Gospel Story Finder

“Congratulations, Marcus,” Mom said as we walked to the car. “You sure played a great game!”
“When you played your first game, did you think you’d be your team’s starting pitcher in the regional finals?” Dad asked as we started home.
“I guess I dreamed about it some,” I answered honestly, “but I didn’t really think it’d happen. I thought the Pirates would end up going again.”
Dad, Mom, and I relived the game, especially the ending with the Pirates close behind and their star player, Gary, up to bat. Everybody on his team was counting on Gary to win the game and send them to the regional finals. But Gary swung and missed each of my three best pitches, and we won the game.
“Oh, before I forget, Marcus,” Mom told me, “Sister Anderson wants you to give a talk in Primary a week from Sunday.”
Usually talking in Primary wasn’t my favorite thing to do, but this time I knew immediately what I was going to talk about. “I think I’ll talk about baseball,” I said.
“This is Primary, you know,” Mom pointed out, “not another baseball game.”
I grinned. “I know, Mom. I’m not going to talk about the game of baseball.” I explained, “I’m going to talk about how Heavenly Father has helped me this season. It hasn’t been easy to be the only member of the Church on the team. But I’ve tried really hard to do what’s right, and He’s helped me.” I paused. “I could feel Him helping me this afternoon. I wasn’t nervous, even when it was Gary’s turn to bat. I just said a little prayer, asking Him to help me do my best, and I knew everything was going to be all right. That’s what I want to talk about—how the Lord can bless us when we work hard and choose the right.”

A few years ago, I was becoming more comfortable with sharing my experience with same-sex attraction. However, I was having a hard time feeling like I belonged at church. On a beautiful October Sunday, I took a moment to go on a walk and pray before going to elders quorum. I was feeling quite raw and vulnerable from sharing some of my personal experiences and feared how people would perceive me. I knew Heavenly Father could help provide the peace I needed.
I prayed to Him, letting Him know the pain and emotions I was experiencing. I remember saying, “God, how can I go back to a place where I feel that people don’t get me?”
And this sweet impression came to my mind: “Spencer, they don’t need to get you, because I get you.”
Knowing that Heavenly Father and the Savior truly saw me, understood me, and loved me was, in that moment, a profound tender mercy.
They affirmed my “belovedness” that day, and I realized that following Them and remembering that I belong to Them fills me with joy and helps me see what I can be. Being reminded of this eternal truth and allowing it to take root in me gave me the peace I needed.

At the end of my second year I applied to my university’s graphic design program. I wasn’t accepted, but I was eligible to reapply the following year. I wasn’t thrilled about waiting another year to graduate.
The closest thing to my chosen major was photography. So I prayed about changing my major and felt good about it. I just wanted to get my degree!
At the start of the fall semester, I had classes on film and on the social history of photography. I was excited about both. But as I looked over the syllabus of my film class, I noticed that students would be required to watch many R-rated movies. In my photography class the teacher stated that the pictures we would be studying would be violent, disturbing, and sexual. She said that was what photography was mostly about these days.
My heart sank as I contemplated what to do. I knew that the gospel taught against such things, but these classes were required. I thought of the scripture about being in the world but not of the world (see John 15:19). Could I be in these classes but not of them?
I prayed to know what to do and to have the faith to do what was right. I also counseled with my wife, parents, and brother. As I spoke with my brother, he reminded me of the following verse: “For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?” (Matthew 16:26).
I knew that education is important, but was I in the wrong field? How could I drop out of school temporarily when the light at the end of the tunnel was so close?
Late one night while I was up with our sick baby, the thought came to me to look up President Thomas S. Monson on the Internet.
Late one night while I was up with our sick baby, the thought came to me to look up President Thomas S. Monson on the Internet. Soon I was watching a general conference talk President Monson had delivered in October 2011. I listened intently as he talked about the deterioration of society’s moral compass, saying that inappropriate and immoral behavior had become acceptable by many.
Then he said exactly what I needed to hear: “We must be vigilant in a world which has moved so far from that which is spiritual. It is essential that we reject anything that does not conform to our standards, refusing in the process to surrender that which we desire most: eternal life in the kingdom of God.”1
These words pierced me with great power. As tears ran down my face, I knew that a living prophet had answered my prayer.
Although I have postponed my plans for graduation, I know that the Lord will bless my family and me as we follow the prophet, reject the views of the world, obey the commandments, and support gospel standards.

Tommaso Castro
In a dream, Tommaso Castro saw his mother, who had been dead for some years, and she made known to him that she was involved in the study of things important to eternity.
How could that be? he wondered. The religion he knew did not allow for such a possibility.
Then one of his young women friends invited him to help embarrass some American missionaries she had invited to her home. Tommaso went, but he didn’t feel good about participating in the taunting.
When the missionaries started talking about something called the plan of salvation, which would allow our dead loved ones to continue progressing after this life, they had Tommaso’s full attention immediately. He started seeing the missionaries on his own and was soon baptized.
Brother Castro, a stake high councilor, lives in Pavia, south of Milan.

