Gospel Story Finder

Keite de Lima A. Ahmed and Viviana Torres Noguera struggled to make ends meet even though their husbands worked hard for their families. For both, the PEF was a great blessing.
Less-active members of Keite’s family expressed doubts, however, when she registered for an 18-month safety-technician program. But she excelled in her studies and was offered a full-time position in her field in 2007.
“The fund did more than just help me receive training and employment; it also helped me feel better about myself and grow more confident in my abilities,” says Keite, one of the first women hired to conduct safety inspections, training, and implementation by a company in São José dos Pinhais, near Curitiba. “This inspired program has brought our family greater happiness and stronger testimonies,” she says.
Keite’s parents and siblings, impressed with her performance and determination and with how the PEF blessed her family, have returned to activity in the Church. “They were reminded that the Church lifts people and helps them grow in many ways—not only spiritually but also in all important ways that make for a full life,” she says.

One day at school as I ate lunch and studied for my next class, I noticed a group sitting near me, talking and laughing. One young woman particularly caught my attention. She was tall, with beautiful black hair, dark skin, and high cheekbones. Her appearance was as unlike my pale, freckled face and red hair as anything I could imagine. She was one of the most beautiful people I had ever seen.
After a few minutes, the group rose to leave. But the young woman I had been watching stopped. I was somewhat embarrassed; I thought she must have seen me staring at them. Then something extraordinary happened.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said, “but I want to tell you how beautiful you are.”
After a shocked pause, I started to laugh. “I was thinking the same thing about you!”
After she left, I continued to think about what had happened. We found our differences beautiful. At that moment I realized there is no single standard of beauty.

As a young girl, I developed a strong imagination and sense of humor. Listening to music was one of my favorite pastimes. I often pulled out our old record player and listened to the music from popular plays and movies such as Carousel, Oklahoma, and the Music Man. I had never actually seen them, so I created my own plots and story lines based on the words from the songs. I also made up all the dances and acted out many of the roles. It didn’t take much to make me happy. A few dress-up clothes from my parents’ closet, a record, an empty room, and I was off on an adventure.
In my mind, I traveled to many faraway places and experienced many marvelous things. In fact, later in my life, when I was able to travel, I discovered that the places I visited in my imagination were almost more fun and exciting than trips I actually took.

In the fall of 2020, the COVID-19 pandemic had the world on its knees. We were certainly all affected in some way.
Given my vocation in the culture and tourism industries, the pandemic posed a serious challenge to me professionally. So, I was full of expectation when I learned that our beloved prophet, President Russell M. Nelson, would deliver a special address to the world on Nov. 20, 2020.
As he began, President Nelson told of some of the challenges he had experienced in his life and expressed great concern about the pandemic. Then he said, “There is, however, a remedy—one that may seem surprising—because it flies in the face of our natural intuitions. Nevertheless, its effects have been validated by scientists as well as men and women of faith.
“I am referring to the healing power of gratitude.”1
President Nelson invited us to use social media as our personal gratitude journal and to express our thanks to God in our daily prayers for the innumerable blessings in our lives.
I applied the “therapy” he suggested and felt it helped me in that difficult time to experience healing and have a cheerful, believing heart.

A number of weeks later, we had another conference, this time with our new mission president, Elder Gene R. Cook. In my interview with him, he told me he felt that I had a good spirit and that God expected much of me. He also said he knew I could do more and be a better missionary.
I thought deeply about his words, and about those left us by our former mission president. I sought the inspiration of the Spirit and told the Lord that I would work hard during the rest of my mission to bring souls unto him. I dedicated my efforts to fulfilling the mission that God had given me. I worked hard. Even so, as my mission neared its end, I had not yet felt what my first mission president had felt: confirmation from God that my work was accepted.
I continued to work hard, and on the last day of my mission—our preparation day—my companion and I baptized a special young family.
When I returned to the mission home in Montevideo, President Cook interviewed me for the last time. After we prayed together, he asked me if I had anything I wanted to discuss with him.
I thought about it, but decided not to burden him with my desire for a confirmation from the Lord that my work was accepted. Then, as if he read my thoughts, he looked me in the eyes and said, “Elder Acosta, the Spirit tells me that the Lord is pleased with you because of your labors, and I feel that you may return home reassured. I feel that this is troubling you.”
With tears in my eyes, I told him that it had been troubling me but that now I could go home happy because I knew the Lord was pleased with my missionary labors. An inner peace came over me, confirming that it was so.

