Gospel Story Finder

Things were going wonderfully as the first year of my mission went by. Then, when I was serving in Córdoba, Argentina, I received some sad news from home: my father was very ill. He had recently undergone surgery, and the doctors had found that his illness was much advanced, in the terminal stage.
The mission president decided that I should go home, visit my father, and return to the mission field the next day. So I went home and found my father on the verge of death, most of the time unconscious and immobile. I spent most of my time at his bedside. Those were hours of sorrow, of peace, and of the abundant companionship of the Spirit. All my thoughts were centered on the Lord and His great plan.
At some point my father regained consciousness. He looked at me but did not recognize me. However, as I began to express how much I loved him and how grateful I was to be his son, he realized he was listening to his eldest child, the missionary. Tears started to roll down his cheeks, and making great effort to communicate, he said, “Your mother is a saintly woman; she is our example.” Then I clearly heard these words from his lips: “Even if you don’t have anything to eat, always pay your tithing.”
He did not say much more. I wrote down his words in my journal, left the house, and returned to the mission field. A few hours later my father passed away.

I was baptised into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in my mid-20s in London, joining a host of new young single adult friends in my newfound faith. During the first sacrament meeting following my baptism, I was asked to come to the front of the chapel, and the congregation was invited to raise their hands as a sign of welcome to the ward and to the Church.
This was an unfamiliar practice to me. But I looked into those smiling faces, and I felt as if they were cheering me on, genuinely thrilled that I had discovered faith in Jesus Christ and a desire to follow Him. Many of my new friends had recently experienced this same welcome and transition into a life of faith.
A week later, I was invited to meet with the bishop. He had taken time to get to know me when I was being taught by the missionaries. He rocked back in his chair, thwacking a ruler into his palm, and told me that we were meeting because he had a calling for me. He had prayed—about me—and he told me the calling would be of benefit to me and my future service to the Lord in His Church. He extended the calling of assistant ward clerk. The reaction in my mind was, “Assistant ward clerk? Well, that is not me!” Fortunately, a little grace intervened, and I responded with a “thank you” and that I would endeavour to learn what was involved. I did not have a clue.
At church the next Sunday, I was asked to stand as my calling was announced. My ward family was invited to raise their hands if they agreed to sustain me. Comfortingly, I saw those same raised hands and smiling faces surrounding me in the congregation, reassuring me that these new friends would support me with their goodwill, patience, and faith.
The ward clerk I was to be “assisting” came straight to me at the end of the meeting and said, “Come on, Patrick. I’ll show you how this works.” Over the coming months, he did show me how everything worked, sitting side by side, often for hours—in the small clerk’s office. (To be clear, that’s a small office for clerks, not an office for small clerks.)
Other callings followed. My bishop kept a loving eye on me and eventually shared that he had felt prompted by the Lord to extend callings which would be stretching for me but, he trusted, not overwhelming. I came to see purpose and power in each calling I received, and with hindsight, the bishop’s inspiration came to make sense to me.

I had the privilege of seeing this on a grand scale in the U.S. Senate, where there is normally an imbalance between the show horses and the work horses. I can vividly remember standing next to Lyndon Johnson, then majority leader, one day in a Senate chamber anteroom as we both read the ticker tape with a news story about a major bill coming out of a Senate committee after months of labor. One senator, who had not been attending the sessions while the hearings were being held and the tedious testimony was being taken, had managed, nevertheless, to show up the very day the bill was reported out of committee to take his bows before waiting TV cameras. He was one of those senators who would show up for the opening of an envelope. The man at my side, later to become president, profaned in his disgust for the show horse senator, declaring that the show horse senator was also a lazy liberal who let other liberals do the work while he took the bows.

So often in human affairs I have learned the many depend upon the few to lead, to set the pace, to show the way, to deal with the detail.

by Sister Julia SadleirGeorgia Atlanta Mission
When I was on my mission several years ago, my companion and I rented a studio apartment from Mrs. Hill, an older widow with a strict contract on what she expected while we were living there. It seemed the minute we walked in the house, she would call us to complain. We would always be nice and try harder to please her, but she would constantly find fault.
One incident stands out. We were told not to touch any cats that wandered onto her property. One day we came home and found a cat by our porch. Being an animal lover, my natural instinct took over and I picked the cat up and petted it. Within seconds the phone rang. It was Mrs. Hill, who said, “I saw that! I told you never to touch any cats on my property! I hate cats! I do not want to see this happen again.” I apologized.
Come December it was time to get into the Christmas spirit, so my companion and I made holiday-shaped sugar cookies and decorated them with colored frosting and sprinkles. We made a list of people we planned to give them to, and I said, “Why don’t we include Mrs. Hill? Who knows how she’ll react, but after all, it’s Christmas.”
We put some cookies on a plate and knocked on Mrs. Hill’s back door. When she answered, we said, “Merry Christmas!”
She was touched and also impressed that we had made them ourselves. “I never saw such beautiful cookies,” she said. “They look too pretty to eat. I will have one and save the rest for my grandchildren who are coming to visit today.” She thanked us and wished us a merry Christmas too.
We walked away and couldn’t believe that was the same Mrs. Hill. Even weeks later, she would thank us and inform us she’d told all her friends and family about the beautiful cookies.
Soon she started asking questions about our work. We invited her to take the discussions so she could learn for herself what we share with others. She gladly accepted, so we made an appointment and began teaching Mrs. Hill the gospel. Her countenance changed and she became the nicest person. She loved the Book of Mormon. When she finished it, she shared its truths with others.
It all started with a small plate of cookies. “Out of small things proceedeth that which is great” (D&C 64:33).

