Gospel Story Finder

May I share with you a thank-you that means very much to me. My quorum leader, an esteemed and respected associate, President Howard W. Hunter, has had great difficulty over the past number of years with his mobility. First he was confined to a bed, then a wheelchair, then a walker, and is presently able to stand and walk alone today. He has been a great example of patience, determination, and faith. Over these past few years as Elder Boyd K. Packer and I have sat closest to him in meetings and quorum duties, we help him to his feet after the meetings. Never, and I emphasize the word never, have we not heard him say “thank you” when lifted or assisted in his coming and going. I appreciate this lesson. I appreciate his strength.

How many of us get frustrated and impatient when we are forced to stop for 5 or 10 minutes because of road construction on Kamehameha Hwy? "Why does this have to happen to me?" e ask ourselves, or "I'm already late to my appointment. Will this construction ever finish?"
Well, I reacted that way all the time until my chiropractor in Kaneohe scheduled me for 3 visits a week for 12 consecutive weeks. I knew I had to find a way to endure those construction stops that occurred two or three times each way. As I stopped at each road block, I turned my head to the left and right of the highway and started noticing more than just the road construction. The wide angle lenses were on my soul and I saw how beautiful the scenery was on either side of Kamehameha Hwy. I wondered to myself, "How did I miss it all these years before?" I saw attractive houses and yards I had never noticed before. The ocean had its own personality and characteristics at different points along the Kam. Highway route. I even noticed the rock formations that seemed to change on a daily basis. And instead of envisioning a pontoon bridge right across Kahana Bay, I saw several hues of green and blue in its depths and on some days the surface was so still it was like a mirror was laying on the surface. It is a gorgeous bay!

The Koolau mountain range had so many ridges sculpted by years of erosion that it created a different appearance each time you viewed them depending on how the sunlight was hitting them at various times of the day. I even discovered a major landslide deep in the mountains of Kahana Valley that could only be viewed from a certain angle as I turned the corner from Crouching Lion. I began to gain a deeper appreciation for the wonders and beauty of the windward side of Oahu. I always knew Hawaii was beautiful but it wasn't until I had to stop at those many road blocks did I begin to develop a love and sense of humble gratitude for God's creation of these islands. I looked forward to my trips to Kaneohe because I was drinking in the beauty of this island from my saucer.

A mission is a couple of years in the future, but it’s something 17-year-old Jeremy thinks a lot about now. Where will he be called? Will he have the opportunity to learn a language? What will a mission be like? What more can he do to get ready?
Jeremy Pownall lives in Sydney, Australia, a place known for its famous opera house, great climate, relaxed lifestyle, and surfing. Actually, body-boarding is his passion right now, although he pretty much only gets to go for a few hours early Saturday mornings. He is just getting his mind around the fact that when he goes on his mission he’ll be leaving the beach and the waves behind. After all, a lot of his surf mates have done it. In fact, those mates are the very ones who are the most effective in convincing him that he really can serve a mission and be more than happy about it.
“There’s nothing like an early-morning yarn going to the surf,” he says. “I go with the returned missionaries in the ward and my Young Men leaders. They are great advice givers. All of them say that there will be great experiences in your life, but a mission is the best experience for your life.”
What do a bunch of LDS surfers talk about at the beach? Jeremy smiles slightly and says, “We talk about the waves we’ve caught and the places we’re going to travel to, where we would like to go on a mission or where they’ve been on their missions. The older guys tell us to definitely marry in the temple. And they remind us that we are going to marry the girls we date.” Being surrounded by surf and sand seems to be the right spot for all this good advice to sink in.
Jeremy admits that he really is a listener. And he soaks in the good advice that comes from his mentors, the ones who are a few years ahead of him on the road of life. “They tell me that if I ever do something that I regret, to never feel uncomfortable about going to my bishop or talking to my parents.”
In another instance, at Young Men camp, he listened when someone got up and spoke about his patriarchal blessing. “I hadn’t thought too much about that,” he recalls. “A week later I went for my interview, and a month later I got my patriarchal blessing.”
In talking about his testimony, Jeremy mentions one of his mentors in particular. “He’s one of my dad’s friends from New Zealand. Whenever he comes here, he goes out of his way to take me surfing. It’s a perfect opportunity for us to talk. The talks I’ve had with him are a major part of my conversion story.”
Sometimes it is in the relaxing moments out in the water or on the drive to the beach when what is said is the easiest to listen to. For Jeremy, that’s where his own testimony came into focus.
The next step in his conversion was bearing that testimony. “I think my testimony grew exponentially when I started bearing it more often and more freely. I feel more confident.”
After all, he points out, he does live in the mission field every day. “A lot of people respect me for my morals, especially here in Australia. Here people at 14 will start going to parties, getting drunk, and trying smoking and drugs. They respect me for still being an interesting and outgoing sort of person, yet not doing any of that stuff.”
Jeremy has big plans for the future. His success in school and his interest in learning languages might lead to becoming an ambassador or diplomat. “Everyone complains about how world leaders are doing things at the moment. I think I could do a better job. Maybe they need the Spirit to guide them.”
Jeremy is sensitive to the impressions of the Spirit. He listens to those who have made good choices. He pays attention to his seminary teacher and his youth leaders. And he likes what he hears.
The bottom line is that he is happy. He had a friend tell him once that she envied people from his church because they all seemed to be happy. Jeremy agrees. He says he has always treasured that about the gospel. “I’m blessed to live in Australia. I’m blessed to have a good family and be brought up in the gospel. I don’t want to waste it.”

Thank you, that is so sweet! I too pray that we can so persevere that we can live together forever! I want to just reciprocate by quoting from a poem that Susan knows well. I first quoted these lines to Susan when we were dating. It was on her doorstep during a surprise visit to her apartment. She had just washed her hair and was a little embarrassed to have to greet me with hair dripping wet and no make-up. But, as she opened the door I said, quoting Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116:

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no; it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Ours has been a marriage of true minds--grounded on friendship, which blossomed into romance, and was capped by physical love.

