Gospel Story Finder

I shall never forget one night almost four decades ago. My bride, Patricia, and I had been married for two years. We lived in a small duplex on Oahu’s north shore. I was an army infantry officer assigned to a unit at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii. Our brigade had been ordered to war in Vietnam. My plane was scheduled for departure after midnight, and a good Latter-day Saint friend had agreed to take me to the airfield at 11:00 p.m.
All through that long evening, Pat and I sat on the sofa in our tiny living room with our fingers intertwined, watching the hands of the clock approach the fateful hour and listening to the soft lapping of the surf against the shore. The ticking of the clock seemed a metronome of mortality in painful contrast to the muffled rushing of the eternal sea. At last the hour of parting arrived. Inside the doorway to our little home, I clutched my bride to my bosom and kissed her one last time, and then I was gone. As I closed the door, I wondered if I had seen my sweetheart for the last time in mortality. It was truly night.
My friend and I drove silently in the darkness through the sugar cane and pineapple fields of Oahu. My heart felt as though it would break. Then as we passed Schofield, an unseen infantry unit on night maneuvers fired a flare. Its brilliance momentarily lit the inky darkness and seemed to ignite a spiritual flame in the blackness that invested my soul. My thoughts were drawn away from this saddest of days to the very happiest: back to that beautiful December day when Pat and I had entered the holy temple and there were sealed to each other, not just for this life only but for all eternity. I thought of the eternal covenants we had made. Like the sunrise, it dawned on me that no matter what happened in the uncertain future just ahead, Pat would always be mine. When I reached the air base, I telephoned her. In the spirit of a renewed hope and peace born of faith and understanding, we talked and laughed softly before once more bidding each other good-bye. It was only midnight, but for me the sun was already rising.

Families and temples just seem to go together, and Sam loves his family even more than he loves temples. His brothers, Willie and John, who are twins serving missions in Uruguay and England respectively, are role models for him. He is especially close to his sister, Lea, a student at BYU. Five years ago Lea suffered a spinal cord injury in a car accident, and she now uses a wheelchair. Sam often paints with her and plays wheelchair basketball with her when she is home on vacation. “Sam’s very sensitive to the feelings of others,” Lea says. “Since I’ve been in the wheelchair, he’s always there to help.”

The faith of the Korean Saints grew constantly but was often tested. Brother Chun Nak Seo, who after his baptism joined the army to fulfill his military duty, recalled some trying times: “During the three years of military service, my faith and testimony were tested. One day the company commander was drunk and brought a lot of liquor and pressed it on the company members. Because my colleagues knew that I was LDS, they always emptied the cup for me. But on that evening, the drunken commander was watching me carefully and commanded me to drink from the cup. I said that I didn’t drink alcohol, but he ordered me to do so. But I disobeyed again. He took out his pistol and aimed at me and ordered me to drink. Everyone was holding his breath and watching. I once again clearly said, ‘I do not drink alcohol, sir.’ I felt that moment was very long. He finally said, ‘I give up’ and put down the pistol. Everyone sighed with relief and came back to the barracks. The next morning, the company commander came to me and apologized for what he had done the previous night. Later he used to come to me to get advice on personal matters.”6
Brother Chun served as a full-time missionary in Korea and later as a bishop of the Alameda Ward in Maryland, USA.

A number of years ago, when we were living in Boston, I had just finished a particularly bad week. You know what a bad week is, don’t you? It’s seven bad days in a row. By the end of the week I was feeling down and a bit sorry for myself. Finally, one night, after my family had gone to bed, I decided to stay up longer and really go before the Lord in a more determined way than when I said my regular night and morning prayers. As I knelt in the downstairs study of the darkened house, my circumstances made it easy for me to approach the Lord in the depths of humility, and I poured out my heart. As I prayed I felt a need for a confirmation that he was there and that he cared. From past experiences I knew these things, but there are times when one needs the strength of reconfirmation.

