Gospel Story Finder

The military experience is like other forays into secularism that LDS youth are facing today. They are away from home with carnal options on every hand—gambling, profanity, pornography, immorality, and bug-out-ism. Such crass enticements successfully ensnare the uncommitted, but thousands of others choose to swim against the current. One young priest, during his first week away from home, confronted some returned missionaries in his barracks who appeared more sophisticated. Why weren’t they saying their prayers, he queried. His challenge encouraged them all to overcome their smoothly disguised fears of censure. They joined after lights out for a family prayer each night. Soon they discovered that their Mormon compatriots throughout the post were doing the same in small scattered groups; they even included their fellow nonmember squad members. The result was a brotherhood—blessing when sick, counseling when troubled, and bolstering each other during competition—instead of the harassing, cutting, and undermining that are so common in basic training. This higher life occurs without leaders or instructions; it emerges from being “anxiously engaged in a good cause,” from conviction, from feeling the power of God within. All over the globe, many Mormon youth seek out each other. Their spiritual adventures are legion. They often reach out to friends who have followed the carnal path into deprivation. Their example, caring, and persistence have supported many through a transformation that has led them into the Melchizedek Priesthood, the temple, sometimes mission calls—in other words, into their eternal potential.

For most of my life I felt an emptiness and longed for something solid to cling to. I suspected that what I was looking for might be found in a church, so from the time I was very young, I investigated a number of religions and philosophies. Many of them were good and filled with good people. Some of them were strange and offered nothing like what I was seeking.
After many years of searching, I became bored and discouraged, so I gave up. I determined to build a relationship with God on my own and stay away from organized religion.
Sometime after I had come to this decision, I was watching a television program that focused on spirituality. The program’s host was interviewing a Latter-day Saint family. As I listened to this family, I felt the love and solid faith that I had long been looking for. I was also impressed to learn that Latter-day Saints highly emphasize the family. Maybe I would investigate just one more church.
On the bottom of the television screen was a phone number for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the Milan area. I called it and spoke with some members at the stake center, who arranged for the missionaries to call me.
This was a particularly busy time for me, so when the missionaries called to set up an appointment, I asked if I could call them back in a few weeks after things had settled down. They agreed and gave me the phone number of the local Relief Society president, who called and invited me to attend church on Sunday. I went, and I loved everything there: the lessons, the people, and the spirit. I left feeling very happy.
I went to church every Sunday for the next two months. Then, in October 2008, I was baptized. My search had not just ended; it had been completed. I no longer felt the thirst and the longing I once did.
I am immensely grateful to have found the truth, but in some ways I am sad that it took me so long to find the gospel of Jesus Christ. Nevertheless, I am grateful for the experiences I had during my search. Because I looked in so many other places, I feel extra content knowing that I’ve found the right place—the place where I belong.

BARBARA: I have a friend who was so mad every time we mentioned the Church. We walked to school together each day. It was about a 20-minute walk. One day I said, “Oh, I’m so busy. I have to read this story in Sunday School, and I don’t have time to practice. Would you mind if I read my part to you while we walk to school?” And it just happened to be about a nonmember who was converted. When I got through with the story, my friend said, “You know, that was really neat how that Mormon girl kept trying with the nonmember friend even though she had a lot of hate toward the Church. It was good that she never gave up.” And I thought, “Aha! She’s telling me something!”