Jenny, a golden Lab, the first dog Scott raised, was accepted as a guide dog, has completed her training, and has been matched to a blind owner, Gene. Scott attended Jenny’s graduation from the training center and met Gene. Since then, Scott and Gene have become good friends, occasionally visiting in person but most often communicating by mail or over the telephone.
Getting to know the man who has been directly helped by the family’s efforts in raising a puppy has encouraged Scott and his family to continue raising guide dogs. “One thing that has helped is Gene’s being in touch with Scott and knowing the good that we are doing,” says Kay Fausett. “He and Jenny have really become a part of our family. He is really appreciative, and it helps us to think of that when the time comes to return another dog we have grown to love. We keep reminding ourselves how special this dog will become to a blind person.”
Blanche is playing with her leash and begging to be petted as Scott sits talking about guide dogs. He remembers Jenny, the first puppy he raised. “Gene wrote to me,” says Scott absentmindedly scratching Blanche behind one floppy ear. “He wrote that now he feels secure because of Jenny. He called me on the day he had had Jenny for one year to thank me for raising her and tell me how much he loves her. I like knowing that something I’ve done has helped someone who needs it.”

I pitched my helmet onto the shelf in the garage, hung my pads on a hook, and scuffed into the kitchen.
“What’s the problem?” Mom asked as I came in.
I flopped down on the nearest chair. “I was ten minutes late for practice and Coach Cooper gave me a lecture on being reliable and prompt.”
“Did you remember to take the bread over to Mr. Sams?” Mom asked as she poured me a glass of lemonade.
“Yes, and that’s why I was late,” I replied. “That old man just kept on talking and I couldn’t get away.”
“He’s rather lonely,” Mom said, “and seeing you in your football uniform probably reminded him of when he was a young man and able to play ball too.”
“If he’s so interested in the game, why doesn’t he come and watch us?” I asked. “The park is just around the corner, and the fresh air and exercise would be good for him.”
“He’s probably afraid to go down the stairs alone,” Mom said. “That’s how he broke his ankle last year.”
I took a big gulp of lemonade.
“Anyway,” I went on, “I was so late I don’t get to start in Saturday’s game. All the guys are mad at me because we’ll be playing the toughest team in the league.”
“Didn’t you tell Coach Cooper you were on an errand for me?” Mom asked.
“No,” I answered. “He would have said I was using you as an excuse, and then I’d get another lecture on responsibility.”
It was a long three days before that big game, but Saturday finally arrived. I was up early that morning to straighten the garage and take out the trash. I even checked with Mom to make sure there wasn’t anything I had forgotten.
On Saturdays I usually take soup to Mr. Sams, so I left ten minutes early to allow some extra time to visit with him.
“Well, you’re early today,” Mr. Sams said when he opened the door.
“Yes, sir,” I answered as I carried the soup over to the stove in his kitchen. “Today is a big game and I don’t want to be late.”
“You’re right,” Mr. Sams began. “That would never do. Why, I remember when I played back in …”
He sat down by the table and motioned for me to join him. Then he started to tell me again about some of his experiences playing football years ago.
When I figured that the ten minutes were over, I slowly got up from the chair and said, “Mr. Sams, I’d better get going so I won’t be late. I’ll pick up the soup pot after the game.”
“I’ll bet you play a good game,” he said as I gathered up my gear. “You’re a strong-looking boy.”
“I do my best,” I replied, heading for the door. He hustled along after me.
“I remember once when I was playing,” he said. “We were up against the toughest team in the state. It was the third quarter. I remember it like it was yesterday! Jason Clemons, our left guard, was …”
“Why don’t you come over to the park and watch a game sometime, Mr. Sams,” I suggested.
“I’d like to,” he said, “but I don’t get out much anymore. I watch all the games on television, but it’s just not the same as watching a live game.”
When Mr. Sams said that, I looked at him for a minute and I thought he might start to cry. He turned his head away and stared out the window. I remembered Linda and how unhappy she had looked and what she had said about being proud.
Now I knew what Mom meant when she told me that sometimes you have to listen with your eyes.
“Look, Mr. Sams,” I blurted out. “Why don’t you get your sweater and come to the game with me right now?”
I was late again! The team was on the field warming up when I came through the gate with Mr. Sams walking beside me. Coach Cooper looked upset. I took Mr. Sams to the bleachers and got him seated. Then I ran to the dressing room and put on my gear.
Just as I reached the bench, the referees blew their whistles signaling the team to clear the field.
I won’t get to play anyway, I thought, so it doesn’t matter if I did miss the warm-up.
“Tim! Coach Cooper shouted, and I ran over to him. As I got closer, he lowered his voice and asked, “Were you late for practice the other day because of the old gentleman you brought with you today?”
I looked over at Mr. Sams. His whole face was covered with a big grin as he sat on the edge of his seat eager for the game to start.
“Yes,” I admitted, and I was actually glad about the whole thing.
“Why didn’t you say so?” Coach Cooper asked.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t understand,” I replied.
“I’m a lot more understanding than you think,” he assured me.
Then Coach Cooper motioned for the team to come and join us. After explaining the circumstances, he said I could play in the game after all. Everyone seemed pleased about that—especially me!
I waved to Mr. Sams as I ran out onto the field for the kickoff, and he was smiling bigger than ever as he waved back.
Mr. Sams didn’t make a sound, but I could hear his happiness all the way across the field.

