Gospel Story Finder

On July 24, 2002, my son Steven Jackson and his nephew Taylor Miller were playing in the Pacific Ocean when they were sucked out by a riptide. Both were nine years old. Neither boy could swim, but Steven had strong legs and could dog-paddle. Taylor was having trouble staying above water, so Steven pulled him up and paddled for both of them. They were constantly being pulled under the water, but Steven kept encouraging Taylor not to give up, because help was coming.
In October 2003, the National Court of Honor of the Boy Scouts of America honored Steven for unusual heroism for saving Taylor’s life at considerable risk to himself.

“You should go talk to a mental health counselor.”
This advice came as a huge surprise. I had just told a close friend about how stressed I was about getting into a prestigious accounting program, maintaining relationships, and dating as a recently returned missionary. I had never even considered the idea of therapy, and I felt like talking to a counselor was only for people who had big problems or were too weak to deal with challenges on their own. My friend had only good things to say about his own experience talking to a counselor, so I began to consider it.
Soon my anxiety got worse. After sleepless nights of worrying, I decided to schedule an appointment. I was nervous about what other people might say or think if they knew I was going to see a counselor, but at that point my anxiety was affecting my ability to function, so I went.
At the appointment, the counselor asked lots of questions that helped me come to answers on my own. The counselor didn’t give me a magic solution to my struggles. He also didn’t treat me like I was crazy—he had seen a lot of people with struggles similar to mine. In some ways, it felt like going to a medical doctor. He was a professional with experience in diagnosing the problem and had the expertise to teach me how to prevent and treat anxiety.
Along with other suggestions, the counselor suggested that I write my feelings and thoughts in my journal. This was a huge help in overcoming my anxiety. I also kept exercising, spending time with friends and family, eating healthily (or as healthily as a guy in college who was cooking for himself could), studying the scriptures, attending church, and praying.
After meeting with the counselor a few times, two things changed for me: First, I had new, healthier perspectives on my anxieties, myself, and other people; and second, I felt like I had helpful tools I could use in future anxiety-provoking situations. I wasn’t completely cured of anxiety, but I felt like I could deal with it better when it flared up again. Since then, I haven’t had to go back to the counselor, but if I ever needed to, I wouldn’t be worried about getting help—I’ve learned that there’s no reason to suffer in silence or be embarrassed of seeking professional help for a mental health issue.

My mother fought cancer for nearly 10 years. Treatments and surgeries and finally confinement to her bed were some of her trials.
I remember my father saying as he watched her take her last breath, “A little girl has gone home to rest.”
One of the speakers at her funeral was President Spencer W. Kimball. Among the tributes he paid, I remember one that went something like this: “Some of you may have thought that Mildred suffered so long and so much because of something she had done wrong that required the trials.” He then said, “No, it was that God just wanted her to be polished a little more.” I remember at the time thinking, “If a woman that good needed that much polishing, what is ahead for me?”

Another good example of a positive statement in response to a difficult question was experienced by Elder Angel Abrea. We had a missionary murdered on a street in Peru, a Peruvian Elder. Elder Abrea was sent to represent the leadership of the Church at the funeral. He called on the mother of the murdered missionary. She was a widow and this was her only son. In tears, she asked the agonized question, “Why, Elder Abrea, why?” He didn’t know what to say, and stood silent, pondering why the only son of a widowed mother would be taken from her. Then the mother answered her own question with these words: “Well, one thing I do know. I will see my son again, in the time of the Lord.”

My high school football team was playing for the North Carolina state championship. Our coach, Bill Grice, was not only a great coach and motivator, but he had never, in our presence, taken the Lord’s name in vain; had never cussed; and had never used any expletives or profanity. He had never lost his cool.
We were in the locker room getting ready for the big game. It was raining so hard we had to yell at each other to be heard. Coach Grice asked our equipment manager to hand out the mud cleats. We heard the equipment manager say, “I forgot the mud cleats, coach.” But Coach Grice didn’t hear him. We nudged one another and realized that for the first time in our presence, Coach Grice would in fact lose his cool and swear.
We steadied ourselves as Coach Grice asked, “Where are the mud cleats?”
“I forgot them, coach,” repeated the equipment manager.
It became absolutely silent in the room except for the rain pounding on the roof.
Then Coach Grice said, “Well, shucks, we’ll have to play without them!”
Oh, coach, how proud we were! We tied the football game and lost the state championship on the flip of a coin. But we won the most important honor. Our coach didn’t let us down.

