Gospel Story Finder

Nikki SpainhowerNorth Ogden, Utah
At school I was so quiet and I had a hard time making conversation. So I prayed for the strength and courage to talk to people. In seminary I had an awesome teacher who helped me open up. I loved being able to share my thoughts and feelings. He also helped me realize that I am not alone. If I ever need help, or if I feel like I am alone, I pray. I know my Father in Heaven is always there and will always love me.

He blames it on a short attention span, but it’s more likely the spirit of missionary service that doesn’t allow Brandon Fields to sit still. He’s always wanted to go on a mission, but just wanting to go wasn’t enough. He needed to prepare. When he was 16, the constant urgings of full-time missionaries and a talk he had to give on missionary service in sacrament meeting prompted this Seattle, Washington, priest to do some thinking.
Brandon thought, You know, I should probably start praying for missionary experiences, because that’s what I’m going to be doing for two years, so why not start now? He hasn’t sat still since. And his prayers for missionary experiences have definitely been answered. Between visiting the less-active families in his ward, going team teaching with the missionaries, attending school, and working, it’s a wonder this first assistant to the bishop even has time to breathe. He says he’s able to fit it all in because he just never stops moving.
Brandon’s momentum started to build when he and his best friend, Steve Wells, started to go teaching with the missionaries in their area. “We volunteered a couple of times, and it turned out we were the only priests who could go. So it was us for five months.” Now that he’s only six months away from his mission, Brandon is still helping the missionaries, but he does get a break every once in a while, since there are now a few more priests to help out. Steve is now on a full-time mission in the Philippines.

I walked into the house, exhausted. It had been a long day, and I was starving. I sat at the table while my mom made dinner, telling her everything I had done that day. All of a sudden my little sister, Cherri, was at my side. She twisted her hands together nervously and didn’t quite look at me.
“What happened?” I asked, not feeling very sympathetic.
“You know your pearl necklace?” she replied in a small voice. “Well, I was playing with it, and it broke.”
A million thoughts raced through my head. How many times had I told her not to play in my room or with my things? The necklace was hardly important, but that was beside the point. She had ignored my warnings one too many times.
Somehow I managed to bite my tongue, and an exasperated sigh escaped my lips. “Come on, show me where it is,” I said.
She took my hand and led me to my room. Pearls littered the floor, which wasn’t exactly clean to begin with.
“What have I told you about playing in my room, Cherri?”
“Not to,” she mumbled.
“Okay, then, why did you?” I pressed.
She just shrugged her little shoulders and looked at the floor. “I’m really sorry,” she said.
“Help me clean them up, and don’t play in here again,” I said. She did so and left the room, and I put the incident behind me.
The next day, I came home to an ecstatic Cherri. She grabbed my hand, jumping up and down. “I have something for you!” she said. “Sit here on the couch and I’ll be right back.”
She raced downstairs and returned a few minutes later cradling something in her hands. “Here, I made it for you all by myself,” she said proudly. “Mom didn’t even help me at all!”
She held out her little arms so I could see what she had made. Laying in her hands was a scrap of frayed black ribbon strung with meticulously arranged yellow and white plastic beads.
“It’s a necklace!” she said, jumping up and down again. “I made it for you because I broke your other one. Do you like it?”
I smiled. The necklace was a bit tacky, and yet it was beautiful. “Yes, Cherri, I love it.” I put it on and wore it the rest of the day to show my appreciation. I was so glad that I hadn’t yelled at my sister in anger and made her feel like I didn’t love her.
I kept her little token of restitution in my drawer, a constant reminder that a pearl necklace could never be as special or beautiful as my frayed black ribbon with yellow and white plastic beads from a precious younger sister.