As I prayed and made this specific request I had a most remarkable experience. I had had spiritual experiences before, but this, to me, was more. There was an outpouring of the Spirit so real that I could feel it. This Spirit filled my whole soul; and this was not just a single experience, but it came again and again in the space of just a minute or two. I came out of the room that night with a reconfirmed and absolute knowledge, borne of the Spirit, that not only does the Savior live but that he knows me and cares for me with a truly divine love.

The influence of that experience lingered with me for days and caused me to have a feeling of genuine concern and love for everyone, even people on the street whom I did not know. While previously I had passed them with hardly a thought, I now felt a concern for and interest in them. My family, if it were possible, was more dear to me. I felt a bond with the Saints everywhere and wanted to serve my fellow men.

I can’t remember the trials I was facing at that particular time. They passed as trials usually do. But I will always remember the experience of that evening when the Spirit healed me. It confirmed to me that if our hearts are right, we can go before the Lord, and, in one degree or another and in one way or another, he will send the healing influence of the Spirit, which Spirit not only heals but also unites. This need not be a singular experience, for it can happen and should happen over and over again.

My great-grandfather, Heinrich Friedrich Christian Pieper, was baptized as a single man in his early 20s in Germany in 1895. As a new convert, he learned about the temple and began preparations to receive his ordinances in the house of the Lord. Because there was no temple near him, it was seven years before he could realize his dream. By that time, he was married and was able to be endowed and sealed in 1902. He now lived within one hour of a temple and worked hard to prepare names of ancestors. He and his wife visited the house of the Lord as often as possible to perform vicarious ordinances for loved ones. By 1952 he and his wife had performed more than 20,000 ordinances for others.

As Jeremiah had prophesied, the restored covenant was written deeply in my great-grandfather’s and great-grandmother’s hearts and, as a result, in the lives of me and other descendants. Their temple service provided them strength to endure life’s many challenges and remain faithful to their God.

Mama wiped down the countertops in the kitchen while Nicole and her cousin Cassidi sat on the floor in the living room, playing quietly. Nicole and Cassidi were both five years old, but Nicole was small for her age.
Nicole and Cassidi agreed on a book from the bookcase, and Nicole began to read aloud. Cassidi sat across from Nicole with her legs crossed and listened closely to the story. The book had pictures, and each time Nicole finished reading a page, she faced the book toward Cassidi so that her cousin could see the picture, too. The girls were having a great time until halfway through the story. Then a look of sadness came over Cassidi’s face, and she began to cry.
“What’s wrong?” Nicole asked.
“Nothing,” Cassidi said quietly, wiping the tears from her cheeks.
“If you’re sad, it makes me sad, too, Cassidi. Please tell me what’s wrong.”
Still sniffling, Cassidi nodded. “Nicole, you are so smart. You can read, and I can’t.”
Nicole lowered her head and closed the book. She felt very sad because Cassidi was unhappy. Mama wanted to rush in and comfort Cassidi; instead, she watched quietly from the kitchen.
Nicole’s eyes grew big, and a smile appeared on her face. “Cassidi, you are the best two-wheel-bicycle rider I’ve ever seen!” she said boldly. “I can’t ride a two-wheel bike at all,” she added, looking into Cassidi’s tear-filled eyes.
A big smile grew on Cassidi’s lips as she wiped the remaining tears from her face. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Nicole. They hugged each other tightly.
“I feel better now,” Cassidi said. “Thank you, Nicole.”
Nicole answered with a smile, and the girls continued to play.
Mama’s eyes filled with tears. She realized that the girls understood better than most grown-ups what it means to love one another as Jesus Christ would.

Late in 2018, I was diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, better known as ALS or Lou Gehrig’s disease—a rare, terminal, neurological disease. ALS kills the motor neurons connecting my brain to my muscles. My mind still runs at the normal rate, and I understand everything people say to me, but I can no longer control muscles except my eyes. Communicating is hard and slow for me, now that I must use my eyes to type on a device what I want to say.