Katharine was so absorbed in looking out the window that she did not know anyone was in the large bare room watching her. Her face was sharp and pinched. Her arms and legs were so thin that they looked like pipestems. Her hair was jet black, and she didn’t know how to comb it.
Deep in the shadow of the room Elizabeth Blackwell stood and wondered about adopting this girl. Of the four hundred children in the orphanage she seemed almost the least desirable. Yet in Elizabeth’s many visits the child had been like a magnet, capturing her interest and her heart.
Elizabeth was lonely. Years of determination and work and study had brought fulfillment of her great desire to be a doctor. She was the first woman in America to graduate from a medical school, and she was beloved by the people of her hospital and by those whom she helped at the clinic. Her hours were filled with the needs of children and their mothers as she blazed a pioneer trial of service.
Watching the girl at the window, Elizabeth thought of the student friend she had known in Paris and of the life she might have been sharing with him. She had chosen to be a doctor, however, so that she might be of service to mothers and their children who needed her help. The time was 1850, and the place was New York City.
The matron at the orphanage knew very little about the girl at the window. Her age might be seven or eight; she was Irish and had no family or friends. She answered to the name of Katharine. That was all.
“Why do you seem so interested in her?” the matron asked Dr. Blackwell. “She is so weak and spindly-looking. She will not be of much help to you. I thought you were looking for a strong, intelligent child you could train to be a helper.”
“I thought so too,” was Elizabeth’s sober reply. “But this child needs me more than any of the others.”
So Elizabeth filled out the papers, picked up the small bag containing all of Katharine’s belongings, and walked over to the child, who was still watching the beautiful sunset through the dingy window.
She took one of Katharine’s small hands in hers and asked, “Would you like to go home with me, dear?”
The eyes lifted to her were bright and clear. After a moment Katharine said, “Oh, yes, but could we please wait until the colors fade?”
Elizabeth dropped to her knees before the window, and together the woman and child watched until the bright sunset colors had faded to a pale yellow glow. The oneness shared in that moment was to last for half a century.
That night as Elizabeth carried her up to bed, Katharine knew a great contentment. As she snuggled down in the warm covers of her new bed in her new home, Katharine knew and returned a great love.

Lala loved to watch ants. “Pelusa,” she would say to her cat, “see those two ants trying to carry a crumb of bread to their hill. One ant is going one way and the other is going a different way. They’ll never get anywhere if they keep that up!”
Pelusa sat in the shade licking himself. Though he never said anything, Lala knew that he always listened.
Lala and her family lived in a small adobe hut in the dry highlands of northern Mexico. It was perfect country for ants. Among the cacti and thorny bushes around Lala’s house there were hundreds of anthills. However, no one ever visited them except Lala and Pelusa.
In her pockets Lala always carried pieces of bread. Finding an anthill, she would crumble the bread several feet away, then sit and wait for the ants to discover their meal. Before long the ants would join into a long, straight line between the crumbled-up bread and their nest. Each ant would carry home a crumb.
Watching the ants work, Lala daydreamed about the ants’ world beneath the ground … Someplace in a big chamber the ant queen must be laying eggs. Somewhere else nurse ants must be taking care of baby ants. And worker ants must be digging new tunnels, while soldier ants guard the colony’s entrance.
“How I would love to go inside the ant’s tunnels,” Lala often said to her cat. But Pelusa would only stretch and yawn.
Late one hot afternoon, something small and white fluttered past the adobe hut’s open door. Pelusa streaked from the door, chasing it, and Lala called, “It’s just a turkey feather, Pelusa, being blown by a whirlwind. Come back!”
However, Pelusa was already far away, so Lala ran after him. Eventually, her pet’s tracks led Lala into Mulehead Valley. Never had Lala been so far from home alone. She was about to turn back when she heard a familiar meow. It was coming from an abandoned mine shaft beneath a big rock balanced at the base of Mulehead Hill.
“Pelusa, come out!” Lala called into the deep hole. But the cat did not come out. Then, even though Lala knew better, she entered the mine. Pelusa was only a little way inside. He was intently staring at a pile of rubble into which he had chased a mouse. “Silly cat.” Lala laughed, and gave him a hug.
And then it happened! Turning around, Lala’s shoulder knocked something loose, and the big rock over the mine’s entrance fell with a thud. Suddenly everything inside the mine shaft was dark and quiet. “Pelusa,” Lala whispered huskily, “I think we’re in trouble!”
When the dust settled and Lala’s eyes became used to the dark, she saw a tiny crack between the rock and the mine’s entrance. She put her eye next to the crack and looked across Mulehead Valley. “They’ll never find us here,” she said to Pelusa. “And if this is what it’s like being in an ant’s tunnel, I don’t like it!”
The next morning, Lala and Pelusa were very hungry. “Pelusa!” Lala cried. “I just remembered! I have some bread in my pocket.”
Lala ate enough to make her stomach feel better. However, Pelusa didn’t like bread.
“Well, I’ll just push a little bread through the crack,” Lala declared. “Maybe the ants will eat breakfast with me then.”
The long morning hours passed. Lala was about to give up hope when she heard an anxious voice calling, “Lala, are you in there?”
“Papa, is that you?” Lala cried. Pelusa meowed for the first time since the rock fell.
Before long the big rock was moved out of the way, and Lala was in her father’s arms outside in the fresh air and sunlight. “Oh, Papa!” Lala whooped. “How did you ever find us?”
“Well, I was walking across Mulehead Valley, looking for you,” he explained, “when I came across a long line of ants. Every ant carried a piece of bread. Now who but you feeds bread to ants? I followed the line right up to the mine entrance. I’m so grateful that you remembered to feed the ants this morning!”
“Papa!” Lala exclaimed. “Tonight we must make a sweet, sweet cake with plenty of icing on it, and it must be so big that we can leave a piece on every anthill for miles around!”
And that is exactly what they did.

