Gospel Story Finder

When I was in third grade, my best friend’s name was Dave. He lived next door to me and was a member of the Church. One day I was playing in Dave’s yard with our friend Doug when my mother called out from next door that it was time for me to go to Primary. This was in the days when Primary was on a weekday.
Doug was not a member of the Church. He asked, “What’s Primary?”
I told him that this was something we did in our church and that it was kind of like a class.
“Well, we do something like that in our church too,” Doug said.
I whispered to Dave, “But our church is the true Church.”
Doug asked me, “What did you say?”
I didn’t respond at first. He asked me again, and I said, “I told Dave that our church is the true Church.”
Then Doug said something I had never before imagined in my eight-year-old mind. He said, “Well, I think that my church is the true church.”
I was stunned. I thought, “He thinks his church is the true church. What makes me right and him wrong? Or, what makes him right and me wrong?”
I walked across Dave’s yard and down his driveway. I turned left and walked along the street because we didn’t have sidewalks in our neighborhood. I watched the gravel between my feet as I walked—my head was down. I crossed the front of our fence and turned left. I remember every detail of that slow walk home. The whole time I was saying to myself, “He thinks his church is true. How do I know that my church is true?” I got to my front porch, sat down, and put my head in my hands. As I sat there thinking about my question, my thoughts turned into a prayer.
A voice came into my mind. It was a kind voice. It said, “Now, Marc, you know that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, don’t you?”
I silently responded, “Yes.” I felt that I knew that to be true.
“Well you know the Church is true then, don’t you?” the voice whispered to my mind. I had never heard anyone tell me that before. It was like the clouds parted and suddenly I realized that I did know that, yes, the Church is true. I got up and went to Primary, comfortable in the knowledge that I had a testimony.

When Harold B. Lee was young, he learned to play many instruments, including the French horn and the piano. In high school, he earned money by joining the Preston Military Band. They played at nearly every community event!
Little did he know that his musical skills would help in the mission field, too.
Harold: I have been called to serve in the Western States Mission! I report to Salt Lake City to be set apart, and then I’ll go to Denver, Colorado.
Harold’s father: Congratulations, my boy. Your mother and I expect big things from you.
Harold didn’t want to let his parents down, but he was nervous. He had never seen a city as big as Salt Lake City.
Harold: Excuse me, but I think I’m lost. I’m looking for the Church Office Building. I have a very important appointment, and I don’t want to be late.
Stranger: Don’t worry—it’s that building right over there.
After being set apart, Elder Lee boarded a train and rode to Denver. The mission president, John M. Knight, and a group of missionaries met him.
President Knight: Welcome to Colorado, Elder Lee. Meet your companion, Elder Woodbury.
Elder Woodbury: Pleased to meet you, Elder Lee. Tell me about yourself.
Elder Woodbury: You play the piano? Wait till I show you my cello! Maybe we can practice together.
They did more than practice! Elder Woodbury began carrying his cello with him everywhere. When someone answered their knock at the door, they would offer to play a duet.
Woman at the door: Yes, I have a piano. I’d like to hear you play. Please come in.
Harold: If it’s all right with you, we’ll share a message about Jesus Christ and the restored gospel, too.
Elder Lee made many friends on his mission through “playing and preaching.” He was thankful that he had taken the time to develop musical talents so he could use them to serve Heavenly Father.

One of my favorite prophets of my youth was President Boyd K. Packer. As a child, President Packer grew up surrounded by an orchard. One day he was working on irrigating the orchard. The rows were overgrown with weeds and soon the finite supply of water began to flood in every direction. He frantically worked in the puddles to shore up the bank, but just as soon as one was patched, another one broke. A neighbor came by, watched for a moment, and then with a few strokes of the shovel, cleared the ditch and allowed the water to course through the channel he made. The neighbor said, “If you want the water to stay in its course, you’ll have to make a place for it to go”. President Packer likened thoughts to the water. “Thoughts will stay on course if we make a place for them to go, otherwise thoughts follow the course of least resistance, always seeking the lower levels”. Learning to control your thoughts is easier said than done, probably one of the hardest things you’ll learn to do, but President Packer reminds us that as we learn to control our thoughts, we can overcome habits, gain courage, conquer fear, and have a happy life.

