Gospel Story Finder

President Benson had an expansive spirit, a generous faith. He was always willing to extend a hand to help another back to the Master’s fold. As a young counselor in a stake presidency, he once challenged a man who had wandered from the faith to change his life and accept a calling as elders quorum president. Years later, the man saw Elder Benson on Temple Square and thanked him. “I am now a bishop,” he said. “I used to think I was happy, but I didn’t know what real happiness was.”

Some years ago, I had a friend whom I will call Mark. I will call him that, because that is his name. As with many Idaho boys, we were avid hunters. I remember vividly starting a hunt at 3:00 AM. We started early so we could be on the mountain top prior to sunrise. We took with us the essentials: a couple of sandwiches, some water, extra clothes, and of course, the most important of all were our riffles and three boxes of bullets each. It was never possible to carry too many bullets.

As we walked up that mountain in the dark, we could feel the crisp temperature, even though we were dressed for the cold. As the sun came up, the colors of the mountainside were incredible. The reds, yellows, and oranges of the leaves on the trees were breathtaking in spite of the freezing temperature. There was a gentle breeze that would push the leaves to twist them until the strength of the leave would force itself back into place. It was if the leaves were waving to us and welcoming us on their mountain.

As we arrived a few hundred feet from the top, we knew we wanted to get to the other side of a large gorge. From there, the trees that were so very welcoming could be seen so nothing moving would go unnoticed. It was the perfect spot for hunting.

The only thing standing in our way was a shale rock slide. To best describe a shale slide, is to have you imagine your mother’s finest china. Now, take all of her largest plates and throw them in a pile on that mountain side. Some of the plates would break, but others would pile precariously on top of the broken pieces, a seemingly stable surface with danger buried beneath. It would take thousands of plates on top of each other to create that slide. You can imagine that if you walked on that, it would give way and slide downhill.

Mark and I began to cross that slide of thousands of plates of rock as flat and smooth as broken china. We had crossed slides like that many times in our years traversing the mountains in scout hikes, hunting trips, and other camping experiences. Since it was not new to us, we felt confident that we would be successful and that there would be no danger.

Let me explain what happened in my case on that shale slide.

Mark led the way with me closely behind him. When we were about halfway across the slide, something very unexpected--at least to us--happened. Something at the bottom of those layers did not hold, and the rocks below us began to move. I immediately considered that I should not have been on that slippery slope.

Mark and I both felt like we were not standing in a holy place. The leaves that previously were waving to us and welcoming us to the mountain now seemed to be mocking us and ridiculing us for being in a place that now had become very dangerous.

The rocks were moving, taking a helpless Mark and me with them. Within just a few seconds, Mark and I had slid about 40 feet down the slope of the mountain. As I reached with both hands for security that did not exist, and as my feet teetered on loose rocks, I realized that we were very close to the edge of a several hundred feet cliff, an edge from which there would be no return.

While on that slide looking down at that deep canyon, Mark and I uttered silent prayers of deliverance. We knew we had pushed limits that were not meant to be pushed, and we knew that now we were in deep need of our Heavenly Father’s help. We knew we had put ourselves in a situation that was not where we needed to be or where Heavenly Father wanted us.

Mark and I looked around and realized we were about half way across the slide. Turning around did not seem wise, because we were afraid that we would disturb too many of the rocks. Moving forward was the only recourse to our poor decision. We knew we had pushed the limits of crossing shale slides one too many times, but we could not take that choice back.

We ever so slowly began to inch ourselves across the remaining slide. During that time, we forgot our purpose of being on that mountain. We forgot how beautiful it all was. We now were only concerned with getting to a safe location and overcoming our poor decision.

Fortunately, the slide did not move any farther. We were able to get to firm ground on the other side. We sat down and offered prayers of thanksgiving and gratitude. Even though the air was still crisp and cold, we both were perspiring and breathing heavily, because we knew what the price of our decision could easily have been.

After Mark and I had sat for a while, we realized we were no longer in danger. But now what? After what we had experienced, the simple excitement of the hunt was lost to us, so we abandoned the purpose of being on that mountain and looked for a way to move on.

We had gone through our mistake, then found a way to overcome it and return to good standing where we would not slide again. That is Repentance. The Savior is that way, as only through Him do we find our way back and gain the strength to become better.

My friend and I hiked up the mountain and crossed at the peak. Within only a few hours, we found ourselves on the right side of the slide and had a clear path to return home. This is as our Heavenly Father wants it to be, that we overcome weaknesses and return home with Him.

