Gospel Story Finder

The lights dimmed, and a hush fell over the audience. All eyes watched as Elise seemed to float across the stage in a soft, blue dress that swirled around her like a mist. She danced as if no one was watching.
Lacy sat quietly as musicians played, quartets sang, and families performed comedy acts and wonderful musical numbers. The more she saw, the worse she felt. If only she had a talent! The ward talent show was the best activity of the year, and Lacy was never able to be a part of it.
All the way home, Lacy was quiet. Finally Mom said, “That was one of the best talent shows yet.”
“Your friend Elise sure can dance, Lacy,” her brother Ryan added. “She seems to float.”
I wish he was talking about me, Lacy thought.
“I hate going to the talent show, Mom,” Lacy tearfully admitted later that night. “I’d rather stay home than go and see all the things that others can do. I can’t do anything. Our family can’t do anything, either. The Billings family sings together. The Myerses have their own family band. All my friends either sing, dance, or play an instrument. I feel like a loser.” Lacy sobbed into her pillow.
“Lacy,” Mom quietly reminded, “we all have talents. They may not be performed on a stage, but they are wonderful. You must find yours and then use them. That’s why Heavenly Father gave them to you. Why don’t you think about the things that you do well, and we’ll talk later.” Mom quietly slipped from the room to care for their newest foster child, three-year-old Brittany.
Sometime during the night, Brittany slipped into Lacy’s bed. “Bwitney scared,” she said. “Bwitney scared at night.” Lacy gently pulled the covers up over her trembling little body and patted her back.
During Primary on Sunday, Brittany wanted Lacy to stay with her, so Lacy sat in the Sunbeam class with her. “Children, we have a new Sunbeam to welcome to Primary. Lacy, would you like to introduce your new sister to us?”
Brittany squeezed Lacy’s hand as they walked to the front. “This is Brittany, my new sister.” As the children sang “Hello! Hello! Hello! Hello! We welcome you today,” Brittany hid her face in Lacy’s dress.
“Why is your new sister so shy?” Lacy’s friend Alan asked after Primary. “She acts like she’s afraid of the world!”
“She is afraid. How would you feel if you had to move to a new home where you didn’t know anyone, not even your new family? She’s just a little girl. She’s still getting used to us.”
Alan poked Lacy in the arm as he ran down the hall. “You’re going to have the biggest family in the world if you guys get any more kids.”
Later, Lacy was helping Brittany get ready for bed. “Wead to Bwitney, please, Lacy.”
Lacy laughed and hugged Brittany. “Sure! Go get a book. I’ll read you one story.”
Brittany came running back with a book of Bible stories. Pointing to the picture of Noah, she said, “This one, Lacy.”
“You really like that story, don’t you? This time, why don’t we be the animals? The bed can be the ark. We’ll climb onto the ark and look for our stalls.”
Brittany hung her head down low and made her arms into an elephant’s trunk. Lumbering onto the ark, she bellowed, “I hungwy! I firsty! I sleepy.”
“Caw! Caw! I need my nest. I need some seed,” Lacy crowed as she flapped her arms and “flew” around the ark.
When the girls finished the story, it was bedtime for Brittany. “Tuck me in, please, Lacy.”
Stepping into the room, Mom said, “Prayers first, Brittany.”
“Lacy help me,” Brittany told her.
“Is that OK, Mom?” Lacy asked quietly.
Mom nodded with a smile.
Brittany knelt by her bed. It amazed Lacy how easily all her sisters and brothers learned to pray. With a little prompting, Brittany began. “Dear Hebenly Father, please bless Lacy. She loves me. Amen.”
Tears stung Lacy’s eyes. A million thoughts flashed through her mind. She knew a little about each of the children who had joined her family before they came. All of them had suffered more than Lacy could imagine. Each had brought her or his own special spirit into her family, and Lacy loved them all. She enjoyed helping to care for them. She read to them and played games with them. She helped them to dress and did their hair. Most of all, she tried to help them to be happy, to feel safe, and to know that Heavenly Father loved them.
Lacy hugged Brittany as she tucked her in. “I really do love you, Brittany. You’re a wonderful sister.”
“Mom,” Lacy said later. “I think I know what one of my talents is.”
“You have many talents, Lacy. Which one do you mean?”
“Well, it’s really an easy thing. You can’t watch it or listen to it, and you’d never be able to do it in a talent show. I’m not even sure it’s a talent. But I know I’m good at it—our whole family is good at it—and it helps people.”
“Lacy, not all talents are meant to entertain people. Some are meant to bless them. Which talent are you talking about?”
“I love all the kids who come to live with us. I love them so much that I want to help make their lives better. If they get to stay forever, then I get to keep helping. If they have to leave, I pray that what they have learned and felt here stays with them forever. Is that a talent, Mom?”
“Lacy, it’s only one of your talents, but it’s surely one of the best of them.”

In that forum, Elder Hafen told a handcart pioneer story of Sister Marjorie Pay Hinckley’s grandmother Polly, whose refined family left southern England to come to Zion after they had converted to the Church. As a young girl, Polly sacrificed and suffered so much on that trek, losing three siblings and her mother to death on their journey. Polly later wrote about their condition when they finally entered the Salt Lake Valley. She said:

Early next morning . . . Brigham Young . . . came. . . . When he saw our condition—our feet frozen and our mother dead—tears rolled down his cheeks.
The doctor amputated my toes. . . . The sisters were dressing mother [for her grave]. Oh how did we stand it? . . .
. . . I thought of [my mother’s] words [before we left England], “Polly, I want to go to Zion while my children are small, so they can be raised in the Gospel of Christ. For I know this is the true Church.”13

This family as well as many other families came from cultured cities of Europe. They welcomed a religion that prioritized education and schools along with spiritual knowledge.