I arrived in Utah with practically nothing, but I insisted on bringing my hygiene kit, because it meant so much to me. One day, my companion and I were taking a tour of the Humanitarian Center in Salt Lake, and I recognized a blanket that had the Relief Society logo embroidered on it, just like the one I’d had in Sierra Leone. I looked around and saw hygiene kits like mine and familiar bags of beans and rice, and I began cry.
“This is where they came from!” I thought to myself. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I remembered what these things sitting in stacks in the Humanitarian Center in Salt Lake meant to my friends and to me in Sierra Leone. I was so grateful to the Lord for preserving me, for bringing the gospel into my life, and for allowing me to serve a mission. I knew that His angels truly had been round about me, to bear me up.

Years ago I recall President John Kelly, who was then presiding over the Fort Worth Texas Stake, called Brother Felix Velasquez to be the president of the Spanish branch. This good man worked, as I recall, as a car inspector on the railroad. When President Kelly called him to this service, he responded, “President, I cannot be the president of the Spanish branch. I cannot read.” President Kelly then promised him that if he would accept the calling and labor diligently to magnify it, he would be sustained and blessed. With the help of the Lord, this humble man, through his diligent efforts, became able to read. He served well as branch president and for many years subsequent and now is serving in the high council of that stake. The Lord blesses his servants in many ways.

Welcome to the butterfly garden. Please move slowly, pay attention, and do not touch the butterflies.
Later …
How was the butterfly garden?
It was quiet and peaceful. I was kind of stressed at school today, but being in the garden made me feel better.
That’s how I feel when I go to the temple. I leave all my worries behind. I feel God’s love there.
I can’t wait until I’m old enough to go inside the temple. Can we visit the temple grounds together?
Of course!
This story took place in the USA.

Clark and I can both attest to moments of exhaustion in our marriage and parenting responsibilities. Here’s a picture of our young family at a Red Sox game—look at those dark bags under my husband’s eyes! He was a new faculty member at the Harvard Business School. We had young children, yet he was always up early with our babies. He took night shifts with bottles and changing diapers. He always came home from work ready to focus on me and on the children. He was present in our lives, and I knew he was putting me and our family first, even with his considerable responsibilities at work. It wasn’t always easy, and sometimes he was really tired.

He wasn’t the only one. This was particularly true when we had our twins. Those early years were such hard work! Here I am holding our twins. Those years now feel like a blur. These are our twins today, graduated from high school and starting college. They are smart, independent, faithful, hardworking young women who have grown and been nurtured in our home. When I look back at all of those late nights and early mornings, I sit in awe at who those girls have become. I marvel at the role I was allowed to play in their lives as their mother.

