Gospel Story Finder

“You’re going to have to work every other Sunday.” My stomach churned like it was suddenly filled with rocks. Up until now, I’d only had to work after school and on Saturdays as a bagger. I’d never been faced with working on Sundays.
I had been so excited earlier in the day when my boss told me he was finally promoting me to checker; no more gathering carts in the icy, slushy grocery store parking lot. Nebraska winters were cold. But now that he was standing in front of the big calendar in the break room filling out my new work schedule, dread tightened my throat. I was speechless. He began putting my name in the squares for every other Sunday: “Amy, 12–6. Amy, 12–6.”
In the past few months I’d asked my boss countless times if there was an opening for a checker yet, and I’d worked really hard to be the one chosen for the position now that the opening had come. The checkers got to stay in the warm store, their shoes stayed dry, and they made a lot more money than the baggers did.
My boss put my name in a few weekday squares and said, “Congratulations, you’ve earned this! Enjoy your last day as a bagger,” then left to attend to other business. I walked out of the break room and back to my post at the end of the check-out counter and began putting bread, eggs, and apples in plastic bags as the checker sent them my way on the black conveyer belt. I knew what I should have done, but I hadn’t had the courage to do it. Never before had what I wanted been so at odds with what was right.
I tried to ignore those rocks in my stomach, but they just got heavier as my shift went on. In Young Women we’d learned about keeping the Sabbath day holy plenty of times, and I’d always thought it was one of the easiest commandments—until now.
Would it matter that much if I worked on Sundays? It was only every other Sunday. But my conscience tugged at me. Surely it’s okay to work on the Sabbath if your job requires it. I had to have a job.
“You can find another job,” it piped up again. “Yeah, but for half the money,” I mumbled, trying to shut my conscience up once and for all. “What’s more important, keeping the Sabbath day holy, or money?” it replied. I rolled my eyes at my conscience, knowing it was right. I had a choice to make.
My shift dragged on. Finally, out in the cold parking lot trying to free a grocery cart that had frozen into a snow bank, I wondered how I’d feel in the bright cozy store checking groceries on a Sunday. My heart sank at the thought, and I knew what I had to do.
The rocks bumped around my insides as I went looking for my boss on my next break. “Choose the right. Choose the right,” I chanted to myself under my breath, trying to work up the courage to face him.
I was terrified to talk to him about it. Would he be angry? I imagined him yelling, “You’ve bugged me for so long and now you’re turning down the promotion?!” Maybe he’d make fun of me: “Hey, I think I’ll start a religion that says you only have to work on Wednesdays!” Or even worse, maybe he’d say nothing and just look at me with annoyance and disgust.
“I can’t take the promotion, Mr. Johnson,” I began, after I’d asked him if I could talk with him for a minute in the break room. “I can’t work on Sundays because of my beliefs.” I was talking more to my shoes than to him, but I looked up when he didn’t reply for a while. He was just staring at me thinking.
Right then I realized that no matter what he was thinking, and no matter what he would say next, the rocks were gone. And was that my conscience … cheering? I felt better than I had all day as my boss stood there wondering what to do with me.
He folded his arms and sighed, “All right, I won’t make you work on Sundays since it’s for church. The other checkers want Sundays off too, but they just want to party.”
I thanked him as he crossed my name off the Sunday squares. He gave me a few more Saturday shifts instead, then left.
I floated through the rest of my last day as a bagger.
“And behold, all that he requires of you is to keep his commandments; … therefore, if ye do keep his commandments he doth bless you and prosper you” (Mosiah 2:22).
I was blessed that day because I chose to keep the fourth commandment. I’d had the immediate blessing of a lightened spirit and a clear conscience, and then the Lord softened my boss’s heart right when I needed it. Even if my boss had been a mean man and fired me on the spot, I know that the Lord would have blessed me in other ways. Maybe He would have helped me find a new job. I’ll never know. But I do know without a doubt that no matter what, He would have taken care of me because I “chose the right” that cold winter afternoon.

Shortly after getting my first driver’s license, I drove alone to southern Utah to visit a favorite aunt and uncle and get in a little fishing. After fishing without much success Saturday evening, I proceeded Sunday morning toward my aunt’s home. I had time to get there before church began.
As I drove past Duck Creek Springs, I noted the clear surface mirroring an emerald meadow and tall pine trees. I stopped the car to take a closer look. Then I saw a resplendent, 20-inch crimson-striped rainbow trout slowly fin over a moss bed not far from the bank. The fish seemed intent on slurping up every insect in sight.
My fishing rod was in the trunk of the car. I’d have plenty of time to put my humpy fly pattern in front of that feeding fish and still get to church on time. I was alone and no one would know that I was fishing on Sunday.
At that precise moment I truly felt that I could make a few casts, then quit, whether I caught the fish or not. But what about the time after that? And then, would I arrange deliberately to spend Sunday fishing?
I had heard people tell me they could “worship God out among his creations, in nature; you don’t need to be within the walls of some church building.” However, that thinking always seemed shallow to me. Even if you did yourself some good, what good would you do anyone else spending Sundays by yourself?
I got back in the car and headed for my aunt and uncle’s home and ward.
Over the years, that Sunday experience has always stood out as a source of strength in my mind. Since then I’ve taken fishing trips in many parts of the world, sometimes fishing almost every waking moment from Monday to Saturday night. But Sunday is different. No, it hasn’t always been easy. But it has been easier to keep things in proper perspective since that first Sunday decision at Duck Creek Springs.

