Gospel Story Finder

At one point in my life, I had a highly paid job with great responsibility and recognition. One day my wife said, “You are so busy in your work. You should pray and think about whether you should find a new job that would make you more available to serve the Lord.” We prayed and received a confirmation by the Spirit that I should change jobs. But I was still a little resistant. When I prayed about it, I told the Lord the name of the only company I would consider working for if I quit my job.
Three weeks later, I contacted a recruiting agency and had an interview. In the end, the person said one of his clients had just requested a new director. It was the company I had mentioned in my prayer. It’s a small company that has such openings only every 10 years or so. It was a miracle.
I jokingly told my wife, “I have good news and bad news. The good news is I’m going to be hired by that company. The bad news is I think the Lord has something in store for me.”
I signed on with that company on a Friday. On Saturday I was called as the stake president.
My wife and I placed greater value on the promptings of the Spirit and serving God than in material blessings or our intellectual satisfaction or social recognition. We sought the Lord’s will and received spiritual confirmation that everything would be all right. That was one of the greatest experiences in my life.

J: First let me illustrate the concept of lateral leadership with a true story I heard several years ago from an older admired colleague and former teacher at BYU, Todd Britsch:

Brother Britsch’s friend Bob Despain spent several years at Cal Tech in California before transferring to BYU. Bob said this of his experience there: “Most of the students at Cal Tech lived in what they called "houses" (or dorms). The residents in the houses were distributed evenly between the classes or age groups. Very early in the fall the upper-class residents gathered the freshmen together to orient them to the university. A number of topics, important and trivial, were covered. The house president then addressed academic honesty. He said something like the following: ‘You may have heard that you can be given probation or even be expelled if you are found cheating on your tests or homework, but I wouldn't worry about that.’ At that moment, there were knowing snickers from the freshmen. Then the house president continued, ‘Because if any of us find out about you cheating, we will make your life so miserable that you will gladly rush away from here.’ Nothing more was said. Everyone understood that students at Cal Tech were not going to tolerate anyone cheating them out of honest test and assignment results.” Bob concluded this story by saying, “I never observed dishonesty during my years there.”

After the blessing, President McKay went out on the front porch and talked to me. He commented on how nice it was that I could be with my dad. He talked about the times he had been with his father. On one of those occasions, he said, they had come to Salt Lake City to general conference. He was just a young boy at the time. He was introduced to John Taylor, who was then President of the Church.
During their conversation, President Taylor showed him the scars on his arms from wounds he had suffered in Carthage Jail with the Prophet Joseph Smith on the day of the martyrdom. All his life President McKay had recalled talking firsthand with someone who had been in the presence of the Prophet Joseph. He said that since I was in his presence and he had been in the presence of someone who had known the Prophet, I, too, had a connection to Joseph Smith.

Several years ago I wrote a story about my sister and submitted it to you. It was published in the April 1984 issue under the title “Lifeline.” It told of my little sister’s trials during the time she lived with my father (a Baptist minister) in southern Georgia. The story described the heartache she felt at being cut off from the Church she loves and the help she received when her home teachers listened to the promptings of the Spirit and came to visit her.
My sister (Jean Swilley) remained true to the gospel and passed through the refiner’s fire. She moved to Chicago in July of 1984 to live with my mother. Jean became active in her ward, and before long her bubbly spirit was charming the members in Illinois just as it once had in Mississippi. My Mom could not help but be influenced by the strength of Jean’s testimony, and she began her journey back into the fold of the Church. Both she and her new husband are now strong, active members of their ward. They are very happy even though they miss my sister very much.
Jean left Chicago last week to enter the MTC. Though she always insisted she had no desire to go on a mission, she obeyed her Father’s call and is now a very excited sister earnestly studying her discussions in Swedish. Though I am sure Jean will face many a refiner’s fire in Sweden, I know that she will come through them clinging to the lifeline her Father tossed to her many years ago. We thought you might like to know. Thanks again for printing Jean’s story.
Elizabeth (Swilley) SheridanIrmo, South Carolina

Cody Carr knew when he was only four that he wanted to be an astronaut. He had a little bank shaped like a spaceship that he put his tithing money in, and each time he dropped in a penny, a light would go on as if the rockets were firing. As he grew older, his school friends kidded him about being a spaceman, but Cody was serious. Those were the days of the birth of the manned space program, and he listened to every minute of every flight.

Naturally, his twin interest was astronomy. He received a telescope for Christmas and began getting up at 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning to look at the stars. “The night sky always fascinated me,” he said. “The whole universe is God’s creation, but we don’t know very much about it. I have often thought that if there were another frontier left, I’d be out exploring it. But the only one left is outer space, and there’s only one way to get there—by becoming an astronaut.”

In school, Cody took all the science and electronics classes he could. “I didn’t think electronics had much to do with space exploration, but dad suggested it, and I loved it!” He became a finalist in a statewide electronics competition.

Part of Cody’s goal to become an astronaut included a goal to become an Air Force Academy cadet. As he progressed through high school, he counseled with his father and mother and prayed about each step along the way. He had three great goals in life.

The first was to keep all the commandments of his Father in Heaven. The second was to serve a full-time mission. “All my life we have talked about a mission and the things pertaining to a mission. It was never ‘if you go on a mission’ but always ‘when you go.’” The third great goal was temple marriage.