“Putting on the Whole Armor of God, Raft-Style” was the theme of a high adventure activity in which nearly 50 young women and 20 adults were divided into “raft families” and floated the Green River in southern Utah.
In preparation for the rafting experience, safety lessons were presented as metaphors taken from Ephesians 6:10–18. Life vests represented the “breastplate of righteousness,” sunscreen represented the “shield of faith,” and the oars of the rafts represented the “sword of the Spirit” and reminded the youth of the direction we’re given by the scriptures and counsel from prophets.
During the second and final river run, the temperatures dropped and the river became shrouded in mist, much like the “mist of darkness” spoken of in Lehi’s dream (see 1 Nephi 8:23–24). The youth were reminded that protection comes as we hold fast to gospel truths and we are able to safely get to our destination. One Laurel said of that final run, “I have never been so cold and tired in my life, but I have never had so much fun.” One of the bishop’s counselors said, “Not only was this a great activity, but it was also so spiritual, even while we floated the river. This is an experience that the participants will never forget.”

Father dropped a stack of books on the table and announced, “Tonight for family home evening we are going to write our testimonies in a Book of Mormon. Practice first on a piece of paper. Then, using your best handwriting, put your testimony on the inside cover, and sign your name. We’ll glue a picture of you underneath it, and tomorrow I’ll give the books to the bishop to donate to the missionaries.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Mother. “Maybe what we write will inspire someone to join the Church. Let’s put our address under the pictures, too, and maybe someone will write back to us.”

David and Anna eagerly reached for a piece of paper.

“I’m going to explain about the priesthood and how I was ordained a deacon,” David said.

“I’m going to write about our family and how we can be together forever,” said Anna.

John just sat and stared at his paper.

Soon everyone except John was busily writing. Several minutes later Mother stopped and said, “What’s wrong, John?”

“Nothing,” he mumbled.

“Can’t you decide what to say?” Father asked.

John shook his head.

“Maybe you could write how the Church has a living prophet,” Mother suggested, “or how we read the Book of Mormon every day as a family and how that helps you to make right choices.”

“Yes, I guess I could,” John said. He stared at his paper some more. What could I say that would help anybody? he wondered. Who would ever believe what a seven-year-old had to say?

John thought about his next birthday. It was four months away, and he would be baptized then. An idea began to form in his mind, and he started to write. Several times he crushed up his paper and threw it away, but he kept working at the project.

Everyone else had finished writing when John finally started copying his testimony on the inside cover of his Book of Mormon. When he finished, he reread it one last time.

My name is John Richards. I am seven years old. Soon I will be eight. When I turn eight, I will be baptized by immersion as Jesus was. My father will baptize me and confirm me a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I believe that this is the true church of Christ. If you read this book and pray about it, Heavenly Father will tell you that the teachings in it are true. Then you can get baptized too. Please write and tell me how you feel when you read this book.
Sincerely,John Richards

Satisfied, John carefully glued his picture underneath it, wrote his address, and added his book to the stack.

“All finished?” Father asked.

“Yes,” answered John. “That sure was hard!”

“Sometimes trying to express your feelings is hard,” agreed Father. “But sharing your testimony will not only help someone else learn about the Church. It will also help your testimony grow stronger.”

“Is that why I feel good now?” John asked.

“I’m sure it is. And when someone gets your book and reads what you wrote, maybe he will get that good feeling too.”

Each day after school John eagerly raced to the mailbox, hoping to find an answer from the person who received his Book of Mormon.

But it was Anna who excitedly said one day, “An answer! An answer! I got an answer!” And three days later both Father and David got a letter.

“My letter came all the way from half way around the world,” David bragged.

Tears welled up in John’s eyes. He crept round to the back of the house and sat by his favorite tree.

Mother came out and sat down beside him. She sat in silence for a few minutes, then said, “You’re really disappointed, aren’t you? Do you want to talk about it?”

John hesitated, then wiped his tears away with the back of his hand. “What if the person who gets my book laughs at what I said? What if he thinks that I’m stupid? What if he thinks that a kid doesn’t know anything, and he decides not to read my book?”

Mother gently put her arms around John. “No one would laugh. He’d know that you’re very sincere and that you care about him. And children can often touch people’s hearts in a way that grown-ups can’t.”

“The why haven’t I gotten an answer?”

