Gospel Story Finder

A short time ago I toured with the president of the Alaska-British Columbia Mission. His daughter in high school had been successful in converting one of her chums, so she told her father she wanted to spend her summer vacation in the mission field. He sent her up to Anchorage to labor with a lady missionary, and he and I were there to attend a baptismal service when eleven people were baptized. Nine of them were the converts of this girl and her companion. The daughter came up to me with tears running down her cheeks and said, “Oh, Brother Richards, I have never been so happy in all my life.”

After four years of missionary service in the Hawaiian Islands (begun at age ?fteen, by the way), young Joseph F. Smith returned to the mainland and began making his way back to the Salt Lake Valley. But these were dif?cult times. Feelings toward the Latter-day Saints were running very high. The terrible experience at Mountain Meadows was fresh in the minds of many people. Polygamy had become a national political issue, and at that very hour Albert Sidney Johnston’s army was on its way to the Utah territory under orders from the president of the United States. Less disciplined than the U.S. Army were many frontiersmen scattered abroad who vowed openly they would murder every Mormon anywhere they could be found.

It was back into that world that nineteen-year-old Joseph F. Smith drove his team and wagon. One evening the little company with which he traveled had barely made camp before a company of drunken men rode in on horseback, cursing and swearing and threatening to kill. Some of the older men, when they heard the riders coming, had gone down into the brush by the creek, waiting out of sight for the band to pass. But young Joseph F. had been out a distance from the camp gathering wood for the ?re and so was not aware of the potential problem. With the openness of youth he walked back toward the camp, only to realize too late the dif?cult circumstance he now faced almost totally alone.

His ?rst thought was to drop the wood and run toward the creek, seeking shelter in the trees in his ?ight. Then the thought came to him, “Why should I run from [my faith]?” With that compelling sense of loyalty ?rmly in his mind, he continued to carry his armful of wood to the edge of the ?re. As he was about to deposit his load, one of the ruf?ans, pistol cocked and pointed squarely at the young man’s head, cursed as only a drunken ­rascal can and demanded in a loud, angry voice, “I’m a killer of Mormons, boy. Are you a Mormon?”

Without a moment of hesitation and looking the heathen directly in the eye, Joseph F., scarcely old enough to be entering the MTC, boldly answered, “Yes, siree; died in the wool; true blue, through and through.”

The answer was given so boldly and without any sign of fear that it completely disarmed this belligerent man. In his bewilderment he put down his pistol, grasped the young missionary by the hand, and said, “Well, you are the — — bravest man I ever met! Shake, young fellow, I’m glad to see a lad that stands up for his convictions.”

Years later, while serving as the president of the Church, Joseph F. Smith said that he truly expected to take at point-blank range the full charge from the barrel of that man’s pistol. But he also said that after his initial inclination to run, it never again entered his mind to do anything but stand up for his beliefs and face the death that appeared to be the inevitable result of such conviction.

Earlier that week the Valiant class had their farewell activity for Sister Stott. Travis knew that before the activity was over, his teacher would make sure she taught them something. She always did. The moment came as she set up a maze in the multipurpose room while they waited outside. Then, one at a time, she blindfolded them and guided them through the maze by telling them when to stop and turn.
It wasn’t always easy, but by listening carefully and obeying her directions, each class member was successful. Afterward, she talked to the class about how they need to have faith and trust in Heavenly Father and listen for His guidance—after their prayers, for instance—and follow His instructions in the scriptures and as given by their parents and Church leaders. She said that He would always do what was best for them. It was a lesson Travis would never forget.

With permission from President Russell M. Nelson and Elder Brent H. Nielson, I relate an instructive experience.

In 2014, then-Elder Russell M. Nelson chaired the Missionary Executive Council or MEC. One day in the MEC, Elder Nelson held up his smartphone and said, “We need to put these into the hands of every missionary.” You can imagine the discussion that ensued about all the challenges missionaries with smartphones would create. But in time, the MEC began allowing missionaries in a few test missions to carry iPads or smartphones.

Every problem the MEC predicted happened. But Elder Nelson never wavered in his conviction that missionaries could be taught to use the internet righteously and that they should have smartphones. The tests continued and over the next few years, more and more missionaries received phones.

Now fast forward to January of 2020. That month, President Russell M. Nelson, now President of the Church, authorized every missionary worldwide to have a smartphone. Then, just weeks later, the pandemic shut down the world and proselyting as we knew it stopped.

Elder Brent H. Nielson, then executive director of the missionary department, was initially concerned that baptisms might drop to nearly zero. But they didn’t. Inspired missionaries working from their apartments found and baptized 125,000 people in 2020—largely because they had smartphones.