“Every night before we went to sleep, mom or dad would come around to our beds and ask each of us in turn, ‘What do you want out of life? What do you want to do? What do you want to be?’ Those goal-setting sessions really helped me keep my head on straight. Every night I said those three things and sometimes others—like the astronaut plans—but always those three. We would talk about what I needed to do to achieve those goals, and then we would talk about any problems or questions I had.”

But two of Cody’s goals conflicted with each other. In order to go on a mission, he would have to resign from the academy after his first year—there was no such thing as a leave of absence for a mission. If he left, he was probably out of the program. To get back in, he would have to be renominated, and the mere fact of his resignation might work against him. What were the odds?

The preparations continued. Cody ran four or five miles each night to condition himself. As a junior, he spent one whole day taking college entrance exams, including the ACT (American College Test), SAT (Scholastic Aptitude Test), an Air Force engineering aptitude examination, and a physical fitness test. He was also interviewed and appraised for leadership potential.

The first year at the academy wasn’t spent just waiting for a mission call. “It was hard,” he remembers. “After the first four months I started asking, ‘Is this what I want to do in life?’ But then I would think back to the confirmations I had received through the Holy Ghost. I knew I was doing things, as President Kimball says, in their proper season and order, and I prayed, and the plan was reconfirmed. I knew I was right where I should be, and that really helped me.”

As the first year drew to a close, Cody had to reaffirm in his own mind his decision to go on a mission. To survive the toughest year in the academy and then give it all up took a lot of courage. And it might also mean abandoning his lifelong dream of becoming an astronaut. “But I had already made the decision to resign eight years earlier. I had no doubt what I was going to do even though I agonized over it.”

In March, during spring break, Cody had his mission interviews with his bishop and stake president. At the end of the summer, following SERE training (survival, evasion, resistance, and escape), he resigned. As with any cadet who asks to leave the academy, he was sent to interviews with several different counselors and officers.

“All of them would grill me at first,” Cody said, “but as soon as I told them my reasons for resigning, their attitude changed. They all expressed their respect for the LDS people they knew, and when I told them I was going to try to come back, which was something of a shock in itself, they said fine.” His written statement included a full explanation of what a mission is and why he wanted to serve.

The officer who had to sign the paper as a witness commented, “I’ve never read anything like that before in my life. Is that really what you believe?”

“I sure do,” Cody replied.

“A lot of them didn’t understand,” Cody explains, “but they accepted. They were feeling something they’d rarely felt before.”

In May Cody received his call to the Switzerland Zurich Mission. He entered the MTC in August. Concentrating on studies was second nature, and obedience was ingrained. “I wanted to use my time wisely because I knew I was paying a price for my mission,” he said.

At first the thought of not being readmitted hung over him, but the time finally came when he stopped worrying and left it in the hands of the Lord. Besides, missionary work presented its own challenges. “For the first six or seven months, I found myself going through the motions. I knew the Church was true and that the work was important, but I didn’t love it as I should. My academy experience came to my aid. I was used to doing difficult things. I worked hard and prayed every day that the work would become a joy instead of a burden. In the course of about a week, the whole thing turned around. Suddenly I was happier; I was working out of desire, not just duty. I knew my mission would be worth it even if I never got accepted back into the academy.”

Then a letter from home told Cody that Ted Parsons, another cadet who had resigned from the academy to serve a mission, had been readmitted! Maybe there was a chance after all!

Cody took the necessary exams at a U.S. military installation. “My mission president gave me a blessing. He told me I had served an honorable mission and that the Lord would help me accomplish what I needed to.”

Shortly after the blessing, Cody had a head-on bicycle collision, shattering his nose on the handlebar. “Qualifications at the academy are stringent. With an impact like that you would normally lose pilot qualification. If I had hit my eye or forehead or even my teeth, it would probably have disqualified me.” Cody is convinced he was protected.

When the test results arrived, they showed a score higher than the first time Cody applied for admission, which was advantageous because the competition was tougher.

“I had done everything I could. I made sure my end of things was in order. I wasn’t expecting the Lord to meet me more than halfway. Then I left it up to him,” Cody said.

Cody was renominated by his senator. His faith had paid off. Two weeks after returning from Switzerland and two years after leaving Colorado Springs, Cody Carr entered the academy once more. His dream of being an astronaut was fully intact, along with his other goals of keeping the commandments, marrying in the temple, and being a lifelong missionary.