Could I tell you just a quick story out of my own experience in life? Sixty-odd years ago I was on a farm in Canada. I had purchased the farm from another who had been somewhat careless in keeping it up. I went out one morning and found a currant bush that was at least six feet high. I knew that it was going all to wood. There was no sign of blossom or of fruit. I had had some experience in pruning trees before we left Salt Lake to go to Canada, as my father had a fruit farm. So I got my pruning shears and went to work on that currant bush, and I clipped it and cut it and cut it down until there was nothing left but a little clump of stumps.

And as I looked at them, I yielded to an impulse, which I often have, to talk with inanimate things and have them talk to me. It’s a ridiculous habit. It’s one I can’t overcome. As I looked at this little clump of stumps, there seemed to be a tear on each one, and I said, “What’s the matter, currant bush? What are you crying about?”

And I thought I heard that currant bush speak. It seemed to say, “How could you do this to me? I was making such wonderful growth. I was almost as large as the fruit tree and the shade tree, and now you have cut me down. And all in the garden will look upon me with contempt and pity. How could you do it? I thought you were the gardener here.”

I thought I heard that from the currant bush. I thought it so much that I answered it.

I said, “Look, little currant bush, I am the gardener here, and I know what I want you to be. If I let you go the way you want to go, you will never amount to anything. But someday, when you are laden with fruit, you are going to think back and say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for cutting me down, for loving me enough to hurt me.’”

Ten years passed, and I found myself in Europe. I had made some progress in the First World War in the Canadian army. In fact, I was a field officer, and there was only one man between me and the rank of general, which I had cherished in my heart for years. Then he became a casualty. And the day after, I received a telegram from London from General Turner, who was in charge of all Canadian officers. The telegram said, “Be in my office tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

I puffed up. I called my special servant. (We called them “batmen” over there.) I said, “Polish my boots and my buttons. Make me look like a general, because I am going up tomorrow to be appointed.”

He did the best he could with what he had to work on, and I went to London. I walked into the office of the general. I saluted him smartly, and he replied to my salute as higher officers usually do to juniors—sort of a “Get out of the way, worm.” Then he said, “Sit down, Brown.”

I was deflated. I sat down. And he said, “Brown, you are entitled to this promotion, but I cannot make it. You have qualified and passed the regulations, you have had the experience, and you are entitled to it in every way, but I cannot make this appointment.”

Just then he went into the other room to answer a phone call, and I did what most every officer and man in the army would do under those circumstances: I looked over on his desk to see what my personal history sheet showed. And I saw written on the bottom of that history sheet in large capital letters: “THIS MAN IS A MORMON.”

Now at that time we were hated heartily in Britain, and I knew why he couldn’t make the appointment. Finally he came back and said, “That’s all, Brown.”

I saluted him, less heartily than before, and went out. On my way back to Shorncliffe, 120 kilometers away, I thought every turn of the wheels that clacked across the rails was saying, “You’re a failure. You must go home and be called a coward by those who do not understand.”

And bitterness rose in my heart until I arrived, finally, in my tent, and I rather vigorously threw my cap on the cot, together with my Sam Browne belt. I clenched my fist, and I shook it at heaven, and I said, “How could you do this to me, God? I’ve done everything that I knew how to do to uphold the standards of the Church. I was making such wonderful growth, and now you’ve cut me down. How could you do it?”

And then I heard a voice. It sounded like my own voice, and the voice said, “I am the gardener here. I know what I want you to be. If I let you go the way you want to go, you will never amount to anything. And someday, when you are ripened in life, you are going to shout back across the time and say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for cutting me down, for loving me enough to hurt me.’”

Those words—which I recognize now as my words to the currant bush and that had become God’s word to me—drove me to my knees, where I prayed for forgiveness for my arrogance and my ambition.

My young friends and brothers and sisters, will you remember that little experience that changed my whole life? Had the Gardener not taken control and done for me what was best for me, or if I had gone the way I wanted to go, I would have returned to Canada as a senior commanding officer of western Canada. I would have raised my family in a barracks. My six daughters would have had little chance to marry in the Church. I myself would probably have gone down and down. I do not know what might have happened, but this I know, and this I say to you and to Him in your presence, looking back over sixty years: “Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for cutting me down.”

Steven J. Lund
After I taught sixth grade for three years, I learned that if I taught for four more years, the school district would pay part of my tuition to receive my master’s degree. It seemed like a good plan—until the Spirit prompted me to quit my job and go back and get my degree right then. My wife had a similar prompting, so we moved forward. It meant we would have to pay for school ourselves. But because we did, I was hired to teach at BYU—Provo. That window of opportunity never would have been open had we waited four more years. We did not know how things would work out, but the Lord directed our paths just as He promised.

“The nicest party I had was a large one given by a very close friend. The groom was invited to come late and meet everyone. At that time my mother read a poem that she’d written especially for us,” said Lynn Hildebrandt of Boston, Massachusetts. She and her husband, Stephen, think couples should plan things like this that make getting married even more exciting and more together-oriented. They practiced sentimental songs and sang duets at one of their parties and at the reception.

