Gospel Story Finder

The conversation then jumped to the other events of the day, both at school and at home. At supper, my oldest son asked me to help him with his Scouting requirements. He was progressing toward Eagle rank but was having difficulty in completing the high jump skill in the Athletics merit badge. Although he was a fairly good athlete, he just couldn’t seem to find enough spring to jump the additional inch that was required for a boy his height and weight. In fact, he had finished every other skill rather easily, but the high jump seemed to be a tremendous obstacle.
I suggested he try the long jump alternate. He admitted he was even worse in that area and reasoned that he had given it his very best effort, failed, and now needed some extra reassurance. I watched him attempt the long jump. He was right. After inspecting his shoes for traces of Superglue we both concurred that the high jump was his best chance for success.
We went over to the school high jump pit. I reminded him that David had a difficult challenge in the person of the formidable Goliath. I stressed that a person can accomplish goals that appear to be impossible, if they have enough faith and work hard.
After a short warm-up and his first attempt, I was beginning to see how tall Goliath really was! We worked on his approach, his speed, his takeoff, his head position—everything I could think of. As failure began to take its toll, the inch became two, then three. The old wedge of discouragement finally found the mark and sunk deep into my boy’s heart.
“Dad, there is no way I’ll ever make that jump!”
He was trying to conceal his emotions, but it was obvious that his spirit was almost broken. His hair was tousled, his face was wet with perspiration, his shirt was torn, and he looked as though he had been through the first cycle in a washing machine.
“Rhett, the only limits you’ll ever know are the ones you place on yourself. I know you can do it. Just don’t give up. Now get up and …”
“Look, Dad,” he shot back, “I’ve given it everything I have. There’s nothing left to give. It’s not that I’m quitting. I’m just smart enough to know when I’m beat.”
“But Rhett …”
“Dad! Let’s go home. There are plenty of other merit badges I can earn.”
“High?”
Of course, the high jump! Rhett had talked himself out of a goal simply because he had failed and no longer believed he could surpass that invisible inch. I had to convince him that he was wrong. I couldn’t wait to get home and recall the story of the dogs to Rhett.
For some reason he didn’t share my enthusiasm, but I still encouraged him to try again. My pleading pep talk was beginning to wear down his resistance, so I applied the finishing touches. Assuming the role of Knute Rockne, the famous Notre Dame football coach, I sternly said, “Those dogs can’t fly, but Eagles can!” He was silent for a moment, but then agreed to train harder and continue jumping until he overcame his obstacle. I was pleased with his devotion. Every day he would jump rope, jog, do exercises, or practice his jumping form. It looked like he was getting serious.
In three weeks the weather began to clear, and the theory was put to the test. Rhett was measured and weighed again to make certain he was still in the same skill group. After a word of prayer and some warm-ups, he went to his starting point while I set up the bar. He was unaware that I had set the bar a full two inches above the required height. It was a gamble, but I could tell by the way he glared at the bar that he was determined to clear that height if it took all night.
He began to rock back and forth to establish a rhythm. As he took his first step I could hear my heart pound anxiously. His pace began to increase, and so did my pulse. Faster, faster until he gathered himself for that final spring. He grunted as he swung his arms high and arched his body toward the bar. There were three or four inches of blue sky between the boy and the top of his “fence.” It was hard to believe he had cleared it with such ease on his first attempt.
As he lay on the pile of foam rubber, staring wide-eyed into the sky, smiles began to appear on our faces. There was no “S” on his chest, no cape around his neck, he was not capable of leaping tall buildings in a single bound. He had not earned an Olympic medal. Yet he had more than tripled the output necessary to achieve his goal. Perhaps he had gained something far more valuable than any award. He had begun to see the importance of hard work and determination.
I realized there is no reason for us to allow invisible fences to limit our righteous aspirations. Anyone who has overcome the barriers to success has had to eliminate the invisible fences that would prevent achievement. I am convinced that the prophet Alma taught a profound truth when he said: “by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6).