“I don’t know, but I’sure that there is a good reason. Maybe the missionaries just haven’t found the right family to give your Book of Mormon to yet. And whether we like it or not, just because we bear our testimonies doesn’t mean that the persons who receive them will accept them. No one has written to me yet, either, so let’s just hope that we’ll still get letters. Sometimes it just takes a while.”

That night when he went to bed, John prayed, “Dear Heavenly Father, please help the missionaries to find the right person for my Book of Mormon. Bless him not to laugh at what I wrote. Bless him to read the Book of Mormon and get a testimony. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

Days became weeks. Finally it was John’s baptismal day. Just before lunch, Anna came running into the house, yelling, “John! John! Look what the mailman just brought.”

John took the envelope Anna was waving and quickly tore it open. It read,

That evening, on August 30, as John came out of the waters of baptism, he whispered, “Peace to you, Tuilolo. Peace to you.”

The time had come. I was finally in college! I thought I’d be able to handle anything that life had to offer.
I had just moved into my college dorm, and the excitement of the first few days had died down. I sat on my bed, contemplating my future. I wasn’t excited or happy, like I thought I should be. I was scared and homesick, even though my family wasn’t very far away.
Just then my roommate, Liz, called over to me.
“Tam,” she said, “can we talk?”
“Sure,” I replied.
“Have you ever felt like no one is there for you? Like you know God is there and everything, but you don’t feel him comforting you?”
I couldn’t believe it. Liz was feeling the exact same way I was. We discussed it for a few minutes and then decided to look in our scriptures for some comforting passages. Liz read from the Doctrine and Covenants:
“But behold, verily, verily, I say unto you that mine eyes are upon you. I am in your midst and ye cannot see me; But the day soon cometh that ye shall see me, and know that I am; for the veil of darkness shall soon be rent” (D&C 38:7–8).
Never before had I felt the Spirit so strongly. I knew at that moment that I was not alone. I knew that the Lord was aware of me, and that he was there for me. I knew that, although I was still unsure of my future, I wouldn’t have to face it alone.

Jon Huntsman, Sr., is one of the most successful businessmen in America. (His corporate jet enables President Hinckley to travel the world.) He has founded a number of companies in the republics of the former Soviet Union. Two of his former employees were in my MBA class at BYU and told me of the box factory he created in Russia to help this emerging economy. Initially the company was told it would have to pay a certain tax rate on boxes sold to Russian customers and a much lower rate on boxes shipped for resale to other former republics. After the company started producing boxes, a tax administrator came and informed the company that the rates were being increased on the exported boxes--to a point that made the company completely unprofitable. However, the official said, if certain amounts could be paid under the table directly to the tax official, he could "take care of them." It is Jon Huntsman's policy never to pay a bribe. He never has, he never will. The official was insistent. Jon Huntsman decided to sell the factory to local management for one dollar rather than pay a bribe. He lost his investment of millions of dollars but he would not compromise his integrity for money.

