Gospel Story Finder

Such courage and faith characterized this determined, resourceful pioneer mother. Mary Fielding was born July 21, 1801, in Honidon, Bedfordshire, England. When she was thirty-three years old, Mary moved to Canada, where her brother and sister were living. In 1836 they were all baptized by Parley P. Pratt. One year later they moved to Kirtland, Ohio, to live with the Saints there.

On December 24, 1837, Mary married Hyrum Smith, the brother of the Prophet Joseph. Unselfishly she cared for Hyrum’s five small children, whose mother had died earlier. Hyrum and Mary also had two children of their own—Joseph F. Smith, later the sixth President of the Church, and Martha Ann.

Recognizing the importance of her husband’s work, Mary supported Hyrum through all the persecutions he suffered for his belief in the Gospel. Shortly before the birth of Joseph F. on November 13, 1838, Hyrum, along with his brother, Joseph, were imprisoned at Liberty Jail. Despite her many trials—she was very ill for four months following the birth of her son, her husband was in jail, and a mob had broken into her home to steal her husband’s possessions—Mary never ceased to believe in the Lord.

Even later, when Hyrum was martyred with Joseph on June 27, 1844, Mary’s faith still did not waver. She wrote to her brother, “Though I have been left, for near six months, in widowhood, in the time of great affliction, and was called to take joyfully or otherwise the spoiling of almost all our goods, … yet I do not feel the least discouraged.”

In 2016, one night while on my mission, after praying and falling asleep, I had a dream in which a tall man dressed in white, whom I couldn’t clearly see, appeared to me. As he drew nearer, I realized it was my father. His presence filled me with immense joy, and he imparted many teachings to me, instructing me to write them down. The next day, as I reviewed my journal, I found that much of what he had taught me was recorded therein. My joy was full of the truth that many of the things he shared lightened and eased my progress on the covenant path.

As a young woman, I had planted myself upside down. My halfhearted efforts at attending church, paying tithing, and having regular prayer and scripture study had slowed my spiritual growth almost to a halt. In high school it became clear that I would need to choose between my current direction and the Lord’s direction. I then decided to replant myself, try my best, and rely on the Lord’s care.
With all my strength I began pushing up toward the Son, working my way past feelings of doubt, anger, insecurity, and selfishness. It wasn’t long before I realized how much Heavenly Father loves me, how much He has blessed me, and how much He wants me to reach my full potential as His daughter. I was given nourishment from Young Women leaders, bishops, seminary teachers, and friends. My righteous desire, however, was not without trials and tears. In His loving mercy, Heavenly Father gave me a push here and there when I felt that I could push no more. He helped me grow from my setbacks and successes. No sunflower, after having sensed the light of the sun, would bury itself back in the ground. I too could sense the light of the Son, and I would no longer hide myself from His goodness and joy. I would “follow the Son, with full purpose of heart” (2 Nephi 31:13).

President McKay had evidently seen the temple in vision and described it in such detail to Church architect Edward O. Anderson that he was able to reproduce it on paper. As the design process proceeded, the initial drawing was modified. Upon seeing the latest drawings, President McKay said, “Brother Anderson, that is not the temple that you and I saw together.” The final drawings, needless to say, reflected President McKay’s original description.

“You’re too holy.”
Twelve-year-old Ian Caloobanan was astounded at his friend’s words. He didn’t consider himself holy.
His friend continued, “Ever since you joined the Mormons, you’ve become a killjoy. You don’t drink with us anymore. You don’t have fun with us on Sunday. You’re too holy.”
The words hurt, and yet … what else could he do? He had been baptized and now held the Aaronic Priesthood. He had changed, and as far as Ian was concerned, he had changed for the better. But holy? Well, maybe not yet.
Ian’s joy at finding the gospel is hard to contain. He has given one of his teachers a copy of the Book of Mormon and invited him to meet with the missionaries. Some of his schoolmates respect him for his new standards and have asked him questions about the gospel. Others ridicule him.
Ian just keeps on keeping the commandments the best he can.

Just after midnight on September 22, 1827, a carriage quietly bumped along the countryside near Manchester, New York, USA. Joseph and Emma Smith were heading to a hill where an ancient record, written on gold plates, waited for them. An angel named Moroni had told Joseph to bring the right person with him to get the record. Through personal revelation, Joseph knew that his wife, Emma, was that person.
Emma waited as her husband-prophet received the plates and then hid them in a hollow log. The sun began to rise as the couple returned home.

Brian R.
Twelve-year-old Brian R. of Arizona, USA, was preparing to pass the sacrament for the first time. He didn’t want to make a mistake, so he asked the other Aaronic Priesthood holders in his ward to explain things to him.
“They were great,” he says. “They told me where to stand, where to go, and how to pass the trays.”
But even more important, they reminded him to be reverent. “We need to remember the Savior as we pass the sacrament,” Brian says. “If we are reverent, it helps others to remember Him too.”
Brian learned that others are happy to help him to understand his duties and to learn to do them well. “Just ask,” he says. “Moving from Primary into Young Men is easier than you think.”

