Gospel Story Finder

The day just didn’t start out right. The weather was supposed to be warm and sunny, but this particular Saturday morning in Mexico was cold, windy, and overcast. The dust was everywhere in Tijuana and our car, chameleon-like, had changed color to match the weather and the city.
Trying to find the LDS chapel was no easy feat. Everyone in the car had his own opinion of where it was, as had every Mexican we asked. As we tried to decipher the street signs, we read one that said, “Un Sentido.” By the time we found out what it meant, it was too late. Our whole caravan was on a one-way street—going the wrong way.
We had made the trip from Los Angeles that morning in a couple of station wagons, two huge vacation trailers, and a two-ton truck crammed with over 100 used suits, 150 dresses, 600 shirts, blouses, trousers, and sweaters in all different sizes and shapes. We had nearly 100 pairs of shoes and loads of underwear, ties, and odd pieces of clothing. Add to that over 300 gift-wrapped toys and gifts, several bicycles, a rocking horse, 10 pairs of roller skates, and 30 to 40 boxes of canned goods and food. All of it had been collected in Los Angeles for the benefit of an orphanage and some of the needy Saints in Mexico.
In less than a month an idea for a Chatsworth Second Ward (Los Angeles California Chatsworth Stake) Aaronic Priesthood MIA service project had grown into a major undertaking.
After a few “No comprende” answers to the grinning Mexicans, we found the attractive little Mormon chapel on a hilltop overlooking the city.
There to meet us were all the children just coming out from Saturday morning Primary. But before long children from neighboring streets were on hand, too, to help carry half of the clothing and supplies into one of the classrooms for later distribution to the needy. After handing out some of the gifts for the children, we were off again, this time in a downpour, to an orphanage across the city.
It was quite an experience.
It didn’t matter that it rained miserably on the way home. Our hearts were full of sunshine.

Our little blue Volkswagen rolled down the country road, carrying us farther and farther away from the home we had grown to love so much during the past five years. Mom was driving the car that contained my two younger sisters and me, and Dad was ahead in a borrowed truck that was loaded high with beds and tables; our old upright piano; and boxes of dishes, dresses, and collected memories. Leaving our little town of Potlatch, Idaho (population 880), for the big city of Lewiston, Idaho (population 26,000), was traumatic. I was 12 years old, and I knew that the sidewalks, drive-ins, and paper mill of this strange new place I was moving to could never replace the fresh country air and close friendships I was leaving behind. I was sure the best part of life was over, and I tried to resign myself to my fate.

After we were settled in our new little home, I spent most of the hot summer days lying on my bed listening to records, reading, and writing letters to my friends. Yet, as August drew to a close, I began to get more excited about attending this big junior high school that had almost as many people as the whole town of Potlatch.

With a new dress and a nervous smile, I entered the building that September and went to first period English. I took a seat near the front of the room and was delighted when the girl in front of me turned around and introduced herself.

As the days continued, I found that, miracle of miracles, the students here were really not so different from my other friends. They also liked the Monkees, hamburgers with mustard, and football games. They also weren’t too excited about math tests, cold weather, or the rival junior high school. I began to feel a part of things and even quit plotting to return to Potlatch for my senior year. I played the clarinet in the school band and quickly found that being in that organization offered me the security of belonging to a group. I didn’t know then that there was an even greater group that was soon to enter my life.

Although I was a member of the Church, when we lived in Potlatch I had usually attended a Protestant church located just behind my house. (There was at that time no branch in Potlatch, and our family seldom traveled the half-hour distance to the nearest ward.) When we moved to Lewiston, however, we began attending Sunday School at the LDS church. It was large, and the people seemed quite friendly—I couldn’t believe how welcome they made me feel! I became good friends with a girl named Teresa, and one day she invited me to come to Mutual. I had no idea what that was, and even after she explained it to me, I figured it must be something like 4-H. What a surprise to find that both boys and girls attended and that we had interesting classes and fun activities! I became involved in Church activities and hardly ever missed Mutual. Mutual was the place where I felt the greatest warmth and acceptance. I didn’t have a testimony of the Church at that time, and the reason I attended was because of the love and friendship extended to me by my friends and leaders. I could feel a warmth there that influenced my life in a very positive manner.

Today when I hear the names of inactive boys or girls, I try to remember that each of them is a potential active member. I am grateful to Teresa, a wonderful friend who kept inviting me to Mutual until I came, and for those open-hearted people in my ward who loved me into activity. I am grateful they did not say, “Oh, well, another inactive girl. I wonder what her problem is?” I’m glad that instead, they thought, “I wonder what her strengths are? We need her.”

Mutual gave me so much—firesides, girls’ camp, slumber parties, eternal friends. And perhaps most important, it gave me the beginnings of a testimony of the gospel and the understanding of what a tremendous influence Mutual can be in the lives of young men and women. For many years I was one of the many inactive little girls throughout the Church; how grateful I am that I wasn’t allowed to remain one forever! I wonder how many inactive members are waiting for us to invite them back into the Church? President Harold B. Lee once said, “What you have to give just may be enough.” From personal experience I know that sometimes that doesn’t have to be very much at all.

Playing the Prophet
After an extensive nationwide search for a temple-worthy member to represent the Prophet, Nathan Mitchell, who previously played the adult Joseph in the recent Church film The Restoration, was again chosen to play the role of the Prophet. Two other actors played the roles of Joseph at age seven and as a teenager.
After receiving the role, Brother Mitchell was struck by a line from the hymn, “Praise to the Man” (Hymns, no. 27): “Millions shall know ‘Brother Joseph’ again.”
“I realized that if this film is to be one of the means by which millions come to know the Prophet, then first I had to know him,” Brother Mitchell said.
He began extensive research of Joseph Smith’s character by reading books and Joseph’s journals and papers and by speaking with Church history professors and others.
“My feelings about the Prophet Joseph are so special to me that I wanted to do him justice,” he said. “I just hope that the audience can have some of those same realizations and that they can start to understand Joseph. Then they will begin to understand his love of the Savior, and they will really feel his testimony.”