Refer to any atlas and it will tell you that the high point in Idaho is Borah Peak at 12,662 feet. But you might have a difficult time convincing 47 youth and 23 adults from the American Fork (Utah) 19th Ward of that. For them, the high point is known simply as “The Ranch” on the Idaho border just outside the small town of Freedom, Wyoming.
During summer vacation, this group participated in a not-so-typical youth conference: five days of hard work. And many of them even knew in advance that it would be hard work, because they had done the same thing last year.
“Sure it’s lots of work,” said 16-year-old Shirley Frazier. “But it’s also lots of fun. We play when we work. It’s not every day you get to work side by side with members of your ward. A bond is established, and I feel closer to the members of my ward and to the Lord.”
How much work can 47 youth do on a ranch in five days? Plenty. For example, they built fences with wooden posts and barbed wire, and they built a small bridge across a creek. They tilled and weeded a garden. They even finished constructing a barn (where they would perform plays and skits). As if that weren’t enough, they also cleaned up an old farmhouse once inhabited by barn swallows and mice, built a retaining wall with rocks they had gathered in a field nearby, and planted flowers.
You’d think that would be enough to tire them out. But there was also time for the fun usually associated with youth conferences. They boated, they fished, they swam. They played baseball in a pasture, organized and participated in a lip-synch contest where they imitated singers from the ’50s to the ’80s, and enjoyed a hayride on a wagon pulled by a team of Clydesdale horses.
“I think this is great,” said Elizabeth Toomalatai, 18, who, although not LDS, participated in the youth conference. “People get together and work—and have fun—at the same time!” Elizabeth, whose brother served a mission and is currently attending BYU, says she came to The Ranch with some friends “to see how members of the Church get together.” She added, “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
Obviously, The Ranch isn’t your typical ranch. Sister Lou Cille Hamnett, who runs the place with her husband Von and her son Scott, tells about the dream she and her first husband, the late Neil Carlisle, shared when they purchased the property. Over the years, ward groups from the surrounding states clamored for the opportunity to have activities at the site.
“When you walk around here and the sandhill cranes are flying overhead and the Canadian geese are flying and the ducks are out there on the lake and it’s quiet, well, there’s no place like it,” Sister Hamnett said. “People are living such a rat race that they don’t stop to smell the roses, they don’t stop to feel, really, the reverence of the soil and the clean air. I think that’s what you get up here. There is a special spirit here.”
Because of that special spirit, even after Brother Carlisle passed away in 1985, Sister Hamnett wanted to keep The Ranch going. But she had her doubts about whether it could be maintained.
Then Bishop Blake Wride and the youth of the 19th Ward came to the rescue.
“They knew what a large responsibility the upkeep and improvement of The Ranch would be for me. So he got all of his kids together and suggested coming up for a service project. I thought, ‘Well, why not?’ But I thought I would probably be baby-sitting them. Instead, this group has just been marvelous. Neil always said that giving to others was the most important thing. I knew we were giving by having these church groups come up here, but now someone’s giving in return.”
Like the unique focus of the conference, The Ranch is also unique in its character. The young men and women are quick to point out some reasons why. For example, there is an outdoor eating place known as the “Chuckwagon,” located where cattle used to roam the fields. The building that is now the kitchen was a place of shelter where the cattle sought refuge from the hot, blistering sun, or the hard, cold Idaho winters. Sister Hamnett still laughs as she explains how they had to borrow a tractor and clean two feet of manure off the ground when the transformation from cattle lounge to Chuckwagon began. But the youth don’t mind the Chuckwagon’s past. In fact, as soon as they arrived Monday afternoon, they were scrubbing down tables, and sweeping and mopping the floor in preparation for some “good fixin’s.”
And if you take a walk up the hill above the lake to look at The Ranch, you’ll get a bird’s-eye view of the six sheep wagons. Built by Carlisle himself, they provide cozy sleeping quarters for some of the guests. The six wagons are arranged in a tight circle in a small meadow, as if part of an old western movie set. You’d almost expect a few cowboys in chaps to come walking out of one of them.
And the garden. Well, that’s where an 80-year-old barn stood, until the weight of winter snow on the roof caused the structure to buckle. Youth from the ward helped weed and till the ground where the barn used to be in preparation for planting flowers and vegetables.
“Here, weeding is fun,” said 17-year-old Lisa Patterson. “I think working together seems to make it more fun, especially because we’re giving service.”
Corey Wride, 17, agreed, and added, “I was surprised at how the adults passed responsibilities on to us.” Even with all that good food at the Chuckwagon ready to be eaten by hungry, hardworking teenagers, Corey’s favorite expression seemed to be, “Well, I’m ready to get back to work.”
One girl is proud of the fact that she helped build a fence in one day. She is thrilled by the fact that she was part of an almost all-girl work crew that built the fence. One of the boys overheard her comments, then said with curiosity, “What I don’t understand is why girls get so excited about hammering nails into wood.” His statement was quickly answered, “Because this is a time when girls get to do many things they normally don’t get to do. The leaders are really understanding and they let us try new things.”
Girls hammering nails to help build a fence isn’t the only unusual activity going on at The Ranch. Boys are also participating in tasks they normally don’t do at home. Says Sister Cheryl Edmund, one of the ward’s youth conference specialists: “Where else can you see boys sweeping the kitchen (the Chuckwagon) and doing dishes?” And she adds with a laugh, “In broad daylight!”
On one particular day at The Ranch a visitor might see girls gathering up scraps of discarded wood from the barn project and piling it in wheelbarrows. As they push them along to be dumped into a hole in the ground for the night’s anticipated dutch oven feast, they laugh, talk about the upcoming play in the recently completed barn, and generally just seem to enjoy the natural beauty of their surroundings and the work they are doing. Having dumped the wood, some of them jump into the wheelbarrows for unorganized races back to the scrap pile.
What’s the secret to enjoying hard work and service? Bishop Wride says, “It goes back to what Elder Victor L. Brown said about service and youth: ‘May we remember that they would rather serve than be served. Self-sacrifice brings out their finest characteristics.’
Not only have the youth learned to appreciate service at The Ranch; they have had fun at the same time. For example, Jeff Eastwood, 18, earned the distinction of being the first one thrown in the lake. With a smile on his face, he’ll tell you that he really jumped in. On the serious side, he said he’s learned an important lesson by participating in youth conference. Jeff said he is grateful that his parents attended, too. “I’ve learned to live with adults in a different environment. My parents are interacting with my friends, and I’ve learned to act the same way in front of my family as I do in front of my friends. I’m being myself.”
With so much to see and do at The Ranch, it’s hard to say what was the most memorable part of this youth conference. Perhaps it was Thursday evening’s spiritual activity. It began with an invitation after dinner to take a hayride to a meadow for homemade peach cobbler and whipped cream. It was a perfect day: billowy clouds in a beautiful blue sky. When the young men and women arrived at the meadow, they enjoyed running around in the knee-high grass. And the tall pine trees on the hills that circled the meadow were surpassed only by the spirit of togetherness shared by the youth and adult leaders. When they finished eating, everyone sang songs. Suddenly, three men dressed in white came walking down the hill. As previously planned by the adults, but unknown to the youth, these three men represented the Three Nephites (see 3 Ne. 28).
“It was breathtaking, watching those white figures walk down from the hill,” said Sharon Frazier. “At first, we were all quiet, not knowing what to think. And then we started to sing, ‘I am a Child of God’ as they came closer. They told us that we are a choice generation, and very special spirits reserved especially for this time period.”
The youth were split up in groups, each accompanied by one of the three guests. Each group discussed a beatitude from the Sermon on the Mount (see Matt. 5), then discussed a particular question. One of the questions was, “If you could change something, what would it be?” Norma Nerdin, 15, said, “I’m going to make my Church habits more steady. You know, things like prayer and scripture study. And I need to talk about my problems more. Everybody has difficulties. It’s important that we let others know when we are having a hard time.” Norma said that it was a moment she would remember forever.
Heather Baxter, 16, was in another group. Her question was, “What would make you happy?” “I would want to have a pure testimony,” she said. “If someone asked me if I knew the Church was true, I would be able to know for sure and answer them without having any doubts.

