Gospel Story Finder

Recently I learned of two valiant young women who, as they lived the commandments and radiated the joy of the gospel, stood as witnesses of God. This is the story as told by a senior missionary at the MTC.
She said that years earlier she was at home one day ironing, watching a soap opera, and smoking a cigarette when there was a knock at the door. When she opened it, there were two men in white shirts and ties, and one of them introduced himself as her bishop. He said that as he was praying, he had felt inspired to ask her to teach Young Women. She told him that she had been baptized at age 10 but had never been active. He seemed undeterred as he showed her the manual and explained where they met on Wednesday night. Then she emphatically said, “I can’t teach 16-year-olds; I’m inactive, and besides I smoke.” Then he said, “You won’t be inactive anymore, and you have until Wednesday to quit smoking.” Then he left.
She said, “I remember shouting in the air in anger, but then I couldn’t resist the urge to read the manual. In fact, I was so curious, I read it from cover to cover and then memorized every word of that lesson.
“By Wednesday I was still not going to go, but I found myself driving to church, scared to death. I had never been scared of anything before. I had grown up in the slums, been in detention once myself, and rescued my father from the ‘drunk tank.’ And all of a sudden there I was at Mutual being introduced as the new Laurel adviser. I sat before two Laurels and gave the lesson word for word, even the parts that said ‘Now ask them …’ I left immediately after the lesson and cried all the way home.
“A few days later there was another knock at the door, and I thought, ‘Good. It’s the bishop here to retrieve his manual.’ I opened the door, and standing there were those two lovely Laurels, one with flowers, the other with cookies. They invited me to go to church with them on Sunday, which I did. I liked those girls. They began by teaching me about the Church, the ward, the class. They taught me how to sew, read scriptures, and smile.
“Together we started teaching the other girls in the class who weren’t coming. We taught them wherever we could find them—in cars, in bowling alleys, and on porches. Within six months, 14 of them were coming, and in a year all 16 girls on the roll were active. We laughed and cried together. We learned to pray, study the gospel, and serve others.”
These two valiant young women stood as witnesses for truth and righteousness, for goodness and the joy of the gospel.

My sister speaks Russian. Since she came to live with us, I have learned the Russian words for ice cream (morozhennoye), cat (koshka), and thank you (spasibo).
My sister’s name is Sophie, and she is four years old. When she lived in Kazakhstan, her name was Nasipzhan. Mama and Papa changed her name after we adopted her and she came to America to live with us.
Sophie doesn’t look like me or my brother. We have red hair, freckles, and a gap between our front teeth. Papa says we look like peaches with nutmeg and cream.
Sophie has black hair, no freckles, olive-colored skin, and eyes shaped like almonds. Papa says Sophie looks like a porcelain doll. When she smiles, there’s a dimple in her cheek.
We look different, but Sophie is still our sister. We play soccer together. We ride scooters together. We eat popcorn and drink chocolate milk together. We even wear chocolate milk mustaches together.
My brother and I want Sophie to be part of our forever family. So do Mama and Papa. Soon we will go to the temple. We will wear white and meet together in a beautiful room. We will become a forever family.
Until then, Sophie will come to my soccer games. We will go on long walks. We will eat popcorn and chase the cats and make lots of chocolate milk mustaches together.
And I will tell Sophie how much I lubit her. Because lubit is the Russian word for love.

Third, we can come to know the Lord and trust Him as we serve others. I share the following story with permission from Amy Wright, who came to understand the principle of serving even amid a terrifying and life-threatening illness. Amy wrote:
“On October 29, 2015, I found out I had cancer. My cancer has a 17 percent survival rate. The odds weren’t good. I knew that I would be in for the fight of my life. I was determined to give it everything I had not just for myself but, more important, for my family. In December, I began chemo. I was familiar with many of the side effects of cancer-fighting drugs, but I did not know that it was possible for someone to be so sick and still be alive.
“At one point, I declared chemotherapy a human rights violation. I told my husband that I was done. I quit! I was not going back to the hospital. In his wisdom, my sweetheart patiently listened and then responded, ‘Well, then we need to find someone to serve.’”
What? Did he miss the fact that his wife had cancer and couldn’t take one more bout of nausea or one more moment of excruciating pain?
Amy goes on to explain: “My symptoms gradually worsened to where I generally had one or two ‘OK’ days a month [when] I could somewhat function as a living, breathing human being. It was those days when our family would find ways to serve.”
On one of those days, Amy’s family distributed chemo comfort kits to other patients, kits filled with items to cheer and to help relieve symptoms. When Amy couldn’t sleep, she would think of ways to brighten someone else’s day. Some ways were big, but many were just small notes or text messages of encouragement and love. On those nights when her pain was too great to sleep, she would lie in bed with her iPad and search for ordinances that needed to be completed on behalf of her deceased ancestors. Miraculously the pain would subside, and she was able to endure.
“Service,” Amy testifies, “saved my life. Where I ultimately found my strength to keep moving forward was the happiness I discovered in trying to relieve the suffering of those around me. I looked forward to our service projects with great joy and anticipation. Still to this day it seems like such a strange paradox. You would think that someone who was bald, poisoned, and fighting for [her] life was justified in thinking that ‘right now it is all about me.’ However, when I thought about myself, my situation, my suffering and pain, the world became very dark and depressing. When my focus turned to others, there was light, hope, strength, courage, and joy. I know that this is possible because of the sustaining, healing, and enabling power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ.”
Amy came to trust in the Lord as she came to know Him. If she had leaned even a little to her own understanding, she might have rejected the idea that she serve. Service enabled her to withstand her pain and afflictions and to live this scripture: “When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God.”