Here is a true story that relates a simple experience of a nineteen-year-old who became a remarkable one. He was magnified and had great powers beyond his natural abilities as the Lord acted through him. There was a young nineteen-year-old admirer of Joseph Smith, Philemon Merrill, who had come with other loyal followers to rescue their prophet from the hands of sheriffs Reynolds and Wilson. While returning to Nauvoo, the company rested “in a little grove of timber.” One of the lawyers for the sheriff and the kidnappers boasted of his wrestling powers. He offered a wager that he could throw any man in Illinois. Stephen Markham, a bodyguard of Joseph’s and a huge man, also an experienced wrestler, took up the challenge. The boaster threw Stephen, and a taunting shout went up from the Prophet’s enemies.

As the taunts continued, Joseph Smith turned to young Philemon Merrill and said: “Get up and throw that man.”

The boy was about to refuse, to excuse himself by saying he was not a wrestler, but the look in the Prophet’s eye silenced his tongue. “He arose to his feet filled with the strength of a Samson.” Philemon “lifted his arms” and told the lawyer to take his choice of sides.

“The man took the left side with his right hand under,” which gave him a decided advantage. Philemon Merrill’s friends protested, but young Philemon felt such confidence in the words of the Prophet that it made little difference to him what advantage his antagonist took. As they began to grapple, Joseph instructed him, “‘Philemon, when I count three, throw him!’

“On the instant after the word dropped from Joseph’s lips,” Philemon Merrill, “with the strength of a giant, threw the lawyer over his left shoulder, and he fell striking his head upon the earth.”

Little wonder it is reported that “awe fell upon the opponents of the Prophet when they saw this, and there were no more challenges to wrestle during the journey” (George Q. Cannon, Life of Joseph Smith the Prophet, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1964, pp. 450–51).

It was a cloudy Sunday morning as I stood at the kitchen sink finishing the breakfast dishes. My two youngest children were watching a scripture video in the family room by the kitchen. I was lost in thought, and my cheeks were wet from tears. I couldn’t get my mind off the cancer that had invaded our home. My husband had been fighting it for several years, but now it had spread. My faith seemed to be wavering. My mind was crowded with “what if?” thoughts.
Suddenly the scripture video interrupted my thoughts with words from a calming voice: “Peace, be still. …
“Why are ye so fearful? how is it that ye have no faith?” (Mark 4:39–40).
I dropped the dishrag and turned to look at the TV. The video was about the Savior calming the storm. It was as if the words had been spoken to me by the Savior Himself. A feeling of warmth and peace flooded over me. It was a reminder to stick to the faith I had learned so much about through the years of cancer. It was a faith buttressed by words in my patriarchal blessing.
I learned to let the Savior carry us, I learned that I must keep my faith constant, and I learned to combat mounting fears with faith. The video that morning reminded me to rely on the Lord.

President Marion G. Romney tells of this incident which happened to him:

I remember years ago when I was a Bishop I had President [Heber J.] Grant talk to our ward. After the meeting I drove him home. . . .Standing by me, he put his arm over my shoulder and said: “My boy, you always keep your eye on the President of the Church, and if he ever tells you to do anything, and it is wrong, and you do it, the Lord will bless you for it.” Then with a twinkle in his eye, he said, “But you don’t need to worry. The Lord will never let his mouthpiece lead the people astray.” [In Conference Report, October 1960, p. 78]

Grudges, if left to fester, can become serious maladies. Like a painful ailment they can absorb all of our time and attention. Guy de Maupassant has written an interesting chronicle that illustrates this.

It concerns Master Hauchecome, who on market day went to town. He was afflicted with rheumatism, and as he stumbled along he noticed a piece of string on the ground in front of him. He picked it up and carefully put it in his pocket. He was seen doing so by his enemy, the harness maker.

At the same time it was reported to the mayor that a pocketbook containing money had been lost. It was assumed that what Hauchecome had picked up was the pocketbook, and he was accused of taking it. He vehemently denied the charge. A search of his clothing disclosed only the piece of string, but the slander against him had so troubled him that he became obsessed with it. Wherever he went he bothered to tell people about it. He became such a nuisance that they cried out against him. It sickened him.

“His mind kept growing weaker and about the end of December he took to his bed.
“He passed away early in January, and, in the ravings of [his] death agony, he protested his innocence, repeating:
“‘A little [piece] of string—a little [piece] of string. See, here it is, [Mister Mayor.]’” (See “The Piece of String,” http://www.online-literature.com/Maupassant/270/.)

I started to get the New Era as a gift from a dear friend, and I think it is great. My friend Becky started to visit me while I was in prison. She asked me if I would like to talk to the elders, and I agreed. I saw them for six months, and it really helped. I’m going to keep on subscribing to the New Era now because it is still helping me. Thanks to Elder Castleberry and Elder Muller, and a real big thanks to Becky Hartswick for two wonderful gifts, the Church and the New Era.
Jeffrey D. AumanLewistown, Pennsylvania

Being able to fast on the first Sunday of every month was the unspoken “rite of passage” in my family. The children in my home had to somehow convince my parents of their maturity before Mom and Dad would pass on the privilege and honor of partaking of the spiritual feast that fasting provides.
I’d been looking forward to this honor for months. I had finally convinced my parents that I was ready to make that sacrifice along with all the other mature members of my family. I didn’t know that going without food would teach me about the bread and milk of living.
When that long-anticipated fast day came, I watched my younger sisters hawklike while they gobbled up their toast, eggs, and milk. In my sanctimonious sanctuary on the couch, as I watched each one finish her last bite, I began to seriously wonder why I had begged for this privilege. That day, after long hours in church, I kept looking at the clock. Morning grew into afternoon, and I was still holding firm to my commitment. Then I remembered that I had half a roll of Life Savers in my coat pocket. I figured that I could sneak them out and carry them down to the bathroom, close the door, and lock it. If I flushed the toilet while I rattled the paper, nobody would be able to hear me eating the candy.
I grabbed the Life Savers from my coat pocket, hid them in my dress pocket, and walked downstairs to the bathroom. Then I closed the door, flushed the toilet, and ripped open the paper. Sitting down on the heat vent to eat them, I stared at the cherry Life Saver between my thumb and index finger, about three inches from my mouth. Then the guilt hit. I took the candies and flushed them down the toilet, then walked outside the house and waited.
When Mom called from the house, I slid into my place at the table. My mother and father smiled at me and patted me on the arm. I looked at the table, which held a loaf of sliced bread, a gallon pitcher of chilled milk, and slices of cheese stacked on a china plate. Every Sunday night our family had bread and milk for supper. We would take a slice of bread and break it into small pieces in a bowl. Then we would pour milk over the pieces and eat the mixture with a spoon.
As I took my slice of bread and slowly broke it into the bowl, I could feel the smooth, soft texture of the bread center and the hard, shiny, dark-brown crust. I noticed the moisture from the chilled milk running down the glass, and as I poured the milk into the bowl, it made a frothy top.
It was a simple meal, an ordinary meal, a meal that I had had every Sunday night for as long as I could remember. But it tasted different that night. I distinctly remember the yeasty smell of the bread and the way the cool milk felt inside my mouth. I’ve never had a meal quite like it since.
That meal started to teach me about the bread and milk of living. It started to teach me about the richness of ordinary things. I found that really enjoying life could be as simple as being able to savor an ordinary meal.
Now, every time I fast, I think about the true bread of life, and the lesson I learned during my “rite of passage.”