Trusted friends who are older than yourself are always invaluable, especially when you are a teenager. Such friends include parents. I am grateful for the close companionship and association I had with my musician-father, George Henry Durham. It began in early boyhood. Its basis was family life, but extensive activity carried beyond the family. I learned to share much of his specialty, music, by attending concerts and participating in choral groups which he led. For five years of my boyhood, during the period of my father’s advanced study, there were concerts of the Boston Symphony. There were notable times each spring when the Metropolitan Opera of New York played a short season in the Boston Opera House. I shall never forget Verdi’s Aida. Later, in high school, I could join in singing choruses from the “Triumph” scene in the second act with the high school chorus my father led.
The old LDS College was a two-year college and a three-year high school with a business college attached. It occupied the space behind the Hotel Utah and the Church Administration Building where the beautiful plaza and highrise Church Office Building now stand. High school classes began at 8:30. Father wanted a school choir. There was not room for such a class in the regular schedule of classes, so he met the choir daily at 7:45 A.M. in Barratt Hall. The first number I remember rehearsing was Beethoven’s “The Heavens Resound.” There followed selections from Handel’s Messiah, Mendelssohn’s St. Paul, especially “How Lovely Are the Messengers.” We had a wonderful songbook called the Corona Songbook, filled with classical music and songs from various nations. It was a rich experience. It formed a special bond with my father. We had mutual interests to talk about.
The bonds extended into Church activity. Father invited me to join the 31st Ward Choir to sing alto. This was before my voice changed! He kindly let me sit between the sisters who sang alto and the men who sang tenor. This removed any sense of embarrassment and gave me a sense of security. When I shifted from alto to tenor, the transition was simple and easy. As the years went by the ward choir undertook performance of Handel’s Messiah one Sunday evening in December.
Choir practice was every Wednesday night in the chapel at 7:30 P.M. By that time I was also a forward on the ward M Men basketball team, athletic manager, and captain of the team. Choir rehearsals and league games were often scheduled on the same Wednesday night. This produced conflicts. One night father insisted I attend choir practice and miss a game. Usually, in such cases, I was excused from choir practice. As I look back, the bitter taste I felt during that particular rehearsal has long since vanished. The glorious sounds of Handel resonate through my soul while my basketball prowess has somewhat diminished!
Talking things over with Mother was always easy. She was an energetic woman, mother of eight. I was the eldest. We enjoyed an unusual relationship. She was my counselor. I was her confidant. With such a large family it was important to get part-time work as I approached high school. We talked it over. She had a great deal of initiative and management ability. We had engaged in a contest to secure subscriptions for the Deseret News. We didn’t win the prize, but my name received “Honorable Mention,” with mother doing most of the work behind the scenes. When it was time to get a paper route, without my knowledge, she called Ralph Whitney, the circulation manager of the Deseret News, and opened the door. The first thing I knew, my solicitations bore fruit and I received Route 11 in downtown Salt Lake City. I could leave the LDS campus on North Main, go to the Deseret News printing press on Richards Street, get my “sheets” as we called them, then proceed down Main Street to 300 South, back up State Street, crisscrossing 200 and 100 South to deliver papers in the various hotels, cafes, and shops that were subscribers.
Mother and father expected dependability from their sons. This led to an opportunity to get a larger route with more subscribers, Route 69. This extended from 800 South to 1300 South in Salt Lake City between 800 and 900 East. Windsor Street intersected and ran parallel to 900 and 800 East. I had nearly 100 papers. Our earnings were one cent for every paper delivered. Subscriptions were fifteen cents a week, or sixty-five cents a month. We were billed for the number of papers sent to us. I did collecting on Saturday mornings when school was out and always tried to pay the bill to Mr. Knight at the Deseret News office on the southwest corner of Main and South Temple by Monday. The bill amounted to nine cents a week for every paper delivered. With six deliveries a week, that meant six cents on each paper, or the magnificent income of about six dollars a week, provided everybody paid his bill! In collecting I met many older friends, principally the mothers and grandmothers who were home on Saturday mornings. They would respond to my knock at the door, come forward with their fifteen cents for the week’s papers, and we would talk. These friends provided much stability for the social environment of a teenager. I learned early in my teens of the value of communicating, receiving counsel, respecting older people, and responding obediently to my parents. It was a great blessing. It provided me with marvelous lessons at home, such as the injunction in one of my father’s songs: “A friend is a present you give yourself.”
Adult leadership is available to all of us. I shall never forget our ward M Men leader, Leo B. Sharp. He taught our class at Mutual every Tuesday evening at 7:30. He was one of my newspaper customers. He never missed our basketball games and would usually sit on the bench with the coach and the “subs.” We played our games usually at Westminster gym, nearby and easy to rent. It meant much to us on the floor to have Leo watching us and being our friend. He loved us. He knew us. We respected him.
Then there was our bishop, Leo’s older brother, Bishop June B. Sharp, also one of my early subscribers. Bishop Sharp was our priests quorum president. We saw him Sunday mornings. He was our friend. He knew us. We could approach him on any matter. At a ward dance, and they were frequent in those days, you could always see Bishop Sharp dancing with his wife, Ida, bobbing up and down over the floor to a fox-trot or gliding to a waltz. And they would smile and greet us. They were our friends. As I write this, he is still alive and active at age 91, having served as a temple worker for many years and, after serving as bishop, presiding over the South African Mission. Like my parents, his smiling face and figure have always been a visible presence in my consciousness.
Then there was our stake patriarch, Christopher E. Layton, a son of the great pioneer Christopher Layton. He was also the custodian of our ward meetinghouse. He was our friend. He knew us. What a privilege it was to be greeted by him, respond in turn, and shake his hand. Later, when we went to him to receive a patriarchal blessing it was a crowning experience. He was available to us in a different way than Bishop Sharp but stood high in the galaxy of senior friends whose experience, wisdom, and judgment were available.
There were many, many more, too numerous to name. I hope that each of you takes advantage of reaching out, cultivating, and becoming better acquainted with many senior friends in your ward and in your community. They will be complimented and appreciative.
There were many senior friends among the great women of my circles. They were examples during my growing-up years. There was Verna W. Goddard, neighbor, wife of one of our stake presidents. She was the Gleaner leader in the ward (young women 17 to 25). Her home was open to us, and we took advantage of it. By the time we were adults she was a member of the General Presidency of the YWMIA. We were grateful that her leadership was now extending throughout the Church. There was our ward Relief Society presidency: Sister Brinton, the president; her counselors, Sister Michelson and Sister Josephine Matheson. These were beautiful, stately, dignified, cultured women. Although the ward was large, 2,000 members, it was good to get acquainted with such senior friends and feel their influence. Of course, there were always the returned missionaries, a younger group of “seniors” that we looked up to. None of them disappointed us. Although they were several years older when we were 17 or 18, they never approached us as anything less than equals and friends. What a thrill it was to have their friendship, be greeted by them, and sometimes be invited to accompany them in their automobile, or even as one grew a little older, on a date.
Friendship extends horizontally and vertically, up and down the age ladder. Neither dimension should be ignored. One soon finds that some of those “young kids” become very important in one’s own life. It is wonderful to have not ignored them as being “too young” or unimportant when they are 12 or 13 and you have reached the “advanced” age of 16 or 17. The same applies to those who are seven, eight, or nine! And so it goes.
The purpose of this little essay has been to point out the special value of senior friends. I hope that every reader will make it a point to get acquainted with available senior friends, beginning with father, mother, aunts, uncles, and the adult leaders in your ward. It will help stabilize your life. It will add significant dimensions to your social education. It will help open doors of opportunity for your future service. Do not ignore them! Be grateful for the opportunity of developing friendships with senior friends.