Born in Pennsylvania, USA, in 1798, Rebecca Swain was the youngest of 10 children.2 When she was about nine, her family moved to Niagara, near the United States–Canada border. They were close enough to Fort Niagra that they could hear the gunfire when the fort was attacked during the War of 1812. Even as a young girl Rebecca showed her fearlessness. Once, while traveling alone through the woods, she met a bear face-to-face on the trail. Having a parasol in her hand, she opened and closed it several times in the bear’s face, and it ran away.3

During the somber days of World War II, my father was taken prisoner by German troops. He was part of a group of French prisoners from Alsace (which had once been part of Germany) who lacked everything, even the most essential items. Many of the prisoners, especially those who were ill, died of hunger and exposure to the elements or simply of exhaustion during their long marches from one camp to another.
During one of these long and difficult marches into Germany, a sudden explosion detonated in a house not far from this sad string of prisoners. They could hear cries of panic coming from those caught inside the house. The guards quickly tightened the ranks to better guard the prisoners and prevent their escape. However, my father, listening only to his conscience, bolted from the ranks and ran as fast as his weak legs would permit. Without worrying about his own safety, he outran the guards who were pursuing him and shooting in his direction.
Miraculously, he wasn’t hit, and the guards stopped in surprise when they realized he was running into the flame-engulfed house. He soon emerged, carrying a child about eight years old. He had heard the child screaming for help, had rescued him, and now turned him over to the astonished German soldiers. Almost immediately, an officer addressed him in a severe tone: “Do you know what you did? You just saved a future enemy.”
My father, exhausted and drained of all strength from his heroic gesture and from the many hardships of the preceding months, answered with surprising assurance: “I didn’t see an enemy. I saw a human being, a child who needed my help. I did what had to be done—and if it had to be done over, I would do it again without hesitation.”
He was led back to the prisoners—but with a little more respect. And after this act of heroism, all of the prisoners were treated better than they had been before. The most astonishing part of all was that after this group arrived in the camp, my father, in his French uniform, received a German award of distinction.

At 29, Ransom Stevens was president of the Samoa Mission when stricken with typhoid fever, which was complicated by a heart problem. He died on April 23, 1894.

His widow, Sister Annie D. Stevens, started for home by steamer on May 23. She reached Ogden on Sunday, June 10, where she was met by President Joseph F. Smith and Elder Franklin D. Richards. On June 11, she had an interview with the First Presidency in Salt Lake City and then went on to her home in Fairview, Sanpete County, arriving at 6:00 P.M.

The history states, “The greetings by her friends were necessarily brief for Sister Stevens was ill and had to retire to bed early, and at 11 P.M., five hours after her arrival home, she gave birth to a nice boy.” She had gone through the whole ordeal in the advanced stages of pregnancy.

My friend Josh and I were preparing for our missions. We had a mutual friend named Sara, whom we went to school with. Sara attended another Christian church with her family. We had talked about religion here and there with Sara, but never in much depth.
One day Josh asked me if I would be interested in going with him to talk about the Church with Sara. I felt nervous at first but said yes. He talked to Sara and set up a time to meet to discuss our religious beliefs. I felt nervous at first and decided to study Preach My Gospel to prepare a little more. When we got together, we went through the principles of the first lesson in Preach My Gospel and expounded on what we believed. We asked questions about her religion and beliefs. We gave her a Book of Mormon. She graciously accepted it but told us that she wasn’t looking to change anything. She had her religion and held to beliefs that didn’t align with ours.
Even though she wasn’t interested in accepting more of the gospel, I still felt the Spirit that night as we bore testimony of the Savior and the Restoration of His Church. I also had my eyes opened to what others believe. I felt like this experience helped prepare me for my mission.
Brian D., Utah, USA