I met a young man in the gym, and we became friends. For the next ten months we shared our ideas and thoughts about many things, but never religion. One day I found that my friend traveled with a Bible, so I asked him if he went to church and what the name of his church was. It was some long name—The Church of Jesus Christ of something something Saints. I wasn’t the least bit interested—it sounded like just another church to me.
My friend later told me he was going to serve the Lord for two years in another country. I figured he was going to be a pastor. As he left, I began to wonder what his church was like, and I began to search for their meeting place.
I found it a few months later, but I also found something more. As I walked through the doors of the meetinghouse, I felt a feeling that is impossible to describe; it was joy, peace, comfort, surety, and happiness all in one. It was like coming home. My questions had now been answered.
The members of the church welcomed me with open arms. At first, I was reluctant to accept these welcomes because it was a little too much. I wasn’t used to so many people. They welcomed me whether they knew me or not. At the end of the meeting time, a calm feeling came over me and I heard the words in my mind, “Debbie, this is the place, and these are the people you have been searching for.”
Looking back, darkness to light, my life in the ghetto was difficult, and a person could make it harder by making wrong choices. There was little opportunity for progression. But I wanted something worth living for. When the opportunity came to leave the ghetto with part of my family, I decided this was my chance.
Many of the girls I grew up with never left the ghetto. I could not have made it without following the desires of my heart and trusting in my Father above to lead me. At times, while walking around Ricks College in Idaho, I realize all that I have been blessed with. I was blessed with the chance to leave the ghetto, be baptized a member of this church, gain an education, and fulfill a mission in Utah. I know Heavenly Father loves us all and is mindful of our circumstances no matter where we are. He desires above all things our happiness.
I often feel that the song sung at my high school graduation was written for me: “This is my quest—to follow the star. No matter how hopeless, no matter how far. To fight for the right, without question or pause, to be willing to march into hell for a heavenly cause.” I know if I am true to God’s commandments, I will reach that unreachable star.

I recall an event described by a man I met at a stake conference in the Midwest more than a decade ago. The setting was a beautiful campus in central Illinois. My informant, a participant in a summer workshop, saw a crowd of young students seated on the grass in a large semicircle about 20 feet from one of the large hardwood trees that are so common and so beautiful there. They were watching something at the base of the tree. He turned aside from his walk to see what it was.
There was a handsome tree squirrel with a large, bushy tail playing around the base of the tree—now on the ground, now up and down and around the trunk. But why would that beautiful but familiar sight attract a crowd of students?
Stretched out prone on the grass nearby was an Irish setter. He was the object of the students’ interest, and, though he pretended otherwise, the squirrel was the object of his. Each time the squirrel was momentarily out of sight circling the tree or looking in another direction, the setter would quickly creep forward a few inches and then resume his apparent indifferent posture. Each minute or two he crept closer to the squirrel, and the squirrel apparently did not notice. This was the scene that held the students’ interest. They were silent and immobile, attention riveted on the drama—the probable outcome of which was becoming increasingly obvious.
Finally the setter was close enough to bound at the squirrel and catch it in his mouth. A gasp of horror arose, and the crowd of students surged forward and wrested the beautiful little animal away from the hound, but it was too late. The squirrel was dead.
Anyone in that crowd of students could have warned the squirrel at any time by waving their arms or crying out, but none had done so. They just watched while the inevitable consequence got closer and closer. No one asked “Where will this lead?” and no one wished to interfere. When the predictable outcome occurred, they rushed to the defense, but it was too late. Tearful and regretful expressions were all they could offer.