A few years ago, I learned to index during a large indexing activity organized at the Les Abymes meetinghouse, led in part by Sabrina Bastien. It didn’t particularly captivate me as I found the documents difficult to read. Another time, I participated in an indexing activity on a Sunday with young people who had been called to serve as temple and family history consultants. I then began trying to do it alone at home, calling Sister Bastien for help when problems arose, and reading explanations on FamilySearch. I started indexing every Sunday afternoon. It became a way for me to help my family with their genealogy, as we are all part of our Heavenly Father’s family. If I find it easy to locate my close family, it’s because others have done work for me.
So, it’s my turn to return the favor. I noticed that by asking for help from our Heavenly Father, I could read certain writing more easily. This allowed me to have patience. During the first major COVID-19 lockdown, I indexed every day. And then every Sunday. I am happy to be able to help, through indexing, in bringing families together on both sides of the veil.
I used to index, but I stopped. This challenge encouraged me to resume service. [I found that] as soon as I engage in indexing, the Lord helps me stay calm, and patient, and I see difficult-to-decipher names light up. I feel joy in doing this service and want to do it over and over again. Thank you for the encouragement. Some of you (consultants) have the gift of motivating others to go further and contribute to this work. I am blessed and grateful to have you as brothers and sisters in Christ.
I started indexing when I became a Church member (10 years ago) And since then, I have participated in this work, thinking that I am serving others. I dedicate myself to it on Sundays in general, depending on my motivation level. My participation in the challenge this month helped me develop more patience and compassion for the people listed in the documents. And as Nathalie said, I developed the gift of indexing. I can add this gift to my list that I thought was empty.
During this indexing campaign, I learned that the Lord would allow me, with the help of other members, to better understand His work. I learned that with members who love each other, this work becomes a joy and a source of fulfillment. My relationships with my brothers and sisters have strengthened, thanks to this indexing month, and I love them even more intensely. I have developed, with other members, the gift of indexing.
Indexing did not interest me until now. The challenge allowed me to see indexing truly as a service rendered that will benefit everyone, the whole human family. The indexing group allowed me to get involved and be part of the game.
Indexing brings me even closer to Jesus Christ; it brings me a lot of joy when I do it. I feel a satisfaction that makes me want to continue. Thank you for your example.
This month of indexing has been revealing for me and has given me more momentum on the idea of indexing, and I am grateful to all of you. It also allowed me to become aware of several other things, among others: patience, perseverance, unity, and that whatever happens, the work of our Heavenly Father will move forward with or without us. So, I prefer to be part of it because I know more than ever that it is His work, and I am confident in the continuation of this mission because God cannot lie, and the spirit of Elijah is what will help us resist the difficulties to come in the last days.
I had already had the opportunity to index, but I admit it was not my favorite part of the work of family history. So, it was done a little here and a little there, especially during challenges. However, this year, because of all of you and the Lord, I felt a strength, and a motivation that allowed me to index beyond what I thought I could. I felt close to these people; I was participating in something marvelous. The spirit of Elijah was present. I sometimes saw the correct names materialize before my eyes. Indexing has taken on a spiritual dimension for me. I will continue to do it. The work must be done on both sides of the veil. So, yes, thank you, thank you to the Lord and to each of you for your encouragement, your help, and your love.

My wife and I had been serving as full-time missionaries in the Caribbean Area for a few months and enjoyed the opportunity to labor there. We loved the Latter-day Saints we had met and were lifted by their faith and friendliness. Neither one of us knew Spanish before our assignment and had worked hard to understand and communicate in this new language. Despite these efforts, we continued to struggle to with Spanish.
As I was asking myself why I was assigned to an area where I could not communicate with others, I remembered something about the temple we served at near our home. In this temple there is a small chapel next to the baptismal font and at the front of it are several large glass panes that extend from the floor to the ceiling, allowing people to watch as ordinances are being performed. One day I noticed an imperfection in one of the panes of glass and wondered why this imperfect pane of glass was still there. I could not detect any flaws in the other panes and wondered why this one was allowed to remain.
As I reflected on this, the thought came to my mind that even though it had an imperfection, the pane of glass was still performing the function it was asked to do, allow people to view ordinances. People in the chapel would look past the imperfection and be grateful that the pane of glass was doing what it had been asked to do, even though it was not perfect.
In 1995, President Russell M. Nelson taught us about being perfect. While he confirmed the Lord’s commandment to be perfect 1 , he reminded us that to become perfect as Christ is perfect is not something that will come easily, quickly, or even in this life. He encouraged us to “do the best we can and try to improve each day. When our imperfections appear, we can keep trying to correct them. We can be more forgiving of flaws in ourselves and among those we love.” 2
These thoughts encourage me to keep trying, despite the inability to communicate. Perhaps, like the pane of glass, people that I serve will see past my imperfections and be helped by the service provided.