The sorrow Joseph felt at the deaths of these two beloved brothers was perhaps surpassed by another event involving another brother. After a seemingly trivial disagreement, Joseph’s brother William turned against him and became disaffected from the Church. Along with other apostates, he began publicly declaring Joseph a “fallen prophet.” The worst damage, however, was done within the family circle. Joseph describes William’s angry departure from the Church:
“He went home and spread the leaven of iniquity among my brothers, and especially prejudiced the mind of brother Samuel. I soon learned that he was in the street exclaiming against me, and no doubt our enemies rejoiced at it” (History of the Church, 2:297).
Despite the wound inflicted by a rebellious-yet-beloved brother, Joseph felt no vengeance, no hate, no bitterness—only patience and forgiveness. His actions toward William are a profound example of the Lord’s wise counsel to show “forth afterwards an increase of love toward him whom thou hast reproved, lest he esteem thee to be his enemy; that he may know that thy faithfulness is stronger than the cords of death” (D&C 121:43–44).
Daniel Tyler, who attended a meeting with Joseph Smith shortly after William’s apostasy and bitter denunciations of his brother, the Prophet, left us this touching account of Joseph’s anguish over his wayward brother: “I perceived sadness in his countenance and tears trickling down his cheeks. A few moments later a hymn was sung and he opened the meeting by prayer. Instead of facing the audience, however, he turned his back and bowed upon his knees, facing the wall. This I suppose, was done to hide his sorrow and tears.
“That prayer, which was to a considerable extent in behalf of those who accused him of having gone astray and fallen into sin, that the Lord would forgive them and open their eyes that they might see aright—that prayer … partook of the learning and eloquence of heaven” (Juvenile Instructor, 15 February 1892, page 127).
It was a measure of the greatness of the Prophet that he regarded the spiritual unity of the family so highly; thus, forgiveness and love prevailed. He patiently and lovingly helped his brother William again into the fellowship of the family and the Church, despite the damage he had done to Joseph and the Church.

Pooja Prabhakar, 18, says she has received many blessings because of the gospel. “I have been brought into the light of truth, and I am happy that I can prepare myself to go back and live with my Heavenly Father.” She says that becoming a member of the Church has changed her life in many ways: “I begin each day with scripture study. I dress modestly. I use good language. I used to have a habit of making fun of others, but because of the Church I learned that I shouldn’t be doing that, so I stopped.”

She says she was 14 years old when she first attended Young Women. “I loved it,” she says. “I was very much reserved, but as I went on, I became jolly happy. I learned how to be a good daughter to my parents, a loving sister to my siblings, and a peacemaker at home. It’s been jolly nice, especially when I received my Personal Progress medallion.”

Now as she transitions into Relief Society, she has many pleasant memories—of singing songs at a residence for the elderly “to show our love;” of gaining a testimony that the Book of Mormon is true, that Joseph Smith was a prophet, and that President Thomas S. Monson is a living prophet; and of “learning more about the gospel every time I come to church.”

She tells of an experience she and her friends had one day on their way to school. “We saw an older woman who was trying to find her way to the chemist [pharmacy] to get a prescription filled, so we stopped and helped her.” They not only walked with her to her destination, but they went inside and made sure she was able to get what she needed.

“I’m glad to know God would let us help her,” Pooja says.

Seated across from me was a despondent man, head buried in hands, sobbing from the inevitable consequences of repeated violations of the commandments of God. He anguished: “I don’t know what to do. Everything is pressing in on me. I’m tired of running. There is no peace, no happiness. When I pray, no one is listening. What’s the use?”
I have known him for a long time. His parents and others have tried to give him guidance with little success. Because of his choices, he has become separated from the truths that would help him. He has not cultivated faith in the Master nor in the power of prayer. His decisions are centered on what could quickly satisfy his cravings. He either ignores problems or lies about them. He has manipulated the generosity of parents and friends to attempt a quick fix to challenges. He does not evaluate the consequences of today’s decisions on tomorrow’s life.
As my heart sorrowed for him, I realized he does not see the world as it really is—a place of joy and happiness, of true friendships where faith in Jesus Christ and obedience to His teachings invite the Holy Ghost to prompt correct decisions. He lives in an environment dominated by the influence of Satan. He has not followed sound counsel, because in his world he cannot see how it would possibly work for him. This distorted view of life is reality to him. It was forged as he succumbed to the subtle temptations of “Go ahead. Try it. Nobody will ever know. It’s your life. Live it the way you want to. They can’t force you. You have your moral agency.”
These promptings and the allure of the forbidden led him down a path that seemed fascinatingly attractive. He was carried on the crest of the wave of appetite and passion, oblivious to the consequences until the inevitable crushing encounter with the laws of God occurred. That produced pain, remorse, and regret. Then Satan provided other direction: “There is no way back. You might as well keep doing what you’ve been doing. It’s hopeless to try to change.” Because of his sins, he cannot see a way out of his failures. He will not see the tools needed for a new life in his current environment. His tragic, confining world has been created by the violation of eternal law, motivated by desire for a quick response.

