Gospel Story Finder

When I was a young man in high school, one of my passions was American football. I played middle linebacker. The coach worked the team hard, teaching us the basics. We practiced until the skills became natural and automatic. During one play against our biggest rival, I had an experience that has helped me over the years. We were on defense. I knew my assigned opponent, and as the play unfolded, he moved to my right into the line of scrimmage. There was a lot of noise from players and fans. I reacted as the coach had taught us and followed my man into the line, not knowing if he had the ball. To my surprise, I felt the ball partially in my hands. I gave it a tug, but my opponent didn’t let go. As we tugged back and forth, amid all the noise I heard a voice yelling, “Packer, tackle him!” That was enough to bring me to my senses, so I dropped him on the spot.

I have wondered how I heard that voice above all the other noise. I had become acquainted with the voice of the coach during the practices, and I had learned to trust it. I knew that what he taught worked.

In my next story I want you to notice how obviously the Lord was involved—and I testify that He is that involved in every catching story.

About a month ago my wife went to Iowa to visit our son and his family and our daughter-in-law. While she was gone, I did what every red-blooded American temporary bachelor does—I stopped on the way home from work to get some dinner to avoid starvation. I stopped at the Bajio in Riverwoods down in Provo and was waited on by a young man who was obviously of Latin-American descent. I greeted him in Spanish. He complimented me on my accent and asked me where I had learned Spanish.

I thought, “Here we go again,” and I told him about my Church calling.

Before I could continue, he said, “I’m a Mormon, but I am inactive. But today I went to Temple Square.”

I must have looked interested—because I was—so he continued: “The other night I had a strange dream in which I heard some words I did not really fully comprehend. I came to work the next day and told my coworker, who is LDS, about it, and he said the words I heard in my dream were the words you hear when you view the Christus statue in the Temple Square Visitors’ Center. He told me to go up there, so I did, and sure enough I heard those words. I think the Lord was trying to tell me something. I am going to get active. I know who my bishop is, and I am going to ask him to help me repent of the bad decisions I have made.”

My seminary teacher began my very first seminary class by passing out small booklets to all the students. I was ready to really dig into the gospel at seminary, so I was excited to find out what wisdom these little books held. When I received my book and flipped through it, however, I realized it was full of blank pages.
My teacher explained that these blank books were for us to record our own spiritual impressions. He then shared a quote from Elder Richard G. Scott (1928–2015) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles:
“Write down in a secure place the important things you learn from the Spirit. You will find that as you write down precious impressions, often more will come. Also, the knowledge you gain will be available throughout your life.”1
My teacher bore testimony of Elder Scott’s words and encouraged us to write down insights we received as we studied the scriptures that year.
I was touched by Elder Scott’s promise that the Lord will give us more direction when we write down what we receive, and I wanted to show Heavenly Father that I valued His guidance. The only problem was that I wasn’t sure I even knew how to receive personal revelation. I couldn’t think of anything I should write down. There was no way I could ever fill up my book with insights!
But Elder Scott’s words stuck with me throughout the day, and by the next morning I had decided that I would trust the counsel of a living prophet and try to write down impressions.
Within a couple of weeks my daily scripture study changed. Before, I would read a few verses every day just to be able to check “read my scriptures” off my to-do list. Now I was looking for answers. I was looking for something that the Lord wanted me to write down.
Soon I found out that Elder Scott’s promises were true. I started to recognize the Spirit’s voice as I studied, first helping me feel God’s love, then testifying of truth as I read, and finally giving specific direction for my life. Not only did I have things to write in my study journal, but also—and much more importantly—I was learning how to recognize personal revelation.
Blessings continue to come. The act of writing things down helps me remember them later more easily, and I also now have a record to reference if I can’t quite remember the details of a lesson I learned. When I’m discouraged or struggling with a gospel question, I go back and read about specific experiences where I received undeniable confirmation of the basic truths of the gospel. These experiences are the backbone of my testimony, and my study journal is a way to always keep them fresh in my mind.
I will always be grateful that I decided to take an Apostle’s advice and write things down, even though at first I thought I had nothing to write. Keeping a study journal has shown me how to recognize when God speaks to me.

I recently had an insightful conversation with a 15-year-old Aaronic Priesthood holder. He helped me understand how easy it is in this Internet age for young people to almost inadvertently be exposed to impure and even pornographic images. He pointed out that for most principles the Church teaches, there is at least some recognition in society at large that violating these principles can have devastating effects on health and well-being. He mentioned cigarette smoking, drug use, and alcohol consumption by young people. But he noted that there is no corresponding outcry or even a significant warning from society at large about pornography or immorality.

My dear brothers and sisters, this young man’s analysis is correct. What is the answer? For years, prophets and apostles have taught the importance of religious observance in the home.

Parents, the days are long past when regular, active participation in Church meetings and programs, though essential, can fulfill your sacred responsibility to teach your children to live moral, righteous lives and walk uprightly before the Lord. With President Monson’s announcement this morning, it is essential that this be faithfully accomplished in homes which are places of refuge where kindness, forgiveness, truth, and righteousness prevail. Parents must have the courage to filter or monitor Internet access, television, movies, and music. Parents must have the courage to say no, defend truth, and bear powerful testimony. Your children need to know that you have faith in the Savior, love your Heavenly Father, and sustain the leaders of the Church. Spiritual maturity must flourish in our homes. My hope is that no one will leave this conference without understanding that the moral issues of our day must be addressed in the family. Bishops and priesthood and auxiliary leaders need to support families and make sure that spiritual principles are taught. Home and visiting teachers can assist, especially with children of single parents.