“Alexander, please be quiet and put the bear away. It’s time for the sacrament.” Alexander put the bear back into his sister’s diaper bag and slumped down on the bench. I know I’m supposed to think about Jesus during the sacrament, he thought, but I don’t really know what to think about. Sometimes he tried to imagine what Jesus Christ looked like. Long hair, a beard, white clothes, and sandals, maybe with lots of straps. It seems like Jesus walked around a lot, he thought.
I walk a lot, too, he decided. I’d like walking home from school if it weren’t for Zachary. Why does he have to bother me? He’s always walking close behind me and stepping on my heels. One of these days, I’m going to clobber him. I’ll just turn around so fast, he won’t have time to duck, and I’ll whack him with my backpack. No, that would make Mom and Dad sad. What can—
The deacon brought the bread, and Alexander remembered that he was supposed to be thinking about Jesus Christ. He passed the tray along and tried to concentrate again. He remembered the words of a Primary song: “It shouldn’t be hard to sit very still And think about Jesus, his cross on the hill. … It shouldn’t be hard, even though I am small, To think about Jesus, not hard at all.”* He tried to picture the images in the song. He thought of the poster that Sister Behunin had made to teach them the words of the song. Sister Behunin always makes good posters, he decided.
He heard the priest begin the prayer on the water, and he closed his eyes and again tried to concentrate. “… that they do always remember him, that they may have his Spirit to be with them. Amen.”**
“Always remember him.” Remember what? It’s hard to remember something I don’t even know, Alexander thought.
After church, Dad reminded him that he was in charge of the lesson for family home evening and asked how it was going. “Do you need any help?”
Alexander hadn’t even started preparing. “Can you help me find out more about Jesus? I want to know what I’m supposed to remember about Him. You know, like in the sacrament prayers?”
“Well, what do you already know about Him?”
“Christmas … He slept in a manger. He got lost once as a boy. I think they found Him at the temple. He walked around a lot and talked to people. He got baptized. He died on the cross. He was resurrected. And He talks to the prophet today.”
“That’s good, Alexander. That’s all true. Now tell me about the Savior and you. Does He know your name?”
“Huh? Me? How would I know if Jesus knows my name?” Alexander tried to remember a story about Jesus talking to children.
“Why don’t you tell us about Jesus Christ and children for family home evening. I’ll help you find a few scriptures.”
Alexander was nervous about that. Sometimes it was hard for him to read the scriptures by himself. But he knew that Dad would help him, so he agreed. His dad showed him a few scriptures to read and told him to come and talk with him after reading them.
The next night, Alexander was ready for family home evening. First he told the Bible story from Mark 10:13–16, where Jesus’ disciples scolded the people for bringing children to the Savior and He told His disciples to let the children come to Him. He held them and blessed them.
Then, from 3 Nephi 17:11–13, 21 [3 Ne. 17:11–13, 21] in the Book of Mormon, Alexander told about Jesus Christ visiting the Nephites and inviting the children to come to Him. He waited until every child had been brought to Him. He prayed with them and blessed them one at a time. Alexander finished by bearing his testimony. “I am thankful for Jesus. I know that He loves me. I believe that He knows my name.”
The next week during the sacrament, Alexander listened to the prayer. Then he got out his Book of Mormon. He turned to 3 Nephi 17 [3 Ne. 17] and found the verses he had marked in red the week before. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine standing in a crowd and seeing the Savior. He imagined Jesus asking to see the children. He tried to imagine climbing up on Jesus’ lap and hugging Him and hearing Jesus say his name and give him a special blessing. He tried to think of what Jesus would say to him, and what they would talk about.
After church, Alexander’s mom told him she was proud of him for being so reverent during the sacrament. He didn’t say anything, but in his heart, there was a special warm feeling.

Her three brothers—Miguel, Angel (called Micky), and Jorge—are quite a bit older than she is. About four months after Miguel returned from his mission, JoAnnie became very sick with a high temperature. Their mother asked him to give his sister a blessing. JoAnnie had faith that if he did, she would be healed. Miguel changed into his Sunday clothes and prepared himself to give the blessing. After the blessing, JoAnnie immediately became better.

Several years ago, Sister Nattress and I moved to Idaho, where we opened a new business. There were long days and nights at the office. Thankfully, we lived just a few blocks away from work. Each week, Shawna and our three daughters—all under the age of six—would come to the office to share lunch together.
On one such day after our family lunch, I noticed that our five-year-old daughter, Michelle, had left me a personal message, written on a Post-it Note and attached to my office telephone.
It simply read, “Dad, remember to love me. Love, Michelle.” This was a powerful reminder to a young father about those things that matter most.

I drive an old car that lacked an interior dome light when I bought it. During the day the missing light didn’t matter, but at night I always felt a little nervous getting into my car in the dark. If I needed to follow written directions, I had to pull over under a streetlight. If I dropped anything, it was difficult to find. Having no interior light was inconvenient, but I got used to it.
When a friend returned my car after borrowing it, I discovered she had installed a new light. She told me the bulb had cost less than a dollar and took about a minute to install. It was wonderful! How had I ever lived without it?
During the next few weeks, I realized that finally having an interior car light was like finally having spiritual light. I had thought my life was okay the way it was, but in reality I was suffering from lack of spiritual light. My fear of entering a dark car reminded me of my fear of dying without having repented. Looking for streetlights so I could read instructions was like having gospel conversations with trusted friends—but I couldn’t always rely on borrowed light. Losing items in the dark was like forgetting gospel principles, which happens easily without the light of the Spirit. I was still able to drive my car and get through life without the light, but I was missing out on blessings of peace, guidance, and understanding. All it took to start bringing back the light was repentance—a process that began when I saw the bishop and started attending church again.