As a teenage boy I watched my six-week-old sister, Carol, struggle with whooping cough at a time when there were no antibiotics. I came home one night from having been a grease monkey [mechanic] at a bus depot and saw the light was on. It was about four o’clock in the morning. I knew it meant trouble. As I came in, Carol was laid out on the round dining room table, and Dad was waiting for a neighbor to come to join in blessing her. I thought she was gone. It seemed to me she had quit breathing. Then I watched the power of the priesthood, and I watched her start breathing again. That experience let me know the reality of the priesthood at a very young age. Our prayers for her were answered.

Some prayers are answered dramatically, as with Carol. With others we must wait. But if we do that, in those waiting moments there will come to us special things.

The most outstanding example of individual effort that I know of is embodied in the college career of Jim Thorpe. Of Lamanite ancestry, he attended Carlisle Indian School. There he compiled a record that has never been approached. He was a halfback on the football team and was such a hard runner that for fun he would tell the other team which way he was coming. When his team had to punt, he could boot the ball 70 yards.
One year little Carlisle upset mighty Harvard, with Thorpe kicking four field goals and scoring a touchdown. Another time against Army, he scored two touchdowns, kicked three field goals and three extra points, and passed for another touchdown. He returned one Army kick 90 yards for a touchdown, but it was called back on a penalty. So Thorpe returned the next kickoff 95 yards!
In track and field, Carlisle faced a tough dual meet with unbeaten powerhouse Lafayette. Jim Thorpe showed up for the meet accompanied by one other man. Since Lafayette had a squad of 48 athletes, an official said, “You mean the two of you are the whole Carlisle team?”
“Nope,” said Thorpe. “Just me. The other fellow’s the student manager.”
Against Lafayette that day, Thorpe won the high jump, broad jump, shotput, discus, 120-yard hurdles, 220-yard hurdles, and finished third in the 100-yard dash. Carlisle won the meet 71–41.

Trust in the Lord. I still remember the feelings that flowed through my heart while I sat next to my bride in the sealing room of the temple: feelings of excitement, joy, and anxiety. Before we knelt at the altar, the temple president counseled us regarding the importance of what we were about to do. He explained that trials would come into our marriage. At the time his words seemed of little importance to me.
Now, years later, as my wife and I struggle with raising our teenage children, those words from the temple president have new meaning. I recall one night walking around our home, turning off lights, and sitting in an easy chair waiting for the last of our children to come home. The hands of the clock over the television set showed me that our son would not be honoring his curfew. The minutes passed, and dozing in my chair was out of the question.
As the hands of the clock moved past 2:45 A.M., I worried, Was my son hurt? Was he lying in the street someplace? At last I heard him come in. What was I to say? The confrontation lasted only a few minutes but seemed an eternity. Later my wife and I began to think more deeply about our role in our children’s lives.
Out of that night’s fear and in other times of conflict with our teenage children, we grew and changed in our approach. We realized that we needed to shift our attitude from worry that a child’s conduct might reflect poorly on us to one of deep and profound concern for his or her eternal welfare. We changed from parents who tried to sweep family problems under the rug to avoid embarrassment to parents who exercised faith as we weathered comments of unsupportive family members and neighbors and turned instead to the Lord for direction.
Through the turmoil of these trials, our marriage has grown stronger. We know that our kind and loving Heavenly Father established a step-by-step process for growth: “He that receiveth light, and continueth in God, receiveth more light; and that light groweth brighter and brighter until the perfect day” (D&C 50:24).
Through placing our trust in the Lord, we have seen this process of growth pull us to higher levels of gospel understanding and forge a deeper commitment to applying the teachings of the Savior in our lives.—Ron Hansen