Teresa’s sixth birthday was just about over, and as darkness settled slowly over the elm grove and the weedy fencerows, all the insect fiddlers began to tune up for their nightly concert. Teresa listened to their raspy music as she stood by the window of her bedroom, her long blond hair braided neatly to keep it from becoming tangled while she slept.
Being six was a wonderful thing, for tomorrow she would start school, and soon she would know all the town children. But for a moment Teresa wished that she could reach out and hold this day forever in her arms.
Sighing deeply, she turned toward her bed. Her bare feet made no sound as she walked across the worn carpet. But the corn-shuck mattress was very noisy when she slid between the snowy white sheets and made a nest for herself.
The thought of going to school was exciting. There she would learn to read the words to all the songs in the world. Then, when she grew up, she would sing in four languages, like Grandmother Hildah, whose picture rested on the mantel above the fireplace.
Teresa had never seen Grandmother Hildah because Papa and Mama had left Germany, where her grandmother had lived, before Teresa was born. But Mama had a phonograph record of Grandmother’s lilting voice, and some day, Mama said, Teresa would sing like that.
All summer long Teresa had practiced. On sunny days, after the eggs were gathered, she loved to squat like a small brown toad, half-hidden in the elderberry thicket, and listen to the trills of the meadowlarks or the mockingbirds. Then she sang the notes as best she could, adding words as they came to her mind.
In the evenings, while she drove the cow up the long, shady lane and past the row of trumpet vines, Teresa would listen as the crickets and the katydids sawed on their fiddles. Then she would join in their tune.
Once when she heard Teresa singing, Mama said to Papa, “Our daughter sings like Grandmother Hildah already.”
Papa had arched his dark eyebrows. “So!” he said. “In which of the four languages did our daughter sing today?”
Teresa had squealed with laughter and hugged Papa, for she knew that he was teasing.
Now, as she lay snuggled in her warm bed, sleep was slow in coming for Teresa. Outside, the insects were filling the night with their music, almost as if they were afraid dawn might catch them with their songs unfinished.
Morning came rosy pink. Teresa could hardly eat her breakfast or stand still long enough for Mama to comb her hair. Her fingers were all thumbs as she tried to button the new birthday dress that Aunt Gertrude had sent all the way from Pennsylvania.
Papa took Teresa to school on his way to his blacksmith shop, and he introduced her to the teacher, Miss Marcy. When the bell rang, Miss Marcy introduced Teresa to the class. “Most of you know each other already,” she said. “This is Teresa Gruenwahl, children. Her parents came from Germany; let’s make her feel welcome.”
The eyes that stared at Teresa did not make her feel welcome, and she wished that she had not come. And at recess the other children drew off into whispery knots or pushed her away when she tried to join their games. They called her a stupid foreigner and made ugly verses about her living on a farm. Then they pointed their fingers at her, shrieked with laughter, and ran away.
Worse still, the words in the primer just looked like bits of noodles chopped up and scattered out to dry. But she loved singing time, especially when the class sang about the creatures great and small. Teresa could sing louder and higher than any of the other children, and that made her feel better.
The days passed. Fall flowers turned to seed, the odor of ripening apples perfumed the air, and the insect chorus grew more shrill.
One morning on her way to school Teresa caught sight of a cicada clinging to the bark of an elm tree. She had seen cicadas before but never so close. This one’s brown skin was splitting down the back, and its new green one was showing.
As Teresa stopped and watched, the split grew wider and wider. Soon, to her amazement, out popped a “new” cicada, all green and moist and shimmery in the sun. Slowly raising each leg, the cicada stepped daintily away from its old skin and sat down to dry. Teresa was enchanted. Here it was, as green as life. And there was its old, hollow, brown skin still clinging to the tree.
She loved the new cicada, but she didn’t have time to wait for its first song. So she shook out her handkerchief, plucked the insect from the tree, and wrapped it up carefully. Just as carefully she tucked the handkerchief into her pocket and hurried on.
She was late. The cicada’s metamorphosis had taken too much time. Softly she opened the schoolroom door and tiptoed to her seat.
“Teresa, you may stay in during recess,” said Miss Marcy, frowning.
It was nearly recess time when Teresa first heard the sound. It was like the buzzing of a fly trying to free itself from a spider’s web. Then the sound began to spiral upward from her pocket to fill the silence in the room. Zzzeee uh zzzeee uh. The Cicada! Teresa had forgotten about it. It was beginning its first song, and IT WAS LOUD!
All the eyes in the room turned toward her as the song rose higher and higher. Miss Marcy looked up from the story she was reading aloud, laid her book facedown on her desk, and rose slowly to her feet.
There was only one thing to do, so Teresa did it. Thrusting her hand into her pocket, she clutched frantically at her handkerchief in an effort to muffle the vibrant voice. The sound stopped abruptly. Teresa had squeezed too hard. She could feel the handkerchief become damp in her fist, and she felt sick.
Teresa didn’t know how Miss Marcy knew where the song had come from, but as she looked up, the teacher’s eyes were kind.
Slowly, Teresa drew forth the crumpled, green-stained handkerchief and placed it on her desk.
“It was the cicada,” she said softly, her eyes filling with tears. “It was singing too loudly, and I had to make it be quiet. I didn’t mean to …”
At that moment the recess bell rang, but nobody stirred.
“Oh, you poor child,” Miss Marcy murmured, gathering Teresa into her arms. “We must give the cicada a proper burial.” She led the way out into the hall and down the steps into the schoolyard. The children quietly followed as she crossed the yard to where a large elm tree stood.
“Can anyone find a strong stick?” she asked. “We need to dig a grave for the cicada.”
One of the boys found a sturdy twig. He solemnly bent down and scooped out a hole. Teresa placed the shroud-wrapped insect into the hole and covered it up.
“I think we should all sing a song,” Miss Marcy said. She took a pitch pipe from her pocket and blew a single note.
Glancing at Teresa with shy, sympathetic eyes, the children began to sing. “All things bright and beautiful / All creatures great and small, / All things wise and wonderful, / The Lord God made them all.”
And to Teresa the song was sweeter than ever before.