Inspiring is the missionary service rendered by Walter Krause, who lives in Prenzlau, Germany.
Homeless following World War II, like so many others at that time, Brother Krause and his family lived in a refugee camp in Cottbus and began to attend church there. He was immediately called to lead the Cottbus Branch. Four months later, in November of 1945, the country still in ruins, district president Richard Ranglack came to Brother Krause and asked him what he would think about going on a mission. Brother Krause’s answer reflects his commitment to the Church. Said he: “I don’t have to think about it at all. If the Lord needs me, I’ll go.”
He set out on December 1, 1945, with 20 German marks in his pocket and a piece of dry bread. One of the branch members had given him a winter coat left over from a son who had fallen in the war. Another member, who was a shoemaker, gave him a pair of shoes. With these and with two shirts, two handkerchiefs, and two pairs of stockings, he left on his mission.
Once, in the middle of winter, he walked from Prenzlau to Kammin, a little village in Mecklenburg, where 46 attended the meetings which were held. He arrived long after dark that night after a six-hour march over roads, paths, and finally across plowed fields. Just before he reached the village, he came to a large, white, flat area which made for easy walking, and he soon arrived at a member’s home to stay the night.
The next morning the game warden knocked on the door of the member’s house, asking, “Do you have a guest?”
“Yes,” came the reply.
The game warden continued, “Then come and take a look at his tracks.” The large, flat area on which Brother Krause had walked was actually a frozen lake, and some time earlier the warden had chopped a large hole in the middle of the lake for fishing. The wind had driven snow over the hole and covered it so that Brother Krause could not have seen his danger. His tracks went right next to the edge of the hole and straight to the house of the member, without his knowing anything about it. Weighed down by his backpack and his rubber boots, he would certainly have drowned had his pathway been one step closer to the hole he couldn’t see.

I remember some years ago, while living back in the nation’s capital the first time, I had a very good friend, one of the great agriculture leaders of the country, Dr. H. E. Babcock of Cornell University. I’d invited him to attend one of our sacrament meetings—which is not uncommon; I’m always inviting my friends to attend our meetings—and he finally did attend. I met him on the street, and he said, “Well, last Sunday I attended your sacrament meeting, as you call it, but you weren’t there.”
I said, “No, I was visiting another ward. But how did you like the meeting?”
“Oh,” he said, “it was wonderful, especially the spirit. But,” he said, “I wish you’d tell me one thing. Why is it, when you Mormons come to the end of a meeting, you don’t seem to have any place to go?” He said, “That meeting ended, the benediction was said, and then the people stood there and they visited and visited and visited. I thought I’d never get out of that chapel. And when I got out in the foyer it was more congested than ever.”
Then I had to explain to him that this is characteristic of the Church; it’s this great spirit of fellowship and brotherhood and love that we have. And I said, “Not only that, Doctor; it’s one of the marks of the divinity of this work.”

The moment I decided to be a teacher is very clear in my mind. During World War II, I was in my early 20s and a pilot in the Air Force. I was stationed on the little island of Ie Shima. This island, a small, lonely one about as big as a postage stamp, is just off the northern tip of Okinawa.

One lonely summer evening, I sat on a cliff to watch the sun go down. I was pondering what I would do with my life after the war, if I was fortunate enough to survive. What did I want to be? It was on that night that I decided I wanted to be a teacher. I reasoned that teachers are always learning. Learning is a basic purpose of life.

I first taught seminary in 1949 in Brigham City. I had been a student in that seminary in my high school days.

There were three courses originally taught in seminary: Old Testament, New Testament, and Church History. It was my privilege to add an early-morning class on the Book of Mormon. I had returned from the war with a testimony of the Book of Mormon and an understanding of how the gift of the Holy Ghost operates.

You have been taught all of your lives about the gift of the Holy Ghost, but teaching can only go so far. You can and, in fact, you must go the rest of the way alone to discover within yourself how the Holy Ghost can be a guiding and protective influence.

For young men and young women, the process is the same. Discovering how the Holy Ghost operates in your life is the quest of a lifetime. Once you have made that discovery for yourself, you can live in enemy territory and will not be deceived or destroyed. No member of this Church—and that means each of you—will ever make a serious mistake without first being warned by the promptings of the Holy Ghost.

Sometimes when you have made a mistake, you may have said afterward, “I knew I should not have done that. It did not feel right,” or perhaps, “I knew I should have done that. I just did not have the courage to act!” Those impressions are the Holy Ghost attempting to direct you toward good or warning you away from harm.

There are certain things that you must not do if the lines of communication are to remain open. You cannot lie or cheat or steal or act immorally and have those channels remain free from disruption. Do not go where the environment resists spiritual communication.

You must learn to seek the power and direction that is available to you, and then follow that course no matter what.

First on your “to do” list, put the word prayer. Most of the time, your prayers will be silent. You can think a prayer.

You can always have a direct line of communication with your Father in Heaven. Do not allow the adversary to convince you that no one is listening on the other end. Your prayers are always heard. You are never alone!

Take care of your body. Be clean. “Know ye not that ye are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwelleth in you?”2

Read carefully the promises found in section 89 of the Doctrine and Covenants. The Word of Wisdom does not promise perfect health but that the spiritual receptors within you might be strengthened.

Stay away from tattoos and similar things which deface your body. Your body was created in God’s image.

I want to speak now in the pattern of straight talk about another matter.

We know that gender was set in the premortal world.3 “The spirit and the body are the soul of man.”4 This matter of gender is of great concern to the Brethren, as are all matters of morality.

A few of you may have felt or been told that you were born with troubling feelings and that you are not guilty if you act on those temptations. Doctrinally we know that if that were true, your agency would have been erased, and that cannot happen. You always have a choice to follow the promptings of the Holy Ghost and live a morally pure and chaste life, one filled with virtue.

President Gordon B. Hinckley announced the following in general conference: “People inquire about our position on those who consider themselves … gays and lesbians. My response is that we love them as sons and daughters of God. They may have certain inclinations which are powerful and which may be difficult to control. Most people have [temptations] of one kind or another at various times. If they do not act upon these inclinations, then they can go forward as do all other members of the Church. If they violate the law of chastity and the moral standards of the Church, then they are subject to the discipline of the Church, just as others are.

“We want to help … strengthen them, to assist them with their problems and to help them with their difficulties. But we cannot stand idle if they indulge in immoral activity, if they try to uphold and defend and live in a so-called same-sex marriage situation. To permit such would be to make light of the very serious and sacred foundation of God-sanctioned marriage and its very purpose, the rearing of families.”5

President Hinckley was speaking for the Church.