The young man I mentioned earnestly asked if the Apostles knew how early in life teaching and protecting against pornography and impure thoughts should start. With emphasis, he stated that in some areas even before youth graduate from Primary is not too early.

Youth who have been exposed to immoral images at a very early age are terrified that they may have already disqualified themselves for missionary service and sacred covenants. As a result, their faith can be severely impaired. I want to assure you young people, as Alma taught, that through repentance you can qualify for all the blessings of heaven. That is what the Savior’s Atonement is all about. Please talk with your parents or a trusted adviser, and counsel with your bishop.

“Who does he think he is?”
That question seared through my mind like a hot coal and overshadowed everything else. I had just knelt down by my bed to say my nightly prayers when my new stepfather passed by my bedroom door and saw me kneeling there. He must have been deeply touched by the sight, because he felt impelled to come into my room, kneel down beside me, put his arm around me, and join me in prayer.
I wanted to rip his arm from my shoulders and shove him out the door. I didn’t consider the fact that he was just trying to be nice—making an effort to grow closer to me. At the time I felt like he was intruding on something very private. I’d thought before that he was trying to nose into my real dad’s rightful spot, and that he was coming between my Mom and me. Now it seemed he wanted to horn his way into my relationship with Heavenly Father. “Get out of here!” my mind silently shouted. I knelt there, seething in silence, unable to finish my prayer.
My feelings, although not charitable, were natural and typical of a teenager trying to adjust to a new parent. You would probably be surprised at the number of teenagers who have to make that adjustment. More than a third of the kids in the Church will likely grow up without both their natural parents in the home. They will either live in single-parent families, or will have a stepparent. And when that stepparent moves in, there are major adjustments to be made.
The New Era talked with teenagers in various parts of the United States to find out what helped them adapt to a new parent, and we’re passing that information along to you. Stepbrothers and stepsisters enter in, but for now, we’re focusing on the parent. Chances are that if you’re not currently dealing with this kind of situation, one of your friends is, and maybe this will help you help them.
“You’ve got to have a positive attitude about stepparents and not have this preconceived notion that they’re going to be mean,” says Nathan Black, 16, of Salt Lake City. “The story of Cinderella really didn’t do much for the stepparent image.”
Nancy Taylor, 15, of Richardson, Texas, agrees. “Trust in your natural parent’s judgment. If they thought their new husband or wife would be a bad influence in your home, they wouldn’t have married them. They love you. They don’t want to hurt you.”
As you can probably figure out from Nathan and Nancy’s statements, the first, and probably hardest thing to deal with when a stepparent moves in is the initial adjustment. They’re new to your family. They come from different backgrounds. They have different values, different personal styles, and they even eat different things from what you’re used to. “You don’t have a common past,” says Karis Wold, 17, of Gaithersburg, Maryland. “You don’t have the same experiences to laugh about.”
Then there’s the intrusion factor, and a little jealousy thrown in as well. Almost everyone who has a new parent move into their home feels these things to some degree. “A stepparent takes the place of the real parent in the home, and sometimes you feel resentful of that,” says Teri Black, 17, of Salt Lake City. “When one parent leaves, you become more dependent and closer to the one you’re living with. Then someone else comes along and gets most of their attention, and you feel like your stepparent is taking your real parent away from you.”
Karis and Teri both agree that patience is one of the most important factors in dealing with these initial problems. “You’ve just got to realize that everything is not going to be perfect from the very beginning,” says Karis. “Sometimes you have to put what you want aside and just wait. Perspective is important. You may have troubles now, but you have to realize that they won’t necessarily last forever. Sometimes you have to go with the flow and humor them.”
“You’ve also got to remember,” says Molly Parker, 12, of Beaverton, Oregon, “that your first impression of them is going to be different from your impression once you get to know them. You’re both trying to adjust at first. You’ve got to try to understand them, and then they’ll probably try to understand you.”
“And it’s important to watch the way you treat them,” adds Amy Rooney, 17, of Mesa, Arizona. “There’s a good chance that they’ll treat you the way you treat them. For example, one thing that a lot of stepkids say is, ‘I don’t have to do what you say—you’re not my real father!’ How would you feel if they said to you, ‘I don’t have to help you—you’re not my real kid’?”
That brings us to discipline, which is also a major cause of contention between stepparent and stepchild. You’re used to receiving a certain punishment for disobedience, and the stepparent dishes out another. You feel resentment because “that’s not the way my real dad did it.”
“Don’t compare your stepparents to your real parents, because, out of a sense of loyalty to your natural parents, the stepparent will always come up short,” says Chris Smith, 13, of Pasadena, California. He also offers this advice: “Just try to look at things from your new parent’s point of view. When they tell you to take out the trash, it’s not because they’re riding you. They just want the house to be clean.”
“At first I resented my stepdad when he disciplined my little sister,” says Nancy Taylor. “I felt he had no right to do that. But then my mom explained to me that Lindsey needs to learn what’s right and wrong—he wasn’t doing it to be mean, but to help her. That kind of applies to me, too. I had to accept the fact that he is the man of the house now, and what he says goes.”
Some of the people we talked to said their new parent was stricter than the parent they’d been living with, and others said the new parent was more lenient. But surprisingly enough, the general consensus was that kids were grateful to have set rules and set punishments for breaking them. Many times, when one parent is absent from the home, discipline breaks down, maybe because a single parent doesn’t have the support of a partner in administering it, or because single parents feel a need to ingratiate themselves with their children. Or perhaps, with a mom working again, she just doesn’t have the time. And then there’s the urge, with so many adjustments to be made, to just avoid any sort of conflict altogether. Whatever the case, most of the kids interviewed said they appreciated the discipline, and, although it took some time to get used to, it was better than having total freedom with no guidance.
Now, once the ground rules are set, there are all sorts of ways to become closer to your new parent. They’re not necessarily trying to take the place of your natural parent, but most will try to be your friend. How do you get closer to a friend? You do things together. You share things.
Joey Rossi, 16, of Dallas, Texas, shares his hobbies, like working on a computer, with his stepdad. Nathan Black likes to go to football and basketball games with his stepdad, who also goes to movies with Nathan’s sister Teri. Amy Rooney says her relationship with her stepfather grows when he helps her with softball or powderpuff football. Nathaniel Smith, 12, of Pasadena, California, got closer to his stepmother by letting her help him with his piano lessons and by listening to her etiquette tips, while his stepbrother Allen Doezie, 17, became better friends with his stepfather by going on Scouting trips with him.
In fact, the Church offers a lot of programs that can bring you closer to your stepparent. Aimee Crowther, 13, of Richardson, Texas, got a lot closer to her stepdad by going to a Daddy-Daughter party with him. Karis Wold says she really became close to her stepmother when they shared the experience of getting her patriarchal blessing.
And you know, asking a stepparent for help doesn’t hurt either. “At first it was hard for me to ask him to do things for me, like take me to the store and things like that,” says Nancy Taylor. “I didn’t want to impose on him, or make him think I was too dependent or anything. But the more I reached out to him, the better it got. The little things built up. Now I feel like I can share my problems with him, and he helps me.”
Another help that almost every person interviewed mentioned for bringing a new family close is showing physical affection. You’re not being disloyal to a natural parent by giving a stepparent a hug. You hug your friends, don’t you? “I remember one thing that really made me feel closer to my stepmom,” says Chris Smith. “I’d just gotten home from a trip, and she gave me a big hug—that made me realize she was really happy to see me. That was good.”
Being open with your stepparent, and rationally talking out your problems with them, will also held to break down barriers. Some people find it helpful to go to the natural parent, discuss the problem with them, and have them explain why your stepparent is acting the way he or she is. Many times your natural parent can help you understand.
Probably the biggest help for your family situation will come from your Heavenly Father. “I prayed a lot about it, and Heavenly Father really helped me understand what I had to do,” says Molly Parker. “He really helped me get close.”
Family problems are best kept within the walls your house, but there may come a time when it’s necessary to get outside help. In rare cases, sins like sexual or physical abuse may occur. While such matters may seem too grave for anyone to want to admit to, you don’t have to be subjected to that. In fact, it is your right not to suffer in that way. Seek help from your other parent, your bishop, your school counselor, or another family member outside of your home. You don’t have to shoulder that burden alone. You need help, and so does the person afflicting you.
In most cases, however, there are great advantages to having two parents in the home, even if one is a stepparent. “It’s great to have a Melchizedek Priesthood holder in your house,” says Allen Doezie. “Dad’s happier when he’s married,” adds Karis Wold.
And a lot can be learned from the adjustment process. Most people agree that getting used to a new person in the home helps you get used to new people outside the home better. It can also be a great aid in helping you get along with new missionary companions or a spouse, who will also have come from a different background.
Karis sums up most stepparent experiences with the following advice. “Just try to remember that they want everything to work just as much as you do. They don’t have all the answers either, but you can both try.”