Every Christmas I learned to expect two kinds of gifts—those I wanted and those my parents wanted me to have.
I remember one Christmas in particular. I was an ordinary 15- or 16-year-old boy. I tried to act casual about my gifts, but inside I was crazy with anticipation. I was hoping for some new music, sports equipment, or maybe a movie. I pulled a small rectangular package from under the tree with my name on it. The size surprised me. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted that was that shape. Of course that didn’t stop me from happily ripping off the paper. Inside was a white box. The label glued to the top indicated a new set of scriptures. I didn’t think much of it. My parents often reused old boxes.
As I lifted the lid, I thought of the possibility that the label might be accurate. I hoped it wasn’t. I hoped against hope. I didn’t want new scriptures. I didn’t need them. I already had the set I received when I was baptized. Sure, they were getting old and the binding was falling apart, but for how much I used them, they worked just fine.
My heart sank. Inside the box was a beautiful compact set of maroon scriptures with my name embossed on the cover. I remember looking up to see my mom watching me. I’m sure she was nervous about my reaction. She said something like, “I know you didn’t ask for them and it isn’t the most exciting gift, but we thought you could use them.” I gave a polite smile, which I’m sure was completely transparent. I looked at the scriptures for a few minutes, trying to show appreciation, but eventually put them back in their box and gave my attention to my other gifts.
I tried not to think about all the things that I wanted more than new scriptures. I tried not to feel disappointed. I tried not to hypothesize about a way I could take them back without my parents knowing, but I didn’t try very hard.
I would love to report that later that Christmas day I opened those new scriptures and felt the great Spirit that comes through reading them. But I didn’t. In fact, I don’t believe I did anything with them other than put them in a corner of my room. I’d love to report that over the following weeks I gained a greater appreciation for my gift. I didn’t. About the only attention I gave them was during sacrament meeting, mindlessly separating the pages that were stuck together.
In all honesty, I don’t think I appreciated that gift for a long time. However, eventually I began to study them. I took them to church and to seminary. I began to read them on my own. They proved crucial to my decisions. At a time when I wondered if it wouldn’t be better to live what I thought was a more exciting lifestyle, like that of some of my school friends, I read Mosiah 2:41. I’m so grateful for that verse. I began to realize that only those who keep the commandments of God are truly happy.
Months later, my youth leaders challenged me to read the entire Book of Mormon before attending a summer camp. I agreed but procrastinated, and I soon fell behind. In a rush to catch up, I began to read for longer periods of time. I can still recall sitting on my porch reading for the better part of an hour. Before this, I was lucky to read for 10 minutes at a time. For the first time in my life, I lost myself in the scriptures. I realized that Alma the Younger was a real person. He wasn’t just a story my leaders taught me. He actually rebelled against his prophet father, and, through faith and the Atonement, was still able to change. I wondered what happened next. I had pieces of the story in my mind, but it hadn’t come together into a whole. I kept reading, watching him grow. For the first time I actually enjoyed what I read.
These experiences and many others began to build my small testimony. Yet, I still questioned. I questioned a lot. I decided to read the Book of Mormon daily and ask for confirmation that it was true. After many nights of reading and many prayers, I felt I received an answer from heaven. It was something I couldn’t create. There was no one else around to lead me to the feeling. I felt a warmth—almost like a light—in me. It somehow seemed to calm and excite me simultaneously. I felt that my Heavenly Father had heard my prayer. He sent a message through my thoughts that the Book of Mormon is true and the Church is His kingdom on earth. I also felt He wanted me to know that He had been answering my prayers continually throughout my life. I just hadn’t realized it. Where would my testimony be without the scriptures?
Later I read the same scriptures to calm my nerves on a plane to the mission field. I read them to inspire and motivate me through my college years. I read them to confirm if I should ask my wife to marry me. I read them for guidance in my career. I read them to find out how to be a better father. Every day I felt I learned and grew more. My testimony became stronger. I found the strength to trust in the Lord more and more.
The majority of my Christmas presents I received growing up were eventually packed in boxes, broken and discarded, or given to secondhand stores. But I still have those maroon scriptures with my name embossed on the cover. They are faded and worn. Some pages are torn, and the margins are filled with notes and quotes.
I cannot think of another Christmas gift that I have used more or one that has affected me more than what was in that little white box. Over time, it changed my life. It helped me come to my Savior Jesus Christ and learn to follow Him. It helped me gain a testimony of His gospel and motivated me to do my part in it. It has helped me become more like Him. What could be a more fitting Christmas gift? I thank my Heavenly Father that my parents gave me a gift I didn’t want.