When the time came, I shared some of my history and what I had learned: I was born in Monrovia, Liberia, in 1996, during the civil war. My father was a soldier, steadfast and determined, navigating a world torn by the Monrovian conflict. He was deeply cherished as the only son of his mother. Tragically, both of my parents passed away two weeks after my birth; they were victims of the brutal conflict that engulfed our country. With their loss, I was taken back to my mother’s roots in Guinea, where I spent my childhood alternating between Guinea and Ivory Coast. I grew up hearing stories about our family’s origins and the incredible legacy left by our ancestors. I learned that our great-grandparents began their journey in Sudan over 200 years ago.
One of the most remarkable stories is about my great-grandfather, who was Liberia’s first doctor. His mission was to bring healing and hope to those in need. He was later transferred to the deep forests of what is now the Nimba region, where he was granted vast lands to establish his medical mission.
This land became the foundation for a legacy of service and family. My great-grandfather had 24 wives and many children, and from generation to generation, his family grew. My grandfather, Samuel J. Mentee, was among them, and he continued the family legacy. By the time of his passing, he left behind an incredible record of 170 grandchildren, of which I am one.
Beyond my family story, I want to share my testimony of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. A pivotal moment in my spiritual journey came when I received the Book of Mormon in French from a friend while working as a hotel security supervisor. Reading its pages filled me with hope and a sense of belonging I had never known. Its introduction, which humbly acknowledges human imperfections, inspired a profound exploration of its truths. Life’s trials have tested my faith and resilience. Loneliness, loss, and the struggle to find a place to call home have been persistent challenges. Yet these very hardships have refined me, teaching me to lean on the Lord and trust His timing. Quiet moments of reflection have brought clarity and strength, allowing me to feel the guiding influence of the Holy Ghost. Each trial reminds me that God’s hand is always at work, shaping me for a greater purpose.
Following those promptings, I eventually found my way to Tema, Ghana. It was here that I began committed lessons with the missionaries. I owe a heartfelt thank you to them, especially Elder Young, whose dedication and spirit inspired me to grow closer to the Savior.
On a beautiful Sunday morning, December 22, 2024, I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. From the moment I joined, I have felt the love and care among the members. The Church has brought light and joy into my life, and I am forever grateful for the blessings it has provided.
I want to express my deepest gratitude to my best friend, Sister Betsy Thornton, who has been a pillar of support and encouragement in my journey. Her kindness, wisdom, and love have left a lasting impact on my heart.
Each step of this journey has deepened my appreciation for family history and the Church. Family history has shown me the power of connection, the importance of understanding where we come from, and the joy of sharing these stories with others.
Wherever you are, if you are reading this, consider this as your personal invitation. Embrace FamilySearch and begin preserving your legacy for generations to come. How will your descendants learn about you 100 years from now?
I, Alias, am calling. And the Lord is also calling for the betterment of our shared tomorrow. Do not let history fade away with us—let it be recorded in FamilySearch. Wherever you are from, but especially to my beloved brothers and sisters from Africa, hear this call.
I am grateful for the opportunity to tell this story and to inspire others to embark on their own family history journeys. The past is not just history: it is the foundation upon which we build our present and future.