ALS has left me a quadriplegic, depending on a machine to breathe and on my wife, Tiffany, for everything else. My disease will likely take my life before I see my children grow up. I published a book of my lessons and talks for them and others to read after I am gone.

With this perspective of gratitude, how could I not be happy? ALS is not fun, and it is clearly the low point of my life. But it is not low enough to counter my happiness.

I have come to see ALS as a calling, and I am trying to magnify it. In fact, I expect to look back on this disease and laugh—grateful for what this challenge has helped me become. And if that is how I will see things later, why not see them that way now?

I don’t want to give the impression that this challenge is easy. It took me a long time to get my emotions and fear under control. I have learned a lot as my physical body has faded away.

I have learned about how God sometimes gives us blessings. At first, we are called to do something that seems hard—or even impossible! Then the Lord teaches us and lifts us through His grace, or the “enabling power” made possible by His Atonement. Only after we get to the other side of the task do we see His hand and His blessings in our lives. As President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) taught: “Do not pray for tasks equal to your abilities, but pray for abilities equal to your tasks. Then the performance of your tasks will be no miracle, but you will be the miracle.”

That pattern has happened to me over and over. So, I have faith that ALS will turn out the same way for me.

My disease will likely take my life before I see my children grow up. I published a book of my lessons and talks for them and others to read after I am gone. Until the end comes for me, I am trying to magnify my calling and be more like Jesus.

Thanks to technology that lets me type with my eyes, I will continue to share my testimony and my faith in God’s plan of happiness until He calls me home.

“We wanted to organize; we wanted to have a club and wear a uniform, a blazer, and be official. We even got together and selected a name and colors for our club. We wanted something that all the LDS kids in our high school would want to be associated with, so we could be clearly identified as LDS.”
As Jean Sabin Groberg continued her account of that period of time in her life, her enthusiasm increased. “The purpose of our club was going to be to strengthen each other and to look after each other. There were only 20 or 30 of us in a very large high school in southern California. We really wanted to have something like the institute, only for high school, so that we could be strong together.”
With the growing desire that they each shared, she told of how a number of the youth unitedly approached the institute director. He listened to them. Then he met with them to discuss their plans, their goals, and their desires for an LDS club on their high school campus. He heard their concerns and felt the intensity of their desire. He agreed to “see what could be done.”
Sister Groberg recalled that after some time of anxious waiting, it was finally announced that they were to meet with the institute director. “Oh, it was just so exciting,” she exclaimed. “We were told that the seminary would be coming to our area that next year. There had been no seminary available to us, and now we had the feeling that our interest and our initiative had helped to tip the balance in bringing seminary to southern California. At least we felt important, that we were part of the beginning. To be a seminary graduate was a goal we just wanted to attain,” she explained.

Last summer when I traveled from the United States to Orkney, one of Scotland’s northern islands, I learned strangers are only friends you haven’t met yet. When my group visited the small branch in the main city of Kirkwall, we more than doubled the attendance numbers from the usual 5 to 11. At the end of sacrament meeting, the branch president asked my friends and me to bear our testimonies.
As I stood in that small room so far from home, I felt the unity of the gospel family surround me, and I felt the Spirit testify to me of the truthfulness of the gospel. Their strength in living the gospel, even when so many around them did not, amazed me. These five members came faithfully to church each week just as I did at home, showing that they knew how precious the gospel is. They knew the importance of unity in the gospel and of keeping each other strong. As I bore my testimony, I realized what an example these members were to me in showing me love and how to be a faithful Latter-day Saint. I was so grateful for the Spirit testifying of the importance of the gospel to me and that so many around the world had the strength to live the gospel.