Brother Nibley, a concert pianist and BYU faculty member, was asked to write a song about testimony. He wrote quickly because the words and music came at the same time. “I Know My Father Lives” was very simple, so Brother Nibley began adding notes. It became more and more complicated, so he erased all the unnecessary notes. When he finished erasing, the song was just as it had been written the first time!

I was one of 12 high school students selected from Fairfield College in Hamilton, New Zealand, to participate in a program called Project K. The first part involved a three-week wilderness adventure, including canoeing, exploring caves, rock climbing, mountain biking, and sleeping and cooking our meals in all sorts of conditions. We spent most of our days in torrential rain and cold.
Sometimes spirits were low, and there were tears of frustration. We learned about teamwork and endurance. We encouraged each other through the challenges that came to us every day. One person chose to go home—it was just too much.
Halfway through the adventure, we got to write a letter home. As I wrote my letter, the tears welled up as I expressed my love and appreciation to my family. I realized just how much I missed the simple things in life like family prayers, scripture reading, family home evening, seminary, and attending church. I was saddened because I couldn’t picture my baby sister’s face in my mind.
I was thankful that I’d brought my pocket-sized Book of Mormon with me. I would sit inside my bivouac and read by flashlight. Everyone was pretty tired after each day, and they’d just go to sleep. After a day or so, more of my companions became curious about what I was reading. They became interested when I told them about the stripling warriors, Nephi and Laban, Ammon, and especially Nephi and his broken bow. Everyone could relate to the challenges of the wilderness.
By the end of our adventure, every night before sleeping, all 12 of us would huddle under my bivouac and listen as I read from the Book of Mormon. I know that the prophets of old were able to speak to us all on those cold, dark, rainy nights. I know that I gained strength to endure the difficult challenges during that time. I never felt the need to cry or to quit. I owe that to prayer and my pocket-sized Book of Mormon.

Imagine putting in that kind of time and effort for an entire year. That’s what Erin Johnson of the McLean Virginia Second Ward did. She got up close and personal with the Mormon pioneers so she could make a presentation for National History Day.
“I read 45 books for the project. I got some of the books from the library, and people loaned some of them to me. I also read journals from ancestors and relatives,” says Erin.
The work didn’t stop when Erin finished reading, though. She then put together a ten-minute dramatic presentation depicting the struggles the pioneers experienced as they crossed the plains.
During that ten minutes, Erin takes the audience through trials on the plains such as a mother burying her small child by the side of the trail, and then on to Utah, where the Saints set up an orderly, productive society.
“Each family member had a job on the trail, even the children,” says Erin in her presentation. She presents a short account of a pioneer child gathering buffalo chips to burn. She points out that everyone’s job was important on the trail—glamorous or not.
All her hard work paid off when Erin won third place in the Junior National competition, as well as a special award in her state division. High praise for a 12-year-old who had to prepare, set up, and perform her presentation with no help from anyone.
“I think it’s important to be well educated and work hard,” says Erin. “I also have a much greater appreciation for my ancestors and what they went through after doing this project.”
Erin says she now also appreciates her own family even more than she did before.
“They’ve helped me a lot,” she says. “I couldn’t have done it without their support.”

Days start early in the Chung Tien household. The father, Willie Chung Tien, is the baker for the village of Mataura, located on the island of Tubuai in French Polynesia. That means most mornings he starts work at 4:00 a.m. It’s the only way bread will be ready in time for breakfast, and many people depend on Brother Chung Tien for their daily bread.
Eleven-year-old Lee Yen Chung Tien has learned a lot from her father’s example. “I don’t get up as early as he does,” she says. “But I try to work hard like he does, and to serve other people like he does.” She knows that many mornings her father takes fresh, hot bread to the missionaries serving on Tubuai. She knows that he gives many hours in service to the Church in his calling as first counselor in the Mataura Branch presidency. She also knows that many people on the island admire his friendly smile and his positive attitude. “He is a great example to our family,” Lee Yen says. “His happiness helps us all to be happy too.”