I was never involved in any fights in high school. I’m glad I wasn’t. I’m not very big, and I don’t find great joy in cuts and bruises.
But one time I got into a fight walking home from school that lasted a few weeks. My opponent was only 11 inches tall, but this was one of the toughest battles I’d ever fought. This battle was with a magazine.
My high school was within view of our front porch, so I walked to class every day. One afternoon, as I stepped across the thin ribbon of green lawn that divided the sidewalk from the road, I noticed an open magazine by the curb. I couldn’t tell what it was at first; then I realized it was pornographic. I quickly lifted my eyes from the gutter and kept walking toward home.
This is how the battle began. Every day as I went to school and every day as I came home, I had to face the temptation that lay in the gutter.
As I think about it now, I wonder why I didn’t just pick up the magazine and throw it away. But I do know I didn’t even want to touch it. What if someone saw me with it? Or what if my dad saw it in our garbage can? Or what if I picked it up and saw more than I wanted to see?
Each day my mind could come up with some pretty good rationalizations: “It might be good for you to know what’s in there, so you’ll know what’s going on in today’s world,” or “You don’t want to be a sheltered, naive little boy, do you? What’s it going to hurt, anyway? Just repent later. Who’s going to know?”
One day in seminary, our teacher pointed out that Jesus answered each of his temptations with a scripture. That sounded like a good idea.
Looking through the Topical Guide, I found a scripture about battling temptation: “Humble yourselves before the Lord, and call on his holy name, and watch and pray continually, that ye may not be tempted above that which ye can bear” (Alma 13:28).
This was a formula I could use: Humble yourself, and watch and pray continually. I crossed the street in a different place now, and these two scriptures helped me as the days passed with the magazine still sitting there in the gutter.
One afternoon, as I stepped off the curb, I noticed that the magazine was gone. I could tell by the appearance of the gutters that a street cleaner had recently passed by. A street cleaner—how appropriate, I thought.
God did make a way to escape, and together, we won the fight. Curiosity, rationalization, and laziness are no match against courage, self-control, and mental toughness.
Victory in physical battles requires strength, muscles, and skill; but the fight is never tougher and victory is never sweeter than in the battles over self. No, I never got into any fights in high school; but with some help from the scriptures, I defeated an 11-inch magazine.

Thirteen-year-old Sherrie underwent a 14-hour operation for a tumor on her spinal cord. As she regained consciousness in the intensive care unit, she said: “Daddy, Aunt Cheryl is here, … and … Grandpa Norman … and Grandma Brown … are here. And Daddy, who is that standing beside you? … He looks like you, only taller. … He says he’s your brother, Jimmy.” Her uncle Jimmy had died at age 13 of cystic fibrosis.

“For nearly an hour, Sherrie … described her visitors, all deceased family members. Exhausted, she then fell asleep.”

Later she told her father, “Daddy, all of the children here in the intensive care unit have angels helping them.”

A lovely lady who has since passed away visited with me one day and unexpectedly recounted some regrets. She spoke of an incident which had taken place many years earlier and involved a neighboring farmer, once a good friend but with whom she and her husband had disagreed on multiple occasions. One day the farmer asked if he could take a shortcut across her property to reach his own acreage. At this point she paused in her narrative to me and, with a tremor in her voice, said, “Brother Monson, I didn’t let him cross our property then or ever but required him to take the long way around on foot to reach his property. I was wrong, and I regret it. He’s gone now, but oh, I wish I could say to him, ‘I’m so sorry.’ How I wish I had a second chance to be kind.”

The next challenge was pitching our tents. Those who had brought their own tents were familiar with them and seemed to have no problems. But others, like our stake president, Craig Marshall, had borrowed tents. The owner of the tent had told President Marshall that it was a cinch to put up, but despite lots of head scratching and lightning suggestions from the great brains of the group, he had trouble getting the frame to fit together.
While President Marshall struggled, the rest of us put up the food tent (the most important camp item), collected firewood, constructed a rack for the canoes and paddles, and prepared cocoa and biscuits to eat around the fire in the true tradition of camp. Eventually even President Marshall got his tent erected, with some friendly help from the rest of the group.

Ever since I was in Primary, I’ve wanted to be a missionary. But when I was twelve years old, I became discouraged. Being old enough to serve a mission seemed so far away to me. I worried that I would fall into temptation. I thought I might as well live my life however I wanted and not worry about preparing.
But when I talked to my parents about serving a mission, they encouraged me. They told me Satan will always try to tempt me when I’m doing something good for my Heavenly Father. I prayed for guidance, and I felt Heavenly Father affirm that He will be with me every day.
Even though I’ve been through temptations and trials, my faith is strong. I know if I prepare now, through Jesus Christ, I can become a missionary like I’ve always wanted. It might be hard, but I know God will be with me in everything I do.