Yearning to find the truth, Wilford Woodruff attended many religious meetings in the area around his home. At one such gathering, permission was given for anyone in the congregation to speak. Young Wilford stood, knowing that 40 or more ministers of various churches were in attendance. He stepped into the aisle and said:

“My friends, will you tell me why you don’t contend for the faith once delivered to the Saints? Will you tell me why you don’t contend for that Gospel that Jesus Christ taught, and that His Apostles taught? Why do you not contend for that religion that gives unto you power before God, power to heal the sick, to make the blind to see, the lame to walk, and that gives you the Holy Ghost and those gifts and graces that have been manifest from the creation of the world? Why do you not teach the people those principles that the ancient Patriarchs and Prophets taught while they were clothed with the revelations of God? They had the administrations of angels; they had dreams and visions, and constant revelation to guide and direct them in the path in which they should walk.”

The people at the meeting must have been surprised to hear such bold language from such a young man. Immediately, the presiding minister tried to discount the ideas Wilford Woodruff had shared. “My dear young man,” he said, “you would be a very smart man, and a very useful man in the earth, if you did not believe all those foolish things. These things were given to the children of men in the dark ages of the world. … Today we live in the blaze of the glorious gospel light, and we do not need those things.”

Unconvinced by this minister’s comments, Wilford replied, “Then give me the dark ages of the world; give me those ages when men received these principles.”3

A few months later, during Christmas time, Radmila began to hear more about Jesus Christ. There were shows on television about his life, and people talked about him more. She wanted to learn about him, and she remembered the Book of Mormon. She began to read it. “I couldn’t understand a thing,” she recalls. “It wasn’t that the German was too difficult for me, it was just that I didn’t understand words like repentance because I had never heard of them before.”
She decided she would call the missionaries for help. At the same time, two new missionaries were praying for inspiration about which investigators on their list to visit. They both felt that Radmila needed them. When they knocked, she opened the door and said, once again, “Oh, come in—I’ve been waiting for you.”
She still didn’t want to hear the missionary discussions, but she set up a study schedule with them. Each week she would read ten chapters in the Book of Mormon, write down her thoughts, and then discuss them with the missionaries.
“They were so patient with my sometimes provoking and unimportant questions,” she says. “One time I told them not to come in because I hadn’t read that week. They suggested that we read together. We started reading about Ammon, and then they said they had to leave. I couldn’t believe it. For the first time, I was beginning to feel the Spirit and get excited about the book. As soon as they left, I went to my room and finished the story.”

Devon, it is time to get ready for prayer.
But I am ready.
No, Devon. You should kneel, fold your arms, and close your eyes when you pray. You should also be still. It shows respect for Heavenly Father.
Devon dropped his toy truck, folded his arms, and knelt next to Mom.
How does Heavenly Father listen to me? Does He have ears?
Yes, He does have ears. He listens when you say your prayers.
Devon said his prayer and stayed on his knees with his head bowed and arms folded for a few seconds after he had finished.
He’s not talking back. Are you sure He is listening?
Heavenly Father usually answers our prayers by talking to our hearts and minds rather than talking to our ears. He does this through the Holy Ghost.
Devon, how do you feel when you share?
Happy.
And how do you feel when you do something wrong—like throw your toys?
I feel bad.
The Holy Ghost helps us have these feelings to let us know right and wrong. He also helps us have ideas about what things we can do to be happier.
There are other ways we can know Heavenly Father is listening. Remember how He helped Grandma feel better after she got a priesthood blessing?
Yes, I’m glad Grandma felt better.
Just because you do not hear Heavenly Father talking to you, that does not mean that He isn’t listening. He sends you warm, good feelings to let you know He is there.
Devon felt happy.
Now I know, Mom. Heavenly Father does listen to me.