Hi, my name is Kennedy Lee McKinnon. I am eight years old and in third grade. I attend church at the Whitecourt Branch in Whitecourt, Alberta, Canada. One day I was making a gelatin salad. When I threw the package away, I saw two $20 bills in the garbage. I put them in my pocket and thought, “Wow! Forty dollars!” Afterward, I felt guilty and gave them to my mommy. I felt better. I know I listened to the Holy Ghost and made the right choice. My mommy was glad, too, because my sister, who is one and a half, had taken the money from Mommy’s wallet and put it in the garbage.
Kennedy McKinnon, age 8Whitecourt, Alberta, Canada

Over the course of the past year, our two youngest children, now 11 and 13 years old, have been continuously striving to stretch their fast from two meals to a full 24 hours. Last month, they were closing in on that 24-hour fast, and the day dragged on; they became focused on the gap that remained rather than the progress made. When the gap still seemed too great, they were overwhelmed and overtaken by their hunger pangs. They expressed feelings of guilt for not making it the full 24 hours when they were so close. It gave an opportunity for us to share with them that Lord is focused on your progress and the direction you're headed, not where you lack. As President Nelson taught, “The Lord loves effort.”[19]
When we become focused on the gaps in our discipleship rather than direction and progress, sometimes feelings of discouragement, guilt, and hopelessness overtake us.

I wanted to serve a mission. A year after my baptism, I went to the Dominican Republic to be endowed in the Santo Domingo Dominican Republic Temple because there is not a temple in Jamaica. If a temple was close by me in Jamaica, I would go every day if I could.
I attended the missionary training center in the Dominican Republic and learned what to do to be a better missionary. I came back to Jamaica and served for two years. If I could serve again, I would because it was wonderful. There are ups and downs on a mission and there is a lot to learn, but I enjoyed it.
When I went on a mission, I could hardly read the Book of Mormon or the Bible. During companionship study I would ask my companion to help me read a scripture I didn’t understand. He would help me learn what it meant. Over time, I learned more and more. By the end of my mission, I had read through the Book of Mormon, the New Testament, some of the Old Testament and Preach My Gospel. Now I can read anything anyone gives me. I can help myself and continue to learn more about the gospel. I know that’s a blessing for me for serving a mission.

Sammy liked to do many things. He participated in karate and school sports. He enjoyed reading and kept up with his favorite book series. He attended his Webelos meetings and worked hard to earn the badges. But one thing Sammy didn’t like was dogs—big, small, or anywhere in between. He wanted nothing to do with them. The sight of a dog terrified him, and he would move as quickly as he could in the opposite direction.
One morning, Sammy’s neighbor Megan went skipping down the road, heading for the school bus stop. Suddenly she stopped. There in front of her was the biggest dog she had ever seen. It was tan and even taller than she was. She froze in her tracks and began to scream. The dog started walking toward her.
At that moment, Sammy left his house and started down the street toward the bus stop. He heard Megan screaming and saw her and the dog. He started shaking, but he continued to walk closer. Then he bent down, put his hands on his knees, and called, “Come here, dog. Come.” The dog looked back and forth from Sammy to Megan, and then trotted over to Sammy. Sammy held onto the dog’s collar until the owner came to take the dog home. Sammy was awfully glad to see the dog go.
Sammy still doesn’t like dogs. But he was glad he had the courage to help a friend in need.

Fortunately, there are still those who observe such principles of personal rectitude. I recall riding a train from Osaka to Nagoya, Japan. At the station were friends to greet us, and in the excitement my wife left her purse on the train. We called the Tokyo station to report it. When the train arrived at its destination some three hours later, the railroad telephoned to say the purse was there. We were not returning via Tokyo, and more than a month passed before it was delivered to us in Salt Lake City. Everything left in the purse was there when it was returned.

Next: "I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink."[6] Having grown up along the banks of the Columbia River in Washington state, I never really acquired a serious appreciation for water--drinking water--until I spent some time in a country where you must not drink the water that comes out of the tap unless you wish to become seriously ill.

On the screen you can see three large six-liter bottles of water—yes, water. The bottle in the middle holds the first six liters of water that came out of the tap one day in the apartment where I stayed on a study abroad trip in St. Petersburg, Russia, about 12 years ago.

I honestly don't know what exactly made the water so orange, but it was rather disturbing to look at and contemplate drinking. Unseen in this water is a nasty parasite called giardia lamblia, which you really should avoid.

The bottle on the left contains the next six liters of water to come out of the tap--slightly less colored.

The bottle on the right has clear, pure water and was straight from the store. On the label is written, in rather small letters, pit'evaja voda, or "drinking water."