It occurred when this most treasured, little son was nearly three years old. One day, suddenly and without warning, he stopped breathing and fell to the floor, apparently lifeless. My husband was not home, and I called my ten-year-old daughter, Nancy, to get help as I carried him to the bedroom. As I worked to revive him, I literally, cried out unto the Lord. I begged him to spare our only son. I promised that I would dedicate myself to training him up to be an instrument in the hands of God if he would be spared. The police arrived with their emergency equipment. I continued in fervent, vocal prayer to the Lord, petitioning him to restore our little boy. The doctor arrived. Just as a stimulant was to be injected directly into his heart as a final emergency measure, he cried. My prayers had been answered, but I was to receive further testimony of this in a most unexpected way.
The next morning, our son climbed on his daddy’s knee. “I was sitting on the lap of Jesus,” he said. Then he went on, “He looked into my eyes. I was so happy. I wanted to stay there with him, but he told me I had to go back home to you.” Even now, twenty-four years later, our son remembers vividly the reciprocal love he experienced during his brief “step out of time.” He is vigorous and well, living with his lovely wife and a little son of his own as he continues to serve the Lord.

There were only six days until Christmas of 1991, and weather forecasters were predicting snow and bad road conditions for Eastern Europe. Traveling was not advisable. But Johannes Gutjahr had a promise to keep, and a lot of Christmas presents were depending on him.
Several months before, Brother Gutjahr, a Church translator in Friedrichsdorf, Germany, had promised President James L. Wilde of the Hungary Budapest Mission that as soon as copies of the long-overdue Hungarian Book of Mormon arrived in Germany, he would load his car with as many copies as would fit and would take them to Hungary. So now, Thursday afternoon, Brother Gutjahr—who says he has a “soft spot” in his heart for Hungarians since he has some Hungarian ancestors—was trying to fulfill his promise and deliver the new books before Hungarian customs offices closed on Friday for Christmas. He and President Wilde shared a common goal in this effort: To give the Hungarian Saints a Christmas present they would never forget. And it was a Christmas present they didn’t know was coming. President Wilde hadn’t told the members—or many of the missionaries—that the Hungarian Book of Mormon was finally ready.
Originally, Brother Gutjahr thought he would be making this trip in September. But, he says, “Come September, the Book of Mormon still was not around.”
By the time the book finally did arrive—Christmas 1991—the Church had been officially recognized in the country for three and a half years, and the Hungary Budapest Mission had been open for almost a year and a half. It had been a long wait.
However, despite the limitations of not having the complete Book of Mormon, many members in Hungary, through great faith, had gained strong testimonies of the book.
The Hungarian members of the Church had manifested their faith. The Book of Mormon had finally been translated and printed in Hungarian. Now it was up to Brother Gutjahr to get the books from Germany, through Austria, and into Hungary—a trip of about 1,000 kilometers.
So at about 3:00 P.M. on Thursday, Brother Gutjahr loaded 1,600 copies of the new Hungarian Book of Mormon into a van and started his journey. Passing the Austrian border at about 9:00 P.M. and the Hungarian border at about 3:00 A.M., Brother Gutjahr arrived at the city of Györ in good time early Friday morning. But then the difficulties started.
At the Hungarian border, officials had told Brother Gutjahr he could pass customs in Györ, but officials in Györ said he couldn’t. So in the early afternoon, after hours of unsuccessful efforts by Brother Gutjahr and two missionaries who were serving in Györ, Brother Gutjahr drove on to Budapest, hoping to find some help there. But help was not quick in coming.
First, the weather forecasts finally came true. “All the way down Germany and through Austria, I had not seen a single snowflake,” remembers Brother Gutjahr. “But between Györ and Budapest, especially on the autobahn, it started to snow very heavily.” Braving the storm, which did not last very long but was enough to slow him down, he pressed on to Budapest, where he encountered his second obstacle: By the time he arrived at the mission office, it was past closing time, and it was the Friday before the long holiday weekend. The customs office would not be open again until January.
Fortunately, Elder Sipos and his companion, Elder Kuen Damiano, were waiting in the mission office when Brother Gutjahr arrived. Then serving as zone leaders in Budapest, the two missionaries were determined to help Brother Gutjahr get the Book of Mormon distributed before Christmas. But when they asked a customs officer if there was anything they could do, the response was, “Absolutely not. Come back in January.”
But January was after Christmas! Elder Sipos, who is from Morgan, Utah, but grew up speaking Hungarian with his native Hungarian parents, persisted. He explained the situation. These were religious books; they were very important. “We’d really like the people to receive them by Christmas,” he said. “We’ve all been waiting years for this.”
The customs officer continued to say no, but the missionaries—offering many silent prayers—continued to urge him to make an exception. Suddenly he changed. “Something finally touched him,” recalls Elder Sipos, “so he said, ‘Okay, I’ll do it.’”
What did Elder Sipos say to change the customs officer’s mind? “Oh, I don’t think I’m the one who did most of the convincing,” he says. “The way he turned around, it seems there was something else. I think the Spirit made the difference.”
The customs officer turned from impatient, says Elder Sipos, to so willing to help that he not only told them they could distribute the books, but he also said, “I will take personal responsibility for everything that happens to that shipment of books.”
Brother Gutjahr had kept his promise; the 1,600 books were now in Budapest, Hungary. But copies still needed to be distributed to the other 10 cities where members met regularly. And there was only one day, Saturday, to deliver them so the members would receive their surprise Christmas present on Sunday, three days before Christmas. Friday evening, missionaries met Brother Gutjahr in a hotel parking lot, loaded their cars with copies of the Book of Mormon, and headed east, south, and west to deliver the books to other missionaries who would then make the surprise announcements in Church meetings on Sunday.