“I know it’s below freezing, but how much below?” asked Elder Bowes, drawing his knitted scarf a little tighter around his neck. Winters weren’t like this in North Carolina.
“Are you sure you want to know?” asked his companion with a grin.
Elder Bowes smiled with as much enthusiasm as a half-frozen missionary can, and Elder Bessho whispered, “It’s …” and made his thumb and forefinger into a zero.
It was cold in Kitami, but the desire of the four missionaries to introduce the Japanese people to a beautiful gospel principle was greater than their desire to escape from the chilling temperatures. With electric ice cutters and hand-carving tools, they followed the carefully drawn plans of Elder Bowes (who had had drafting experience) and built a replica of the Washington Temple out of solid ice. Finishing touches included installing a light within the structure and erecting a sign containing information about the eternal family unit and the purpose of temples.
When the construction was completed, it was displayed in the three-day Ice Festival in Kitami, an event attended by 55,000 people last February. Afterward, the Ice Festival Committee requested the drawings of the temple replica and plan to make it again on a much larger scale. (The original was carved from blocks of ice 3 1/2-by-2 1/2-by-1 feet.) In addition, the elders (Chris Johnson and Jonathan Morrell from Utah, Neal Bowes from North Carolina, and Mamoru Bessho from Nagoya, Japan) had the opportunity of explaining the display on television and radio and in two local newspapers.

In conclusion, let me tell you about a personal planning cycle I developed about the time that I was ending my formal education, with the hope that it will cause you to seriously reflect and plan the future. I was a little older than most when I graduated form college; a mission and World War II had slowed the process. I graduated from college just a few months before my twenty-seventh birthday. I was married, and the first child was on its way. Family responsibility has a special way of bringing a maturing process. I decided if I was to accomplish my life’s objective I needed to form a plan and review my performance regularly against the determined plan. My decision was that I would hold an annual review on each of my birthdays to evaluate my progress. On my twenty-seventh birthday my first plan was prepared. On my twenty-eighth birthday I made my first annual performance evaluation and plan revision. This I have carried out each year until the present. The plan includes the same ingredients we have discussed here tonight. First, a physical plan: it is near my birthday each year that I go to the doctor and have an annual physical examination. My plan includes some established goals for an active and restive pulse rate, a blood pressure reading, and a weight range. Annually I check my performance in my physical plan.

My physical plan also includes a financial plan. I wanted to have thirty years of accumulation where I could become financially independent. My plan at the end of those thirty years was to be in a position where I could call the shots, be flexible, do what I wanted to accomplish. I would be able to fill a second mission, or to devote my time to community service or education. Each year I would prepare a personal balance sheet to evaluate my progress toward achieving this objective.

Second, I would evaluate my relationships with my wife, my children, my friends, and my business associates. I was continually asking the question, “What kind of an influence in the world am I for teaching righteous principles?” I wanted to be balanced socially and emotionally.

Third, I established a study program to improve my mind. I would mark a calendar each year with my study objectives of how many chapters I would read each day in a 365-day year. I am afraid that in my early years I was moving too much toward the objectives of my professional life. Now my program has changed, because I have discovered the great value of the scriptures. My program now is to read two chapters in the scriptures first thing every morning. By so doing I can cover the Book of Mormon, the Pearl of Great Price, the Doctrine and Covenants, and the New Testament each year.

Fourth, each year I gave myself a very careful temple worthiness interview. I would ask myself the questions, “Am I morally clean?” “Do I live the Word of Wisdom?” “Am I honest in paying my tithes and offerings?” “Am I regular in my attendance at my priesthood and sacrament meetings?” “Am I keeping my life in harmony with the principles of the gospel?” “Do I sustain my stake president?” “Do I sustain the prophet of the Lord?” “Is my testimony of the Lord and Savior vital, alive, and an active force in my life?” This process has had me focusing in a special way each year on what I wanted to accomplish within the time allotted to me in my mortal experience. Each year I would feel the thrill of accomplishment, but more strongly the determination to do better.

