Gospel Story Finder

Sergei Leliukhin was such a person. Sergei’s wife, Irina, had been baptized into the predominant church while living briefly with her grandmother. When the couple’s daughter, Marina, asked to be baptized into that church in 1990, Sergei began to reflect on the importance of religion.
“I started reading many religious books. … The central point I came to understand was that for a believer, the church is the foundation of one’s life. When I knew I could find the strength within myself to lead a religious life, I decided to be baptized.”
Sergei and Marina were baptized into the Orthodox church in November 1990. But they continued to feel a spiritual hunger. While on a business trip in June 1992 to Donetsk, Ukraine, Sergei met some Latter-day Saints. He was curious about their beliefs but unable to accept an invitation to join them at a Sunday meeting. Four months later he received another chance.
“I was walking home from work along the main street of the city,” Sergei recalls. “Ahead of me I saw two young men wearing backpacks. Walking quickly, I passed them and approached a green traffic light. I could have quickly crossed the street, but an unfamiliar [feeling] prevented me from continuing.
“These two young men caught up with me and asked me how to get to one of the streets in the city. I said I could show them to the street. While we walked together for about 10 minutes, these missionaries told me about their church. At the end of our conversation, we agreed to meet at my apartment.”
A few days later the Leliukhins joined the missionaries at the first Church meeting held in Saratov, located 675 kilometers southeast of Moscow. “We very much liked the atmosphere at the meeting,” Sergei says. “After the service I had a desire to pray, which I did when the missionaries came over for the second discussion.”
After completing the discussions, the family members were baptized in November 1992. They learned the gospel quickly, served cheerfully, and fellowshipped others joyfully.
“The opportunity to serve the Lord in his Church has helped us in our spiritual development,” says President Leliukhin, who became the first branch president in Saratov. “We feel our own growth so much as we try to help other Saints grow.”
The family’s baptism left them confident and happy but caused concern among some of their relatives. “After our baptism we encountered misunderstandings and even some aggressiveness from our relatives,” President Leliukhin recalls. “But we were confident we would endure. Even though a total understanding is still far away, relations toward us have become more tolerant.”
The Leliukhins were sealed in the Stockholm Sweden Temple in March 1995. Today President Leliukhin serves as a district president in Saratov.