When I got my first paycheck for my first real job (at a sandwich shop), I rewarded myself with a shopping spree. I bought some music and a cute outfit. After spending every dollar I’d earned, I thought about my purchases.
“There goes two whole weeks of work,” I thought. And a sick feeling started to grow in my stomach.
As I thought about all those hours of hard work making sandwiches, my superficial purchases hardly seemed worth it. I vowed to be more careful with my money.
So from then on, I saved every penny for college and a possible mission and never bought anything I wanted ever again.
Yeah, right.
I was still a normal teenager who wanted stylish clothes, good music, and fun activities with my friends. But coming from a big family, I knew that if I wanted those things, I would have to save money to pay for them myself.
It might sound impossible, but I found ways to be financially prepared for the future and have fun at the same time—even with a part-time job that didn’t pay very much. Here are some tips on how you can increase your “money smarts.”

During the next few years, growing together as a couple, we set a spiritual goal to serve a full-time mission as a senior couple in 2018. In preparation, we committed ourselves to attend the weekly missionary preparation class organized by the Brazzaville Stake. Since Congo had no previously experienced full-time senior missionaries, we were combined with the prospective young missionary class. This training took place throughout the year until we completed our missionary application forms and submitted them to our bishop and stake president.
It was while waiting for our mission call, that the hand of Heavenly Father intervened and opened the doors of the temple so that we could serve and learn. Instead of receiving a mission call, we were invited to live in Johannesburg for 12 months and serve as temple ordinance workers in the Johannesburg South Africa Temple.
Wendy W. Nelson, wife of President Russell M. Nelson, has said, “Everything we do in the Church leads us to the holy temple.”1 This has certainly been the case in my seven years of Church membership, as I have truly been led to the house of the Lord. There is no other place on earth where I feel peace as I do in that place—I know for myself that I have already lived in an atmosphere of glory.

Robin was just 19 years old when she enlisted in the navy and was assigned to the East Coast of the United States. Her roommate was an LDS girl whom she quickly grew to love.
“I admired my roommate’s way of life, her high ideals and standards. She stood for everything that I wanted to have in my life. I wanted to be in her company and those who shared her standards. I wished and longed for an invitation to join in the activities of her youth group but was never given an opportunity to join them.”
A few months later Robin was transferred to the West Coast in another navy installation. Unusual as it seemed, her new roommate also proved to be an LDS girl. As they talked together on their first night it became apparent that this Church group was just as busy as the other group had been. The difference was that Robin was immediately invited to accompany her new roommate to all of these functions.
Within a few weeks Robin began the missionary discussions and was baptized. She became the best member missionary in the area and was constantly bringing fellow workers to Church functions so that they could investigate the Church. As soon as she was discharged from the navy, Robin was called as a full-time missionary.

It was 14 February when I knelt across the altar in the Mesa Arizona Temple with my sister, Jennifer; my dad; and my mom. I was 15 years old and had been a member of the Church for a year. What had been only a goal a year before was now a reality. We were about to be sealed as a family for time and eternity.
Twenty-one years earlier, my parents, who were not yet members, married in a religious ceremony. The minister said the marriage was “until death do you part,” but my parents thought marriage should last forever. They signed letters to each other, and later to Jen and me, “Love for forever and three days.” It was their way of saying they hoped we would always be together.
It wasn’t until my dad started having back problems that we met a member of the Church. A therapist who helped my dad with back exercises began talking to my parents about the gospel. Slowly, they became interested and asked to meet the missionaries.
The first meeting we attended was a stake conference. Its theme was strengthening the family. For my mom, who had been searching for ways to make our family closer, the conference was an answer to prayer.
My prayers were answered too. After the missionaries invited us to be baptized, I began praying to know if the Church was true. As I read in John 14:26–27 about having the Holy Ghost and not being afraid, I knew it was true.
On 11 February 1996, my entire family was baptized. We had been attending the ward for only a few weeks, so we were shocked when dozens of people came to the baptism to show their support.
My family made a goal to be sealed in the temple as soon as we could. We began preparing to attend the temple, focusing on our relationships with each other and with the Savior. Our relationship as a family became more spiritual as we studied the scriptures and prayed together.
I tried to read everything the prophets had written about going to the temple. I also followed my Young Women leader’s suggestion and began saying “thank you” prayers. Instead of just asking Heavenly Father for things I wanted, I concentrated on thanking Him.
On the day of our sealing, we awoke excited. Today was the day! When we arrived at the temple, Jen and I walked around outside while my parents received their endowments. The weather was perfect. It was as if the flowers had bloomed for us.
Finally it was time for Jen and me, dressed in white, to join our parents in the sealing room. I remember being struck by how bright and pure and beautiful everything looked. As we knelt at the altar, I glanced in the mirrors and saw images of our family extending endlessly. I felt the Spirit bear witness that our family could be together forever.
When we walked outside after the sealing, we were again surprised at the number of people who had come to support us.
It wasn’t until a few days later that we realized we had been sealed exactly a year and three days after our baptism. Suddenly my parents’ signature, “Love for forever and three days,” took on a whole new meaning. Their wish had come true—we could now be a forever family.