Says Elder Nielson: “I quickly learned that the Lord had prepared us for this day. Prophets can see around corners.”

Thump! went the backpack on the living room end table. “Put your bag in your room, Petey!” Mother said as she rounded the corner, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. Her smile faded as she noticed Peter’s somber face. “Are you OK?”
“I guess so.” Peter shrugged as he hung his coat on a hook by the door.
“Then why the glum face? Did you have a fight with Justin?”
“Well, no … It’s just that whenever I ask him to come to Primary with me, he says he’s too busy or has stuff to do or something. Why can’t I make him come? Primary is so cool!”
“Let’s sit down a minute,” Mother said, heading for the couch. She tossed the towel onto the end table next to Peter’s backpack. “Do you remember the eleventh article of faith?” she asked when they were seated. “I think that’s one you’ve already learned.”
“Hmmm, let me think.”
“‘We claim the privilege …’” she started him off.
“Oh, yeah! I remember now. That’s the one that says ‘how, where, or what they may.’”
“That’s right! It says, ‘We claim the privilege of worshiping Almighty God according to the dictates of our own conscience, and allow all men the same privilege, let them worship …’”
“‘how, where, or what they may!’” Peter finished proudly.
“That’s very good, Petey. But do you know what it means?”
Peter began to fidget on the couch.
Mother smiled thoughtfully. “Let me see if I can help. Remember last week, when Dad was out of town and we had that snowstorm?”
“Do I ever! We had to shovel the walks and driveway before school. It was a lot of work. And then the neighbor kids wanted to walk through the snow, so they tromped across our lawn, instead! What a waste of time!” Peter shook his head, remembering the footprints across the front lawn.
“Well, no it wasn’t,” Mother corrected gently. “Because our walks were clear, it was easy to get the car out to take you to school.”
“OK, OK.” Peter’s nose wrinkled slightly. “I still don’t get what that has to do with the eleventh article of faith—or Justin.”
“Well, we worked hard to clear a path in the snow—that’s what we wanted to do. It was important to us. But the neighborhood children chose to walk in the snow, instead—because that’s what was important to them. Right?”
“Right,” Peter said. “So what?”
“Well, you want Justin to go to Primary on Sunday because it’s important to you, right?”
“Oh. I think I get it,” Peter said slowly. “Even though I choose to go to Primary, that doesn’t mean that Justin has to, right?”
Mother smiled. “That’s right. Heavenly Father has given us a very precious gift called agency. It is the right to choose and act for ourselves. We can’t force someone to follow the same path we choose to follow. However, while you need to let Justin have his agency, it’s also very good for you to love him and be his friend. You can keep showing Justin the ‘clear path’ that’s important to you. And maybe—just maybe—he’ll want to follow it one day.”
As Peter grabbed his backpack and headed up the stairs, he turned and smiled. “I’m glad I have my agency so I can choose to go to Primary.”

Qualicum Bay, British Columbia—
Jessica and Sandra Stüssi know all about family togetherness. They live across the street from the beach in a tiny town called Qualicum Bay, in British Columbia, where their parents own and operate a resort. With the waves lapping softly on the shore, the sun setting in a crimson burst, and the family sitting outside quietly enjoying ice cream cones together, it seems like heaven on earth.
But what about the days when Jessica and Sandra are helping their mom do the resort’s laundry? What about days when they seem to be moving in several directions at once to sports practices and school activities?
Of course the Stüssis aren’t perfect, but they know that keeping their home heavenly—even when they’re doing something that’s not particularly pleasant—is partly their responsibility. And they know that living the gospel will help them create love at home. Getting up at the crack of dawn every day with their mom (she’s the seminary teacher) is an important part of their success.
“Sometimes it’s hard to have your mom as a teacher because it’s hard to have lessons from her. But it’s good too because we sort of know what to expect and she knows what we need,” says Jessica. “Also, she’s wide awake when the rest of us aren’t.”
After seminary every morning, Jessica and Sandra head to a different secondary school than the other youth in their branch, making them the only Church members there.
“Going to our school can be sort of hard,” says Sandra. “Sometimes people ask me questions [about the Church] and I don’t always know how to answer them. I just try to take things one at a time.”
It’s a tough job, being the only Latter-day Saints in the whole school, but Jessica and Sandra both say that it forces them to stick to their standards—and to stick together.
“We have to back each other up,” says Sandra.
Soon Jessica will graduate and Sandra will be on her own. But their family ties will stay strong as Jessica travels to Switzerland to live with relatives for a year.
“None of the people on my mom’s side of the family are members, so hopefully I’ll be able to teach them and bring some of them into the gospel while I’m there,” she says.