The first gift that Adam and Eve received was agency: “Thou mayest choose for thyself, for it is given unto thee.”6

You have that same agency. Use it wisely to deny acting on any impure impulse or unholy temptation that may come into your mind. Just do not go there, and if you are already there, come back out of it. “Deny yourselves of all ungodliness.”7

Do not tamper with the life-giving powers in your body alone or with members of either gender. That is the standard of the Church, and it will not change. As you mature, there is a temptation to experiment or explore immoral activities. Do not do that!

The key word is discipline—self-discipline. The word discipline comes from the word disciple or follower. Be a disciple/follower of the Savior, and you will be safe.

One or two of you may be thinking, “I am already guilty of this or that serious mistake. It is too late for me.” It is never too late.

You have been taught at home and in seminary about the Atonement of Jesus Christ. The Atonement is like an eraser. It can wipe away guilt and the effect of whatever it is that is causing you to feel guilty.

Guilt is spiritual pain. Do not suffer from chronic pain. Get rid of it. Be done with it. Repent, and, if necessary, repent again and again and again and again until you—not the enemy—are in charge of you.

Life turns out to be a succession of trials and errors. Add “repent often” to your list of things to do. This will bring you lasting peace that cannot be purchased at any earthly price. Understanding the Atonement may be the one most important truth that you can learn in your youth.

If you are associating with others who drag you down instead of building you up, stop and change company. You may be alone and lonely at times. The important question may be asked then, “When you are alone, are you in good company?”

Unwinding a habit that you have allowed to entangle you can be difficult. But the power is in you. Do not despair. The Prophet Joseph Smith taught that “all beings who have bodies have power over those who have not.”8 You can resist temptation!

It is not likely that you will ever have a personal encounter with the adversary; he does not show himself that way. But even if he came personally to you to test and tempt you, you have an advantage. You can assert your agency, and he will have to leave you alone.

You are not ordinary. You are very special. You are exceptional. How do I know that? I know that because you were born at a time and in a place where the gospel of Jesus Christ can come into your life through the teachings and activities of your home and of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It is, as the Lord Himself has said, “the only true and living church upon the face of the whole earth.”9

There are other things we could add to the list, but you know what you should and should not be doing in your life. You know right and wrong and do not need to be commanded in all things.

Do not squander these years of seminary instruction. Take advantage of the great blessing you have to learn the doctrines of the Church and the teachings of the prophets. Learn that which is of most worth. It will bless you and your posterity for many generations to come.

Not many years will pass until you are married and have children, a marriage that should be sealed in the temple. Our prayer is that you will find yourself, in due time, safely settled in a family ward or branch.

Do not fear the future. Go forward with hope and faith. Remember that supernal gift of the Holy Ghost. Learn to be taught by it. Learn to seek it. Learn to live by it. Learn to pray always in the name of Jesus Christ.10 The Spirit of the Lord will attend you, and you will be blessed.

We have deep and profound faith in you.

I bear my testimony to you—a witness that came to me in my youth. And you are no different from anyone else than I am. You have as much right to that testimony and witness as anyone. It will come to you if you earn it. I invoke the blessings of the Lord upon you—the blessings of that witness to be in your life, to guide you as you make a happy future.

It was my junior year of high school, and I was taking the usual classes, including advanced placement (A.P.) American history. This was my most important class. I had waited two years to take it and was determined to succeed.
It was a difficult class. We had a test every week, research papers to do, weekly essays to write, and a class presentation now and then. I learned a lot, but I never could seem to do well on those awful tests.
The whole goal of the class was just to pass the infamous A.P. test at the end of the year. I remember my teacher, Mrs. Griffin, saying that it took at least a grade of three or above to pass. Those words rang through my mind night and day all year long.
I worked as hard in that class as I thought I possibly could. I studied every day, met with a tutor, took notes in class, did my weekly essays on time, and paid close attention. I decided the worst thing that could happen would be to fail.
Spring rolled around, and my best friend, Emily, and I began studying together. We discussed, wrote, and memorized. The first evening went smoothly, and when I got home I prayed, “Heavenly Father, please help me to pass this test. Help me to make this year worthwhile.” My prayer the next night and the next was much the same.
I could feel May 15 coming closer until it arrived. I got up and, just like every morning, got down on my knees and prayed. But this morning was special. “Heavenly Father,” I prayed, “I’ve done everything I can do to pass this test. Please help me.” I went off to school with confidence.
“You may begin.” Those anxiously awaited words were spoken. The test was as difficult as I expected, but I really felt good as I filled in the answers. I finished the test and turned it in. I was so happy it was over, and I was sure I had passed. After all, I had studied and prayed and had even had a father’s blessing the night before.
Weeks went by, and I checked the mail every day for my scores. I thought they’d never come, but they finally did. I was lying down when my mom walked in.
“Kathy, I’m sorry,” she said. “You got a two.”
At first I thought I was dreaming, but it was real. I was so confused. What more could I have done? I was discouraged and upset that my prayers weren’t answered. I had prayed to pass the test, not fail.
I felt this way for about two weeks. Then one day I picked up the Doctrine and Covenants and read: “The glory of God is intelligence” (D&C 93:36).
I tried to ignore the scripture. I didn’t feel intelligent. I felt like a failure. But after a while it dawned on me what I had done wrong. The glory of God is intelligence, not a three or above on an advanced placement test. I was basing my success on the score of an exam! I didn’t even think of how much I had learned in the class. I had forgotten the whole purpose of getting an education. I was more concerned with getting the answers right than pleasing myself and my Heavenly Father. I am so thankful for my education and will never forget this much-needed lesson.

For concept #3, I’d like to tell you a personal story. This is a concept that I was relatively clueless about for a long time. Let me explain.

Early in my life I knew I would grow up to be an artist. By the time I left high school I was aware of the path I wanted to take. My heroes were artists who had been illustrators of books and magazines, and later transitioned into what we call “fine artists”—those who create paintings and sell them in galleries. So that was the path I embarked on.

I went to a year of art school at Utah State University before serving a mission to Chile. After my mission, I returned to Utah State, met my wife, Johnna, and convinced her to support me in my dream. It would be necessary for her to work for quite a few years while I climbed the proverbial art-world ladder.