Max got ready to play superhero. He put on his red T-shirt. He put on his superhero cape. Then he went to his little sister’s room.
“Come on, Mia,” said Max. “Let’s go save the day!”
Max and Mia went into the living room. They saw a basket full of clothes.
“Will you help me?” asked Mom.
“OK,” Max said. “Then we can go save the day.”
Max and Mia helped Mom fold all the clothes and put them away.
Then Max saw some trash on the floor. “Let’s pick up all the trash,” said Max. “Then we can go save the day.”
Max and Mia raced around the house. They threw away all the trash they could find.
They saw Mom sweeping the kitchen floor. “We can help you,” Max said.
Mia held the dustpan while Max swept the floor.
“Now let’s go save the day,” Max said.
Mom looked around at the clean house. Then she hugged Max and Mia. “I think you already did!”

Brittany Winberg, from Idaho Falls, Idaho, followed President Hinckley’s counsel soon after the fireside. She found that living with a spirit of gratitude does in fact yield wonderful results.
“My mother had prepared a special Sunday dinner after the fireside, and I went into the kitchen to help her with the dishes afterward. While in the kitchen I felt a stinging prompting, remembered the prophet’s words about gratitude, and humbly said, ‘Mom, thank you so much for everything; you are the greatest.’ She looked at me and tears welled up in her eyes and she grabbed me in a tight embrace. She then told me how horrible her day was and that I had done exactly what she had been praying for.”
Just as Brittany had found, saying “thank you” is a wonderful way to express gratitude to those around us.