My friend and I were the only Mormons working in our area. We were always kidded about our so-called “strange beliefs,” and every time we’d mention religion, the others would jump down our throats. But they couldn’t stop us from singing. It reached the point that if we’d stop, they’d ask us to begin again. I think we sang every hymn in the hymnbook and every song we’d ever learned in Primary or Sunday School. It was very special singing about the Savior in the land he loved. Songs like “I Am a Child of God” and “Come, Come, Ye Saints” began to touch the hearts of the people we were working with, and they began asking questions.
I remember how excited one young woman was when she found out I was a Mormon. She had visited a world’s fair and had been very impressed by all the young people who were eager to explain our church to her. She wanted to know what it is in our church that gets our young people so excited. She said, “I thought religion was something for the old, when you don’t have anything better to do. What is it that makes you all look so happy?”
Some of us didn’t realize how much we were being watched. I happened to overhear the conversation of two young women. One of them was speaking very harshly and using profanity. Finally the other woman spoke up and said, “I don’t have to listen to you and this kind of language! I’m going to get me a good Mormon friend!”
One Jewish boy I met had heard something about archaeology and the Church. He said, “I understand that one of you Mormons made an important archaeological find in the states. I think it was New York, wasn’t it? It was supposed to be some kind of record starting with my people here in Jerusalem. Would you tell me about it?”
When you are placed out in the middle of nowhere and denied most of the conveniences you are accustomed to, you become grateful for things you never realized you were blessed with before. It amazes me that I could be completely covered with dirt, have blisters on both hands, sore muscles, flies flying around my head, and an upset stomach, and yet feel so completely blessed for experiences in which physical discomfort teaches patience and gratitude. I started thinking past the physical and material things because I was living on so little and was amazed at how little I need materially and how much my whole life depends on my Father in heaven.
Having participated in this travel-work-study program, I find the whole existence of man has taken on a new meaning for me. Everything seems to take its place in an orderly plan, and I realize that man, throughout all the ages, has not changed a great deal. I understand more fully that I am a part of the Lord’s plan. In the same way we tried to reconstruct broken pieces of pottery into the original vase or jar, I see the small lessons I am learning fitting into an organized, divine piece of art.

I recall that when I was twenty years old, I went for an interview with the bishop to go on a mission. When I returned, my mother, all smiles, said, “Well, Ted, what did the bishop say?”
“He said I couldn’t go.”
“Why not?” my mother asked.
And I said, “Because we don’t have enough money.”
“If my father could leave two children and another to be born shortly after he left, you can go.”
I said, “I know that, but the bishop doesn’t.”
Parenthetically, I might say that he was doing his job right. He asked me if I had any money. I told him I had a few hundred dollars that I had earned that summer.
He said, “Then what?”
I said, “My dad would send it to me.”
He said, “Does your dad have it?”
I said, “No,” and he didn’t. We had lost our sheep herd during the Depression. My father was a livestock dealer buying lambs and wool on commission, and that was a very uncertain income.
The bishop said, “The Brethren have had some serious experiences, and so you cannot go unless you can guarantee that you’ll have sufficient money.”
I accepted that, and that’s what I told my mother.
That night we waited for Dad to come home and then held a family council. We concluded that we didn’t then have enough money—and that we wouldn’t, so far as we could see, anytime in the future. We decided to ask our neighbor, Tom Anderson, a rather wealthy man, if he would help. When we explained our situation, he said, “You tell the bishop that I will ‘back you.’”
Before the bishop opened his business the next morning, I was there waiting to tell him that Tom Anderson said he would back me. The bishop said, “That’s all I need to know.”
The interesting thing was that we never did have to call on Brother Anderson. My folks would send that check and with it a note, “This is for this month, and we’ll have the next month’s, too.”
I am a product of a household of faith. I learned faith in my home. I was taught it. It was drilled into me. I need that faith now as much as I ever did.