My senior year in high school was filled with student body responsibilities, classes, activities, and planning for next year at BYU. I felt my senior year was a time for me to evaluate and take stock, to plan for big changes in my life. And all my friends were getting contact lenses.
“It’s a whole new world!” Cheryl confided as we huddled in our band uniforms at the opening football game. “I can see things I never saw before!” I had to admit she looked much prettier, too. Her small Japanese features no longer hid behind the thick glasses she had worn for years.
I pushed my own glasses back up on my nose and considered the possibilities. If Cheryl and Carolyn and Ron and Celia could make the change, why couldn’t I? It couldn’t be all that big a deal.
Or could it? I pondered some more as my regular checkup with the ophthalmologist approached.
“Of course!” he reassured me. He could fit me with contacts. I would have them within two weeks, for a mere $200, including eye exam and fittings during the breaking-in period.
That, of course, was another problem. Two hundred dollars was a lot of money for my family in 1970. I didn’t want to waste it. What if I couldn’t get used to the contacts?
I thought some more as I bicycled home. Daddy’s business hadn’t been going well. On the other hand, I had a good part-time job. Maybe I could offer to pay part of the bill. Maybe I would have to pay for the whole thing. Would it be worth it? I decided it would.
“Absolutely not,” said Daddy. “No daughter of mine is going to wear contact lenses.” I argued that everyone was getting them. I argued that I would pay part of the cost. I argued that I would pay all of it. I argued that I had $200, and more, sitting in the bank at that very minute. I argued that the doctor thought he could correct my vision more accurately with contacts. I argued that my glasses pinched behind my ears. I argued that contacts would give me better grades in school. Daddy was adamant, totally unreasonable. He finally put his foot down and refused to listen any more. “I don’t want you to go through all that,” he said flatly. “No. Don’t ask again.”
I stormed to my room in tears. The fight had bolstered my resolve. Anger had replaced any squeamish fears I had entertained. I would show him! I was 17 years old. I had my own life to live! Nobody was going to have control over me, not while I had $200 of my own money in the bank. I fantasized that I would be beautiful, independent. I would even lose weight, maybe streak my hair. Boys would take me out. I would show that mean, old-fashioned man a thing or two!
The next day I made an appointment for another eye examination.
I felt very shy and embarrassed the day I returned home wearing my new contacts. My eyes seemed different and foreign. The feeling was not unlike the strange tingle I had in my fingertips on the rare occasions when I used nail polish. I felt naked without my glasses, but I was astounded at the clarity of my vision. And in my heart a lurking fear was beginning to grow.
Lois had had her ears pierced against her father’s wishes. I remembered Paulette with the cork and needle at the slumber party, the alcohol-soaked strings, the infection. Lois had been grounded for a month. I pushed these thoughts aside and stiffened as I opened the front door. After all was said and done, the price had been paid and Lois had her pierced ears. I was a contact lens wearer now!
My father was more surprised and curious than shocked and angry. “Please let me see them,” he said. I held out the tiny green disk on the tip of a finger. He stared at it almost reverently. “Is this all there is to it? It’s so tiny. Are you sure you can see with it?”
I felt smug, superior, vindicated.
His next question surprised me. “Didn’t it hurt your eyes when they poured the latex in?” What on earth was he talking about? Nothing of that sort had gone on at all.
“I want to show you something,” he said, beckoning. I followed him upstairs to his room. From the back of his sock drawer, he pulled out a hinged leather case and opened it. On the white velvet lining were two glass balls. No, not balls. I picked one up. Doll teacups, of clear glass, an inch in diameter and an eighth inch thick.
“These are my contact lenses,” Daddy said sadly.
I was horrified. “How could anyone wear those? Why they must cover the whole eyeball!”
“That’s right,” he replied. “I wore them three times.”
My mother peered over my shoulder. “One of the times was on his second date with me,” she said. “His poor eyes watered so much and he was so miserable I made him take them off.”
“They made them by propping my eyelids open with a metal brace and pouring liquid latex over my eyes,” he explained. “The molds were then used for the glass lenses, which fit tightly over the entire eye. It took all my courage to put them in. I didn’t want that to happen to my little girl,” he finished lamely.
Remorse filled my heart. Daddy had only been trying to protect me from the pain he had suffered himself, while I had thought he was being mean and unreasonable. I shuddered as I remembered my misery when the orthodontist had made latex molds of my teeth. Then I thought of the young man, 20 years earlier, who had endured incredible agony for the hope of being freed from the burden of thick, heavy glasses.
Daddy hadn’t realized that times had changed. His actions toward me had been motivated by memories of his earlier experiences. I understood better now the reasons for other restrictions he imposed upon his children. He had once been a young man. Events during those years had shaped his relationship with his family; and the family rules, fair or unfair, were influenced by those experiences.
I knew the remaining months I would spend in Daddy’s household were limited. I would soon begin a new life that would lead me away from home. Very shortly, my parents would not be responsible for my welfare, and I was sorry my new understanding of them had come so late. I wished I had been more considerate and teachable.
Three years later, my mother called my Provo apartment with the news. “Your father got his new contact lenses today. Aunt Jeuney and I picked him up at the train station and asked him how he was doing. He really was excited! ‘When I got back to the office, I didn’t have to pick up a single thing on my desk to see what it was,’ he said.”
Tears filled my eyes as I thought of the man who had groped for so many years and had now found a fuller measure of vision. I prayed that in future relationships I would realize that people, especially parents, act according to their past experiences. It is impossible to understand all the reasons why people do the things they do. I hope I can remember that lesson all my life.