For a moment I stood on the front steps and stared through the rusty screen door at Mom as she hummed softly in the kitchen preparing dinner. Her back was to me, so while I built my courage to enter, I watched unobserved, detached momentarily from the familiar scene.
A cool breeze whispered through the elm trees down by the pasture and across the corrals, bringing with it the faint smell of clover mingled with the distinct but not entirely displeasing odor of sun-baked manure and hay. A calf bawled imploringly from the barn, and a pesky fly pinged persistently against the screen door, demanding entrance.
I filled my lungs with the aromas from the kitchen, savoring the rich mixture of Mom’s baking bread, a tantalizing roast, and a trace of lilac that drifted in from the lilac bushes blooming just outside the kitchen window. The table, draped in the old familiar oil cloth that was beginning to wear ragged around the edges, was covered with scrubbed carrots, chopped lettuce, a greased cake pan, and a sprinkling of flour.
I sighed ruefully and pulled the screen door open. It whined a welcome and then chattered noisily behind me as I stepped inside onto the scarred but polished linoleum floor.
"Robert!" Mom called out with surprise, wiping her brow with a damp forearm. Though it had been just a few weeks since I’d seen her last, the gray in her hair seemed more pronounced, and there were deeper lines of worry and stress written across her face. "I had decided you weren’t coming," she said, stepping toward me with a half-peeled potato in her hand and kissing me on the cheek.
I pressed my lips into a wan smile and set my duffle bag on a kitchen chair. Mechanically I glanced at the hook behind the door and noted that Dad’s faded felt hat was missing. That hat was an extra appendage with Dad. He would have no more considered leaving the house without it than he would have gone without his pants or boots. Mom followed my glance and deciphered my thoughts. "He’s been gone all morning," she explained.
I nodded, reached for a carrot, reconsidered, and stuffed my hand into my pocket.
"We thought you would be here last night," Mom called over her shoulder as she returned to the sink.
"I had a date," I replied sheepishly, avoiding her eyes. Actually I had spent the entire evening in my apartment, sitting on the edge of my bed, debating whether or not I should even come home, struggling with a nagging necessity to speak with Dad and yet perplexed by the simple how. I just couldn’t bear to witness his flesh waste away, the creases in his brow deepen, and his eyes groan in silent agony. I guess I hoped that by not seeing him he would always stay the way I remembered him, robust and full of life.
"Dad will be anxious to visit with you," Mom commented.
"Yeah," I muttered softly, pressing my lips together and nodding forlornly. There had been a time when speaking to Dad was the easiest thing in the world for me, but disease had made a stranger of him. I’m sure the inside of him was the same. But, oh, how the outside had changed, and it was this shocking outside, this terrifying shell of the man I had known intimately, which confronted me each time I returned home. I no longer knew the words or had the courage to form the words that would adequately express what was harbored so pointedly in my heart. Just when I most needed and wanted to communicate my feelings, I was driven into a frustrating and unnatural silence. I found myself turning away from Dad as though he were responsible for his condition. Each time I came home, I arrived determined to talk with him and brush away those difficult-to-explain feelings that had spring up from the seeds of my disappointment, but nothing ever worked out. Something was always awkward and wrong. And when I returned to school, I went with all my feelings churning inside me.
"You’ll be here the whole weekend won’t you?" Mom asked as she began rinsing off the potatoes and dropping them into a pan. I didn’t answer. I wanted her to hurry on to another question, but she waited and finally prodded. "You will, won’t you?"
"Well, most of it."
"You’ll go to church with us?"
I cleared my throat. "I have a test Monday. I’ll have to leave here early tomorrow afternoon. Finals are coming up." I laughed awkwardly. "I don’t want to blow it these last two weeks."
It was a lame excuse. We both knew it, but we pretended not to notice. I had changed. It was hard to believe, to hope, to pray, knowing that Dad was slipping away. I hadn’t turned into an infidel, gone inactive or anything that drastic, but there was definitely a portentous fracture in my faith.
I think Mom and Dad suspected, but they didn’t broach the subject. I don’t know if I could have told them had they asked. I didn’t really understand myself. Maybe I was trying to bargain with God, subtly announcing that my diligence was coupled with Dad’s recovery, that my faithfulness would be the payoff for his health.
"Your dad and I are speaking in sacrament meeting. It sure would be nice to have you there. I know you dad is counting on it."
"Where is Dad, anyway?" I asked, changing the subject.
"At the lot, working on the wall."
"I should have known," I mumbled, smiling. "I’ll put my things upstairs and go out and give him a hand." I turned to go but then stopped. As much as I hated asking the question I knew I would have to. "How has he been?"
Mom’s hands relaxed their grip on the potato she was holding. It dropped and she let her hands sag limply in the sink. "Not very well," she bemoaned. "His spleen is so swollen. It literally bulges when he lies down. He gets so tired, and he’s so skinny. He can’t keep his pants up now. He has lost almost ten pounds since you were here last. He keeps losing weight, and he just doesn’t have any to spare. I tell him to get suspenders, but you know how he hates them."
Turning and facing me, she laid bare her fears. "Robert, he’s bad. I can’t help thinking of what Doctor Hart told us when we saw him the first time. He charted the disease. I hate to admit it, but this is the last stage. He hurts all the time. He doesn’t say so until it gets really bad, but I can see it in his eyes. Sometimes I see him gritting his teeth and clenching his fists and I know what’s happening inside of him. I just want to go off by myself and cry."
"He still hasn’t talked about seeing the doctor again?"
"No," she whispered with a wan smile, "and he won’t. You know that."
"And the medicine?"
She shook her head. "He’s convinced that the medicine makes him worse. He’s probably right. He got such terrible headaches while he was on it. He felt drowsy or nauseated and he couldn’t work, and you know that if you dad can’t work, he’s miserable."
I nodded and smiled knowingly. Idleness was just not a part of Dad. As long as I could remember he was immersed in projects. He always had something going on the farm, in the house, on a piece of equipment, or wrapped up in a new invention—a better way to pump water to the lot, a more efficient way to feed the cattle, a handier way of irrigating the garden. He was the only person I knew who relaxed by working.
Pain, hardship, failure—these were the lurking monsters of most men approaching retirement, but Dad could face those unflinchingly. Idleness was his fear, and now, in his weakened condition, he found it increasingly more difficult to hold it at bay.