We ought to remember we don’t dictate to God the timing of His answers to us and the content of what comes in response to our prayers. I learned this when I was about 16. I was in the pageant at Hill Cumorah. I lived in New Jersey at the time, and they had some of the youth from New Jersey and New York as participants. I thought I had a deep belief in the Prophet Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon and felt that they were true and that the First Vision was as he described it. I thought, “This is the perfect chance. I’ll go to the Sacred Grove one night after the performance and get the final confirmation I need there.”

So I did. I went there late one night. It was a beautiful summer evening. Nobody else was there—perfectly reverent and peaceful. And I prayed. I didn’t ask for anything specific. I just said, “Can I have some confirmation of my belief?” Really I wanted a testimony of my feeling about the Prophet and the Book of Mormon.

Nothing happened. I prayed a long time—I’m sure more than an hour. Nothing. I was really disappointed. I said, “What did I do wrong? Why didn’t the Lord answer me? Wasn’t it the perfect place, the perfect time? What should I have done that I didn’t do?”

Later, what I was looking for came, but it was at home in a quiet moment when I was reading the Book of Mormon. That witness from the Holy Ghost flooded over me, and I knew. I knew I knew. And when I looked back on the experience, I said, “Why didn’t He answer my prayer then? Why was it later?” I learned two important lessons from that:

First, you don’t have to be any place special for the Lord to answer your prayer. You don’t have to make a pilgrimage to Palmyra or Jerusalem or anything like that. He knows where you are. He knows your name. He can answer you right here, right now, any moment.

And second, you don’t dictate to God. You just don’t tell Him what and when. That comes according to His will and His timing and His wisdom. He loves us; He knows what’s best for us, and our job is to be open. Our job is always to be willing and ready to receive. Then He knows what’s best and when to answer us and how to answer us. So, after all is said and done, we still have to live by faith.

Ten years ago this October, while speaking in the priesthood meeting of general conference, I shared the following experience. One day
my son Ben came to me and said, “Dad, we are going to hold our family reunion this summer at Flaming Gorge recreation area” (a distance of 220 miles east of Salt Lake City). “Why don’t you, myself, and any of the boys in our family that would like to leave a few days early, ride our bikes to Flaming Gorge, and meet the rest of the family there?”
I said, “That sounds great, but we only have one motorcycle!”
Ben said, “No, Dad, you [don’t understand.] I mean pedal bicycles.” I thought he was kidding. He said, “I will outline and prepare a training schedule for us. We’ll get up early Saturday mornings and for three hours we’ll go out and ride over the courses I will outline, so that when the time comes we will be prepared to go.”
I said, “Okay,” not really knowing what I was in for. I didn’t own a bicycle and knew I would have to use my daughter’s old, heavy, ten-speed bicycle with what seemed like bent wheels and a seat that was terribly hard. I also knew that getting up early on Saturday mornings was not one of my favorite things. But knowing that some of my sons wanted me to go with them, I said, “Okay.”
As the time for training and preparation came, I found all kinds of excuses [not to] go on the training rides. However, one Saturday I rode with them to the top of Parleys Canyon and back. It was hard, but I thought I would be okay. Little did I know!
The time for the trip came. I joined my boys the second day of the trip, as I had meetings the first day. The journey that second day took us from Heber City to Roosevelt (approximately one hundred miles).
As we checked into the motel that evening, I called my wife at home and told her I had never hurt so bad in my life. Every muscle, bone, and fiber in my body hurt from my head to my feet. I implored her, “When you come tomorrow with the rest of the family, please bring all the ointment and lotion you can find.”
She said, “Honey, you sound terrible.”
I told her, “I look and feel worse than I sound.”
The next day I hated to see the dawn come, knowing what it would be like to sit on that hard seat and pedal all day once again [in order] to reach our destination—especially the stretch from Vernal to Flaming Gorge, which would include approximately thirty-six-plus miles with grades up to 9 percent and ninety-degree-plus temperatures. Needless to say, for me the whole trip was a very trying and arduous task. But for my sons, who spent a lot of time waiting at the top of the hills for their slow, unprepared dad, it was exciting, fun, and rewarding.
That evening as we arrived at our destination, I came to an easy, yet profound recognition of how poorly prepared I was for what should have been a great experience with my sons, but was not because I did not take the time to properly prepare. I resolved that night that I would never again be that unprepared. I went home and bought bicycles for myself and my two youngest sons, and started training and preparing so that by the time the next summer came, my sons and I could ride our bikes to Lake Powell, a distance of three hundred miles, which we did. The next year we cycled to St. George, and every year thereafter, we rode our bikes to Lake Powell until our mission [assignment some years later].

I think of a story about President David O. McKay, ninth president of the Church, when he was a young lad. He was taught by his father to pray when confronted with a problem. When he was eight years of age, he received a new pocketknife on his birthday, and he recounts the experience of that day by telling how he got on his horse and rode out into the valley, made a fire, ate his lunch, and then got ready to return home.
As he began riding home, he remembered he had forgotten his new pocketknife, and so he quickly turned around and raced back to the same spot and searched in vain for his knife. He then remembered his father’s teaching, and because of the counsel of his father and his faith in him, he got on his knees and began to talk simply and earnestly to the Lord. In the midst of his prayer, he saw a vision come into his mind—a picture as clear as any TV picture—and there, as a picture in his mind, he saw his knife under a clump of weeds. He got up on his feet, looked around, walked directly to the scene he had just witnessed in his mind, and found his knife exactly as it had been revealed.
What a powerful lesson on faith in one’s father and faith in the Lord this young president-to-be learned that day. This kind of faith leads to spiritual and other accomplishments.