I'm sure you can guess from which bottle we chose to drink. This water was not easy to acquire: It involved carrying these rather heavy bottles about a quarter of a mile from the nearest store that sold them and then sometimes lugging them up the stairs when the elevator in our apartment building didn't work. They were not cheap, either, but the alternative was not appealing.

When I returned to St. Petersburg in 2015 to spend two months on a sabbatical leave, I was quite relieved to see a bottled-water dispenser in my host family's kitchen. I had a reliable source of clean drinking water.

Let me give you an example. A young married friend of mine lost his little daughter in a tragic accident. In the months that followed, with the loneliness, the asking “why,” and the sadness, doubt began to enter his life. He told me that he wasn’t sure what he believed anymore. I suggested to him that in this difficult time he might want to yield to his doubts a little less and trust the words of the Savior and the Savior’s chosen vessels a little more. My friend pored over the scriptures, the promises of the Savior, and the bold, reassuring witness of the living prophets. He held fast to their sure testimony of the Savior when his own seemed to falter. He held fast to the iron rod. With time, the darkness dissipated, the tree came back into view, and he partook of the precious fruit of the Atonement.

I joined the Church when I was in high school and was the only member in my family. I had a difficult time making the transition to life in the Church, finding many of the activities and callings unfamiliar. So when I was asked to be a visiting teacher for the first time during my second year in college, I struggled to understand exactly what that meant. My companion was a faithful young mother, Sister Bray (names have been changed), and it was easy for me to let her set the appointments, direct our visits, and care for our sisters. One sister, in particular, proved more challenging than the rest. Cassie was less active, living with her boyfriend, and expecting their first child. She always seemed sad or troubled.
One Sunday the branch presidency asked us to make sure we invited everyone on our visiting teaching routes to a missionary fireside that evening. “No problem,” I thought. “Sister Bray will call Cassie.” I scanned the chapel. Sister Bray was out of town that Sunday and would not be making any calls.
When I reached my apartment after church, I felt the tugging of the Spirit: “Call Cassie.” I stoutly refused. Surely she wouldn’t come even if I did call. A second time the Spirit prompted strongly: “Call Cassie!” Again I refused. Finally the Spirit was impossible to ignore, and I grudgingly made the call—only to reach Cassie’s answering machine. “See,” I thought, “I knew it wouldn’t do any good.” I left a message telling Cassie and her boyfriend, Will, that there would be a fireside that evening and we’d love to see them there.
At the fireside I noticed that although many were in attendance, Cassie and Will were not among them. “I knew they wouldn’t come,” I thought, somewhat smugly. With 10 minutes left in the fireside, I was quite surprised to see Cassie and Will enter the chapel. The missionaries stood up quietly and left with them. “How about that!” I said to myself.
Christmas break came soon after that, and I attended my home ward for the holidays. A month later when I returned to my college ward, one of the members excitedly approached me and asked if I would be at the baptism that evening. “Of course,” I said, “but who is getting baptized?” The sister answered, “Will, Cassie’s husband.” Husband? I went to look for Cassie as quickly as I could.
When I found Cassie and Will, I congratulated them on their marriage and Will’s baptism and asked how it had all come about. “Remember that fireside you invited us to attend?” Cassie answered. “We got there late, so the elders took us into another room and showed us a video. Will liked it so much he asked to hear the discussions. We were married, and today Will is getting baptized.” I was humbled and ashamed of myself and yet in total awe of Heavenly Father’s love for each of His children.
But this isn’t the end of the story. Not long ago I had the opportunity to return to my college ward after being away for six years. I was thrilled to see many familiar faces and to introduce my old friends to my husband and two children.
As I passed through the foyer, I saw someone I thought I knew but who looked different somehow. “Don’t I know you?” I said. “Yes, I’m Cassie. You were my visiting teacher. You remember Will, don’t you?” She pointed to the man standing to her left, then called to two children in the hallway. “And these are our two children.” She looked happy, peaceful, and sure of herself. She said she was serving in the Primary presidency. “Have you had a chance to go to the temple?” I inquired. “Which one?” she asked with a smile. “Chicago? Detroit? Nauvoo? We’ve been to all of them.”
This encounter once again reminded me “that by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6)—even a small thing like a phone call.