I was a junior in high school when Allison befriended me. She had moved from Boise, Idaho, that year, but to me it seemed she was from another planet. We sat next to each other in seminary, and I had never met a teenager who was so dedicated to her religion.
On the other hand, I was struggling with my testimony, slowly becoming inactive in Church and seminary activities. My parents were at a loss. They offered to answer any gospel questions I had, but I didn’t want their help. I wanted to find the truth on my own.
Despite our differences, Allison and I became good friends. We spent many weekend nights staying up late, lying on her trampoline. Sometimes I would bring up questions I had about the Church.
Her answers always made sense to me, and as our talks continued, the gospel began to make more sense to me, too. Still, there was one vital thing I lacked: the Spirit. It seemed the world always called to me much louder than the Spirit did.
One school day, I noticed Allison sitting on the floor in front of her locker. She was eating her lunch and wearing headphones. She looked up at me and smiled.
“What are you listening to?” I asked, trying to shout over the noise of the hallway. Lockers slammed. Students laughed and yelled. I wondered if she liked any of the same groups I liked.
“Listen and see,” she said.
I put on the headphones and suddenly the world melted away. The music played serenely. The singer sang of Christ, His life, His death, His love for us. This wasn’t what I had expected.
Amid the chaos, I felt peace enter my heart. I felt my Savior’s love.
I looked at Allison with tears in my eyes. I didn’t want to give back her head-phones. I wanted to keep that feeling forever. For a brief moment, I felt what it meant to be in the world but not of it.
It wasn’t a lightning strike, and I can’t say my life changed overnight. But that day, a seed began to grow in my heart. I had felt the Spirit, and I hungered to feel it again. As time went by, I gained a testimony that our Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are there, and they love all of us so much. I now know that if I seek the Spirit and follow God’s plan, I can have the peace of the Holy Spirit with me always, and I can leave the chaos and confusion of the world behind.

Image from Getty Images
When my husband and I decided to start our own business, the first three years were difficult. We were failing to make a profit and falling into debt. We worked hard, but unimaginable problems made that time the most difficult of our lives.
It became worse when my mother-in-law passed away the day after Christmas and just a week later, on New Year’s Eve, I became extremely ill. At the time, we were broke, we had lost our car, and worst of all, we had lost our health insurance.
Eventually, I was diagnosed with an aggressive type of cancer that had been developing for at least five years. It was serious and required immediate surgery. I was running out of time, and we had no money for the expensive medical care I needed.
My husband and I met with our bishop and asked for help. We explained that this was literally a case of life or death. The bishop was concerned, but he told us that he felt prompted to wait a little longer before giving assistance to see if another way might be opened to us. He assured us that if our faith was sufficient, the Lord would provide a way for me to get the help I needed.
At first, the bishop’s response made me angry and resentful. I felt that both he and the Lord had forsaken me. But I had a testimony of the gospel, and I believed that our bishop was called of God. Despite my heartache, I prayed that Heavenly Father would help me continue to love, respect, and support my bishop. When I prayed for this, I was comforted and felt that the Lord would help me in some way.
My husband and I moved forward with faith, and I received needed medical tests and scheduled my surgery, despite our lack of money. The day before my surgery, we sold our business for a good price, which allowed us to pay all my medical bills.
It now became clear why my bishop had hesitated to help. He had acted on inspiration in order for me to have a valuable spiritual experience. That experience taught me to trust the Savior, even when the path seems frustrating and scary. I am grateful for the counsel I did not want to hear from my bishop. I know now that God is a God of miracles and that He never forsakes us.

He sorrowed over his loss of a newborn child and was given permission to care for a neighbor’s child during the day, then return the baby to her mother at night. An older sister of the baby, Margarette McIntire, later reported:

“One evening he did not come [home] with [the child] at the usual time, and mother went down to the Mansion to see what was the matter, and there sat the Prophet with the baby wrapped up in a little silk quilt. He was trotting it on his knee, and singing to it to get it quiet before starting out.” (Ensign, Jan. 1971, pp. 36–37.)