Sometimes cities and nations bear special labels of identity. Such was a cold and very old city in eastern Canada. The missionaries called it “Stony Kingston.” There had been but one convert to the Church in six years, even though missionaries had been continuously assigned there during the entire interval. No one baptized in Kingston. Just ask any missionary who labored there. Time in Kingston was marked on the calendar like days in prison. A missionary transfer to another place—any place—would be uppermost in thoughts, even in dreams.
While I was praying about and pondering this sad dilemma, for my responsibility then as a mission president required that I pray and ponder about such things, my wife called to my attention an excerpt from the book A Child’s Story of the Prophet Brigham Young. She read aloud that Brigham Young (1801–77) entered Kingston, Ontario, on a cold and snow-filled day. He labored there about 30 days and baptized 45 souls.9 Here was the answer. If the missionary Brigham Young could accomplish this harvest, so could the missionaries of today.
Without providing an explanation, I withdrew the missionaries from Kingston, that the cycle of defeat might be broken. Then the carefully circulated word: “Soon a new city will be opened for missionary work, even the city where Brigham Young proselyted and baptized 45 persons in 30 days.” The missionaries speculated as to the location. Their weekly letters pleaded for the assignment to this Shangri-la. More time passed. Then four carefully selected missionaries—two of them new, two of them experienced—were chosen for this high adventure. The members of the small branch pledged their support. The missionaries pledged their lives. The Lord honored both.
In the space of three months, Kingston became the most productive city of the Canadian Mission. The grey limestone buildings still stood; the city had not altered its appearance; the population remained constant. The change was one of attitude. The label of doubt yielded to the label of faith.

“Mom, I think that boy fell off his bike!” Annie said. A little boy was sitting on the sidewalk just ahead. His bike was on the ground, and he was crying. An older boy was sitting with him.
“Are you hurt?” Annie asked as she and Mom got closer.
“My brother fell and hurt his knee,” the older boy said. “I need to take him home. But I don’t think I can push both bikes and help him walk at the same time.”
“We can help!” Annie said.
Mom nodded. “We can help you get home.”
The younger boy wiped away tears. His brother helped him stand up. Mom and Annie took the bikes. They walked slowly up the street.
Soon they were at the boys’ house. A woman stepped out with her hands on her hips. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“Your son fell off his bike and hurt his knee,” Mom said. “We were passing by. So we stopped to help.”
The woman looked at them. But she didn’t say anything. She took the little boy’s hand. “Come inside. I’ll wash off your knee. Jason, put the bikes in the garage.”
The older boy wheeled the bikes away. The woman closed the front door.
Mom and Annie started walking home.
Annie frowned. “They didn’t even thank us!”
“No, they didn’t,” Mom said. “But do we help people just so they will thank us?”
Annie thought for a minute. “No. We help them because they need our help. When I got baptized, I promised to help other people.”
“You’re right,” Mom said. “That’s what we all promise.”
Annie thought some more. “People didn’t always thank Jesus for the good things He did. But that didn’t stop Him. So I won’t let it stop me either.”
“And remember that Heavenly Father is happy when we help too,” Mom said.
Annie smiled. “That’s thanks enough for me.”
When we’re baptized, we promise to comfort and help others. Who can you help?
This story took place in the USA.

Have we studied his counsel and identified the things we need to avoid or to do differently? I know a 17-year-old who, just prior to the prophet’s talk, had pierced her ears a second time. She came home from the fireside, took off the second set of earrings, and simply said to her parents, “If President Hinckley says we should only wear one set of earrings, that’s good enough for me.”

Wearing two pair of earrings may or may not have eternal consequences for this young woman, but her willingness to obey the prophet will. And if she will obey him now, on something relatively simple, how much easier it will be to follow him when greater issues are at stake.

In July 2003, a friend convinced me to participate in the Burley Spudman Triathlon—a race consisting of a 1-mile swim, 25-mile bike ride, and 6-mile run. At the time, I had been running regularly and biked occasionally but did not swim well. When I expressed concerns, I was told the swim would be easy as it would take place in the Snake River. All I needed to do was stay in the current and the river would do most of the work. Convinced, I agreed to the race and diligently trained for the bike and run. However, I did not focus on my swimming.
The day of the race arrived and after getting in the water, I worked my way to the edge to be out of the way of the stronger swimmers. Unfortunately, I also managed to move myself out of the strongest current and I did not realize this until well into the race. Because I had not prepared myself for swimming, it was more difficult than expected, and I became exhausted to the point I feared drowning. Eventually—and thankfully—I was able to finish the swim leg of the race.
What would have made the difference for me in this experience? Being “all in” the strongest current would have helped. Also, had I been all in with my preparation before the race ever started, my success would not have been dependent on the current alone. On several levels, I was not all in.
In the frantic moments of my swim that day in 2003, one of the pervading thoughts that kept me going was that my mother had come to cheer me on, and she was waiting to encourage me where the swim leg ended. Knowing she was expecting me to emerge from that river was a strong motivator that was almost as powerful as my desire not to die. Though I was one of the last ones out of the water, she never indicated disappointment or judgment—only love, support, and encouragement.