The letters written and the money earned by Arnold and the other men in Pueblo, Colorado, were carried to their families by another of my great-grandfathers, Thomas Woolsey.
Thomas was a courier for Company E. He went with the women and children and the sick battalion members to Pueblo in the first and second detachment groups. After reaching Pueblo the second time, he was asked, along with John Tippets, to carry messages and money from the battalion to Winter Quarters, Nebraska. They left Pueblo in December and traveled alone, making their own trail as they went.
On their 600-mile (965-km), 52-day journey, Thomas and John nearly froze and starved to death while being lost most of the time. At one point they were captured and almost killed and scalped by a group of Pawnee Indians, but thanks to the timely mercy of Chief Setchmalin, they were released unharmed. They finally arrived at Winter Quarters exhausted on the night of February 15, 1847.
Thomas’s adventures carrying mail and escorting people for the battalion served him well as a member of Brigham Young’s 1847 pioneer company. At Fort Laramie, President Young sent him to Pueblo to help the remaining Saints travel to the Salt Lake Valley. He remained devoted to the gospel for the rest of his life. He showed me that commitment takes courage, but when we give our all to God, He’ll protect us and use us to help others on their way.

When Elder L. Whitney Clayton, a new member of the First Quorum of the Seventy, was a student at the University of Utah and contemplating a full-time mission, an important factor in his decision to serve was the example set by returned missionaries on campus. “It wasn’t so much what they said, although several said things that were helpful,” he recalls. “It was the way they carried themselves, the way they acted. There was something about them that was different from all of the other young men I knew. And it was obvious that the key to it was a mission.”
He was called to the Andes Mission in Peru in 1970, and his experience there helped lay a strong foundation for other Church service. One event that strengthened his testimony occurred during a tour of the mission by Elder Boyd K. Packer of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. “When Elder Packer bore his testimony in a missionary meeting in Lima,” says Elder Clayton, “I knew that he knew the gospel is true.”

There was a time when I felt like my most earnest prayers were going unanswered. I felt like I was lacking direction and pleaded with God for answers and blessings. As time wore on, praying became harder as feelings of frustration and impatience built. It was exhausting.
I couldn’t help but ask, “What’s wrong with me?”
As I searched the scriptures for answers, I found that they teach about a type of waiting that’s different from what I was experiencing. The prophet Isaiah taught, “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint” (Isaiah 40:31).
Was it possible that I was waiting all wrong? I felt there must be more to waiting upon the Lord than just simply waiting.
As I pondered these words, the word “wait” suddenly took on a new meaning. Instead of silence, it sounded like the Spirit was saying, “Stay here with me for a minute.” What I thought was the Lord’s indifference suddenly transformed into an invitation to sit with Him and be renewed by His strength.
I thought of one of my favorite scriptures: “For the Lord shall comfort Zion, he will comfort all her waste places; and he will make her wilderness like Eden, and her desert like the garden of the Lord. Joy and gladness shall be found therein, thanksgiving and the voice of melody” (2 Nephi 8:3).
Waiting, to me, had always felt like being in a “desert” or a “waste place”—empty and tiring. All I thought I could do while in this “desert” was hope that one day God would finally give me the promised blessings I sought and lead me to a full and beautiful garden.
But these scriptures helped me realize that God has so much more power than I was giving Him credit for. He could make my “desert” a beautiful garden now, while I waited on Him. I started seeing this waiting period as a spiritual refuge as I prepared to receive whatever future blessings the Lord had in store for me.
As I continued to ponder on 2 Nephi 8:3, the last sentence stood out to me: “Joy and gladness shall be found therein.” So where does this joy come from if not from immediately receiving the blessings we seek?
As President Russell M. Nelson recently taught:
“The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives.
“When the focus of our lives is on God’s plan of salvation … and Jesus Christ and His gospel, we can feel joy regardless of what is happening—or not happening—in our lives. Joy comes from and because of Him. He is the source of all joy.”
Shifting my focus away from what I felt I lacked and toward the Savior has created a space where joy and gladness feel abundant in my life.
I’ve noticed I feel the Savior’s joy more clearly as I strive to build on the things in my life that uplift me. For me, this looks like creating deeper connections with family members and friends, serving in the temple, learning new skills, and going to my favorite Wednesday-night yoga class.
I also learned that because of Christ, God’s promises to us are assured. That, in and of itself, is a reason to rejoice.
I’ve found that gratitude is essential in transforming my waiting space from a desert into a garden. There is a healing power in being grateful for all the blessings I do have, but I’ve also especially found a deep sense of gratitude for the things that I don’t have yet and the time I’m spending deepening my faith in the Lord as I wait.
Elder Neal A. Maxwell (1926–2004) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught, “Patience helps us to use, rather than to protest, these seeming flat periods of life, becoming filled with quiet wonder over the past and with anticipation for that which may lie ahead.”
Waiting gives us the opportunity to sit with God, learn more of Him, see more of His hand, feel more of His love, hear more of His voice, and ultimately receive more of His abundance. As I look back on times I felt like God was making me wait, I see the abundance of spiritual treasures He offered me. I see loving and supportive friends, priceless moments of comfort and revelation, lessons about the security and power of keeping sacred covenants, and a deeper connection to my Savior, Jesus Christ.
As I practice waiting on the Lord rather than just waiting, I know that He will continue to make my life into a garden more beautiful than I can imagine.