As a side note: fortunately for me, Johnna is brilliant, so she had a career as a software developer and project manager for many years.

After we were married we moved to Los Angeles, where I studied at one of the best illustration schools in the country while Johnna worked for a well-known aerospace company. Jump ahead a few years and we moved to Connecticut, where I could be near New York City and the world’s major publishing houses. Over the next several years I was blessed to be a freelance Illustrator, doing drawings and paintings for hundreds of books and magazines.

As I mentioned, my heroes eventually became fine artists. By the early 2000s we had moved to Teton Valley, Idaho, to be near the Jackson Hole art scene, and my paintings were selling in galleries and hanging in collections. I thought that I would continue down this path the rest of my life. But the Lord had other plans for me.

I consider myself extremely blessed that He let me follow my dream far enough to be successful before he took me down HisHIS path. Starting about 2008, the floundering economy threw a huge wrench into the cogs of my plan. I always knew that if the economy took a turn for the worse, the last thing that people would need was a painting on the wall. I was right—but it was one of those things you don’t exactly want to be right about.

Fortunately, in 2002, I had started teaching as an adjunct faculty member at BYUI in the art department. To my surprise I found that I had an undiscovered love for teaching. I decided to take advantage of the lull in the economy as a chance to go back for a master’s degree.

I’ll skip a lot of details here of the next several years, but there is one important detail that needs to be pointed out. The Lord, knowing I was ready for an important lesson, allowed me to pass through a very difficult phase of life for a while. It included working at four different part-time jobs simultaneously, for several years, just to make ends meet. The struggle was very real and stressful. But that struggle brought me to the point that I was ready to completely give up my will and follow His will. I was willing to go anywhere He wanted me to go, and do anything He wanted me to do, if He would just let me provide for my family.

And that’s when He started opening doors.

In 2011 I moved from the art department to a full-time position in the online department, to work as a media developer. I hadn’t known it, but for years the Lord had been training me for this exact position at this exact time, because my career had taken some unusual twists and turns along the way, and I had become skilled in a lot of areas related to art.

I now have the daily opportunity to serve thousands of my brothers and sisters all around the world each and every day. I still paint pictures, and the economy has recovered, so they sell, but what I do here at BYU-Idaho is what I know the Lord wants me to be doing. What an honor it is for me to play a very small part in the gathering of Zion to prepare the world for the Savior’s Second Coming.

Sister Batson, our Blazer leader, was preparing us to become deacons. She faithfully took us on monthly hikes. One hike was down a dry desert wash toward Lake Mead. Sister Batson stayed with the stragglers while five or six of us forged ahead. We were quite a distance ahead when we heard something. It was a baby rattlesnake, coiled and ready to strike. Rather than giving it plenty of room, we found some sticks and began poking at it. The snake took off across the desert. Naturally we took off after it, running as fast as our legs would carry us, chasing that snake. We cornered it against the side of a gulch where it coiled with its one rattle making as much noise as it could. We formed a semicircle around the snake, and on the count of three, we rushed it.
The first guy in and at the bottom of the pile was Malcolm. Suddenly he exploded out of the pile, throwing us everywhere, and started a panic run across the desert with the snake attached to his hand. We took off after him and succeeded in ankle tackling him. He was screaming and yelling at the top of his lungs, “I’m going to die! I’m going to die!”
We each took a leg and arm to pin him down so we could save his life. We then took out our trusty snakebite kits (which aren’t at all like the ones used today and not to be recommended). They consisted of several suction cups, a shoestring tourniquet, some antibacterial iodine, and a razor blade. The shoestring tourniquet didn’t seem big enough, so we whipped off our Scout belts and placed half a dozen tourniquets up his arm. We then stained his arm brown with the iodine. We decided that the suction cups were not good enough, and we would have to suck the poison out. We were arguing about who got to do the sucking and who got to cut him when Sister Batson arrived. She grabbed Malcolm, threw him over her shoulder, ran back to the van with us right behind her, and got Malcolm to the hospital in time to save his hand.
By the time I got home, my father had found out what happened. He took me to my room, sat me on the end of the bed, and said three words of profound meaning, “Son,” he said, “DON’T CHASE SNAKES!”

Almost a decade ago, I read a letter from a returned missionary who described this process in his life. He had written to thank those who direct missionary work “for daring to send me where the Lord required rather than where I had deemed appropriate.” He had come, he said, “from a background of proud, competitive intellectualism.” Before his mission he was a student at a prestigious university in the eastern United States. Quote:

“I guess out of a sense of obligation and inertia, I filled out my [missionary] papers and sent them in, extremely careful to mark the column indicating greatest desire to serve abroad and in a foreign language. I was careful to make it apparent that I was an accomplished student of Russian and fully capable of spending two years among the Russian people. Confident that no committee could resist such qualifications, I rested confident that I would enjoy a wonderfully mind-expanding cultural adventure.”

He was shocked to receive a call to serve in a mission in the United States. He didn’t know anything about the state where he would serve, except that it was in his own country speaking English rather than abroad speaking the language he had learned, and, as he said, “The people I would work with would likely be academic incompetents.” He continued, “I almost refused to accept the call, feeling that I would be more fulfilled by enlisting in the Peace Corps or something else.”

Fortunately, this proud young man found the courage and faith to accept the call and to follow the direction and counsel of his fine mission president. Then the miracle of spiritual growth began. He described it thus:
“As I began to serve among the uneducated people of [this state], I struggled mightily for several months, but gradually the sweet workings of the Spirit began to tear down the walls of pride and disbelief that had wrapped themselves so tightly around my soul. The miracle of a conversion to Christ began. The sense of the reality of God and the eternal brotherhood of all men came more and more powerfully to my troubled mind.”

It was not easy, he admitted, but with the influence of his great mission president and with his growing love for the people he served, it was possible, and it occurred.
“My desire to love and serve these people who in the ultimate scale were at least my peers, almost definitely my superiors, waxed stronger and stronger. I learned humility for the first time in my life; I learned what it means to make our valuations of others [without relying on the] irrelevant details of life. I began to feel swelling within my heart a love of the spirits that came here to earth with me” (letter to General Authorities, Feb. 1994).