My father clearly taught me the importance of soul-stretching service—of living a sermon. I grew up in Perry, Utah. The stake in which I grew up had a dairy farm and fruit orchards that provided regular opportunities for service. On one occasion it was time to harvest the hay, and our ward was assigned a particular day to work. My dad was always one of the first to volunteer for these priesthood assignments. I recall him reminding me one evening that the next day was our assignment and that we needed to be at the Church farm at 5 p.m. We arrived a few minutes before five. Additional brethren and young men arrived, and we worked together to bring in the hay.

I remember that we had been working for an hour or so when some of the brethren began to leave. Some who had arrived after we had were already leaving. I looked at my dad and suggested that we could go as well. He smiled and said it didn’t matter what the others were doing. We had agreed to serve for the entire time of the assignment, and there was still work to be done. The response was kind and clear; I had better stop watching others and stay focused on my opportunity to serve as I had agreed to do. That example of soul-stretching service has helped me so many times in my life.

When I was 11, at a regional conference in Johannesburg, South Africa, President Howard W. Hunter (1907–95) shook my hand and said, “You’re going to go on a mission and be a fine missionary someday.”
Most young men would have cherished those words forever. Not me. For the next 10 years I had no desire to serve a mission. I was more concerned with success in sports and my social life. I thought that giving up two years would throw all that away. During interviews with my branch and stake presidents, I would come up with excuses as to why I didn’t want to serve.
At 21, still with no desire to serve a mission, I visited my family in the United States, in Iowa. They had moved there the year before. While in Iowa I had the chance to go to the Winter Quarters Nebraska Temple with the local singles branch. I wasn’t endowed, so I figured I’d perform baptisms for the dead.
Upon arriving at the temple, I discovered there was no baptismal session scheduled for the afternoon. I thought, “Great, what am I going to do for the next two and a half hours?”
I decided to go to the Mormon Trail Visitors’ Center across the street. After watching a 15-minute movie about the pioneers, I was greeted by two sister missionaries who were going to take me on my own personal tour. After learning a little bit about me, Sister Cusick asked why I hadn’t served a mission. The usual excuses came flying out. Sister Cusick then testified to me not only of the pioneers but also of missionary work.
After the tour I sat in the temple waiting room, thinking. Suddenly, my excuses for not serving a mission became a stupor of thought. The Spirit testified strongly that I should serve a mission. From the time I started talking to the sister missionaries, everything had changed inside me. The Spirit testified to my heart what I needed to do.
Months later I found out that the still, small voice had told Sister Cusick that I needed to have my own tour. She didn’t know why, but the Lord had plans for me.
I served in the California Ventura Mission—the greatest mission in the world—and built some wonderful friendships that I hope will last through the eternities. I didn’t believe President Hunter for 10 years, but he knew exactly what he was talking about.
My life changed completely, all because a sister missionary acted on the promptings of the Holy Ghost.