“Thanks, Mom and Dad,” I yelled as I headed for the front door, the keys to the family car jingling in my hand. “Don’t wait up for us—it’s a double feature, and the second movie isn’t over till nearly midnight.”
Dad gave first me and then my cousin Sandi the piercing look for which he was famous in our family. “Listen, I don’t like you girls staying out late all by yourselves. Why don’t you go to an earlier movie?”
I rolled my eyes. “Dad, you’re so old-fashioned. Sandi and I are hardly babies.” We had finished our first year at Ricks College, and Sandi had come to spend the summer in Rockford, Illinois, with my family. We had jobs at a local factory, and we felt pretty responsible and grown-up. I said so to my dad.
It didn’t help much. He still quizzed us. Which theater were we going to? What movies would we see there? Were we coming straight home afterward? Finally he sighed and said, “Your mother and I will be awake when you come home, so check in with us no matter how late it is, all right?”
“Yeah, Dad,” I said, resigning myself to the inevitable.
The movies were comedies, and when we walked out of the theater late that night Sandi and I were laughing and repeating our favorite funny lines. We got into the car and headed toward home.
Even at midnight there was a lot of traffic on the main streets of Rockford, so I turned onto a side street, taking a shortcut in order to avoid most of the traffic. A battered brown car followed us around the corner. I drove three blocks and then turned onto a deserted street. The brown car turned too, close behind us. I made several other turns, leading us toward home through the back streets. When I looked into the rearview mirror, the lone man in the car waved at us and yelled something obscene.
Although it was a hot night, we quickly rolled up the windows and locked all four car doors. We decided that if we ignored the driver of the brown car he would probably lose interest. But instead he moved his car closer to ours, driving nearly bumper to bumper. Then he pulled into the middle of the street and edged his car toward ours, forcing us toward the curb. By now we were getting pretty panicky.
As I neared an intersection, Sandi said tensely, “Turn right—quick!”
I did, and with a left turn at the next light I entered the main stream of nighttime traffic. Maybe in all the noise and confusion our pursuer would lose sight of us or forget whatever crazy ideas he had.
He didn’t. At every light he was there behind us, leaning out his window to yell lewdly. He was obviously drunk, but he was persistent. Even in the bright lights of Rockford’s busiest street, we were scared.
Finally we reached Fairview Boulevard. My house was only half a block away. We turned the corner, and he followed us, only inches behind our rear bumper.
I pulled to a stop in front of my house. The front sidewalk seemed miles long. Worse yet, the porch light was off, and no light showed from any of the windows. And the brown car had already pulled to a stop behind us. Sandi checked to make sure the car doors were locked.
I got a sick feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. “Sandi, we’ve got to say a prayer,” I said.
“I know. What do you think I’ve been doing all the way home?”
We were both silent for a split second, each pleading for the Lord’s guidance. I guess I was hoping for a miracle. But the stranger was out of his car and running toward us, yelling and cursing. There was no chance of getting past him, so Sandi and I sat in the locked car. The stranger grabbed the handle of my car door, then tried the door behind me. When he found the doors were locked he began pounding on the windows and trying to pry them open. He was shouting threats, and his angry drunken face was only inches from mine.
Suddenly good sense returned to me, and I pressed on the horn, making long blasts of jarring noise. Within seconds the light went on in my parents’ bedroom. Mom appeared at the window. Light from the front porch fixture suddenly flooded the yard, and my dad flung open the front door and ran out onto the lawn, bellowing, “Get out of here!” in his most menacing voice.
The man who had been so threatening and persistent moments before suddenly turned and ran. Leaping into his car, he drove off into the night.
A few minutes later Sandi and I sat at the kitchen table with Dad, giving a blow-by-blow description of the unpleasant incident. My mom bustled around the kitchen making hot chocolate and offering us occasional hugs as she passed us at the table.
Suddenly my newfound college independence didn’t seem so important. The kitchen was cozy, familiar, and comforting. Mom and Dad, scolding us because we had forgotten to write down the car’s license number, were pillars of strength and security. In that moment, my eyes flooding with tears, I thanked God for old-fashioned parents who insisted on waiting up until all their children came home.

Children are so capable of learning the significant things of the kingdom. As we listen to them, we can better understand how they are applying what they are learning about the gospel. A father explained to his four-year-old daughter that the family had spent most of the day cleaning the house and every room was clean except one.

“Do you know which room is not clean?” he asked her.

“Mine,” she quickly replied.

“Do you know anyone who could help clean your room?” he asked, expecting her to answer that she could.

Instead she replied, “Well, Daddy, I know that any time you are scared, worried, or need help, you can get down on your knees and ask Heavenly Father to help.”

It is interesting to note that as we listen to our children, they can also teach us. A father shared an experience he had with his eight-year-old daughter. He said: “While I was contemplating remarks for my sacrament meeting talk on ‘Becoming like Little Children,’ I asked my daughter why we needed to become like little children. She responded, ‘Because we are all little children compared to Jesus, and because little children have a good imagination.’”

Surprised by the last part of her answer, he asked why we need a good imagination. She replied, “So we can imagine Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane and on the cross, and when we take the sacrament we can think about Him.”

As in all things, the Savior set the example for us in how we should love and teach our children. When He appeared to the Nephites in the Western Hemisphere, the scriptures tell us that as He spoke to the people, “he wept, … and he took their little children, one by one, and blessed them, and prayed unto the Father for them.”

Referring to this occasion, President Gordon B. Hinckley said, “There is no more tender and beautiful picture in all of sacred writing than this simple language describing the love of the Savior for little children.”

The key to accomplishing effective gospel teaching in the home is to invite the Spirit of the Lord to be with us. Some of the best counsel my husband and I received during some turbulent times of raising our children was to do all that is possible to invite and keep the Spirit in our home. Children cannot learn spiritual things and have spiritual feelings without the guidance of the Spirit.

As parents, we can share our testimony of Jesus Christ with our children often. The bearing of testimony, whether during family home evening or in a teaching moment, will invite the Spirit. President Boyd K. Packer also instructs us to “teach our young people to bear testimony—to bear testimony that Jesus is the Christ, that Joseph Smith is a prophet of God, that the Book of Mormon is true.”

President Hinckley reassures us: “Of all the joys of life, none other equals that of happy parenthood. Of all the responsibilities with which we struggle, none other is so serious. To rear children in an atmosphere of love, security, and faith is the most rewarding of all challenges.”