The influence of Heber’s mother, Rachel Ridgeway Ivins Grant, was equally as powerful. Rachel’s wealthy family in the eastern United States offered her a large income if she would renounce the gospel of Jesus Christ. But she refused and stood by her testimony. After the death of her husband, the young widow, who had been left penniless, worked sewing clothing and taking in boarders in order to provide for her son.
She taught Heber the value of hard work, and together they eked out a meager existence. In the process, Rachel and Heber grew very close. He was later to say of her: “I stand here today as one whose mother was all to him. She was both father and mother to me; she set an example of integrity, of devotion and love, of determination, and honor second to none. I stand here today as the president of the Church because I have followed the advice and counsel and the burning testimony of the divinity of the work of God, which came to me from my mother.”4

A short time after that reunion, young Bruford Reynolds, a son, who was also a bishop, called and said, “Did you know my dad is in the hospital? He had a serious heart attack. He is in the LDS Hospital, and we wondered if you knew.” I had not known. I told him that I would like to see him but I had to catch a plane in a little over an hour. I didn’t see how I could get up to the hospital before I had to leave. He then said, “Oh, that’s okay. Dad is going to be released tomorrow to return home.”
I said, “Tell him I love him, and I’ll drop in to see him as soon as I get back.”
I hung up the phone, thought for only a moment, and decided everything else could wait. I took my briefcase, airplane tickets, and drove to the LDS Hospital to see Bruford Reynolds. As I walked through the door, our eyes met. The love between a great man and boy spanned the years. I went over to him and sat down, and we talked. Then I said, “I know you have been administered to, but would you feel all right if I knelt by your bed and offered a prayer?” I knelt down and together we prayed. When I finished, my eyes were filled with tears, as were his. Then I bent down over him and kissed him on the forehead and left.
Bruford Reynolds died an hour later. I was one of his boys, saying “farewell” to a great adviser one last time.

A few years ago I had the privilege of going up to Fort Lewis as an honored guest. Some boys from Utah and Idaho were up there, and they asked me if I would go up and play soldier with them. I am sure I got treatment that very few people get. I had a private home with a houseboy. They saw that I was fed well and dressed properly. And yet I joined in with the boys and went through the gas chamber. I laid on my stomach and fired a machine gun. I had pistol practice. I pulled the lanyard on a cannon and watched the missile go to its destruction. I saw the airplanes drop napalm bombs to cause fires and destruction. My most thrilling experience was on the day of the dress parade. The boys came by saluting me as the honored guest. My, what handsome, what noble young men. They pulled at my heartstrings as I saw them—immaculate in their dress, perfect in their deportment—honor their uniform and this great country. It’s a thrilling thing, my brothers and sisters, the strength that lies in the youth of this nation. That’s why I say tonight I am honored to be in your presence.

Let me begin with a contrived story. A woman stern of face entered a Saint Petersburg museum. (Let the record show that I did not say Leningrad; recently the name has been changed back to the original because reality has changed.) She spent less than five minutes walking past masterworks that had been produced over centuries. Then, with a “Harrumph!” she headed for the exit. A guard said to her quietly, “Madam, the paintings are not on trial. You are.”

In one ward, mothers introduce their daughters to Relief Society in a Sunday meeting when they turn 18. One mother tenderly expressed how her Relief Society sisters had nurtured her from her early marriage: “They have brought meals and hugs in time of sorrow, laughter, and support for celebration. They have taught me the gospel by visiting me and letting me visit them. They have allowed me to make mistakes on their time.” This mother then explained to her daughter how the daisies in their garden came from Carolyn, the lilies from Venice, the buttercups from Pauline. The daughter was amazed. Her mother replied, “These women are my sisters in every way, and I am grateful to bring you into their care.”

After coming home from work one evening, I saw two young men at my door. They announced themselves to be missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I shouted at them loudly, then took one of them by the back of the neck and ordered them off my property with the threat, “And don’t let me see you in this neighborhood again, or I’ll make you sorry you ever came here!” They left my property quickly.

The incident, typical of many of my days, was soon forgotten. The following week, as my wife and I were about to sit down for our evening meal, the doorbell rang. I answered it, and much to my surprise, there stood the same two young men I had ordered off the property a week ago! Before I had a chance to say a thing, one of them looked me straight in the eye and said very sincerely, “I know you don’t want to hear what we have to say, but we have a very important message for you from our Savior, Jesus Christ. He wants you to hear it.”

The confident, yet humble tone in his voice took me by surprise, and I listened. Then they listened as I expressed my anger and bitterness. They seemed to understand. They talked to me about “free agency.” My heart responded. And thus began my search for truth.