Wilford Woodruff learned early in life to trust deeply in the power of the Lord. According to his own record, he had many accidents and other hardships and was spared only because of the mercy of the Lord. He fell into a caldron of scalding water at the age of three; he slipped from a beam in his father’s barn, landing on his face on the bare floor; he broke his arm by falling down some stairs; he was kicked in the stomach by an ox; he was buried beneath a load of hay when his wagon tipped over; he was in a wagon that overturned when a runaway horse bolted down a hill; he fell fifteen feet from a tree, landing flat on his back; he was saved from drowning; he narrowly escaped freezing to death when a passerby happened to see him crawl into the hollow of an apple tree; he split open the instep of his left foot while chopping wood; he was bitten by a dog in the last stages of rabies; he was thrown from a runaway horse and broke one of his legs in two places and dislocated both ankles. And all of this happened before Wilford was twenty years old!
Later he fell twice from the top of a mill wheel, narrowly escaping being crushed to death. On other occasions, he was dragged behind a runaway horse; a gun aimed directly at his chest snapped accidentally but fortunately misfired; and a falling tree hit him in the chest, breaking his breastbone and three ribs and badly bruising his left thigh, hip, and arm.
It is no wonder that he recognized early the Lord’s power to preserve him. Contemplating these accidents later in his life he said, “I, therefore, ascribe my preservation on earth to the watchcare of a merciful Providence, whose hand has been stretched out to rescue me from death when I was in the presence of the most threatening dangers.”
A thoughtful young man, he wanted to do what was right. In his early teens, he wrote, “My age is an important period in the life of every man; for, generally speaking, at this period of life man forms much of his character for time and eternity. How cautious I ought to be in passing this landmark along the road of my early existence! I feel that I need care, prudence, circumspection and wisdom to guide my footsteps in the path which leads to honor and eternal life.”
Wilford Woodruff’s constant search for guidance led him often to the Lord in prayer. Then, when he finally did have the opportunity to hear the gospel, he was well prepared to receive it.
He describes his introduction to the gospel: “Elder Pulsipher opened with prayer. He knelt down and asked the Lord in the name of Jesus Christ for what he wanted. His manner of prayer and the influence which went with it impressed me greatly. The spirit of the Lord rested upon me and bore witness that he was a servant of God. After singing, he preached to the people for an hour and a half. The spirit of God rested mightily upon him, and he bore a strong testimony of the divine authenticity of the Book of Mormon and of the mission of the Prophet Joseph Smith. I believed all that he said. The spirit bore witness of its truth. …
“Liberty was then given by the elders to any one in the congregation to arise and speak for or against what they had heard as they might choose. Almost instantly I found myself upon my feet. The spirit of the Lord urged me to bear testimony of the truth of the message delivered by these elders. I exhorted my neighbors and friends not to oppose these men, for they were the true servants of God. They had preached to us that night the pure gospel of Jesus Christ. When I sat down, my brother Azmon arose and bore a similar testimony. He was followed by several others.”
Three days later, after carefully searching the Book of Mormon, he was baptized on 31 December 1833. He wrote: “The snow was about three feet deep, the day was cold, and the water was mixed with ice and snow, yet I did not feel cold.”
Soon after this, he went to Kirtland, where he met the Prophet Joseph Smith. From Kirtland, he and other new members accompanied the Prophet on the march of Zion’s Camp. During this period he was “moved upon” to start recording the significant events of Church history. Later he commented on this heavenly direction:
“The devil has sought to take away my life from the day I was born until now, more so even than the lives of other men. I seem to be a marked victim of the adversary. I can find but one reason for this: the devil knew if I got into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I would write the history of that Church and leave on record the works and teachings of the prophets, of the apostles and elders. I have recorded nearly all the sermons and teachings that I ever heard from the Prophet Joseph, I have in my journal many of the sermons of President Brigham Young, and such men as Orson Hyde, Parley P. Pratt and others. Another reason I was moved upon to write in the early days was that nearly all the historians appointed in those times apostatized and took the journals away with them.”