For Zac Marshall from England, the simple step of watching an educational video about the Book of Mormon opened his mind to the possibility that the book might be plausible. “I had read it before in family scripture study and on my own without real intent,” he explains. “But I quit being active in the Church as a teenager, so the evidence I saw in the video caused me to read the Book of Mormon intentionally for the first time.” After experimenting on the word of God, Zac started replacing doubt with belief. He now says, “The Church I once saw as restrictive I now see as liberating in the same way Jesus says, ‘The truth shall make you free’ [John 8:32].”

“Actually, I can” is my personal motto. When people meet me for the first time, they don’t realize that I can do a lot of things if I’m creative and put my mind to it.
When I was eight years old, I was diagnosed with juvenile idiopathic arthritis. I thought I would have to give up all the things I love to do—dance, softball, volleyball—but my medication allowed me to keep living my normal life. I stayed super active and kept doing what I loved. I even started playing the snare drum in marching band. Then in 10th grade, my arthritis flared up and I got really sick. I couldn’t hold up my snare drum anymore. And I had to quit dance because it was too difficult for me to participate.
I tried to stay positive. But I really missed my snare drum. Even though I wanted to give up, my family encouraged me to find hope. We figured out how to attach my snare drum to my wheelchair, and soon I was playing in the marching band again!
Lots of times when we’re faced with challenges, we automatically think we can’t do it. But the truth is that “actually, I can.”
Jess P., 17, Utah, USA

I love sports. In grade school and junior high school, I dreamed of completing a pass with time running out and winning the state football championship. I had similar fantasies regarding a last-second shot in basketball and a home run in the bottom of the ninth.
As a sophomore in high school, because I had a small frame, I decided basketball was my game. I was quick and had a good two-handed set shot (ask your father or grandfather what that was). Tryouts were held in October. I played hard, stole the ball on several occasions, and made a few long outside set shots; however, when the coach posted the names of the team members, mine was not on the list. I was crushed. My dream of having the cheerleaders swarm all over me after my game-winning shot was lost forever.
I regrouped by summer and decided maybe football was my game after all. At tryouts I put on the helmet, shoulder pads, and other gear. On my way out to the practice field, I remember looking in the mirror and thinking to myself, “Hey, you look taller! And when you turn sideways, you don’t disappear!” But then I noticed the big guys looked bigger too.
In the first few drills, I felt fine. My speed allowed me to come in near the first in the sprints, and my confidence soared. Then came scrimmage. I was given the ball and told to run straight up the middle. As I got to the line, I was met by the biggest defensive lineman on the team. He planted his helmet in the pit of my stomach, wrapped his arms around my thighs, picked me up, threw me on the ground, and jumped on top of me. The only reason I didn’t fumble is that the ball was implanted permanently in my rib cage. As my friends carried my limp, breathless body off the field, I heard the coach say to the tackle, “Ooh! Wow! Nice hit, Kimber!”
Once again, my dreams were shattered—not to mention my ribs and ego. In the weeks that followed, I began to look around to see what else life had to offer. It took a while, but I made a marvelous discovery: there is a lot more to life than sports.
I looked at my classmates in a different light. In addition to the respect I already had for good athletes, I began to appreciate the individual talents of each person. I marveled at those gifted with artistic ability. I looked at their paintings and thrilled at their talent. Others had developed their talents in music. I watched in amazement as a pianist played classical music. A dancer fascinated me with her grace and creativity. I read things written by a poetic pen. I laughed and cried as I watched our thespians perform. They actually made me forget who they were and convinced me they had become the characters on the stage. Some of my friends excelled in academics.
In short, a whole new world began to appear. I remember thinking how sad it was that these talents didn’t receive the publicity and glory afforded our athletic heroes. I thought of the hours, days, weeks, months, and years of practice, study, and meditation it took to develop these talents without having the encouragement of a cheering crowd or being elected homecoming queen.
I wish I could propel each of you into the 25th reunion of your high school class; for those of you who are seniors, that will be in the year 2013. You would gain a perspective which would prove invaluable. You would find yourself much more interested in what your classmates were than in what they wore. If you could observe your classmates 25 years from now, and then return with that knowledge to your present situation, there would be quite an adjustment in your thinking.
With this perspective you would realize that the shy boy sitting behind you is to become a medical doctor and, besides, that his acne will clear up. You would realize that the bookworm blonde to the left of you will become a journalist, and with contact lenses she is quite attractive at that.
You would be able to look inside your classmates and see their spiritual qualities, the qualities they will take with them into the next life and throughout eternity. You would be proud of their accomplishments and rejoice in each other’s successes.
One of my favorite examples of this genuine appreciation we can have for others was recorded by Alma. He had been on a mission and was separated from Ammon and his brethren, who were on a mission of their own. When they finally got back together after many years, Alma said, “God hath called me by a holy calling, to preach the word unto this people, and hath given me much success, in the which my joy is full.
“But I do not joy in my own success alone, but my joy is more full because of the success of my brethren. …
“Now, when I think of the success of these my brethren my soul is carried away, even to the separation of it from the body, as it were, so great is my joy” (Alma 29:13–14, 16).
Our Father in Heaven blessed us with variety. He gave us water and dry land, he gave us various forms of plant and animal life, and he gave us individual personalities and talents. Life is more interesting because we have variety. We will have more joy and be more successful as individuals if we are aware of the people around us, our family, and our friends, as individuals and appreciate them for who and what they are. You will have won a great personal battle when the successes of your classmates become a joy in your life rather than a jealousy.
Our quest for exaltation is our own. Entrance into the celestial kingdom isn’t determined by competition or popularity; we don’t have to “beat anyone out” to get there. And when we greet each other in the celestial kingdom, we will know what Alma meant by “my joy is more full because of the success of my brethren.”