In the vision we had for our family, we wanted Christiane to stay home to rear our children. This meant sacrifice. Shortly after we learned that a baby was on its way, Christiane reminded me of the mutual decision we had made even before our wedding day that she would immediately stop working outside the home as soon as a baby was born. I tried to escape what I knew would be additional responsibility by mentioning that she was contributing one-third of our family income. She answered simply, “I will take care of the children, and you take care of putting food on the table.”
I knew she was right; we had discussed it long before. It was in tune with our vision of family life, it was in tune with the words of the living prophets, and it felt right. So she gave up her well-paying career as a nurse to be close to the children and to meet their daily needs, and I had to get my act together to provide food and shelter. The Lord blessed us to be able to fulfill this aspect of our vision.

“I also helped with other chores, which included feeding the pigs, milking the cow, keeping the stable clean, and feeding the other animals. Unfortunately we frequently had little to feed the animals. During the summer I used to herd the cow out on the street, where she would eat the grass along the ditch bank at the side of the road. One of the great trials of my young life was that sometimes I had to herd her on Sunday. Otherwise, she would not get anything to eat, and she furnished a large part of our food supply. We also had a chicken coop with a few laying hens. My mother used the eggs to trade at the store for things we needed.

Once, while I was on a solo flight over mountain country, my airplane was suddenly engulfed in a thick cloud. I could barely see the tip of the wing out the right window. Below me, the fields, the miniature houses, and the ribbons of road wrapping up the green valley floor had vanished. A Cessna 150 has no radar, and with the familiar landmarks gone, I panicked. Was I too low? How close were the mountains? Disorientation could prove fatal.
At that instant I remembered my flight instructor’s words: “Return to remembrance of past sunshine.” I took a deep breath and coaxed the plane into a 180-degree turn. The clouds began to thin, and sunshine returned. I saw a tiny tractor below, changing a field from yellow to brown. No one heard me shout for joy.

When I was 12 years old, my father took me hunting in the mountains. We woke up at 3:00 in the morning, saddled our horses, and set out up the forested mountainside in total darkness. As much as I loved hunting with my dad, at that moment I felt a little nervous. I had never been in these mountains before, and I couldn’t see the trail—or much of anything else, for that matter! The only thing I could see was the small flashlight my dad was carrying as it cast a faint light on the pine trees ahead of us. What if my horse slipped and fell—could he even see where he was going? But this thought comforted me: “Dad knows where he’s going. If I follow him, everything will be OK.”
And everything was OK. Eventually the sun came out, and we had a wonderful day together. As we started toward home, my dad pointed to a majestic, sloping peak that stood out among the others. “That’s Windy Ridge,” he said. “That’s where the good hunting is.” Instantly, I knew that I wanted to come back and climb to Windy Ridge someday.
In the years that followed, I would often hear my father talk about Windy Ridge, but we never went back—until one day, 20 years later, I called my dad and said, “Let’s go to Windy.” Once again we saddled our horses and started up the mountainside. I was now an experienced rider in my 30s, yet I was surprised to feel the same nervousness I had felt as a 12-year-old boy. But my dad knew the way, and I followed him.
Finally we made it to the top of Windy. The view was exhilarating, and the overwhelming feeling I had was that I wanted to come back—not for me this time but for my wife and my children. I wanted them to experience what I had experienced.
Over the years, I’ve had many opportunities to lead my sons and other young men to mountaintops, just as my father led me. These experiences have prompted me to ponder what it means to lead—and what it means to follow.