Moving from his hometown hadn’t been easy for Charlie. After Dad had been offered a better job, the family decided to move. Charlie’s seven-year-old brother, Justin, didn’t mind the move. Justin made friends wherever he went.
But going into a new sixth-grade class in the middle of the school year was hard for Charlie. Most of the kids had known each other since kindergarten. No one seemed interested in getting to know him. So Charlie was excited when Ryan and a couple other guys in his class asked him to go to the mall with them after school. They were going to look for some equipment for baseball season, which was only two weeks away.
As the boys walked into a sports equipment store, Charlie pulled a catcher’s mitt from the wall and tried it on.
“That’s a cool mitt,” Ryan said.
“I know,” Charlie said. “Too bad I don’t have any money.”
“Just stick it in your backpack,” Ryan said. “Nobody’s watching.”
“What? You just want me to take it?” Charlie asked.
“They overcharge for everything in this store,” Ryan said. “We probably pay too much for a lot of things.”
Charlie wanted that mitt. Baseball season started soon, and he needed a new catcher’s mitt. A lump formed in his throat. He knew he shouldn’t take the mitt.
“Go ahead. Take it,” Ryan said.
“Not right now,” Charlie said. “Maybe later.”
Charlie hung the glove back on the wall and turned around. The boys were laughing.
“Baseball season is coming up,” Ryan reminded Charlie as they left the store. “You’re going to need a glove soon.”
Charlie couldn’t concentrate on his homework that evening. He still wanted that mitt. He started to wonder if Ryan was right. At dinner, Mom and Dad noticed something was wrong.
“How are things at school, Charlie?” Dad asked.
“I got 100 percent on my spelling test,” Justin said.
“That’s great,” Dad said.
“How about you, Charlie?” Mom asked. “How’s that essay coming along?”
“I’m almost done,” Charlie muttered. “I’ll go finish it now.”
Charlie’s teacher had assigned him to write an essay about freedom. Charlie pulled out his notebook, picked up his pen, and began reading from his textbook. “Freedom has two parts—agency and responsibility.”
Charlie had learned about agency at church, but he never really thought about it being connected with freedom. He started thinking about the catcher’s mitt. He knew he shouldn’t take it. He decided he wouldn’t—no matter what the other guys thought.
The next day at school, Charlie told Ryan he wasn’t going to take the catcher’s mitt.
“What’s the big deal?” Ryan asked. “They’ve got hundreds of them.”
“Stealing is wrong, even if the store has a lot,” Charlie said.
Ryan laughed as Charlie walked away.
That night, Charlie told his parents how he had been tempted to take the mitt.
“What stopped you?” Dad asked.
“I just knew it wasn’t honest,” Charlie said. “I knew it would be the wrong choice.”
Dad placed his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “We’re proud of you,” he said.
Even though Charlie still hadn’t made any good friends in his new class yet, he felt happy as he lay in bed that night. With baseball season just around the corner, he knew he would have a chance to make some new friends.

When I was a young missionary serving in the Dominican Republic, my Mission President taught the principle of being instruments in the Lord’s hands with an object lesson that has stayed with me to this day. He held up an 8.5” x 11” sheet of paper and said the objective was to cut this sheet of paper in half, and success would be measured in two ways. First, the cut had to be straight and clean. And second, it had to be completed in the least amount of time. He called on several volunteers and had, hidden under a sheet, a tool for each person to complete their assignment. The first Elder was confident and eager to get started, until he received his tool.

He was given a pickaxe. While a pickaxe is certainly a tool, it is not the best tool for cutting paper. The Elder tried his best to figure out how to use this tool to accomplish the task. He tried cutting the paper with the pick end, then using the axe. He even tried using the handle. It was awkward and cumbersome, and despite his best efforts, his paper was simply ripped into shreds. The next volunteers were a little cautious, but were told that their tools were actually made for cutting.

They were made for cutting alright, they received a nail clipper, a pair of wire cutters, and a hand saw. While all of these tools were made to cut something in some way, none were effective at fulfilling the mission. The volunteers tried to get creative. The Elder with the nail clipper extended the handle and tried to use it as a straight edge. The missionary with the hand saw tried using the back edge of the saw to carefully tear the paper in half, trying to make as clean a cut as possible. All of this extra maneuvering took extra time, and produced meager results at best.

Finally, the last volunteer was given a pair of scissors. As you might expect, he quickly and easily made a clean, straight cut. Abraham Lincoln is credited with the saying, “Give me six hours to chop down a tree, and I will spend the first four sharpening the axe.” The right tools in the Master’s hands can craft beyond comprehension, and establish even eternal designs.