Indio High School’s water polo team was surprising everybody. The Southern California 3-A championship game was half over, and they were thrashing the El Dorado Hawks, 7–3. Indio’s Rajahs were considered a Cinderella club, strong on teamwork but lacking the polish and size necessary to pull off an upset. Yet somehow they were winning the game!
Calvin Lowell, 17, braced himself at the edge of the pool, ready to sprint to the center. (In water polo each quarter begins when the referee tosses the ball to the middle of the water, and players swim toward it in a scramble for possession.) He knew El Dorado would come out fighting.
Cal looked up at his father, Dr. John Lowell, who was standing near one of the diving boards, ready to shout encouragement. It wasn’t just another case of a proud spectator cheering on his boy. Cal’s father is the Indio coach.
The whistle shrieked. Waves foamed and churned. One blazing shot after another skittered into the net, despite flailing arms and lunging defensive maneuvers. Two of Indio’s top players fouled out. The lead narrowed to 8–7. Each team scored again quickly. Then with two minutes and 36 seconds remaining in the fourth quarter, an El Dorado forward slapped the ball from the goalie’s hand and it floated into the net to knot the score at 9–9.
Coach Lowell bowed his head. Ignoring thousands of screaming fans, he said a silent prayer. He knew the Lord couldn’t promise a victory, but he hoped that each player would perform to the best of his ability. A new strategy came into his head, and he called a time out.
He gathered the players around him and counseled them to avoid the congested area just in front of the goals, concentrating on outside shots. Play resumed. The tactic worked perfectly, but the man who wound up free with the ball was the team’s poorest marksman. “Not him,” Coach Lowell wanted to shout. “Anybody but …”
The ball slammed into the goal’s canvas backing. Indio led again, 10–9. The same play worked twice more with other Indio shooters, while the Hawks tallied only one more point. The seconds timer read zero. The championship game was over, and the Rajahs had won, 12–10!
The CIF (California Interscholastic Federation) victory over El Dorado was the culmination of a lot of struggle and practice for the coach and his players. But more than that, it was the realization of a goal shared by a father and a son. Cal Lowell and his father, both active members of the Church, have been working together to build water polo in Indio for a long time.
The Lowell family came to the community under unusual circumstances. Brother Lowell had just finished his doctorate degree at BYU and was searching for a job. “I knew I wanted to coach swimming because Cal was in swimming. He showed talent as a youngster, and all I really wanted to do was help him develop it. I wanted to find a job that would allow me to spend time with my son.”
But after graduation Brother Lowell was 50 and unemployed. He’d been fasting and praying about finding a job and worrying particularly about his older son Ron who was still on a mission. As he sat at the kitchen table reading a swimming magazine, a small classified ad caught Brother Lowell’s attention. It described a coaching position available in a desert town 150 miles southeast of Los Angeles. Every detail seemed to be describing him. “It was like a hand came down on my shoulder, and I had to get up and call the number. I figured that an ad in a national magazine would already be filled, but I knew I had to call just the same. I told the man who answered the phone, ‘You may think I’m crazy, but I think the Lord wants me to come to Indio and coach swimming. I’m a Mormon, and I think that I’m being told that that’s what I should be doing.’ The man said, ‘I don’t think you’re crazy; I’m a Mormon, too!’” Brother Joe Rile, the man Brother Lowell had phoned, was on the board of directors for a private swim club in Indio. Soon the whole Lowell family was relocated.
When they arrived in Indio, there were good facilities, but there was no solid program for water polo. Brother Lowell started talking to community leaders, and Cal and his friends started “recruiting” potential players. The combined community and high school effort they initiated for both swimming and water polo has produced an enviable record.
Four boys formed the nucleus of the original team. (There are seven players per team, counting the goalie.) They played a summer of AAU league water polo in eighth grade before their freshman year in high school. In their first high school season they won athletic letters and started on the varsity polo team. In swimming they won the CIF freshman-sophomore 6-by-50-yard relay (freestyle). Then they captured the national Junior Olympics water polo crown (15 and under) in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and six of the players on that trip, including Cal, were named to the All-America team.
The next year Indio’s high school team won the league water polo championship and made it into the second round CIF playoffs. Then during swimming season they won four out of seven events in the CIF freshman-sophomore relays, setting three records, including one national record that beat the previous time by three seconds. Cal was the anchor (final) swimmer on all the relay squads and qualified for the state championships in all four strokes on varsity time standards as a sophomore.
Brother Lowell also arranged for the team to travel to Australia and to the Church College of New Zealand and to play several exhibition games en route. To help fund that project, the polo players swam 7,000 laps in a hotel pool, with people pledging money for each lap completed. During the tour they stayed part of the time with LDS families and were impressed by their friendly attitude, high standards, and enthusiasm for life. “They made us feel at home,” Guy Baker, one of Cal’s teammates, said. The team gained enough recognition with its 13–1–1 record during the tour to receive tentative invitations to Japan and Cuba next year.
But the team members feel the high school championship over El Dorado in 1977 still tops their list of achievements. No team outside the Los Angeles area had ever won the 3-A water polo title before. (And incidentally, all of the starting Indio players were named to the all-CIF team, and Brother Lowell was named coach of the year.) It’s indicative of the growth water polo has made since the Lowells arrived in Indio. So is the formation of the Indio Aquatics Club, an AAU (Amateur Athletic Union) organization founded by Brother Lowell, which stars the same swimmers in tournaments against amateur teams.
Both Cal and his father are quick to point out, though, that their success hasn’t come without effort. “When we organized our first summer polo program here,” Cal said, “we didn’t even know what the tournaments were. We called up team after team, but they wouldn’t practice with us. Mira Costa (150 miles away) was the only team that would play us, and that was at seven in the morning.” So Sister Lowell and the players got up at 4:00 A.M., drove for three hours, played the game, and drove home. (Brother Lowell had to work at the high school and couldn’t leave.) They lost 14–2. They battled through the rest of that initial AAU season, too. In nine of the eleven final games, they won by only one point. (But then they battled on in championship playoffs to the Junior Olympic title mentioned above.)