The Persian marketplace looked like a giant circus of brightly colored tents. It sounded like one too.
Jonas Hanway had come to Persia to buy wool to take back to England in his ships. But before he could begin trading with the wool merchants, a royal parade stopped everything.
“Make way for the Prince of Persia!” a courtier announced.
As the prince passed, the people bowed low as was their custom, but Jonas did not. He wanted to see everything that was happening. Four strong men were carrying the prince in a velvet-draped sedan chair. They held him on their shoulders high above the heads of the people. Over the prince’s head another servant held a strange shade to keep the sun away.
“What a wonderful idea!” exclaimed Jonas. He soon learned that the prince’s shade was called an umbrella.
How helpful it would be if everyone in Persia had an umbrella of his own, Jonas thought.
Soon Jonas had a number of umbrellas made to shield the sun’s rays from the heads of common persons. But when the prince heard about it, he ordered Jonas to come to the palace.
“You must stop making umbrellas,” commanded the prince. “I forbid it. Only princes and kings may carry an umbrella in Persia. It is a sign of royalty.”
The prince shook his finger angrily at Jonas and shouted even louder, “This is the way it has always been in Persia and this is the way it will stay. Take your umbrellas and go home!”
Jonas returned to his home in England, stored the umbrellas in his attic, and became so busy that he forgot about the prince.
Then one day as Jonas was leaving his home it began to rain. In minutes all the covered chairs and horse-drawn coaches were taken. Jonas was left wet and cold on his doorstep.
In those days riding in a covered chair called a sedan was an easy way to travel. Two or four men carried the chair between them on two long poles. When it rained everyone jumped in a sedan chair to keep dry.
All the people riding in chairs reminded Jonas of the Prince of Persia.
If an umbrella can keep the sun off the prince of Persia, maybe it will keep the rain off me! he thought.
Jonas ran to his attic and found an umbrella. Holding it over his head, he walked down the street.
“Look at that crazy man!” cried the children as he passed. Few Englishmen had ever seen an umbrella before.
Jonas carried his umbrella every time it rained. He gave umbrellas to his friends to carry too.
The chair men became angry. They tried to run over Jonas and some threw rocks at him.
But the people liked Jonas Hanway’s strange new idea. It was not long before many people in England were carrying umbrellas. And as the new idea spread to other parts of the world, the umbrella became known everywhere as man’s best friend—when it rains!

Just the other night we had the opportunity to attend a baptismal service in the ward meetinghouse where Rachel, a great-granddaughter, was baptized. A few nights before that, Richard, a great-grandson, had been baptized. I had the opportunity to look at them and talk to them and squeeze them and see that sparkle in their eye and of the light of the gospel that seemed to fill their heart and soul. They were so excited about the idea of being baptized to become official members of the Church. Their families had taught them true gospel principles. I remember when I said, “Richard,” as we shook hands, “give me a real missionary handshake.” And with that little eight-year-old hand he almost squeezed my fingers off. As he did it, I said, “Richard, you’ll be a great missionary, just as little Rachel will be a great member of the Church in her right.”
On that same occasion we had an opportunity to stand in the circle and to have young Peter Jr. receive the Aaronic Priesthood and to hear his father give him the blessings of the priesthood. And those of us who were older had the chance to stand in the circle and to sense the meaning of the occasion and to feel of it and to know that all present were part of our family.

In New Zealand, Denny and Alex were childhood friends who attended different churches. Friendship blossomed into courtship, and courtship into marriage. Religion had never been discussed during their dating years, but after they were married, Denny and Alex faced a dilemma: Which church should they attend?
At one point, Denny, who was a member of the Church, felt he could not continue living in a way that felt divided. His father gave him simple counsel: “Keep going to church. They are your family.” He listened. Two years later, his wife chose to be baptized. In time, they were sealed in the house of the Lord. What began with tension ended in unity. They chose to come unto Christ—together.

Brigham Young certainly had repeated opportunities to hold a steady course, particularly in those early and dif?cult years at the side of the Prophet Joseph Smith. While the First Presidency was away from Kirtland attempting to stabilize the dif?cult ?nancial circumstances they faced in the winter of 1836–37, a council was called by those who were opposed to Joseph Smith’s continuing in his office as prophet and president of the Church.

On this occasion [Brigham Young] “rose up . . . in a plain and forcible manner” and told them “that Joseph was a Prophet, and I knew it, and that they might rail and slander him as much as they pleased; they could not destroy the appointment of the Prophet of God, they could only destroy their own authority, cut the thread that bound them to the Prophet and to God, and sink themselves to hell.”

Some of those present reacted violently [toward Brigham]. One Jacob Bump . . . fancied himself a ­pugilist. While several held him back, he twisted and turned, shouting, “How can I keep my hands off that man?” “Lay them on,” responded Brigham, “if it will give you any relief!”

But the man didn’t lay them on. A few nights later Brigham heard a man running through the Kirtland streets at midnight shouting loudly and denouncing the Prophet Joseph. Even at that late hour Brigham jumped out of bed, went into the street and
jerked [the man] round, and assured him that if he did not stop his noise, and let the people enjoy their sleep . . . I would cowhide him on the spot, for we had the Lord’s Prophet right here, and we did not want the devil’s prophet yelling [up and down] the streets.

These were days of genuine “crisis,” he reported, “when earth and hell seemed leagued to overthrow the Prophet and the Church of God. The knees of many of the strongest men in the Church faltered.” But Brigham Young did not falter, yet before that year was over his own life was in jeopardy for such loyalty. On December 22 he said:

I had to leave to save my life. . . .
. . . I left Kirtland in consequence of the fury of the mob, and the spirit that prevailed in the apostates, who had threatened to destroy me because I would proclaim, publicly and privately, that I knew by the power of the Holy Ghost, that Joseph Smith was a Prophet of the Most High God.