I was eager for each weekly visit. My soul hungered for the answers to the questions Who am I? Where did I come from? Why am I here? And after death, what? The missionaries helped open the eyes of my understanding through the scriptures. My longing, aching heart began to heal.

They explained my unanswered questions. I came to understand that although my little boys had died so early in life, they had had the privilege of earth life and had chosen to come here. They were not victims of a revengeful God who mercilessly let them drown, but were party to a great plan long before they became my David and my Boyd. This life was merely a step forward in their eternal progression. The magnitude of this idea made a great impact upon me.

Today tears still fill in my eyes when I think of my boys. But they are not tears of anger or hate. They are tears of love and understanding. This new knowledge of the plan of salvation has transformed my life, and I have joined the ranks of the believers.

Marla rolled onto her back and looked through the stretching pine branches above her at the feathery clouds. She breathed deeply of the mountain air and tried to capture the sights, the sounds, and the smells all at the same time.
“Come on, Marla,” her father called as he began pulling tent stakes out of the ground. “Time to pack up.”
“How come camping trips never last long enough?” his daughter asked.
“I’ve always wondered that myself,” Dad replied, “but they do end and I need your help.”
“Just five more minutes?” Marla pleaded. “I want to be able to remember it all winter long.”
Dad stopped his packing and looked up to where Marla stared. “You should soon be helping your mother with the dishes,” he reminded her.
“Please,” Marla asked again.
“Well, all right, if I may join you for a minute.”
“Sure,” Marla agreed and scooted to one side of the blanket to make room.
“What do you see up there?” her father asked as he lay down beside her.
“Pine trees with stickly green needles, a blue sky with white feathers, and singing birds swooping through it all,” Marla answered, sighing.
“It’s a miracle,” Dad said.
“What do you mean?” Marla looked at her father.
“Well, look around us. It’s all part of a big plan. Everything functions separately, yet works together to make a whole big universe.”
Marla thought about that as she watched clouds floating like ships in the blue sky. Finally she spoke, “Yes, I guess it is a kind of miracle. A great miracle, really. But it all happens so quietly around us that we usually forget how miraculous the plan is.”
Marla felt as though her mind would burst with so many beautiful thoughts and sights and sounds being experienced at once.
“What do you think the greatest miracle in the world is?” Dad asked.
“That’s easy,” Marla answered, “the sky. Look how it goes on and on forever, always changing. Today it’s blue, but some days it’s white or gray. Snow and rain fall from it and at night the stars are suspended in it.”
“But is it Heavenly Father’s greatest miracle?” Dad asked.
Marla thought for a minute. “I don’t know.”
“Well, our five minutes are up. You think about it while we pack, and when you have an answer, let’s talk about it again.”
“All right,” Marla agreed, helping Dad fold the blankets.
Soon they were back home and settled, but Marla didn’t forget what she and Dad had talked about on their camping trip. As she walked to and from school each day she watched for miracles. Everything seemed like a miracle. Even cars and airplanes were man-made miracles. But she couldn’t decide what the greatest miracle was.
Then one day she noticed that the leaves were changing colors on the trees. She was so excited that she could hardly wait to tell Dad. Hurriedly she ran the rest of the way home.
“Mother! Mother! I know what the greatest miracle is,” she cried, rushing into the kitchen. “Where’s Dad? I want to see if I’ve guessed right.”
“He’s in the backyard,” Mother answered.
Marla dropped her books down on the table. “I’ve been looking for three weeks, but now I’ve got it, and I’m going to tell Dad.”
“Calm down,” Mother cautioned, “or he won’t be able to understand a word you say!”
“I know what the greatest miracle is,” Marla declared without even waiting for Dad to say hello. “It’s the seasons, isn’t it—the way the leaves change colors and then the snows and then the way everything comes to life again? That’s the greatest miracle.”
Dad smiled. “That is a great miracle, probably one of the greater miracles, but I don’t think it’s the greatest,” he said.
“But there are so many miracles!” Marla protested.
Dad gave Marla a hug. “I’m proud of you for still thinking about miracles. You keep looking and you’ll find the right answer,” he assured her.
Now Marla was more determined than ever. She was curious to know what could possibly be a greater miracle than the sky or the seasons. So the next Saturday she looked extra hard.
“Don’t bother me, Snowy,” she said to her cat as it brushed her legs for attention. “I’m looking for a great miracle.” But as she spoke, she noticed that Snowy wasn’t trying to play. The cat darted across the patio and into the window well so Marla followed her. “Oh, my goodness, Snowy!” she exclaimed, dropping to her knees to look more closely at what she saw. “You have some brand new kittens! They must have been born last night.”
Marla watched with a quiet kind of excitement as Snowy licked and fed her kittens.
“Five little kittens and all of them just like you,” Marla whispered as one furry ball tried to open its eyes.
Just then Dad came out of the house. “Look!” Marla whispered. “I know this must be it.”
Dad leaned over the window well and peered in, smiling.
“Birth,” he said, “is part of the miracle. But there’s another very important part.”
“But what can be more miraculous than new life? I remember when little Jason was born. One day we didn’t have a Jason and the next day we did. That has to be the miracle.”
“It is, it really is,” Dad said. “But the other part of the miracle is even greater. And you are getting very, very close to it.”
“Close enough to be warm?” Marla asked.
“Close enough to be hot!” Dad answered, smiling.
Marla’s face drew into a questioning frown, then suddenly eased into a wide smile. “I know!” she exclaimed. “Not only are we born but we’ll go on living forever—all of us will.”
“Yes,” Dad agreed, “but now can you guess what the rest of the miracle is?”
“I think I know,” Marla said, her eyes sparkling with wonder at her discovery of the rest of the greatest of all miracles. “We are Heavenly Father’s spirit children. Is that it?”
“That’s it!” Dad said, hugging Marla close to him. “And just as you and Jason are our earthly children, we are His heavenly ones. You once lived with Him like you do with your mother and me now, and together we can all live with Him again. That is the greatest miracle of all.”
Marla felt all warm and tingly. It had been exciting to discover what the greatest miracle is, but at the same time she had a strange feeling that she’d really known about it all along.