“I’m going to enter Henry in the pet show tomorrow, Mom. I know he’ll win a prize. He’s the fattest dog on our block!” Then I began to wonder, and asked, “They do give a prize for the fattest dog, don’t they?”
“I don’t know, honey, but you’d better give him a bath before you take him anywhere. Or he’ll get a prize for being the smelliest dog.”
“Yeah, if I bathe him maybe he’ll get a prize for being the cleanest dog too!”
That afternoon as I began filling the plastic wading pool in the backyard with water from the hose, I couldn’t resist a couple of well-aimed shots at Henry. I guess that made him a little suspicious of what was about to happen, but he stood firm anyhow, eyeing me as I poured half a bottle of Mother’s Rose Bouquet bubble bath into the overflowing pool.
It was when I took my first step toward Henry that I realized he was not going to cooperate. “Come on, Henry,” I coaxed, the sugary tones in my voice making him all the more suspicious. “Nice doggie. No one’s going to hurt you.” I was getting closer. “Come on, boy.” Then I lunged at him but I only caught the end of Henry’s tail under my nose. He thought it was great fun and proceeded to lead a merry chase around the yard. On about the tenth lap, Henry cut across the porch and skirted past the pool. In hot pursuit, I clambered over the porch and was almost past the pool when I tripped over the hose and fell sideways into the “ocean” of perfumed bubbles.
I wasn’t fond of taking baths either, and I knew that I’d have to take another bath myself to get the smell of roses off me. Henry’s eyes seemed to twinkle with delight at having bathed his bather. But I was determined to get him to the pet show. So I outsmarted him!
I stepped out of the pool and fell to the ground. I didn’t move a muscle. Henry made a funny noise and slowly edged forward to investigate. He sniffed my shoes first, then my arms. When his cold nose touched my chin, I grabbed him! I held on tightly and both of us went into the bubbles this time. After we thrashed around in the suds for a couple of minutes, Henry was the first one out. He cowered near the fence and shimmied fiercely in an attempt to get as dry as possible. Then I rubbed him down with a towel. Just when I thought he was almost dry he shook himself again, and a fresh spray of water convinced me that he wasn’t.
Finally I brushed his coat, clipped his toenails, and cleaned his ears. He looked like a champ! I was so proud of him I could hardly wait until the next day to win the prize for having such a neat dog.
Dad drove Henry and me to the parking lot where the show was already in progress. Henry’s number was 103.1 guess I never realized how many other pets there were besides dogs. Birds, cats, monkeys, lizards, hamsters, rats, snakes, turtles, and even a baby alligator were there.
The dogs barked at each other, while the murmur of voices added to the confusion. Once in a while a loud voice shouted instructions over the noise, and the next contestants lined up in front of the judges with much jostling and commotion.
“We will now have the competition for the biggest animal here today. Please bring the big animals to the front,” the voice directed.
Henry was fat but not very big compared to the greyhounds, Great Danes, and German shepherds that were in the font row of the parking lot. A two-hundred-pound St. Bernard won in the large animal category. But there were lots more contests yet.
“OK, folks, now for the smallest animal here. Make room for the little fellows.”
Well, with hamsters and white mice in the competition, Henry didn’t have a chance, so we stayed to the rear again. Then they had the best-trained dog contest where the dog had to lead or walk beside its master and stop when its owner did. Henry didn’t qualify for that either.
Several events went by, and finally a voice announced the contest I hoped we’d win—the cutest dog competition. Well, Henry and I marched right up to the front row. My heart was beating fast as my excitement grew, but the judge handed the announcer a piece of paper with Number 26 written on it. I felt a little disappointed after the announcement, but we still had a chance for some of the other prizes.
A prize was given for the dog that did the best trick and the dog with the longest hair. Finally the last competition was announced—the best-groomed animal.
Well, I can’t believe my ears, I thought. They really do give a prize for the cleanest animal!
“OK, Henry, let’s go get ‘em,” I said triumphantly.
A cloud passed over the sun for a few seconds as we approached the front line. I decided to try standing a little farther away from the judge so his eyes might see Henry better as he went down the line. But after he had seen all the pets, he walked over to the announcer who said, “The winner is Minnie, a baby alligator. Her owner says she takes several baths a day.
Everyone cheered except me. I didn’t feel like being happy at all.
Henry and I headed for the car as the announcer gave away dog food and collars for prizes. Dad didn’t say anything on the way home. I think he knew how miserable I felt.
When he stopped the car in the driveway, I took Henry to the backyard. He scampered back and forth in an attempt to get a friendly game of chase started. I didn’t feel much like running, so I filled his water dish and trudged up the back steps.
As I opened the back door, I heard Mom rattling dishes in the kitchen sink.
“How did the pet show go?” she chirped. Mom always sounds happy. “Did you and Henry get a prize?”
I conjured up a smile and said, “Well, I think that those guys are nearsighted. I hope next year they get some judges who can see better.” My smile was wiggling into a frown, and I knew I better hurry to my room. I started down the hall when Mom called, “There’s something for you here on the table.”
I turned back and there was a colored ribbon with a medal that looked a lot like one of Dad’s old army medals and a card that said, “First prize to Henry for being the best dog in the world!” Beside it was a can of dog food for the winner and a cupcake for me.
It took me a minute to realize that what Mom had always tried to tell me was true. It doesn’t matter if other people can’t see the value in the same things you care about as long as you care and have deep feelings for something.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said. Then I bolted out the back door yelling, “Henry! We won! We won!” and he ran over to me. When we tired of playing chase, I dropped down, gave Henry a hug, and placed the winning ribbon around his neck.