"What does Adams say?"
"Dad won’t see him, not as a doctor. He likes him as a friend and a neighbor."
"Have you talked to Adams lately?"
Mom shook her head tiredly and looked out the window. "He says your dad should be dead," she answered slowly. "He doesn’t know what’s keeping him going. He says he could drop over tomorrow or keep going another month or so." Mom paused and looked at me. "I know what’s driving him. His work. That’s what scares me, Robert. He gets so exhausted now. He works for just a few minutes, and he’s completely drained. If he is ever in bed for more than a week or so …"
Neither of us spoke. Neither of us wanted to end that foreboding sentence. We stood and stared out the window at the three milk cows ambling about the corral so we wouldn’t have to see the worry on the other’s face. Finally I picked up my bag and went upstairs to my room.
I sank on the bed, almost wishing I hadn’t come home. My eyes wandered about the room, seeing the things that had been such an integral part of me before going to college. I saw the pictures of my basketball and track teams. The trophies were still on the dresser where Mom kept them dusted and polished. The scrapbooks and the book of remembrance sat prominently on the shelf. My Duty to God pin was mounted on a plaque next to the mirror.
Eventually my eyes rested on the photo of Mom, Dad, and me the night of my Eagle court of honor six years earlier. That was where I always stopped. That was the pivotal point in my life. The week after that picture was taken, Doctor Adams made his doleful discovery. Dad hadn’t been feeling well for some time. He had spent the last 13 years in the bishopric, either as a counselor or bishop. We had just assumed he was run down. No one had ever suspected leukemia!
It was a shattering blow. Mom and the four girls didn’t attempt to disguise the shock, but I tried to be stoic. In reality I cowered behind a wall of impassivity. Behind that hastily built facade, my world teetered. It was so coldly unfair. I began to question the justice of God. Dad had been so good, so faithful, and now he was to be repaid like this.
"Robert," Mom called from the foot of the stairs. "I fixed a drink for Dad."
"Okay, I’ll be right down."
"Tell him dinner will be ready in about an hour. And don’t let him get too tired. He can’t be in bed tomorrow."
I grabbed a pair of patched jeans from the closet, dug out my work boots from under the bed, and headed for the lot. During the last two years Dad had leased most of the farm to our neighbor, Brother Maner, but he hadn’t been able to give up the lot. The lot was his first piece of ground, one he had bought from Grandpa when he was only 17. It had always been his prize. The best sweet corn in the whole county had been grown there. Of course, that was more a tribute to Dad than the lot itself.
Though the soil was rich, Dad seemed to harvest more rocks than anything else. There was no end to them. Soon he had piles of rocks all around the lot. But with those rocks, which anyone else would have cursed and discarded, Dad began to build a wall.
Every year he dug up more rocks, and every year he added to the wall. Building this rough, rugged wall became an art with Dad. He sighted and measured and leveled. He chose each rock carefully and set it into position with a precision that was unique to him. He met this challenge with the same zeal and meticulous care that he worked the soil, repaired his barns and fences, or performed his church duties.
There was only a hundred feet of unfinished wall when Dad learned of his leukemia. He began to joke that the Lord wouldn’t take him until he finished the wall. When Doctor Hart told him and Mom that he had between six months and a year to live, he smiled over at Mom and said, "I don’t know if I can finish the wall that soon. The Lord will have to give me some more time."
Dad had already lived six years since then. In fact, he had outlived Doctor Hart, who had died a few months earlier of a heart attack.
When I arrived at the lot that morning, I called to Dad several times, but there was no answer. I went to the bottom of the lot where the unfinished section of wall was, hoping to find him working, but the place was deserted. I stopped and stared at the gap in the wall. There was a 20-foot unfinished section. The rocks were there in a pile, but Dad hadn’t put them in place. I smiled and thought to myself, "He knows what he’s doing. He’s going to make sure there’s always a gap in that wall. If the Lord sticks to his end of the deal, I’ll be dead before Dad."
I set the ice water down and squatted on the ground in the shade of the wall. I closed my eyes, pressed my back against the rough but cool rocks and let my mind wander. A soothing peace prevailed as I remembered earlier days when I had come to the lot with Dad to hoe corn. I smiled. The novelty of the first spring work had always been so exciting, but the excitement soon dissipated. The sun warmed, and the plague of gnats descended. The swarming little insects had tortured me with their annoying, high-pitched whine and persistent biting. Many times I had thrown my hoe to the ground, screamed my agony, and clawed the infected air in frustrated anger. But Dad had always been there to encourage me and to wrap my itching head with his handkerchief to keep some of the gnats away. When they became unbearable, he sent me to sit in the shade while he finished my row of corn.
And there were the mornings I had followed behind him as he blazed a path through the towering stalks of corn, snapping off only the bulging mature ears and stacking them in his and my arms.
I recalled going to the lot in the spring and riding beside Dad on the tractor while he plowed, disked and harrowed the ground. I remembered trudging through the soft, black soil and lugging the myriad rocks that always found their way to the surface in the spring. I remembered watching Dad build the wall and listening to him as he told me Bible and Book of Mormon stories. I distinctly remembered the tears in his eyes when he had related stories of his own faith—the time his father had been healed, the time he had been working in the lot and had decided to go on a mission before marrying Mom, or the time on his mission when he had felt his bosom burn and had known for himself about God and the Church.
In my reverie I forgot the leukemia and the impending end. Here was complete contentment, and I suddenly longed to recapture those moments with Dad before he slipped away. I don’t remember how long I sat by the wall before deciding that Dad had already returned to the house. Finally I stood, brushed the dirt and dried weeds from my pants and left, fully expecting Dad to be waiting at the dinner table for me.
"Did Dad make it?" I asked Mom as I came into the kitchen with the jug of water still untouched.
"I thought you went to get him," she answered.
"He wasn’t there. I waited but …"
The blood drained from her face, and I added quickly to calm her sudden fear, "But he might have walked over to Brother Maner’s to check the fence. He does that you know. I’ll go look."