I took my college entrance exams, filled out applications, and sorted through the letters offering track scholarships. A mission was only two years away. I took a part-time job at a restaurant to help save money for it.
Mom was doing great and Dad landed a promotion at work, one that took him off the dock and into an office. He was almost 50, and I was happy to know that his days of heavy physical labor were over.
On the track, my times kept improving. I hadn’t lost a race in two years, but my streak was in jeopardy. At an invitational meet in Sacramento, I was going to race the top runners from California, including Michael Banks, a senior from Los Angeles.
I had never met him but knew his reputation. On Mondays at practice my coach kept me apprised of Michael Bank’s achievements. “You were good on Friday, Tom. But Banks was two seconds faster.”
“Tomorrow’s the big race?” my father asked innocently the night before the meet.
“It is. I’ve never been so nervous about a race in my life.”
“You run in a circle four times; then it’s over. What’s so tough about that?” he kidded. “You’ll do fine, Tom. I’ll leave work and drive up to see you.”
My father was a stake clerk and went to a meeting of the stake presidency that night. I was asleep when he got home, yet he had already left for work when I arose just after six.
“Couldn’t Dad sleep?” I asked my mother at breakfast.
“No. He met with the stake president last night. He has something to tell you, but I’ll let him do so in his own way.”
I couldn’t imagine what he wanted to tell me, and I didn’t think of it again. Michael Banks and his fearsome times were crowding out everything else.
“Good luck. We’ll be there to watch and we’ll be proud of you whether you win or not.” She kissed me on the cheek, and I left for a half-day of school before driving to Sacramento with my coach.
Almost 11 hours later I stood at the starting line in the fifth lane. A half-dozen other boys stretched and shook their arms, preparing for the race. Tension was thick, a very real presence. My stomach was wound tight and I felt a little sick. Michael Banks stood two lanes away, looking confident, hands on his hips, staring down the track. We had met in the tunnel on the way to the track. He nodded in my direction and I murmured hello. That was all.
My coach gave me a few last-minute instructions. “Take the lead early in the fourth lap. If you don’t, Banks will out kick you down the stretch. You have the better stamina, but you can’t match his kick. Good luck, Tom. You’ll give it your best, I know.”
We were called to our marks. I scanned the crowd, but I couldn’t see my parents. I tried to block the worry from my mind. Concentrate, I must concentrate, I repeated softly. Your parents are in the stands. Don’t worry. The starter raised his pistol, and it cracked into the air. Arms and legs rushed, and there was a jostling of elbows as we started around the first corner. I began talking to myself in my mind.
How do I feel? Legs are tight, relax. Who’s on my shoulder? Don’t get boxed in. Breathe, breathe, relax. Keep your arm motion smooth. Glide, not too fast. Where’s Banks?
Glide, glide. Move outside when you can. Was that Banks in the lead? No. Maybe neither of us will win. Wouldn’t that be something. Don’t make your move yet. Do I have enough left in me to even make a move? You’ll die by the fourth lap. Remember what the coach said.
The second lap was nearing an end. My head hurt and I could taste blood in my mouth. I guessed I was in fifth place. My legs were rubbery. I didn’t have much.
Maintain, just maintain. Let your mouth go slack. Glide a lap … Oh, what’s the use? You don’t have it today, Tom. Banks has this one.
My pace slowed a bit. I was on the inside lane. I turned my head slightly and saw a familiar face, hands cupped to his mouth, standing on the infield. It was my father.
Quick strides brought me within hearing range. What was he shouting?
“Tommy … !”
Yes, Father.
“… Paula—you’re an uncle.”
What? An uncle? A boy or a girl? Get this race over, Rosa. You’re an uncle!
I forced my arms to pump faster. I moved to the outside and fought past two runners. Third place now and Banks clearly in the lead.
Paula, she isn’t due for two more weeks. But … But … a new baby in the family!
My pace quickened. I took over second place. Only Michael Banks loomed ahead. My lungs burned and my legs ached. Still, I managed to pull even with him. In unison, Michael Banks and I ran, leaving the others behind. We came around the bend again. There was my dad, shouting jubilantly.
“Tommy …”
The crowd was going berserk as Banks and I matched strides. Could I hear my father? I drew nearer and heard only two words: “You will!”
I will … I will … Now!
I moved inches ahead with a half-lap to go. Now! My fists rammed forward; my legs pounded the track. The lead grew to a foot, then a yard. I heard Michael Banks’ strained breathing behind me. Never had a race been so hard for me.
A baby!—Paula was a mom. My mom was a grandmother. And my father, a grandfather, who somehow made his way to the infield because he knew I needed to hear him.
I rounded the last corner, now in a dead sprint, my chest heaving.
Remember Banks’ kick. Don’t hold anything back. Pump your arms, run on your toes.
The tape loomed ahead. I frantically ran toward it. A few yards away, I stumbled, fought to keep my balance, and broke across the finish line. Michael Banks whisked in behind me. I turned and we threw our arms around each other. “Great race, man,” he gasped. “You ran inspired.”
“You’ll never know,” I panted.
I walked to the grassy infield. I knew that I should keep moving, but my legs refused. I sat down, then leaned back. I looked up into the clear, blue sky. A face filled it, the face of my father.
Some boys, they say things about their fathers. They say they aren’t friends, that there is too much of a difference for them to understand each other. They say they don’t know if their fathers love them. I feel an emptiness for those boys and their fathers. When thousands were shouting in a very tough race, it was my father’s voice that I listened for and heard.
On the way home, my parents told me why they were late. They got a phone call from Paula’s husband just as they were leaving. When they arrived at the stadium, the race had just started. One look told Father that I was struggling. Before he stopped to think about it, he was at the edge of the stands heading to the infield. He said he thought it was the only chance for me to know he was there.
“What a day,” he sighed. “And I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night. I suppose that’s what happens when the stake president asks you to serve as the bishop.”
He said it so casually that the impact didn’t hit me for a few seconds. My dad was going to be the bishop of our ward!

Please allow me to tell you a story about my family. As my wife, Karen, mentioned, we have been blessed with four sons and one daughter whom we love very, very, much. Our children are very close in age. When Clay, our youngest, was born, our four other children were ages two, three, four, and five. Karen was a very busy mother.

When Clay and Sid were two and four years old, our family was invited to a friend's home for a barbeque. It was held in their backyard which was nicely landscaped and contained a large swimming pool. As we were seated for dinner on the patio, Sid and Clay removed their sandals to dangle their feet in the water near the pool steps. Soon they started to argue and all too predictably Clay began to complain that Sid had done something to annoy him. Karen got up from her seat and went over to Sid and scolded him by whispering something in his ear.

Our visit with our hosts continued for a few more minutes when Karen suddenly jumped from her seat, and in what seemed like one sweeping movement, ran to the pool and then leaped in fully clothed. She scooped Clay from the bottom and brought him back to the pool's edge. Karen had our baby above the water's surface so fast that I am not sure if he even realized that breathing under water was going to be a problem.

Soon it was apparent that Clay was OK and not the least upset by his walk on the bottom of the pool. At this point, Karen turned to Sid and firmly demanded, "why didn't you help your brother?" Then, with all the frustration that a four-year old could muster, he glared at her and said, "You, told me not to touch him!"