In 2018, Latter-day Saint Robert Opiyo joined the only ice hockey club in East-Central Africa, the Kenya Ice Lions. At the time, there were fewer than 30 ice hockey players in all of Kenya, and 17 of them (15 men and 2 women) were members of the Ice Lions team.
Today, there are over 40 adult players and 40 youth players who practice at least twice a week. Robert used the skills he learned on his mission in Melbourne, Australia, as one of the team’s executive members.
The Ice Lions trained at a hotel ice rink that was two-thirds the size of a regulation ice hockey rink. In October 2018, the team was sponsored to travel to Toronto, Canada, to play against two amateur Canadian teams.
Prior to their first match in Toronto, they trained without a goalkeeper. In a news interview in Toronto, the Ice Lions’ captain explained: “We didn’t have goalie equipment, and nobody can take that risk to be a goalie without the proper gear. So, what we used to do was set up a rubber toy penguin and we used to put it at the center of the goal and to score you had to hit the penguin above the belly.”
Due to challenges during the COVID-19 period, the team slowed down on activities and are now getting back on their feet. They often get support from individuals and groups who donate funds for their ice time and equipment that are used in the community.
Brother Opiyo dreams of the Olympics someday but is also content to be part of this pioneering endeavor. “Slowly more people hear about our desire and want to help us get there,” he said. “I’m grateful to have been a part that set the foundation for future generations.”

“Tyler and Trey,” Mom said, “time to get up.” Tyler pulled the pillow over his head. Trey snuggled down into the warm covers.
“Please hurry,” Mom said. “Your breakfast is ready.”
Tyler slowly walked to the kitchen. Trey stopped to play with a toy.
“Come on, boys,” Mom said. She was wearing her gym clothes and feeding baby Benjamin his cereal. “Breakfast is getting cold, and I don’t want you to miss the bus. I have my exercise class today.”
After breakfast, Tyler and Trey ran down the street and around the corner to the bus stop. They got there just in time to see the school bus drive away. They sighed and slowly walked back home.
“We missed the bus,” Trey said when they got back home.
Mom frowned. “OK, get in the car. I have to change Benjamin’s diaper, and then I’ll take you to school.”
“Can you still go to your class?” Trey asked.
“Not today,” Mom said. “I’d miss more than half of it.”
After school, Mom took both boys to their dentist’s appointment and then to soccer practice. After practice, the brothers walked into the house tired and hungry. They smelled their favorite dinner.
“Enchiladas!”
That night for family home evening, Dad talked about helping Mom. “Let’s make a list,” he said. “What are some of the things Mom does for us?”
The brothers shouted out their answers.
“She fixes us breakfast and takes us places.”
“She cooks enchiladas for dinner.”
“She helps with our homework.”
The list grew and grew.
“Now let’s make another list,” Dad said. “What can we do to honor Mom?”
Tyler put his arm around Mom and hugged her. “We can be more helpful,” he said. “We can get up the first time she calls and get ready for school on time.”
Trey nodded. “Then Mom wouldn’t have to take us to school, and she wouldn’t miss her exercise class.”
The brothers called out more ideas.
“We could thank her for dinner.”
“We could clean up our room.”
“We could help clear the table after we eat.”
“We could help clean the house.”
“We could play with Benjamin when Mom is tired.”
The next morning Tyler woke up before Mom called. He woke up Trey and whispered, “Let’s do our best to help Mom today, OK?”
“OK!” Trey said. Soon they were both giggling as they got ready for school without being asked.
They walked into the kitchen, where Mom and Dad were already sitting.
“One-two-three! We’re here to help!” the boys chorused in unison.
Tyler and Trey set the table for breakfast. Then Trey unloaded the dishwasher, and Tyler fed baby Benjamin his cereal. After breakfast they both cleared the table and played with Benjamin.
They hugged Mom good-bye and hustled out the door to catch the bus.
“Doesn’t the sun feel good today?” Tyler asked as they walked.
“Yep,” Trey said. “And I feel good on the inside too.”

Summer evenings were filled with neighborhood children gathering under the streetlamp at the end of our cul-de-sac to play night games. While these were often thrillingly scary, they occasionally took a mischievous turn. One evening under the cover of dark, my childhood best friend and I followed our older siblings to the doorstep of a woman who lived nearby. Imagine our surprise when the older kids rang her doorbell and then dashed down the street. Stumbling along behind, not quite sure what had just happened, I remember feeling dread that I was certainly going to get in trouble for this one. And I did. The policeman from my sleepy little town who was dispatched to answer the call found me hiding and crying in my friend’s basement. The officer kept me from a certain life of crime as he described the horrors that befall little girls who are thrown into the slammer. I was effectively scared straight that night, and I have never been tempted to doorbell ditch since.