We were nearly halfway through the journey from Utah to our homestead in New Mexico. For several days we had found no water, and our barrels were low. The men were becoming anxious. We knew from the map that we were coming into Indian territory.
When we reached the edge of the reservation the wagons stopped for our leaders to consult. Because of his experience with Indians, Papa was chosen to go ahead and see what arrangements he could make. As we slowly drove on, we had a feeling that we were being watched.
“I hope the village ahead has plenty of water,” Papa said.
“I hope they are friendly,” Mama replied.
“I’m prepared to take care of that even if they’re not,” Papa assured her.
“How?” Mama asked.
“I have a trick up my sleeve,” he answered, but he would tell her no more.
In a few moments we saw a cluster of huts up ahead. And about the same time two little girls with black braids ran from the shadows toward the village.
“Messengers,” Papa observed.
“What do we do now?” Ed asked.
“Wait,” Papa said and pulled the horses to a stop. He jumped down, climbed in the back of the wagon, and came out carrying his unfinished basket and a hank of straw.
“You children stay in the wagon,” he instructed firmly. And we settled in a spot where we could watch what was going on.
Papa sat down on the ground and began weaving. It seemed to me like a silly time and place to finish his basket, but I had learned that patience answers many questions, so I watched and waited.
Before long five or six braves came riding up on their ponies and formed a circle around Papa.
“You cannot cross Indian land,” one insisted.
Papa said nothing but kept on with his work.
“Go back,” another brave said, pointing in the direction we’d come from. “Do not cross Indian land.”
Papa nodded to acknowledge he had heard but he stayed where he was. Nothing moved but his hands. I had watched him make many baskets, and I knew that his fingers could fly as fast as frightened quail. Now he was weaving slowly, exaggerating the in and out movements as he laced the wide strips between the twisted upright ribs.
The belligerent expression on the Indians’ faces changed to curiosity. One by one they slid off their ponies and came closer. After they had watched awhile, Papa handed the basket to one of the braves, who copied the motions he had been watching. The Indian smiled at his handiwork. Then the basket was passed around the circle, with each brave taking a turn at the weaving and all of them becoming excited and pleased.
Papa began a new basket and handed some straw to one of the Indians to start one too. Before long each brave was sitting cross-legged on the ground, busy on a basket. Papa had motioned to Ed and me to climb down from the wagon, and we slipped out quietly and stood by his side. Other Indians came one by one and soon quite a crowd was watching the activity.
I turned to look toward the village and saw a large squaw coming toward me with a loop stretched open between her hands. Smiling, she came closer and closer, holding the noose high as if to place it over my head and around my neck. To choke me, I thought, and began to shake with fear. Please, Heavenly Father, save me, I silently prayed. My hands tightened on Papa’s arm, and he sensed my fright.
“It’s all right, Dora,” he assured me. “She won’t hurt you.”
By now the squaw was close enough so that I could see she was holding a beautiful necklace of dried berries and seeds. She placed it over my head saying, “Pretty, pretty.” I guess she had never seen yellow hair before.
All of a sudden I felt that she was a special person, and I wanted to do something for her. I climbed into the wagon and found the mirror I had brought rolled up in my sweater so it wouldn’t break. It was a round one with a handle. I handed it to the squaw and when she looked at it and saw her face reflected back, she was delighted. She showed it around with great pride, pointing to her image and laughing.
While the braves worked and the others watched, Papa spoke to them in gentle tones. “We want to be friends and will do you no harm. We are moving to New Mexico and would like to cross your land. We have our food and supplies with us. We need to stop tonight to rest our horses and fill our water barrels. We will leave tomorrow. Other wagons are behind waiting to hear your answer.”
At this point, five more braves and the chief rode up at a gallop. They began to talk rapidly in their own language with the weavers, who jumped up, showing off their baskets. After some discussion the chief turned to Papa and asked, “What are you teaching?”
“Basketmaking,” Papa said. “How to make baskets.”
“Basket,” one brave repeated, pointing to what he had done.
“You are good,” the chief said. “You can camp here tonight. There is plenty of water.” Then he motioned for Papa to mount one of the ponies, and they rode back together to get the rest of the camp to join us.
Soon after we left the Indian reservation, Sister Owens in the next wagon became ill, and we camped for several days.