“Everybody needs to look their very best tomorrow,” Mrs. Santos called out in a sing-song voice. “Tomorrow is picture day!”
Whispers and giggles spread around the room. Everyone seemed excited about picture day. Everyone except me. I felt a knot in my stomach.
At recess, all my friends wanted to talk about was what outfit they were going to wear for school pictures. With each thing they mentioned, the knot in my stomach got bigger.
I didn’t have any of the pretty things they talked about. How could I look beautiful if I didn’t have anything beautiful to wear?
The next morning I dug through all my drawers and decided on a red and white striped shirt and my denim skirt. I had two flower hair clips, but one had a broken petal. My shirt had a little yellow stain on it. Maybe it wouldn’t show. My skirt was faded, and my shoes were scuffed. Nervous butterflies joined the knots in my stomach. I worried and worried all the way to school.
When I got to school, I ran to the washroom, hoping no one had seen me yet. Hot tears ran down my face. I quickly wiped them away when I heard footsteps.
“Are you OK?” It was Mrs. Santos. “A couple of your classmates said they saw you run in here and thought something might be wrong.”
I didn’t say anything as I stared down at my shoes. A question bubbled up inside of me.
“Are you disappointed in me?” My voice cracked.
Mrs. Santos put her arm around my shoulder. “Why would I be disappointed in you?”
“Well …” I sniffed and tried to think of how to say what I wanted to say. “You said to look your very best for picture day. And …”
I slowly traced the stain on my shirt with a fingertip.
“I don’t have anything pretty,” I continued. “My clothes are kind of old.”
Mrs. Santos was quiet for a minute. Then she gave my shoulder a squeeze.
“Let’s have a look and see what we can do.” She lifted my chin so that I was looking into the mirror. “Hmmm. You know what I see?”
“What?” I asked.
“I see a special girl who looks sad today,” she said, “and who forgot to wear her prettiest feature.”
I stared at Mrs. Santos. What was she talking about?
“Try a smile, and then let’s take another look,” Mrs. Santos said.
I gazed in the mirror. Slowly the corners of my mouth turned up.
“You aren’t beautiful because of what you wear or the way you look. You are beautiful because of who you are,” Mrs. Santos said. “Your happy personality always puts a smile on everyone’s face.”
I tilted my head and watched my smile grow bigger and bigger. I started to feel the knot in my stomach loosen. Mrs. Santos was right. My smile was the best!
I looked down at my shirt—the yellow stains, the scuffed shoes. Who cares? I was a child of God, and it wasn’t my clothes that made me. They didn’t matter. I looked in the mirror again. My teeth sparkled as my grin stretched out.
“Ah! There it is,” Mrs. Santos said. “Picture perfect!”

Natalie dipped her brush into the orange paint and put the finishing touches on her newest picture. Orange swirled together with red, yellow, pink, and lavender watercolors to form a sunset behind majestic mountains.
“There! I’m finally finished,” she announced as she placed the painting on the kitchen counter to dry.
“It’s beautiful, Natalie,” Mom said as she admired the painting. “I think you have a good chance of winning the school art contest again this year.”
Just then, Jared, Natalie’s twelve-year-old brother, zipped through the kitchen. “Bye! I’m going to practice for the big race!” he yelled as the screen door slammed shut. In the next instant, his blond hair and blue eyes were seen poking into the kitchen again. “Hey, Nat! You’re still going to paint my go-cart for me, right?”
“Sure, Jared. I’ll do it after lunch. You’ll be back by then, won’t you?”
“I’ll make sure that I am!”
In the meantime, I’ll go try out my new bike tires, Natalie thought. Jared had put new tires on her bicycle, and in return, Natalie had agreed to paint bright red flames on the sides of his go-cart for the community go-cart race on Monday afternoon.
As she started to pedal down the street, she heard her friend Nicole calling her. “Natalie, my parents are taking me to the amusement park today, and they said that I could bring a friend. Would you like to come?”
“I’d love to!” Natalie squealed. Then she remembered Jared. “Wait—I can’t go. I promised Jared I’d paint his go-cart for the race on Monday. Tomorrow’s Sunday, so I can’t do it then.”
“We can wait a couple hours for you if you want to paint it now.”
“Jared has it with him. He’s practicing for the race and won’t be back until after lunch,” Natalie said sadly.
“Well, it will go just as fast without paint as with paint,” Nicole rationalized. “Your painting it isn’t going to help him win the race.”
Natalie thought, That makes sense. It won’t matter if there aren’t any flames on the sides of his go-cart. Besides, does he expect me to wait around all day for him? “OK, I’ll go!” she told Nicole. “Mom’s gone to the store, so I’ll tell Dad and we can go right away!”
At the amusement park, smells of popcorn and cotton candy filled the air, and colorful clowns carried giant bouquets of bright red balloons. The girls went on every ride, but for some reason, Natalie wasn’t having much fun. Even when she rode the carousel, her favorite ride, she didn’t enjoy herself. As she sat on a beautiful white horse with sparkling jewels in its trappings, all she could think about was how disappointed Jared was going to be when he found out that she had broken her promise.
That evening, Natalie dreaded going home. She opened the door as quietly as she could, hoping that nobody would hear her come in. But Mom was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper. “Did you have a good time?” she asked.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Natalie answered halfheartedly. “Where’s Jared? I really need to talk to him.”
“He and Dad are out practicing for the race. They’ll be home late,” Mom said with an “I’m disappointed in you but I’m not going to say anything” tone of voice. “You’ll have to wait until morning.”
Sunday morning, Natalie didn’t say a word at breakfast, and she was barely able to choke down her waffles. Jared didn’t mention the go-cart, but Natalie could tell by the look in his eyes that he was hurt. She was glad when it was finally time to go to church.
After a prayer, her Primary teacher, Sister Parker, began to explain the lesson. “Today we are going to talk about covenants. A covenant is a promise, or an agreement, between two people.”
Natalie slumped in her seat. How did she know to teach this lesson today? she wondered.
“As long as one of them keeps the agreement,” Sister Parker continued, “the other is also bound to do what he or she has promised.”
Just like the deal I made with Jared. Natalie squirmed in her chair.
“We all make covenants when we are baptized. We promise to take upon us the name of our Savior, Jesus Christ. This means that we are willing to live as He would have us live.”
Jesus would not have wanted me to break my promise to Jared.
“We also promise to always remember Him and keep His commandments. In return, He promises to send His Spirit to always be with us. The sacrament is a time for us to remember what the Savior has done for us, and to renew our baptismal covenants.”
During the sacrament, she tried to really concentrate on what Sister Parker had talked about in Primary. She listened carefully to the sacrament prayers. She thought about Jesus and how He had suffered and died for her. Then she thought about the covenants she had made at baptism to take His name upon her, to always remember Him, and to keep His commandments. “Heavenly Father, I promise to do better,” she prayed silently.
On the way home, she apologized to Jared. “I’m really sorry that I didn’t paint your go-cart. How can I make it up to you?”
“It’s OK, Nat. I can still race. Don’t worry about it.”
But Natalie did worry about it. She wanted to make things right somehow. After praying again about it, she knew what she had to do.
Monday morning, Jared was astonished. When he went to get his go-cart, it had been painted a sleek black, and bright red flames raced along the sides. He ran into the house and up the stairs. “Hey, Nat!” he shouted.
“Shhh!” Mom said with her finger to her lips. “I’m going to let her sleep for a while longer.”
“Did you see it?” Jared asked, barely able to hold still long enough to hear the answer.
“Yes, I did. It looks great! She got up at three o’clock this morning to paint it for you.”
The time for the race finally came. Friends and families crowded along the course, waiting for the go-carts to come racing down the hill. Natalie waved to Jared as he slipped into the red and black go-cart. “Good luck, Jared!”
As he waved back, he had a huge, happy grin on his face. Natalie’s grin was just as huge and happy.