I had an interesting experience a few years ago. I came down to general conference from Idaho. I went to purchase some merchandise at ZCMI and to cash a check. They didn’t know me, and so they sent me up to the cashier. She asked for some identification. I reached into my wallet and took out some credit cards. Inadvertently, my temple recommend fell out. The cashier said, “I’ll accept that.”
I said, “You’ll accept what?”
She said, “Your temple recommend. It’s current, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, “it’s current.”
“That’s fine,” she said.
Well, I thought about that. You know how you get an idea, and then pretty soon the idea gets you. I thought about it all the way home. I thought, “Wouldn’t it be great if we had a Mormon credit card, and a card-carrying Mormon could be depended on to keep his word and pay his bills—a card carrying Mormon, who, as a teacher, would teach until there was understanding (that may be a tall order); a mechanic who would honestly repair automobiles; a tradesman who would be a craftsman; one who would practice integrity in every way?” Wouldn’t it be great to be a peculiar people on the basis of our honesty and not our Word of Wisdom or a former marriage practice? I think that is a stimulating challenge. I don’t know how you’d like to be known as peculiar, but that’s a peculiarity I’d like to see all over the world—that Mormons and integrity are synonymous.

With the help of our beloved mission president, President Mortensen, our branch president, Joseph Anandraj, and Elder and Sister Smith, we prepared as a family for the temple and they taught us about temple ordinances and helped our family get temple recommendations. It is the blessing of our worthiness.
Our family history consultant, Sister Elizabeth Chelladurai, helped us collect all our ancestor details and prepared us to do the temple ordinances. She also took efforts to get connected to us while we were in the Taiwan Taipei Temple.
We went to the Taiwan Taipei Temple on 26th December 2017 and we did our temple ordinances. The next day, we were sealed as a family to obtain eternal life.

