Gospel Story Finder

It happened at Camp Steiner in the High Uinta Mountains. I was 17, one of the older boys in the ward, and Brother Faux had asked me to come along and help with the Scout troop. I would help prepare duty rosters, fill in with work where it was needed, and take the boys fishing.
I packed my sleeping bag and fishing rod, but I didn’t bring any food. The camp had plenty. I could also bring a friend my age. They would supply his food, too.
My first morning at camp, I took the boys down the lake to a special place where I’d caught some nice brook trout as a Scout. I saw myself as a good fisherman and anticipated being praised by the boys as a knowledgeable guide.
An hour went by. No fish. Two hours. I knew it was nearly time for Brother Faux to have breakfast ready, but I did not want to stop and admit defeat. By the time I gave up, leading the disappointed 12- to 14-year-olds back to camp, it was 9:25 A.M.
“Breakfast is cold,” Brother Faux said sternly. It was my fault, but I just made excuses. If that was the way I was going to help out, he told me, I could get out of his way. He had expected help, not more problems.
He was right. I couldn’t deny that. But I had my pride. No one was going to tell me what to do. My friend, Deral Barton, and I had come prepared to help for three days, but since our valuable help wasn’t appreciated we would hike over the mountain to Ruth Lake and live off the land!
The Scouts looked at us in awe as we departed. I felt smugly independent at the time. But when we got to Ruth Lake, it was not the best time of day to catch fish. We unrolled the sleeping bags from our backpacks and went to bed very early—and very hungry.
The next morning, a young mule deer buck awoke us early, seemingly an indication of good things to come. We each quickly caught a foot-long trout. But we had no pan or foil to cook the fish in, so we tried to heat a rock to get the job done. Some three hours later, we realized we would never succeed.
Then we saw a group of boys trudging down the mountain toward us. They were from our Scout troop, bringing soda pop and sandwiches, cans of beans, and cookies. Not even St. Bernards in the Swiss Alps could have looked so welcome.
Pride at living off the land was soon swallowed, along with one of the most delicious meals I’d ever eaten. Deral and I remained in our camp until our benefactor’s supplies ran out.
The next Sunday in church, Brother Faux came over. “I shouldn’t have become angry,” he told me. “After you left, I became worried. I hinted to the boys about heading your way with food, and I was greatly relieved when they did. I want to apologize for being so sharp with you.”
I, too, had to apologize for my less-than-humble departure from camp. It had complicated the outing he was responsible for.
From that time on, he was one of my closest friends in the ward. From then on, he kept checking on me whenever I went “over the mountain,” so to speak. He showed his concern over the years and made sure I had the nourishment I needed, spiritually as well as physically, as I prepared for my mission. And I responded to his good example just as I had when he sent the troop after a stubborn boy who made a wrong decision.

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

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

One day after having a good time cracking jokes at the expense of one of my closest friends, I began to feel guilty. It had seemed so harmless at the time. I tried to fight off my guilty feelings by telling myself, It was just a joke. She needs to lighten up. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that was all it ever was with me—a joke.
I couldn’t help but think back to how I had been acting. It had taken me a while to notice, even though others had told me, “You used to be so nice to everyone.” A few had even said, “I remember when you used to never say anything rude about anyone.” At the time I hadn’t thought much of what they were telling me. I just thought it was their problem if they didn’t like it.
But I really had changed, and it all began with a few harmless jokes. I had always loved to make people laugh, so when people began to tell me how funny I was or ask me how I could come up with such funny things, I naturally loved it. I figured if they liked how funny I was then, they would love it when I really started cracking jokes.
For a while I was right. But soon I was going overboard and taking two of my best friends with me. People began to feel insecure when they were around me. They were always very uncomfortable. I was even told by a boy who had been one of my good friends the year before that it seemed like I was thriving on making people mad. I don’t see how people like my close friends could have stuck by me. I guess I was just one lucky girl.
I decided that maybe I should kneel down and pray about what I was doing. I now had a habit that seemed impossible to break. I prayed wholeheartedly, but when an answer didn’t come immediately I began to doubt the Lord would help me. I remembered that sometimes it just takes patience, so I decided to continue praying until I received an answer.
After a week of prayer both morning and night, I was nearly ready to give up. One day after I finished praying, I propped my head up against the headboard and reached for my scriptures. I closed my eyes for a moment. I was feeling miserable, and I couldn’t help thinking about the story in the scriptures that taught if you wasted your talents you would lose them (see Matt. 25:15–30).
All of a sudden an answer came to me. If I could get in the habit of doing bad deeds, I could definitely work on doing good deeds until soon I wouldn’t have to think about doing good. It would just come naturally. I knew it wouldn’t be easy at first, but it was definitely a skill I needed.
I prayed for Heavenly Father to be with me. I began to plan service projects, volunteer for charities, and do many other positive things. It’s been a year since I started. I’m not yet to the point where I would like to be, and it’s not always easy for me to control what I say. But I’m getting there.
Old habits do die hard. But now I’m working to develop a new, better habit that I hope will be around for a long time.