I was in the ninth grade. I had friends, and I was on the yearbook staff. Things were going my way. Everything except gym class. My problem wasn’t exactly the class—it was the teacher. She was new, just graduated from college. She was strict and never smiled. It wasn’t that I didn’t try during class; it was just that my athletic ability wasn’t the greatest.
I remember the day we practiced basketball layups. The gym teacher taught us how to place our feet and shoot the ball. I tried to follow her directions, but my ball just wouldn’t go into the basket. She growled at me.
Another day we played dodgeball. When the ball hit me squarely in the shin, she yelled at me. I felt humiliated and upset. I started to dread gym class because I was afraid I would be yelled at in front of everyone. I wanted to place the blame on her. But one day I had a realization that changed everything.
I was sitting in line waiting for roll call. I watched my teacher moving up and down the line, marking her clipboard as she checked our gym uniforms. Suddenly, a thought occurred to me: “She’s your sister!”
“My sister?” I thought. How could that be? I wouldn’t claim her for all the world. But the thought came again: “She’s your sister.” And then it occurred to me. She is my sister. We are spirit sisters. We have the same Heavenly Father. We both chose to follow the Savior in the premortal world. We are both here on earth to gain a body and learn and grow. This realization was startling. It was as if someone had slipped a pair of spiritual glasses over my eyes. I began to see my gym teacher with a whole new perspective. She is a child of God.
I started to smile at the thought. What if we had actually been friends in the premortal existence? What if she had tried to teach me basketball there and we had laughed together?
I watched her make her way down the line. Soon she was in front of me, marking her chart. I couldn’t help but smile at her in a genuine, friendly way. She seemed a little shocked at my new friendliness.
The rest of the class period I thought about what I had discovered. If she really were my sister, I would want her to be successful as a teacher. Maybe there were some things I could do to make her day go better. To begin with, I could change my attitude.
The next day as I entered the gymnasium and looked at my teacher, the old distasteful feeling started to come back. “Wait,” I thought. “That’s your sister over there. Love her.”
I confidently went and sat in line. Throughout the class I tried to listen respectfully and show real interest in what she was saying. No matter what my teacher did or said to me, I appreciated her. Soon I felt genuine friendship toward her.
She must have sensed my change of attitude because she actually smiled at me a few times. I knew she could tell that I was sincere in my efforts. The rest of the semester went smoothly, and by the end of the year I had even earned an A. But the miracle of the class was not my grade; it was my change of heart.
Now sometimes when I find myself feeling dislike toward someone, I stop and mentally slip on my spiritual glasses. I try to remember that we are all brothers and sisters. My corrected vision makes all the difference. I can reach out in love to people I would otherwise turn away from. After all, that’s what we are here to learn—how to love one another. And that’s much more important than an A in gym class.

Then I met Vanessa. One day after we’d been together a while, she said, “We need religion in this house.” By then we had three children.
With the world as it is, we worried about what spiritual direction we were going to give our children. I thought that if I was going back to religion, I would go back to my church. I remembered it was a place with good people.
I talked to a member of the Church and told him I was thinking about returning to church.
“Please come back!” he said.
My biggest worry was that my children would think church was boring and wouldn’t like it, but they did like it. As we continued going to church, Vanessa decided that there was nothing similar to the Church that helps families grow together. It was exactly what she was looking for. Vanessa and I got married, and she and our children got baptized.
Now we’re walking the gospel path as a family. Our goal is to be sealed together in the temple.