Some of the braves rode over from the reservation to get help with their baskets. Papa didn’t have much straw left to give them, but they had already decided that bear grass would do just as well. Papa showed them how to do a braided edge around the top of their baskets. He took out a pocketknife to trim the ends, and a little Indian boy who had come with his father looked so pleased with the knife that Papa let him keep it. Later that day the boy’s father returned with a strange-looking three-pronged stick that he gave to Papa, explaining how he could use it to find water for digging a well.
“I can probably use this later,” Papa said as he fastened it securely to the wagon.
After we left this place the weather became hotter and the land drier. We had one more stop for supplies before we came to a stretch of desert, and Papa was able to replenish our ice supply. We had left Salt Lake City with a hundred-pound block of ice in a tub to keep our meat cool. Since it was wrapped in newspapers and burlap bags, it melted slowly and lasted quite a while. Ice was harvested from frozen streams and lakes just before the spring thaw and packed in sawdust in dirt-covered sheds. Most towns had a supply that lasted until the next winter, so we were able to buy it as we needed it along the way. That day we were very glad we had some.
The desert sun was hot. Heat waves curled up in ghostly spirals. We choked on the dust stirred up by the wagons and animals. Papa chipped off pieces of ice for us to suck on. They tasted so good that soon all the other children were coming to our wagon for ice chips.
“You’ll give it all away and then we won’t have any,” Caroline complained to Papa.
“Now, now,” he replied. “They don’t have any, and we can share.”
Our trip was nearly over when the wagons drew up in a long line by the homestead office in Harmony, New Mexico. After the families finished their business inside, they drove away to locate their new home. As our friends left one by one, they called to the rest of us, “See you in church.” We had passed the meetinghouse so we all knew where to go on Sunday.
Our wagon was the last to leave. Mr. Talbot, the officer in charge, went with us to show us our land and then take us to our temporary living quarters. The family in our house had not moved out yet, but an arrangement had been made for us to live in a dugout on a neighbor’s property. With great eagerness we set out on the last dozen miles of our trip to find our new place.
When we first saw the piece of land, I must say it didn’t look like the Garden of Eden I was expecting. Mr. Talbot pointed to a stick with a red rag tied to it. “Your property begins right there at that stake,” he told us, “and extends half a mile east, north, west, then south to make a square.”
“Half a mile, hon,” Papa said to Mama. “That’s four Salt Lake City blocks. Sixteen square blocks in all!”
Papa slowed the horses to a walk as he looked over the piece of land. “Seems pretty level,” he said. “Won’t take any clearing either. Not much here but weeds and cactus.”
“It’s a good piece,” Mr. Talbot said. “Needs a little work is all.”
Papa stopped the wagon and jumped down. He kicked the dirt with his boot, picked up a handful and let it trickle through his fingers. “Good sandy loam for growing things,” he said.
“Here’s the gate and back there’s the house,” Mr. Talbot explained. “It’s not very big. You’ll have to add on. The Evans should be out in a month or so.”
We could see the lone building surrounded by a tangle of weeds. It was just the right size for a playhouse.
“Papa’ll build a new one and let us have that one to play in,” Caroline said to Ed and me.
“Goody!” I squealed and jumped up and down at the thought.
Papa climbed into the wagon and we started off to find the dugout we were going to live in. When we saw it, it looked like a playhouse too. A steep roof sloped down to the ground on two sides. At one end was a door and dirt steps that led down to a room that had been dug out of the ground. A window in the opposite end gave the only light.
“Who are our neighbors?” Papa asked.
“Neighbors?” Mr. Talbot seemed puzzled.
“Up there where the smoke’s coming out of the chimneys,” Papa explained.
I looked in the direction he pointed and saw some more slanty roofs with gray wisps puffing up into the sky.
“Oh,” he laughed. “That’s just some of the old Indians who stayed here when the others moved onto the reservation.”
“How come?” Papa asked.
“They’re pretty old and didn’t want to go, so the new owners let them stay. They won’t bother you any—can hardly move around even.”
“How many are there?”
“Just five. All squaws. Each one has a brave assigned to her, who comes down once a week with supplies.”
“Do they live together?”
“No, each one has a separate house. Just leave them alone. They’re perfectly harmless.”
Ed was looking at me in a way that meant here was a new adventure that needed to be explored, and I was looking back at him as though to say I’d have to think about it first.
We soon unpacked our wagon and Papa hooked up the smokestack of the stove to the chimney, ready for Mama to start cooking. It was hard to believe we were here at last.
Before dinner we knelt down to thank the Lord for our safe arrival at our new home.