I made a pretense of calm and wanted to believe my own optimism, but an ominous gnawing in the pit of my stomach cautioned me to brace for the worst. I walked out of the house and across the yard, waiting until I had passed behind the barn and out of Mom’s sight before I broke into a sprint.
I didn’t find him. I was always thankful for that. I had often tried to imagine what I would do when I received word of Dad’s death. I had prepared myself for a phone call. I had never imagined meeting Brother Maner and discovering the dreaded truth etched on his contorted and sweating face. Even as he charged toward me, panting and red faced, I wanted to deny the obvious. Brother Maner had found him face down in the bottom pasture. He had been dead for about an hour.
The next three days were lost in a maze of confusing grief. I kept to myself and let my sorrow and disappointment fester. I didn’t want sympathy or pity. I didn’t want extended hands of comfort. I didn’t want sermons about life after death. I wanted to shake off my helplessness, grab death, strangle it, beat it with my fists.
The morning after the funeral I went down to the lot early. The sun was barely up, and the dew was thick on the grass. Dad’s corn was just beginning to push up through the soil. I walked around the lot twice, each time pausing at the unfinished portion of wall. It pulled like a giant magnet. As I stood and stared, the bitterness welled inside me, and I demanded an answer. Why did it have to be like this? Why did he have to be snatched away now with so much of his life unlived? And the wall? Why couldn’t he have finished the wall? He had eluded death so long, against such insurmountable odds. Why couldn’t he have been given a little more time?
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky that morning. The sun’s spring rays were soothing. This was Dad’s kind of day, the kind he would have chosen to work on the wall. Slowly I moved toward the pile of rocks. Picking the largest one, I staggered with it to the gaping hole in the wall and set it down. "It’s not much," I whispered, "but I will finish the wall."
Fighting back a growing wave of grief, I attacked the hole in the wall. I dropped every available rock inside the open section, piling them haphazardly. I didn’t care how the repair looked to anyone else; I just wanted to fill the gap in a bitter attempt to assuage my own grief.
In less than an hour I was almost finished. Panting, I stepped back and surveyed my progress. The shoddy workmanship mocked me. I wasn’t finishing Dad’s wall. I was merely filling a hole, something Dad would have never done.
I picked up a rock and hurled it against my section of the wall. I flew at the wall in frustrated rage, pulling the rocks down and throwing them aside. I ran to the house for a shovel, and when I returned to the lot, I was determined to complete the wall Dad’s way.
Taking a shovel, I cut away the sod and leveled the ground where the wall would go. The sun was climbing higher in the sky, and beads of sweat formed on my brow and upper lip. With calculating care I began choosing rocks for the wall’s foundation, this time with a meticulousness reminiscent of Dad. The larger, flatter rocks were set in place first to give the wall stability. The gaps between were filled with smaller, odd-shaped ones. It was like putting together a gigantic, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle. Each gap had to be filled before another rock could be set into place. The base was broad and tapered gradually upward, the rocks above tying in and holding firm the rocks below.
When I wasn’t certain how to proceed, I studied Dad’s part of the wall, perusing his rugged pattern. He had always made it seem easy, but soon I discovered the truth. Before long my back ached and my fingers were rubbed raw and the palms of my hands were scratched and caked with dirt. I wished for a pair of gloves, but I refused to stop and run to the house for them. The sweat now poured down my face and neck and trickled from under my arms. My mouth was dry; my lips, covered with a sticky film of dirt.
My body cried for a rest, but I had become obsessed, refusing to stop for more than short breathers and pauses to survey my progress. I refused to stop even for dinner. Mom brought me a sandwich and a jug of water, which I ate and drank while I planned the next tier.
"Don’t push yourself, Robert," she had cautioned. "It’s only a wall."
"It’s Dad’s wall. He wanted it finished."
"But there will be other days."
"There were other days. I’ll finish today." Shaking her head and pushing her fingers through her hair, she had finally turned and left me to my obsession.
Many times I rummaged through the pile of rocks, unable to find the right shape or size, and I was forced to search along the irrigation ditch for one that would fit the hole. By late afternoon I was at the brink of exhaustion. The muscles in my back and arms ached, and my clothes clung to me. My lips were chapped, and the back of my neck was scorched from hours in the sun; but I experienced an all-consuming satisfaction that eased the dull ache in my tired body. Dad’s pile of rocks had shrunk, and the final section of the wall had emerged.
Stiffly I stepped back to examine the wall. I compared my section to Dad’s. I nodded, feeling confident that no one would see a difference. Completely drained, I dropped to my knees and closed my eyes. The day’s work had purged much of the bitterness that I had allowed to poison me, and with that purging came a staggering realization. Dad had said he would stay until the wall was finished. Now, it was finished, and not even I could contend with that numbing reality.
I opened my eyes and looked at the wall. Slowly the rocks melted into a watery blur as tears filled my eyes. I tried to fight them back. I had dammed them off in angry defiance, but now there was nothing I could do to hold them back. They were painful at first, but with time they began to wash and soothe, and gradually the last traces of bitterness crumbled and dissolved in the briny flood.
Suddenly I remembered why I had come home for the weekend. I rebuked myself for not having come sooner and bridged the gap between Dad and me. I don’t know why I prayed. Since going to college and watching Dad slip away from me, prayer had been difficult and far from spontaneous, but this evening the prayer came naturally, as a comforting balm, a sincere plea for understanding, just enough to grasp and accept Dad’s passing.
It was in that troubled state of importuning that a new thought occurred to me with stunning force: I had not finished Dad’s wall. Dad’s wall had been finished long before. The wall he had labored so faithfully to build was his legacy to me, his monument built in my honor. The gap I had filled, patterning it so carefully after his, had been the beginning of my wall. I sensed that Dad had known that all along and had left this last section for me.
The tears ceased. It was as though Dad were with me once again, just as I had always remembered him. I knew then that he had not been snatched away before his time; I had just been left temporarily behind to finish mine. As I stared across the lot and observed the work of Dad’s lifetime, I knew I had many walls yet to build. Silently, I prayed that I would build as well as Dad.