Cold wind blew as Brigham Young arrived at Sugar Creek on the evening of February 15, 1846. Scattered around a snowy patch of woods, not far from an icy brook, hundreds of Saints shivered in damp coats and blankets. Many families collected around fires or underneath tents fashioned from bedsheets or wagon covers. Others huddled together in carriages or wagons for warmth.1

Right away Brigham knew he needed to organize the camp. With the help of other Church leaders, he divided the Saints into companies and called captains to lead them. He warned against taking unnecessary trips back to Nauvoo, being idle, and borrowing without permission. Men were to protect the camp constantly and monitor cleanliness, and each family was to pray together mornings and evenings.2

A good spirit soon settled over the camp. Safely out of Nauvoo, the Saints worried less about mobs or government threats to stop the exodus. In the evenings, a brass band played lively music while the men and women danced. Saints who practiced plural marriage also became less guarded and began to speak openly about the principle and how it linked their families together.3

I remember how the shrill scream of a siren gave me goose bumps whenever an ambulance went rushing by. Oh how I wanted to be at the wheel of that machine, rushing to the aid of sick and injured people. As I grew older, my dream became a reality. I took first-aid classes, human science classes, and finally, an emergency medical technician training course.
I was fresh out of high school when I got my first job as an ambulance attendant for a private ambulance, and I progressed rapidly in my knowledge of emergency treatments. I learned many things about life that most people never learn until their 20s. I was also exposed to many trials and temptations that I’d never come across before.
I worked in a non-Mormon atmosphere. It was the type of atmosphere that my church leaders always had warned me about, but at the time, I thought I wouldn’t have to worry about it. My work began conflicting with my church attendance. I started asking myself questions and often wondered about my future. I could see myself progressing into higher fields of medicine, and it seemed that nothing stood in my way. Then, on my 19th birthday, I made my way to California and applied to a hospital paramedic program. I was accepted and could enter in the fall semester. I knew then that was exactly what I wanted to do.
Suddenly it dawned on me. What about a mission. Oh sure, I always told my friends and family that I would go. I even told my employer I was planning on a mission. But all of that seemed unimportant now. All I could see was personal satisfaction, and I didn’t care what kind of spiritual development I’d surely miss. The voice of the prophet still echoed in my mind, “Every young man is to fulfill a mission.” But the thought always came back, “In two years’ time, look how far you could be as a paramedic.”
I didn’t know what to do! I knew deep down in my heart that a mission was the right thing, but I was so terribly blinded by worldly greed. The decision to go or not to go was constantly on my mind. I thought about it from the time I got up until the time I went to bed at night. Because we worked 24-hour shifts, I had lots of time to think.
One night right after I had gone to bed, I was awakened by the ring of the telephone. The highway patrol was calling for an ambulance to respond to a car-truck accident on the freeway, and soon I was at the scene of a two-car accident. A small car had run into the back of a semitrailer loaded with wooden fence posts. The badly mangled car had two occupants—a young couple that had recently been married. The husband, who was driving, had been killed instantly. His wife was critically injured. We worked desperately to save the slowly fading life of that beautiful nineteen-year-old woman. I thought to myself, How could something so terrible happen to this fine couple and totally destroy their future plans and happiness?
We rushed her to the hospital, where a team of highly trained doctors and nurses were waiting. Soon a helicopter arrived to transport her to a hospital in Salt Lake City, where she could receive special treatment for a severe head injury.
After I calmed down from the shock of such a terrible accident, I remembered talking to the highway patrolman who would be responsible for notifying the next of kin. I’ll never forget the solemn look on his face, and the glaze of tears in his eyes as he drove away. I thought to myself, What a horrible assignment! What if they were my parents being notified? Then another thought came to my mind: What will be the look on my face when I give an accounting to the Savior of the time I spent here in mortality?
The night air was chilled with a late frost. As I gazed up into the night, I noticed how clear and calm the sky looked. Tears ran freely down my cheeks, and I found myself pleading with the Lord for that young woman’s life. At that moment, when my heart actually seemed to swell painfully with love and compassion, I finally began to understand. Doctors and nurses and paramedics were wonderful, but they could only treat the body. They couldn’t heal the deeper wounds, the ones that would keep us from going home to our Father. Only one Physician could do that, and I was denying myself the chance to be his helper. I made a decision. I would do all I could to further the work of the Master Healer. I would serve a mission!
The days came and went. Finally, one month later, I learned my prayers had been answered. The young woman was released from the hospital, completely recovered. How I thanked our Eternal Father for that answer. But now came the biggest step of all, my mission.
As I prayed and prepared myself, the Spirit confirmed the fact that I was to serve my Heavenly Father in the mission field. I’ll never forget that calm, sweet feeling that came as the words fell from the lips of our stake patriarch, when he pronounced that blessing upon me. And I’ll never forget that same feeling as I opened the letter from a prophet of God, calling me to serve in the Pennsylvania Harrisburg Mission. Even as I served in Pennsylvania, as a representative of Jesus Christ, I had that special calm feeling, knowing that I had made the right choice.
Before I left for the mission field, I thought there was no feeling in the world like knowing someone was walking again because of your help, but I was wrong. There is no greater feeling in the world than knowing you helped someone in their search for true joy and happiness found in the gospel of Jesus Christ.