When I was eight years old, the missionaries met my grandmother and aunt on the street. After learning about the gospel, we were all baptized. In 2020, however, we had to stop going to church because of COVID. We eventually stopped believing.
Two years ago, I didn’t even believe in God or know if He was real. One day after school, I wanted to cross the street to buy a snack. But a voice told me to not cross the street. I stopped, and two cars crashed right in front of me. If I had crossed the street, the cars would have hit me or maybe killed me. I knew then that God knew me and loved me. Even though I didn’t believe in Him and wasn’t attending church at the time, He still loved me and protected me.
I started to read the Book of Mormon again and came to know that it is God’s word. I started going back to church too. When I go to church, I feel peace, God’s love, and His help. I feel that He’s always with me, and that makes me happy.
My favorite hymn is “I Am a Child of God” because it reminds me that Heavenly Father loves us and helps us. I also like the scripture 2 Nephi 2:27, which talks about how we are free to choose between right and wrong.
Many months ago, my brother started coming to church with me, but after a while he stopped. He worries about what his friends and others will think of him. He thinks that it’s shameful to go to our church, but I tell him that it doesn’t matter what friends think. It’s what God thinks that matters.
My family doesn’t go to church. I go alone. Because my street doesn’t have a bus to the Church building, I walk about 30 minutes to get there. My family worries what other people will think about them, but I say that it doesn’t matter because I know it’s true.
When I meet with my friends, they sometimes drink coffee. And when I see that, sometimes I want to drink coffee too. But I remember that God is with me. He holds my hand and helps me. I hear a voice that tells me not to do it, and I know that God is helping me overcome these challenges.
It’s hard to attend church without her family, but Nara knows that God loves and blesses her. He even protected her from a car accident once.
If I were to give advice to someone in my situation, I would say to them that you are so blessed, and you have a lot of faith. You are not alone, because the Church members and missionaries can give you good advice. God loves you. You are His son or daughter, and He wants to help you.

May I share a personal experience to help any who feel anguish when eternal marriage is mentioned since you believe your spouse will not prepare for that sacred experience because of deeply rooted characteristics or habits. About five years into our marriage, we had a growing experience. Our precious two-year-old son Richard died while undergoing surgery to correct a congenital heart defect. Within six weeks, our daughter Andrea passed away at birth. My father, then not a member of the Church, loved little Richard very much. He said to my inactive mother, “I cannot understand how Richard and Jeanene seem to be able to accept the loss of these children.”
Mother, responding to a prompting, said, “Kenneth, they have been sealed in the temple. They know that their children will be with them in the eternities if they live righteously. But you and I will not have our five sons because we have not made those covenants.”
My father pondered those words. He began to meet with the stake missionaries and was soon baptized. In just over a year Mother, Dad, and the children were sealed in the temple. Later, President Kimball put his hands on my father’s head, promised him the vigor and strength of youth, and gave him the sealing power. He worked as a sealer for 11 years in the Washington D.C. Temple with Mother at his side. You do your part. Don’t abandon hope for a temple marriage.

As I went into surgery a few years ago, I was still conscious when the doctors and nurses were standing around me waiting. I said to the specialist, “There are numerous people full of faith who are praying for you this morning.” He quietly replied, “I’ll need their prayers.” It is my firm conviction that the numerous prayers were heard, that his hand was steadied and guided, that his judgment increased, and that as a result of the blessings of the Lord, healing followed and voice returned to a satisfactory extent. The skeptic might have other answers.

We can plan for and mitigate the risk arising from a world that becomes more and more distracting and noisy. Let me illustrate with an experience I had many years ago.
I was flying an airplane from my home in Kalispell, Montana, to Las Vegas, Nevada, to pick up my father-in-law for a business trip. The airplane I was flying was very sophisticated, and my co-pilot was very experienced. Together, we had more than 60 years in the cockpits of different aircraft. We checked the weather, filed a flight plan, and made other preparations for the flight.
The weather in Kalispell was a beautiful, clear night, and we were prepared to leave just as the skies darkened in the cool of the spring evening. I was excited. I was flying a fabulous airplane, I had a co-pilot who was a dear friend, we had great weather, and there was the prospect of another business venture with my father-in-law. We had made a flight plan with numerous waypoints along the route.
After flying for about an hour and a half, air traffic control gave us descent instructions into the Las Vegas area. We descended into a storm that we had been comfortably flying over for some time. Suddenly, the static electricity from the storm overwhelmed the radios, and we could no longer speak to the controllers on the ground. We were flying into some of the busiest airspace in the world, with no ability to see anything outside the aircraft and no ability to speak to the controllers on the ground, whose job was to keep the aircraft separated.
Neither of us had ever experienced anything like this storm. However, we knew exactly what to do. The Federal Aviation Administration (governing body of all flights in the US) has a rule. If a pilot loses communications with the ground, he should fly “last clearance then flight plan route,” which means you do what the controller last told you and then keep to the plan you have made.
Soon, we flew out of the storm. When we finally connected with air traffic control, they told us, “We could hear you. You just couldn’t hear us.” We could not hear because the static had overwhelmed our radios, but by keeping with our plan, we were able to stay safe.