President Kimball’s life has been one full of service to the Church. From 1914 to 1916 he served in the Central States Mission, after which he attended the University of Arizona. He served as clerk and counselor to the president of the St. Joseph Stake and as president of the Mt. Graham Stake. Then in July 1943 he received a phone call from Salt Lake City that stunned him and changed his life. When President J. Reuben Clark, Jr., informed President Kimball over the telephone of his call to the Council of the Twelve, he was so overwhelmed that he blurted out, “Not me, Brother Clark! You can’t mean that!”
When his son had told him there was a phone call from Salt Lake City, he had had a premonition it was about a high Church calling, but he didn’t think it would be the apostleship. Later he said of the experience, “My heart pounded fiercely. I was virtually speechless. I felt as though the sky had fallen in—this seemed utterly impossible.” The Lord had chosen him to be an apostle through his mouthpiece on the earth, President Heber J. Grant. President Kimball was ordained an apostle and set apart as a member of the Council of the Twelve October 7, 1943.
Speaking of that call President Kimball has said, “In these long weeks since July eighth, I can tell you that I have been overwhelmed and have felt that I was unable to carry on this great work; that I was unworthy; that I was incapable because of my weaknesses and my limitations. I have felt many times that I was up against a blank wall. And in that interim I have been out in the desert and in high mountains alone, apart, and have poured out my soul to God. I have taken courage, from one or two scriptures which constantly came to my mind and of which people continued to remind me. One was from Paul and as I felt so foolish, small, and weak, I remembered that he said: ‘Because the foolishness of God is wiser than men; and the weakness of God is stronger than men. For ye see your calling, brethren, how that not many wise men, after the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble are called: But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise: and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty; … that no flesh should glory in his presence.’ (1 Cor. 1:25–29.)
“When my feeling of incompetence wholly overwhelmed me, I remembered the words of Nephi when he said: ‘… I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commanded them.’ (1 Ne. 3:7.) I want to tell you that I lean heavily on these promises, that the Lord will strengthen and give me growth and fit and qualify me for this great work. I have seen the Lord qualify men. In my church experiences I have helped to make many bishops. I have seen them grow and prosper and become great and mighty men in the church; men who were weak and men who were foolish, and they became strong and confounded the wise, and so I rely upon that promise of the Lord that he will strengthen and empower me that I may be able to do this work to which I have been called.” (Improvement Era, November 1943, p. 702.)

Recently I met an intelligent young man with great potential. He was undecided about a mission. He has decided not to attend a university now. In his free time he only does what he likes to do. He doesn’t work because he doesn’t have to, and it would take time from pleasure. He passed seminary classes without much thought of personally applying the knowledge gained. I noted: “You are making choices today that appear to give you what you want: an easy life, abundant enjoyment, and not much sacrifice. You can do that for a while, yet every decision you make narrows your future. You are eliminating possibilities and options. There will come a time, and it won’t be too distant, when you are going to spend the rest of your life doing things you don’t want to do, in places you don’t want to be, because you have not prepared yourself. You are not taking advantage of your opportunities.”
I mentioned how everything I treasure today began to mature in the mission field. Missionary service is not something we do for ourselves, yet great growth and preparation for the future are gained from a mission. Missionaries focus outside of themselves on other people. They draw close to the Lord and really learn His teachings. They find individuals who are interested in the message but not sure of its worth. Missionaries try with every capacity—prayer, fasting, and testifying—to help individuals embrace the truth. A mission teaches one to be led by the Spirit, to understand our purpose for being on earth and how to accomplish it. I gave him a blessing. As he left, I prayed earnestly that the Lord would help him choose the right priorities. Otherwise, he will fail in life’s purpose.