The midnight sun ruled the June evening in Sweden, where its fiery red and yellow spears still pierced the solemn blue sky. Children played, tumbling and jumping as though they had not walked three miles to the Lutheran seminary that day and had not spent two hours that evening raking in the hayfields. Suddenly their laughter was interrupted by the shouting of an older boy running toward them down the soggy road.
The small blond ones stood alert, staring at the intruder, who shouted again, “The Mormons are coming!” Expressions on young faces hardened, and little mouths lost their smiles and became straight lines. Bright blue eyes clouded.
The children ran up the nearby hill, picking up stones and sticks along the way. At the top of the hill they gathered in a group and looked out over the rolling meadowland. No one was in sight except the boy who had sounded the warning. They waited for him on the hill.
When the older boy reached the other children, he shouted commands: “Girls, stop crying. Go to your homes and take the little ones with you. Ask your fathers to come help us. Ja (yes)! The Mormons are coming!”
The boys began stacking stones in the furrows near the road. Girls and younger children ran across the fields toward their small wooden houses.
Hulda and Anna, the twins, and their younger brother, Gustav, had the farthest to go. Their house and land, located at the far north corner of the farmland near Hogbrun, West Vinåker, were rented from a wealthy landowner. Gustav fell down, but the girls pulled him up, paying no attention to his ripped trousers. As they neared the house, they could see their mother, Ingrid, a younger sister, Carolina, and baby sister, Maria, picking bouquets of tiny white-belled lilies of the valley.
“Mor (Mother)! Mor! The Mormons are coming! Shall we go to Farfar (Grandfather) Lars’s? They’ll eat us up and burn our house!”
The young woman frowned at Gustav’s skinned knees and tried to comfort him. She looked at her five children, whose father had died a year before from pneumonia. “If your far (father) were here, he would not be afraid of the Mormons. I do not fear them either. Those Mormons may be from the devil, but if they come here, I’ll use this devil’s pitchfork on them! Go into the house and say your prayers and go to bed.”
The children crawled into their beds, but they could not sleep. Their mother stood outdoors in the changing light of the midnight sun, resting her body against the house. She sighed and closed her eyes and thought of the approaching Mormons.
Farfar Lars hated the Mormons. He had warned, “Don’t ever shake hands with Mormon missionaries or they’ll get you.” But Ingrid had to admit that those Mormon hymns Britta Larsson had sung, while they were spinning during her last visit, were comforting.
Ingrid’s thoughts were interrupted by the bellowing of the family bull. She looked up and saw him tossing his head and pawing the ground in the middle of the road. Picking up a rope from the front yard, Ingrid hurried toward the road. She voiced her irritation under her breath and snatched up a dead limb lying close by. Holding the limb in front of her and moving slowly, step by step, she approached the bull. The bull, with lowered head, took a step toward her. Ingrid trembled for a moment then retreated a step, caught her foot in a hole, and fell to the ground.
Suddenly the bull charged, and the young woman rolled into the ditch for what little protection it provided. Miraculously, the snorting bull missed her and charged down the road, tossing clods of mud with his horns as he went.
The shaking woman lifted her head and watched the bull grow smaller in the distance. Then she stood up and dropped a rock she noticed was still clenched in her fist.
The sound of shouting was heard from down the road. That bull has met someone else, Ingrid decided. The shouts increased, and the frightened woman picked up her twill skirts with trembling hands, swallowed hard, and forced her feet to run along the rutted road. Just over a rise she saw two men chasing the bull. The big animal stopped suddenly and again began pawing the dirt. The woman’s lips formed some word, but the cry caught and could not escape. Her eyes widened in fear, and again Ingrid swallowed. Her chest heaved rapidly, begging for more air before she started to run again.
One man threw his coat over the bull’s head and tried holding him by the horns while the other young man, who had found an old rope, secured it around the bull’s neck. Leading him toward the woman, the man asked, “Is this your bull?” His hair was dark, and he walked lightly and talked with a strange accent.
“Yes,” she answered in airy gasps. “He broke … out … of the field … and … and … nearly gored me when I fell.”
“Let us help you take him back and mend your fence,” offered the other young man.
The bull kicked and began pulling his captor down the road, and the young man shouted and made play by mocking the bull. Terror again crept into the woman’s eyes, but when the young men began to laugh, she laughed with them.
After the bull was penned and the fence mended, Ingrid said, “May I make something for you to eat?”
The men’s eyes lighted up, but then one of them answered, “We have an appointment in the village and we’re already late.”
“At least let me give you some knäckebröd (hardtack) and smör (butter),” insisted the woman.
“Thank you,” came the warm reply.
Ingrid went into the small frame house and reached up to the rafters, where several months’ supply of knäckebröd hung, dry and crisp. She slipped two of the large, thin disks of rye bread from the pole and carefully buttered each one. Adjusting the braids in her hair, she returned to the waiting men.
“Here,” she said, smiling shyly. “May this satisfy your hunger. And if you come this way again, please stop by to say hello.”
“Thank you, we hope to return soon.”
Ingrid watched the men leave. As soon as they were a few feet from the cottage, they broke off large chunks of knäckebröd and ate hungrily.
Just then the woman thought to warn them. “Watch out for the Mormons! They’re coming this way, you know.”
The men stopped their eating and walked back quietly, “We are the Mormons,” one of them said gently.
“And I hope you still mean your invitation to stop on our way back,” added the other.
Ingrid looked into their kind eyes for a moment. “Yes, I do,” she said. “I would like my children to meet you.”