For many years my wife and children and I have had the tradition of spending summer vacation on a small beach near our home in southern Brazil. Sometimes we moved because of work, but no matter how far we lived from that small beach, we always made the annual trip with much anticipation and joy. Likewise, extended family members and friends would travel long distances so we could all be together once a year. Everyone came as early as they could and stayed as long as possible.
At that small beach our family had many wonderful opportunities for spiritual growth and gospel teaching. Most of our extended family members were not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and did not share our religious beliefs. To them the Lord’s day was just another day to play and have fun. Because more of the family would be at the beach on weekends than during the other days of the week, our presence and participation in Sunday activities was not only expected but also insistently requested—including by our children.
Our children were small and only just learning to apply the truths of the gospel. To them the temptation of participating in activities with their cousins and friends on Sundays was great. Spending time with family is an important part of the gospel, and breaking the Sabbath would have been easy to rationalize. After all, the closest unit of the Church at that time was more than 60 miles (96 km) away from the beach. Our friends and neighbors in our home congregation were far away, and none of them would ever know if we stayed at the beach instead of driving to the chapel and attending our meetings on Sunday. We went to church the entire year, and our extended family could be together only a few weeks a year.
Nevertheless, we never missed going to church on Sundays—not even once! We remembered the Lord’s teachings:
“And that thou mayest more fully keep thyself unspotted from the world, thou shalt go to the house of prayer and offer up thy sacraments upon my holy day;
“For verily this is a day appointed unto you to rest from your labors, and to pay thy devotions unto the Most High; …
“But remember that on this, the Lord’s day, thou shalt offer thine oblations and thy sacraments unto the Most High. …
“And on this day thou shalt do none other thing, only let thy food be prepared with singleness of heart that thy fasting may be perfect, or, in other words, that thy joy may be full” (D&C 59:9–13).
We chose to keep this commandment, and we taught our children that they should keep it as well. Soon they understood that it was more important to worship God on His holy day than to please family and friends or to satisfy their own desires.
On Sundays at the beach, we would wake up early, dress up for Sunday worship, and travel by car to the nearest chapel. During our trip and throughout the entire day, we would enjoy the peace and joy the Lord has promised to those who keep His commandments. We came to learn that this feeling of peace and joy does not come from the world.
After several years of this routine, something wonderful happened. Our children stopped questioning the importance of worshipping God on His holy day, and several of our children’s cousins began to ask if they could go to church with us! Little did we know that the feeling of peace and joy we felt was also being felt by our nieces and nephews upon our return from our meetings. Eventually a great blessing resulted. After some of those children became adolescents, two of them from one family told their parents, “We want to become Latter-day Saints.” Soon the entire family was baptized. Recently, one of the children, now a returned missionary, was married in the temple.
We still go to that beach every year, but everyone knows that on Sunday our family will not be there to play. Instead, we will go to church and worship God with family members who join us—a group that is becoming larger and larger every year!
When we look back on those years and think about the choice we made, we thank God for helping us have the courage to do what was right and to teach our children to do the same. We don’t have the slightest doubt that that decision strengthened our children as well as our extended family. It gave us the Lord’s promised peace, played an important role in the conversion of family members, and blessed us with a satisfaction not found in alternative Sunday activities that do not fill the soul.

When I recently faced the daunting task of choosing two counselors, I wondered how I could possibly choose just two from twelve men whom I love and respect.

Because I know that good inspiration is based upon good information, I prayerfully met one-on-one with each Apostle.6 I then sequestered myself in a private room in the temple and sought the Lord’s will. I testify that the Lord instructed me to select President Dallin H. Oaks and President Henry B. Eyring to serve as my counselors in the First Presidency.

A quick story on positivity. For five years, I served in the bishopric with PJ Rogers. One morning in 2019, my brother PJ was having a bad day. He woke up and noticed their house was broken into, and someone helped themselves to their van. It was stolen. Lori, PJ’s wife, called me to ask if I could help find it, and we spent the morning searching for it.