I had an experience on my mission that reminded me of the importance of regular repentance. Toward the end of my mission, a member of the Quorum of the Seventy went to Hawaii, where I was serving. Although his primary purpose in going to Hawaii was not related to our Mission, he took a few hours one afternoon to teach a small group of missionaries. I was fortunate to be able to attend that meeting. He taught many things, but one principle stood out to me.

He made a comment that day that had an immediate impact on my understanding of my need for repentance. I remember him saying something like, "The greatest blessings I have received in my life are in proportion to the extent to which I have repented of my sins." When he said this, I was immediately humbled by the realization that I had spent close to two years teaching repentance without regularly analyzing my own life for those things that I needed to repent of. Perhaps I justified repenting less on my mission because, in many respects, I probably was more righteous during this time than I had ever been before my mission. I could have rationalized that I had less to repent of. However, I realized that day that if a general authority taught the principle of repentance by describing the importance of repentance in his life, I needed to reevaluate the application of repentance in my own life.

As I analyzed my life and began to repent of the seemingly small things I needed to repent of, I saw immediate miracles in my missionary service. At the time, I was serving in the mission office which made proselyting difficult. We did not have many opportunities to teach, but no sooner did I begin to apply repentance again in my life than a mother, who had committed to turn her life around, called and asked that we teach her unbaptized children. We also had an elementary school teacher, who was not a member of our Church, come to our office and asked that we spend an hour teaching his class the history of our Church. Unfortunately my mission ended shortly after I learned this powerful personal lesson on repentance.

I begin with a story from H. David Burton, former presiding bishop of the Church.1 Like me, Bishop Burton served a mission in Australia. Through a unique set of circumstances, he had the opportunity to play golf with the legendary Arnold Palmer in an event in Melbourne near the completion of his mission. Bishop Burton expressed how nervous he was, given both the level – and legend – of his playing partner, let alone the fact that he’d not swung a golf club in the two years he’d been on his mission.
He joked that he hit his drive, then his second and third shots before arriving at Mr. Palmer’s ball for him to take his second shot. (I feel the same when I play with Brother Bliss over here – or most anyone else for that matter!) Bishop Burton described the “conversation between …. Palmer and [the] young caddie he was using for the first time. The young caddie, while handing Mr. Palmer his club, told him the distance to the flag was 165 yards, there was an unseen stream on the left, [with] … long and treacherous rough on the right. In a very kind, but firm way, Mr. Palmer reminded the young man that the only information he required was the distance to the hole. He further suggested he didn’t want to lose focus by worrying about what was on the right or left.” In my words, Arnold Palmer wanted to keep his eyes on the flag, which marked the hole, or destination, he was aiming for.

