at me. “I’ll let you take some if you promise to let me try some of your Palestine Stew.”
Well, Rusty was, after all, really impressed with my stew. And, even though it took a long time before I could stand the sight of wheat again, I have had a good time re-teaching him how to make bread. And I’ve also come to appreciate the many unexpected benefits that can come from food storage.

My teachers were heaven-sent. May I mention but a few: our former stake president, Harold B. Lee; President Marion G. Romney; and President J. Reuben Clark.
President Clark too was a master teacher. It was my privilege during those years to assist him in the preparation of his manuscripts that they might find their way into printed volumes. What a unique and profitable experience to be with him frequently. Knowing that I was a new bishop presiding over a difficult ward, he emphasized the need for me to know my people, to understand their circumstances, and, in the spirit of tenderness, to minister to their needs. One day he recounted the example of the Savior as recorded in Luke, chapter seven, verses eleven through fifteen:
“And it came to pass … that he went into a city called Nain; and many of his disciples went with him. …
“When he came nigh to the gate of the city, behold, there was a dead man carried out, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow. …
“And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her, and said unto her, Weep not.
“And he came and touched the bier. … And he said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise.
“And he that was dead sat up, and began to speak. And he delivered him to his mother.”
When President Clark closed the Bible, I noticed that he was weeping. In a quiet voice he said, “Tom, be kind to the widows, and look after the poor.”

Several years ago I was visiting with a friend—Dale Andersen—from Mesa, Arizona. At the time Dale was serving as a stake president in Mesa, and he shared a personal experience with me that, with his permission, I’d like to share with you this morning. He said:

I was preparing for our stake conference and having a bit of a stupor of thought on what I should share with the members of my stake. On the Friday night prior to conference I had a most peculiar dream—one of those dreams that was as real as any experience I have ever had while awake.

I dreamed I was at a family reunion with my entire family—my wife, my children, and my grandchildren. We were all gathered in the backyard of our home and enjoying a wonderful spring afternoon together.

And then I saw a most amazing and beautiful sight. It was a flock of blackbirds—but not an ordinary flock of blackbirds. This was one of those flocks that must have had tens of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of birds, all flying gracefully in perfect unison.

The birds would dart one direction, and then, as if cued by their leader, they’d immediately dart the other direction. Not a bird missed a beat. I stood there with my family—eyes transfixed. It was beautiful and captivating.

President Andersen continued:

As we watched this spectacle, the birds came closer and closer to us. It was all very exciting to see. And as we watched, we noticed the birds were pairing off two by two, and it appeared as though they were landing in the yards of all of the homes in my neighborhood. I thought this was rather peculiar. And then, as they got closer to my own backyard, the scene began to come into focus, and I realized in an instant that these were not blackbirds after all. These were dark, evil spirits!

Immediately I panicked and yelled to my family to run into the house and to lock the doors and windows. I was frantically trying to make sure all the members of my family were accounted for and safe—my sweetheart, my children, and their children. We ran through the house slamming the windows and shutting the doors and locking them tight. I gathered everyone together in our family room, where we would be safe, but then, as I turned around, there they were. I found myself standing between these two terribly evil beings and my precious family.

President Andersen said:

A window had been left ajar in the basement, and they had found their way into our home.

You know and I know that the adversary and his evil spirits are descending upon our families and trying to find their way into our homes, our apartments, and our dorms. At first they appear to be beautiful, enticing, and captivating—even to the point that, if we are not careful, our families will stand right in their path gazing upon them as though we were extending an open invitation to them to enter our homes.