I was praying to my Heavenly Father, and I know many other people were praying for me also. Through all of my trials, I prayed that I would be healed, that my joints would recover, and that I wouldn’t have to go through the rest of chemotherapy. I felt that my prayers weren’t being answered because I still had to go to Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City every week for more chemotherapy. I still hurt. And I was still stuck in a wheelchair. At one point, I started to think that my parents were crazy for believing in a God who wouldn’t even listen to a poor little sick girl.
Years before, I had gone through a similar trial of my faith when I prayed for my mom to get better. She was on oxygen all the time and was too weak to even walk around the house. I prayed and hoped and prayed some more that she would miraculously be healed. However, she wasn’t. After she died, I learned that we can pray for what we want all that we want to, but we need to pray for the right things—praying that the Lord’s will be done—to have our prayers answered.
Remembering this lesson, I changed my prayers from “Please heal me” to “Heavenly Father, I would really like to be done with these trials, but I will accept Thy will.” As soon as I changed my prayers, I found that I was able to handle the chemotherapy more easily, and I had a better attitude. That was just the beginning of the blessings and the answers to my prayers and questions.
My dad and grandfather gave me many priesthood blessings. Whenever I had to go in for surgery, I would ask for a blessing. The blessings helped me and my family feel calm about the procedure. One time I had a high fever, and we had to go to the hospital. I received a blessing from my dad and a neighbor before we left. By the time we pulled up at the emergency room door, my fever was gone, and I didn’t have to stay the night in the hospital. I know that priesthood power is a gift from a loving Heavenly Father.
One moment that will always stand out in my mind was the day I came home from the hospital after I was diagnosed with leukemia. The young women and Relief Society sisters had moved my stuff from the basement into a room on the main floor so I would be closer to my parents and wouldn’t have to use the stairs. They had cleaned and decorated the room to make a great place for me to live while I was sick. My family was the recipient of many other service projects. In the beginning, it was hard for me to accept service. When people would do service for me, it would make me feel like I couldn’t do anything for myself. However, I soon learned that it was OK to ask for help. When I started feeling better, I began looking for opportunities to serve other people more. Now I try to serve as much as I can. I get a good feeling when I serve other people. I have come to realize that by letting other people serve me, I allow them the same good feelings.
I have learned to think more about the future and my choices because I was so close to death. At school, I heard girls complaining about how they were having a “bad hair day.” As I was sitting there in my hot pink wheelchair with a wig on my head, I would think, “Well at least you have hair!” Girls would also complain about their feet hurting from walking around in high heels. I would think to myself, “At least you can walk.” Now I try to focus more on the big picture instead of the small things I used to worry about.
Over the past few years I have learned many other things through the blessings of having leukemia and the complications from chemotherapy. I have become closer to my Heavenly Father. My testimony has grown. And I have learned what is truly important. I have learned to appreciate all of the small things that people do for me. I am now in remission, in less pain, and gradually getting back some of the use of my joints. As I continue to heal, the blessings and learning experiences keep coming.
So why me? Why now? I don’t ask those questions anymore because I grew spiritually during my trials. I have discovered who I really am because the Lord loved me enough to let me experience adversity and the blessings that can come with it.

SISTER RELKEN:Good afternoon. It is fun for me to tell my side of things. So Nathan actually got baptized in my home ward. It was at the end of the summer, beginning of fall, so I had actually already gone up to college for the semester. Where I went to school was in the mountains of North Carolina, and it was about an hour and 15 minutes from my home ward, but that's still in the same stake; our stake spanned about a two-and-a-half-hour radius at the time. And so I was really excited when I heard from my friends all about this guy who had walked across the street, and that he had asked to be taught by the missionaries, and that he would be baptized. I just happened to be going home that weekend to visit my family. And since I had formerly been a ward missionary that summer, I thought, "You know, I haven't been released yet; I think it's my duty to go to this guy's baptism and show my support." Let's face it: when a single guy gets baptized, you go. It's true.

So I went to his baptism. And, actually, with the guy that I'd been dating at the time, he felt like he needed to join me to show his support as well. So we both went together. And during the baptism, I thought everything went well. He was baptized, and then there were some talks and the normal program. But then they stood up and said they would do things a little differently. Nathan had asked if he could stand up and say a few things. Well, this intrigued me. In all the baptisms that I've been to, the person being baptized had never asked to speak. So he stood up, and he just said that he felt like he needed to share some things he was feeling and about the amazing journey he'd been on. And while he was shaking all over, like a leaf--you could physically see him shaking--there was that surety in his voice, there was that boldness in his voice, and I knew, by listening to him, this is someone who recognized the truth and who was ready to live the truth. And I could tell that he had truly been changed; I could see that change of heart and feel it. And when that was happening, it's like the Spirit whispered to me, "This is what you've been looking for." And no, the Spirit wasn't telling me about him, the person, even though that would come later; it was telling me that that surety, that boldness--that's what I had been looking for, that while I knew the Church was true, I was still on my conversion journey. But I knew it was worth every effort to continue to where I could get to that point, where I could feel as sure as he did that day.