The weeks before Christmas were predictably hectic. I knew from past experience that there would be heavy demands on my time, but I had hoped that this year would be different. I wanted to be well organized—to have my shopping and Christmas preparations done far enough in advance that the pressures of my busy life would not interfere with the spirit of the Christmas season.
And this year was different—in fact, the pre-Christmas season presented more challenges than usual. As a member of the Tabernacle Choir, I had learned years ago that I must be ready to spend many hours at the Tabernacle at this time of year. The month of December is always crowded with special programs, extra rehearsals, and Christmas concerts. But this year, in addition to these activities, the choir was also preparing to leave on a concert tour to Israel on the day after Christmas! We had difficult music to learn which required several months of extra rehearsals. All of this, combined with my full-time work schedule and preparations for a work assignment following the choir’s tour, allowed me very little time for the joyful preparations for Christmas or for my family.
My widowed mother watched quietly as I tried to juggle my life in order to work everything in. I knew that she would like to have had me make more frequent visits, take her shopping once in a while, or just find the time to call on the phone more often. We always looked forward to having her come to dinner on Sundays, and she never complained about any lack of attention to her, but I knew that she was lonely and longed for companionship. Since my father died four years ago, there had been a great void in her life. They were eternal companions in every sense of the word. Whether working in the temple, beautifying their home, enjoying their children and grandchildren, or singing, they did it together! And now again, I knew that she was remembering the years gone by and those joyous Christmases with Dad. Those were times full of love and music as they sang together at many Christmas programs and family gatherings. And now she was alone.
My sister and I had helped Mother put up her Christmas tree and decorate her home for the holidays. We had done most of her shopping for her, but about two weeks before Christmas, Mother called, apologized for infringing on my busy schedule, and asked if I would mind taking her shopping for one afternoon. She wanted to add her personal touch to a few of the items we had already purchased. It was a welcome and delightful break from the frenzied schedule I had been keeping. We had lunch and spent a lovely afternoon together. The joy and the spirit of the season which I had not had time for before filled our hearts.
Just a few days after our afternoon together, Mother became ill with the flu. We were very concerned and kept a close watch on her at her home. She did not want to come and stay with us or with my sister, but insisted that she would be well soon. She apologized for being ill and for becoming a burden on us at such a busy time. After she suffered for several miserable days, her health seemed to improve, and we relaxed our vigil somewhat. She had predicted that she would be fine by Christmas, and that seemed to be the case.
The tempo and burdens of my life had only increased during the week that Mother was ill. It was three days before Christmas, the choir had just finished two Christmas concerts, I still had last-minute shopping to do, there were many projects to complete at the office, and in only four days we would be on our way to Israel. When my husband came into my office that afternoon, shut the door, and told me that Mother had passed away just an hour earlier, I had difficulty comprehending what he was saying. He had no explanations why this had happened—only the devastating news that she was gone. All that had been so important only minutes ago seemed to evaporate. I felt that time had stopped and that I had been suspended in some sort of vacuum.
For the next two days, my sisters and I went through the necessary motions and made preparations for Mother’s funeral. It was to be held the day after Christmas—the day the choir was leaving for Israel! Family members and friends enveloped us with love and concern, and we struggled to acknowledge the reality of what had happened. Under the circumstances, I had assumed I would not be able to make the trip to Israel; but very late one evening I received a telephone call telling me that arrangements had been made for me to travel and join the choir a few days later. I was so grateful for kind friends and their efforts in my behalf!
For the sake of the young children in the family as well as our own, we wanted Christmas to be as normal as possible. We continued to make preparations for our traditional Christmas Eve family dinner and for Christmas day, but we felt so empty—so alone. It just could not be the same! Each of us—and especially the children—felt the terrible emptiness and tried to understand why our mother and grandmother had been taken at this time.
Because of the holiday, we were advised to postpone having a viewing until just before the services, but the funeral directors invited us to come to the funeral home at any time the day before—Christmas day—and spend some time alone with Mother. Following our dinner on Christmas night, we left the children playing with their gifts and went to the funeral home.
We stood quietly around her casket and looked at our beautiful mother in her temple robes. She looked so serene, so happy. There was a spirit of peace and of love in that room—even one of happiness and joy. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the recent glorious reunion that must have taken place between my mother and father. I had the impression that if I listened carefully, I could again hear the angels singing as they did on that holy night long ago, and that the beautiful voices of my mother and father had joined that heavenly chorus. I imagined I could hear them singing, “Silent night! Holy night! … Sleep in heavenly peace.”
The understanding and comfort I had prayed for seemed to come to me as I stood there, and my worldly cares seemed far away. On that silent night, gathered with my loved ones, I thanked my Father in Heaven for that moment of heavenly peace.

“I’m just a man like you,” the voice replied. “I’m in an adjacent chamber. When I lived on Earth I was called Desmond Jeffress.”
“Desmond Jeffress?”
“My, but that is sweet. That’s the first time I’ve heard my name spoken in more than 300 years.”
“You’ve been in space that long?” I asked, gasping at so profound a claim. Only the reality of hyperspace would allow such a thing.
The voice simply answered, “Yes.”
Looking directly at me with soft, brown eyes, he said, “I’m dying. I’ve lived more than 300 years, and I’ve barely an hour left.”
“I’m sure,” he responded. “That’s why I sent the SOS. I didn’t want to die alone, and, more important, I didn’t want to have lived in vain.”
“Three centuries before you were born I began my chronicle of the universe. Though there are countless planets, stars, and galaxies that I have never approached, I have nevertheless chronicled a total of 237 galaxies with 100 trillion stars and 600 trillion planets. I was able to visit exactly 200,000 of those planets, if only for a moment. If it sounds like I’ve been busy, I have. Never for an instant have I been idle. My last wish was to see all that I have learned safely delivered into another human’s hands. Since that is now assured, I should be able to die knowing that my life was not in vain. Still … still, something is not right.” He paused a moment, wheezing slightly. “I should feel at peace, but instead I’m more anxious than before.”
“Do you know why?” I asked.
“I believe,” he said, “that my mind is still troubled on one matter, on one foolish little matter.”
“What is that?”
“I had,” the old man recalled, “before I went into space, been somewhat of an atheist. I’ve always been analytic and cannot accept anything as true until it has been proven by experimentation. Not long after my voyages began, I found myself believing in God. I had become aware of a pattern, of a design in the universe, and observing mankind’s potential to control it, I felt a relationship, a descendency if you will, with some remarkably infinite power, maybe even a living, tangible being.
“From then on all of my experiments and voyages, of which my journals and chronicles became but by-products, were whole-hearted efforts to prove the existence and nature of God. All my knowledge was continually applied to this single purpose. I was determined to prove God, so that I could know, and not just feel, that he lives.
“However, despite all of my efforts, the most powerful evidence was nothing more than a strong indication of what I believed. It always left room for doubt.
“I’ve been almost everywhere and seen almost everything, and still have no proof that God exists. I’m a scientist believing something with no definite proof of its validity. That is my anxiety.”
“Have you ever asked God?” I inquired.
“How is that done?” he replied.
I then proceeded to bear my testimony to him. My testimony of God, that he is the Creator, that he is everyone’s Father in Heaven, of the premortal existence, of the plan of salvation, and of the atonement of Christ, and that Jesus is the Only Begotten Son of God; my testimony of all these things fell from my lips with more power than it ever had before.
We talked. In the short time available, our conversation must have touched upon nearly every principle of the gospel.
I told him that I did not just believe the things I’d said. I explained that I knew them by the power of the Holy Ghost, through prayer, that being the only way that anyone could know.
He then prayed one of the most fervent prayers that I’ve ever heard. He ignored my presence in the room as the words of supplication rolled smoothly off from his tongue, and when he ended his prayer, he knew! One quick glance at his tear-washed eyes and it was clear: he knew!
He looked up, right at me, and he said, “Young man, contained in this spacecraft is knowledge accumulated from more than three centuries of constant research, as I traveled from one galaxy to another, and never has it meant more to me than it does now.”
His eyes held mine in a firm stare as he continued, “The knowledge that you have shared with me for the last hour is more important than all the rest of the knowledge I’ve gathered put together. Thank you,” he said.
The moment that he finished uttering those words his final breath wheezed from his lungs. Silence permeated the air.