Muneer was standing in water up to his knees, holding his father’s sailboat steady. It was the last trip of the day, and many people were boarding to go to their homes across the Nile. Muneer knew that many of them wouldn’t pay cash, and he wondered how much Father had taken in today. Probably just enough to buy food for supper tonight, he thought. I can’t possibly ask him for money to buy shoes, even if school is starting in two days. I don’t want to drop out, but I won’t go to school barefoot.
Muneer was lifting the little gangplank when he heard someone shout, “Wait!” A husky boy came sauntering down the riverbank, carrying a loud-playing transistor radio. It was Abdu, the son of the richest man in the village. He pushed his way into the boat and crowded onto the bench next to the prow. An old woman moved and sat on the floor to make room for him. He’s spoiled, thought Muneer resentfully. And he won’t pay either since children ride free.
Father sat in the back, steering with the tiller. Muneer gave the boat a push and jumped onto the prow. He unhooked a pole from the mast and pushed with it, following along close to the shore. With no wind the sail hung limply.
Father asked one of the passengers to steer, then he let himself over the edge and waded ashore. Muneer ducked into a cubbyhole at the back of the boat for a rope. Stepping onto the rail again, he almost knocked Abdu’s radio into the water. The boy turned it off and set it on the edge of the prow. He deserves to lose it, Muneer thought, tying one end of the rope to the mast and tossing the other end ashore. Father put the rope over his shoulder, dug in his toes, and slowly pulled the boat upstream to catch a swifter current.
Muneer took the pole again. Starting at the prow, he dug it into the riverbed and held it firm while he walked along the edge of the boat to the far end. Then he pulled up the pole, ran forward, and repeated the process. Every time he stepped around the radio he felt like kicking it overboard. Abdu had fallen asleep, slumped down like a sack of meal. Why should he have so much? Muneer asked himself. I could easily … He looked at his father plodding ahead, the muscles in his legs knotted. It’s not our fault we’re poor, he mused. And Abdu’s father could buy him another radio.
When Father came back and tossed him the rope, Muneer coiled it, standing with his back to the passengers. Making a quick snatch, he ducked into the cubbyhole with the rope and the radio. He hid the radio under some tackle and was out again in a few seconds to help his father row and to wait for Abdu to discover that his radio was gone.
“My transistor!” Abdu shouted when they landed. “You kicked it off!” he said pointing to Muneer.
Muneer flushed. “I did not, though I had to step around it a hundred times!”
Someone else said, “You were just careless, Abdu.”
Everyone nodded in agreement, and Muneer relaxed. Father said nothing at first but finally he spoke. “I’ll see your father tonight, Abdu.” Then Father headed for the village, and Muneer followed.
Is the radio safe? Muneer wondered. Where can I sell it? Why does Father want to see Abdu’s father?
Mother gave them bread and cheese for supper, but Muneer wasn’t hungry. When Father finished, he got up and said, “Come outside, son.” Muneer followed silently. Father sat on the bench by the door. “I’ll have to pay for the radio,” he said.
“But why, Father?”
“Because we’re honest people,” Father answered, looking at Muneer.
“Abdu’s father can buy him another!” declared Muneer. “How can you pay for it, Father?”
“A little each week.”
“Why, I can’t even get shoes for school!” Muneer exclaimed.
“That is true,” Father answered. “But we’re honest people, Muneer.”
It was quiet for a moment as the boy fought back tears. Finally, and with a shaky voice, Muneer said, “I’ll get the radio.”
Father nodded.
Father carried the radio to Abdu’s house and handed it to his father saying, “The radio was on the boat after all.” No questions were asked.
On the way home, Father said quietly, “Muneer, how would you punish your son if you were in my place?”
“Dropping out of school would hurt most,” Muneer said weakly.
“No, not that. What else?”
“Going to school … barefoot, I guess.”
Father sighed. “That would be fair. After two weeks, we might be able to buy you some sandals.”
I’ll have to go to school barefoot for two weeks, so why do I feel happy? Muneer wondered. He thought about it for a moment. Because I’m barefoot but honest, he decided. Then looking up he said, “Thank you, Father.”

Consider that you are invited to a friend’s house for breakfast. On the table you see a large pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice from which your host fills his glass. But he offers you none. Finally, you ask, “Could I have a glass of orange juice?”
He replies, “Oh, I am sorry. I was afraid you might not like orange juice, and I didn’t want to offend you by offering you something you didn’t desire.”
Now, that sounds absurd, but it is not too different from the way we hesitate to offer up something far sweeter than orange juice. I have often worried how I would answer some friend about my hesitancy when I meet him beyond the veil.
A story related by Elder Christoffel Golden, of South Africa, refreshed my concerns. He was recently in Lusaka, Zambia, attending a meeting of new converts. A well-spoken, well-dressed stranger with a Book of Mormon in hand walked in. He stated he had driven past the chapel many times and had wondered what church met there and what they taught for doctrine.
At the conclusion of the meeting, this gentleman stood up, raised his copy of the Book of Mormon high in the air, and asked, “Why have you kept this book hidden from the people of Lusaka? Why have you kept it a secret?”
As I heard this story, I flinched that one day some friend might ask me, “Why have you kept this Book of Mormon, with its message of truth and salvation, a secret?”
My reply, “I was afraid I would damage our friendship,” will not be very satisfying to either me or my friend.
Brothers and sisters, I pray that we may put our fears and our hesitancy behind us and no more keep secret the great treasure that is ours.