A relative asked Elder Spencer W. Kimball for a blessing to combat a crippling disease. For some time Elder Kimball prepared himself spiritually; then, fasting, he was prompted to bless her to be healed. Some weeks later she returned, angry and complaining that she was “fed up” with waiting for the Lord to give the promised relief.
He responded: “Now I understand why you have not been blessed. You must be patient, do your part, and express gratitude for the smallest improvement noted.”
She repented, followed scrupulously his counsel, and eventually was made well.

Richard Rancie, 14, Melbourne. Richard runs. Right now it’s competitive running (track) and his own neighborhood car wash business. Later, it may be in a political race. He wants to be Australia’s prime minister.
Richard doesn’t train or compete on Sunday. He gave up a place in the national cross-country championships because they were held on the Sabbath. He also took himself out of competition in the Victoria state championships in his best event, the 1,500 meter. Instead, he settled for competing in the 800 meter. “I didn’t expect to make the final,” he says, “but I won a bronze medal.” The great thing is, he doesn’t sound disappointed about missing out on the 1,500. He just feels blessed and compensated.

When I was a bishop, I sometimes took our four-year-old daughter, Ashley, along when I visited members in the ward. One day, I took Ashley with me to visit some less-active members of the ward. I knew that no one would be able to turn away this adorable little girl at my side. We arrived at one home and knocked on the door.
As soon as I knocked, I remembered that this was the home of a man who had once angrily thrown one of my counselors off the front porch. The man opened the door, and he was so big that he filled the entire door frame. I felt afraid, but I explained that I was the new bishop and was simply visiting ward members.
The man stood there glaring at me. Then Ashley blurted out, “Well, can we come in or what?”
I was surprised when the man said, “I guess so. Come in.”
When we were seated inside, the man told me he did not believe the Church was true, nor did he believe in Jesus Christ. He kept talking angrily while Ashley sat quietly playing with a toy. Finally she got off her chair, cupped her hand to my ear, and whispered loudly, “Daddy, tell him the truth.”
So I did. I bore my testimony because of the courage of a four-year-old girl. The man’s attitude softened, and the Spirit came into his home.

A woman I’ll call Megan shared a poignant experience she had shortly after her husband announced his desire for a divorce. Recalling one Sunday when she was sitting in sacrament meeting, Megan said, “I hadn’t anticipated how awkward and painful it would be to sit there in church, pretending that everything was OK when inside my heart was breaking and my stomach was churning. The thoughts in my mind seemed to be on a continual loop of pleadings with the Lord: ‘What am I going to do? How can I be a single parent and provide the kind of life I want for my kids?’”

On that occasion Megan’s answer came in the closing hymn—“How Firm a Foundation.”11 As she heard the lyrics “As thy days may demand, so thy succor shall be,” her heart felt peace. To succor means to “run to support; … to help or relieve when in difficulty, want or distress; to assist and deliver from suffering.”12 Megan realized that even in her circumstances, she could turn to Christ and He would come to her aid. When we go through excruciating trials, even to the point of feeling abandoned by God, Christ will empathize with and succor us because He has experienced that very feeling.

Early in his career, Elder Tenorio was approached about a position as manager of the Church’s Genealogical Service Center in Mexico. Doing well in his job in the publishing industry, he was not sure about taking the new position. But following a series of inspired events, he realized it was a job he was supposed to take.

“It changed my life’s course,” he says. It led to a life intertwined with family history and temple work.

After seven years in that job, during which time he served as stake president, he was called as the first recorder for the Mexico City Mexico Temple and as a sealer. He left the temple to preside over the Mexico Tuxtla Gutierrez Mission. He later managed the area’s Membership, Materials Management, and Welfare Services Departments, during which time he served as regional representative and later as Area Seventy.

Elder Tenorio later became the Mexico City Mexico Temple recorder again after his replacement retired.

These thoughts ran through my mind for the next several months. One evening in September 2007, my mother, my three younger siblings, and I were leaving a deli in my hometown of Haverhill, Massachusetts, USA, and stopped to sit on a bench. Two young men in black suits, white shirts, and ties approached us. One of them said, “I know it may seem a little bit awkward to talk to two people you don’t know, but could we share a message with you?”
We agreed. I knew they were going to talk to us about religion, and I was impressed that they didn’t just thrust a card or pamphlet at us and walk off. Rather, these young men genuinely seemed interested in us and excited about their message. At the conclusion of their message, they asked if they could visit our family. My mother agreed and set up a time, so I have her to thank for what became a great change for good in my life.
We started learning the gospel. After a while Mom became busy with different things and didn’t continue to meet with the missionaries, but I did.
I connected easily with Elder Kelsey and Elder Hancock. Perhaps part of the reason was that they weren’t that much older than I was. I felt great love from them and for them. Soon I felt that same love from ward members and from other youth in my stake.
The missionaries taught me the plan of salvation, which answered the questions I had about my uncle and about my own purpose in life. The elders also introduced me to the Book of Mormon. I remember reading in Alma 32 about the seed of faith developing and tasting good (see verse 28). That description was exactly how the Book of Mormon seemed to me. What I was reading and what the missionaries were teaching me rang true, felt right, and tasted good.
My mom teased me about what she called my “hermit crab stage” because I would retreat to my bedroom and spend several hours reading the Book of Mormon. Although I didn’t recognize my feelings as the Holy Ghost at that time, I felt that this path was right.
When the missionaries asked me to be baptized, they encouraged me to pray about the decision. When I prayed to know if joining The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was what I was supposed to do, I received a very direct answer, to the point that it shocked me. The direction was clear: go forward with baptism.
I remember vividly the day I was baptized—December 15, 2007. As I stood in the cold water with Elder Kelsey and he raised his hand to the square, the Spirit just filled me up; it seemed to take over my whole frame. I could say that I was also grinning from ear to ear, but that description doesn’t even come close to describing what I felt.
After my baptism I continued to feel the Spirit. I felt sanctified. I knew that my sins had been remitted. I felt the approval of Heavenly Father that this was, indeed, the path I was supposed to take.
Occasionally, when little doubts pop up, I go back to that experience and remember how I felt that day. Remembering what I felt then helps me dispel any doubt I may encounter.
Even though we don’t reenter the waters of baptism to have those powerful feelings again, we can remember that feeling when we renew our covenants through repentance and the sacrament. Each time I repent, I can find that feeling again—one of being cleansed and of being loved.
Feeling that love helps me identify with what Joseph Smith taught: “A man filled with the love of God, is not content with blessing his family alone, but ranges through the whole world, anxious to bless the whole human race.”1 Knowing the worth of a soul helps me be excited about opportunities to go teaching with the missionaries in my area. I also look forward to the day when I can serve a full-time mission and share how happy the gospel of Jesus Christ has made me.