What impressed me too is, while he was standing there and speaking (I could tell he was so nervous as he bore his testimony), I just thought, "This is someone who is powered by the truth and will be guided by the truth." And he didn't know what the future would hold. He didn't know, at the end of the baptism, a redheaded girl would beeline it to the front to eagerly shake his hand (he does not remember that). I know he didn't realize that, less than two years later, he would be proposing to that girl in Sam's Club--yes, I said Sam's Club; that's a story for another day--and that we would be sealed in the Columbia South Carolina Temple for time and all eternity, that our journey then just a few years later would lead us out to Rexburg, Idaho, where we would start our family. He didn't know any of those things. He didn't know the trials he would face. He didn't know the joys, the hardships, the sorrows. But he knew he'd found the truth, and that truth can guide him along his way. And that's what he needed. And that's what all of us need.

When I came out as bisexual a few years ago, I felt like I was facing an ultimatum: stay “true” to my sexual orientation and leave the Church (according to the world’s view) or deny my experience and stay faithful.
I wanted to align with Heavenly Father’s will. However, as I grew up, I also heard LGBT issues in and out of the Church talked about with negative feelings and harsh judgments, so I felt conflicted. I always wondered: How could I be both a member of the Church of Jesus Christ and experience same-sex attraction?
After years of trying to ignore my feelings, I couldn’t deny my experiences. But I didn’t know where that left me as a disciple of Christ. I grappled with this question: If God exists and loves me and has a plan for me, and if His plan of happiness involves marriage between a man and a woman only, then why am I attracted to women and men?
I was so confused.
During this time of unanswered questions, friends outside of the Church told me I should abandon my faith to “follow my heart.” I considered this at times—I already felt like I didn’t belong at church with all my questions. My family and loved ones showed love and support when I told them about my experiences, but I still felt so much uncertainty about what to do.
There were moments throughout this challenging time when I wondered if I really was one of Heavenly Father’s children, if He loved me, and if I had a place in the gospel of Jesus Christ.
As I sought Him more diligently than ever, I eventually did feel His love for me. I looked back at spiritual times in life, like my baptism day, moments in the temple, and other spiritual experiences. I couldn’t deny Heavenly Father’s love for me. I could feel that He is fully aware of my circumstances and that no matter what I am experiencing in mortality, I have a divine nature.

I want to share an example of someone who prepared and learned in advance and great blessings have come to many from his learning. His name is Cole Durham. He was a young, founding faculty member of the BYU Law School when it started in l977. Elder Dallin H. Oaks, then President of Brigham Young University, invited and charged the Law School faculty to develop some area of expertise and knowledge that would be helpful to the Church. Brother Durham followed that counsel and chose to learn all he could about religious freedom and laws and principles related to it. Fast forward to l989 and the Berlin Wall came tumbling down. Countries behind the Iron Curtain had languished without religious freedom and were now interested in establishing laws and practices that would foster religious freedom. Professor Durham made numerous trips to many of these countries offering expert advice and much tangible help. By heeding President Oaks' counsel he was prepared to meet a vital need and many nations have come to recognize and be blessed by his timely and invaluable help.

About 20 years ago a new dream entered my consciousness. It is ongoing and is concerned with noninvasive medical treatments. At the time, my father in his seventies underwent open-heart surgery. I learned that the operation consisted of a large incision from his throat to his midsection followed by the cutting of his sternum with a saw that allowed doctors to open his chest, connect his blood supply to a machine, stop the heart, and perform bypass surgery. Following the operation I stood in the intensive care unit and touched my father’s body as they wheeled him to a recovery room. The body was cool and, in some ways, reminded me of a corpse. I had a sense of the trauma that had taken place. From that day onward I have dreamed of less-invasive methods to solve medical problems.

Some years ago I attended a meeting at Ricks College with a group of seminary teachers. President Joseph Fielding Smith, then the President of the Council of the Twelve, met with us. One of the teachers asked about a letter being circulated throughout the Church at that time from a dissident member who claimed that many of the ordinances were not valid because of some supposed mistake in the procedure in conferring the priesthood. When President Smith was asked what he thought about the man’s claim he said, “Before we consider the claim, let me tell you about that man.” He then told us of several things about him and about the covenants he had not kept. He concluded with this statement: “And so you see, that man is a liar, pure and simple—well, perhaps not so pure.”

I took the New Era magazine with me to work to read during my break time. At one point during my shift, I went to the back to get some things from the freezer and found one of my friends flipping through my magazine while she was on break.
“This must be yours,” she said as I smiled at her.
“Yeah,” I replied. “It’s the New Era magazine I receive each month through my church.”
Later that evening, she asked if she could borrow the magazine for the night and read through it. Ever since then I have brought the New Era with me to work each month and have had quite a few friends ask me questions about my beliefs and about different principles of the gospel. I have also been able to give the friend I mentioned earlier a copy of the Book of Mormon.
I’m grateful for the chance to share the gospel in such a simple way. It has brought joy into my life.