When I was on my mission in Ireland, I was sent with my companion to open up a city called Tralee, which had no members. One day a woman answered her door and surprisingly called us “elders” and invited us in. I noticed she had not looked at our name tags, so I asked her what she knew about the Church. She smiled and proudly told us she was a member but had been inactive for years. I asked her if she still believed, and she told us that yes, she still had a testimony.

When I asked her why she had gone inactive, she explained that she had never been able to break her smoking habit and that every time she went to Church and the members smelled the smoke on her clothes and breath, she was made to feel guilty and unwanted. She then turned her head away for about sixty seconds. When she looked back at us, she had tears streaming down her cheeks. With her lip quivering, she sweetly and humbly replied, “I sure wish everybody’s sins smelled.”

Didn’t Jesus invite us all to come as we are? Didn’t Jesus say, “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her” (John 8:7)? Didn’t Jesus teach us to “leave the ninety and nine and go after [the one]” (Luke 15:4)?

Many of the youth must also stand alone among their friends. Many left friends behind when they embraced the gospel. A recent convert, Lucija Krajnik of Ljubljana, Slovenia, says: “Since joining the Church, I have needed to separate myself from my old friends because they were bad company. The best thing for me to do was to isolate myself from them and stay in contact with members and missionaries.”

Lucija Krajnik knows that she needs her friends in the gospel. “Where would I be if I didn’t have the Church?” she asks. “I am grateful to be a member of the Church and to have my friends by my side.”

I saw holiness in the countenance of Evangeline, a 13-year-old girl in Ghana. One of the ways she keeps her covenants is by magnifying her calling as the Beehive class president. She humbly explained that she goes to the homes of her friends, the less-active young women, to ask their parents to allow them to come to church. The parents tell her that it is difficult because on Sunday the children must do household chores. So Evangeline goes and helps with the chores, and by her efforts her friends are often permitted to come to church.

At Church activities I would ask myself, “Why don’t I have friends?” I felt sad and alone and went to God in prayer. I asked my Heavenly Father to send me good friends. It hasn’t been easy, but over time I’ve made many great friends. I’m not afraid to talk anymore and to get involved with groups of girls. I realize that Heavenly Father answered my prayers and that I was never alone.
Daiana I., age 16, Corrientes, Argentina

The intimidating part of preparing to be with you this morning is shared in a very brief story of an experience Sister Banks and I had while touring one of the missions in the southern part of the Philippines several years ago. After one of the zone conference meetings, the mission president’s wife, who was a local Filipino sister, came to me and with some hesitation said, “I hope I will not offend you, President, but I thought perhaps you would like to know you were using some words we don’t use or understand here in the Philippines.”

I assured her that she would not offend me and that I would appreciate her sharing with me what she meant. The Philippines is often referred to as an English-speaking country, but that is true only to a certain extent. The sweet wife of the mission president, Sister Amistad, then proceeded to tell me, “President, you used the word photograph today. In the Philippines, we really don’t understand what photograph means. What you really mean is ‘picture.’” Then she said, “Another word you used throughout the meeting was bashful.” (I had invited the missionaries to participate with me and not be bashful.) She said, “I went home and looked up in the dictionary what bashful meant, and what you really meant is ‘shy’ and ‘timid.’”

I thanked her for sharing this with me and asked her in our meeting the next day if she would write down all the words I used that would not be understood by the Filipinos. She hesitated at first, but with my encouragement she said she would. The next day she produced another 20 words, and I have tried to adapt my vocabulary accordingly.

The intimidating factor I mentioned earlier is that I really believe I have lost much of my vocabulary in the many years I have been gone in trying to learn to converse in understandable terms with the wonderful people we have been blessed to live with throughout the world.