Recently I had the opportunity of congratulating a special young lady upon her graduation from college. Knowing she had achieved this lofty goal under extreme difficulties, I said, “Would you mind telling me in one word how you were able to achieve this great accomplishment?” While she paused momentarily, words like courage, determination, and faith flashed through my mind as I anticipated her answer. Then without hesitation she said, “Elder Ashton, the word is commitment.”
Most of us who have ever heard of the great American leader Abraham Lincoln will recall what he said of his mother: “All that I am, all that I hope to be, I owe to my Angel mother.” (In Abraham Lincoln’s Philosophy of Common Sense, ed. Edward J. Kempf, 3 parts, New York: The New York Academy of Sciences, 1965, 1:60.) But how many of us know what his mother’s last words to him were? They were “Be something, Abe.”
Not only is this wise counsel, but it also expresses the yearnings of most fathers’ and mothers’ hearts to have their children be something. Simple terms, but, oh, how powerful, “Be something.” I am so pleased she didn’t say, “Be someone.” She said, “Be something, Abe.” There is a significant difference. In the dictionary someone is defined as “conceived or thought of, but not definitely known,” while something is identified as “a person or thing of importance.”
Abraham Lincoln’s mother knew her son, his potential, and the rocky roads ahead of him; hence, she wanted him to commit himself promptly to being steadfast and immovable in living and promoting deeds of courage and faith in the lives of all mankind.
A word of hope is poured out on every generation of people by those who advocate accomplishment, an exemplary life, living up to one’s abilities, and keeping one’s commitments.
True happiness is not made in getting something. True happiness is becoming something. This can be done by being committed to lofty goals. We cannot become something without commitment.
Commitment as a word cannot stand alone. We must always ask, “Committed to what?” As all of us blend into the programs of the Church, it behooves us to set goals for ourselves in order to reap the blessings of self-improvement and excellent performance in given assignments.
“Verily I say, men should be anxiously engaged in a good cause, and do many things of their own free will, and bring to pass much righteousness;
“For the power is in them, wherein they are agents unto themselves. And inasmuch as men do good they shall in nowise lose their reward.
“But he that doeth not anything until he is commanded, and receiveth a commandment with doubtful heart, and keepeth it with slothfulness, the same is damned.” (D&C 58:27–29.)
As we search for good causes, we must consider our own needs, but also we must live in compliance with gospel teachings.
President Spencer W. Kimball at the Regional Representatives Seminar of April 3, 1975, said, “I believe in goals, but I believe that the individual should set his own. Goals should always be made to a point that will make us reach and strain. Success should not necessarily be gauged by always reaching the goal set, but by progress and attainment.”
In setting our own goals we need to examine our own needs and abilities. The direction in which we are moving is more important than where we are at the moment. Goal setting should cause us to stretch as we make our way.
Self-examination is most difficult. Surveys have shown that most people take credit for success to themselves, but blame their failures on external forces or other people. It would be well, when confronted with problems, to be able to ask the same questions the Twelve Apostles asked during the Last Supper.
“Now when the even was come, he sat down with the twelve.
“And as they did eat, he said, Verily I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me.
“And they were exceeding sorrowful, and began every one of them to say unto him, Lord, is it I?” (Matt. 26:20–22.)
When our progress seems to be at a standstill, it is well for us to ask who is at fault. Is it I? Am I sufficiently committed to righteous goals? Do I have the courage, fortitude, and wisdom to apply self-examination—or will I be inclined to try and decide which of my associates will fail?
William Clement Stone, a Chicago millionaire, in an interview said, “Only if you have drive, the push, ‘the want to’ will you succeed in any field.” He went on to say, “Regardless of your religious beliefs, read the Bible, the most inspirational book of all time. And learn to employ the power of prayer.” This man had learned the value of commitment. He had the “want to.” He had also learned to turn to God for direction, guidance, and help.
Many people are motivated by spiritual goals. The question is, “For what reasons?” Is it because of good feelings and promised rewards, or is it because of fear of not living the commandments? The best motivation is toward the positive. Total commitment to correct gospel principles brings joy, satisfaction, and the abundant life.
Dale Carnegie once said, “If you are not in the process of becoming the person you want to be, you are automatically engaged in becoming the person you don’t want to be.”
However, we must realize not all problems of life can be solved at once. A commitment to solve our daily needs and the reaching of immediate lesser goals will bring meaningful successes. Realize that God will judge you by the way you make use of all your possibilities. It is wise and proper to want to make the most of every opportunity, but don’t quit or weep because of failure or disappointments. Break down big commitments into smaller ones that you can handle. Then self-esteem will grow and commitment toward goals of greater magnitude will become possible. The journey of success is long and is dotted with a series of commitments to worthy goals. A person does not become committed to worthwhile goals just by making the declaration or decision. It must be daily progression toward established purposes.
When one is wholly committed, added strengths and talents become evident. Assistance comes from unexpected sources. Who of us has not accepted some assignment with fear and trepidation, feeling totally inadequate to take on such a responsibility? But with concern and obedience we move forward—working hard and praying often. As the task is completed, to our surprise, we have been successful. We humbly realize that our own abilities have been added upon.
Goethe wrote, “What you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.” (Faust: Vorspiel auf dem Theater, 1:227, as translated by John Anster, Faustus, A Dramatic Mystery: Prelude at the Theatre, 1:303, 1835.) We would add that commitment has genius, power, and magic in it.
The scriptures say it this way: “For I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them.” (1 Ne. 3:7.)
A truly committed person does not falter in the face of adversity. Until one is committed, there is a chance to hesitate, to go off in another direction, or to be ineffective. Members within our ranks who are committed to living the gospel of Jesus Christ will not be affected by the rationale of hecklers.
Our enemies are becoming more hostile with each passing week. They seem intent on not only deceiving the uncommitted among us but on leading astray even the elect. They criticize our leaders. They scoff at what we consider to be sacred. They mock ordinances and covenants we know to be true and holy. They delight in discovering and sharing human flaws and frailties among our leaders past and present rather than acknowledging and benefiting from the truths they taught. They go to the tree, and instead of enjoying the fruit thereof, they point out the scars discovered on the tree trunk.
Do not be deceived. God will not be mocked. (See Gal. 6:7.) We have no intention of quarreling or demanding equal time to refute. We invite the dissenters as well as all others to open their eyes and see the beauties and thrills available to those who walk in His path looking for the good.
For example, it is a sad day in the life of any individual or group when by present training, attitude, and design, they would go to a football game and judge the participants by the dirt and grime on their uniforms rather than by how many tackles were made or yards gained.
By the same token, where is the pleasure for these same people who, attending a big league baseball game, will not cheer or clap for the home run hitter who drives in the winning runs but would rather dwell upon the fact that when the star, according to their research, was in grade school he was kept after school for misconduct? Woe unto those who feast on the dirt and the distasteful instead of the fruits.
Contrast those attitudes with that demonstrated by an elderly widow acquaintance of ours who travels to the temple every morning, spends the day attending sessions, and returns home by bus tired and worn just because “I love everyone, even those I cannot see.” Her attendance record? “I go every day it is open. Sometimes when I don’t feel too strong it is difficult, but I make it somehow.” The word is commitment.