From Yellowstone Park, through Jackson Hole, Wyoming, then on to Kaysville, Utah, by bicycle sounds like quite an undertaking for the 12 Varsity Scouts of the Kaysville Eighth Ward, Kaysville Utah East Stake. And it was. After weeks of discussion between parents, Scouts, and leaders, the five-day, 380-mile trip was officially planned, and the Scouts were ready to get in shape for the trip.
Training for the group was each Tuesday. The first trip to help them get in shape was from Kaysville to Antelope Island and back, a 44-mile trip which took 3 1/2 hours. After recovering from sore muscles, the group made several other test runs, helping build up stamina.
In preparation for the adventure, each Scout made sure his bike was in good condition. Then one summer morning, food and gear were loaded into a pickup truck, the bikes loaded into a trailer, and the group set out for the west gate of Yellowstone, where the bicycle journey was to start.
Bicycling through the mountain passes, sometimes climbing 1,000 feet per hour or fighting strong winds, challenged the Scouts. One day they rode 90 miles. Another day they woke to find a layer of ice on their sleeping bags. They crossed the continental divide four times and passed through countless little towns along the way. Four of the Scouts rode the entire 380 miles; the others each rode at least 250.
Was the trip worth the tired muscles and the long hours of preparation?
The answer is an enthusiastic yes!
“We were really blessed on the trip,” said one of the participants. “The weather was perfect, we didn’t have any bike problems except two flat tires, no accidents or injuries, and we all got along well and grew closer.”
They’re planning their next trip already.

One day there was a big storm. My friend’s basement filled with water. They had to get rid of a lot of stuff. My friend lost all of her summer clothes except for one pair of pants. My mom, sister, and I decided to help. We made dinner and gave them money to help buy some clothes for my friend. We also got a clean-up kit from the Church. My friend’s mom cried when we took the things over. When I handed her the money and dinner, I felt the Spirit and I felt my testimony of service grow in my heart. I know we did the right thing. It has made me want to serve more.

When Brother Watabe learned that each member of the Church should be a missionary, he committed himself to go tracting every day. He began by tracting in the train on the way to work, giving pamphlets to those who were interested. While serving a mission in Brazil, his third son, Masakazu, had the unusual experience of baptizing a man who had first heard of the gospel from Masao Watabe on a train in Japan fifteen years earlier.