In October 1833, only a few months after the laying of the cornerstone for the Kirtland Temple, the Prophet Joseph Smith went on a mission to Canada with Sidney Rigdon. In all, the Prophet served fourteen short missions. On the way to Canada, he received the following revelation:
“My friends Sidney and Joseph, your families are well; they are in mine hands, and I will do with them as seemeth me good. …
“Therefore, follow me, and listen to the counsel which I shall give unto you.
“… I have much people in this place, …
“Therefore, … lift up your voices unto this people; speak the thoughts that I shall put into your hearts, and you shall not be confounded before men;
“For it shall be given you in the very hour, yea, in the very moment, what ye shall say. …
“Therefore, continue your journey and let your hearts rejoice.” (D&C 100:1–3, 5–6, 12.)
According to the Prophet Joseph’s journal, once he and Sidney Rigdon arrived in Canada, they found the people eager to accept the gospel.
Friday, the 18th [October 1833], … we arrived … in Upper Canada.
Sunday, 20.—At 10 o’clock we met an attentive congregation at Brantford; and the same evening a large assembly at Mount Pleasant. … The people gave good heed to the things spoken.
Thursday, 24.— … Freeman A. Nickerson and his wife declared their belief in the work, and offered themselves for baptism. Great excitement prevailed in every place we visited.
Sunday, 27.—Preached to a large congregation … , after which I baptized twelve, and others were deeply impressed. …
Monday, 28.—In the evening, we broke bread, and laid on hands for the gift of the Holy Ghost, and for confirmation, having baptized two more. The Spirit was given in great power to some, and peace to others. May God carry on His work in this place till all shall know Him.
Tuesday, 29.—After preaching … , I baptized two, and confirmed them at the water’s side. … We took our departure from Mount Pleasant. …
Friday, November 1.—I left Buffalo, New York, … and arrived at my house in Kirtland on Monday, the 4th … and found my family well, according to the promise of the Lord … , for which I felt to thank my Heavenly Father.
The sacrifice made by many Saints to serve missions brought great blessings to their lives. The Church was also blessed by the strength and faithfulness of the new members. In Canada, for example, many joined the Church, including a future President of the Church, John Taylor, and the mother of future President Joseph F. Smith, Mary Fielding.

Several years ago, while I was serving as president of the Fiji Suva Mission, some missionaries had an experience which reinforced in them the converting power of the Book of Mormon. On a hot and humid day, two elders arrived at a home in a small settlement in Labasa.
The knock on the door was answered by a weathered man who listened as the missionaries testified of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. They gave him a copy and invited him to read and to pray to know, like them, that it is the word of God. His reply was brief: “Tomorrow I return to fishing. I will read it while at sea, and when I return, you may visit me again.”
While he was away, transfers were made, and a few weeks later, a new companionship of elders returned to visit the fisherman. By this time he had read the entire Book of Mormon, had received confirmation of its truthfulness, and was eager to learn more.
This man had been converted by the Holy Ghost, who witnessed of the truth of the precious words on every page of events and doctrine taught long ago and preserved for our day in the Book of Mormon. That same blessing is available to each of us.

This morning Mom and I went to the bookstore to meet my favorite author. I took my copy of one of her books, and she autographed it for me. Then Mom and I looked all around the store. I asked Mom to buy me a zillion different books, but she said, “Maybe we can get one for your next birthday.” Sometimes Mom says no. I yelled, “I want one now! If you loved me, you’d buy me a book!” Mom said, “I love you very much, but we can’t do and have everything we want. We have to make choices.” “I know,” I said. “But can I have a hug and a kiss?” This time Mom said yes!