I wanted to get better at cooking. So when I got my Children’s Guidebook, I set a goal to cook with my dad. Whenever my father would cook, I watched him and saw how cool it was. I wanted to learn to cook like him.
My dad and I went to the store to buy ingredients. Then he taught me step by step how to turn flour into a beautiful cake. Later he also taught me how to make other things.
Working on this goal has helped me be closer to my dad. I love spending time with him! He has been a great teacher. One thing he taught me was that when we’re cooking, I can’t be distracted on my cell phone!
Now when I think of cooking, the feeling that explodes inside me is joy, because I love cooking! This goal helps me not only do something I love but grow spiritually too. I like that I get to choose my own goals. Heavenly Father wants to help me with this goal because He wants me to grow my talents. He wants to help me because He knows it makes me happy.

I think of when I was a young man, before I was even ordained a deacon, I went to one of our ward meetings in the little country town where I was raised, and two missionaries reported their missions down in the Southern States. In those days they traveled without purse or scrip, and they had to sleep out many nights when they couldn’t get entertainment. I don’t know whether they said anything unusual that night or not; but if they didn’t, the Lord did something unusual for me, because when I left that meeting, I felt like I could have walked to any mission field in the world, if I just had a call. And I went home, went into my little bedroom, and got down on my knees, and asked the Lord to help me to live worthy so that when I was old enough I could go on a mission. And when the train finally left the station here in Salt Lake and I was headed for the little land of Holland, the last thing I said to my loved ones was, “This is the happiest day of my life.”

The day was almost over. Only fifteen minutes more, I thought as I drove cross the bridge on my way back to the police station. The water on the river looked so peaceful as I looked out over the railing toward the setting sun. Then I saw a man standing outside the railing, his head barely visible above the road’s surface. I stopped my car, radioed my observation to the police station, and walked over to the railing.

“Don’t come any closer,” warned the young man, who was holding on to the bridge framework. Our eyes met, and I knew what he was thinking about doing—and he knew that I knew. I sensed that it wouldn’t take much for him to let go.

What could I say to prevent this man from ending his life? Memories of my police training raced through my mind: Take your time. Keep him talking. Don’t get him excited. I was afraid that if I did anything wrong, this man might actually kill himself. What should I do?

I began as simply as I could—to stall for time. “Hi. Beautiful day, isn’t it?” I said in as calm and matter-of-fact a voice as I could command.

I felt some relief when he answered calmly, “I don’t think so.”

Maybe time would be on my side, I thought. “My name is Gary. What’s yours?” I said.

“Steve,” he answered. “Why do you want to know?

In those few seconds, I thought of every success and failure I had ever experienced in human communication, and I also thought about how precious life was. Only a few seconds passed, but they seemed like an eternity. In my mind, I asked Heavenly Father for strength and guidance. I immediately felt a sweet, calming reassurance. Why can’t Steve feel that same reassurance? I thought. I know of no better way to convince a person of the value of life than to testify of the divine truths that give us a reason to live. So I began. “I’d like to be your friend, Steve. I’d like to help.”

“You can’t help. No one can,” he replied.

“I don’t believe that, Steve. Tell me about yourself.”

“What do you mean?” he asked timidly.

“Are you married?”

“Yes.”

“Any children?” I continued.

Steve began telling me about his five-year-old daughter, but stopped as soon as some other police officers arrived. “Who are they?” Steve asked, his voice again tense.

I motioned for the officers to stay back. “They’re some of my friends,” I told Steve. “They’re concerned about you, too.”

“Don’t let them come any closer,” he said.

“Don’t worry—I won’t,” I answered.

Steve and I continued to talk. He still hung on to the outside of the bridge. I sat on the roadside curb about two meters away. We talked about his family and his career as a technician with a successful computer firm. It sounded to me as if he had all the elements of a good life. I searched for things to say, hoping to discover the root of the problem and yet praying that, in doing so, I would not make him panic and try to jump.