My sweet Frances had a terrible fall a few years ago. She went to the hospital. She lay in a coma for about 18 days. I sat by her side. She never moved a muscle. The children cried, the grandchildren cried, and I wept. Not a movement.

And then one day she opened her eyes. I set a speed record in getting to her side. I gave her a kiss and a hug, and I said, “You’re back. I love you.” And she said, “I love you too, Tom, but we’re in serious trouble.” I thought, What do you know about trouble, Frances? She said, “I forgot to mail in our fourth-quarter income tax payment.”

I said to her, “Frances, if you had said that before you extended a kiss to me and told me you love me, I might have left you here.”

Gray dawn had come. Pacha, a mountain boy of Peru, went out from his thatched hut to the place where the llamas rested at night. His whistle was low, his voice gentle. “Come, llamas!”
The six long-necked, woolly animals rose slowly to their feet while Pacha explained the new day. “When the sun comes,” he told them, “we will go with Papá down the mountain—to the market fair in the valley.”
The llamas made no sound, but Pacha felt sure that they understood. As they marched in stately file from the stone-enclosed corral, he stroked the thick fur of each one, calling it by name. “Ocli … Astro … Yana …” They were brown llamas with patches of yellowish white—all but Nubi, the smallest and youngest. Nubi was pure black.
Pacha loved them all. They were his friends, his companions. But he couldn’t help wishing that one of them was his very own. He wished it more than anything else.
A boy living farther up the mountain owned a llama. It had been given to him the day he brought his father’s string of llamas safely around a dangerous mountain landslide.
Ever since, Pacha had tried hard to think of something he might do—a deed so big and important that he would deserve a llama of his own. “I would choose you,” he whispered into the velvety ear of Nubi, the last to leave the corral. And Nubi’s small head gently nudged Pacha’s shoulder.
Outside the corral, the llamas formed a circle with their heads turned inward, waiting patiently for the loads to be tied to their backs. First Pacha and his father folded into a bunch the long coarse hair that grew on each animal’s back. This made a soft padding for their loads, which today would be lighter. Instead of the usual dried corn and hard mountain potatoes, the woven carrying bags were filled with llama fleece.
“It is good wool. We can trade it for many things we need,” said Papá as he tied the last bag in place. Only Nubi carried no load. She was still too young.
The man and the boy now turned their faces toward the eastern sky, waiting for the sun. Ay, but the wind was strong and cold! Shivering under his red and blue poncho, Pacha pulled the earflaps of his tasseled cap closer.
At last a rosy glow came up from behind the farthest snow peak. “It is time,” said Papá.
Pacha’s whistle was low, his voice gentle. “Come, llamas.”
Ocli had been chosen leader because he could pick the best way. The golden bell around his neck tinkled. Although the trail zigzagging down the mountain was rocky and very steep, the padded hoofs of the llamas never stumbled. Pacha stayed close behind Nubi, the last in line. Papá followed.
As they descended into the valley, the air grew warmer. Wildflowers bloomed purple and yellow and crimson. Then they saw the red roofs of the town in the valley, and soon they were making their way along a narrow, turning street. Their sandals slap-slapped on the worn cobblestones, and the hoofs of the llamas swish-swished.
An automobile, its horn blaring, crowded them. But the llamas strode on in perfect order, their heads high. Even Nubi stepped with pride and dignity all the way to the market fair in the center of town.
Pacha sniffed. “Mmmm!” How good the fresh pan (bread) smelled! “Mmmm!” How delicious it tasted when his father, smiling at Pacha’s eagerness, sold some wool, then bought a loaf.
Their next stop was a fruit stall where they bought big, yellow-orange papayas. Farther on, they added sugar cane and rock salt to their purchases. Also a shepherd’s knife for shearing the llamas, and a round clay cooking pot.
Now they had only enough time to get the clothing they needed: white trousers and new caps—a red one for Pacha, a white one for his father.
“We will take the rest of the wool to our friend Don Jacinto,” said Papá, “then buy our clothes at the indoor market.” He led the way down another street to a building with arches and pillars before it.
After taking as many bundles of wool as he could carry, Papá carried them into the store, saying, “Stay with the llamas, my son.”
The llamas quietly folded their legs beneath them and lay down to rest. Pacha was about to do the same, when a boy in town clothes hurried up. “Haven’t you heard?” he cried. “Foot races! They start over there!” He pointed to a nearby fountain. The first race was for boys their size, he quickly explained, and it would start pronto. As he ran off in the direction of the fountain, he called back, “The winner gets a prize! A fine prize!”
Pacha’s thoughts were awhirl! He had never run a race, but he knew that his legs were strong from climbing mountains. To win a race and a fine prize would be something big and important for him to do. At last his chance had come!
Pacha’s heart thumped with excitement. He started running to catch up with the boy.
Then suddenly he stopped. The llamas! They wouldn’t understand being left alone. Something might happen to them. He couldn’t run this race, after all. A lump too big to swallow came into his throat. He started to run again, this time back to the llamas.
All six animals stared at him with dark, sad eyes that were full of questions. Pacha spoke soothingly. “Of course I wouldn’t leave you, llamas.”
He stooped and put his arms around black Nubi. He hugged and patted each woolly animal. Even when he heard the loud boom that signaled the boys’ race, he stayed with them. The llamas, comforted, softly hummed.
A man’s deep voice spoke. “Ah, Pacha, why are you not running with the others?” It was Don Jacinto. He had come with Papá from the indoor market.
Before Pacha could explain, his father spoke. “Pacha was left in charge of the llamas. He could not leave them, not even to run a race.”
To Pacha’s amazement, Papá seemed very pleased that his son wasn’t trying to win a race. All at once his heart felt light again.
Don Jacinto had turned to look at the wool still tied to the llamas’ backs. His eyes fell on Nubi. “A fine black one!” he exclaimed. “When you have fleece from this llama, I will pay extra.”
Pacha’s father was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “The black one now belongs to Pacha. Her fleece will be his.”
At first, Pacha couldn’t believe what his ears had heard. Nubi his? A llama of his own?
Papá turned to Pacha. “Our llamas serve us well. In return, we must take care of them, my son. Now that I’m sure you understand this, I give you Nubi.”
It took Pacha a while to find his voice. “Gracias (thank you), Papá. Oh, gracias!” he exclaimed. He looked up at Don Jacinto and said, “When Nubi is sheared, I will bring the black fleece to you.”
It was time to start the homeward march. The sun, warm now, would set quickly. The stinging chill of the wind would return. The travelers needed to reach their mountain home before the trail darkened. Pacha’s whistle was low, his voice gentle. “Come, llamas!”
Ocli’s golden bell tinkled. The carrying bags, repacked with new possessions, swayed lightly on the animals’ backs.
Pacha, staying close to Nubi, thought over the happenings of the day. It had been a wonderful market fair, and he had learned something he would always remember: Small deeds can be as important as big ones.