A Young Women teacher had a blind girl in her class whose participation was limited because she could not study in the usual way. The teacher would go to the girl’s home and read out loud while the girl translated her Personal Progress book into braille. The work took two years. The teacher also encouraged the other girls in the class to help. Under her direction, they went to the blind girl’s home and read to her from the manual until it was translated into braille.
The Master’s touch through that teacher reached out and blessed not only this girl but many others who are blind, because the braille translation was made available at the general offices of the Young Women organization.

I would like to share my testimony on obedience and how the Lord taught me to trust Him during one of the most difficult periods of my life. When my mother was diagnosed with cancer, my world felt uncertain and unstable. I was filled with fear, anxiety, and many unanswered questions.
During that time, I received the opportunity to attend FSY 2025, with the theme “Look unto Christ.” My first reaction was to refuse. I questioned how I could leave my mother and focus on anything else while my family was going through such pain. And at that time obedience felt confusing because my heart was torn between fear and faith. I prayed sincerely, asking the Lord what He wanted me to do.
At the very last moment, I chose to be obedient to the prompt I felt to attend FSY 2025 despite my worries. This decision was not easy. Obedience for me meant trusting the Lord more than my fears and believing that He could use this experience for a greater purpose. While at FSY, I learned that looking unto Christ is an act of obedience choosing Him when life feels overwhelming.
Through obedience, the Lord strengthened me. My anxiety softened, my faith deepened, and I felt peace that I could not create on my own. I realized that obedience does not remove trials, but it prepares us to face them with Christ by our side.
When I returned home, I shared what I had learned with my parents. The strength I gained through obedience did not stay with me alone; it helped my family as well. I saw how the Lord multiplied my small acts of obedience into comfort, reassurance, and renewed faith for those I love.
This experience taught me that obedience is not always about understanding the outcome, it is about trusting the One who leads us. I testify that when we choose to obey the Lord, even when it feels painful or uncertain, He blesses us in ways we cannot foresee. As we look unto Christ and follow His guidance, He carries us and our families through every trial. ?