In August 1852, my fourth-great-grandfather, William Holmes Walker, who was married with children at the time, was informed that a mission call for him had been announced in a special Church conference with instructions to depart as soon as possible to Cape Town, South Africa. He and his companions, Jesse C. Haven and Leonard I. Smith, would be the first missionaries to serve in Africa. He served almost five years on that mission.

Elder Walker left his family, traveling for three months by horse and wagon to New York City and then sailing for eighteen days to England. Preparations in England to go to Africa took two months. Boarding a boat in Liverpool, he sailed another sixty-six days for Cape Coast, Africa. From the time he departed Salt Lake to the time he arrived in Africa was 216 days! Today that seven-month journey takes about twenty-five hours by plane. Aren’t we grateful for the example of the early missionaries of this dispensation and for their considerable sacrifice for the work?

Kim Ho Jik took a deep breath. It was his first day studying and teaching at a university in the United States.
Learning was important to Ho Jik. He wanted to learn as much as he could about nutrition. Then he could make life better for people in South Korea, where he was from.
Ho Jik carried a box of books up some steps to his new office.
“Hello,” said a man from the office next door. “I’m Oliver. I’m studying here too.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Ho Jik said.
Weeks passed. Ho Jik and Oliver became friends. They talked about what they were learning. Ho Jik noticed that Oliver never drank or smoked. He didn’t work on Sundays either. I wonder why, Ho Jik thought.
One day Oliver gave Ho Jik a book. It was about the Articles of Faith. “This book tells about what I believe,” Oliver said. “Let me know if you want to learn more.”
Ho Jik finished the book in less than a week. Oliver gave him another book called the Book of Mormon. Ho Jik read it quickly too. He started going to church with Oliver. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to be baptized.
Soon it was Oliver’s last day at the university. Ho Jik saw him in the hallway. “I believe God brought you here for a special reason,” Oliver said. “But not just so you can teach your people about nutrition. You need to teach them about the gospel too.”
Ho Jik thought about Oliver’s words for a long time. Finally he decided to be baptized. He was baptized in the same river where Joseph Smith was baptized 122 years earlier!

A few years after my baptism, my family became refugees for a second time. The political regime in East Germany perceived my father as a dissident. His life was at risk, and we had to leave the country overnight, leaving behind everything we possessed. Again we had only the clothes we wore, some food for the trip, and family records as well as family pictures. By the time I was 11, we had been refugees twice within only seven years. But this time we had already received the gospel of Jesus Christ. We had made covenants with the Lord through baptism, and we came to a branch in Frankfurt, West Germany, with other members who had the same principles and precious values.

Into this branch, just a few years later, came a young widow with her two daughters. The missionaries had found this beautiful family, which included my future wife, Harriet.

When I saw Harriet for the first time, with her dark brown eyes, I thought, “These missionaries are really doing a great job!” Even as a teenager I liked Harriet quite a lot. My bold advances, however, showed only marginal success. I tried, for instance, to influence the seating at the sacrament table so I could pass the sacrament to her. This did not impress her very much. On my way to Church activities during the week, I usually rode my nice bicycle and often stopped at their home to ask if Harriet would want to have a ride to church on my bicycle. Harriet always declined. Sometimes, however, her mother was there and would say, “Harriet will walk, but I will gladly ride with you on your bike to church.” This wasn’t really what I was hoping for at the time, but I later realized it is an advantage to be on good terms with the mother of the girl of your dreams!

My mother and my mother-in-law both had the same strong faith that blessed them with the gifts of the Spirit. And they blessed not only my life, but the lives of generations to come.

President David O. McKay (1873–1970) said the principal reason the Church was organized was “to make life sweet today, to give contentment to the heart today, to bring salvation today. … Some of us look forward to a time in the future—salvation and exaltation in the world to come—but today is part of eternity” (Pathways to Happiness [1957], 291–2).

What you do today will determine how the restored gospel principles can influence the nations of the world tomorrow. It will determine how these heavenly rays of the gospel will light every land in the future.

By living up to this mission—in whatever life circumstance you find yourself—the Lord our God has responsibilities and blessings in store for each of you individually, far beyond your imagination.

May I invite you to rise to the great potential within you. But don’t reach beyond your capacity. Don’t set goals beyond your capacity to achieve. Don’t feel guilty or dwell on thoughts of failure. Don’t compare yourself with others. Do the best you can, and the Lord will provide the rest. Have faith and confidence in Him, our Savior, and you will see miracles happen in your life and the lives of your loved ones. The virtue of your own personal life will be a light to those who sit in darkness, and it will be because you are a living witness of the fulness of the restored gospel.

Wherever you are on this beautiful, but often troubled earth of ours, you can be the one to “succor the weak, lift up the hands which hang down, and strengthen the feeble knees” (D&C 81:5).

Because Shellee is always trying, people are drawn to her. For example, in ninth grade Shellee wanted to be a cheerleader. When it came time for tryout practices, she went but struggled trying to understand all the instructions. Luckily, her bubbly personality and eagerness to learn won her the admiration of the other girls and one varsity cheerleader in particular.
Michelle Shoell, then a junior, took Shellee home with her every night that week to practice with her. Shellee could do the moves; she just needed help combining the moves with the words. “She is one of the most sparkling people I’ve ever met,” Michelle says, “and I wanted to see her make it.”
Before the final tryouts, Michelle even told the coach, “I don’t really care if I make it as long as Shellee does.” Both girls made the squad.