One of the fathers he was teaching had what was thought to be an incurable alcohol problem. Every day after work for twenty years, he bought alcohol and consumed it until he could hardly find his way home. He received friendship and encouragement to pray to heaven for help. One day after his work, while he was driving into the countryside with his bottle, a voice came into his heart to stop his car, walk out into the field, and pray to Father in Heaven for help. His simple prayer was heard by his Father in Heaven, and as he stood up and walked back to his car, all desire to drink liquor left his life. The powers of heaven had descended upon him, and he knew that God lived and loved him.

I heard him later stand before the members and testify of the love of God and of my friend and others who had ministered unto him and taught him.

Like most parents-to-be, we anxiously awaited the birth of our first baby. We acquired clothing and furniture and chose two names—one for a boy and one for a girl.
We also chose a special song to sing to our baby throughout the pregnancy. The song we selected was “My Heavenly Father Loves Me” (Children’s Songbook, 228–29). We sang these words often, imagining how wonderful it would be to have a baby in our family:
Whenever I hear the song of a bird
Or look at the blue, blue sky,
Whenever I feel the rain on my face
Or the wind as it rushes by,
Whenever I touch a velvet rose
Or walk by our lilac tree,
I’m glad that I live in this beautiful world
Heav’nly Father created for me.
One morning my wife awoke covered with little red spots. We went to the doctor and learned that those little red spots were rubella. The doctor also gave us the disturbing news that since my wife was in the first trimester of her pregnancy, our baby ran a serious risk of being born deaf, blind, or disabled in other ways.
That night we paid special attention to the second verse of our song:
He gave me my eyes that I might see
The color of butterfly wings.
He gave me my ears that I might hear
The magical sound of things.
He gave me my life, my mind, my heart:
I thank him rev’rently
For all his creations, of which I’m a part.
Yes, I know Heav’nly Father loves me.
We thought about the future and everything that could happen. It was a time of much prayer and fasting to accept the will of our Heavenly Father. We had faith that the Lord would be with us, no matter what happened.
Our daughter, Alice, was born one month early. After her birth an endless array of tests began to determine the effects of the rubella. When nothing was found, someone spoke of a miracle. We, without a doubt, believe it was.
Alice is now seven years old, and she loves to sing her favorite song, “My Heavenly Father Loves Me.” We are eternally grateful, but we are also aware that difficult situations don’t always turn out this well and that trials are part of our mortal probation. But we have learned that if we trust Him we have nothing to fear, for as the song teaches, “I know Heav’nly Father loves me.”

His first months in the Scottish conference, where his father had served years earlier, were not easy, as is the case for many missionaries. He describes this discouraging time and its resultant renewal of his commitment to the Lord in these words:
“I was homesick and a little discouraged on this day. …
“I had just left school. I loved school and I loved young people. I loved youth. And then to go over there and feel … [people’s] prejudice [against the Church] gave me the blues.
“As [my companion and I] were coming back into town, I saw on my right an unfinished dwelling, over the front door of which was a stone on which there was a carving. That was most unusual, so I said to Elder Johnston, ‘I’m going to see what that is.’ I was half way up the graveled walk when there came to my eyesight a striking motto as follows, carved in stone: ‘Whate’er Thou Art, Act Well Thy Part.’
“I repeated it to Elder Johnston as we walked in to town to find a place for our lodgings before we began our work. We walked quietly, but I said to myself, or the Spirit within me, ‘You are a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. More than that, you are here as a representative of the Lord Jesus Christ. You accepted the responsibility as a representative of the Church.’ …
“That afternoon, by the time we found our lodgings, I accepted the message given to me on that stone, and from that moment we tried to do our part as missionaries in Scotland.”