One year after Mohamed Turay had joined the Church in Caldwell, Liberia, the 1989 war broke out. As rebels moved closer to Caldwell, he saw people in his community leaving. He had a dream in which a bomb fell near his home. Finally, after seeing an article in the newspaper describing how people were being beheaded, Mohamed knew he and his family were in danger and he resolved to flee Caldwell. Mohamed believed the dream was a warning from God. “It was a blessing for my family,” said Mohamed. “A serious blessing.”
“Come,” he told Abie, his wife. “Today, we’ll not sleep here.” Mohamed took Abie and their children to the border where they would be safe. But he had to return to Caldwell to make final arrangements for their departure. Just hours before rebels took the city, Mohamed managed to escape and join his family.

When I was younger, I lived next door to an elderly lady who spent most of her time alone and seldom left her house. When she did leave, she would be gone for a long time, and that is when I went to work.
I would get a rake or snow shovel or broom and sneak around the tall wooden fence that separated our yards and do some yard work. Sometimes I would just leave her a plate of cookies with a note. I tried so hard to be a friend to the lady who lived there, and I thought that if I did these things for her she would be nice to me.
I really enjoyed the extra work because it made me feel good inside, but I thought I would feel even better if she would only acknowledge my kindness. I would watch her come home and feel disappointed because she never made an attempt to show thanks or appreciation. I had worked so hard and never received so much as a smile.
Then one Sunday at church we had a lesson on service, and I realized that I had been performing acts of service for my neighbor with the expectation of getting something in return. I went home and asked my mom about service and she gave me a scripture to read. It was Mosiah 2:17:
“And behold, I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom; that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God.”
That taught me a valuable lesson about my activities. And I knew that even if my neighbor didn’t seem to care about my efforts, my Heavenly Father did care.