Recently, the young men and women of the Yap District (Micronesia Guam Mission) got together for a “One-Day Mission,” under the direction of the mission and district presidents.
They started the day by reciting by memory 1 Nephi 3:7 [1 Ne. 3:7] (“I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded …”). Then they sang “Called to Serve,” were divided into companionships, and received training. Two by two, they went out to preach the gospel, carrying copies of the Book of Mormon with them.
They found some opposition—it rained throughout the day, and some people they met were unpleasant or threatening. But nothing stopped them.
As a result, 49 copies of the Book of Mormon were distributed on this tiny island. And the youth brought back many referrals for the full-time missionaries. Already some convert baptisms have resulted from these referrals.
The day ended with a testimony meeting.

Elder Kim B. Clark, Area Seventy and president of BYU–Idaho, recently related a story about a deacons quorum whose adviser was discussing prayer with them. Unexpectedly, the deacons quorum president raised his hand and said, “I would like to ask the quorum a question. How many of you would be willing to commit to praying morning and night every day this week?” All the quorum members raised their hands except one young man, who was not confident he could follow through with the challenge. The adviser sat back and watched as the quorum members taught and testified to their peer about prayer, helping him gain the confidence to accept the challenge.

After losing his eyesight, my grandfather fasted and prayed that if he was to remain in darkness, the Lord would give him peace. He states that almost within the hour “my mind was enlightened and the cloud of darkness had lifted from me.” He could see again, not with physical eyes, but spiritual eyes. Later, Alma Benjamin Larsen was called to be a patriarch, where he served for 32 years. Like the sons of Mosiah, my grandfather fasted and prayed, and as a result, he was given the opportunity to bless thousands of God’s children.

At a youth conference last year, the air was filled with cries of excitement as the teens experienced yet another first—baseball. Only two or three of the youth who attended the conference had ever played the game before, so they were given the assignment to explain the rules to the others.
“It was a brand-new experience to learn how to play baseball, since soccer and badminton are the sports we play here,” says Malvinder.
In addition to baseball, youth conference was filled with other fun games and activities. Although the youth enjoyed the activities, they say what they will remember most about the experience was the opportunity to meet people with similar beliefs and to draw courage from knowing they are not alone.
Ariana Dabier, a Mia Maid, says, “It was great to see so many Malaysian youth who are just like me—faced with similar trials and temptations—and yet they stand firm in their faith. I now know that no matter where I go on this earth, the gospel will be the same.”

A few years ago, my neighbor’s husband died. She was really sad.
I prayed to know what I could do to help. The thought came into my mind to give her flowers on Valentine’s Day. However, I needed to earn the money to buy the flowers. I made it a goal in my Children’s Guidebook to earn the money.
I earned the money by doing different jobs for others. My grandma paid me to clean up her garden and the leaves in her yard. At home, I earned money by clearing the brush behind our shed. It took months of hard work to earn enough money.
Finally I had enough money to go to a store and buy the flowers. Valentine’s Day came, and I gave my neighbor the flowers with a note. She was really happy. I felt warm and happy too. I thanked Heavenly Father for helping me do what He wanted me to do.

During my teenage years, that decision was tested a number of times. I watched friends accept invitations to see movies and go to parties that I knew were not appropriate. Sometimes I was tempted to join them because it looked like they were having so much fun. I mentioned to my bishop this frustration about feeling left out. He helped me keep things in proper perspective by reassuring me that being a teenager only lasts a few years and that those who exercise their agency properly during those years will actually have far more freedom in the future than those who choose a different path.
I realized that I didn’t want poor teenage decisions to affect my opportunities later in life. I tried to date young women and associate with friends who felt the same way. It wasn’t always easy, but my decision to be worthy of the priesthood, enter the temple, serve a mission, and later marry in the temple have made any tough times as a teenager worth it. You will never regret staying clean and pure. If you have already made mistakes that keep you from feeling close to the Spirit, talk to your parents and your bishop. They will know what to do to help you feel whole again.

President Oaks and I live directly across from the Salt Lake Temple; we look out on the construction every morning and see the mud and the trucks and the cranes. The temple is now hidden behind scaffolding and is a work in progress being made stronger and steadfast.

My ten-year-old niece, Emma, came to visit and stood in our living room that looks out at the temple. She called in a loud voice, “Oh, no! Come quick Aunt Kristen the temple is gone!”

I laughed and explained to her, “The temple is still there, you just can’t see it. It is being upgraded and prepared by Heavenly Father to make it safe from earthquakes and provide the ability for more Saints to do the work of the Lord.”

Our times are unique because just like Emma—it seems so much around us seems to be changing and things we held on to don’t seem to be there. This world is full of surprises. The truth and doctrines that we know are questioned on every side. Our beliefs are peculiar and unique and holy and not of this world, and if we really want the assurance of our Heavenly Father we have to seek to find Him.

We do not know the future, but we do know with a certainty—just like the photo you saw—that under the scaffolding lies the temple, the House of the Lord and every day they work a bit more to reinforce and strengthen it. In three years, it will emerge more beautiful, more perfect, and able to stand in every circumstance.

When enemies of the Church saw this increase in temple activity, they renewed their efforts to drive the Mormons away. They obtained a warrant for the arrest of Brigham Young and eight other Apostles. On 23 December, officials went to the temple to arrest Brigham Young. Knowing they were coming, Brigham asked the Lord for guidance and protection so that he could “live to prove advantageous to the Saints.”

Soon afterward he noticed William Miller in the hall. He proposed a plan to Brother Miller, who fortunately was about the same height as President Young. Brother Miller put on President Young’s cloak and left the temple in his carriage. The waiting marshals thought he was Brigham Young and arrested him. He was taken to Carthage and held until someone who knew Brigham told them they had the wrong man. In the meantime, Brigham Young and the others had gone safely into hiding.