I’m a new member of the Church, and I honestly know that my journal was one of the factors that helped me finally take the challenging step of baptism.
Joining the Church was very difficult for me. It was the hardest thing I have ever done. I’m the kind of person who has to be 100 percent sure about decisions. I always fully investigate a situation before I make a decision.
I first heard the gospel while I was in Quebec City, Canada, on a French language study program. I was placed with a French-speaking family together with two beautiful Latter-day Saint girls. At the time I was quite upset about the situation, for I was a very active Catholic and had been warned against Latter-day Saints. Being brought up the way I was, I was also taught to make the best of every situation and to try to accept everyone. So I did just that, and before I knew it I was investigating the Church. The two girls knew that the Spirit was working in me, and they strongly urged me to write down my feelings no matter how crazy they were or whether they were contrary to what I believed. At the time I didn’t understand why, but I did so because I admired and trusted them. I found myself eagerly writing:
I took the first discussion today. I don’t know what came over me. The things the missionaries told me I know are not what I’ve believed for 18 years of my life, but somehow I felt myself believing them. I was excited about the things they told me. I felt strange all over while they were talking. At times I felt shivers up my spine. Dear Lord, something is happening to me, and I can’t understand what it is—HELP!
The Lord did help, and the further along we got in the discussions the more I knew that the gospel was true. I felt I should have been rejecting what I was being taught, but deep down inside I knew of its truth and I kept writing those inner feelings down on paper. Before I knew it, I had a testimony of the Church. I was so excited, I phoned home and told my parents that I was getting baptized. They pleaded with me to wait until I came home. So reluctantly I did. That night I wept bitterly because of my disappointment, and I wrote in my journal:
I feel so sad and depressed. I’ve prayed so hard about my decision. I know in my heart the gospel is true. I know Joseph Smith was a prophet and that we have a living prophet today. I believe in everything that I’ve been taught, and with my whole heart I desperately want to be baptized. I know my soul won’t be at rest until I am. I know I’m being called, and I won’t be completely happy until I take that step.
I was sincere when I wrote that, and I feel God was inspiring me for the future. I did want to be baptized, but when I got home my parents thought I had been forcefully indoctrinated by the Latter-day Saints and they did everything in their power to dissuade me. The awful thing about it was that I let them. I lost contact with all my LDS friends, and I let my testimony die. At one point in my life, I had wanted nothing to do with the Latter-day Saints, and I no longer believed in the doctrine. But that still, small voice in me kept telling me to write in my journal. On one occasion I wrote:
I feel empty, I don’t feel complete, there is something missing. Why do I feel like I’m searching for something to grab on to? I’m lost; I desperately need direction. My testimony has been shattered. I feel I should hold on to my Catholic beliefs, but I don’t know what to do.
Well, even though it wasn’t a complete prayer, the Lord heard my plea. My friend from Quebec phoned to see how things were going. I tried to hide my feelings, but she realized what was wrong. She pleaded with me to go to church. I finally told her I no longer believed and wanted nothing to do with the Church. She penetrated that defense also. She told me she knew I had a testimony; it just needed to be revived. She told me that she loved me so much and wanted so badly for me to do the things that were right. We talked a little longer, and the last thing she told me was to go back to my journal and read what I had written. Well, that night I turned to my journal and read what I had written. Something came over me. I felt such a strong urge to pray. As I prayed and read, I felt that sweet, reassuring comfort of the Spirit. The Lord knew that I so very badly wanted to believe but that there were many obstacles in my way.
The next day I went to church contrary to my parents liking. I was so very scared, but right away some girls in the ward recognized that I was new and welcomed me. After many sleepless nights and long discussions, I was finally baptized. What really helped me when I needed it most was my journal. I said to myself, “I must have felt these things or I wouldn’t have written them.” Even at the time when I didn’t believe, I knew the Lord prompted me to write the things which I felt at the time. My journal saved me. It was a way the Lord was communicating with me, and it was something I knew I had to trust because it was coming from within.
I’m so very grateful for the counsel of the Church and for advising us to keep a record of our experiences. I have a testimony of its importance, and I have been blessed with peace and strength from doing so. I can measure my progress and growth and see how the Lord has been working in my life just by listening to that small voice inside me. I know the Church is true and when I doubt, I have a firsthand source I can turn to, to reassure me of its truthfulness.

Perhaps an oft-repeated scene will bring closer to home your personal opportunity to reach out to rescue. Let us look in on a family with a son named Jack. Throughout Jack’s early life, he and his father had many serious arguments. One day when he was 17, they had a particularly agitated one. Jack said to his father, “This is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. I’m leaving home, and I will never return!” He went to his room and packed a bag. His mother begged him to stay, but he was too angry to listen. He left her crying in the doorway.

Leaving the yard, he was about to pass through the gate when he heard his father call to him, “Jack, I know that a large share of the blame for your leaving rests with me. For this I am truly sorry. I want you to know that if you should ever wish to return home, you’ll always be welcome. And I’ll try to be a better father to you. I want you to know that I love you, and I’ll always love you.”