As my mother grew into her twenties, she prayed longingly to be able to marry a member of the Church and somehow be sealed in the temple.
Our family of five was sealed together in the Cardston Alberta Temple in October 1976. My mother had set her sights on this day over 20 years earlier and finally, in a country and language that she would have never imagined as a youth, her prayers were answered. I was then almost eight years old, and I have wonderful memories of my parents’ sparkling eyes and smiles as we children entered the sealing room.

Not long ago I received a telephone call from a remarkable woman named Jean who asked if she and her daughter could visit me.
More than four decades ago, I had baptized Jean. As we discussed the gospel lessons in 1956, Jean’s four-year-old daughter, Sherrie, sat on her mother’s knee. Now, Sherrie is grown with five sons. All have served missions. Jean and Sherrie told me that at least 67 people have joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints because of Jean’s conversion.
I labored for 10 months in Decatur, Illinois, having five companions during that time. We were quite discouraged in 1956 when with all our efforts, only Jean’s baptism resulted. She joined the Church with this remark: “I have been waiting for many years to find the faith that explains how everyone who ever lived, or will live, can have the chance to be saved in God’s kingdom. No other church could do it. I know you have the true Church.”
“How grateful I am,” said her daughter, Sherrie, “that you stopped by and taught my mother the true gospel of Jesus Christ.”
Suddenly, all the doors I knocked on during my 10-month stay in Decatur were worth it.