On July 26, 1847, their third day in the valley (the second having been the Sabbath), Brigham Young, with members of the Twelve and some others, climbed a peak about one and a half miles from where I now stand. They thought it a good place to raise an ensign to the nations. Heber C. Kimball wore a yellow bandana. They tied it to Willard Richards’s walking stick and waved it aloft, an ensign to the nations. Brigham Young named it Ensign Peak.
Then they descended to their worn-out wagons, to the few things they had carried 2,000 miles, and to their travel-weary followers. It was not what they possessed that gave them strength but what they knew.
They knew they were Apostles of the Lord Jesus Christ. They knew that the priesthood had been delivered to them by angelic messengers. They knew they had the commandments and the covenants to offer opportunity for the eternal salvation and exaltation for all mankind. They were sure that the inspiration of the Holy Ghost attended them.
They busied themselves plowing up gardens, putting up shelters against the winter soon to come. They prepared for others already on the prairie following them to this new gathering place.
A revelation, written nine years earlier, directed them to “arise and shine forth, that thy light may be a standard for the nations;
“And that the gathering together upon the land of Zion, and upon her stakes, may be for a defense, and for a refuge from the storm, and from wrath when it shall be poured out without mixture upon the whole earth” (D&C 115:5–6).
They were to be the “light,” the “standard.”
The standard, established by revelation, is contained in the scriptures through the doctrines of the gospel of Jesus Christ. The principles of the gospel life we follow are based on doctrine, and the standards accord with the principles. We are bound to the standards by covenant, as administered through the ordinances of the gospel by those who have received priesthood and the keys of authority.
Those faithful Brethren were not free, and we are not free, to alter the standards or to ignore them. We must live by them.
It is not a cure or a comfort to simply say they do not matter. We all know they do matter, for all mankind is “instructed sufficiently that they know good from evil” (2 Nephi 2:5).
If we are doing the best we can, we should not become discouraged. When we fall short, as we do, or stumble, which we might, there is always the remedy of repentance and forgiveness.
We are to teach our children the moral standard to avoid every kind of immorality. The precious powers within their mortal bodies “are to be employed only between man and woman, lawfully wedded as husband and wife.” We must be completely faithful in marriage.
We are to keep the law of tithing. We attend to our responsibilities in the Church. We gather each week for sacrament meeting to renew the covenants and earn the promises in those simple and sacred prayers over the bread and water. We are to honor the priesthood and be obedient to the covenants and ordinances.
Those Brethren on Ensign Peak knew that they were to live ordinary lives and keep the image of Christ engraven in their countenances (see Alma 5:14).
They understood that the stakes were to be a defense and a refuge, but at that time there was not one stake on the earth. They knew their mission was to establish stakes of Zion in every nation of the earth.
Perhaps they wondered what kind of wrath or storm could be poured out that they had not already experienced. They had endured savage opposition, violence, terrorism. Their homes had been burned, their property taken. They were driven from their homes time after time after time. They knew then, as we know now, that there would be no end to opposition. The nature of it changes, but it never ends. There would be no end to the kinds of challenges that the early Saints would face. New challenges would be different than, but certainly not less than, that through which they had made their way.
Now the stakes of Zion number in the thousands and are all over the world. The members number in the millions and growing. Neither of these can be held back, for this is the work of the Lord. Now members live in 160 nations and speak over 200 languages.
Some live with an unspoken fear of what awaits us and the Church in the world. It grows ever darker in morality and spirituality. If we will gather into the Church, live the simple principles of the gospel, live moral lives, keep the Word of Wisdom, tend to our priesthood and other duties, then we need not live in fear. The Word of Wisdom is a key to both physical health and revelation. Avoid tea, coffee, liquor, tobacco, and narcotics.
We can live where we wish, doing the best we can to make a living, whether modest or generous. We are free to do as we wish with our lives, assured of the approval and even the intervention of the Almighty, confident of constant spiritual guidance.
Each stake is a defense and a refuge and a standard. A stake is self-contained with all that is needed for the salvation and exaltation of those who would come within its influence, and temples are ever closer.
There has been no end to opposition. There are misinterpretations and misrepresentations of us and of our history, some of it mean-spirited and certainly contrary to the teachings of Jesus Christ and His gospel. Sometimes clergy, even ministerial organizations, oppose us. They do what we would never do. We do not attack or criticize or oppose others as they do us.
Even today there are those preposterous stories handed down and repeated so many times they are believed. One of the silliest of them is that Mormons have horns.
Years ago, I was at a symposium at a college in Oregon. Present were a Catholic bishop, a rabbi, an Episcopalian minister, an Evangelical minister, a Unitarian clergyman, and myself.
The president of the school, Dr. Bennett, hosted a breakfast. One of them asked which wife I had brought. I told them I had a choice of one. For a second, I thought that I was being singled out for embarrassment. Then someone asked the Catholic bishop if he had brought his wife.
The next question came from Dr. Bennett to me: “Is it true that Mormons have horns?”
I smiled and said, “I comb my hair so that they can’t be seen.”
Dr. Bennett, who was completely bald, put both hands on the top of his head and said, “Oh! You can never make a Mormon out of me!”
Strangest of all, otherwise intelligent people claim we are not Christian. This shows that they know little or nothing about us. It is a true principle that you cannot lift yourself by putting others down.
Some suppose that our high standards will repel growth. It is just the opposite. High standards are a magnet. We are all children of God, drawn to the truth and to good.
We face the challenge of raising families in the world in darkening clouds of wickedness. Some of our members are unsettled, and sometimes they wonder: Is there any place one can go to escape from it all? Is there another town or a state or a country where it is safe, where one can find refuge? The answer generally is no. The defense and the refuge is where our members now live.
The Book of Mormon prophesies, “Yea, and then shall the work commence, with the Father among all nations in preparing the way whereby his people may be gathered home to the land of their inheritance” (3 Nephi 21:28).
Those who come out of the world into the Church, keep the commandments, honor the priesthood, and enter into activity have found the refuge.
A few weeks ago in one of our meetings, Elder Robert C. Oaks, one of the seven Presidents of the Seventy (a retired four-star general and commander of NATO air forces in Central Europe), reminded us of an accord signed by 10 nations on board the battleship Missouri in Tokyo Bay on September 2, 1945, which ended World War II. Some of us were in Asia at the time. Said Elder (General) Oaks: “I can’t even imagine a circumstance today in which such a meeting could be held or such an accord could be signed to end the war against terrorism and wickedness in which we are engaged. It is not that kind of war.”
We are not to be afraid, even in a world where the hostilities will never end. The war of opposition that was prophesied in the revelations continues today. We are to be happy and positive. We are not to be afraid. Fear is the opposite of faith.
We know that activity in the Church centers in the family. Wherever members are in the world, they should establish a family where children are welcome and treasured as “an heritage of the Lord” (Psalm 127:3). A worthy Latter-day Saint family is a standard to the world.
Not only are we to maintain the highest of standards, but each of us is to be a standard, a defense, a refuge. We are to “let [our] light so shine before men, that they may see [our] good works, and glorify [our] Father which is in heaven” (Matthew 5:16; see also 3 Nephi 12:16).
All the struggles and exertions of past generations have brought to us in our day the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the authority to administer, and the wherewithal to accomplish the ministry. It all comes together in this dispensation of the fulness of times, in the which the consummation of all things will be completed and the earth prepared for the coming of the Lord.
We are as much a part of this work as were those men who untied that yellow bandana from Willard Richards’s walking stick and descended from Ensign Peak. That bandana, waved aloft, signaled the great gathering which had been prophesied in ancient and modern scriptures.
We speak of the Church as our refuge, our defense. There is safety and protection in the Church. It centers in the gospel of Jesus Christ. Latter-day Saints learn to look within themselves to see the redeeming power of the Savior of all mankind. The principles of the gospel taught in the Church and learned from the scriptures become a guide for each of us individually and for our families.
We know that the homes we establish, and those of our descendants, will be the refuge spoken of in the revelations—the “light,” the “standard,” the “ensign” for all nations, and the “refuge” against the gathering storms (see D&C 115:5–6; Isaiah 11:12; 2 Nephi 21:12).
The ensign to which all of us are to rally is Jesus Christ, the Son of God, the Only Begotten of the Father, whose Church this is and whose name we bear and whose authority we carry.
We look forward with faith. We have seen many events in our lifetime, and many will yet occur that will tax our courage and extend our faith. We are to “rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great [will be our] reward in heaven” (Matthew 5:12).
Willingly defend the history of the Church, and do “not [be] ashamed of the gospel of [Jesus] Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth” (Romans 1:16).
We will face the challenges, for we cannot avoid them, and teach the gospel of Jesus Christ and teach of Him as our Savior and our Refuge, our Redeemer.
If a well-worn yellow bandana was good enough to be an ensign to the world, then ordinary men who hold the priesthood and ordinary women and ordinary children in ordinary families, living the gospel as best they can all over the world, can shine forth as a standard, a defense, a refuge against whatever is to be poured out upon the earth.
“We talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins” (2 Nephi 25:26).
This Church will prosper. It will prevail. Of this I am absolutely certain. I bear this testimony in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