I knew the other officers were trying to get into a position to help, yet I had the feeling that Steve and I would be standing together shaking hands before too long—as long as I could keep him talking. I hoped that it was the Spirit making me feel that way. So, with renewed vigor, I ventured on more bravely. “Steve, from what I’ve been hearing, I just don’t understand why you’re standing on that side of the bridge.”

“There are some things I don’t understand, either,” replied Steve. “I don’t understand why you seem to care so much.” He paused, then stammered, “I-I-I feel like I’m talking to a minister. I feel like I want to tell you things I can’t even talk to my wife about. Why?”

I prayed as I listened, and the Spirit guided me as I talked. I felt such joy as I felt the guidance of the Holy Ghost in such an important matter. “Do you believe in God?” I asked.

“I think so. I’d like to believe there’s a God,” he replied.

“There is, Steve. I know with every part of my being. God lives, and he loves you and me. He has a grand and glorious purpose for us in this life.”

“How do you know all this?” he asked.

I stood up and reached toward him. Steve reached out, took my hand, and climbed back over the railing. We shook hands.

“It’s not hard to know,” I said. “Would you like to know more about God?”

“Yes, I really would,” he said, then hesitated and added, “Gary.”

With the Lord’s guidance, I had helped save Steve’s life. But even more important, I had begun to share my testimony with him that life has a purpose and that God loves and cares about each one of us. It was this knowledge that gave him something to live for.

Naheed drank her breakfast of lassi (a mixture of buttermilk and sugar cane juice), but she did not really want it. She was too excited either to eat or to drink, because today she would go to school for the first time in her life.
Naheed would be eleven years old soon, and as long as she could remember, she had wanted to go to school. But in her small village in Pakistan it was unusual for girls to go to school. Naheed loved to go into the post office to watch Ali Mujuber, the calligrapher, writing letters for the villagers who could not write for themselves. She also listened as he read the replies that came back to those who sent letters.
Ali Mujuber would first ask the person who wanted to send a letter, “To whom is it to go?” and “To what village or town?” Then he would take his bamboo pen, check its point carefully, dip it into the big ink bottle while listening carefully to what the person wanted to say in the letter, and start scratching words onto the paper.
Naheed would watch closely as Ali Mujuber formed the beautiful characters. She liked to hear the scratching sound of the pen. And she enjoyed sniffing the ink smell and hearing the drone of the villager’s voice. More than anything in the world, Naheed wanted to know the mystery of the writing and the reading of the squiggly shapes … and today she would begin.
“Very soon I can do what Ali Mujuber does,” she mused.
Her brother, Bashir, heard her. He smiled, for he had gone to school for a short time himself before Father needed him in the fields. “It is not so easy,” he warned. But he cheerfully helped his sister prepare her clay slate and bamboo writing stick.
Soon Naheed left her home carrying the slate and sharpened writing stick.
“Kuda Hafiz (may the Almighty save you),” Mother called as Naheed started down the path to the great spreading banyan tree in whose shade the pupils would learn from their teacher. The small village had no school building. School would only be held on dry days, for if it rained, the students would have to run home for shelter.
Naheed dawdled on the way home, wondering just how many days it would take sitting under the banyan tree for her to know all that Ali Mujuber knew. Her head was in a spin thinking of the many, many days to come. “Maybe I was foolish to think I could ever do such an important and difficult thing as reading and writing,” she murmured half aloud. Perhaps Mother needs me at home, she pondered. Perhaps school is a waste of the hours.
Mother sat beside the fire in the courtyard making chapati, the bread for the family’s evening meal. She greeted Naheed with a smile. “And how was school?” she asked.
Naheed shrugged and went into the family’s room to put up the slate and bamboo stick.
Mother looked anxious as Naheed came back to the courtyard. “How was school?” she asked again.
“Mother, I cannot do that which Ali Mujuber can do. I can never make even one of the figures that mean so much in the letters Ali Mujuber writes.”
Mother stopped her work and looked into her daughter’s eyes for many beats of the heart. At last she spoke quietly. “Naheed, my daughter,” she began, “many of the duties of a woman’s life are learned easily in a moment or in an hour or a day. When I was a girl like you, I was given only these kinds of tasks. The school was closed to girls. But you … you, my daughter, have the chance of learning words and their sweet secrets. But such precious secrets are not given easily … surely not in one day’s time.”
Naheed’s eyes fell. Mother was right. Naheed had made a big mistake in thinking she would learn everything on the first day of school. She left her mother and skipped to the center of the village. Her heart was light. “I can do it. I know I can do it,” she hummed to herself.
She watched the village boys line up for a game of pir kaudi (tag or tackle game, having a finish line). From where she stood she saw her mother moving gracefully with the big water jug on her head along with the other women of the village toward the well.
Suddenly she was filled with a feeling of hope and gratitude. She was going to school again tomorrow and for many tomorrows to come, but she was not going to go alone. She would take with her every day the young girl her mother once was. And Naheed would learn so much so well that she could teach her mother everything she (Naheed) learned. Everyone in the family would then have a person nearby to read and to write the precious words of the world.