During the January 2017 worldwide devotional for young adults, I challenged those watching to increase their testimony of the Savior by taking time each week to:
Study everything Jesus said and did as recorded in the Old Testament.
Study His laws as recorded in the New Testament.
Study His doctrine as recorded in the Book of Mormon.
Study His words as recorded in the Doctrine and Covenants.
I promised those listening that if they would proceed to learn all they can about Jesus Christ, their love for Him and for God’s laws would grow beyond what they could currently imagine.
What I didn’t mention during this address was that I knew this promise was true because I was in the midst of completing this very same assignment myself for the first time.
On December 1, 2016, I obtained a new set of scriptures and proceeded to begin the same assignment that I would later extend to young adults in January. When I finished the assignment six weeks later, I had looked up and marked more than 2,200 citations from the four books of scripture.1
After six weeks of study, President Nelson completed his assignment.
For me, to be able to accomplish this assignment was just thrilling!
Something I found to be most insightful was that the Savior was telling us about Himself through these various periods of time—Old Testament, New Testament, the Restoration period, and our day. In all books of scripture, the story is the same and the Storyteller is the same.
I have devoted much of my 93 years to learning about the Savior, but rare are the occasions when I have been able to learn as much as I did over this six-week study period. In fact, I learned so much about Him from this study that I am planning to share much of it in other upcoming addresses that I am currently preparing.2
Upon beginning this assignment, I didn’t expect that this study would help me to receive a new testimony of the divinity of the work of Joseph Smith—but it did! The revelations recorded by Joseph Smith and the insights found in the Bible are amazingly consistent. It was so enlightening for me to see this in my study.
Joseph Smith wouldn’t have possibly had time to correlate and cross-reference with the Bible at the rapid rate at which he was translating the Book of Mormon—but it’s all here!
So not only do I now have a greater testimony of the Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, but I also have a reaffirmation of my absolute conviction that the system Joseph Smith had for translating the Book of Mormon was a gift from God.
President Nelson studied over 2,200 scriptures about Jesus Christ and His teachings.
Now, I realize some of you are probably thinking to yourselves that you couldn’t possibly have time to complete an assignment like this.
I know how you feel. I thought the same thing of myself—that there’s no way I can have time to do all of this. I needed to remind myself that a comment like this is not a faith-promoted comment. A faith-promoted comment would be “I know I don’t have time for this, but I’m going to make time for it. And I’ll fulfill it with what time I have.”
Each of us who takes this challenge will finish in our own time frames. For me, much of the joy of this came from getting it all done in just six weeks. This intense study over a relatively short period of time allowed me to appreciate the complementary nature of the learnings to be found in the Old Testament, the Book of Mormon, the New Testament, and the Doctrine and Covenants.
To those of you who feel you don’t have time, if you will make a sacrifice, you will be well rewarded and very, very grateful for the change of perspective, increased knowledge, and improved depth of your conversion. I know this is true because I have seen the same rewards in my own life.

Although we had both been members of the Church since our teens, because of our Buddhist background, we didn’t have any Christmas traditions for our young family. Then, when the Tabernacle Choir performed in Japan in 1979, we became friends with choir member Mary K. Zackrison. That December and every December since, we have received copies of her family Christmas letter, the “Zackrison Gazette,” complete with Christmas messages, updates on her family, and information about important events in the Zackrisons’ lives.
The Zackrisons inspired us to develop a tradition of our own. The next year, we decided to take a picture of our children arranged in a Nativity scene to send out to friends and family. Starting the year after that, we began cutting out photographs of the children, which we arranged in various Christmas-related settings, and then taking another photograph of the whole scene to make into a card.
In the years since then, we have created cards of the shepherds hearing the angels’ tidings, of the Nativity, of the visit of the Wise Men, and so on. Our children have surprised us with their enthusiasm and creativity for these projects. We send cards each year to many family members, friends, and coworkers. Many of the recipients say they look forward to our cards every year.
Creating Christ-centered family traditions can be challenging, but it can also be a lot of fun. Last year we exchanged our 19th annual Christmas card with the 41st annual “Zackrison Gazette.”
Ken-ichi and Aiko Ishikawa,Kasugai Ward, Nagoya Japan Stake