I recall a conversation I had with a newly married couple many years ago while serving as a bishop. One night, they had a long, heated discussion regarding the payment of tithing. The young husband had gone through a difficult week at work and wanted to save the money he had earned for some of their personal expenses. However, I remember the young wife’s words when, in front of her husband, she said, “Bishop, I’m willing to not make those expenses and even to stop eating, if necessary, but I want to pay tithing and obey the Lord.”

So resounding was that “Behold, here I am,” expressed with such great testimony by the young wife, that the husband and I felt a strong spirit during the conversation. In the end, I don’t know if it was out of his own desire or because he was persuaded by his wife, but the husband ended up paying his tithing that weekend.

The following Sunday, prior to the meetings, the young husband asked for a quick word with me. With a countenance that was different from the previous week, he told me, “Bishop, you know that last week I finally paid my tithing, and I was afraid that I wouldn’t have enough money for food, but I just wanted you to know that this week we had twice the amount of money for food we usually have. Bishop, it was a miracle, and I want to always see those miracles in my life.” To me, it was as if that young man was telling me, “Bishop, I’m willing to respond with a ‘Behold, here I am’ to whatever God asks of me.”

Following the final session of general conference, we left the Conference Center, still basking in the after glory. While on the train home, a Latter-day Saint family approached us, whose soulful beauty uniquely touched our lives.

The mother, with her children, asked if they could learn more about the Jewish head covering that I was wearing. Her 14-year-old son, named Taylor, had his interest piqued by his wonderful seminary teacher. His teacher’s name, we were told, was Brother Russell, and he appears to have taught quite well on Jewish practices.

Taylor, a truly extraordinary young man, clearly had a talent for humility and soul, and the time we spent together in discussion was remarkable. The deep light of his heart was clearly nourished by his family and by his Latter-day Saint faith in Jesus Christ. That a youth of today had such humble grace and a genuine interest in the sacred of another truly leaves me with bright hope for our future.

My daughter, Yael, was also greatly taken by the beauty of Taylor’s soul. That “the eyes are the window to the soul’’ is a favorite quote of hers, and she loved Taylor for the potential she saw he could become.

For me, the encounter with Taylor and his family was a most beautiful conclusion to the glory of general conference. Two families of God were having honoring sacred dialogue, and each of us left with more reverence and belief. This is what general conference inspires. This was, for me, a general conference after-glory moment I am grateful and humbled and blessed to have received.

In the end, to our friend and dear brother Taylor, to the friend whom we met only and sadly once, please always know that our lives were deeply enhanced by our chance encounter on the train that evening. Yael and I wish you only shalom, a Hebrew word meaning “peace and wholeness.” We wish you shalom in the broadest sense of the word, as you continue on your mission to bless our world with light.

And to you, Brother Russell, my long-lost friend and seminary teacher extraordinaire, though we have never yet met, it was wonderful getting to know you through the beauty of Taylor and his holy family. And I have an extra head covering, should you ever be in need! Thank you for teaching about my faith tradition in such an honoring and lovely way. You must have done so to inspire our young friend Taylor to inquire and seek to know more about my faith. Bless you, and shalom to you always.