I first discovered the garage when I was seven years old and spending the day at my grandparents’ house. I quickly settled into my routine of playing with toys in their living room. Just as I jumped my toy car off of the armrest of the sofa, my grandpa walked through the den wearing a set of blue overalls covered in stains and his favorite “Ford Racing” hat. Opening the sliding door and stepping over the threshold, he looked back to find me staring at him wide-eyed. With a wink, he motioned for me to follow him.
As we walked across the backyard and came to the door of the gray garage, Grandpa reached into his pocket and retrieved his keys. Slowly and methodically, he fingered through the keys with his big, calloused hands that were the result of a lifetime of hard work. Finally, he found the old brass key he was looking for, inserted it into the lock, and opened the door.
After climbing over boxes and tiptoeing around engine parts and transmission pieces, we stood in the middle of the garage. Grandpa showed me around, pointing to various parts and explaining what they did in a way that my seven-year-old mind could understand. He pointed out the cars he was fixing and what they needed to run well again. One was a 1940s-era roadster that looked just like one of my toy cars. The other was a 1965 Mustang that was lying in pieces all over the floor. It was amazing how much my grandpa knew and how he could figure out exactly what was wrong with something so complex. His stories of growing up in a family of 12 and buying old cars, repainting them, and selling them to make money made me laugh and the stories of car crashes and real fiery explosions astounded me.
Over the years I’ve put in my share of elbow grease in Grandpa’s garage. I would change oil in the countless cars that rolled into the shop, driven by people asking for my grandpa to work on their vehicles. Grandpa would always smile and treat his loyal customers to at least a half-hour’s worth of conversation. I helped clean the brake drums and apply body filler to the Mustang, which soon became my favorite car in the garage. We spent many hours working in the crowded space. I treasured the time I got to spend with my grandpa working in the garage.
When I was nine, I moved away and no longer got to spend time in the garage with Grandpa. A few years later the distance multiplied when my grandparents were called to serve a mission in Hawaii. However, it was truly a blessing. My grandpa finally got the chance to serve the Lord as a missionary. Growing up in such a large family meant that money was limited, and a full-time mission wasn’t possible for him when he was young. While my grandpa had the desire to serve, a full-time mission involved a great deal of sacrifice. I had always wanted to serve a mission, and seeing my grandparents serve and the blessings that came from their service bolstered my desire. When my grandpa came back, the garage was waiting for him. The sounds of power tools and metal once again reverberated through the walls.
The years have raced by, and I am older now. But working with Grandpa is still special to me. Whenever I come back to visit, it seems like there is always a new project or something that needs to be done. The distance makes me treasure our time together so much more.
I recently visited during the summer, and Grandpa gave me that familiar wink as he motioned for me to follow him. Expecting a new job, I followed willingly. As he lifted the door to the garage, what I saw took my breath away. There stood a beautifully restored 1965 Mustang. The body filler had been covered with a beautiful copper metallic paint, and the brake drums were now masked by flawless new rims. Big white racing stripes flowed up the front of the car from the chrome front bumper to the chrome rear bumper, and the shiny running horse pranced across the front of the grill. He put the key into the ignition, and the huge V-8 engine roared to life. He looked at me and smiled, then he asked if I wanted to go for a ride. I quickly said yes, and with that, we backed the car out of the garage and took off down the street.
As I make preparations to serve a mission, I look forward to following in my grandpa’s footsteps once again as I serve the Lord. My grandpa has not only taught me many things about cars, but he has also taught me many things about life. From all the hours we spent in the garage, I’ve learned how to be patient and take pride in my work. Because of his incredible people skills, I’ve learned how to approach and talk to people. And above all, he helped me discover who I truly am. Just like the Mustang, I have been piecing myself together over the last 18 years, and now, with help from Grandpa, I am finally ready for the open road.

I recall with fondness July 1, 1997, my first official day on the job as the new president of Ricks College. On that day we conducted a groundbreaking for the Spencer W. Kimball Building. Elder Richard G. Scott of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles presided at that event. Now remember, it was the first of July, and it was my first day as the new president of the college. It was windy; it was very cold; and because of the inclement weather, we had to move indoors into the west ballroom of the Manwaring Center for a groundbreaking. Later that same day, when I returned to the president’s home, I had to turn on the furnace because it was so cold. It was the first of July in Rexburg, and I had to turn on the heating system in our home.

I called Sister Bednar, who was in Arkansas at the time preparing for the move to Idaho, and described the historic events of the day. I also told her about how cold it was, and that I had turned on the furnace. There was silence on the other end of the phone. She simply said, “David, it is the first of July.” I responded, “Susan, I am in Rexburg.” Such are my memories of my first groundbreaking at Brigham Young University-Idaho.