When we started talking about the sacrament in Sunday School, I thought I had a good understanding of it from earlier lessons in Primary and seminary and from completing my Personal Progress. But I found out I still had a lot to learn.
My teacher began the lesson by asking a simple question: “How do you keep your covenant to always remember the Savior?” I began to think about how I live each day and if I really always remember my Savior. Was I keeping my baptismal covenant the very best I could?
In class we talked about different things that would help us always remember Jesus Christ. Some of the things included having consistent daily prayer and scripture study, praying for the Spirit, singing hymns, taking time to ponder, writing in a journal, going to the temple, and keeping items around home that remind you of Jesus Christ, such as pictures of Him and of the temple. At the end of the class, we were asked to apply the things we’d discussed and to prepare all week long to take the sacrament the next Sunday.
During the week, I tried more diligently to focus on Jesus Christ. I studied scriptures about the sacrament, and I tried to allow myself quiet time to think about what I’d learned. Before then, I used to listen to popular music during most of my free time, but I decided to take a break and ponder sometimes or listen to hymns instead. I prayed for the Spirit to help me remember my covenant and tried to remember to act as the Savior would. I even took the advice to write in my journal, and at the end of each day I took time to reflect on what I’d done well and what I needed to improve. All week I looked forward to when I could take the sacrament again.
On Sunday, I prepared to go to church in a more reverent manner. I woke up early so I wouldn’t be in a rush to get ready right before I had to leave.
By living the principles from our lesson, I learned more about the sacrament and my baptismal covenant. It increased my testimony of the Savior and of His Atonement. I found that when I strive to remember Jesus Christ, I am much happier. It’s easier for me to deal with trials, because I know that He can help me through anything. I’m grateful for the sacrament and for the opportunity I had to make it a bigger part of my everyday life.

Many years ago I heard a story that impressed me. A beautiful little blind girl was sitting on the lap of her father in a crowded compartment in a train. A friend seated nearby said to the father, “Let me give you a little rest,” and he reached over and took the little girl on his lap.
A few moments later the father said to her, “Do you know who is holding you?”
“No,” the little girl replied, “but you do.”
Some might say, “What a perfect trust this child had in her father.” Others may say, “What a wonderful example of love.” And still others might say, “What an example of faith.” To me it indicates a beautiful blending of all of these principles. Affection, respect, and care over the years had placed in this little girl’s heart a peace that surpasseth all understanding. She was at peace because she knew and trusted her father.
Our trust and our relationship with our Heavenly Father should be similar to that of the little blind girl with her earthly father. When sorrow, tragedy, and heartbreaks occur in our lives, wouldn’t it be comforting if when the whisperings of God say, “Do you know why this has happened to you?” we could have the peace of mind to answer, “No, but You do.”
Peace is a blessing that comes to those who trust in God. It is established through individual righteousness. Just as the little girl could sit peacefully on the stranger’s lap because her father knew him, so we can find peace if we know our Father and learn to live by His principles.

There’s a certain surfer in southern California who’s giving the sport a loftier reputation. His name is Jimmy Zimmerman, and it’s well known that this surf team captain is an active priest in the Huntington Beach Fourth Ward.
Jimmy’s coach, quoted in the Los Angeles Times, said that “Zimmerman symbolizes surfing’s future. He’s popular, intelligent, and he’s a young man who doesn’t drink alcohol or smoke.”
Jimmy manages to fit in surf practice every morning at 6:15, after early-morning seminary. But that doesn’t make him too tired to get top grades in honors classes, be elected Homecoming king, and to teach the gospel to his friends. He recently had the privilege of baptizing one of them.

Elder Michael Mátyás of Redmond, Washington, who was serving in Veszprém, remembers the first copy he gave out. It was to Sister Petö Éva, a member of about six months. Sister Petö had to leave the meeting before the announcement was made. “I stopped her and said, ‘I know you have to go, but before you go, there’s something I want to give you.’ And I gave her a copy of the Book of Mormon. She started crying then. Since that was the first one I had given out, it was fairly emotional for me, too,” he says.

To illustrate this further, I share the true account of a family with five sons who moved from Los Angeles, California, USA, to a small community some years ago. The two oldest sons began playing high school sports and associating with friends, leaders, and coaches—many of whom were faithful members of the Church. These relationships helped lead to the baptism of Fernando, the oldest, and his next younger brother.
Fernando later moved away from home, where he continued his education and played college football. He married his high school sweetheart, Bayley, in the temple. As Fernando and Bayley finished their schooling, they eagerly anticipated the birth of their first child—a baby girl. But during the process of their families helping to move Fernando and Bayley back home, Bayley and her sister were driving on the freeway and were in a tragic accident involving many vehicles. Bayley and her unborn daughter lost their lives.
Yet as deep as was Fernando’s pain, as well as that of Bayley’s parents and siblings, so too was the depth of contrasting peace and comfort that distilled upon them almost immediately. The Holy Ghost in His role as Comforter truly sustained Fernando through this incomprehensible affliction. The Spirit communicated an abiding peace that led Fernando to an attitude of forgiveness and love toward everyone involved in the tragic crash.
Bayley’s parents called her brother who was serving as a missionary at the time of the accident. He described in a letter his feelings upon hearing the difficult news of his beloved sister: “It was amazing to hear your voices so calm in the midst of a tempest. I did not know what to say. … All I could think of is my sister may not be there when I come home. … I was comforted by your infallible testimonies of the Savior and His plan. The same sweet spirit that brings me to the verge of tears as I study and teach filled my heart. I was then comforted and reminded of the things that I know.”