I know—with an exclamation mark—that children can receive a witness by the Spirit that brings conviction and commitment to their hearts! I bear witness that this is our charge, this is our opportunity: to diligently teach and testify to our children of the truthfulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ, that they might also hear the “voice of gladness.” In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Earlier, while waiting for his race, David explained that he has been riding for several years in bush league races in the Intermountain West. He used to receive $10 a race. Last spring he won his first race on a recognized track and began his apprenticeship. By June he will be a journeyman jockey.
During the years on the small tracks, he watched his weight carefully, never exceeding by much the 98-pound limit that is the requirement for a jockey.
“I’m only five foot four inches, and I look small because I have small bones,” he said as Dirt Farmer and the other horses were brought into the paddock area in preparation for the race. Jockeys look deceptively small, but their weight is almost pure muscle. It takes strength to control a racing horse weighing ten times as much as its rider.
David noted that a jockey gets a flat fee, usually about 1 1/2 percent of the purse, for participating in the race. If he wins, he then receives ten percent of the money given the owner of the winning horse.
“From that I have to pay my agent, who gets 25 percent of all I make, valet expenses, Jockey Guild fees and living costs. I also pay for my helmet, riding clothes, saddles, cinches, and goggles.
Paddock judge Jim Wilson, clipboard in hand, stepped out to check the horses. He stopped briefly at stall five and chatted with Tom Phelan of Scottsdale, Arizona, owner and trainer of Dirt Farmer. The valets then saddled the horses. The clock noted that only 16 minutes remained before the next race.
“There is generally a half hour between each race,” David continued, “to give everyone a chance to get ready.”
The talk turned to racing accidents. David said that though he has fallen twice during a race, he has never broken a bone. “In one of the races my mount stumbled just out of the gate. I was still rolling in a tight ball when the rest of the horses went past. I was clipped a couple of times, but nothing serious happened. Another time I went down when I was in front and slid on my head along the track. I wasn’t hurt too badly, just bruised, and my neck was sore for a few days. None of the horses hit me.”
Before Albuquerque he raced several weeks in Denver. “The horses here carry 106 or better, but in Denver they were getting in at 103. In order to ride I had to keep my weight at 97 pounds.” David doesn’t diet as such, but he admitted that he always watches what he eats.
“You have to keep your weight down because the saddle, girth, irons, boots, and whites weigh another four or five pounds altogether. While I’m on my mission I’ll watch my weight all the time so I won’t be too heavy when I get back.
“Living the standards of the Church has helped me be a better jockey. I never have a hangover, and I am always alert. When I told my parents I wanted to go on the track professionally, they told me they trusted me and expected me to live the standards. There are a lot of good people in the horse racing business who aren’t LDS, and they respect you for your standards.”
Others interviewed at the track voiced their respect for David as a person and a professional. He has given away a number of pamphlets on the Church. “I try to tell people about the good things in our church,” he said.
During the week David will ride as many as 20 horses in the morning to get them ready for races. In the afternoon he may race as many as six out of the 12 races scheduled.
The clock showed that 12 minutes remained before David’s race. Jim Wilson pushed a button to alert jockeys still in the jockey room. “Jockeys,” he said, and the riders entered the paddock. David walked over to Dirt Farmer who was quietly waiting with Mr. Phelan. The owner and David discussed the race strategy. “Hold him, hold him, hold him,” he told David. “Leave him something for the last. Then, if you can move up on the inside. do it.”
At a signal from the paddock judge, Tom Phelan gave David a leg up on the chestnut gelding. David thrust his toes through the irons strapped high up on the side of Dirt Farmer. His upper legs now horizontal, he adjusted the reins as Mr. Phelan led them out of the paddock and up to the race course.
Several of the horses had to be led along the track by another rider to ensure that they remained under control until the race started. Although David’s mount had been raced for several years, he had not lost a quiet disposition. David needed no other help. The outrider, mounted western, escorted the 12 horses in front of the stands before taking them toward the starting gate on the other side of the track.
Tom Phelan stood by the rail. “I met David in Denver. He was riding for another owner who had horses in the same barn. I liked the way David rode, and when I had an opening, I put him on. He’s fitting in really well. David’ll do well; it just takes a lot of time and a lot of experience.
“He listens, and he tries to ride according to instructions. That’s what I like about him. He’s the pilot, though. When the race is being run, we try to follow the race plan, but a lot of things can happen. That’s when it takes a boy who can think. David’s doing all right in that department.
“Dirt Farmer has done well, but he’s been having trouble with a cracked front hoof. We’ve had to shoe him special for the race.”
With just a handful of minutes left, David’s agent, Bob Bernhardt, came up to the fence. A jockey himself until he got too heavy, Bob is aware of the qualities it takes to make a good rider. “I watched David ride in Denver this spring. I asked someone if he had any experience and was told to keep an eye on him, that he would probably make a rider. He was getting up early in the morning and galloping but wasn’t racing much. I knew he was light, that he worked hard and deserved a shot at it. So, we got together. It was one of those things that you do because you feel you should.”
As his agent, Bob talks with the various owners and trainers to arrange rides for David. He promotes his jockey, even to the point of boasting, by pointing out when he is riding well. Bob also handles travel and living arrangements for the two of them.
Others advised Bob to choose other jockeys instead of David. “I don’t know, there was just something about Dave that made me want to become his agent. As far as I was concerned, he had a lot more potential than other apprentice jockeys in Denver at the time. It’s working out that way; he’s going to be a good rider. He had ridden only eight head the first three weeks of the meet; then we were able to arrange over 30 rides the following week. One day he rode three winners in six races.
“Dave takes care of himself. He doesn’t party, smoke, or drink. He’s serious about racing.”
The horses moved to the starting gate. The truck that pulled the gate was started up. Handlers took the racers by the bridle one at a time and ran them into the narrow enclosures. Another person expertly closed the back of the gate, confining the nervous animals until the starter would press his button and the gates would spring open. David’s chestnut was placed in the fifth position from the rail. The two peered through the grillwork, waiting for the race to begin.
Veteran starter Dean Turpitt, standing a few feet to one side and in front of the gate, watched for a time when all 12 horses were still. It came. He hit the button. Twelve horses jumped out of the gate almost simultaneously. Within a half-dozen strides Dirt Farmer was carrying his rider at 40 miles an hour. “You can’t get that kind of acceleration with a car or a motorcycle. You just have to be able to move with the horse or you’ll never make it.”
The truck pulled the gate off the track; its wheel marks were raked over by two of the workers.
The field was strung out slightly, and announcer Bob Dudich gave the placings over the loudspeaker. Dirt Farmer was seventh. With the race just 5 1/2 furlongs (eight furlongs to the mile), the gate had been placed on the far side of the field because the finish line is never moved. Without binoculars it was hard to discern the different riders, despite their varied colors.
“Hold him, hold him, hold him,” the trainer had said, and David held Dirt Farmer. Muddy sand flung up by the leading horses coated David’s face and goggles. The horses neared the north end of the track and began rounding the curve.
“Usually horses will pull away from the rail on a turn. That’s when you must be ready to move up on the inside.” There was only one curve in this race. David moved.
The spectators rose to their feet as the horses approached. The cheering reached a crescendo seldom heard even at a homecoming football game. Several horses were still ahead of David’s gelding.
“You’ve got to run the horse straight; keep him from wandering over the track, or you’ll lose strides.” Those ahead had continued to pull slightly away from the rail at the curve because of centrifugal force. There was enough room for Dirt Farmer to continue his drive up the rail. David urged him on even faster.
“You have to be willing to take chances, but know when to take them.” Should one of the leading horses move into Dirt Farmer’s path and they tangle, then Dirt Farmer would go down or crash into the rail. “It’s always the horse behind that trips and falls.” David continued to move up the rail safely.
“Dave’s only thinking one thing when he’s out there, and that’s to win.
“This is a claiming race. Several have indicated they want to buy my horse—if he does well in this race. If he wins, he’s sold for sure.”
Dirt Farmer continued to gain on the last horse ahead of him while the announcer swiftly told the positions for the last time. David began to tire, and his breath was ragged. “When you really race, it’s as though you’re running the distance yourself. It is just like running a mile on foot.”
The terrific strain was telling on Dirt Farmer, also. “It takes 90 minutes to cool a horse off after a race, to get his heartbeat and respiration down to what it should be before we can put him in a stall. Dirt Farmer hasn’t an ounce of fat on him; he’s just like his rider. Still, it will take 90 minutes.”
Running his athletic best under David’s urging, Dirt Farmer burst across the finish line in front.
“And the winner is Dirt Farmer!” Bob Dudich shouted to a crowd gone wild.
Elsewhere the race stewards watched the running on video tape, searching for any irregularities before declaring the race official. (A horse the day before had been disqualified because of a jockey’s mistake.) After several reruns, they concluded there were no obvious problems. The race was declared official.
By this time Dirt Farmer and the other horses had slowed down and were trotting back to the finish line where they would be unsaddled and taken off the track. David and Dirt Farmer moved into the winner’s circle for the official photograph. The crowd cheered.
“David did just exactly as I told him,” Tom Phelan commented as he and his wife joined them in the circle.
For David it was one of the last races of the meet. Tomorrow he and his agent would be on their way to Detroit where David would continue to ride and to build up his mission fund.
Dirt Farmer was unsaddled and led away. After David’s weight was checked, his valet took the saddle and cinch. David walked along the track back to the jockey’s room to await another horse, the next start, and a new race.