One morning my wife said to me, “Hans, I dreamed something very strange last night. Two young men told us about a different church, and we joined it. What do you think about that?” she asked hesitantly. We agreed that the dream didn’t seem to have any meaning because we would never want to leave our own church.
The dream had long been forgotten when, nearly a year later, my wife greeted me after work with the news that “two young men were here today to tell me about their church.” I saw a trace of worry in her face. “But we are going to stay with our church,” I responded confidently. “Well,” she said, “they want to come back to talk with you.” I was not happy with the prospect.
A few days later, I opened the door to see two fine-looking young men. They introduced themselves as missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In the conversation that followed, they asked, “Do you believe that the church of Jesus Christ is on the earth today?” My wife and I had already considered this question while studying the Bible. We concluded that if there were a true church, it would have to have all the doctrines Jesus taught. The churches we knew, including our own, were not complete. “If it exists,” I said, “it must have all the things Jesus taught. But it does not exist.”
The missionaries said that the church they represented was organized in the same way as the church at Christ’s time. They added that this church had continuing revelation from Jesus Christ.
I felt sorry for them; they had been so misled. I told them, “I’m sure that just as our church has errors in its doctrine, so does yours. Someone has added, changed, or taken something away.” Again they testified that their church was Christ’s own church, organized with his authority and directed by him.
Soon after, I told my mother about the missionaries. She smiled and went into her bedroom, then returned with a copy of the Book of Mormon. She told me I could have it.
I began reading the Book of Mormon with a curious, but negative attitude. As I read the first page, I thought angrily, this was written by a man with a vivid imagination who knew the Bible well. I read two more pages, slammed the book shut, threw it on the table, and exclaimed, “What a fake!” During the missionaries’ next visit, I told them that I thought the Book of Mormon was a hoax. It was like the Bible, I said, except it referred to the American continent. But, undeterred, the missionaries easily handled the questions my wife and I had then, and in subsequent visits. I could find nothing wrong with what they taught us, but I could not accept the Book of Mormon.
However, the missionaries testified that I could know that the Book of Mormon was true if I followed the admonition of Moroni and sincerely sought for divine guidance. (See Moro. 10:4.) Having prayed, and while reading the words of Moroni, I received a spiritual witness that I have never been able to describe. A realization that the Book of Mormon and the Church were true penetrated every fiber of my being. Happily I exclaimed to my wife, “Margrit, Margrit, I know that it is true!”
Margrit continued to seek her own witness, and within a few weeks she also knew the truth. We set our baptismal date.
On the day of our baptism, just as I was about to go into the water, I experienced the power of Satan stronger than I had ever imagined possible. I wanted to run away and escape. For a moment my breathing stopped, and I thought my heart would also. I was tempted to give in, but I realized that I could never look at myself in the mirror again if I denied the truth that I now knew. I fought against the evil influence with all my strength and it left me as quickly as it came. Knowing my decision was the right one, I entered the water with a calm assurance and a happy feeling in my heart.
A few days later, as I was sitting with my wife, she asked, “Hans, can you still remember my dream?”
“What dream?” I wondered.
“The one I had about the two young men who visited us. They told us about their church and we joined it. Remember?”
Memory of the forgotten dream came back. Joyfully we realized that the dream was a revelation of what was to come, and its memory a confirmation of our testimonies. It was a dream that had come true.