“‘Secret pals?’” My best friend Laura raises her eyebrows. “What’s that?”
I laugh. Laura loves anything that has to do with secrets. It doesn’t matter that she can’t keep one for more than about a minute before she feels like she’s going to explode.
“‘Secret pals’ is a project my Primary class is working on,” I explain. “Sister Sharp assigned each of us someone to be a pal to. We’re supposed to do nice things for that person and not let her know who’s doing them—it’s a secret. Get it?”
“Of course I get it,” Laura says. “It’s like you’re going to be Santa Claus to whoever your teacher assigned you to, right?”
“Well, sort of, I guess. But Sister Sharp said that our acts of kindness shouldn’t just be gifts.”
“So whose name did you get?” Laura asks, her eyes suddenly growing wide with excitement. “Ryan’s?”
I roll my eyes. Of course Laura would hope I got Ryan’s name. She thinks he’s really neat. Last year she made him a gigantic flowery Valentine card and signed it, “From Your Secret Admirer.” I’m sure she’d love to be his secret pal.
“No—we’re all girls in this class.” I hesitate. “I’m going to be Shiela’s secret pal.”
“Shiela? She’s weird!”
I take a sip of my milk, not saying anything. I remember that was how I felt Sunday when Sister Sharp gave me my assignment. I wasn’t very happy about it. You see, Shiela is new in town, and she wears faded, ugly clothes. Everyone calls her “Raggedy Shiela.” And she is kind of weird. She sits in class, not saying anything. If someone asks her a direct question, practically forcing her to speak, she answers in a whisper! Last week I asked her what math problem she was working on, and I had to say “What?” or “Huh?” about twenty times before she said it loudly enough for me to hear her.
Besides all that, she hardly ever comes to Primary. I didn’t see why I had to be secret pals with someone who seldom comes to class.
On Sunday I sulked all the way home from church. I didn’t want to go out of my way to be nice to weird Shiela. The assignment had put me in a bad mood.
“Lisa, is something the matter?” My mom asked when we got home. “You were awfully quiet in the car.”
I told her about having to be Shiela’s secret pal. “She doesn’t even come to church,” I grumbled. “I wish I could be a secret pal for Kari or Nancy—anyone would be better than Shiela.”
Mom stood silent for a moment, her eyebrows furrowed. I could tell she wasn’t pleased. “Lisa, let me tell you some things about Shiela.”
She sat down on my bed with me and talked to me very seriously. First she reminded me about Heavenly Father, about how we are all His children and how He wants us all to be happy and help one another. She reminded me that in an eternal perspective, Shiela is my sister. That made me feel unhappy because I knew I wasn’t acting the way Heavenly Father or Jesus Christ wanted me to.
Then, making me feel a thousand times worse, Mom told me some personal things about Shiela. Things that made me cry. Suddenly I was glad I had the opportunity to be her secret pal, because she really needs one. I promised myself that I would be the very best one I could possibly be.
“Hey, Lisa,” Laura says, interrupting my thoughts.
I play with the straw in my milk, unsure how to go on. “Did you know that Shiela’s dad died?” I ask Laura, pushing away the rest of my lunch.
Laura raises her eyebrows. “No. I don’t know anything about her.”
“Neither did I until Mom told me. She visit teaches Shiela’s mom. Shiela’s dad died in a car accident last year. That’s why they moved here. Her mom had to get a job. It doesn’t pay very well so she can’t buy many clothes for Shiela.”
“Oh. That’s sad,” Laura replies. “We should stop people from making fun of her.”
I look down at my lunch, feeling miserable. I used to make fun of Shiela—not out loud, but in my head. “You know what else?”
“What?”
“Shiela used to have a twin sister named April. She died in the car crash with her dad.”
I can see tears forming in Laura’s eyes. “Oh. How awful!”
“Yeah. Mom says that’s probably why Shiela is so quiet. When her sister died, she lost her very best friend.”
Instinctively we both begin to look for Shiela in the cafeteria.
“There she is—sitting over there by herself,” Laura says. “Let’s go invite her to play with us.”
Weeks go by, and Laura and I and Shiela are best friends now. Sometimes Laura and I make cupcakes or cookies after school and leave them on Shiela’s doorstep with a note saying, “From your secret pals!” We’re pretty sure she knows they are from us, but we don’t care. Whenever Shiela asks if we are her secret pals we say: “We’re your best friends—there’s no secret about that!”

“Let me tell you about two of your fellow elders I was with last week who walked together up by Lukachukai.
“I learned about them when I attended a stake conference. Among the speakers that morning was a handsome Navajo boy. He was frightened by this first experience at public speaking, but he was sustained by faith and by a deep, sincere testimony.
Only a few short months before, the Church was unknown to him.
“Two of our young elders drove their truck as far up a muddy, rutted road as they could go and then ‘two walked together’ the remaining eight miles through mud and snow to teach a man and his grandson. Because of their dedication and determination, this young man, now a baptized member filled with the spirit of love and testimony, was speaking to the congregation. He, too, will soon be on a mission, walking with a companion down some distant country road or city street. He will walk his way into the homes and hearts of those who are seeking the Lord. Oh, the high adventure of missionary work!”

In 1829 Joseph Smith, with the help of his scribe Oliver Cowdery, finished translating the Book of Mormon.
Oliver, the Lord is pleased with us.
Now we just need to publish this great book.
Joseph and Oliver went to Palmyra, New York, and spoke to Egbert B. Grandin, a printer.
We need 5,000 copies of this book as soon as possible.
It will cost $3,000. Since you want so many copies and this is such a big book, it may take me over a year.
Several months later Mr. Grandin became worried that Joseph would not pay. He stopped the printing of the Book of Mormon until he could be sure.
I mortgaged my farm to print the Book of Mormon. That should put Mr. Grandin at ease.
That’s wonderful, Martin!
Mr. Grandin had a new press that made the printing process much faster than earlier presses. Still, it took him a long time.
Mr. Grandin, we’re almost finished, and it has been only seven months!
I don’t completely understand how.
Once the Book of Mormon was published, the Lord commanded Joseph to organize the Church. On April 6, 1830, about 60 people met in the home of Peter Whitmer Sr.
Welcome, brothers and sisters.
The members sustained Joseph as the prophet and took the sacrament.
Though the Church started out with just a few members, Joseph later told some brethren in Kirtland about its destiny.
It is only a little handful of priesthood you see here tonight, but this Church will fill North and South America—it will fill the world.