Jack said nothing but went to the bus station and bought a ticket to a distant point. As he sat in the bus watching the miles go by, his thoughts turned to the words of his father. He began to realize how much courage, how much love had been required for his father to say what he had said. Dad had apologized. He had invited him back and had left the words ringing in the summer air, “I love you.”

Jack knew that the next move was up to him. He realized the only way he could ever find peace with himself was to demonstrate to his father the same kind of maturity, goodness, and love that Dad had shown toward him. Jack got off the bus. He bought a return ticket and began the journey home.

He arrived shortly after midnight, entered the house, and turned on the light. There in the rocking chair sat his father, his head bowed. As he looked up and saw Jack, he arose from the chair; they rushed into each other’s arms. Jack later said, “Those last years that I was home were among the happiest of my life.”

Here was a father who, suppressing passion and bridling pride, reached out to rescue his son before he became one of that vast “lost battalion” resulting from fractured families and shattered homes. Love was the binding band, the healing balm; love so often felt, so seldom expressed.

A few months ago I got stuck in the elevator of my apartment building without my mom or brother. I was very afraid. The man who cleans the building found me and helped me get back to my mom. Later, Mom told me that while I was lost she said a prayer to Heavenly Father asking that I would get back safely to her. I am still nervous when I get in the elevator, but I’m more careful, and I know I can ask Heavenly Father for help.

The summer sun beat hot against my back, and beads of sweat ran down my forehead. I wedged a pole among the roots of the tree stump and was going to push on the end, when my mother called.
“Todd? Your father’s home!”
I dropped the pole and ran across the soft brown field toward the house. Ducking beneath a line of flapping sheets, I rounded the house and stopped short of crashing into our wagon.
“Here, son,” my father said with a smile. “Take this sack of flour and give it to your mother.”
As soon as we unloaded the wagon, I put the horse in the pasture and returned to the house. Father was giving Mother a bundle.
“Twenty yards of unbleached muslin,” he said as he handed her the paper-wrapped package.
She smiled. “Thank you, James!” she said happily. Then she undid the string and removed the paper. “You can add the string to the ball,” she said, handing it to me. “Then you can have the paper for your schoolwork.”
I wound on the piece of string, then sat and watched as the rest of the provisions were put away. At the very last, Father reached into his pocket and pulled out a stick of cinnamon candy. He rumpled my hair then handed it to me. My mouth watered and I was about to break off a piece when Mother reminded me she had cold meat and apple dumplings for lunch. At the table we bowed our heads while Father offered the blessing. As we ate, I listened to them talk.
“Ed Beesley was in town, Ellen,” Father said. “He offered me fourteen dollars an acre for our land.”
Surprised, I looked from Father, who sat eating contentedly, to Mother, who looked like she was about to explode.
“And what was your answer?” she asked in an uneven tone.
“Well,” Father replied as he slowly took another piece of meat, “that would be a total of seven thousand dollars.”
Mother’s eyes began to widen as she waited to hear the rest of the story. My father, however, took his time in the telling. “You could have almost anything you’d want … with plenty left over,” Father added.
“James Putnam!” my mother scolded. “Will you please get to the point?”
Father looked up and his eyes danced with mischief. “I told him no,” he replied simply.
Mother’s face turned into a bright smile as she went to his side. She kissed him, and they both laughed. “James Putnam, sometimes I just don’t know what you’re thinking.”
I smiled and poured milk over my dumplings.
Father carried the ax as we returned to the tree stump. “So you got all the digging done,” he said, smiling. “Good! But tell me, son, did you practice your writing today?”
“Yes, sir,” I nodded. “But I do hate it, Father.”
“You hate it!” he laughed. “You like printing. Why do you hate writing?”
I kicked at a clump of sod and shrugged. “My eye knows how it should look, but my hand does it all wrong.”
Father laughed again and lowered the ax to the ground. He took off his shirt and looked at the stump. “You mean your hand isn’t disciplined yet. Keep at it, Todd. Practice is good discipline.” He knelt beside the stump and felt around the roots. “You did do a lot of digging, but there are still some big roots down there. I’ll chop them loose then we’ll be able to get this stump out of here.”
He reached for the ax and I knelt beside him, watching. When the roots were chopped, he knelt beside me, resting.
“It’s a lot of work, isn’t it, son?” he puffed with a smile.
“Do you think you’d ever sell, Father?” I asked. “I mean, you wouldn’t have to work so hard.”
He was quiet for a minute, then he smiled. “Money comes and goes, but the land is forever. No, Todd, I’d never sell it. It will be our legacy to you.”
“What’s a legacy?”
“A legacy is something precious that you leave to someone you love. What you decide to do with it will be up to you. But people see things differently. Ed Beesley sees land as something you parcel off and sell. But land’s a funny thing, Todd, even when you have a deed, it’s not really yours. You’ve just paid for the right to use it.” He picked up a handful of soil. “Smell that promise of all green and growing things, Todd. It’s a lasting responsibility, and long after we’re gone, the land will still be right here for others to use. While I use it, I mean to treat it kindly, and with discipline, just as God intended.”
“What do you think God intended?” I asked quietly.
“I think He wants us to dig out dead stumps … and grow things. You see, when we treat the land with discipline, it treats us kindly. We leave a stand of forest for the deer and rabbits that live in our meadow. If we had no meadow, Mother wouldn’t be able to make rabbit stew. If we grew no crops, we’d have little or nothing to eat. If we didn’t clear stumps and rocks or didn’t plant seeds, no crops would come up and we’d have no one to blame but ourselves. So we discipline ourselves to hard work, Todd, just as you can discipline your hand to write properly. Then as time goes by, you will see the benefits of your effort.” Father got up. “We’ve rested long enough,” he said, “now let’s see if we can move that old stump and make way for growing things.”
He put his back to the pole while I gripped mine with both hands. Slowly we pried, then eased up. Then we pried again and pushed with all our might. With a groan the stump inched upward as the ground yielded its hold. My father laughed as streams of sweat ran down his face. And soon the stump lay upside down on the ground. He clamped a hand on my shoulder and shouted, “We did it, son! We did it!”
“Hello!” Mother called as she came across the field. “I’ve brought a cool drink of water.”
She ladled a cup for me, then she and Father went off to sit beneath the shade of a tree. I stayed to break clumps of dirt from the bottom of the stump. Then I dug my fingers into the damp brown earth and let it trickle through my fingers. It formed a soft mound of earth that I smoothed flat with my hand. Carefully I wrote my name with a stick. The lines were scraggly and uneven. But with practice … yes, I knew I could write better.
I scratched out my name and looked out over the fields. Long green lines marked our rows where parsnips and corn and carrots and beets were reaching up through the ground. Here and there a tree stump or a rock poked through the soil. It will take years to clear them, I thought. Then I smiled to myself. It’ll be a big job, but the land will be mine. And I’ll be proud to continue my parents’ work.