Time moved on, and soon my family moved to New Hampshire. We were no longer part of a large ward or an overflowing stake, but now members of a tiny branch which spread over several small towns. We soon discovered that my sisters and I were the only LDS youth in our town. I really had to cling to what the Church taught. I found myself defending it many times, but in my heart the question still lingered.
Was this what I really believed? I still couldn’t come up with the answer, and the question wouldn’t leave. It just kept getting bigger and more urgent. I had to find out for myself, but I didn’t quite know how to go about it.
The years passed by, and finally graduation was around the corner. It would soon be time to take the next step—serving a mission. Going on a mission seemed to fill every conversation I had with my parents, but the truth was, I didn’t know if I should go. How could I teach people the gospel if I didn’t know for myself if it “I believe because I found out for myself.”
It was time to stop living off of “borrowed light.” I was determined to find out.
I didn’t know where to start, but I decided the Book of Mormon would be a good place. I started to study it, not just read it. I also decided to study it prayerfully. While I was doing this, I realized that I hadn’t been having personal prayers very regularly. I also realized that this was the first time I had honestly studied the scriptures. Maybe the reason I didn’t know if the Church was really true was that I had never prayerfully tried to find out.
I kept a list of questions I had about the Church in the cover of my Book of Mormon. At nights I made an effort to pray about a certain question, and quite often I would find the answer to that very question as I read. This happened too often to be just a coincidence. My prayers were actually being answered, and every time a prayer would be answered, it gave me a deeper incentive to continue in my investigation.
I finished the Book of Mormon and started on the New Testament. I had seen books like A Marvelous Work and a Wonder, and Jesus the Christ sitting on my parents’ bookshelves, and now I had an intense desire to learn what they had to say. I didn’t really read anything that I hadn’t heard before, but for the first time, I understood it. As I continued in my study and prayers, a strong testimony began to grow within me, and sometimes when I prayed, a warm feeling would overcome me entirely. I soon learned that the Holy Ghost was real.
I noticed one night that every question I had written on the list had been crossed out. Although it hadn’t happened all at once, my questions had been answered—every one of them.
Then I realized I knew that the Church was true. I knew it was true, not because my parents had told me it was true, not because the leaders of the Church had told me it was true, but because I had found out for myself.