We eventually found it, but because the van was stolen, and PJ had to teach a class that morning, he rode his motorcycle to the location the van was found. After the police showed up and did their investigation, I left to go back to work and told PJ to call me if he needed anything else. A few minutes later, I received a phone call from Lori. She told me PJ tipped his bike over and needed help picking it up. My heart sank because I could only imagine what really happened. I know PJ and know he didn’t want to worry Lori about what really happened. As I arrived on Kam Hwy in front of Hukilau, I saw him lying in the road with a badly broken leg. The first thing he said to me was (in my best PJ voice), “Quick, take a picture.” I told him no and tried to scrap him off the road. He said it again, “Take a picture before the ambulance comes, that’s a gnarly broken leg.” Upset, I told him ‘NO! You’re an idiot.’ He calmly said to me, “Keni, it’s a broken leg, it’ll heal but my feelings won’t if you don’t take the picture. I’m just glad I didn’t smash my head or get run over. Now take the picture.” We peeled him off the road, gave him a blessing, and got him in the ambulance while the policeman wrote him a ticket. Upset, I crumpled up the ticket and threw it back to the policeman so the ambulance could leave. PJ took the ticket and said he would take care of it. With all that happening, he still managed to be happy, grateful, and positive and posed for this overly enthusiastic photo at the hospital.

My first job was building an oil production pipeline to connect a new offshore oil platform to an existing platform, and hence the pipeline network. The offshore pipeline was the first in the world (in 1982) to be installed using the bottom tow technique. For many reasons, this was an exciting project for a young engineer. The excitement intensified when my boss, the project manager, was moved to another international assignment, making me the responsible project engineer.

The project involved making up 1-kilometer-long strings of 12-inch-diameter steel pipe at a beach site, then towing lengths of pipe into the ocean and joining sections until a 3.5-kilometer pipeline was complete. A tow vessel would pull the complete pipeline 85 kilometers along the seafloor to the offshore location. Sophisticated deflection connection procedures, using winches and hydraulic connectors, were planned for the final connections.

Success depended on towing the pipeline along a prescribed path, then stopping the tow so that it would be exactly positioned and aligned for subsea connection at 280-foot water depth.

This was many years before GPS satellites. We used the best available navigation systems and acoustics transponders on the pipeline to track its position.

The tow had some significant challenges; however, we followed the prescribed route exactly and felt that we had stopped the tow leaving the connecting sleds at the front and back end of the pipeline exactly in the target positions.

With the tow complete, a survey boat pinged acoustic transponders on the pipeline and reported positioning data by radio to a control hut on one of the platforms. We were delighted as the survey confirmed that the front end was exactly in the right position and, a little later, that the pipeline alignment was also perfect.

That, however, was the end of the good news.

The final check on the tail end of the pipeline reported that it was 36 meters out of position. After triple-checking, we concluded that the pipeline was 36 meters too long.

Everyone immediately wanted to know how we had measured and confirmed the length before the tow. As the responsible project engineer, I could not answer the question. I had been so deeply engaged and interested (as a young engineer) in all the high-tech systems and processes that I had missed the fact that the pipeline length was equally vital to success.

Investigation identified the cause of the error. Late in the project, we needed a weight change for stability during the tow and added 3-by-12-meter lengths of heavy wall pipe to the tail end. We had inadvertently added 36 meters without taking anything off.

I radioed the developments project director at Esso to report the problem. He simply said, "Meurs, don't come back onshore until that pipeline is connected."

Things initially went from bad to worse. We were still able to complete the first pull-in procedure connecting the tail end of the pipeline to the new platform. We then decided to use the tow vessel to lift the other end of the pipeline off the seafloor by tensioning the tow wire. The plan was to walk the suspended length of pipeline sideways to use the extra length.

With the pipeline under tension and lifted off the seafloor, we commenced the sideways maneuver. Partway through the critical move, the tow vessel engines stopped. Under tension, the boat was pulled backwards, and the pipeline hit the seafloor with such great force that a rubber shear sphere in the end dislodged. Sea water rushed in, and the pipeline weight went from 80 tons to 400 tons in a few seconds.

What had seemed like a most exciting and challenging project for a young engineer suddenly looked like a disaster. I had been praying night and morning, but now I poured out my soul to Heavenly Father. I explained that I had served a mission, married in the temple, we had started our family while at university and now had two beautiful daughters. After all of this, it looked to me like my engineering career was coming to an end. I pleaded for inspiration and help.

My prayers were answered, and within a couple of weeks, with promptings, hard work, and input from a wonderful team, we connected the pipeline and tested it. I returned to shore to face the music. The extra 36 meters had added $3 million to a $15 million project.

I had to write a project closeout report. Thankfully I understood repentance.

To my surprise, my report was received very positively. Over the next two years, I led a team that installed longer and more complicated bottom-tow pipelines. Cost savings were more than twice the extra cost of the first installation.

I had learned many more important lessons than checking the measurement before towing a pipeline--I had learned that Heavenly Father is willing to answer all our prayers, even when we pray about our work. I also learned the power, in the world, of stepping forward and taking responsibility when we make mistakes.