Soon I had brought many names to the temple, but I still questioned if my ancestors on the other side of the veil were accepting these ordinances. I wondered if I was making a difference.
So I prayed for reassurance. And the next time I went to the temple, as I was finishing a sealing for one of my ancestors, the temple sealer turned to me with tears in his eyes. He told me that he could feel my ancestor’s excitement in receiving the ordinance.
I knew that God had answered my prayer and that my proxy work was indeed making a difference.

Kenny slouched on the sofa with his head down. He was folding and refolding a paper in his hands. When the door opened, he didn’t look up. He knew it was his mother. She had just finished burying his fish, Mike.
“What are you doing?” Mom asked as she hung up her coat.
“Nothing—just making a paper airplane.”
Mom went over to Kenny. She ran her fingers through his soft brown hair. “Want to tell me what you’re thinking?” she asked.
How can Mom understand how I feel? Kenny thought. Mike was just a plain old fish that his friend Mike had given him when he had moved. That’s why Kenny had named the fish Mike.
Mom patted Kenny’s head and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll have dinner ready in a minute,” she said.
Kenny watched his mother with his eyes half raised, not caring what she fixed for dinner. He felt sick and laid his head on the arm of the sofa and closed his eyes.
“Ready for dinner?” Mom called later. “We’re having tacos.”
“I’m not hungry,” Kenny answered, keeping his eyes closed. He opened his eyes when he felt his mother sit down beside him.
“I miss Mike, too,” Mom said softly. “I enjoyed watching him swim through his bridge and hide in the shell.”
“He was a good fish,” said Kenny as he sat up. “He helped me remember Mike and all the fun we had. Why did he have to die, Mom?”
She paused for a moment, looking perplexed. “I don’t know, Kenny,” she finally answered. “All living things have to die. Maybe it was Mike’s time to die.”
“Will I die?” Kenny asked, looking up at his mother.
“Yes, Kenny,” she said, “someday you’ll die too. But only our bodies die. Our spirits live forever. Do you remember what we talked about in family home evening just after Grandma died?”
“Yeah, Dad told us that Jesus died and His body was buried. But Mary went to the place where He was buried and saw Him. He wasn’t dead any more!”
“That’s right, Kenny. And because of Him, we will all live again. If we’re good, we’ll go back to Heavenly Father, and we’ll be happy.”
“Is Mike happy?” asked Kenny.
“Yes, Kenny, I think he is,” said Mom. “Heavenly Father created Mike too. I’m sure there’s a place prepared just for him.”
“Will I see Mike again?” Kenny asked, sitting up straight. His eyes shone with excitement. “Just like you said I would see Grandma again someday?”
Mom took hold of Kenny’s hands and said, “Kenny, I can’t answer that. But Heavenly Father knows how much you love Mike. Everything will turn out for your good.”
“Do you promise?” asked Kenny.
“Even better than that, Son,” Mom replied, “Jesus promises.”
Kenny thought for a minute. He picked up his airplane and turned it slowly in his hands. “You know, Mom,” Kenny said, looking up with a smile, “I think Mike would want to know about his namesake. Will you help me write him a letter? But let’s eat first. I’m hungry!”

Years ago, when my father was in the evening of his days on this earth, I encountered him reading his patriarchal blessing. He marveled that the old patriarch, John Smith, in the Sugarhouse Ward eighty years before, could have told him in outline what had come to pass in his life. “Everything has been fulfilled in my blessing,” he said, “except one thing.”

“What is that?” I asked.

He replied, “My blessing said that if I sought the will of the Lord I should preside over a stake in Zion.”

I said, “Did the patriarch make a mistake, Dad?”