Even an unbelievable spring blizzard didn’t stop the modern-day pioneers of Kearns and Ogden (Utah) who found out firsthand what their ancestors went through.
No one expected as much snow as the two groups ran into in their April handcart and covered wagon treks. But it didn’t stop either group from experiencing doughy scones, burnt skirts, raw-potato stew, and square dancing in mud.
The Kearns group of 50 individuals, both youths and parents, pulled hand-carts more than 43 miles, with seminary youths averaging four miles per hour. Dressed in pioneer clothing, the group spent one night in barracks built in 1857.
They weren’t without their problems, however. The 14 handcarts that had been constructed for the event were often overpacked—wheels gave way and water had to be dumped. It meant everyone had to pitch in to help and the food that remained dry had to be pooled. Half of the group didn’t complete the trek because of the severe weather.
Having followed the Pony Express route to Saratoga, Utah, the trek ended with a swim in a heated outdoor pool—in the snow.

As I approached my 18th birthday and prepared to enter the mandatory military service required of young men during World War II, I was recommended to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood, but first I needed to telephone my stake president, Paul C. Child, for an interview. He was one who loved and understood the holy scriptures, and it was his intent that all others should similarly love and understand them. Having heard from some of my friends of his rather detailed and searching interviews, I desired minimum exposure of my scriptural knowledge; therefore, when I called him I suggested we meet the following Sunday at a time I knew was just an hour before his sacrament meeting time.
His response: “Oh, Brother Monson, that would not provide us sufficient time to peruse the scriptures.” He then suggested a time three hours before his sacrament meeting, and he instructed me to bring with me my personally marked and referenced set of scriptures.
When I arrived at his home on Sunday, I was greeted warmly, and then the interview began. President Child said, “Brother Monson, you hold the Aaronic Priesthood. Have you ever had angels minister to you?” I replied that I had not. When he asked if I knew I was entitled to such, I again replied that I had not known.
He instructed, “Brother Monson, repeat from memory the 13th section of the Doctrine and Covenants.”
I began, “‘Upon you my fellow servants, in the name of Messiah I confer the Priesthood of Aaron, which holds the keys of the ministering of angels—’”
“Stop,” President Child directed. Then, in a calm, kindly tone, he counseled, “Brother Monson, never forget that as a holder of the Aaronic Priesthood you are entitled to the ministering of angels.”
It was almost as though an angel were in the room that day. I have never forgotten the interview. I yet feel the spirit of that solemn occasion as we together read of the responsibilities, the duties, and the blessings of the Aaronic Priesthood and the Melchizedek Priesthood—blessings which come not only to us but also to our families and to others we will have the privilege to serve.

Earlier this year, my three sons and I visited the sites in France where my father fought in the U.S. Army in World War I. Great was the suffering and terrible were the consequences to all involved in that war. Millions lost their lives. Although my father was not killed, he carried mental and physical scars until he died. Despite his terrifying experiences, he prefaced his diary as follows: “If I had to do it again, I would do it because it was my duty.” As we traveled 80 years later through the beautiful countryside, we visited battle sites and cemeteries of the combatants on both sides. In the military cemetery outside Paris, with my hand resting on Stanford Hinckley’s cross, I called President Hinckley on a cellular phone to express my feelings on that occasion.
World War I was particularly tragic for our family because my father had some second cousins serving on the other side of that conflict in some of the same general battle areas. We eventually became acquainted with these relatives and found them to be decent, God-fearing Christians. They had nothing to do with the grand geopolitics or causes of the war. Like my father, they were serving their country because it was their duty. World War I and the wars that followed brought such great suffering and caused the deaths of countless innocent people. In its simplest terms, wars are so often caused by a great lust for power.