I’m a time traveler. No, I don’t have a machine. I don’t need one. Sometimes it’s a smell, sometimes a scrap of music, perhaps the way a shadow falls across the sidewalk. That’s all it takes to whirl me back into the past to relive a long-forgotten moment in time.
Today it was the sign in the window of a rent-all shop. It said something about pumping iron for a sleeker you. Underneath was an iron bar and a pile of big heavy metal disks.
The moment I glanced at that window I was a 13-year-old girl again, talking to my little brother Jamie. And I don’t say little just because he was three years younger than I was. The poor kid was skinny.
Anyway, I was a 13-year-old again, and Jamie was forlornly bending his right elbow and probing hopefully with his left hand. He pinched all around the spot where his right bicep should have been. “Why don’t I have a muscle?” he sighed, giving up at last. “I eat plenty of food and ride my bike a lot. Some nights I’m even in bed early. I know kids who don’t even keep the Word of Wisdom and still have muscles. Is it fair?”
Using Job as my text, I began to counsel him on the virtues of longsuffering, but Jamie was not in a biblical mood that day. He just walked away, still flexing his arm grimly, as if giving justice a chance to make things right.
A few days later he burst into the house with a huge smile on his face. “I’m going to have muscles!” he shouted. “Big ones!”
I asked how this miracle was to be accomplished.
“Barbells!” he said.
“Barbells?”
“Look,” he said, “Braithwaite’s Rental Center has barbells in the window. I’m going to rent a set and work with them until I look just like Charles Atlas.”
“So what’s stopping you?”
He smiled in what he must have thought was a winning way. “Of course I don’t have enough money to rent a set all by myself.” He eyed me hopefully.
“Too bad, little brother. Remember, I’m saving my allowance for a membership in the Y swimming classes. You’ll have to earn the extra money yourself.”
His face fell, and he glanced at his spaghetti-noodle arms as if he could see gigantic muscles dwindling away before his eyes. The smile came back fast, though, and the muscles with it from the look on his face.
“I’ll earn the money doing errands,” he said. “There must be lots of folks in town who have jobs they don’t want to do themselves. I’ll start raking in the dough tomorrow.”
The next day was Saturday, and Jamie set out early in the morning to earn his muscle money. It was afternoon and I was washing my hair, when he dragged back into the kitchen and plopped down on a chair.
“Well?” I asked between rinses.
“Don’t ask.”
“I’m asking.”
“Well, the first house I tried was closed up. I guess Mrs. Roberts is away again at her sister’s. Then I offered to baby-sit Alex at the Johnsons’, but Mr. Johnson is home on vacation, so he’s helping with the baby.”
House by house Jamie recounted his failures. Then he settled into a gloomy silence.
As I toweled my head dry, a thought darted into it. “Did you try the cottage with peeling paint at the end of the street? The yard is a real mess. I’m sure they could use some help, whoever they are.”
Jamie shook his head. “Who they are is old Tom Winters. He’s the meanest old flinthead in town. If your baseball accidentally lands in his yard, he comes shuffling out on the porch and waves his cane at you. He acts like you’d committed a crime or something.”
He fell silent again for a while, and I thought I could see greed struggling with fear.
“On the other hand,” he said at last, “his yard really is a mess. Since he’s so picky even about stray baseballs, maybe he would pay to have it cleaned up.”
He was hooked on the idea, but I could see that he was scared of it too. It was time for a little psychology. “I don’t blame you for being afraid,” I said. “A guy like that, anybody might be afraid of him.”
“Afraid?” he said, squaring his skinny shoulders. “Afraid of old Flinthead? I’m going to ask him for work right now!” and he marched out the kitchen door.
Just before the door slammed shut I couldn’t resist one last word of advice. “Remember—dead men build no muscles!”
When Jamie returned, he didn’t seek me out to report results. I discovered him down in Dad’s basement workshop rummaging around.
“How did it go?”
“Oh, Mr. Winters told me there was plenty to do around his place,” he said offhandedly, peering over, under, and around the large workbench.
“So how much is he going to pay you?”
He mumbled an answer.
“What?”
“He can’t pay me anything.” He went on to explain that old Tom had been expecting his son to come home on a visit and set things straight, but his son had taken ill. “He told me I was a brave one to even knock on his door.” Jamie managed a grin and then took up his search again, peering into this cupboard and onto that shelf.
“What are you looking for?” I asked. “I’ll help you find it.”
“An old saw Dad gave me. I need it.”
“What for?”
“Never mind.”
I reached out and ruffled Jamie’s blond hair. “Come on, tell me,” I coaxed.
He backed off, looking sheepish. “I need it because I’m working for Mr. Winters.”
My mouth dropped open. “But you said he couldn’t pay you!”
Jamie blushed. “He can’t.”
“You mean you’re doing it for free?”
Jamie gulped. “Well, he’s got bad hands and a bad back. That’s why he’s so cranky and why his yard is such a mess.”
“So how are you going to pay for your rented weights?”
Jamie didn’t seem to hear me. “It’d be hard for him to pick something up off the ground. His fingers are all twisted up with arthritis, and he’s all bent over double. I just told him I’d gather up some tree branches. It’s no big deal.”
“Softie!” I scoffed, but I was lost in admiration. To think that Jamie, my little brother, was actually sacrificing his muscles just to help the town flinthead.
For the next few weeks, Jamie was away from home a lot—almost all day every Saturday, and an hour or two on weekdays too. He didn’t say much about it, but I knew where he was. I had been touched by his gesture, but I hadn’t really expected him to stick with it like this.
Several times my curiosity became too much for me, and I actually sneaked over to old Tom’s place to see what was going on. Every time Jamie was hard at work—mending, clearing, painting, stacking. But mostly he was sawing and chopping the many dead limbs that littered the yard.
He worked steadily, his breath coming in short white puffs in the cold air. At first he had to pause every few seconds to rest, but as the weeks passed he began sawing in long steady strokes for many minutes at a time. Meanwhile, old Tom’s yard was looking better and better, and the woodpile against the shed at the bottom of the garden was growing gigantic.
Jamie always came home at night exhausted. But there was something about him—something in his face, something in his voice—that made it harder and harder to think of him as little Jamie.
One night he didn’t go.
“What’s the matter?” I said. “Have you gotten tired of working for the flinthead?”
“His name’s Mr. Winters,” Jamie said, “and I’ve finished all the work over there.”
“Okay, I’ll admit it,” I said. “I’m impressed. You really did all that work for nothing.”
Jamie shook his head. “I think you know better than that,” he said. “I got paid all right.”
I put on a look of mock distaste. “You mean all that syrupy stuff like the rewards of love and service?”
He nodded. “That and something else.” His grin reached right up to his eyes. He slowly bent an elbow. With wonder I saw beneath his shirt the unmistakable swelling of a hard-earned, well-deserved muscle.