The young women around the world have taught me so much about seeking Christ and gaining a daily, personal witness of Him. Let me share the wisdom of two of them:
Livvy has watched general conference her entire life. In fact, in her home they traditionally watch all five sessions as a family. In the past, conference for Livvy had meant doodling or drifting into the occasional unintended nap. But this past October general conference was different. It became personal.
This time, Livvy decided to be an active recipient. She silenced notifications on her phone and took notes of impressions from the Spirit. She was amazed as she felt specific things God wanted her to hear and do. This decision made a difference in her life almost immediately.
Just days later her friends invited her to an inappropriate movie. She reflected, “I felt the words and spirit of conference return into my heart, and I heard myself declining their invitation.” She also had the courage to share her testimony of the Savior in her ward.
After these events she stated, “The amazing thing is, when I heard myself testify that Jesus is the Christ, I felt the Holy Ghost confirm it again for me.”
Livvy did not skip like a stone over the surface of conference weekend; she dove in, mind and spirit, and found the Savior there.

I carried a tray of food, prepared by my mother-in-law, into a cluttered and dusty home. The sole occupant sat where she always sat, on a big armchair positioned so she could see out the window. Her swollen legs were stretched in front of her and her cane, which she used only with great effort, leaned against her arm. She smiled when she saw me, thanked me for the food, and apologetically asked who I was. As I sat next to her and listened to her stories, I was filled with warmth and peace.
Three years later, I was on the floor with my two young children, bouncing them on my legs and singing a racehorse tune. Only a few feet away, my kitchen was in disarray and toys were scattered across the floor. I suddenly felt a reassurance from the Spirit that I was right where I needed to be. Warmth and peace flooded my soul, filling its worn edges and giving energy where there was none.
Another two years forward, I was lying on the bed. A pile of laundry was visible on the floor, and a stack of papers littered the desk to my left as I fed my newborn son for the fourth time that night. I brushed my fingertips against his long lashes, felt his soft bald head, and was thrilled when fingers curled around the lace of my shirt. I was so filled with warmth and peace that I didn’t even mind that I was sometimes awake at three in the morning.
In each of these cases, the Holy Ghost was with me, telling me I was in the right place and doing the right thing, and in each of these cases, I was in a messy home.