It is difficult to overstate the importance parents have in teaching their children celestial traditions through word and example. Children also play an important role in establishing a Christ-centered home. Let me share with you a short talk recently given by Will, my eight-year-old grandson, that illustrates this principle:
“I like to ride horses and go roping with my dad. A rope has different strands woven together to make it strong. If a rope had only one strand, it wouldn’t be able to get the job done. But because there are more strands that work together, we are able to use it in many different ways and it is strong.
“Families can be like ropes. When only one person is working hard and doing what is right, the family will not be as strong as when everyone is putting forth the effort to help each other.
“I know that when I do what is right, I am helping my family. When I am treating my sister, Isabelle, nicely, we both have fun and it makes my mom and dad happy. If my mom needs to do something, I can help her by playing with my little brother, Joey. I also can help my family by keeping my room clean and helping out whenever I can with a good attitude. Since I am the oldest child in my family, I know being a good example is important. I can try my best to choose the right and follow the commandments.
“I know that kids can help their families be strong like a strong rope. When everyone does their best and works together, families can be happy and strong.”

One of the sweetest Christmases President Ezra Taft Benson remembered occurred in 1923, when he returned home on Christmas Eve to the family farm in Whitney, Idaho, USA, after a two-and-a-half-year mission to England. This joyful reunion with his parents and 10 brothers and sisters was also filled with enthusiasm and excitement for Christmas. As a special treat, his parents allowed him to stay up to help with Christmas preparations after the other children were in bed. As he worked alongside his parents, he quietly shared his missionary experiences. He couldn’t hold back the tears during this “choice evening” in his childhood home.3