By the time I was old enough to understand what alcohol was, I knew my mom had a problem with it. Family members tried to hide her issue from my sister and me, but they could only conceal the early-morning binges and hangovers for so long.
Our mom was an alcoholic—and no excuse or elaborate story could change that.
As a young girl, I believed that addiction was a choice. I felt burned then each time my mom walked through our door with the scent of liquor on her breath after promising to let it go. It was like she didn’t want to change. But years of her painful tears, failed attempts, and crashing withdrawals taught me otherwise.
When I was in middle school, I began to realize that my mom’s addiction wouldn’t “go gentle into that good night,” as poet Dylan Thomas once wrote1—and not because she didn’t want to change. It wasn’t about the lack of willpower on her part or that she was choosing alcohol over her family. She was trapped in her addiction.
As President Russell M. Nelson explained: “Addiction surrenders later freedom to choose. Through chemical means, one can literally become disconnected from his or her own will!”2 Finding recovery would be a fight between her body and spirit for years to come.
After she had achieved six months of sobriety, I started to recognize my mom again—the one who used to dance in the car and write beautiful poetry and tell embarrassing jokes to all of my friends. It was as if someone behind the scenes suddenly switched back on the light in her eyes and was working overtime to keep it on. She hadn’t been sober for that long in years, and it felt good to have her back.
But it didn’t last. One night, before she had the chance to speak, my sister and I knew. Her glazed eyes and blushed cheeks said it all: after six months and four days, she had relapsed. For a moment, we considered walking out of the door, away from the worry and fear, but we knew that she wanted to change. We couldn’t do it for her, but we could support her as she walked the road to recovery.
Over the next few months, my sister and I looked for ways to help my mom keep pushing forward toward long-term sobriety. It wouldn’t be easy, but she had done it once, and we knew she could do it again.
Having witnessed my mom go through withdrawals before, we knew what to expect, so we gathered all of the liquor and wine bottles that we could find and dumped them down the drain. Then we stocked up on Gatorade at the grocery store and deep-cleaned the house; it was our best attempt to remove my mom from the environment that she was in when she relapsed.
After a few days, my mom was well enough to go back to work, but we knew the fight wasn’t over. Up until that point, the depth of her addiction was hidden from most of our family and friends. Over the years, it had become somewhat of a secret—a source of shame, something that social science researcher Brené Brown explains “derives its power from being unspeakable.”3 If we wanted her to stay sober, we needed to break the silence.
Deciding to open up to our family and some trusted friends was hard, but it was also liberating. Shame “corrodes the very part of us that believes we can change and do better,”4 so the very act of talking about her addiction gave my mom (and me!) hope again. We weren’t alone, and for the first time in years, we started to picture a life unruled by her addiction.
I’m not going to try to sugarcoat it: maintaining hope isn’t always easy. For years I supported my mom as she tried to get sober, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t experience sadness, disappointment, and frustration along the way. Speaking of the difficult journey one faces to overcome addiction, President Nelson explained: “Each one who resolves to climb that steep road to recovery must gird up for the fight of a lifetime. But a lifetime is a prize well worth the price.”5
Throughout my life, my mom has fallen down more times than I can count, but I’m proud to say that it’s been six years since she took a drink. Though it has taken me years of learning and relearning how to best support her, watching her recover has taught me that no one is ever too far gone. No matter how many times the person you love relapses, keep going—keep trying to support them in whatever way you can. Recovery is a lifelong commitment—a journey filled with tears, victories, failures, and triumphs—and it’s worth fighting for.

The letters, diaries, and autobiographies of past Church leaders contain many descriptions of this baptism of the Spirit. One of these was written by Lorenzo Snow, later an apostle, and still later a president of the Church. Elder Snow wrote that immediately following his immersion in the waters of baptism at the age of twenty-two, he expected to receive the Holy Ghost, and to have the promise fulfilled that he would “know of the doctrine, whether it be of God.” (John 7:17.) But Elder Snow did not receive this assurance immediately. He began to worry whether he had done wrong—whether God was displeased with him. Several weeks later, while studying the scriptures, he felt depressed and disconsolate. He left the house and walked outside, tormented by uncertainty and enveloped by “an indescribable cloud of darkness.” He had been in the habit of going to a small grove every evening to have secret prayer. On this particular day he was so dejected that he “felt no inclination” to pray. “The heavens seemed like brass over my head,” he wrote. Nevertheless, he forced himself to pray, and soon he heard a sound “like the restling of silken robes” above his head:

“… immediately the Spirit of God descended upon me, completely enveloping my whole person, filling me from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, and O the joy and happiness I felt! No language can describe the instantaneous transition from a dense cloud of mental and spiritual darkness into a refulgence of light and knowledge … I then received a perfect knowledge that God lives, that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and of the restoration of the Holy Priesthood, and of the fulness of the gospel. It was a complete baptism—a tangible immersion in the heavenly principle or element, the Holy Ghost; and even more real and physical in its effects upon every part of my system than the immersion of water.”