Jill twisted her high school ring, round and round her finger, the blue stone glimmering as it caught the fluorescent light. Round again—here’s my graduation date, she thought. Round once more—here’s the good old Morrisview High School crest, the snarling tiger mascot posed to leap sinuously out of the silver. Jill turned the ring again, imagining a shimmering tiger splashing down the carpeted corridor like so much quicksilver. Round and round, the ring toured her finger as Jill wished she could be anywhere but in this silent, carpeted hallway. It’s so quiet, she thought. Cryptlike.
Jill started to feel mildly claustrophobic. Her fingers relentlessly worked at her ring, twisting, pulling, twisting again. She didn’t feel well at all. Wishing for the umpteenth time that she didn’t have to be here, she started to reflect on the events of the last few months.
Lockers clanged dully all around her. Jill hardly noticed the noise or the sound of her friends’ voices as they traded witticisms across the hall. She stared into her locker as she fought back bitter tears. Bright teenage voices echoed and rebounded down the corridors as the students poured out into the crisp fall air. Jill grimaced against the salty taste of her tears as she softly shut her locker door. She quickly turned around and walked down the hall, her booted heels clicking rhythmically on the tiles as she walked out into the cold afternoon air. Leaves crackled as she stepped down the stairs that led from the high school. She paused at the bottom of the steps and pressed her hot, flushed cheek against one of the stone tigers. The surface of the stone was rough and pitted, yet strangely relaxing. A small smile creased her face as she thought of the sentinel tigers, their stony snarls forever guarding the steps to the double-doored entrance. As a child she had been a little bit afraid of their fierce countenances. At 17, she loved the frozen animals. With a sigh she pushed away and started towards her home.
Derek. Derek, Derek, Derek. She always ran up against something that reminded her of him. Little things: the restaurant where they first met, the Plaza Theater, the park where they played on the swings like children one sunny Saturday. Happy memories, sad memories. They swirled around Jill’s fevered mind like bits of broken glass—glittering, interesting, but painful.
Derek was the one who had decided that the relationship wasn’t working. He had broken up with Jill.
Broken up, dumped, jilted—words that all amounted to the same thing—heartache, confusion, and terrible anger. These emotions churned inside her, making her feel sick. She was devastated over the breakup.
There had been so much pressure during the time they dated. Pressure from her mother to date one of the “nice Mormon boys” instead of the rough, unreligious athlete who had completely captured her heart. Pressure from her Church teachers to invite Derek to church. (She had asked Derek to church—once. She had brought it up timidly as he drove her home one night. He had laughed. She never mentioned it again.) Pressure from him to ignore the things she had been taught at church. Pressures that had stampeded rampant through her soul, leaving her feeling confused and distraught.
Jill passed quietly through the park. A duck pond lay like a slate gray jewel set in gently rolling hills. The ground was carpeted with leaves. Scenes from her life passed like angry accusations. Jill knew that she was not on the right course. Sure, she went to her church meetings most of the time at first, but she didn’t feel anything there and it became easier to miss. All her member friends had moved, and she hadn’t made new ones because she had tried to make Derek’s world her own. A catching sob struggled to rise from her throat, but she choked it down. With a whirl of emotion Jill turned and ran.
Whirr, click. Whirr, click.
The mechanical clock on the wall made precision noises as it duly recorded the minutes of time. It stared down like a sentinel at Jill. The rust-colored carpet stretched along for what seemed like miles across the corridors. Jill’s heart thumped painfully louder with each tick of the clock.
Except for the pounding of her own muffled heartbeat and the sound of the clock, the halls of the church were silent. The silence began to seem accusing. Miserably, Jill wished that she could be anywhere else. She began to hum a gentle hymn that had always been a childhood favorite. It sounded emptily in the hall but started a tiny ember of warmth within her.
She stared down the hall at the light coming from the crack under the door.
Jill remembered a period of self-loathing. Her insides seemed twisted with hatred. Unfortunately, the poison grew inside of her until it was almost a palpable thing. She grew shrewish. Her friends started to avoid her, and even her mother commented on Jill’s waspish behavior. Jill remembered snapping angrily, “No, nothing is wrong. How could anything be wrong? Derek dumped me, and my friends now treat me like an outcast. And my mother is constantly on my back. How could anything be wrong?”
Jill could see the hurt on her mother’s face. She felt terrible. Terrible and guilty. She quickly turned and ran out of the room.
It was a wretched time. Alone and filled with anger, Jill began lashing out at everyone. Her grades suffered dramatically. She no longer felt capable of putting effort into anything and often stayed home from school, pretending to be sick.
If only …
No! Jill’s mind skirted the sentence as if it were a deadly snake. With a sigh of exasperation, she started to form the sentence in her mind once again. She felt as though the acceptance of this sentence was the key to the riddance of her problems, the plug at the bottom of this whirlpool of hate she had been carrying along with her for so many weeks. She tried to say it aloud.
“If only Derek and I hadn’t …”
The sentence trailed off softly, like falling November leaves. She forcibly finished.
“If only Derek and I hadn’t gone up to the ridge that first time. If I had been a stronger willed person. If I …”
For the first time, Jill allowed herself to cry.
Outside, a cleansing December snow had softly started to blanket the ground.
Jill’s reverie was cut short as the door at the end of the hall opened. Light spilled out onto the carpet. The bishop’s voice boomed cheerfully as he shook the young man’s hand. Martin smiled back. Suddenly, the bishop looked over at Jill, who had been trying to pretend she was part of the furniture.
“Oh, Jill. It’s good of you to wait. I’ll be ready for you in a few minutes if you wouldn’t mind staying a bit longer.”
“Sure, I don’t mind waiting.”
Martin looked happily over to where Jill was hunched. As the bishop walked back into his office, Martin sat down on one of the chairs next to Jill. “So, what are you doing here so late?” he asked affably.
With a small sigh, Jill looked up into Martin’s face. It was a pleasant, open face. For the first time in a long while, Jill found a smile hovering right beneath her skin. With a surprised inward shrug she released it.
“The bishop called me in for my six-month interview. It’s a bit overdue, but I suppose it’s better late than never.” Inwardly, Jill knew that she would never have found the courage to ask to speak to the bishop. She was grateful for the convenience of this interview. She had been praying for courage to confess to the bishop, and then suddenly there was this interview.
Martin looked down at the upholstery on the chair arm as he spoke, “You know, we’ve known each other since we were four and you clouted me on the back of the head with a shovel in the sandbox. Do you remember?”
“Yes, you sat on my sand castle just as Prince Charming was about to ride up and save Sleeping Beauty.” With a pang of nostalgia, Jill remembered how she and Martin were almost inseparable before their freshman year in high school. During that year, they both made new friends, and they, well, drifted apart. She couldn’t remember the last time they had spoken.
Martin started the conversation. “I noticed that you’ve been away from church for a while …” The sentence trailed off uncertainly.
“I know.”
“Well,” Martin hesitated, feeling somewhat foolish. “Well, I just wanted to say that I’m glad you’re back.” With this proclamation finished, he blushed to the roots of his sandy blond hair.
Jill felt stunned at this. Through all her inactivity she had never realized that she was being missed. “Thank you,” she whispered, feeling dangerously close to tears.
“Ummm, hey, I think the bishop’s ready for you now.” Indeed, his office door was open and he was beckoning Jill with his hand.
“Oh, yeah.”
“If you want me to wait I can give you a ride home,” Martin said.
Jill stood up, gathering her things together. One memory flashed swiftly across her mind. It was the hot summer of her tenth year. She had been bike racing with Martin up the hill to her house. Everything was going fine until her front tire hit a patch of gravel that caused her to skid out of control. Martin brought his bike to a screeching halt and helped Jill untangle herself from her bicycle. Jill remembered she had bumped her nose and skinned both her knees. Martin helped her limp home and then left. As her mother carefully applied Band-Aids to the torn knees, Jill told her that Martin was glad she fell because she had been winning. Her mother tried to explain that she was sure that that wasn’t true, but Jill insisted, pointing out that he had even left her alone. About a half an hour later, Martin showed up at their doorstep. He had brought Jill’s bicycle back and put it in the garage. He asked if Jill could come outside for a minute. Jill remembered walking out with a cool expression of complete disdain. She was completely surprised when Martin presented her with a “victory scoop” of strawberry ice cream. She had been winning, he had explained, so he bought her an ice cream cone with his allowance.
“Well?”
With a jerk, she focused on Martin’s face. “Sure, you can wait for me.”
The interview went along much as one would expect—the same questions that Jill had answered many times before, the similar replies. As the clock ticked away the minutes, Jill could feel herself growing panicky. A chorus of voices cried inside of her head, “No—don’t say anything. Don’t tell him! If you start to say something, there’s no going back. Just smile, utter trivialities, and leave.”
A quiet, clear voice eased through the babble like a hot knife through warm butter. “Tell him. He’ll understand.”
Jill remained in turmoil, all the while smiling and agreeing with what the bishop said. An anxious look at the clock confirmed that the interview was drawing to a close. She’d have to say something now. Now.
Her voice was frozen. Her mouth felt dry. She couldn’t form the words. The bishop’s understanding brown eyes looked deep into her soul. Finally he spoke.
“Is there something else you want to talk about? Something that perhaps I can help you with?” The questions were a gentle prod trying to hook the answer from her paralyzed lips.
The chorus screamed in her head.
No, yes, No, yes, No!
Yes … yes …
Words seemed to jump back to color. Underground springs welled up in the desert, bringing life.
A voice that she hardly recognized as her own answered.
“Yes …”
An hour later, Martin guided Jill across the smooth blanket of snow to his car. Snow, dusted from the windshield, sprinkled on the planes of her teary cheeks as the full moon shone gentle assurance.
She felt light, as if something heavy had been lifted off her. It was the first step, a step she had dreaded, but one that she had to take. She would be willing to face the remaining challenges and difficulties until the price was paid.
Through her tears, Jill saw a world that promised spring and new life.