When I was 18, I faced a turning point in my faith. I knew a lot of people who had grown up religious but weren’t actively involved in their religion, and I felt tempted to fall into that same pattern. But I also knew that real commitment to the Church of Jesus Christ requires much more than passive discipleship, and it was time for me to make a choice.
As I decided if I wanted to serve a mission and fully commit to the Lord, I knew I needed the extra direction that a patriarchal blessing could provide. I needed some personal direction and a glimpse of what Heavenly Father had in store for me.
Although we know from Elder Kazuhiko Yamashita of the Seventy that “a patriarchal blessing is not going to map out your life or answer all your questions,” it is “a message from your Heavenly Father and will likely include promises and inspired counsel to guide you throughout your life.”
My patriarchal blessing was exactly what I needed. I found inspired counsel from Heavenly Father and confirmation that there was a plan for my life.
One of the most amazing things that happened to me on my mission was receiving a real testimony that prophets and apostles are called of God. I’d never prayed for that knowledge before, and when that confirmation came, it was really powerful to me. The knowledge that they truly do speak God’s word gave me another resource for finding direction for my life.
As Elder Allen D. Haynie of the Seventy testified: “Knowing by revelation that there is a living prophet on the earth changes everything. … A prophet is someone God has personally prepared, called, corrected, inspired, rebuked, sanctified, and sustained.”
If we find ourselves wondering about trials we face, we can ask ourselves these questions posed by President Russell M. Nelson: “What will your seeking open for you? What wisdom do you lack? What do you feel an urgent need to know or understand?”
When we know what we really need from Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, we can follow President Nelson’s counsel: “Pray in the name of Jesus Christ about your concerns, your fears, your weaknesses—yes, the very longings of your heart. And then listen! Write the thoughts that come to your mind. Record your feelings and follow through with actions that you are prompted to take.”
As I’ve learned how to seek personal revelation, I’ve realized that it brings together a lot of different aspects of what we practice in the Church. When I want to know if something is true, I rely on prayer, I study the scriptures, and I seek out the words of living prophets.
Building consistent spiritual habits keeps me ready to receive personal revelation when I need it. When I have questions or feel lost, I remember that I have a way to get the answers I need.
In those moments when I find myself asking if Heavenly Father really is guiding my life, I remember the ninth article of faith: “We believe that [God] will yet reveal many great and important things pertaining to the Kingdom of God.”
Heavenly Father has more to reveal to His prophets about the Church, and He has more to reveal to us about our lives.
As Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles once promised young adults, “As we strive to trust God and follow His Son, Jesus Christ, one day we will see the finished product, and we will know that the very hand of God was directing and guiding our steps.”
Heavenly Father can make everything in our lives fit into His perfect plan as we continue to trust and follow Him.

… Across the way on Temple Square block, the foundations of the temple rose above the general level of the surrounding ground and seemed to be an object of interest to nearly all the emigrants, many of whom were permitted to go within the wall, and view it. By and by there were numerous meetings in various groups of people, friends of the emigrants, parents and sweethearts, and perhaps in some instances wives of the teamsters that had returned. There seemed to be an air of cheerfulness in all this meeting of people on the arrival of this large emigrant train of Saints.

Mary and I seemed to be so little part of this excitement and joy, because nobody seemed to come for us. Mary remained concealed under the wagon cover, and I lonesome and heartsick sat upon the tongue of [the] wagon, my chin in my hands and elbows upon my knees, thinking “Zion” was not so much after all, if this was all of it. …

Presently, however, approaching from the west gate, I saw a woman in a red and white plaid shawl. … She seemed to be daintily picking her way, and there was something in the movement of her head as she looked to the right and to the left that seemed familiar to me. The woman was moving in my direction, and the closer she came the stronger the conviction grew upon me that there was my mother. …

I stood until she came nearly parallel to where I sat; then sliding from the tongue of the wagon, I took a few steps, which brought me near to her and, plucking her gown, I said: “Hey Mother,” and she looked down upon my upturned face. Without moving she gazed upon me for some time and at last said, “Is this you, Harry? Where is Polly?” Of course Polly was in the wagon, and I led my mother to where she was hiding, and when mother and daughter met, there was a flood of tears on both sides. At last I joined them, making the trio of the united family. It seemed difficult for our mother to realize that we at last were her children after more than four years of separation, but once in a while, a smile would break through the tears and she seemed to be extremely happy. A neighbor of hers … had driven her from Bountiful to the city to get us children, and it took but a short time to leave the remaining emigrant teams and people to find this wagon and make the start for home, Bountiful.

There was one thing remembered in this reunion, and that was on my part. I felt that I had arrived, that I belonged to somebody, that somebody had an interest in me, and these were the thoughts that were in my mind as I sat in the wagon on the drive home to Bountiful. I had heard incidentally that my mother owned her house, and that, of course, for English people, who among the poorer classes were all renters, meant a great deal to me. Now I was going to my mother’s home—her own house.