Suzy gripped my arm and dragged me into an empty classroom.
“Debbie, I think I’m going to die.”
“Now look, Suzy,” I said, loosening her fingers from my arm, “I don’t think you can die from giving a talk.”
“But my heart is pounding and I feel sick,” she said. “Maybe I’m going to have a heart attack.”
“Calm down and tell me what I can do to help,” I suggested. Suzy is my best friend. She and I and the other 12-year-olds who were advancing to Young Women had been asked to give talks at a program. It was starting in only a few minutes.
“Maybe you could help me run away,” Suzy said hopefully.
“Suzy, you’re the bishop’s daughter. Everyone expects you to be there. I think they would notice if you were gone.”
“There must be something I can do,” Suzy said as she paced between the door and wall.
“What exactly is the problem?” I asked.
“I didn’t prepare my talk the way I usually do and I don’t have any notes.” She stopped and turned to face me. “My dad said I’m old enough to give a talk from my heart. Now I’m terrified and I won’t remember anything.”
“Can’t you talk to him again?” I asked.
“It’s too late. He said whatever I said would be fine. But I’m afraid I’m going to make a fool of myself. I think the only solution is to run away.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. I knew there must be a better solution to Suzy’s problem. Suddenly a thought came to me. “Come on,” I said, pulling Suzy with me. We went down the hall away from the Primary room toward the chapel. “Let’s go in here and say a prayer,” I said softly. “Then things will be all right.” I opened the heavy door and we peeked inside. The room was empty and a little light shone from somewhere up front.
Suzy and I tiptoed into the chapel and dropped to our knees. I told her I would pray. I asked Heavenly Father to bless Suzy to be able to give her talk, and to bless her with the Spirit so she would be calm and know that He loved her. I don’t remember what else I said. What I do remember is the warm feeling that surrounded me as we knelt in the chapel. I knew without a doubt that Heavenly Father loved Suzy and would help her, and I knew that Heavenly Father loved me too.
After a few moments we got up from our knees and headed to the Primary room to give our talks. Suzy did fine without notes. I will never forget the feeling of complete love that surrounded me as we knelt in the darkened chapel to ask Heavenly Father for help.

In this childhood setting—one he later often called “ideal”—Ezra Taft Benson learned how to sacrifice to reap a spiritual harvest. He was just twelve when his father, George Benson, was called to serve an eighteen-month mission in the midwestern United States. There were seven children in the Benson home when their father left for the mission field, with the eighth soon to be born. And Ezra, as the oldest son, had to carry much of the responsibility for the farm. One of President Benson’s most vivid memories of his father’s absence was of gathering around the kitchen table to hear his mother read her husband’s weekly letters. “There came into that home a spirit of missionary work that never left,” recalled President Benson. All eleven Benson children later served missions.

Time passed. Years passed, and I found myself in England. I was in command of a cavalry unit in the Canadian Army. I had made rather rapid progress as far as promotions are concerned, and I held the rank of field officer in the British Canadian Army. And I was proud of my position. And there was an opportunity for me to become a general. I had taken all the examinations. I had the seniority. There was just one man between me and that which for ten years I had hoped to get, the office of general in the British Army. I swelled up with pride. And this one man became a casualty, and I received a telegram from London. It said: “Be in my office tomorrow morning at 10:00,” signed by General Turner in charge of all Canadian forces. I called in my valet, my personal servant. I told him to polish my buttons, to brush my hat and my boots, and to make me look like a general because that is what I was going to be. He did the best he could with what he had to work on, and I went up to London. I walked smartly into the office of the General, and I saluted him smartly, and he gave me the same kind of a salute a senior officer usually gives—a sort of “Get out of the way, worm!” He said, “Sit down, Brown.” Then he said, “I’m sorry I cannot make the appointment. You are entitled to it. You have passed all the examinations. You have the seniority. You’ve been a good officer, but I can’t make the appointment. You are to return to Canada and become a training officer and a transport officer. Someone else will be made a general.” That for which I had been hoping and praying for ten years suddenly slipped out of my fingers.

Then he went into the other room to answer the telephone, and I took a soldier’s privilege of looking on his desk. I saw my personal history sheet. Right across the bottom of it in bold, block-type letters was written, “THIS MAN IS A MORMON.” We were not very well liked in those days. When I saw that, I knew why I had not been appointed. I already held the highest rank of any Mormon in the British Army. He came back and said, “That’s all, Brown.” I saluted him again, but not quite as smartly. I saluted out of duty and went out. I got on the train and started back to my town, 120 miles away, with a broken heart, with bitterness in my soul. And every click of the wheels on the rails seemed to say, “You are a failure. You will be called a coward when you get home. You raised all those Mormon boys to join the army, then you sneak off home.” I knew what I was going to get, and when I got to my tent, I was so bitter that I threw my cap and my saddle brown belt on the cot. I clinched my fists and I shook them at heaven. I said, “How could you do this to me, God? I have done everything I could do to measure up. There is nothing that I could have done—that I should have done—that I haven’t done. How could you do this to me?” I was as bitter as gall.