You remember the little story President Grant used to tell about the Scandinavian brother who was converted and came over to America. He hadn’t been taught too much about the Church. So the bishop went to him to teach him the law of tithing. He finally agreed to pay his tithing. Then the bishop wanted some fast offerings. He agreed to the fast offering. Then they wanted to build a chapel. The man thought that ought to come out of the tithing, but before the bishop got through with him, he had paid his donation for the chapel. Then the bishop went to him to ask his son to go on a mission. He said, “You are finally asking more than I am willing to give.” Then this bishop said, “Brother So-and-so, whom do you love in this world more than anyone else, aside from your own family?” He thought a minute and said, “I guess I love that Mormon elder who came up to the Land of the Midnight Sun and taught me the gospel of Jesus Christ.” Then the bishop said, “Brother So-and-so, how would you like somebody to love your boy just like you love that missionary?” He said, “Bishop, you win again. Take him.”

You just cannot get away from it.

During the recent flood disaster at Rexburg, Idaho, one man was separated from his family by the raging torrents. He feared the worst but six hours later found that all had survived the ordeal. The next day he remarked: “I have lived my life under the false illusion that security was achieved by the accumulation of this world’s goods; but now, with all that swept away by the flood and my wife and children spared and at my side, all is well. I feel like a millionaire, and we are ready to start all over again.”

The admonition of Paul includes the hope to be able to endure all things. Elder Clinton Cutler exemplified how hope, perseverance, and steadfastness call forth the blessings of heaven. He literally became an instrument in the hands of the Lord. Clint and Carma Cutler were high school sweethearts. They began married life by attending college on a basketball scholarship. But they soon became pressed financially, so Clint went to work for the telephone company. His first job was washing, greasing, and maintaining the company trucks. That led to work in the central office as a cable repairman. For three and a half years, Clint worked full time and went to college full time. He graduated in December 1960 with honors. By that time he had four children.
A series of transfers and promotions followed. In 1963, while serving in Riverdale, Utah, Clint was called to be a bishop. Three years later they moved to Midvale, Utah, where Clint was called to be the second counselor in the stake presidency.
After another three years, Clint was transferred to Denver, where he was called as president of the Littleton Colorado Stake. Other moves followed, one taking them to Boise, Idaho, where he was called to be the president of the Boise Idaho West Stake. Another transfer brought them back to Salt Lake City, where Clint was called as a regional representative. His final promotion, in 1984, was as assistant vice president/director of marketing operations. His company seemed to transfer him where the Lord needed him.
On his retirement they returned to Utah, and soon Clint received the call to serve as president of the Washington Seattle Mission. In April 1990 his final call to service came to serve as a General Authority in the Second Quorum of the Seventy. His call to serve ended with his death on April 9, 1994, following a heroic struggle with cancer.
I do not wish to imply that presiding callings nor career promotions are the measure of faithfulness and worthiness. They are not and never have been. We have all been richly blessed by the humble, faithful teachers who have taught us the gospel by precept and example. But Elder Cutler’s example shows that faith, hope, and perseverance help our Father in Heaven to strengthen us and enhance our abilities and opportunities, however ordinary they may be.

Recently I was reading “A Plague on the World” in the July 1990 issue. This article talked about the problems associated with the “use of illegal drugs.” I wish it had also warned about the dangers of inappropriately using prescription and over-the-counter drugs. There are many young people (such as myself) who, in trying to live the gospel, have never even touched an illegal drug. But in the process of seeking relief from physical problems, we are given “legal” medications which can also become addicting. Even though I was sneaking around and lying in order to get more pills, I convinced myself I wasn’t doing anything wrong because, after all, these drugs were not illegal. I am not a bad person. I graduated from early-morning seminary. I have not committed any sexual sins. I have never even smoked a cigarette or had a cup of coffee. I believe in the gospel, and I never meant to do anything wrong. I think the New Era would do a great service to its readers by informing them of the dangers of all drugs.
Name Withheld