“No,” he said abruptly. “The General Authorities called me to serve, but I’d just returned from a three-year mission to England. I was an older man. I had a large family that had worked to keep me there. My business partner, O. S. Stapley, had carried the burdens of our business, so I told the Authorities to let me get on my feet financially, and then I would be glad to serve, but I was never called again.”

There was no further comment, but I sensed without any moralizing on my father’s part that he wanted me to hear this story and draw my own conclusions.

When I began attending therapy the following year, I was able to start working through my thoughts. My therapist pointed out that I had a tendency to be an all-or-nothing type of person. I believed that either I had to be perfect at keeping the commandments or I wasn’t strong enough. And I realized I had decided that because I couldn’t feel God in my life, He didn’t exist. But looking back on my life, I knew that couldn’t be true. And so I realized the issue was me, not God.
Ever since I was little, I had engraved into my mind this idea that if I wasn’t perfect, I would never be good enough. Of course, because no one is perfect, I found myself swimming in a sea of insecurities. I was uncomfortable with the idea that I could be worth something. It was because of this that I always felt like I didn’t measure up and didn’t deserve anyone’s love—including God’s.
For a while, I had tried to combat my loneliness and feelings of inadequacy by trying to be everything. I busied myself with every activity I could find to keep my mind off the real issues in my life. And I spent an excessive amount of time considering others’ needs as a way to avoid having to focus on my own. I tutored, played tennis, baked for all my friends and neighbors, and became a teaching assistant. I also worked part-time, took a lot of classes, and was the president of multiple clubs and groups on campus.
To those looking from the outside, I was the girl who had it all together. What they couldn’t see was that inside, I was desperately searching for something to make me feel good enough. But always trying to do more and more only brought added confusion into my life as to who I was and who I wanted to be.
Toward the end of my freshman year I realized how badly paralyzed I had become by my feelings of worthlessness. I had allowed myself to be so overwhelmingly insecure that I denied myself all the amazing things life offered and was becoming numb to my own life.
I stepped back and wondered why, despite doing so much, I still felt nothing. This sent me into a dark depression. What do you do when you feel absolutely abandoned by God?
Anxious to move forward but feeling empty as I wondered how God really felt about me, I realized that something inside of me needed to change. This realization started me on the path to feeling God’s love for me.
At first, I didn’t know how to start; that task alone felt daunting. But over the next year, I relied on the Lord and His infinite goodness to get me through each day. I found so much strength and peace of mind in reading the messages of prophets, pondering the temple covenants I had made, setting even just 10 minutes aside each night to read the scriptures, and communing with Heavenly Father in prayer throughout the day.
As I did these things, I began to see His hand in my life. I didn’t know who I was or what path in life to choose. I didn’t know what path could ever make me feel good enough. But I soon realized that what I really needed was to know who I was to God.
I am now in my last semester at university. Among all the stresses of being a student, employee, daughter, sister, and friend, I have realized that knowing my worth and understanding how God feels about me are vital to my success in all that I do.
There are still many unknowns about my future, and that’s OK.
For me, knowing that I don’t have to be perfect right now helps get me through each day. I know that God is aware of me. I also know that even when I can’t feel His love, He still is patiently working with me.
Over the past few years of this struggle, God has helped me discover qualities and talents in myself that I would have never noticed before. Most importantly, in time, through personal revelation and daily efforts to understand God’s will for me, I’ve learned how He feels about me. I’ve been able to draw liberally on the Savior’s power and the blessings of His Atonement in my life. This has helped me to feel God’s love and know that I am His beloved daughter.
In reading the messages of the prophets, I was touched when I read these words from President Russell M. Nelson: “Feelings of worth come when a woman follows the example of the Master. Her sense of infinite worth comes from her own Christlike yearning to reach out with love, as He does.”
He also noted, “[A woman’s] self-esteem is earned by individual righteousness and a close relationship with God.”1 From this, I have come to understand that who I am is more than the combination of the things I do or say. I am an eternal being with an extraordinary calling to lead with love and compassion, just as the Savior did. And that understanding transcends anything my depression may try to tell me.
Even now, I still find myself sometimes forgetting what God’s love feels like and what lasting joys there are in the smallest and most ordinary moments of life. But the miracle of Christ’s Atonement is that it is not only for repentance; His grace also enables us to get through each day and to love ourselves. I forget that fact a lot, but it is still true.
There is no escaping that we are prone to human nature and that these moments of divine clarity and inspiration may not always feel so true. So to help us, we can write down and look back on the times when we have felt God’s love. We can keep trying to seek ways to feel that love. Our daily worship and continued efforts to deepen our personal holiness will not only strengthen our relationship with our Heavenly Father but also increase our personal happiness and self-esteem. Christ can magnify these efforts to help us become who our Father in Heaven wants us to be.
I am determined to keep trying because I have hope in Christ. I know that life will continue to get better and that I will grow as I rely on Him. Once I discovered how infinite God’s love for me was, I was able to find greater strength each day to push past heartbreaks and overcome my feelings of inadequacy and my need for perfection.
When I find myself falling back into my insecurities, I remember that God thinks that I am funny, kind, giving, and beautiful. Most of all, I remember that He sees me trying.
President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) declared: “God’s love is there for you whether or not you feel you deserve [it]. It is simply always there.”2 I am so grateful for this truth. In our deepest struggles, we can see God’s glory in helping us move forward. He is always cheering us on.