Carla and Tim* moved into a new home about two years ago. Since that time their relationships with their neighbors have deepened. They’ve noticed, however, that as they become more familiar with their new friends, they also see more of their friends’ shortcomings. Apparent flaws in everything from the upkeep of their homes to their child-rearing practices seem more glaring all the time. They have begun to dwell on their neighbors’ faults in their conversations, and sometimes as they lie in bed at night they find themselves talking about the little things that bothered them that day.
Elsewhere two families in a small rural ward began feuding years ago. Although the exact circumstances are difficult for anyone to remember, it had something to do with a remark made by one father to another. The original observation was innocent, but it was misunderstood, and within days several variations of the story had spread. Feelings were hurt, sides were taken, and for years bitter feelings have chased the Spirit from them at activities and gatherings. Local leaders have tried to provide counsel and encouragement. Often those actions have been misunderstood as well. Today members of an entire family, including children and grandchildren, refuse to attend church largely because a simple observation blew up into a fire of faultfinding and criticism.
Modern prophets and the scriptures warn us that finding fault and judging others—whether in a single relationship, a tight-knit neighborhood, or a ward setting—can be spiritually hazardous.
Faultfinding distorts our perception in a number of ways. First, we inaccurately see ourselves as superior. When we become preoccupied with the weaknesses of others, our attention is distracted from our own faults. We develop a kind of spiritual farsightedness, focusing our vision on the faults of others, and our spiritual eyes may begin to play tricks on us as we see right through what is much closer—our own faults.
In Matthew 7:3 [Matt. 7:3], the Savior describes this curious condition: “Why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?”
Though we may see ourselves as better than those we criticize, in reality they are as precious in the Lord’s sight as we are, as the prophet Jacob makes clear:
“And now, my brethren, I have spoken unto you concerning pride; and those of you which have afflicted your neighbor, and persecuted him because ye were proud in your hearts, of the things which God hath given you, what say ye of it?
“Do ye not suppose that such things are abominable unto him who created all flesh? And the one being is as precious in his sight as the other” (Jacob 2:20–21).
If we find ourselves feeling superior to our neighbor, we likely have forgotten that we also have “sinned, and come short of the glory of God” (Rom. 3:23).
In finding fault with others, we are liable to mistake appearance for substance. Unable to discern the thoughts and intents of our neighbors’ hearts, we base our judgments solely on what we can see or erroneously infer. President Spencer W. Kimball commented that “we often judge wrongfully if we try to fathom the meaning and motives behind [the actions of others] and place on them our own interpretation” (The Miracle of Forgiveness [1969], 268).
We may compare favorably with those who bear obvious signs of sin, because many of our foibles remain private and hidden. This appears to have been the case with the scribes and Pharisees, who wanted to stone the woman who was caught in adultery. But when Jesus said to them, “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her” (John 8:7), the accusers silently left.
While it’s easy to condemn the hypocrisy of the scribes and Pharisees, we may not be all that different today. Consider the growing number of tabloids and television shows that have joined the hunt for the “dirty secrets” of celebrities, politicians, and everyday people. Perhaps the popularity of these magazines and shows comes of our desire to find a shady character against whom we might appear to be glowing saints. Our own imperfections fade from our notice as we watch the sins of others paraded before us. Then, following condemnation of the designated villain, we see no need to work on our own imperfections, which seem to have diminished into insignificance.
If we ridicule others, content in believing that our sins are hidden from them, we become hypocrites like the scribes and Pharisees, whom Jesus likened to “whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men’s bones, and of all uncleanness” (Matt. 23:27).
Finally, when we criticize and find fault with others, our perception can be distorted because we often see our own weaknesses in others. The Apostle Paul warned of this tendency: “Thou art inexcusable, O man, whosoever thou art that judgest: for wherein thou judgest another, thou condemnest thyself; for thou that judgest doest the same things” (Rom. 2:1; emphasis added).
If we project our flaws onto others, perhaps our attitude toward them is a barometer of our own imperfect performance. This advice found in the hymnbook is instructive:
Should you feel inclined to censure
Faults you may in others view,
Ask your own heart, ere you venture,
If you have not failings, too.
(Hymns, number 235)
A second hazard of faultfinding is that it stalls our personal and spiritual progress. This earth life is a time for us to prepare ourselves to meet God (see Alma 34:32), and focusing on the faults of others distracts us from that task. The danger in the practice of judging others unrighteously lies not only in what it keeps us from seeing—our own faults—but also in what it keeps us from doing—working to correct those faults.
Perhaps that is why the Lord abhors hypocrisy. Feelings of self-righteousness and complacency are deceptive, for if we are satisfied that our problems aren’t as serious as someone else’s, we tend to forget that how we measure up against other people is not the criterion for gaining eternal life.
The hare in Aesop’s fable provides a classic illustration of such pride and complacency. A hare and a tortoise agree to race. The hare scampers off, leaving the tortoise plodding slowly behind. Eventually the hare becomes tired and, sure of victory, decides to stop and rest. He falls asleep, and the steady tortoise quietly passes by, going on to win the race.
The hare’s problem was not that he lacked the ability to finish the race. Far from it. His problem was that he thought he had the race won. If we, like the foolish hare, think we have it made, there’s no need to keep working.
However, we haven’t crossed the finish line yet. If we stop now and go to sleep, no matter how far along the path of spiritual progress we have come, we’ll stop short of the finish line. As soon as we start focusing on how far behind our spiritual competition is, we divert energy needed to further our own progress and are liable to forget the whole purpose of the race.
The hare’s pride and complacency are like those of the Pharisee who found fault with the publican.
“The Pharisee stood and prayed thus with himself, God, I thank thee, that I am not as other men are, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as this publican.
“I fast twice in the week, I give tithes of all that I possess” (Luke 18:11–12).
Without realizing it, the Pharisee had overlooked the beam in his own eye—he had spiritually gone to sleep. In the next verses, we learn that the publican, apparently having recognized and confessed his sins to God, was at that time better off spiritually than the proud Pharisee.
“And the publican, standing afar off, would not lift up so much as his eyes unto heaven, but smote upon his breast, saying, God be merciful to me a sinner.
“I tell you, this man went down to his house justified rather than the other: for every one that exalteth himself shall be abased; and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted” (Luke 18:13–14).
Like the Pharisee and the hare, when we think we have it made, we emphasize our supposed superiority over others instead of working on overcoming our own weaknesses. If we find ourselves becoming pacified, thinking all is well because we seem better than others, let us remember Nephi’s warning that this is a way Satan “cheateth [our] souls, and leadeth [us] away carefully down to hell” (2 Ne. 28:21).
Finally, when we are harsh in our judgment of others, we are not able to receive compassion and mercy ourselves.
After I had served four months as a full-time missionary, my initial enthusiasm and zeal for the work had waned considerably. I found myself having a hard time understanding and being compassionate with my companion and was discouraged that we weren’t succeeding in the work. I lacked all the confidence I had felt so strongly just a few months earlier.
Alone in an interview with my mission president, I expressed my feelings of inadequacy and discouragement. “How do I develop more confidence in my work as a missionary?” I asked.
His response could not have surprised me more. He didn’t try to boost my confidence by telling me what good work I was doing. He didn’t teach me about the power of positive thinking. Instead he asked me how I felt about other people, especially those with whom I worked.
“I don’t have much patience,” I admitted. “I was so eager when I started my mission, and it’s frustrating when things don’t go as I anticipated.”
Before I left on my mission, I honestly thought I could get along with anyone. However, in the midst of adversity, I found that I was often critical and judgmental of others.
The president then read a familiar scripture:
“Let thy bowels also be full of charity towards all men, and to the household of faith, and let virtue garnish thy thoughts unceasingly; then shall thy confidence wax strong in the presence of God. …
“The Holy Ghost shall be thy constant companion” (D&C 121:45–46).
The relevance of this scripture to my situation was immediately apparent. As a missionary, I had lacked confidence, and this scripture promised enough confidence to wax strong in God’s presence. I lacked self-assurance, and this scripture promised the Comforter as a constant companion.
And the key to that kind of assurance, courage, and confidence? In addition to continually virtuous thoughts, I must have “charity towards all men.”
In my appraisal of others, including my companion, I had been critical and judgmental. By failing to have charity, I had cut off my potential source of confidence. I learned an invaluable lesson that day. I had long known that I hurt others when I criticize and find fault, but for the first time I realized how my judgmental attitude was harming myself as well. Since that discussion, I’ve noticed many times that when I am charitable toward others, I feel more confident and less limited by my own faults. In short, the harder I try to be forgiving, the easier it is to feel forgiven.
The Christlike attributes of charity and compassion simply cannot be selectively applied in our lives, and we cannot expect to feel confident and assured in our self-appraisals when we pick at the slightest defects in those around us.
Perhaps part of the reason we all experience difficulties, weaknesses, and shortcomings in this life is so that we might have an opportunity to be more compassionate with others. What a tragedy if we overlook our common humanness and point an accusing finger instead!