Sunshine highlighted the autumn leaves as Lottie and her collie, King, picked their way down the rocky path to the springhouse to fetch a crock of butter. She held up her long skirt that she wore to school so as not to dirty it. Despite Mama’s lecture, however, she had discarded the stiff high-button shoes in the weeds. The cool grass chilled the bottoms of her calloused feet. She hadn’t worn shoes all summer (except to church because Mama insisted), and she hated to start now. Mama said that a ten-year-old girl should act like a lady, but Lottie didn’t feel like a lady as she ducked under a low limb of an apple tree.
As she opened the wide, heavy door of the springhouse, she felt a chill sweep past her, and she was grateful for King’s companionship. Although Lottie had three older sisters, they stayed at the house to help Mama with the three younger girls and her little brother.
It was damp and dark in the springhouse. The icy springwater flowed briskly through the long troughs where they kept their perishable foods. Maybe I’d better get one more crock, thought Lottie. It takes a lot of butter for hot cakes for all of us. Just then Lottie lost her footing on the slippery floor. As she grabbed a shelf to break her fall, the fancy butter crock that she had just chosen slipped from her grasp and hit the floor with a sickening crash! Pieces of blue pottery scattered in all directions!
Tears welled up in Lottie’s eyes as she remembered Papa’s words of caution: “These are hard times and we cannot afford any waste.”
Fearful of being late for school and of getting a tongue-lashing from Mama, while King licked up the splattered butter, she stuffed as many pieces as she could find into her apron pocket, grabbed another crock of butter, and hurried toward the house.
Lottie quickly pushed the pieces of broken crockery into a crevice in the old stone fence at the edge of the field and ran back to the house. As she neared it, the smell of bacon floated out with the chimney smoke to meet her.
“What kept you, Charlotte?” asked Papa as Lottie appeared in the doorway.
“I guess I’m a little slow this morning, Papa,” Lottie answered, trying hard to smile. She felt Papa’s sideway glance every so often during breakfast. It was a questioning expression that Papa always wore when he knew that there was something that he should know but didn’t.
“Anything special going on at school today?” he asked.
“No, not much,” Lottie answered, trying to be cheerful.
“I have a busy day ahead of me,” he said. “I need to mend some fences to get ready for the new herd.”
Lottie nearly choked on a bite of bacon. What if Papa checks that particular fence? she wondered. It wouldn’t have been such a big thing to Mama had it not been her favorite crock, nor to Papa had it been empty, nor to herself if careful inventory would not be taken, but she knew that an accounting must come.
It came sooner than Lottie had anticipated, for Papa was waiting outside the barn as the girls came home from school. “Come into the barn, girls. We need to talk.”
The four girls looked at each other, recognizing the concern in Papa’s voice.
“I happened onto these pieces of Mama’s best crock today while I was mending the stone fence,” he said, displaying the broken pieces. “Who can tell me how they got there?”
A big lump jumped into Lottie’s throat. She hung her head. The older girls looked at each other and then back at Papa.
“How about you, Charlotte?” Papa’s voice, although even and mild-tempered, thundered in Lottie’s ears.
“I don’t know, Papa.” It was a lie, and she knew it—and she knew that Papa knew it. But somehow, down deep, she secretly hoped that he didn’t.
“I suppose that the wind broke it and scattered the pieces into the fence,” Papa said, looking hard into each girl’s eyes. Finally he sighed and said, “All right, get to your chores.”
Lottie’s mind wasn’t on her work. It was on her last Primary lesson. “The best remedy for a guilty conscience,” Sister Thompson had said, “is to repent and admit what you’ve done wrong.” Gathering her courage, Lottie walked slowly back to the barn.
Papa looked up, pitchfork in hand. “You want to tell me something, Charlotte?” After a long, awkward silence, he prodded gently, “It was you, wasn’t it, Lottie?”
“Yes, Papa. I suppose that I have to tell Mama too.”
“It’s up to you. You’ve always been taught to do what’s right. Listen to your conscience; then decide.”
As Lottie dragged into the house, Mama was fixing supper. The tears Lottie hated were back again.
“Oh, Mama,” Lottie sobbed, “I broke it.”
“Broke what?” asked Mama, giving her a hug.
“Your best crock—and King ate it!” Lottie clung to Mama and cried even harder.
“He ate the crock?” Mama smiled and wiped Lottie’s tears.
“No, the butter,” Lottie explained, still sniffing. “Mama, I’m so sorry.”
“Well, I’m glad that you were honest and told me.”
“I just had to tell you and Papa, Mama. I felt so bad.”
“That’s a thing called conscience,” said Mama.
“I guess I just found out that I have one,” Lottie said, finally able to smile.