When I was a young man, I was inducted into the United States Army Air Corps. One cold night at Chanute Field, Illinois, I was given all-night guard duty. As I walked around my post, I meditated and pondered the whole miserable, long night through. By morning I had come to some firm conclusions. I was engaged to be married and knew that I could not support my wife on a private’s pay. In a day or two, I filed my application for Officer’s Candidate School. Shortly thereafter, I was summoned before the board of inquiry. My qualifications were few, but I had had two years of college and had finished a mission for the Church in South America.
The questions asked of me at the officers’ board of inquiry took a very surprising turn. Nearly all of them centered upon my beliefs. “Do you smoke?” “Do you drink?” “What do you think of others who smoke and drink?” I had no trouble answering.
“Do you pray?” “Do you believe that an officer should pray?” The officer asking these questions was a hard-bitten career soldier. He did not look like he prayed very often. I pondered. Would I give him offense if I answered how I truly believed? I wanted to be an officer so that I would not have to do all-night guard duty and KP and clean latrines, but mostly so my sweetheart and I could afford to be married.
I decided to be honest. I admitted I did pray and that I felt officers might seek divine guidance as some truly great generals had done. I told them I thought officers should be prepared to lead their men in all appropriate activities, if the occasion requires, including prayer.
More interesting questions came. “In times of war, should not the moral code be relaxed? Does not the stress of battle justify men in doing things that they would not do when at home under normal situations?”
I recognized that here was a chance perhaps to make some points and look broad-minded. I suspected that the men who were asking me this question did not live by the standards that I had been taught. The thought flashed through my mind that perhaps I could say that I had my own beliefs, but I did not wish to impose them on others. But there seemed to flash before my mind the faces of the many people to whom I had taught the law of chastity as a missionary. In the end I simply said, “I do not believe there is a double standard of morality.”
I left the hearing resigned to the fact that these hard-bitten officers would not like the answers I had given and would surely score me very low. A few days later when the scores were posted, to my astonishment I had passed. I was in the first group taken for Officer’s Candidate School! I graduated, became a second lieutenant, married my sweetheart, and we have “lived together happily ever after.”

A friend of mine is having a difficult time in her life. Earlier this year she was struggling, and I didn’t know how to help her. In my prayers I asked my Heavenly Father to bless her and to help me to be her friend. One day she became angry with me, and I did not understand. I didn’t know how to react. I didn’t want to say something wrong that might ruin our friendship, especially because this was a time when I felt she needed me. But after she became angry with me, I thought it would be too hard. I was considering giving up because I was discouraged.
One afternoon in seminary I came across a scripture in Mosiah that said: “And now, if God, who has created you, on whom you are dependent for your lives and for all that ye have and are, doth grant unto you whatsoever ye ask that is right, in faith, believing that ye shall receive, O then, how ye ought to impart of the substance that ye have one to another” (Mosiah 4:21).
I knew then that she needed and still needs of the substance I can impart: my friendship and my testimony. I decided then that I would not give up on my friend. I talk to her every day, remember her in my prayers, and have faith that something positive will come from my efforts. I am so grateful that I prayed and received this guidance through the scriptures.

As a boy, I well remember Sunday School on Mother’s Day. We would hand to each mother present a small potted plant and sit in silent reverie as Melvin Watson, a blind member, would stand by the piano and sing, “That Wonderful Mother of Mine.” This was the first time I saw a blind man cry. Even today, in memory, I can see the moist tears move from those sightless eyes, then form tiny rivulets and course down his cheeks, falling finally upon the lapel of the suit he had never seen. In boyhood puzzlement I wondered why all of the grown men were silent, why so many handkerchiefs came forth. Now I know. You see, mother was remembered. Each boy, every girl, all fathers and husbands seemed to make a silent pledge: “I will remember that wonderful mother of mine.”

Growing up with muscular dystrophy, I had serious doubts about whether having a family would ever happen for me. Would I find someone who could see past my disability? And if I did, what kind of father would I be? I hoped for life as a husband and father; I just didn’t know if I would get it.
And then it happened: marriage, followed two years later by the wonderful news that we were having a baby. A year and a half later, more great news came: a second child was on the way.
And just like that, I was married with two kids—daughters, no less, which was crazy because even when I dared dream of having a family, for some reason I always pictured sons—yet further proof that I had no clue of what lay ahead of me.
But I “trust[ed] in the Lord with all [my] heart” (Proverbs 3:5). Put differently, I rolled with it.
I rolled with it when my sweetheart, Casey, went into labor and said, “It’s time,” and I about passed out. I rolled with it when the nurse held our brand-new baby girl in front of me and said, “She’s yours now,” and I gave Isabelle a kiss on the forehead. I rolled with it and shaved my facial hair when my scratchy kisses made her cry. And I even rolled with it when, while I was holding her on my lap, her dirty diaper gave out—fatherhood can be messy.
Being able to roll with it—to adapt—has been a key to any successes I’ve had as a dad and in life. I’ve gone from crawling to walking to running to getting weaker to slowing down to losing the ability to walk and using a wheelchair. At each phase, to make it work I’ve had to adapt to my circumstances and play to the abilities Heavenly Father has given me. It’s an important part of fatherhood.
Turns out, without even knowing it, I’ve been training to be a great dad my whole life!
We Are All in the Process
“You see, we’re all on a journey. … We are all in the process of becoming who we will one day be. Fathers and [children] can play a critical role in helping each other become the best that they can be.”
President M. Russell Ballard, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, “Fathers and Sons: A Remarkable Relationship,” Liahona, Nov. 2009, 47.
Why do I know so much about lambs, dolphins, mermaids, dolls, book characters, cross-country running, and musicals? Because those are the things my youngest daughter, Sammy, has been interested in over the past 14 years! Find out what your kids are into and get into it too.
President M. Russell Ballard, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, said, “Find your own best way to connect,” creating a one-on-one relationship with each child as part of our fatherly stewardship. 1
I’ve never tossed my girls in the air. I’ve never pushed them on a swing, jumped into a pool with them, or spotted them in the gym.
But they’ve screamed for joy on the back of my wheelchair as I did wheelies through our neighborhood, climbed me like a ladder to reach goodies on the top shelf, and enjoyed incredible front-row parking with me their entire lives.
We all have different abilities. Figure out what you can do with your kids and then do it!
Being a dad has been and continues to be the joy of my life.
My girls have an amazing understanding of my physical limitations. We’ve never really had to detail what Daddy can or cannot physically do. They’ve always just seemed to know. Even when they were toddlers, I would ask them to grab something for me, and they’d place it right in my hand. When Casey would ask for something, they’d toss it to her or hold it near her so she’d have to reach out for it.
Being a dad has been and continues to be the joy of my life.
When I’m being the best version of myself, I love my girls the way God loves them—personally and completely. But I’m not perfect. When I’m not centered in God’s love, patience wanes, tempers flare, and feelings get hurt. Like I said before, I’m a work in progress.
Dads come from all walks of life and have different strengths and weaknesses. But thanks to the love, grace, and mercies of an all-loving Heavenly Father and our Savior, Jesus Christ, we can all be empowered to be exactly who and what our children need us to be.
I know our Heavenly Father will endow each of us with the strength needed to be the best dad we can be. When we seek His help and direction, blessings will follow and, come what may, we’ll have the ability to roll with it.