Every morning our walk to the work site at the end of the trench grew longer, and every day the Sundance Power Plant grew a little smaller on the horizon. For myself and the three young LDS men that I worked with that summer in northern Alberta, the construction work was temporary—our heads were filled with thoughts of college, dreams of careers in business, advertising, and biology. We counted the days until the two-mile-long trench (that would serve as a filter for the murky water that left the power plant) would be finished.
The fact I had found myself working with three Mormons in northern Alberta was a near miracle, if not a mathematical impossibility. Being a recent convert, I felt fortunate to be among others of my faith while I worked. The time went by quickly as they shared experiences from their missions, one even taking the time to teach me a little Japanese.
Norm was our patriarch, not in age as much as in patience and insight. He was a tall, lanky guy who was always the first with a practical joke or a one-liner, but also the type who seemed to know when understanding and empathy were in order. Perhaps Norm’s kindness was made even more apparent as it contrasted with the rough, seasoned construction workers we worked alongside—men who used four-letter words to replace any and every adjective possible, men who spent their paychecks on beer and little else. Three of us steered clear of the regulars, but Norm made an extra effort to spend at least a few minutes every day working in their group.
One morning, before we made our way down the twisting trench, Norm pulled a Book of Mormon out of his lunch box and walked over to one of the regulars.
“Don’t be stupid,” snapped the powerfully built construction worker as he pushed the book back at Norm. Norm took a short, nervous step back.
“Put the thing in my truck,” the man said in a hushed voice. “And put it under the seat so the guys don’t see it and give me a hard time.”
Norm walked over to the vehicle and called back to the man who was now surrounded by several of his fellow workers. “Hey, nice stereo. Mind if I have a closer look?”
“Yeah, sure,” the man called back.
Norm slipped the Book of Mormon under the driver’s seat, and we began our daily walk to the job site.
Norm answered our queries by telling us that he had struck up several conversations with the man while they worked. During one talk he discovered the man’s grandmother was an American Indian. “I listened to the stories his grandmother told him,” said Norm, “like the one where the continent is covered in darkness for three days [see 1 Ne. 19:10]. I told him, ‘Boy, do I have a book for you!’”
I felt disturbed. I knew I would have let these individuals miss out on the blessings of the gospel simply because they appeared rough on the outside. I knew Norm did not approach these men because he wanted to show off to us; he knew the joy of the gospel, and he wanted these men to share that spiritual wealth.
After Norm told his story we were quiet for a long time, walking and thinking of the blessings we enjoyed and wondering how we could walk closer to our brothers. With the time we had left on the job, we brought the other men into our work group and involved them in our water fights and our harmless practical jokes on the bosses and on each other. But perhaps most important, we let these men know what we believed and how we lived our lives. And from then on, as we walked to and from the job site, we did so together, the regulars and the Mormons—side by side.

Nathan couldn’t remember a time when Grandpa Virgil went anywhere for his own sake. It always seemed to be to help someone else—like the countless times the elderly man took groceries to Widow Farley, whose health was failing. Or the winter he helped Bishop Kelsay repair his barn roof after the big wind. Or the time Nathan rode with him to Grandma’s funeral at Potter’s Crossing. Instead of being concerned with his own grief, Grandpa Virgil had placed his free hand around his grandson’s shoulder and explained to him about the Savior’s Atonement and overcoming of death for all.

“Because of him, we will not only live again but can gain eternal life if we do all he asks of us,” Grandpa Virgil explained, his eyes bright with insight and tears.
Nathan’s eyes shifted now to the rearview mirror. The reflection in it of the back of the truck prompted his memory of the time he rode in it the day of his baptism. His father’s car had broken down, so the family piled into the old truck. Nathan sat in the open bed with his brother, Frank, and his little sister, Ashley. His father and mother rode up in the cab with Grandpa Virgil.
Nathan liked the feel of the breeze on his face. Grandpa had said that maybe it was the same easy wind that had cooled the brows of the early handcarters as, seeking peace, they trudged across the plains with their families to their new beginnings in these very valleys.
Peace! Nathan thought, his eyes filling with hot, stinging tears at the reality of his grandfather’s absence. Peace is what I need now to help me deal with Grandpa Virgil’s being gone. He pushed his face out the open window into a breeze that had arisen with the dawn. Maybe it was the same wind, he speculated, that cooled the tears of the handcart pioneers who had to bury their dead in shallow graves and continue on their way. That’s what Grandpa would want of me now—to continue on my way and be the best I can be. “I will, Grandpa,” he whispered out loud. “I will.”
Later that morning as everyone gathered around the breakfast table, Nathan’s father asked Frank, Nathan, and Ashley what one thing they would each like to have that had belonged to Grandpa Virgil, as a remembrance of him. Frank chose Grandpa’s fishing pole. “It’s yours,” Father agreed with a kindly smile. “And all his tackle. I know how you cherished your time with him under that old willow by the fishing hole.” He turned his smile toward Nathan’s sister. “What about you, Ash?”
“Grandpa’s scriptures,” she said after a moment’s thought, “the ones he always took to church.”
Father patted the small girl’s hand and nodded. “I think Grandpa especially wanted you to have them because he knew you’d really study them like he did.” He then turned toward his firstborn. “And you, Nathan? What would you like, son?”
Nathan hesitated, knowing how much his father needed the extra milk cows. His eyes fell, and he poked at his food. Then, mustering a smile, he looked up and said, “I really can’t think of anything, Dad.”
Father and Mother exchanged glances. They knew different. “It’s Grandpa Virgil’s old pickup, isn’t it, Nathan?”
He nodded. “But the extra milk cows—you need the money you’ll get from Mr. Finch for Grandpa’s truck to buy them.”
“I made all of you kids an offer, Nathan,” Father reminded him. “You’d like to have his old pickup, and we want you to have it. Besides—” he glanced away quickly to blink back a tear— “I saw you outside, sitting in Grandpa’s truck, and I could tell that to you that old pickup is as priceless an earthly treasure as a boy or man could ever hope for.” He leaned forward and spoke with warm finality: “The old pickup is yours.”
Before Nathan could protest, Father added, “The extra cows can wait, Nathan. We have managed without them this long, haven’t we? And if this year’s harvest is good, I just might be able to buy them then—OK?”
That night Nathan sat by his bedroom window, staring out at the green pickup in the tall weeds. It was as alive in his mind as it was in the yard—as alive as Grandpa Virgil would always be, for memories were eternal, his grandfather once said, “and things eternal never die.” Nathan had been wrestling in his mind with something ever since supper. Now a look of peace and contentment washed over him. He regarded the battered machine in the soft glow of moonlight a final moment, then went to bed.
Early the next morning, he approached his father with a determined look on his face. “I have something to say, Dad.”
“Sure,” his father answered. “What is it, son?”
“It’s something I want to do. I just feel it. It’s what Grandpa would do if he were here.”
“OK,” Father said slowly, waiting to hear his son out.
“I called Mr. Finch about the pickup—I’m selling it to him.”
“You’re what?”
“I want to be like Grandpa, Dad. I want to help.”
“I told you, Nathan, you don’t have to—”
“I want to, Dad,” Nathan interrupted. “I really want to.”
Nathan went with his father for the last ride in the pickup. Mother drove the other family truck, Frank and Ashley riding with her. After they dropped off Grandpa Virgil’s pickup at Mr. Finch’s, they would head for Mr. Anderson’s farm to purchase two more milk cows. It was hot enough that Nathan could roll down the truck window and let the wind rush across his face. He seemed to hear in his mind Grandpa Virgil saying that maybe it was the same easy wind that had cooled the brows of the early handcart pioneers as they trudged across the plains.
Nathan smiled and gazed affectionately around the old truck, which was still alive with memories—the kind of memories that go on forever. Just like Grandpa Virgil.