Forty-one years ago I climbed into the driver’s seat of an 18-wheel semitruck with my beautiful wife, Jan, and our infant son, Scotty. We were taking a heavy load of construction materials across several states.
In those days there were no seat-belt restrictions or infant car seats. My wife held our precious son in her arms. Her comment “We sure are high off the ground” should have given me a clue about her feelings of apprehension.
As we made our descent over historic Donner Pass, a steep section of highway, the cab of the semi suddenly and unexpectedly filled with thick smoke. It was difficult to see, and we could hardly breathe.
With a heavy rig, brakes alone are not enough to rapidly decrease speed. Using the engine brakes and gearing down, I frantically attempted to stop.
Just as I was pulling to the side of the road, but before we had come to a full stop, my wife opened the door of the cab and jumped out with our baby in her arms. I watched helplessly as they tumbled in the dirt.
As soon as I had the semi stopped, I bolted from the smoking cab. With adrenaline pumping, I ran through the rocks and weeds and held them in my arms. Jan’s forearms and elbows were battered and bleeding, but thankfully she and our son were both breathing. I just held them close as the dust settled there on the side of the highway.
As my heartbeat normalized and I caught my breath, I blurted out, “What in the world were you thinking? Do you know how dangerous that was? You could have been killed!”
She looked back at me, with tears running down her smoke-smudged cheeks, and said something that pierced my heart and still rings in my ears: “I was just trying to save our son.”
I realized in that moment she thought the engine was on fire, fearing the truck would explode and we would die. I, however, knew it was an electrical failure—hazardous but not fatal. I looked at my precious wife, softly rubbing the head of our infant son, and wondered what kind of woman would do something so courageous.
This situation could have been as emotionally hazardous as our literal engine failure. Gratefully, after enduring the silent treatment for a reasonable amount of time, each of us believing the other person was at fault, we finally expressed the emotions that were churning beneath our heated outbursts. Shared feelings of love and fear for the other’s safety kept the hazardous incident from proving fatal to our cherished marriage.
When our truck cab filled with smoke, my wife acted in the bravest manner she could imagine to protect our son. I too acted as a protector when I questioned her choice. Shockingly, it did not matter who was more right. What mattered was listening to each other and understanding the other’s perspective.

Many years ago, a humble and faithful patriarch, Brother Percy K. Fetzer, was called to give patriarchal blessings to Church members living behind the Iron Curtain.

Brother Fetzer went into the land of Poland in those dark days. The borders were sealed, and no citizens were permitted to leave. Brother Fetzer met with German Saints who had been trapped there when the borders were redefined following World War II and the land where they were living became part of Poland.

Our leader among all of those German Saints was Brother Eric P. Konietz, who lived there with his wife and children. Brother Fetzer gave Brother and Sister Konietz and the older children patriarchal blessings.

When Brother Fetzer returned to the United States, he called and asked if he could come visit with me. As he sat in my office, he began to weep. He said, “Brother Monson, as I laid my hands upon the heads of the members of the Konietz family, I made promises which cannot be fulfilled. I promised Brother and Sister Konietz that they would be able to return to their native Germany, that they would not be held captive by the arbitrary decisions of conquering countries and that they would be sealed together as a family in the house of the Lord. I promised their son that he would fill a mission, and I promised their daughter that she would be married in the holy temple of God. You and I know that because of the closed borders, they will not be able to receive the fulfillment of those blessings. What have I done?”

I said, “Brother Fetzer, I know you well enough to know that you have done just what our Heavenly Father wanted you to do.” The two of us knelt down beside my desk and poured out our hearts to our Heavenly Father, indicating that promises had been given to a devoted family pertaining to the temple of God and other blessings now denied to them. Only He could bring forth the miracle we needed.

The miracle occurred. A pact was signed between the leaders of the Polish government and the leaders of the Federal Republic of Germany, permitting German nationals who had been trapped in that area to move to West Germany. Brother and Sister Konietz and their children moved to West Germany, and Brother Konietz became the bishop of the ward in which they resided.

The entire Konietz family went to the holy temple in Switzerland. And who was the temple president who greeted them in a white suit with open arms? None other than Percy Fetzer—the patriarch who gave them the promise. Now, in his capacity as president of the Bern Switzerland Temple, he welcomed them to the house of the Lord, to the fulfillment of that promise, and sealed the husband and wife together and the children to their parents.

The young daughter eventually married in the house of the Lord. The young son received his call and fulfilled a full-time mission.

Mia was sad. It was time for bed, and she couldn’t find her stuffed cat, Tinkerbell. Everybody helped her look—Grandma, Grandpa, Mom, and Dad. No Tinkerbell.
They searched all over. They looked under the bed. They looked behind the couch. They even looked under the sink. Still no Tinkerbell.
“We’re not having much luck, are we?” Mom said.
“No,” Mia said with a frown.
“I don’t know where Tinkerbell is,” Mom said. “But there’s someone who does know.”
Mia’s eyes lit up. “Who?”
“Heavenly Father knows. Should we say a prayer and ask Him for help?”
Mia nodded and knelt down. Everyone stopped searching and knelt down too.
“Heavenly Father, I miss Tinkerbell. Please help us find her. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen,” Mia prayed.
“Now we need to listen and think so the Holy Ghost can help us find Tinkerbell,” Dad said. They were all quiet for a little while.
Mom looked at Mia. “Where do you think Tinkerbell is?”
“In the closet,” Mia said.
Everybody checked a closet. But there was still no Tinkerbell. Suddenly Mom had an idea. “This morning I put your backpack in the upstairs closet. We didn’t check there yet. Maybe Tinkerbell is there.”
Mia and Mom ran upstairs to check. They opened the closet. Tinkerbell was in the backpack!
Mia gave Tinkerbell a great big hug. Mia and Mom knelt down right there and thanked Heavenly Father.