And then I heard a voice, and I recognized the tone of this voice. It was my own voice, and the voice said, “I am the gardener here. I know what I want you to do.” The bitterness went out of my soul, and I fell on my knees by the cot to ask forgiveness for my ungratefulness and my bitterness. While kneeling there I heard a song being sung in an adjoining tent. A number of Mormon boys met regularly every Tuesday night. I usually met with them. We would sit on the floor and have a Mutual Improvement Association. As I was kneeling there, praying for forgiveness, I heard their voices singing:
“It may not be on the mountain height
Or over the stormy sea;
It may not be at the battle’s front
My Lord will have need of me;
But if, by a still, small voice he calls
To paths that I do not know,
I’ll answer, dear Lord, with my hand in thine:
I’ll go where you want me to go.”
(Hymns, no. 75.)

I arose from my knees a humble man. And now, almost fifty years later, I look up to him and say, “Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for cutting me down, for loving me enough to hurt me.” I see now that it was wise that I should not become a general at that time, because if I had I would have been senior officer of all western Canada, with a lifelong, handsome salary, a place to live, and a pension when I’m no good any longer, but I would have raised my six daughters and two sons in army barracks. They would no doubt have married out of the Church, and I think I would not have amounted to anything. I haven’t amounted to very much as it is, but I have done better than I would have done if the Lord had let me go the way I wanted to go.

We were traveling with family and friends in the south of Oman. We decided to relax on the beach along the coast of the Indian Ocean. Soon after our arrival, our 16-year-old daughter, Nellie, asked if she could swim out to what she thought was a sandbar. Noticing the choppy water, I told her that I would go first, thinking there might be dangerous currents.
After swimming a short while, I called to my wife, asking if I was close to the sandbar. Her response was, “You have gone way past it.” Unbeknownst to me I was trapped in a riptide and was being pulled rapidly out to sea.
I was unsure what to do. The only thing I could think of was to turn around and swim back toward shore. That was exactly the wrong thing to do. I felt helpless. Forces beyond my control were pulling me farther out to sea. What made matters worse was that my wife, trusting my decision, had followed me.
Brothers and sisters, I thought there was a high likelihood I would not survive and that I, because of my decision, would also cause my wife’s death. After great effort and what I believe was divine intervention, our feet somehow touched the sandy bottom and we were able to walk safely back to our friends and daughter.
From time to time I have an image that haunts me. What if that September day, while relaxing on the beach of the Indian Ocean, I had said to my daughter Nellie, “Yes, go ahead. Swim out to the sandbar.” Or if she too had followed my example and had been unable to swim back? What if I had to live life knowing that my example resulted in her being pulled by a riptide out to sea, never to return?

A couple of years ago, I decided that I wanted to do something special for Christmas, something besides exchanging gifts with my family and friends. So I chose a widow in our ward and, in secret, began to take her a small gift every day of the 12 days before Christmas.
I delivered the gifts to Eleen Harris, an 85-year-old widow who always seemed cheerful and happy. Up until Christmas Eve, I had remained anonymous, but that night I couldn’t ignore the feeling that I needed to let her know who I was. Instead of setting down the package and disappearing before she could catch me, I waited for her to answer the door. She invited me into her home, where every one of my gifts sat in a perfect little row on her table. Sister Harris and I developed a friendship immediately.
From that night forward, I began scheduling time to visit Sister Harris. I cherished the hours I spent in her home, visiting in the living room or over snacks in the kitchen. We talked about school, my plans for the future, and experiences in Sister Harris’s life. The difference in our ages didn’t seem to matter, and we discovered how much we had in common.
Throughout those busy years the demands of a hectic schedule occasionally prevented me from visiting as often as I would have liked. When I returned, Sister Harris always greeted me with a playful scolding, pretending not to remember me. But I was always welcome in her home, and my absences only necessitated a need for faster talking in order to make up for lost time. Each time I visited with her I left feeling uplifted. I never heard her complain or make a negative comment. Cheerfulness was her constant companion.
Last year, Sister Harris was stricken with cancer, and after three painful weeks, she died. Our final meeting took place a few nights before her death. In the midst of her pain she expressed her gratitude for all that the Lord had given her, and then, floating in and out of consciousness, she wanted to catch up on the details of my life, just like old times.
The passing of this remarkable woman has left an ache in my heart, but the blessings I received from knowing her far outweigh any sadness I could feel at having lost her. In times of trial, the words of Sister Harris’s favorite hymn often come to my mind, “Because I Have Been Given Much I Too Must Give.” Now I try to incorporate that idea into everything I do, and perhaps touch the life of another person who will, in turn, bless my life.