Note from the author: I share my story as an expression of my gratitude for the Church leaders and members who welcomed me with open arms, helped me return to full activity, and have served alongside me as fellow disciples of Christ.
On July 27, 2013, after a long battle with Alzheimer’s disease, my life partner of 25 years passed away. Jay Eldredge was a world-renowned cardiologist. We had both served missions for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when we were younger but then distanced ourselves from the Church because of same-sex attraction.
Jay’s death, although not unexpected, was devastating. I felt heartbroken and lost and alone.
While driving home after making the funeral arrangements, I felt the influence of the Spirit overwhelm me so strongly that I had to pull over to the side of the road. I knew that God was speaking to me, calling me back to Him, but I was resistant. “Can’t you see that I’m suffering?” I said aloud. “I can’t face going back to church right now.”
But the more I protested, the more the Spirit pulled at me, inviting me back to church.
I was deeply worried about returning to church. I hadn’t been to a sacrament meeting in 25 years. Would they even accept me? Would I accept them? What would the bishop say? I felt anxious and unsettled and still heavy with grief.
But my testimony of the gospel had never wavered in all those years. Jay and I loved the Church and its guiding principles—namely, charity, mercy, and forgiveness. I knew that Christ was my Savior and that His Church was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I had known that since my conversion and baptism at the age of 14. I wasn’t about to deny that now.
Finally, after mustering the necessary courage, I called the Linwood Ward in New Jersey, USA, to find out what time sacrament meeting started.
As Sunday approached, the adversary put many obstacles in my path that could have easily prevented me from attending. How grateful I am that the Holy Ghost persisted.
I felt nervous as I entered the building, but the opening hymn in sacrament meeting reassured me that I was home again. The hymn “Come, Come, Ye Saints” (Hymns, no. 30) invited the Spirit so powerfully that tears flowed down my face. I knew in that instant that Heavenly Father was aware of me and the deep sadness I was feeling.
That hymn has become an unofficial anthem of sorts for the Church, but it has become my personal anthem as well.
“Come,” the hymn invites me. “Though hard to you this journey may appear, grace shall be as your day.”
My journey was hard. But grace did attend me as promised.
Bishop Darren Bird and the rest of the congregation were wonderful and welcoming. They accepted me as their brother in Christ.
The words of “Come, Come, Ye Saints” took on greater meaning to me, however, as I felt Heavenly Father directing me on how I should proceed.
We’ll find the place which God for us prepared,
Far away in the West,
Where none shall come to hurt or make afraid;
There the Saints will be blessed.
I went west and bought a home in Fountain Hills, Arizona, USA, where I met Bishop Jerry Olson. When I requested to meet with him and shook his hand, the Spirit impressed upon me that this man would help bring me back into full activity in the Church.
As I began visiting with the bishop and embarking on this reconciliation with Heavenly Father, I witnessed many spiritual miracles. I was open with the bishop, for which he was grateful. He said that helped him better understand where I had been and where I was now in my relationship with God. He also lovingly informed me that this was the first time that he had had an opportunity to minister to someone with same-sex attraction, and he asked for my patience and forgiveness if he said or did anything to offend me throughout the process.
I thanked him for his honesty and said, “Well, this is my first time as well. We’ll learn together.”
Thus began a wonderful journey and friendship!
Soon I had an action plan on how to become a member again. I accepted the loving and prayerful counsel with a grateful heart and began the process.
Illustration by Jenna Palacios
Later, as I followed that counsel and worked hard to draw closer to Christ, I received the restoration of my priesthood and temple blessings and accepted a call to serve in the elders quorum. In the holy temple, as I communed with Heavenly Father, He showed me how much He loves all His children. I felt solace and a deep desire to please Him.
Months later, a new bishop was called, with whom I have also developed a loving friendship. Bishop Larry Radford knew of my circumstance and appreciated my service in the elders quorum, where he said I had served with love and devotion not only for the quorum but also—and more importantly—for God. His kind words and encouragement helped me feel that the Lord and my fellow Saints were pleased with my service.
I now faithfully serve as the ward clerk.
Having same-sex attraction and being an active member of the Church is not always easy. But as I put all my faith and trust in God, I can feel Him strengthening me. Critics will no doubt say that I’m not being true to who I am or that I’m disappointing the LGBT+ community.
I understand their frustration, and I obviously don’t have all the answers. I can only speak of my own experience. And that experience has taught me this: I am Heavenly Father’s son, a child of God. That’s the one and only label that matters to me. As a result, I try not to allow the world’s labels to define me. I fear that will limit my potential and eternal progression.
Satan is very clever. He knows that by using labels, he can divide us as a community and as a church.
With that perspective in mind, the choices I make are not based on my same-sex attraction but on how to be a true disciple of Christ with same-sex attraction. As Nephi said:
“O Lord, I have trusted in thee, and I will trust in thee forever. I will not put my trust in the arm of flesh. …
“… I know that God will give liberally to him that asketh. Yea, my God will give me, if I ask not amiss; therefore I will lift up my voice unto thee; yea, I will cry unto thee, my God, the rock of my righteousness. Behold, my voice shall forever ascend up unto thee, my rock and mine everlasting God” (2 Nephi 4:34–35).
Throughout my return, I felt the loving companionship of my leaders and fellow Saints, including active and less-active LGBT+ members. I found a place where I could thrive. I found among them the attributes of Christ that I had always associated with my faith: mercy, compassion, understanding, and, above all, love.
As I struggled along the path with my Savior, I felt comfort and peace as I turned to Him, knowing that I wasn’t walking that path alone. Several bishops were there beside me. Members of my quorum. Sisters in the ward. I even had a young man in the ward ask me if I would ordain him a priest. His kind invitation deeply moved me. He saw me as a man who holds the priesthood of God and who can exercise that priesthood in service to others.
These opportunities to serve and worship with my fellow Saints have lifted me and—along with the many blessings I’ve received from the Lord—helped me experience the love, understanding, and acceptance that I needed.
The Savior said, “I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you” (John 14:18). Those words are true. I needed comforting, and He came to me, more abundantly than I could have imagined.

When I was a little girl we only had radio. Every Saturday morning I would jump out of bed the moment I heard the music that meant my favorite radio program, "Let's Pretend" was about to begin. My mind filled with images as I listened to the program each week. There were Princes, white horses, castles, gorgeous princesses and happily ever after. The words and sound effects helped me see it all. I'm so grateful for those innocent exciting images of my childhood. I exercised my imagination every Saturday morning and lots of other times, too.

Sometimes I feel like you have been robbed because your childhood included a TV, a computer and video images. Violent video games that are built around killing and destruction frighten me when I think what is being taught. Why are so many children acting out what they have seen?