When I became a priest in the Windsor Ward, London Ontario Stake, our Young Men’s president, Brother Sandor, encouraged us to pass the sacrament and perform baptisms as a way to exercise our priesthood. In one Sunday lesson, he also taught us about giving blessings. He said, “You must be bold enough to say what the Spirit prompts you to say, but be humble enough not to make up your own words!”
Not long after that lesson, a young convert in our ward was sustained as a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, and Brother Sandor asked me to be the “voice” in the ordination. I was scared. I had never laid my hands on anybody’s head before, and I felt so inadequate. But then the Spirit reassured me that it would be fine for me to do it, and I was reminded of what my Young Men’s president had taught us.
The young man to be ordained sat down in the chair, and I stood directly behind him. When we were all ready Brother Sandor guided me through the ordinance prayer and I repeated every word he said. After we had finished the ordination and said, “… and we wish to pronounce a blessing on your head at this time …” Brother Sandor looked at me and indicated that I was on my own.
At that point, the priesthood entirely changed its meaning for me. It was no longer just a title, but the actual authority to act in God’s name, and I was giving that authority to someone else. I paused and waited for the Spirit to whisper to me what I was to say. It is difficult for me to describe the feelings I had that day during the blessing, but I can say that I now have a stronger testimony that the power of the priesthood is real.

Just five years ago, in August 1975, thousands of Japanese Saints assembled in Tokyo for the first area conference in Asia of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The meetings were held in the Budokan, a large public assembly hall centrally located in the heart of the metropolis and capable of seating thousands of people. On this memorable date, President Spencer W. Kimball opened the conference with the building filled to capacity and announced that a temple of the Lord would be built in Japan. As President Kimball made this announcement, the audience gasped and an excited murmur filled the air. Many of the Saints wept as they were filled with the spirit. They were witnessing the culmination of prayer, faith and hope. They envisioned where instructions from the Most High will be received, and will be so constructed as to enable all of the functions of the Priesthood to be fully exercised. They were witnessing the development of events which are unfolding in these latter days of fulfillment of prophecy.
With President Kimball’s announcement, the necessary steps were taken for the temple construction. Servants of the Lord were sent out to find a plot of land to build the temple. Several sites were considered and after much deliberation and prayer, it was decided that the temple would be located on the site of the old Tokyo Mission Home. This building and land had been purchased by the Church shortly after the end of World War II and had since been used by thousands of missionaries. For many of these missionaries, the old home was the first place they stayed upon arrival in Japan. Most would testify that many sacred and spiritual experiences were manifested here.
Seemingly this sacred and hallowed ground was divinely chosen for the construction of the House of the Lord. The site borders a beautifully landscaped Arisugawa Memorial Park along the eastern frontage separated only by a road leading from the Hiroo Subway Station which is just a few minutes walking distance away.
With the construction site selected and approved, design drawings were prepared under the direction of the church architect, Brother Emil B. Fetzer. As these were being drawn, people in Tokyo were busy gearing up for the months and years of difficult negotiations which would be necessary to obtain construction permits to build the temple in the Minami Azabu district, which is an affluent area of Tokyo with neighboring foreign diplomatic missions and embassies. Negotiations with area residents to gain approval for building the temple went slowly. Many of the local people worried about the effects the new building would have on life in the area. One big problem was conforming to the “Sunshine Law” in Tokyo, which requires a certain amount of compensation for any amount of sunlight which is lost due to the shadow cast by multi-story construction.
The months passed following President Kimball’s announcement. Months turned to years and two of the close neighbors continued to put up road blocks to impede the construction of the temple. Time and again word was passed among the Saints that everything was cleared and construction would soon begin. But new problems would arise which prevented the work from commencing. As an example, the church architects learned that the Japanese construction requirements were much more stringent in many respects than anticipated. This was mainly due to the frequency of earthquakes and typhoons in the islands of Japan. These building codes were found to be quite different from the customary standard codes and considerable additional study and architectural review were necessary to make sure that their plans did not conflict with the building codes of Japan.
In the spring of 1978, the decision was made to commence with the construction of the Tokyo Temple, though there were still many problems to be resolved. There were pockets of resistance among some of the neighbors, but it was mandatory to have on record a “commencement of construction”. This phase of work though not fully designed was the only assurance that the temple could be constructed as designed by the Church architect. The structure included a full basement, four floors above ground and a 25 meter symbol tower built into the penthouse structure located on the temple roof to house the mechanical controls. The currently approved construction permit would expire if the design did not conform with any of the newly promulgated sunshine laws. We were concerned that all of our design plans would have to be abandoned and a completely new design of less stature would have to be drawn up. To realize benefits of time and effort expended in the past in planning and design, the decision of Brother McPhie, Director of Temples and Special Projects, to proceed was an answer to our prayers. Missionaries were vacated from the mission home to start preparation for the demolition work. Kajima Corporation was awarded the Tokyo Temple construction contract and the church issued a notice to proceed commencing March 10, 1978.

By Jacqueline Wittwer
When water poured into the basement of the Congregational Church one Sunday after days of heavy rain, Yarmouth Branch members stopped their sacrament meeting and hurried to the basement to save furniture, books, and other valuables from ruin. David Quinn and his friend Marc Johnson—still in their Sunday best—jumped in, literally, to help.
They were laughing and having a wonderful time, even though their clothes were soaked through. What mattered was that a job needed to be done. They made the best of a bad situation. They helped me see the importance of a good attitude through life’s daily challenges.