As a skinny 12-year-old, I watched through a chain-link fence as my two older brothers earned all-state baseball honors.
Life was exciting because they were my brothers. The guy wearing number eight and striking out three batters in a row, and the player hitting home runs over the centerfielder’s head were the same guys I shared a basement bedroom with. They were the ones who first taught me about putting gel in my hair and how to start a campfire. We were good friends.
The feelings of inadequacy kicked in because as a five-foot-three, 98-pound weakling, I could not understand how I would ever be able to fire an 80-mile-per-hour fastball or hit towering home runs.
On one hot summer afternoon, my oldest brother could see something was bothering me. After he encouraged me to tell him what was on my mind, I said in muffled tones, “How will I ever become a great baseball player like you?”
“Matt,” he said in his usual cheerful voice, “you’ve just got to do the things that great baseball players do.” After thinking about this, I came to realize that great baseball players aren’t only naturally talented, but they make themselves skilled through hours of practice. I committed myself to do all I could.
Three broken noses and six years later, I was a starter on the varsity baseball team and had just signed a national letter of intent to play college baseball.
I started my freshman year at college, and everything was going great. Great, that is, until an all-too-familiar feeling of my personal shortcomings began to settle in my stomach. My second-oldest brother, who was not only co-captain of my college team but also my roommate, had just come home from the mission field. He told extraordinary stories about living in England and preaching the gospel.
I read letters from the mission presidents of both of my older brothers describing what a good missionary “Elder Bennett” was and how blessed they would be because of their obedience and faith. Again, I began feeling inadequate. How could I ever measure up to their high level of missionary success? Although my body had grown several inches taller and my muscles had doubled in size, my testimony had not grown proportionately.
I confided in my brother and roommate, “What can I do to prepare to be a great missionary like you were? How can I change people’s lives like you did?” Again I received simple counsel. “Do the things that great missionaries do. Be nice to people, read your scriptures, and pray daily.”
I took the advice to heart and could feel my spiritual growth begin to catch up with my physical body.
Finally the day came for me to serve my mission, and being a missionary wasn’t nearly as glamorous as I had imagined from my brother’s stories. I quickly realized I was a small seedling among tall oaks of spirituality. I turned to my mission president for advice. “To strengthen your testimony and the testimonies of those around you, follow the example of our Savior. Do the things that he did. Jesus Christ’s life is an example for us in every way,” he told me as we were driving together one afternoon.
The greatest things I’ve learned in life have come from following my older brothers and doing the things they have done. My ultimate goal is to follow Jesus Christ. I know the way to fulfill that goal is to do the things that He who is greatest of all has done.

President Harold B. Lee told of a young man who was concerned about this very question: “Some years ago, President [Marion G.] Romney and I were sitting in my office. The door opened and a fine young man came in with a troubled look on his face, and he said, ‘Brethren, I am going to the temple for the first time tomorrow. I have made some mistakes in the past, and I have gone to my bishop and my stake president, and I have made a clean disclosure of it all; and after a period of repentance and assurance that I have not returned again to those mistakes, they have now [judged] me ready to go to the temple. But, brethren, that is not enough. I want to know, and how can I know, that the Lord has forgiven me, also.’

“… As we pondered for a moment, we remembered King Benjamin’s address contained in the book of Mosiah. … There was the answer.

“If the time comes when you have done all that you can to repent of your sins, whoever you are, wherever you are, and have made amends and restitution to the best of your ability; if it be something that will affect your standing in the Church and you have gone to the proper authorities, then you will want that confirming answer as to whether or not the Lord has accepted of you. In your soul-searching, if you seek for and you find that peace of conscience, by that token you may know that the Lord has accepted of your repentance” (“‘Stand Ye in Holy Places,’” Ensign, July 1973, 122).

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. 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.