When the full-time missionaries came to my home in France to do a service project, my parents were not active members of the Church, and I hadn’t been baptized. Soon the missionaries taught me the gospel, which I loved. And soon my parents returned to church.
“Who’s going to baptize you?” the missionaries asked me.
“My father,” I replied.
My father, who was from Italy, was a good man. He taught me to see people as Jesus would see them. Sadly, he died a few weeks before my baptism.
Later, when I received my mission call, I was so excited that I asked my mother to open it.
“You’re going to be happy,” she said, crying. “You’re going to your father’s home country!”
I had dreamt of serving in Italy. Missions are about serving people, not about serving in areas. But I prayed that I would serve in Italy, specifically the city of Gaeta, where my father’s ancestors had lived since the 10th century.
After serving in Rome and Sicily, I received the glad news that I was being transferred to the area that included Gaeta. Before that transfer in early 2023, my companion and great friend Elder Jack Beck gave me a gift I will never forget. Elder Beck is a talented artist. From a small picture I had of my father, Elder Beck drew a beautiful portrait of him.
I looked at that portrait every day during personal study. It gave me strength to share the gospel.
As soon as I was assigned to Gaeta, I sought out my relatives. When I showed my father’s older brother the portrait, he wept. He hadn’t seen his brother for years and had no pictures of him.
I taught my uncle that one day he would see his brother again—not in a portrait but in person. I taught him that through the gospel, he could live with his brother again in love and peace with the Savior.
I saw great miracles in Gaeta as I shared with family members the good news that because Jesus Christ overcame death, loss of loved ones is only temporary (see Mosiah 16:8). I testify that through His atoning sacrifice, the Savior has made it possible for our families to be gathered eternally.

When I was a junior in high school my parents invited my very best friend, Joe, to live with us. Joe’s parents moved away when he was about to graduate. He did not want to leave, so my parents welcomed him into our home so that he could finish high school.
Joe came from a different background than I did. His family had their struggles, and the principles of the gospel were not emphasized as much as they were in our home.
Joe and I shared a room together in the basement of my parents’ house. Every night before I went to bed I would make it a point to read my scriptures. Joe, on the other hand, had not developed a habit of reading his scriptures every day. There were nights when it was late and we were tired. Joe would often complain and tell me to turn the light off and go to bed, but I persisted, knowing that the Lord would bless me if I read my scriptures as He had commanded. Eventually, Joe moved into the room next to mine, but he always knew when my light was still on.
Joe had told me that he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go on a mission, but once he was 19, he surprised us all by announcing that he was going to serve. He turned in his mission papers and received a call to the Toronto Canada East Mission.
The Sunday came for him to give a talk in sacrament meeting. He said a few things that were a surprise to us all, particularly me. Joe said that one of the biggest influences in his decision to serve a full-time mission was the example that I had set for him in reading my scriptures every night. He said that although I might have not realized the impact it was making, he had thought about it a lot. My scripture reading had impressed him to turn his life around and serve a mission. He said that if it weren’t for me and my family, he probably wouldn’t be going. As I listened to him, I felt the power of the Holy Ghost flow through my body. I had no idea of the impact I had made on Joe’s life.
Joe was the first in his family to serve a mission. Later, his younger brother also served. Joe’s family has been greatly blessed ever since through active service in the Church. Great blessings come to those who keep the commandments of the Lord. We may never know how they will come, but they will come.

Later in my youth, my brother and I slept in an unheated bedroom in the winter. People thought that was good for you. Before falling into a warm bed, we knelt to say our prayers. There were expressions of simple gratitude. They concluded in the name of Jesus.
I recall jumping into my bed after I had said amen, pulling the covers up around my neck, and thinking of what I had just done in speaking to my Father in Heaven in the name of His Son. I did not have great knowledge of the gospel.
But there was some kind of lingering peace and security in communing with the heavens in and through the Lord Jesus.

A while back a young woman from another state in the United States came to live with some of her relatives for a few weeks. On her first Sunday she came to church dressed in a simple, nice blouse and knee-length skirt set off with a light, button-up sweater. She wore hose and dress shoes, and her hair was combed simply but with care. Her overall appearance created an impression of youthful grace.
Unfortunately, she immediately felt out of place. It seemed like all the other young women her age or near her age were dressed in casual skirts, some rather distant from the knee; tight T-shirt–like tops that barely met the top of their skirts at the waist; no socks or stockings; and clunky sneakers or flip-flops.
One would have hoped that seeing the new girl, the other girls would have realized how inappropriate their manner of dress was for a chapel and for the Sabbath day and immediately changed for the better. Sad to say, however, they did not, and it was the visitor who, in order to fit in, adopted the fashion of her host ward.