Like you, I know what it means to make essential course corrections. I remember a time when, without any intent to do so, I offended a sister in my ward. I needed to reconcile this issue, but I must admit that my pride kept me from going to her and asking for her forgiveness. Family, other commitments, on and on—I found ways to postpone my repentance. I was sure things would work out on their own. But they didn’t.
In the stillness of not one night but several, I awoke with a clear realization that I was not taking the course the Lord would want me to take. I was not acting on my faith that His arm of mercy was truly extended towards me—if I would act aright. I prayed for strength and courage, humbled myself, and went to the sister’s home and asked for her forgiveness. For us both, it proved to be a sweet, healing experience.

I remember when I was assigned to give my first talk in church. I was given the liberty to choose my subject. I’ve always liked birds, so I thought of the Seagull Monument. In preparation, I went to Temple Square and looked at the monument. First I was attracted to all the coins in the water surrounding the monument. I wondered how they would be retrieved and who would retrieve them. I shall not confess any thought of taking them.

Then I looked upward at the seagulls atop that monument. I tried in my boyish mind to imagine what it would be like to be a pioneer watching the first year’s growth of precious grain being devoured by crickets and then seeing those seagulls, with their lofty wings, descending upon the fields and eating the crickets. I loved the account. I sat down with a pencil in hand and wrote out a two-and-one-half-minute talk. I’ve never forgotten the seagulls. I’ve never forgotten the crickets. I’ve never forgotten my knees knocking together as I gave that talk. I’ve never forgotten the experience of letting some of my innermost feelings be expressed verbally at the pulpit. I would urge that we give the Aaronic Priesthood an opportunity to think, to reason, and to serve.

In California, USA, Lori Larson had her March Ensign with her at the beauty salon and was enthralled with it. She kept thinking of how the articles would be great to share with someone of another faith and how they would clear up misconceptions about the Church. Then her beautician asked about the magazine she was reading. By the time the appointment and the conversation were over, the beautician was asking for the missionaries to visit her.

In the private sanctuary of one’s own conscience lies that spirit, that determination, to press onward and to measure up to the stature of true potential. But the way is rugged, and the course is strenuous. So discovered John Helander from Göteborg, Sweden. John was a young adult. He had the same yearnings for the blessings of success as do all. But John is handicapped, in that it is difficult for him to coordinate his motions.

At an activity of young people in Kungsbacka, Sweden, John took part in an 800-meter running race. He had no chance to win. Rather, his was the possibility of being humiliated, mocked, derided, scorned. Perhaps John remembered another who lived long ago and far away. Wasn’t He mocked? Wasn’t He derided? Wasn’t He scorned? But He prevailed. He won His race. Maybe John could win his.

What a race it is! Struggling, surging, pressing, the runners bolt far beyond John. There is wonderment among the spectators. Who is this runner who lags so far behind? The participants, on their second lap of this two-lap race, pass John while he is but halfway through the first lap. Tension mounts as the runners press toward the tape. Who will win? Who will place second? Then comes the final burst of speed; the tape is broken. The crowd cheers; the winner is proclaimed.

The race is over—or is it? Who is this contestant who continues to run when the race is ended? He crosses the finish line on but his first lap. Doesn’t he know he has lost? Ever onward he struggles, the only participant now on the track. This is his race. This must be his victory. No one among the vast throng of spectators leaves. Every eye is on this valiant runner. He makes the final turn and moves toward the finish line. There is awe; there is admiration. Every spectator sees himself running his own race of life. As John approaches the finish line, the audience, as one, rises to its feet. There is a loud applause of acclaim. Stumbling, falling, exhausted but victorious, John Helander breaks the newly tightened tape. (Officials are human beings, too.) The cheering echoes for miles. And just maybe, if the ear is carefully attuned, that Great Scorekeeper—even the Lord—can be heard to say, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.”10