In the summer when Spencer was five, his father gave to him and Alice [Spencer’s sister] a patch of planted potatoes. When Spencer had dug them with a garden fork and Alice had cleaned them, Spencer put on clean overalls, Alice a dress, and off they went with a box of potatoes in Spencer’s red wagon. The potatoes sold, Spencer and Alice returned home jubilant. Andrew [their father] listened to them count their money, then said: “That’s capital! Now what will you do with the money?” The children answered: ice cream, candy, Christmas presents. Andrew gently said: “… The Lord has been kind to us. We planted and cultivated and harvested, but the earth is the Lord’s. He sent the moisture and the sunshine. One-tenth we always give back to the Lord for His part.”

“Pa made no requirement.” Spencer remembered, “He merely explained it so convincingly that we felt it an honor and privilege to pay tithing.” (Page 32.)

The pony’s brown hair was like a short-bristled brush, heavier and stiffer than Brian had imagined. And now that he was standing next to it, the pony seemed quite tall. Brian had to look up to see her eyes. “You wouldn’t seem so big to the other boys in my class,” said Brian, remembering how small he was compared to them. It was hard sometimes to be the smallest boy in class. The little horse suddenly jerked its head back and pawed the soft dirt. She’s almost as excited as I am, Brian thought.
The booming loudspeaker suddenly broke into Brian’s thoughts. “The next rider will be Jimmy Nelson, coming out of the white gate.” Brian scrambled up the sides of the red gate to watch. Jimmy sat three seats ahead of him in school. He was the biggest boy in the class, a great ballplayer, and had a horse of his own. If anyone can ride one of the wild ponies, it’s Jimmy, Brian decided. None of the other boys had been able to stay on their ponies, and only he and Jimmy still had a chance. He watched his friend settle down on the animal and grasp the wide leather cinch fastened around the horse’s middle like a belt.
Jimmy looked confident as he told the cowboys working in the chute that he was ready. The bell rang and the boy shot out of the gate on the brown and white pony. In an instant the pair were jouncing up and down. The pony kicked, twisted, and turned, trying to throw the rider from its back.
The crowd cheered as Jimmy hung onto his bucking mount. Suddenly the little horse reared back and violently rocked forward. Jimmy sailed straight over the horse’s head just as the buzzer went off. He landed on his shoulders in the soft brown dirt. But before the pickup cowboy arrived to help him, Jimmy was up, shaking his head and kicking the dirt in disgust. The crowd clapped for Jimmy’s good try as he walked across the arena.
Now Brian began to wonder if he should have signed up to ride in the Little Buckaroo Rodeo. He had been around horses before, but he hadn’t had much experience. If Jimmy Nelson can’t ride his horse, how can I ever stay on for eight seconds? Brian asked himself. He knew that all he had going for him was a powerful desire. “I’m going to try and hang on, and I’ll do it!” he declared under his breath.
“OK, son, it’s your turn,” said the big cowboy who was working the red chute. Then smiling at him, the man added, “Just remember to hold on with all your might and lean back as far as you can.”
Brian scrambled up the sides of the metal chute and stood for a second looking down at the pony. “I’m going to do it,” he told the little animal. “You’d better understand that right now.” He climbed over the top rail, kicked his leg out, and settled down on the pony’s back that was so broad Brian’s short legs didn’t come halfway down its sides. As he put his full weight on the pony, it jumped.
Brian slipped his left hand under the leather strap, and jammed his cowboy hat on his head with the other hand. Then he slipped his right hand under the belt and the big cowboy pulled it tight.
The announcer called Brian’s name and the boy leaned back and threw his legs up on the horse’s shoulders. “Let go if you start to fall off,” the cowboy warned him. He smiled and winked at Brian and asked, “Ready?”
“Ready!” shouted Brian as he grasped the strap with all his might and leaned back as far as he could. The bell rang and out jumped the pony. Brian imagined he was sitting still and the world around him was jumping up and down and spinning around. The little horse kicked and bucked as hard as she could, but this rider was not going to lose his hold. Up went the horse and up went the rider. The pony spun and kicked again, but Brian stuck to her like glue. Finally, the pony gave a violent heave and Brian’s cowboy hat went flying into the air. Although he slipped over a little to one side of the horse, the boy hung on with all his might.
After what seemed like an hour of roller coaster riding, he heard the buzzer sound, and then he let go and “bit the dust!” Slowly Brian got up, brushed the dirt from his face and clothes, and looked around, not sure where everything was. The pickup man pointed over to the side of the arena. He handed Brian his hat and said, “That was an awfully nice ride, cowboy; you had a real mean horse.”
Brian could hear the crowd cheer for him as he made his way from the arena. He was still spitting dirt as he looked up into the thousands of faces in the stands to see if he could locate his family. Then he saw them wildly waving their hands at him and smiling. Brian grinned and waved back.
“The winner of the pony bareback-riding event is Brian Johnson,” the announcer called.
The littlest cowboy had won!

We sustain Gordon B. Hinckley as the President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and as the prophet, seer, and revelator of the Church in our time. A letter which I received from a proud father tells of an experience with his then five-year-old son and the boy’s love for the President of the Church and desire to emulate the President’s example. The father wrote:
“When Christopher was five years old, he would get ready for church on Sundays mostly by himself. On one particular Sunday, he decided that he wanted to wear a suit and tie, which to that point he had never done. He scoured the closet on his own for a hand-me-down tie and produced a rather used clip-on one that he didn’t need to create a knot for. He attached the tie to his white shirt, then capped it off with the small navy jacket that had hung for years in the boys’ closet.
“On his own, he went into the bathroom and painstakingly combed his blonde hair to perfection. About that time, I came into the bathroom to finish getting ready myself. I found Christopher beaming at himself in the mirror. Without taking his eyes off his reflection, he proclaimed proudly, ‘Look, Papa—Christopher B. Hinckley!’” And Father realized that a boy had been watching the prophet of the Lord.