by Karen Booth
They came to experience a part of their past—to share in the pioneer spirit and courage their Mormon forefathers felt over 135 years earlier. One hundred and fifty Scouts from Mormon and non-Mormon troops from the Las Cruces and Silver City New Mexico stakes and surrounding area joined at the foot of Cooke’s Peak, New Mexico, for an annual commemorative outing in honor of the first Mormon Battalion to travel west in 1846.
In recreating this journey, Scouts encountered many of the same things their forefathers found along the way to California. Events were planned so the young men could apply Scouting skills to simulated battalion experiences. If the boy completed all the trials successfully, he was given a patch to be worn on his uniform.
One night was spent camping on the trail so the Scouts could become acquainted with pioneer travel. That night they ate a sparing meal consisting of jerky gravy on biscuits. This was similar to what the soldiers ate after leaving Tucson, Arizona, when their rations were very low. The first night was concluded around a campfire, with Scouts performing skits that depicted events experienced by the battalion.
The following morning, the main part of the adventure began as the boys set out to hike 15 miles carrying gear on their backs. This was the equivalent to an average day’s march for the battalion. Professors from New Mexico State University assisted the boys in plant identification. To understand the war-like atmosphere, the boys dragged a cannon borrowed from a local fraternity and loaded and fired it. They also held a black powder musket shoot. In the course of the hike, the boys came upon a simulated massacre and decided who was supposedly in need of immediate medical attention and practiced their first-aid skills.
Like their battalion forefathers, the Boy Scouts who completed this trip learned a great deal about the environment and what a powerful teacher it can be. They also learned more about themselves and that their individuality is the greatest asset they can give to a group. All left the trip with a sense of accomplishment and enrichment in celebrating the pioneer spirit.

For one year, I taught English as a second language at the Universidad de Piura, in Piura, Peru. Piura was the headquarters city for the Peru Piura Mission.
The mission president, Chad Rowley, and his wife, Lisa, lived in my ward. They asked me to give English lessons to the missionaries serving in Piura. I accepted.
Using the Church’s English-language training program, I would meet with different groups of missionaries at the mission office to teach them English. It was a great spiritual experience for me to work with and get to know missionaries from South America and the United States. Weekday afternoons worked best because the city tended to be pretty quiet for missionary work until early evening.
Toward the end of my time in Piura, I was feeling homesick and worn out emotionally and professionally. One Friday afternoon, I was feeling particularly lethargic and depressed. I hoped the classes would be canceled because of missionary work, which took precedence over English lessons. That afternoon, however, that was not the case.
I left my apartment late and trudged to the mission office. As I walked through a park on the way, I prayed. I told Heavenly Father that I couldn’t endure one more minute, much less one more week. I was exhausted mentally and physically, and I needed His help.
I arrived at the mission office and went upstairs to wait for the missionaries. When they arrived for their lesson, I had no idea what to teach them. But to start, I asked one of the elders to say an opening prayer in English.
As the missionary began to pray, he said, “Please bless Sister Johnson.” Then he paused. When he continued, he added, “Please bless her to continue with the same strength as in the beginning.”
That missionary did not know I had prayed on my way to the mission office, and he certainly didn’t know what I had prayed about. But Heavenly Father did, and He answered that prayer by strengthening me.
There I was—a US citizen in Peru who was prayed for by name by a missionary from Bolivia. What a healing balm that afternoon at the mission office was. And what a powerful lesson I learned that day. No matter who or where we are—Heavenly Father hears and answers our spoken and unspoken prayers.