It was back to the typical summer problem. I wasn’t 16, so I couldn’t get a real job, but I needed money just the same. My parents were working hard to keep my six younger brothers and sisters and me fed, and I knew my begging for money just gave them ulcers. I still had my paper route, but I didn’t make much from it. I tried selling worms as fish bait, but they all died in the bin I put them in. I found a few weeding jobs, but it wasn’t steady work.
Then, about halfway through the summer, my grandparents from Wyoming came to visit for a few weeks. Grandpa was a tall, skinny farmer who had worked most of his life either in the oil industry or on his land. I told him about my job history during the summer. He smiled quietly.
“So, you think you need money?” he asked. I assured him I did. “Come with me tomorrow,” he continued. “I’ll show you how to make money.” I went to bed that night dreaming of my increased cash and large savings account. I hadn’t slept very long, though, when Grandpa jostled me awake. His fluorescent watch glared 5:30 A.M. at my sleepy eyes.
“Get dressed. We’ve got to get started early.” I crawled out of bed, longing for the usual lazy summer sleep-in. We got in his truck and drove about five minutes to a cherry orchard. A grizzled old man was standing by the warehouse along with some other guys.
“Wes,” Grandpa said, “my grandson and I are here to pick cherries.”
“Well, Lawrence, you know I can always use some good workers,” the old man said. I found out later they had been friends a long time. Wes explained to me how he had to keep the stems on each cherry and showed me how to avoid damaging the trees while picking. He checked us out some buckets and pointed out a row of trees to pick. Grandpa grabbed a ladder, and we swished through the tall crabgrass along with the other guys to our first tree. I started picking on the low branches around the bottom of the tree on one side. It was then I realized that I had forgotten the most important part.
“How much do we get paid an hour for picking these cherries?” I asked. Grandpa just laughed a little. “You don’t get paid by the hour on this job,” he said. “You get paid by the pound.” I thought a minute and asked how much we would get for a pound.
“Ten cents,” he said. I looked at the small amount in the bottom of my bucket and thought that it must take an awful lot of cherries to make a pound. Pretty soon Grandpa emptied his bucket. “You see,” he said, “I like this work because you decide how much you make. If you get up early and work hard, you can pick a thousand pounds a day.”
We kept working our way around the tree, and pretty soon all the cherries that were easy to reach were gone. I drifted over to the next tree and started pulling the juice-laden cherries into my bucket. My fingers were getting scratched and sticky, and as the sun came up I could feel that it would be a hot July day. My grandpa noticed me at the other tree and told me you never start a new tree until you’re finished with the one you’re working on. I got out a ladder, and we started picking again. Grandpa even climbed to the highest branches until we had every cherry.
“The best cherries are at the top,” he told me. Finally, we moved on. The sun got higher in the sky, and we kept working. I got tired, and Grandpa said we couldn’t stop until lunch. I kept picking and picking, and the sweat ran down my forehead. I couldn’t believe how fast Grandpa worked. The whole time, he would tell me stories. Finally, he said it was time to eat. We got down out of the tree, and he handed me a jelly sandwich and some cold water. He ate quickly and was right back up the tree. I sat around a little longer and then went back up. I was amazed at how hard we could work.
I admit I kind of loafed in the hot afternoon, not working as hard as I could. Grandpa was just steady as could be. Wes finally came by with a tractor. We put our cherries on the back, and the day was over. We weighed in. In pounds, I had about a fourth of the cherries Grandpa did. Wes asked us if we wanted to be paid, and I was ready, but Grandpa said we would be working the two weeks of harvest so he could just pay us at the end. I realized then that I was really in for some hard work.
By the end of two weeks, I almost got used to getting up so early. I was proud to finally be able to pick about half what my grandpa did on the last day. I also learned some things about Grandpa’s life, like how hard it was to find a job in the Depression, or how he missed his son (my uncle), who was killed in Vietnam.
But the main thing I figured out was that I didn’t need money; I needed to work. If you work hard, the money takes care of itself. When I got the check, it was much larger than I had expected. Grandpa had added his cherries from the two weeks to mine, as long as I promised to save half for a mission.
Now I am amazed that Grandpa would use his vacation to teach me how to earn money, but I’ll always be grateful.

The next step was to go to Ch’ungpoong to try to locate my father and brother. Ch’ungpoong is southwest of Jechon, in a secluded part of Korea. Many days later we took a country bus over dirt roads and rice fields to get there. When we arrived, we asked at the records office, but the officials had never heard of Kim Chin Ku. We also went to the school to check its records. The school had no record of the son, but we met a person there who knew of the family. He told us that they went by other names (not unusual for Koreans). We checked again and found a reference to a high school in Taegu, another city in southern Korea.
Back in Seoul, President Ch’oi consulted with some Church leaders in Taegu, and they were able to locate two addresses among the school records: one in Young Duk, where Kim Chin Ku had lived before his marriage to my mother, and one in Taegu. We decided to check them both. President Ch’oi’s son, who went with us, felt that we ought to go to Young Duk first. When we arrived at the village, we went to the police station. The men on duty knew of the family and offered to take us to meet them.
We rode into another secluded part of Korea through rice fields and mountains before we came to a little village at the foot of a canyon. We got out of the taxi, and Brother Ch’oi talked with one of the villagers. The man told us that Kim Chin Ku lived in the village and was working in the fields. The taxi driver offered to go find him and bring him back to us. As we waited, I felt panic. What if this man really was my father?
The taxi approached. In the back seat were two people—a little boy and an old man. We greeted each other. The elderly man was wrinkled and aged from the sun, but he had a sweet, sincere air. I felt confident that he was my father.
His real name was Kim Hong Suk, but he was also known as Kim Chin Ku. He invited us to his home. We walked up a dirt road and entered the yard, where an ox was tied to a tree. On the other side of his house was a barn. Inside the house, a straw mat was spread on the floor. We sat down, and this man—my father—sat next to me. He stared at me, and I at him. One by one, the villagers came to see us. We told him the story of our search, and he confirmed the account Mr. Ko had given.
Next we asked about the son—my brother. His name was Kim Do Yun, and he was attending a technical college in Taegu. My father indicated that he would telephone and arrange a time for us to meet. While he was telephoning, I asked the other family members if they had any family records. They brought out a huge published book of their lineage.
My father made arrangements for us to meet Kim Do Yun at a restaurant in Pohang that evening. When I met him, I had a sweet, peaceful feeling. I knew that this was the right family—my Korean family. My brother was very nervous. He trembled with emotion as we told him the story and showed him our papers. Up to now he had never known that the woman whom he had thought was his mother, was actually his stepmother. But after overcoming the initial shock, he seemed excited to be my big brother.