Many years ago I had an experience with personal revelation that would forever change my life. I had recently graduated from college and was working for a good company. Everything seemed to be going well for me, but I had the unsettled feeling that something was missing. And I had many questions for which I could not find answers. I never thought that an invitation from my friend Imable to “meet the Mormons” would lead me to find answers to my questions—indeed, that it would have transcendent consequences for my life.
When Imable and I arrived at the meeting that Sunday in August 1974, the Church members—particularly the youth—greeted us with enthusiasm, as if we were old friends. We listened to a speaker who had great faith in what he was saying. When he finished I was surprised at the warm feeling I experienced.
Two days later I found myself in the home of one of the members, listening to the missionaries teach the gospel. Unfortunately my family would not allow the missionaries into our home because of our strong religious traditions and because they were afraid. I could understand their feelings; nevertheless, I needed to know the truth for myself, no matter what the consequences. And so I studied it out in my mind (see D&C 9:8) and prayed to God for wisdom and knowledge.
One day, as the missionaries taught me about the First Vision, the Holy Spirit testified powerfully to me that the Prophet Joseph Smith had indeed seen the Father and the Son. I said to Elder Dennis Lamb, “It is true! I know it is true!”
That night I followed the missionaries’ counsel to pour out my heart to God and ask Him if the Book of Mormon was also true. Again I experienced that peaceful and joyful feeling I had felt earlier. I was grateful for the new life the Lord was offering me through the missionaries. My mind and heart were illuminated “by the Spirit of truth” (D&C 6:15), and I knew the sweet reality of a divine Father, who loves us and extends His arms to us through His servants.
The blessings soon followed. Two months after my baptism, I baptized my youngest sister and brother. And a year later I began my service as a full-time missionary in southern Chile. My mother was baptized while I was in the field, and I was able to baptize my father when I returned home. My two sisters and my brother also served honorable missions. Months after I returned from my mission, I met my sweet wife, Adriana, and we were sealed in the temple. We were blessed with three children born in the covenant. All of this is because I listened to the quiet promptings that testified to me of the Prophet Joseph Smith and the restored Church. How grateful I am for the gift of personal revelation!

Marnie Weintz, 17, of the Copper Hills 12th Ward in West Jordan, Utah, decided to build on a 12-year friendship with Sister Rebecca Mackey, an elderly woman her mom befriended in the temple. When it came time for Marnie to pick her Choice and Accountability project for Personal Progress, she thought to reach out to Sister Mackey in a different way by sending her a thoughtful card each week. She says that sending the cards “takes discipline to be dedicated in doing it every week.”
Marnie and her family aren’t able to visit Sister Mackey too often, but they maintain their relationship through phone calls. Marnie thought that by sending cards, she could show Sister Mackey in another way that she cares. Marnie has learned that even the smallest service can make a big impact. “I’m just surprised that it’s meant so much to her. I didn’t even know if she would really want me to send them to her every week or if she would save the cards at all.”
Sister Mackey looks forward to and cherishes those weekly cards, and for Marnie, her Choice and Accountability project turned out to be more lasting than she ever thought.