Besides being a cast member, Julie Ashton (10) was a pageant guide. Each night before the show began, some cast members, dressed in their costumes, welcomed people to the pageant and handed out programs. She even learned a few greetings in Spanish and was able to visit with Spanish-speaking members of the audience.
One of the scenes Julie especially liked was the one in which Jesus Christ teaches the multitude and performs miracles like raising the sick and the dead. “I loved the song they played, and I loved seeing Jesus smile. It gave me a good feeling inside.”
Her very favorite part of the pageant was the finale. All the cast members went on stage or out on the grass and sang “I Know He Lives!” while Matt Hale, as the Savior, was lifted by wires 40? (12.2 m) above the ground. “I liked that best,” Julie said, “because you were bearing your testimony to the audience. It let them know that you know that He lives. I know He lives because I’ve prayed about it and got a really special feeling in my heart. I know it’s true.”

An incident from the life of a bishop in my youth helps me understand what it means to be willing to take upon us the name of Christ. When I was a young man, I had a wonderful bishop who taught me about the responsibility of maintaining the legacy of a good name. His name was David Lawrence Cook (he was known as Lawrence, but was named after his father, David). In fact, Bishop Cook and his wife, Cleon, served as missionaries here on this island some years ago.

One afternoon, while a young Lawrence Cook and some friends were walking along the road, they came to the elementary school in which they were enrolled. One of the boys suggested that they throw rocks at the school. They did, and in the process, a window was broken. They all ran home. The next day at school, David Lawrence Cook was called into the principal's office. The principal asked him if he knew anything about the broken window in the school. Not surprisingly, to those who have known Bishop Cook, even as a young boy he could not be dishonest. He told the principal that he had broken the window. The principal startled him by saying that Lawrence could not have broken the window, because Dave Cook's son (Lawrence's father) would never have done such a thing. Lawrence, no doubt embarrassed, replied that he, indeed, did break the window. The principal would not hear of it, again saying, "Dave Cook's son would never do such a thing." He then sent Lawrence back to class. I remember Bishop Cook telling us how deeply ashamed and embarrassed he felt to have sullied his father's good name by his actions. He vowed never to bring shame to the name of his father again. If we felt about the Savior's name, as Bishop Cook felt about his father's name, in our willingness to take upon us the name of Jesus Christ, we would live a more Christ-like life.

On a more personal level, consider the mistake described by Truman G. Madsen in his fine book Joseph Smith the Prophet (Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1989):

In a relaxed moment one day the Prophet turned to his secretary, Howard Coray, and said, “Brother Coray I wish you were a little larger. I would like to have some fun with you,” meaning wrestling. Brother Coray said, “Perhaps you can as it is.” The Prophet reached and grappled him and twisted him over—and broke his leg. All compassion, he carried him home, put him in bed, and splinted and bandaged his leg. [p. 31]

This was my first year at a new high school. I thought I’d been getting along all right, making friends and fitting in. Then one day in history class I overheard a group of people talking—right in front of me—about something they were going to do. They were talking about going to an activity that all the Mormons wouldn’t be able to come to because it was on a Sunday and because of the things they were going to be doing. I was friends with them, but they didn’t invite me.
It got me thinking. At first I was hurt that I wasn’t even considered to be part of the group, but then I thought about it. Did I really want to be invited when they would be doing something “Mormons” wouldn’t do? And after thinking about it for a bit more, I decided they unintentionally gave me a compliment. I’ve been living my life in such a way that I’m an example, and they knew—without my verbalizing it—what I stood for.