The first reason he listed was: Karen.
Karen was a girl in his ward. They had dated for the last few months.
“Do you know when I like you most?” she had asked a few weeks ago.
“When I wear my aftershave and my sweater and get to use my dad’s car,” he answered.
“No, not then,” she smiled. “It’s in sacrament meeting when I watch you break the bread and bless the sacrament. You look so, well, clean.”
He grinned at her. “After all the money I’ve sunk for aftershave, you tell me that.”
“It must be neat to hold the priesthood, to realize that the Savior was the first one to give that prayer and that in a way you’re standing in for him.”
“I’ve never thought about it like that before,” he said quietly.
Another time he had driven her home from church. They sat in the car while she told him about her lesson that day. The bishop’s wife had come to talk to the Laurels.
“She said one thing that really impressed me,” Karen said. “‘You never know but that the guy you’re dating may some day turn out to be your bishop. It happened to me, didn’t it? You treat him like a future bishop.’ So that’s what I’m going to do, Troy.”
He wasn’t sure if he really wanted that or not, but it turned out okay. She still let him kiss her, but now only on the steps to her house, not in a parked car.

The excitement and anticipation were almost unbearable as I and 77 other American students boarded our flight to Frankfurt. We were on our way to spend a month in Nuremberg, West Germany. We would be attending a German high school (Gymnasium) and traveling within Germany. Most exciting of all was knowing that 78 German families, as nervous and excited as we were, anxiously awaited our arrival. I wished desperately that the New York to Frankfurt flight could be made in less than eight hours!
With my hand luggage held high to avoid any collisions, I made my way to the back of the plane, where I found my seat on the next to the last row. I quickly stowed my bags into the overhead compartment and plopped into my seat with a sigh. I found myself sitting next to a delightful lady from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, who had moved from Germany 18 years previous. She was going to Munich to visit family. We conversed partly in German, partly in English, until our dinner was served.
As we ate, I asked her what Germans usually drink at mealtime.
“Beer or wine,” was her immediate response.
“Oh,” I said. “I don’t drink alcohol.”
“You’ll learn to, once you’re there,” she said with a chuckle.
“But, it’s against my religion,” I replied.
“Are you Mormon?”
“Yes, I am. Do you know any Mormons?” I queried, hoping to start a discussion.
“Well, some young men came to our house one time.”
“Missionaries?” I asked.
“They wore white shirts and dark suits.”
“Yes, missionaries,” I assured her.
“They were very kind,” she said.
“What do you know about them?”
“Well, they pay their own way, and they cannot have girl friends. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right,” I replied.
Soon she was asking questions, and I was thoroughly absorbed in answering them. Our dinner plates were taken away, the lights were dimmed, and a movie projected onto the screen. Neither of us seemed to mind that we were missing it, and we continued our conversation in earnest.
Very quickly, it seemed, we were discussing tithing, eternal marriage, ordinances for the dead, the Word of Wisdom, and other gospel principles. She did not question anything I told her. She simply nodded. When I had finished one subject, she asked a question about another.
Her questions inevitably led to the Book of Mormon. I found myself telling her about the Nephites and the Lamanites and explaining with pride about the important role Moroni played concerning the Book of Mormon. All this led into the Joseph Smith story. I felt so warm inside, knowing that I was sharing truth with her.
After an hour or more I had finished answering her questions, and she didn’t seem to have another one just then. I sat back for a moment and felt overwhelmed with what had just happened to me. I silently thanked my Father in Heaven for letting me be in that seat at that time and especially for helping me know what to say.
Not wanting to simply end things where they were, I offered a copy of the Book of Mormon, feeling sure she would accept. But she didn’t. She said simply “No, thank you.” It took a second for her reply to sink in, but when it did, I was crushed. However, she continued, “I have a very hard time reading English and would not be able to understand most of it.”
Excitedly, I reached into my bag and pulled out a blue book, which I handed to her. “Das Buch Mormon” it read. “Here it is in German,” I said, trying not to sound as triumphant as I felt. Obviously very surprised, she thanked me and leafed through it. “Oh, and here’s a special promise to readers,” I exclaimed, pointing out Moroni 10:3–5.
After a few minutes’ silence she said, “I’ll read a little bit of it and then give it back to you before the flight is over.”
“Oh, but it’s for you to keep,” I quickly stated. “I have my own.” Her eyes shining, she thanked me and began to read. Not long after that, she gave me her address so I could have the missionaries sent to her.
With a prayer of gratitude, I opened my journal and began to write down the experience I could hardly believe had happened. Before I realized it, the flight was over. As I said good-bye to my friend, she thanked me again.
When I returned from Germany, I sent her address to the Pennsylvania Pittsburgh Mission. I haven’t heard if she has joined the Church, but I feel confident that someday she will.