God had conferred upon him, he concluded, “that which is of greater value than all the wealth and honors worlds can bestow.”1

One Sunday, seated in front of the television with my cigarettes and usual bottle of wine, I heard the doorbell. Opening the door, I saw two young men in blue suits, with name tags identifying them as missionaries. The room I invited them into was full of smoke and the smell of alcohol, but they were undeterred and began to question me about my beliefs. Did I believe in God?
That made me stop and think. Though I had been baptized as a little boy, I had never been a churchgoer—I thought religion was not worth it. Rather, I believed in my conscience and the need to be honest with my fellowmen. Yet I surprised myself and answered yes to their question. As they continued and began to teach me about Joseph Smith and the Restoration, it seemed as though I had already heard their words. An indescribable feeling began to come over me, and I loved these young men. When they offered a prayer, I began to cry, and my heart began to swell until it would burst.
We made an appointment for the following Tuesday, and during the interval, my life passed before me as in a film. Until the age of twenty, I had abstained from alcohol. But then a business failure and financial difficulties sent me into a deep personal crisis, compounded by my wife’s illness and two-year convalescence in a distant hospital. I sought comfort in alcohol, and before long I began to drink quantities of strong spirits from morning until night. Add to that the 70 to 100 cigarettes I smoked daily and you can understand that my physical condition deteriorated gradually to the point where I was embarrassed about it.
At one point I entered a hospital to be detoxified, but the doctors were unable to help me and I became even more depressed. I had a good job and a wonderful family, but I needed to get out from under these vices. In desperation I abandoned myself even more completely to alcohol, at one point even attempting suicide. I tried to enter a private clinic for help, but could not afford the treatments. It was at this point that Elders Sorensen and Waterman entered my life.
When they returned for our second meeting, the two missionaries spoke to me of many new things that I did not know but felt were true. When they told me about the Word of Wisdom, I felt my heart sink, and I said “Tell me how I, of all persons, can give up alcohol, since I have tried every way I know how, and have had no success.” They asked me if I believed in God and in the things they had taught me and if I felt that I had faith in the Lord. I replied that I did.
“Good,” they said. “If you will listen to us, we’ll help you and the Lord will give you the power to overcome your problem.” “I’ll be infinitely grateful,” I answered. Their exhortations filled me with joy, with hope, and with faith, and I really desired in my heart to follow their guidance. When I prayed I felt more and more self-confidence, and from that morning, with my newborn courage, I imposed the rule that I would never drink cognac again. And I was able to maintain that rule though I suffered greatly. With the help of the elders, and with humility, I was able to gradually reduce the doses of other alcoholic beverages and of cigarettes. It was not easy, but I felt the Lord near to me, helping me. I felt that I had to do my part and that I would not be alone in this trial.
After a month and a half I was able to overcome my vices. Finally free, I felt ready to be baptized, with my wife, on December 28, 1977. I came up out of the baptismal waters renovated in body and spirit, sure that the Lord forgets our sins if we are truly repentant. I can’t explain what a joy it was to abandon the old me and see myself reborn full of trust in myself and love for my fellowman. I had an immense desire to recover all the lost time showing gratitude to the Lord with a commitment to do everything that he commanded me.
Following my baptism, my health improved day by day. At first I continued to arise in the morning full of aches and pains. Getting up was a painful trial. But after prayer, I was able to go about my work serenely until the evening, when the problems returned. But then, one great day, I arose and realized that I was finally free of the pains. From that time forward I have had no problems.
After a year of Church membership, we were able to go to the temple, where my wife and our three daughters were sealed to me. Now we are truly a united family. I have been blessed with a number of challenging callings in the Church and can bear witness that, with humility and faith in the Lord, there is nothing impossible for man. I know, too, that observance of the Word of Wisdom brings health and strength—and the desire to use that strength in the service of the Lord.

I loved Primary and had many wonderful teachers who taught me the gospel. One, though, was very special to me. Sister Mary Stevenson taught Primary in the LeGrand Ward in Salt Lake City. One summer she taught our class to play the harmonica. She told us that by summer’s end we would play for George Albert Smith, who was then the President of the Church.
We worked hard, and the important evening finally came. Before we left for President Smith’s house, Sister Stevenson told us that we were going to shake the hand of a prophet, that it would be a special experience, and that we would always remember it. What a thrill to be so close to a prophet!
To such a little boy as I was, President Smith looked very tall. He greeted us with a friendly smile. We played two or three of his favorite songs on our harmonicas. When we finished, he shook hands with each of us and thanked us for our visit. Sister Stevenson was right—I never forgot that experience. I shall always be grateful to my Primary teacher for such an opportunity.