Let me just share a little personal experience that happened some years ago at the university.
I’d been in a very special meeting with some young people. We had been talking about temple marriage. As we departed the session, I was walking with three young ladies, one of whom I knew quite well. I had become aware that she had been dating a boy out of the faith, and I just cautiously suggested to her that you tend to marry those you date. I said, “I am planning on the day when I can perform your sealing in the temple.”
She looked at me and she said, “Well, I may not get married in the temple.”
And I said, “Why not?”
And she looked at me as only young people can, and said, “Why should I?”
All right, mom and dad, teacher. What do you tell them?
Like most teachers, I paused to stall and think. Then, hoping for inspiration, I said, “Well, why shouldn’t you?”
She looked at me and she said, “Do you really want to know?”
And I said, “Please.”
She said, “How well do you know my father?”
I said, “Reasonably well.”
She said, “My dad puts on a pretty good front. Oh, he’s a fine man, but he’s a little hypocritical.” She said, “You ought to see the way he treats my mom and us at home. And you know, my mom and dad were married in the temple. And I don’t want a marriage like that.” She said, “How well do you know Brother and Sister So-and-so?”—another acquaintance.
I said, “I know them.”
She said, “Did you know I babysit for them. They too are married in the temple, and I wouldn’t care for a marriage like that.” She said, “How well do you know Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so?” This is a wonderful member of our community, not of our faith. Ten children. She said, “I babysit that family too, and I’d like a marriage like theirs.”
Now what do you say, mom and dad? Teacher? The scriptures say so? Well, that’s what the leaders teach. Young people are after whys and wherefores.
I was still a little puzzled. Standing nearby was another young lady. I turned to her and I said, “How do you answer that?”
She was alert. She turned to her friend and she said, “Jan, you’re not fair.”
Jan said, “Why not?”
She said, “Because you’re judging the whole church by two or three examples that don’t represent, necessarily, what we believe and teach or how we should live.” She said, “Let me ask you a question. When was the last time you had a little personal crisis, maybe a frustrating date, a test, a social situation that worried you a little bit, where your dad sensed it and came into your bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed and stroked your head and said, ‘Wouldn’t you like a blessing tonight?’”
Jan looked at her and said, “Well, my dad doesn’t do that.”
The little girl said, “My dad does.”
And then together they talked about how her dad regularly taught the family. An experience was shared regarding family prayer. She listed some eight or nine such moments without even pausing. I could see a little change in Jan’s heart. You could see in Jan’s eyes the expression, “Oh! I would like a husband like that.”
I had the thrill some months later of performing that marriage, in the temple. I’d like to think that night, a change occurred.

7 Soon after Hyrum’s death, the family began making preparations to go west. With his father gone, Joseph F. assumed responsibility for helping his mother all he could. Not yet ten years of age, Joseph F. drove the oxen the entire distance from Winter Quarters to the Salt Lake Valley—over a thousand miles—in the summer of 1848.
8 This journey proved to be an extra hardship because the captain of their group was against Mary Fielding Smith and her family going on the arduous journey without a father to take care of their needs. He told Mary that she and her children would be a burden to the rest of the company. But Mary told the captain that she would ask no special favors, would make the trip without his help, and would even beat him to the valley! She kept her word, with much help from her young son, Joseph F., the future prophet.