A couple of years ago a young man—let’s call him John—came to my office, having shortly returned from his mission. He was a student at this university.
He said to me, with great concern, “Elder Clarke, I need help. I loved my mission. It changed me. However, I am losing some of those sacred and special feelings that I felt in the mission field. I live in an apartment of returned missionaries. We don’t pray together, and we don’t read the scriptures together.”
He was pleading, “Can you help me?”
He asked, “What can I do to feel like I felt in the mission field?”
I have seen this happen many times. It is not just a question for returned missionaries. His question was, “What can I do to be happy, feel the Holy Ghost, and be close to the Savior?”
This is a question we all should ask every day.
On that afternoon in my office we turned to James 1:27 and read:
Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.
We then read in Alma 34:28:
And now behold, my beloved brethren, I say unto you, do not suppose that this is all; for after ye have done all these things, if ye turn away the needy, and the naked, and visit not the sick and afflicted, and impart of your substance, if ye have, to those who stand in need—I say unto you, if ye do not any of these things, behold, your prayer is vain, and availeth you nothing, and ye are as hypocrites who do deny the faith.
Pure religion includes caring for the poor and the needy.
...
That day in my office I told John that if he would practice pure religion, he would be happy and feel like he had felt on his mission. We went on to discuss pure religion as defined in James 1:27, Alma 34:28, and John 21.
...
John went back to BYU and acted upon what we had discussed. He sent me the following email:

Hi, Elder Clarke.
How are you? I hope all is well. It has been a while since I have written you, and I wanted to see how everything has been going. I feel you should know that I still think about our meeting last January. I felt the Spirit very strong in teaching me life’s principles that we spoke of, and doing so has continued to bless my life. Each month I have learned different things from that conversation and our other conversations since. Visiting the widows and the elderly has been an incredible blessing. I have seen repayments of kindness many times over. I could go on, really, and fill this page with experiences. Thank you. It is truly a blessing to have a great friend.

I would like to share one experience, however, that you might enjoy. A few Sundays ago I went to an assisted-care facility for the elderly to read inspirational stories from the Ensign. The twelve or so of us began with a prayer, and I began to read to them. The Spirit over that hour entered gradually and powerfully, and the simple stories of faith turned into very powerful testimony builders. Many individuals felt a great amount of love and support from the Savior as the Spirit testified of simple truths and testimonies.

It touched my soul to be able to be an instrument for the Lord, because I definitely felt His love for those sweet people. As I was on my way out, a few commented that they wanted to adopt me! I had never known I was capable of feeling such love from and for strangers with whom I had little connection. But I felt the Savior’s love for them, for those kind souls. It appeared clear to me that I would meet these individuals—now riddled by dementia, Alzheimer’s, and physical ailments—on the other side. I would see their husbands and wives, who have been looking over them from the other side of the veil. I felt very much the presence of my grandfather—whom I had never met—as I sat with my grandmother, and his spirit strengthened me and supported me. I knew he was thankful for my simple visit.

Who knew that I could find such tender mercies? It seems so meaningless to come home after something like that and just turn on the TV or tune out in some other way. It has changed me to realize that these tender experiences are available at all moments of the day as we, as Saints, strive to focus and help others in some way.

As I left that room that day, all of the elderly wished for my prompt return. They had bright smiles and warm hearts. They were thankful. In the hallway, your words echoed in my heart: “They will do more for you than you will ever be able to do for them.” What a blessing true service is!

Today I pay tribute to my great-grandmother Susan Kent Greene and her unwavering testimony.

In 1835 Susan married Evan M. Greene and soon after went to Kirtland to live. They were among the first of the Mormon fugitives at Mount Pisgah, Iowa, in the early spring of 1846. We read,
As soon as Evan pitched the tent he left his wife and their little ones while he went with his team and wagon to aid in bringing forward some of the saints who were without means of their own. Unfortunately for Susan she had no near neighbors. Almost as soon as her husband had gone the eleven-month old baby became ill. The baby rapidly grew worse, and after a few days died in its mother’s arms. This occurred on a dark and stormy night accompanied by loud thunderbolts and vivid lightening flashes. All she could do was to pray that the Lord would not forsake her, but would send someone to help her, which prayer was answered. A young man came to the door and spoke words of pity and comfort. In the morning he made a coffin and dug a grave for the baby and buried it. Susan had to prepare the little body for its last rest, herself. [Lula Greene Richards, “Life Sketch of Susan Kent Greene,” typescript, in author’s possession]
This was only the beginning of the tests that were to follow.