I like chemistry, football, fried chicken, a cute girl, and strawberry malts. I guess you can say that I am an average American guy—except for one thing. I don’t think anyone who has a sister like mine can be all average. I mean, she doesn’t just giggle, comb her hair for hours, fill your nostrils with the aroma of hair spray, and monopolize the bathroom to put on her make-up, but she saves things too. Like when she came home from kindergarten the first day carrying an empty milk carton. That’s when it started.
“You’re not supposed to bring that home,” I told her. “When you get through drinking the milk, you throw the carton in the trash can.”
“I know,” she answered as she opened a drawer and tucked it neatly inside, “but I want to save it.”
“What for?” I persisted. “Are you going to make something out of it?”
“No,” she said, closing the drawer, “I’m just going to save it.”
“Boy, that’s dumb. Mom,” I called, pursuing the subject further, “Lisa has a milk carton in her drawer, and it will probably sour and smell the whole house up. She isn’t going to use it, so why is she saving it?”
Mom smiled. “Well,” she said, “this is her first day at school, the first time she’s been given milk in a small carton. I guess it represents a happy memory.”
That was just the beginning. She saved everything. I mean I can understand kids saving useful things like marbles, bicycle valve caps, and bugs for scientific research. I could even understand my sister saving outdated clothes to remodel, because Mom said that was being conservative, but I think everything that came into her possession she kept. The older she got the more she saved. She saved test papers, banquet favors, pressed corsages, ticket stubs, and programs.
Now, I suppose all this would have been tolerable if it hadn’t been for the string. Suddenly she started saving string. Not long lengths, but bits and pieces.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“For nothing,” she snapped defensively. “I’m just saving it. Is there a law against that?”
I couldn’t believe it. I decided she was a real dumb-dumb. Now, don’t get me wrong. Just because I thought she was dumb didn’t mean I didn’t like her, and it didn’t mean that anyone else could make fun of her, for if they did they would have me to settle with. Like the time Mom said I couldn’t go fishing with Jim unless I took Lisa along. She and Dad were planning to be gone for the day, and she didn’t want Lisa to stay home alone. Boy, I was pretty burned up over that. A twelve-year-old guy having to take his kid sister fishing! I grumbled and complained and yelled at her all the way. But when Jim started yelling at her and grumbling because she was along, it made me plain boil.
“What’s the matter with Lisa going fishing with us?” I bristled. “She’s my sister, and if she wants to go fishing, she can.”
Jim was so surprised he didn’t say anything. Lisa was so surprised she dropped the rock she had been holding, and I was so surprised at what I had said that I picked it up and gave it back to her—to save.
But what really takes the cake about all this saving is what I discovered the day Mom was helping Lisa clean her room. I stepped in to see if either of them could tell me what had happened to my blue sweat shirt. I knew if Lisa had seen it, it was safe, but Mom sometimes got carried away and burned things just because they were ten years old, full of holes, and covered with paint smears and grease spots. She never burned things like banquet favors or pressed corsages, just sweat shirts.
“I didn’t burn it,” Mom said patiently. “I didn’t throw it away. In fact, I haven’t seen it since the day you were washing the car with it.”
“Oh, yes!” I remembered and was standing there wondering if I had hung it up to dry so it would be wearable to goof around in, when I caught sight of the curler bag on Lisa’s bed. It wasn’t the bag that captured my attention exactly, it was the fact that instead of curlers it was full of string, bits and pieces.
“What in the world!” I picked it up and read the small neatly handwritten note pasted on the outside, “String too short to use.”
I started laughing.
“Give it here,” Lisa cried, snatching it out of my hands.
“String too short to use!” I doubled over with laughter. “Man, I can’t believe you’re for real.”
“Mother!” Lisa was close to tears.
“Son—” Mom started.
“But she says herself that the string is too short to use.” I defended myself. “If she can’t use it then she isn’t being conservative, and I don’t believe this represents memories. No one has that many happy memories,” I teased as I darted out the door still laughing.
Actually the string incident came in very handy, for I used it constantly as a weapon. For instance, when Lisa started teasing me when I let my hair grow longer than usual, I reminded her of her useless string, and she said no more.
Then I met this kind of special girl. She liked football and fried chicken and strawberry malts; and I liked her.
When we got married, I decided I was the luckiest guy ever. It was somewhere around this time I decided that I was pretty lucky not to be all average. In fact, it was the evening Ann and I were looking at our wedding gifts in our apartment. I picked up this one gift, and as a kind of lump came in my throat, I realized that if it had been a large amount of money, it wouldn’t have been as nice as it was. The homemade article represented many things, among them a kind of forgiveness.
Ann came up in back of the chair in which I was sitting and put her arms around my neck. “I wonder who that is from,” she said as she leaned over and read the unsigned note pinned on the pretty velvet cushion.
I started to tell her, but the lump in my throat kept me from speaking. “I’ll explain later,” I said finally.
Then I unpinned the note and read the neatly handwritten message once more.
It said, “This cushion is filled with all my love and the string too short to use.”

—With the relief of having examinations over, Guy Neddo has been able to use spare time during graduation week to go flying. For him there’s nothing like being up in the sky.
“I see a plane and I sort of tingle all over,” he said. “My brother Roger graduated from here in 1974. I was about 12 then, and I got to stay with him for a couple of days to look the place over. I fell in love with it. And since I want to fly fighters and don’t have 20/20 vision, about the only way to do it is to graduate from the academy.”
Guy is from Malta, Idaho, and graduated in a high school class of 32. “I had to take calculus and trigonometry by correspondence from BYU to even get in here,” he said. When he leaves for his mission, Guy will leave behind the flying club and the glider flights and the air shows. “As much as I do love flying and the academy, flying isn’t the most important thing in my life,” he said. “Right now I’ve been called to serve Jesus Christ.”