In January 1994, while living in Provo, Shane and I arrived home one evening after attending the temple. When we walked into our tiny studio apartment—and by tiny, I mean tiny!—we noticed a message on our answering machine from my grandma informing us that my mom had a brain aneurism and was at LDS Hospital being prepped for emergency brain surgery. We immediately jumped in the car and drove to Salt Lake City. I cried all the way there while Shane drove as fast as he could.

When we arrived, we were met by my dad and two of my sisters. The mood was somber as we waited for the doctor to come talk to us. After a time, the doctor arrived and explained all the things that could go wrong related to the surgery. He then gave our family a few minutes for my dad and Shane to give my mom a blessing. As they wheeled her out on a gurney, she looked at us and said, “Don’t worry about me, I’m going to be just fine.”

We were shown to a waiting room, where we waited and waited and waited. It was a long night of waiting, crying, and praying. Early the next morning, the surgeon reported that the surgery had gone well, and he let us see Mom for a few minutes. We gathered around her bed and had a family prayer. Once again my mom said, “Now quit worrying about me. I’m going to be just fine. You just need to trust in the Lord.”

Shortly after the surgery, the doctors did another scan of her brain and found that they hadn’t quite gotten all of the aneurism and also discovered a second aneurism. The weeks ahead were difficult and filled with uncertainty, fear, and worry. Two more brain surgeries and many miracles later, my mom was doing well. Miraculously, the only side effect was a loss of smell.

Fast-forward to November 2022, when there was another aneurism and another brain surgery. In a journal entry from that day, I noted her amazingly positive response to this trial. I wrote that she said, “I’m not going to fear—I’m to be of good cheer! We just need to trust in the Lord.”

I continued to write: “My mom’s faith is unwavering! She is a rock. She is solid. She is positive all the time. She always finds the good in something when it would be so easy to fall into the trap of negativity.”

I remember setting my baptism date with the missionaries. They asked me if I was ready to make this covenant with our Heavenly Father. Without even thinking about it and with a heart full of joy, I said, “Yes!” I wanted to accept the special gift my loving Father had given me, and I knew that I wouldn’t be as happy without the Savior in my life. But I really wasn’t sure what the future held for me.
Finally, the big day came. It was unforgettable, and I was so happy.
After my baptism and confirmation, days suddenly seemed dark. I was dealing with family issues, and I was struggling to obey all of God’s laws. I didn’t know what to do, and I wanted to give up on everything. It seemed like nobody understood me.
I had always loved reading the Book of Mormon, but during that time I set it aside. One day, as I was home alone, I felt the sweetness of the Spirit prompting me to read the Book of Mormon. I prayed beforehand, wanting to find an answer that could bring solace to my suffering. I opened directly to Alma chapter 5. Verse 27 reads: “Have ye walked, keeping yourselves blameless before God? Could ye say, if ye were called to die at this time, within yourselves, that ye have been sufficiently humble? That your garments have been cleansed and made white through the blood of Christ, who will come to redeem his people from their sins?”
Finally, I felt touched by these words. I knew that I needed to repent, so I made an appointment to see my bishop. I was undeniably scared, but I forced myself to go and visit with him.
When I arrived at the bishop’s office, I felt so guilty that I wanted to just turn back around. But I prayed to have the courage to say everything I needed to. The bishop welcomed me into his office, and then he said a prayer to receive God’s help. He spoke to me as if I were his son and showed his love for me through his words. He gave me advice and asked me to do certain things in order to receive God’s forgiveness and then to come back to meet with him.
I was so glad for this opportunity. I followed his advice and eventually came to understand God’s promise of forgiveness to Alma: “If he confess his sins before thee and me, and repenteth in the sincerity of his heart, him shall ye forgive, and I will forgive him also” (Mosiah 26:29). After sincerely repenting, I knew that God had forgiven me. I finally was able to feel Heavenly Father’s love in my heart, and the darkness lifted. I was happy and proud of myself.

A grateful heart is an important ingredient in becoming more teachable. When I came to BYU in 1999, I was awestruck by the incredible beauty of the mountains, particularly Mount Timpanogos and the way morning’s light struck the edges and angles of the rocky cliffs. Each day as I drove to campus I breathed in a deep, satisfied breath and said a prayer of gratitude for the beauty of these mountains. One day I said to myself, “I will say a prayer of gratitude each day as I soak in the earth’s beauty.” Several months later I became preoccupied with my to-do list and my responsibilities. As I hurriedly pulled into BYU’s parking lot one day and gathered my things, I had a moment of clarity: It had been several days since I had even noticed the mountains, let alone said my prayer of gratitude for the beauty of those mountains. I had developed a spiritual callus. The mountains were still there, but, sadly, and to my detriment, other things clouded my attention. I resolved to daily take time to enjoy the beauty around me and to express my gratitude to Heavenly Father. Feelings of gratitude soften our hearts and open our minds to learning.