Wind chimes filled the outdoors with music. Telephone wires whistled with each gust of wind. Leaves could not hold on to their branches but danced in the air before floating down to cover the backyard like a big, lumpy, calico quilt.
The wind was teasing everything. It lifted Allison’s hat off her head and pulled her ponytail out in front of her. It pushed at her one way, then shoved her another.
“Stop it!” Allison shouted at the wind. “You’re too rough!”
But the wind didn’t listen.
Allison bounced her ball, but the wind snatched it away. She tried to jump rope, but the wind tangled it under her feet.
“Wind,” shouted Allison, “you don’t play fair!”
Again and again the wind interfered. When Allison tried to roller-skate, the wind made her wobble. When she tried to pedal her bicycle, the wind wheeled her the wrong way.
Allison stopped and thought. “Wind,” she said, looking up into the sky, “I know something that we both can play.”
Allison went into her house and brought out her kite. As she let out some string, the wind pulled the kite little by little high into the sky. Up, up it went, higher than the houses. It kept going up, up until it seemed to be playing tag with the clouds and there was no more string left to unwind.
Allison tugged on the string. The wind pulled on the kite. Allison giggled. The wind whistled. All afternoon Allison and the wind played.
“Al—li—son,” called Grandmother from the porch.
“Wind, I have to go,” Allison said as she tugged harder on the end of the string.
The wind pulled back.
“I really have to go now.” This time she tugged with both hands.
The wind pulled back again, but more gently as it began to die down.
Little by little the kite floated down. Down, down, up, down, zigzagging below the clouds. Down, up, down below the houses. Down, carefully, below the trees. Whispering now, the wind set the kite at Allison’s feet, then brushed across her face like a feather.
“Oh, Allison,” called Grandmother once more. “Come over here and let me see those great big apples in your cheeks.”
Allison giggled. She knew that she didn’t have apples in her cheeks. She had just been kissed by the wind.

When Leo Winegar of the United States first encountered questions about Church history, he learned the importance of compassionate friends. “My testimony withered,” he explains, as he went through a period of “loneliness and dark despair when I struggled to pray.” One day Leo felt impressed to contact a Church history professor. He not only encouraged Leo to reconsider his path of doubt but also became a close friend. Leo’s testimony gradually returned with the help of Leo’s mentor and years of hopeful study. In time, he found answers to many questions. “I feel eternally grateful to my Savior Jesus Christ for guiding me back,” he explains, “and for the friends who represented Him.”

For others, recognition of imbalance may not be so clear. While serving as a stake president, I observed as a member of our stake grew in prominence in the business community. He had a growing family and held positions of responsibility in the Church. All appeared to be in order. Then it became evident that he was paying too high a price for his temporal success. The first indication was his request to be released from all Church callings because of their time conflict with his work-related obligations. Even more alarming, through a series of behavioral problems with his ­children, priesthood leaders became acutely aware that basic family duties were being neglected. Communication with his wife and children had deteriorated, as they seldom saw him. When they did, he was usually preoccupied by professional demands or simply too tired for family activities or even meaningful conversation. Only through a tragic and agonizing series of events was this man brought to a realization of the consequences of his actions on his own spiritual health and that of his family.

My last example of a miraculous indication is a personal one which happened one month after President Nelson gave that talk.
The first week of May 2018 was a turbulent time for our family. Our daughter Jenny was scheduled to deliver our first grandchild. She and her husband, Joe, were living in Orem so my wife, Marie, had gone down to help out a few days before the scheduled delivery. I stayed in Rexburg to teach my classes and planned to drive to Orem early on the morning of the delivery.
Previous to becoming pregnant, Jenny developed a potentially dangerous autoimmune condition that causes excessive bruising and bleeding. The bleeding results from unusually low levels of platelets—the cells that help blood to clot. It is critically important to moniter this condition when delivering a baby; if your platelet count drops before delivering, you have a greater risk of heavy bleeding.
On the morning of May 7 everything looked good and Jenny, Joe, Marie, and Joe’s mother, Amy, were all at the hospital awaiting the big moment. It was around noon when the text messages from Marie notified me of some progress in the delivery room. Jenny was pushing hard. The baby’s head was crowning. I was now in the hospital parking lot, anxiously awaiting each text. Finally, the baby was out! It was a boy! I texted my response and asked if I should come inside. There was no response to my text. After several minutes I resent the text and again, I did not receive a response. I had an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. I decided to go inside and see what was happening.
When I opened the door to the outer waiting room both my wife and Joe’s mother were in the room and they were crying. It took a minute to get the details from them. I learned that the baby was okay; he had been taken to the NICU. Jenny on the other hand was not doing well. She had hemorrhaged during the delivery and had been taken to intensive care. Only Joe had been allowed to go with her. For the next hour we didn’t know much of what was happening. When we got a report on Jenny’s condition, we learned that it had been a very close call. Jenny had lost so much blood so quickly that her vital organs had begun shutting down. In the ICU she had been put on a respirator, intubated, and given several units of blood. The doctors had slowed her bleeding but had not been able to stop it completely. We were not allowed to see her until just before midnight when her condition stabilized and Joe and I were able to go to her room and give her a priesthood blessing. That night at the hotel as Marie and I said our prayers together, we thanked the Lord for the miracle of Tanner’s healthy birth and that Jenny had been spared and had a good prognosis. Five days after giving birth, Jenny was discharged from the ICU and today everyone is healthy and happy. You probably think that this happy ending is the extent of the miracle, but there is more. We did not realize it at the time, but it just so “happened” that Jenny’s labor coincided with a personnel shift-change in the labor and delivery ward. This allowed there to be double the number of doctors and nurses available as usual and it turned out that all of them were needed to get Jenny stabilized. Additionally, because of her rapid loss of blood, several units were needed on an emergency basis and thanks to the close proximity of other large hospitals, those units of blood arrived in just minutes. Viewing this medical emergency through a clarifying lens of faith I could see that miracles had happened even before we knew they were needed.

Some time ago I was in this same situation. My friend, who is not yet a member of the Church, went to a bar and brought back two bottles of beer. I said to him, “Don’t you know my Latter-day Saint principles?” He answered, “Excuse me, I had forgotten; so I have no friend to drink with.” Then he surprised me. He threw the two bottles in the garbage. He always goes out with me now, but he does not drink.
Our examples influence other people. We need to follow the example of Jesus Christ.