I would like to pay tribute to my angel mother, who for many years prayed that a husband would become active, that he would recognize his sonship to God, and that he would accept the priesthood. As a little boy, I walked through those many years with my mother’s sustaining hand at church, finally seeing my father receive a testimony by the power of the Holy Ghost. I honor him tonight, and I love him and respect him. He has been my friend, for he has taken me into his confidence. He has taught me how to work, and how to love, and how not to be judgmental. I am grateful for my father and my mother.

After learning about the new Fulfilling My Duty to God booklet in a fireside last year, Aleks Miller—deacons quorum president of a ward in the Vancouver British Columbia Stake—was eager to get started. He and his father set up a schedule to meet each Sunday to work on a section of the booklet together.
“My dad and I, every week, sit down and look through a section of the book,” says Aleks. “We start with a prayer, and then we learn the stuff and read the scriptures. We answer the questions in the section and then write down how we can implement what we’ve learned.” Aleks often shares with his mother what he and his father are working on. “I talked with my mom about the sacrament and the meaning of the sacrament prayers and wrote down some ideas about how I, as a deacon, could help make the sacrament more meaningful for her.”
After only a few weeks of these Duty-to-God-with-Dad meetings, Aleks noticed it was making a difference in his life. “It makes me feel really good,” he says. Sitting down with his father is not always the first thing Aleks wants to do on a Sunday afternoon, “but once we start learning and reading together, I’m a lot happier and I feel better about doing it.”
Aleks has set new goals and is gaining a greater understanding of the gospel as he studies and learns with his father. “One of the sections in Fulfilling My Duty to God suggested we study five topics in For the Strength of Youth and then write down a goal for each one so that you can do better,” explains Aleks. “I chose honesty. So one of my goals was to let my parents know when I do something wrong instead of just keeping it to myself.”
Another topic Aleks chose was education. “My goal was to go an entire month in school with no messing around in class and finishing all my work so I wouldn’t have any homework. It’s going pretty well, and now I have a lot of extra time.”
Now Aleks is encouraging all the deacons in his quorum to work on fulfilling their duty to God. And he offers the same advice to any other young men who are thinking about opening their booklets and getting down to work: “Just do it,” he says. “If you can’t seem to get started on your own, do it like I do and ask your dad to do it with you.”