One youth Sunday School teacher wondered how to help two young men with autism act for themselves. When she invited class members to share what they were learning, she worried that these two young men might refuse her invitation. But they didn’t. One stood to teach what he had learned and then invited his classmate with autism to help him. When the first began to struggle, his classmate stayed with him and whispered in his ear so that he could feel successful. They were both teaching that day. They were teaching what the Savior taught, but they were also teaching how the Savior taught. When the Savior taught, He acted out of love for the one He was teaching, just as this classmate did for his friend.

By all appearances, Elder Clark* was an ideal missionary. He was obedient, baptized and confirmed many people, and was loved by his companions and Church members. During the last few months of his mission he served as my assistant in the mission office. So when I saw him following his mission I was surprised when he confided that he had had a very difficult time at the beginning of his mission. He was homesick, frustrated with learning the language, and having difficulty with the missionary schedule and rules. However, he knew he had been called by the Lord to serve his mission and that the Lord would support him. So he knelt to talk to the Lord, sharing his concerns and pleading for His help in overcoming them. “As I did this,” Elder Clark told me, “I felt a real change in my being. I felt the Lord’s support and strength. Ideas and good feelings came to me, and I began to overcome my negative concerns. With God’s help, I became a successful missionary.”

Let me close with a final concrete example from a person who is not a member of our Church. President Dallin H. Oaks (former president of Brigham Young University), told me of this inspiring application of the very point I am trying to make about choices and obligations. As you know, President Oaks as a young law professor was closely associated with Justice Lewis M. Powell, now of the Supreme Court of the United States. Justice Powell’s daughter was herself a recent graduate of a fine law school, following which she began a very successful law practice and a marriage almost simultaneously. Some time thereafter she had her first child. In paying a courtesy call as a family friend, President Oaks was pleasantly surprised to find this young mother at home with her child full time. When asked of this decision the young woman replied, “Oh, I may go back to the law sometime but not now. For me the issue was simple. Anyone could take care of my clients, but only I can be the mother of this child.” What an incisive answer to an issue she says was simple! And it does seem to have been simple because she approached it, not in terms of rights, but first and foremost in terms of responsibilities. I think the issue would not have been so simple if her attitude had been, “It’s my career,” or “It’s my life.” But her concern was for her obligations. When considered that way, the issue and the answer were simple.

The winter passed, and finally, early in May, the relief wagons began to roll in. Of the various communications Brother Jones had received, one critical letter from Brigham Young had not arrived. Loading and shipping of the stored goods could not commence without it.
For days they waited, becoming increasingly anxious. Finally Brother Jones sought the Lord in prayer to know how to proceed. He recorded the following testimony: “Next morning without saying anything about the lack of instructions we commenced business. Soon some one asked whose teams were to be loaded first, [and] I dictated to my clerk. Thus we continued. As fast as the clerk put them down, orders would be given, and we passed on to the next. We continued this [way] for four days. … All the teams were loaded up, companies organized and started back [to the valley]” (Daniel W. Jones, Forty Years among the Indians [1960], 107).
The 17 young men were loaded on the last wagons departing to the Salt Lake Valley, where they would be reunited with their families and loved ones.
Brother Jones arrived later to report to President Young, feeling not a little uncertain how he would be received. Should he have waited for the President’s written orders? As everything unfolded, it was learned that President Young had indeed dictated a letter of instructions, which was never received. Dan carefully presented his detailed report. It was a testimony to him to find that the inspiration he’d received in Wyoming was exactly the same as in the prophet’s letter.