During my high school years my name began to appear each spring in the Bay Area sports pages. A newspaper columnist wrote that I might be the best high school middle-distance prospect in the last ten years in northern California. Letters from college track coaches began arriving. It was exciting.
Late one Saturday afternoon near the end of my sophomore year, I found my father sitting in his chair upstairs, reading.
“I’m going to a party tonight,” I said nonchalantly.
“That’s nice. Some of your friends from church?”
“No. New friends. Guys from school.”
“I see.” He continued reading.
“They’re some very popular kids.”
“Oh.” He laid his book down. “How long have they been paying attention to you?”
“Since track season, I guess.”
“Maybe they saw you in math class handing in your homework and thought, He’s someone we need to get to know.”
“Maybe.”
“It wouldn’t be that they saw your name in the paper, I’m sure. What are Chuck and Ricky doing tonight? And the guys from church?”
“The church guys are going to a stake dance. Chuck and Ricky were talking about going to a Giants game. Ricky’s dad is going.”
“Oh. How long have you known Ricky and Chuck and the guys at church?”
“Chuck and Ricky, all my life. The guys at church, seven or eight years.”
“Before anyone knew you could run fast, right?”
“Right.”
“You have fun with your new friends tonight. Remember priesthood at nine tomorrow.” He picked up his book. He was leaving the decision to me.
I made two phone calls. One to my new friends who had invited me to the party, a gathering at which I could easily guess what would be going on. The second call was to a friend from church, to see if he would pick me up for the dance.
My senior year in high school came, and my life and the lives of my friends and family were again changing. I had less than a year left in our blue house. Chuck talked about joining the military after graduation, while Ricky hoped to play professional baseball.
Paula had married the year before, to a guy who reminded me of the tall missionary from Massachusetts a decade earlier. In November, she and her husband came from school to our home for Thanksgiving. Paula handed my mother a jar of peanut butter with pink and blue ribbons tied around it. Mother looked sharply at her, and Paula nodded. Then Mom burst into tears. It seemed that my mother had craved peanut butter when she was expecting me. Paula’s present was her way of announcing that a new arrival would be born to the family in the spring.
I took my college entrance exams, filled out applications, and sorted through the letters offering track scholarships. A mission was only two years away. I took a part-time job at a restaurant to help save money for it.
Mom was doing great and Dad landed a promotion at work, one that took him off the dock and into an office. He was almost 50, and I was happy to know that his days of heavy physical labor were over.
On the track, my times kept improving. I hadn’t lost a race in two years, but my streak was in jeopardy. At an invitational meet in Sacramento, I was going to race the top runners from California, including Michael Banks, a senior from Los Angeles.
I had never met him but knew his reputation. On Mondays at practice my coach kept me apprised of Michael Bank’s achievements. “You were good on Friday, Tom. But Banks was two seconds faster.”
“Tomorrow’s the big race?” my father asked innocently the night before the meet.
“It is. I’ve never been so nervous about a race in my life.”
“You run in a circle four times; then it’s over. What’s so tough about that?” he kidded. “You’ll do fine, Tom. I’ll leave work and drive up to see you.”
My father was a stake clerk and went to a meeting of the stake presidency that night. I was asleep when he got home, yet he had already left for work when I arose just after six.
“Couldn’t Dad sleep?” I asked my mother at breakfast.
“No. He met with the stake president last night. He has something to tell you, but I’ll let him do so in his own way.”
I couldn’t imagine what he wanted to tell me, and I didn’t think of it again. Michael Banks and his fearsome times were crowding out everything else.
“Good luck. We’ll be there to watch and we’ll be proud of you whether you win or not.” She kissed me on the cheek, and I left for a half-day of school before driving to Sacramento with my coach.
Almost 11 hours later I stood at the starting line in the fifth lane. A half-dozen other boys stretched and shook their arms, preparing for the race. Tension was thick, a very real presence. My stomach was wound tight and I felt a little sick. Michael Banks stood two lanes away, looking confident, hands on his hips, staring down the track. We had met in the tunnel on the way to the track. He nodded in my direction and I murmured hello. That was all.
My coach gave me a few last-minute instructions. “Take the lead early in the fourth lap. If you don’t, Banks will out kick you down the stretch. You have the better stamina, but you can’t match his kick. Good luck, Tom. You’ll give it your best, I know.”
We were called to our marks. I scanned the crowd, but I couldn’t see my parents. I tried to block the worry from my mind. Concentrate, I must concentrate, I repeated softly. Your parents are in the stands. Don’t worry. The starter raised his pistol, and it cracked into the air. Arms and legs rushed, and there was a jostling of elbows as we started around the first corner. I began talking to myself in my mind.
How do I feel? Legs are tight, relax. Who’s on my shoulder? Don’t get boxed in. Breathe, breathe, relax. Keep your arm motion smooth. Glide, not too fast. Where’s Banks?
Glide, glide. Move outside when you can. Was that Banks in the lead? No. Maybe neither of us will win. Wouldn’t that be something. Don’t make your move yet. Do I have enough left in me to even make a move? You’ll die by the fourth lap. Remember what the coach said.
The second lap was nearing an end. My head hurt and I could taste blood in my mouth. I guessed I was in fifth place. My legs were rubbery. I didn’t have much.
Maintain, just maintain. Let your mouth go slack. Glide a lap … Oh, what’s the use? You don’t have it today, Tom. Banks has this one.
My pace slowed a bit. I was on the inside lane. I turned my head slightly and saw a familiar face, hands cupped to his mouth, standing on the infield. It was my father.
Quick strides brought me within hearing range. What was he shouting?
“Tommy … !”
Yes, Father.
“… Paula—you’re an uncle.”
What? An uncle? A boy or a girl? Get this race over, Rosa. You’re an uncle!
I forced my arms to pump faster. I moved to the outside and fought past two runners. Third place now and Banks clearly in the lead.
Paula, she isn’t due for two more weeks. But … But … a new baby in the family!
My pace quickened. I took over second place. Only Michael Banks loomed ahead. My lungs burned and my legs ached. Still, I managed to pull even with him. In unison, Michael Banks and I ran, leaving the others behind. We came around the bend again. There was my dad, shouting jubilantly.
“Tommy …”
The crowd was going berserk as Banks and I matched strides. Could I hear my father? I drew nearer and heard only two words: “You will!”
I will … I will … Now!
I moved inches ahead with a half-lap to go. Now! My fists rammed forward; my legs pounded the track. The lead grew to a foot, then a yard. I heard Michael Banks’ strained breathing behind me. Never had a race been so hard for me.
A baby!—Paula was a mom. My mom was a grandmother. And my father, a grandfather, who somehow made his way to the infield because he knew I needed to hear him.
I rounded the last corner, now in a dead sprint, my chest heaving.
Remember Banks’ kick. Don’t hold anything back. Pump your arms, run on your toes.
The tape loomed ahead. I frantically ran toward it. A few yards away, I stumbled, fought to keep my balance, and broke across the finish line. Michael Banks whisked in behind me. I turned and we threw our arms around each other. “Great race, man,” he gasped. “You ran inspired.”
“You’ll never know,” I panted.
I walked to the grassy infield. I knew that I should keep moving, but my legs refused. I sat down, then leaned back. I looked up into the clear, blue sky. A face filled it, the face of my father.
Some boys, they say things about their fathers. They say they aren’t friends, that there is too much of a difference for them to understand each other. They say they don’t know if their fathers love them. I feel an emptiness for those boys and their fathers. When thousands were shouting in a very tough race, it was my father’s voice that I listened for and heard.
On the way home, my parents told me why they were late. They got a phone call from Paula’s husband just as they were leaving. When they arrived at the stadium, the race had just started. One look told Father that I was struggling. Before he stopped to think about it, he was at the edge of the stands heading to the infield. He said he thought it was the only chance for me to know he was there.
“What a day,” he sighed. “And I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night. I suppose that’s what happens when the stake president asks you to serve as the bishop.”
He said it so casually that the impact didn’t hit me for a few seconds. My dad was going to be the bishop of our ward!
I went off to school that fall. I was on the track team, and though I was not a star that year, I ran straight and hard. When I came home that summer, I had an interview with my bishop to begin the work of serving a mission. It didn’t take place in a bishop’s office, but in a blue, two-story home in south San Francisco. I sat on the edge of a bed, and the bishop pulled close his favorite old chair. He seemed a little hesitant. His eyes were wet.
“Tom, you are a Rosa,” he began. “And you are a Latter-day Saint.”
“Yes.”
“If you honor your family, you will honor your church. If you honor your church, you will honor your family.”
“I understand that.”
After asking me the normal missionary interview questions, he concluded, “You will do good. You will be a fine missionary.”
Then he told me to go help Mom in the kitchen. I looked back at him as I left. His hair was mostly gray now, and his arms were not as thickly muscled as before. He sat in his chair and stared out the window at ten thousand sparkling lights on the hillside across the bay from our home. I wondered if he knew how proud I was to be his son and how much it meant to me to share his good name. I walked downstairs realizing that all those years I had been running, my father had been growing, and I would never lack for someone to look up to.