Growing up on a ranch in southern Utah taught me a lot about working with animals and how dangerous they can be. We ran a herd of Hereford cows, including several bulls. I truly enjoyed working the cattle from the back of a horse and generally living a ranch life.
My family was active in the Church, and when we were living on the ranch, we always made the 30-mile trip on a gravel road to town for Sunday meetings. My parents taught me to pray, and throughout my life prayer has helped me through some difficult circumstances.
One day I learned to respond to the promptings of the Spirit quickly, and I believe it saved my life. At least it kept me from serious injury.
I was 14, and I was working not far away from the ranch house one summer day. I finished my work and was headed back through the corral that was enclosed by a very solid pole fence made of juniper posts and poles. Inside the corral was a herd of about 30 range cows, including our prime Hereford bull, Charlie, who weighed 2,000 pounds or more. My dad liked to have what he called “ton bulls,” and that certainly described Charlie.
I was walking along the pole fence, and Charlie was in my way, so I smacked him on his hip with my hand, and he scampered out of the way. I continued on past Charlie a few feet, with my back to him, when I heard what sounded like cows scuffling. I had heard that scuffling sound often and would have thought nothing of it, but something else went through my mind.
Quicker than I could even think about it, I knew I had to leap for my life. I lunged for the top pole of the fence, grabbed it, and yanked myself headfirst over onto the rocks and weeds on the other side. As I was about halfway across I had time to wonder if I had overreacted. I briefly even felt a bit embarrassed. Upon landing, I immediately looked back through the bottom poles to see what had happened, and there was Charlie’s massive head and horns, his nose about six inches from mine, staring at me through the fence with those empty, black eyes. It came to me forcefully that if I had questioned that instantaneous prompting for even the briefest moment, Charlie would have crushed me against the fence.
I learned two things from that experience. First was to never be on foot around a range herd. They don’t know you’re the boss unless you’re on a horse. Second, listen to the promptings of the Spirit without question—without hesitation. Satan is the one who tells you that you are overreacting. Living worthily (keeping the commandments, saying daily prayers, attending church, studying the scriptures) helped qualify me for spiritual gifts, especially a lightning-fast prompting to leap for my life.
I have not yet finished thanking my Heavenly Father for that blessing even though it’s been more than 50 years.

Some years later I again visited the Grand Junction Stake. Again I met the same parents. Still the father had not qualified to have his large and beautiful family join mother and father in a sacred sealing ceremony, that this family might be a forever family. I suggested that if the family would earnestly pray, they could qualify. I indicated that I would be pleased to be with them on that sacred occasion in the temple of God. Mother pleaded, Father strived, children urged, all prayed. The result? Let me share with you a treasured letter that their young son placed under Daddy’s pillow on Father’s Day morning.
Dad:
I love you for what you are and not for what you aren’t. Why don’t you stop smoking? Millions of people have … why can’t you? It’s harmful to your health, your lungs, your heart. If you can’t keep the Word of Wisdom you can’t go to heaven with me, Skip, Brad, Marc, Jeff, Jeannie, Pam, and their families. Us kids keep the Word of Wisdom. Why can’t you? You are stronger, and you are a man. Dad, I want to see you in heaven. We all do. We want to be a whole family in heaven … not half of one.
Dad, you and Mom ought to get two old bikes and start riding around the park every night. You are probably laughing right now, but I wouldn’t be. You laugh at those old people jogging around the park and riding bikes and walking, but they are going to outlive you. Because they are exercising their lungs, their hearts, their muscles. They are going to have the last laughs.
Come on, Dad, be a good guy—don’t smoke, drink, or anything else against our religion. We want you at our graduation. If you do quit smoking and do good stuff like us, you and Mom can go with Brother Monson and get married and sealed to us in the temple.
Come on, Dad—Mom and us kids are just waiting for you. We want to live with you forever. We love you. You’re the greatest, Dad.
Love, Todd
P.S. And if the rest of us wrote one of these, they’d say the same thing.
P.P.S. Mr. Newton has quit smoking. So can you. You are closer to God than Mr. Newton!
That plea, that prayer of faith, was heard and answered. A night I shall ever treasure and long remember was when this entire family assembled in a sacred room in the beautiful temple that graces Temple Square in Salt Lake City. Father was there. Mother was there. Every child was there. Ordinances, eternal in their significance, were performed.
A united prayer of gratitude brought to a close this long-awaited evening.

When I was a small child, I remember coming into my mother’s room and seeing her cry as she read a book. I had never seen her do this, and I asked what she was reading. She said it was a book about a man named Spencer W. Kimball, a prophet of God. She told me many wonderful things about what he had done with his life. From that moment on, I felt that a prophet was someone I could trust and love, especially if my mother felt that way. So when my Young Women leaders asked me to find a message in President Gordon B. Hinckley’s talk, I knew there would be one for me.
As I listened and read through the prophet’s talk, the personal message I found was that I needed to work on reading the scriptures and pondering and praying about them.
Every night, before I went to bed, I would read the scriptures. I would ponder and pray, asking my Father in Heaven if they were true. As I finished and climbed into bed, I felt a warm, tingly sensation through me. I knew my prayers were being answered. Through the week I found I was happier and more helpful. I did better in school. I found the time to study and remembered what I was taught. Usually my mother and I argue about things, but that week I found the patience to listen and understand her point of view, which is something that isn’t easy for me. I felt better about myself than I had in ages. I also noticed the Lord made more time for me to continue my scripture studies.
My testimony was strengthened. I felt worthier—all from reading the scriptures every night before going to bed.
I want to keep those same feelings for the rest of my life. I want to keep on getting those many blessings. And all these blessings had come to me from listening to President Hinckley. I want to have such a wonderful change come over me and become as close to Jesus and Heavenly Father as I do when I read my scriptures.
Young women all over the world, I challenge each of you to listen to the prophet and find something you can improve on, so you can receive the blessings when you follow his advice. I know it works. It is definitely worth it, because you receive so much more than you give. We will always be in debt to Heavenly Father. I know you will draw closer to our Father in Heaven and his Son, Jesus Christ, as you listen to the words of the prophet. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.