“Good morning, birthday boy!” Mama said. “Come and get some birthday breakfast.”
Marcus jumped out of bed and hurried to the kitchen to eat his sweet oatmeal and berries. “Thanks, Mama!”
After breakfast, Marcus ran to his room and reached under his bed for his box of drawing things. Marcus loved oatmeal, he loved soccer, and he loved race cars. But most of all, he loved drawing.
Marcus pulled out his notebook and markers. He started drawing a race track with a bright orange race car zooming around.
Pretty soon his race car was almost perfect. All it needed was some cool red stripes. He pulled the lid off his red marker. But it was all dried up!
Oh no! Marcus thought. I wanted to make the stripes red!
He grabbed the blue marker. Oh well. I guess blue stripes will be OK, he thought. But the blue marker was all dried up too.
Marcus frowned. He definitely needed new markers. Usually he got a new set of markers for his birthday, but Dad had just lost his job. His family didn’t have a lot of money right now. So Marcus would just have to wait. At least he would still get a birthday cake tonight.
With a sigh, Marcus put his drawing things back in the box and slid it under his bed. Soon his friend Peter would be over to play.
When the doorbell rang, Marcus ran to the door.
“Happy birthday!” Peter said. “We’re the same age again!” Peter was exactly one week older than Marcus and lived nearby. Marcus loved having a birthday in the same month as his friend.
Marcus and Peter played soccer in the backyard. Then they built rocket ships out of boxes. Marcus had so much fun that he almost forgot about the markers.
Then there was a knock at the door. “Marcus,” Mama called. “Auntie is here to see you!”
“Happy birthday, Marcus!” Auntie said. She handed him a present wrapped in bright paper.
Marcus tore off the paper and couldn’t believe what he saw inside. A new set of markers! And even better, there were two of each color.
“Thanks, Auntie!” Marcus gave her a big hug. Then he ran to his bedroom to finish his race-car picture. Peter watched him add the last red stripe. It was perfect!
When the day was over, Marcus lay in bed and thought about his fun day. He got to play with his best friend, and he got new markers!
But a thought kept bothering him. Peter was really quiet when Marcus opened his birthday present from Auntie. Did my present make him sad? Marcus wondered.
Then Marcus remembered something. Peter’s dad had lost his job too. What if Peter didn’t get any presents on his birthday? That thought made Marcus sad. But maybe there was a way he could help.
The next morning, Marcus woke up early. He found the crumpled wrapping paper from his present. He pulled out his markers and wrapped one of each color in the paper. Then he put the present by Peter’s front door and hurried away before anyone could see him.
When Marcus got home, he looked at his set of markers. There was only one of each color now. Marcus sighed. Then he pictured Peter unwrapping his surprise and smiled. Maybe Peter would come over to play after he found his present. Then they could draw race cars together!

After graduating from BYU, I took a job with the Boeing Company in Seattle, Washington. I was soon called as an assistant Scoutmaster in our ward. One year we spent the summer taking hikes, including a fifty-miler around Mount Rainier. The early hikes prepared us physically and helped us develop the skills needed for the ultimate hike. We learned how to use maps and the compass and also to set checkpoints along the trail to find where we were and how to get where we wanted to go. It was a wonderful time for us.

For the Scouts, a hike in the Cascades was an exciting adventure and an end in itself, but for us, as leaders, it was an opportunity to teach them the skills, character traits, and testimony needed for life’s journey.

I want to remind you that six months ago, following conference on Sunday, we went home to listen to a television program. We were concerned for President Gordon B. Hinckley. (I had the privilege and the honor to watch him for a number of years before he became our prophet and leader. I watched the careful way that he carried on the affairs of the Church that had been his while he was a counselor to three Presidents.) President Hinckley was to appear on a nationwide television program, and we wondered how it would come across. We knew of the importance of it and what it would mean to us. We knew of the work and the hours of prayer and meditation and study that our prophet and leader had done in being prepared for this exposure which would reach, according to the information we have received, some 35 million people. You will remember, as I remember now, the anticipation and the wonderment of how this would come across.

After that program was over, my heart was beating fast, and I felt it would burst. I was filled with joy and thanksgiving to the Lord for the way our prophet and our leader had handled the interrogation by one who had a reputation of attempting to ask questions that might be difficult to handle. What a joy it was for us to witness how our prophet and our leader had been blessed and magnified! As I watched his face on the television (and I’m sure you would have had the same reaction), I realized that a vast number of people were seeing what a prophet of God looked like: a kind, good, and handsome man, clean and intelligent. You could see the outstanding character, the personality of our prophet and leader, who would be exposed to that vast audience of people. And then when the interrogator asked President Hinckley, “Do you really believe that story that heavenly beings appeared to that young boy in that grove of trees? Do you really believe that to be true?” And here our prophet just instantly said, “Of course I do. Isn’t it great?”