The story is told of a traveler who asked a farmer, “How’s the cotton crop going to be this year?”
The farmer replied, “There won’t be any. I didn’t bother to plant it, because I was afraid of the boll weevil.”
Upon hearing this, the traveler asked further, “Well, are you going to harvest a big corn crop?”
“It’s the same,” came the response. “I was afraid we wouldn’t get enough rain for the kernels to mature.”
The traveler pursued, “At least you will have a good potato harvest.”
“Nope. I didn’t dare plant any, because I was afraid of insects.”
Somewhat frustrated, the traveler then asked, “Well, what is it that you have planted?”
“Nothing, my good man,” came the answer. “I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

Some years ago in the Church News there appeared a most interesting article about a young man who made his decision to trust in the ways of the Lord.
“President Spencer W. Kimball is a constant inspiration to the Church. This is not only so through what he says, but likewise by what he does. When addressing the Stockholm Area Conference he revealed the secret of this success. Said he: ‘As I was out alone, milking the cows, or putting up the hay, I had time to think. I mulled it over in my mind and made this decision: ‘I, Spencer Kimball, will never taste any form of liquor. I, Spencer Kimball, will never touch tobacco. I will never drink coffee, nor will I ever touch tea—not because I can explain why I shouldn’t, except that the Lord said not to.’ He said those things were an abomination. There are many other things that are, too, that are not in the Word of Wisdom. But I made up my mind.

‘That’s the point I am trying to make. I made up my mind then, as a little boy; ‘I will never touch those things.’ And so, having made up my mind, it was easy to follow it, and I did not yield. There were many temptations that came along, but I did not even analyze it; I did not stop and measure it and say, ‘Well, shall I or shall I not?’ I always said to myself: ‘But I made up my mind I would not. Therefore, I do not.

“‘I want to just say that I will soon go into another year and that I have never tasted tea, nor coffee, nor tobacco, nor liquor of any kind, nor drugs. Now that may sound very presumptuous and boasting to you, but I am only trying to make this point: that if every boy and girl—as he or she begins to grow a little more mature and becomes a little more independent of his friends and his family and all—if every boy and girl would make up his or her mind, I will not yield, then no matter what the temptation is: I made up my mind. That’s settled’” (Church News, Oct. 4, 1975, 16).

Photograph by Carrie Leona Ryan
Sometimes familiarity and routine have the tendency to rob otherwise sacred moments of their full meaning. For me, I had let the sacrament lose some of its intended meaning. Each week, I listened to the sacred sacramental prayers while seated in nearly the same pew in the same chapel, surrounded by a familiar congregation.
But the COVID-19 pandemic disrupted this routine and reset my perspective.
Unable to join others in the chapel, I found myself receiving the sacrament in a new setting—gathered around my dining room table with my small family. Doing something familiar and routine in this new setting brought a fresh perspective and, with that new perspective, renewed meaning.
Although I had participated in the sacrament ordinance hundreds of times in my lifetime, doing it where I ordinarily joined my family for a meal and conversation highlighted the familial undertones of the sacrament in ways I hadn’t appreciated before.
One Sunday in particular, as I knelt and uttered the words, “We ask thee in the name of thy Son, Jesus Christ” (Moroni 4:3), my attention went to my precious four-year-old son sitting close to me. There he sat with his arms folded, listening to the prayer, radiating innocence and goodness.
With this brilliant sight in my mind, I continued to offer the prayer. As I spoke the words, “the body of thy Son,” a question entered my mind. What would it be like to willingly sacrifice this innocent son of mine and submit him to incomprehensible pain and suffering?
In a word, unimaginable.
Pondering this impossible question, I continued with the prayer. The words “take upon them the name of thy Son” brought another question to my mind. God is also a father. How could He sacrifice His Son? As I looked at my other family members, who, like me, desperately needed the sacrament, the simple but profound answer came: divine love (see John 3:16).
It seemed as if the windows of heaven briefly opened to reveal a portion of our Heavenly Father’s pure love—so great a love that He sacrificed His truly innocent, perfect Son for us, His other children.
In view of this sacrifice, no matter the difficulties and inequities of life—including a deadly pandemic, disrupted economies, civil unrest, an unbelieving world, and general uncertainty—how could we seriously doubt His love for us?
Lest we forget, the sacrament serves as a weekly reminder of this deep and enduring love. In routinely considering the unparalleled gift of His Son, we can find comfort and overcome the temptation to doubt the Father’s love or concern for us during challenging times.
Without properly considering the eternal fatherhood of God and His role in Jesus Christ’s Atonement, the sacrament ordinance feels incomplete to me now. It stands as a constant reminder to me of the sacrifice of Jesus Christ and expression of Heavenly Father’s love for me.
And it is because of this lesson in love that I will always treasure our at-home sacrament experience.