Evan and Susan arrived in Utah, having endured much, she wrote the following on the first page of her journal dated February 3, 1875:
I make this covenant to do the very best I can, asking God for wisdom to direct me in that I may walk with Him in all righteousness and truth. I much desire to be pure in heart that I may see God. Help me, Lord, to overcome all evil with good. Signed: Susan K. Green.
This covenant with the writings on this page is written with my blood and I have not broken my covenant and trust shall not. Signed: Susan K. Greene. [Quoted in Ardeth Greene Kapp, “‘I Shall Know They Are True’: Susan Kent Greene,” in Heroines of the Restoration, ed. Barbara B. Smith and Blythe Darlyn Thatcher (Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1999), 87–88]

Sister Asay recalled another incident when she poured out her heart to her Father in Heaven: “Carlos has always made me feel that I’m the greatest person in the world, and I just never want to let him down, or do anything that will slow his progress.” She told of the time she had the responsibility of handling their very meager finances. “We had our money budgeted in little envelopes,” she explained. At that time her young student-husband was teaching school and also going to night school. As he left for school one morning with full confidence in his sweetheart and wife, he said, “I’ll need the tuition money ready so I can register after school tonight.” Colleen had this horrible feeling come over her. She realized that through some misplanning, perhaps paying a bill before it was due or something like that, there was no money for the tuition.
“He trusted me. I just couldn’t let him down. He needed the money then so he could continue his schooling, and there was no money and no way of getting it unless it was to just drop out of the sky.” With a desperate feeling, and yet with the unwavering faith she had developed over the years, she talked to her Father in Heaven: “There is no money. What am I going to do? Carlos thinks there is, and he is coming home, and I just can’t disappoint him.” Sister Asay hesitated a minute, then leaned forward and reverently bore testimony: “That was one of the greatest spiritual experiences I’ve had,” she said, “and I’ve had a number of them.
“You know, when I got up from my knees, I looked out of the window. I saw the postman coming down the walk. The thought came to me immediately, ‘There will be some money in the mail.’ I confidently walked to the mailbox and—nothing. I could hardly believe it. My heart sank. There was no money. Disappointed and heartsick, I turned to go back in the door, full of concern, thinking of Carlos’s education and our future. At that moment the postman came back around the corner of the house. ‘Here is a letter,’ he said. ‘It was in the bottom of the bag and I didn’t notice it.’” She quickly opened the letter to discover a seminary check—two payments in advance—for the exact amount of the tuition. “I just started to cry,” she said. “The Lord did hear my prayers. I said to the children, ‘Look, here is some money from the Lord.’” Those dear little children sensed their mother’s excitement and ran all the way up and down the block, where there were nonmembers, and publicly announced to all their friends, “The Lord has sent us some money.”
“That’s how instantly I’ve had prayers answered,” Sister Asay explained. “Sometimes answers don’t come that quickly, but sometimes they do!”

“By the end of the five weeks of the project to meet the immediate needs of the Afghan refugees in the borough, we had served over 1,000 families. One family stood out to me that came in. They were a humble family placed in a hotel not far from there. As they came in, they seemed like every other refugee that normally comes through. The dad pulled me aside and asked me if he could, in return, also volunteer to help us. He said he has no job and with the time he had, he would like to help others and give back. My heart filled with warmth. Here he had nothing and yet wanted to give the little that he had.
“I have learned so many things I will never forget. Even at the thank you dinner for the volunteers I sat next to extraordinary people from around the world from different religions that were the kindest people I have ever met. I found Christ in those around me who are not members of the Church. I am forever grateful for the opportunity I had to participate in the project.”

A friend of mine told me that he and another young man had been asked to visit President Grant to see if he would come to their ward and speak at the commemoration of the restoration of the Aaronic Priesthood they were planning. He said they walked through the front door of the Church Administration Building, walked to the back of the building where President Grant’s secretary sat, and said, “Is the President in?”

She replied, “Yes, would you like to see him?”

They answered in the affirmative and were shown into that beautiful boardroom. President Grant welcomed them and said, “What can I do for you two young men today?” They made their request, and President Grant responded, “Of course I’d be happy to come and speak to the young men. Give me the date and time, and I’ll be there.” He stood, and they thanked him and left. President Grant visited their ward on the appointed date.

This scenario probably took place in the early 1930s, and I can assure you that everything is handled much differently today.