Those words have been ringing through my ears ever since that happened: “Of course I do. Isn’t it great?” He made that pronouncement with such confidence and with that wonderful personality he has, declaring it to all of the world. We want President Hinckley to know that since that time, missionary activity in the United States in the area where people who heard that program reside has picked up, and member activity has picked up too. More people have become interested in the Church because they have seen a living prophet in the flesh stand before that immense audience and declare to the world, “Of course I do. Isn’t is great?” We would hope and pray that the missionaries throughout the world would have that same feeling and that same understanding and that same determination—to want to so declare this message of hope and salvation and eternal life to all the world.

Let me give you another example or two of what I would call unrighteous judgment. First, a bishop who needs additional officers sees a member of his ward who, though not active, seems to have ability, but he says to himself, “Oh, he wouldn’t be interested. He wouldn’t want to accept a position.” So he does not approach him, and the man remains inactive for years.
A new bishop is called to the ward, asks the man if he would be willing to accept a position, and finds that he is really ready and anxious to work.
Don’t prejudge, but give the person an opportunity. Let him decide for himself to accept or decline.

Preparation—temporal as well as spiritual—has been a frequent theme of President Romney’s sermons. For decades he has been an important person in the Church’s welfare program. When, as a young bishop in the mid-1930s, he heard the Brethren urge the Saints to store food and other necessities, he immediately built shelves at home and in the basement of the meetinghouse and filled them with clothing and food. Later, as stake president, he developed a prototype of the new program on a stake and regional basis.

I fared much better at fast-pitch softball. My most memorable experience in softball was a thirteen-inning game I pitched in Salt Lake City on a hot Memorial Day. The game was scheduled for just seven innings, but the tied score could not be broken. In the last of the thirteenth, with two men out and a runner on third, the batter hit a high pop fly to left field. The catch was certain, I thought. And yet the ball fell through the hands of the left fielder. For thirty-eight years I have teased my friend who dropped the ball. I have promised myself I will never do so again. I’m not even going to mention his name. After all, he, too, remembers. It was only a game.

They all said it. My mom said it. My dad said it. My teachers at church said it. My friends said it. And they said it over and over again. Joseph Smith is a prophet, they said. This Church is true, they said. The only true church on the face of the earth. But I wasn’t so sure that I could say it with my whole heart.
I wanted to know if they were right. I had always been told that if I wanted a testimony I had to pray and ask God for the truth. I prayed, but I felt nothing. As part of my daily prayers, I asked for a confirmation, a sure knowledge and testimony that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God and that the Church was true. I still felt the same. I continued praying daily, asking for a witness of the truth. God chose not to answer my prayers right away. But I continued seeking.
One day I was playing hymns on the piano and singing to myself. I turned to “Joseph Smith’s First Prayer” (Hymns, no. 26). I had sung it many times before. This time, I paid closer attention to the words, and they meant more to me than they ever had. “Oh, how lovely was the morning!” I sang. “Radiant beamed the sun above. Bees were humming, sweet birds singing, Music ringing thru the grove, When within the shady woodland Joseph sought the God of love.”
I imagined in my mind, Joseph Smith walking into a grove of trees on a beautiful spring day. “Humbly kneeling, sweet appealing—’Twas the boy’s first uttered prayer.” I pictured Joseph in my mind, praying to his Father with all his heart.
When I reached the third verse, the words affected me powerfully. “Suddenly a light descended, Brighter far than noon-day sun.” Just as that sudden light, brighter than the sun, enlightened the understanding of the boy Joseph, it enlightened mine. Peace filled me as I continued to sing. “And a shining glorious pillar O’er him fell, around him shone, While appeared two heav’nly beings, God the Father and the Son.”
With joy in my heart I sang, “‘Joseph, this is my Beloved; Hear him!’ Oh, how sweet the word! Joseph’s humble prayer was answered, And he listened to the Lord.”
Joseph’s humble prayer was answered, and so was mine that day. I didn’t have a vision as Joseph did, but I could feel that the Church was true. It was something I had never felt before: a peace, a joy, a surety that Joseph Smith was a prophet and had restored the Church of Jesus Christ. I have felt that peaceful assurance many times since then. I know God lives. He hears and answers our prayers. This is His true Church. And Joseph Smith was a true prophet.