J. R. Beeman and his little brothers always look like a school of sharks when they come at you on their bikes. They charge at whoever is around, and they back you into a corner if they can.
Todd and Aaron and I were shooting hoops late last Tuesday afternoon when they showed up and bumped their bikes onto the gravelly asphalt of the school yard. They kept rearing up their front wheels, making the dust go all over the place.
“I’m not afraid of those guys,” Todd muttered, looking quickly over his shoulder. I knew he was checking to see if any of the men at the gas station on Ohio Street were around, just in case.
Aaron didn’t say anything, but he got even quieter than usual. He had the ball and began bouncing it slowly and evenly. As the bikes raced closer, I saw him swallow—just one long swallow.
Then we all three automatically moved farther into the middle of the basketball court, away from the chain-link fence behind the hoop. Nobody wanted to be backed up against a fence by J.R.
“Hello, infants,” J. R. yelled, chewing open-mouthed on what looked like a whole pack of greenish-colored gum. His two little brothers laughed real loud at J.R.’s big, hilarious joke.
“Infants!” Tommy, the one in second grade, echoed.
Of course, there really wasn’t anything funny about it, since J. R. is ten-going-on-eleven, just like Todd and Aaron and me. I guess because his mom’s been sick for so long and he has to take care of his brothers and the house and everything while his dad’s away, he seems to think that being mean to everybody makes his brothers look up to him.
With his brothers following him, J. R. veered left and began making circles around us. Just like sharks, they kept circling us tighter, tighter. J. R. spit a mouthful of gum juice onto the court.
Right then Brother and Sister Damore and their four little kids walked by on the way to the park. They were singing silly songs and giggling and carrying a blanket and a big picnic basket. J. R. turned so fast and stared so hard at them that he nearly lost control of his bike. He stopped chewing, and his face got kind of … ordinary … even kind of sad.
His brothers looked where he was looking. “Do we get to eat dinner tonight?” his littlest brother asked in a kind of puny-sounding voice.
“Hey, I’ll take care of it, like I always do!” J. R. barked at him. He jumped up on the bike’s pegs to make his front tire rear, then came down hard on its left pedal and nosed his bike to the right, toward his own neighborhood.
I could almost feel Todd go limp with relief.
“See you, infants!” J. R. called back to us.
His little brothers followed like pets, pumping hard to keep up. Todd, Aaron, and I headed home.
“Hi, sweetie. How did your game go?” Mom asked when I dragged into our kitchen. “There’s juice, an apple, and some cheese in the fridge, but don’t spoil your supper.”
I opened the refrigerator door and hung there, looking things over, checking out the fruit. “What’re we having?”
“Fried chicken.” She turned to smile at me. “I bought extra legs.”
“Is that hard to cook?” I asked. “I mean, could a kid cook it for his family?”
I noticed then that she was dunking pieces of chicken into a big bowl of buttermilk and then into flour. Her hands had globs of wet flour sticking to them. She pushed her bangs back with her arm and gave me one of her smile-frowns, shaking her head. “What questions you come up with, Josh! Chicken? Depends on the kid, I guess. Older ones, maybe. Chicken’s pretty hard. As you can see, it’s messy, and the grease can splatter.”
“And burn you?”
She nodded. “It’s possible. Too big a chance to take.”
I shuffled things around in the meat bin. “Why? I mean, why wouldn’t you want to take the chance?”
She took the flour bowl over to the sink and turned the water on with her arm. A pan on the stove was making a popping sort of sound, and another pan was beginning to send steam spurting into the air. She washed the gunk off her hands, hastily dried them on the towel she had stuck into her jeans pocket, then hustled toward me.
I braced myself, but she didn’t sneak a hug. She just put her damp hands on my shoulders and maneuvered me out of the refrigerator, handing me a pear and shutting the door of the fridge. “Josh, I kind of need my concentration while I get this going. And you should get a little homework started—OK?”
We didn’t play basketball after school the next day, or the next. Our science projects for Mr. Fosnow were almost due, and I spent my time organizing the fossil collection I was putting together. On that second gameless afternoon, Thursday, I walked to Quigley’s Store to get some more rubber cement for my project. You go right past the school on the way. I heard the thunk of a basketball for half a block before I actually saw J. R. shooting really hopeless-looking shots at the basket in the school yard. He was by himself. Who would play with him?
He didn’t see me. I quickly turned to hurry back the way I’d come. I didn’t need the rubber cement that badly—I could use some of my little sister’s paste.
Then I heard laughter coming from the park. It was the Damores again. I turned back and watched J. R. He was listening, too, holding that ball perfectly still at chest level. When they started singing “We Are a Happy Family,” he suddenly jerked into motion and violently threw the ball more at the basket than toward it. It missed by so much that it even cleared the fence and rolled into the street.
J. R. kicked the loose gravel of the court. He whirled around under the net there by himself, kicking and hitting the tops of his own legs with his fists, and whisper-yelling something over and over while sweat ran down his neck and his face got red.
Meanwhile, the ball rolled clear across Ohio Street and jumped the curb. It rolled, slightly bouncing, toward me.
I went over and got it. When I straightened up, J. R. was looking directly at me, open-mouthed. My heart lurched like a fish inside my chest. I meant to throw the ball back to him, then run home. But I didn’t.
Instead I dribbled it across the street, around the fence, and onto the court. I could have shot an easy basket. But I bounced it to J.R., instead, threw up my arms, and jumped around like guarding in a real game.
For maybe half a second he looked confused, but I was right on him, so he ran, dribbling, then took a shot himself. He missed, but not by too much. With practice, he would get it.
I lunged to get possession of the ball. Above me, the orange hoop made a circle in the sky.