In time, when the children are away from home and family, prayer can provide the shield of protection the parent will want so much for them to have. Parting can be hard, particularly when the parent and the child know that they may not see each other for a long time. I had that experience with my father. We parted on a street corner in New York City. He had come there for his work. I was there on my way to another place. We both knew that I probably would never return to live with my parents under the same roof again.
It was a sunny day, around noontime, the streets crowded with cars and pedestrians. On that particular corner there was a traffic light which stopped the cars in all directions for a few minutes. The light changed to red; the cars stopped. The crowd of pedestrians hurried off the curbs, moving every way, including diagonally, across the intersection.
The time had come for parting, and I started across the street. I stopped almost in the center, with people rushing by me. I turned to look back. Instead of moving off in the crowd, my father was still standing on the corner looking at me. To me he seemed lonely and perhaps a little sad. I wanted to go back to him, but I realized the light would change and so I turned and hurried on.
Years later I talked to him about that moment. He told me that I had misread his face. He said he was not sad; he was concerned. He had seen me look back, as if I were a little boy, uncertain and looking for assurance. He told me in those later years that the thought in his mind had been: “Will he be all right? Have I taught him enough? Is he prepared for whatever may lie ahead?”
There were more than thoughts in his mind. I knew from having watched him that he had feelings in his heart. He yearned for me to be protected, to be safe. I had heard and felt that yearning in his prayers—and even more in the prayers of my mother—for all the years I had lived with them. I had learned from that, and I remembered.

In his responsibilities as chair of the publicity committee, James was tireless in confronting errors and falsehoods, often by directly speaking to editors.15 Of one occasion, James related the stubbornness of some of the agitators and his desires for them to be honest in their publications:
“We made a personal visit to this editor and spent considerable time in an effort … to clear away the prejudice he had toward our people; and to show him the untruthfulness of the statements made in his article, [which] we took with us [as] unimpeachable evidence for this purpose. He emphatically told us there was nothing we could do or say or adduce that would change his attitude; that his mind was made up and that he was against our religion on general principles. He defended what he insisted was his right to attack us in any way he wanted to, in order to protect his patrons and friends.”16