What would it be like to live where Jesus lived—to walk the streets of Jerusalem or stand on the Mount of Olives? Dan Ball knows. Dan (9) and his family have been living in Jerusalem for the past year. His dad, Dr. Terry Ball, is an Assistant Professor of Ancient Scripture at the Brigham Young University Center for Near Eastern Studies there.
Dan’s favorite place in the Holy Land is the Sea of Galilee, where Jesus did much of His teaching. It is beautiful and green, and Dan loves to swim and look for crabs there with his younger brothers, Cody (4) and Alex (4). The Ball family took a boat ride across the Sea, just as Jesus and His Apostles did. While there, the Balls read about how Jesus walked on the water and calmed the waves (see Matt. 14:22–33).
Dan has also sat on the Mount of Beatitudes, near Galilee, and read Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount (see Matt. 5–7).
Another place Dan likes to go to is the ancient city of Jericho. He loves the story of Joshua and the Battle of Jericho and how the walls of that city crumbled when the children of Israel shouted and the priests blew rams’ horns (see Josh. 6). Dan also likes the story of when King Hezekiah, as a defense against possible attack from the Assyrian army, had a tunnel dug under Jerusalem to bring water into the city (see 2 Kgs. 20:20; 2 Chr. 32:1–4, 30). Dan has even waded through the tunnel himself.
He has been learning about many events that occurred in and around Jerusalem as recorded in the Old and New Testaments; he has also been learning about Jerusalem from the Book of Mormon. Lehi and his family lived in Jerusalem until the Lord commanded them to leave because the people were so wicked that He was going to destroy the city. And Nephi and his brothers returned to Jerusalem to get the brass plates from Laban and to get Ishmael and his family to go with them to the Promised Land (see 1 Ne. 2–4, 7).
Dan, his brother Christopher (15), and his sisters, Cami (16) and Carla (13), attend an international school in Jerusalem. They have friends from all over the world, including from Jerusalem itself and nearby cities. Even though many of their school friends are not members of the Church, the Ball children know that Heavenly Father loves these children just as much as anyone else. They have learned about many cultures and religions, but they’ve especially learned about the cultures of the Jewish and Palestinian people who live in the Holy Land.
Dan is trying very hard to follow the example that Jesus Christ has set for us. Last year he was baptized because he knew that that was what Jesus wanted him to do. And he was baptized in the Jordan River, where Jesus was baptized by John the Baptist (see Mark 1:4–11).
DeAnna, Dan’s mom, said that he worked very hard to prepare himself for baptism by learning more about the gospel and by studying the scriptures every night. “He is a wonderful example to his younger brothers,” she said. “They want to be baptized, too, when they reach the age of accountability, eight years of age.”
Easter time was very special for Dan. He learned about Palm Sunday (the Sunday before Easter), when people waved palm branches to celebrate the triumphal entry of Christ into Jerusalem (see John 12:12–13). Dan thought a lot about Jesus Christ and His Atonement, especially when he visited the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus suffered for the sins of the world (see Matt. 26:36; Luke 22:40–45; Matt. 26:45). Dan also spent time at the Garden Tomb, where the Savior was buried after His crucifixion and where He was resurrected three days later (see John 19–20).
Living in Jerusalem has helped Dan to learn a lot about Jesus Christ. He says that the scriptures seem more real to him now, and his testimony is growing stronger every day.

I spoke in a meeting down in Quitman, Georgia, when I was president of the mission down there, and I quoted the statement that I have referred to from the chart prepared in this book, and at the close of the meeting I stood at the door to greet the people as they left. A man came up and introduced himself to me as a Baptist minister, and I said: “Did I misquote you here tonight?”

“No, Mr. Richards,” he said. “It is just like you say. We don’t all believe all the things our churches teach.”

I said, “You don’t believe them either. Why don’t you go back and teach your people the truth? They will take it from you, and they are not ready to take it from the Mormon elders yet.”

He said, “I will see you again.”

The next time I went there, about four months later, as I walked up to that little church, there stood that Baptist minister. As we shook hands I said, “I would certainly be interested to know what you thought of my last sermon here.” He said, “Mr. Richards, I have been thinking about it ever since. I believe every word you said, only I would like to have heard the rest of it.” You know we never get talked out when we start talking about these beautiful principles that the Lord has given us through the restoration of the gospel, through the bringing forth of this marvelous work and a wonder.

I give you an example of how this works. Let me share with you an experience of President Heber J. Grant. While he was a member of the Council of the Twelve, when asked by the President of the Church to submit names, he repeatedly submitted that of a very good friend of his for consideration to fill existing vacancies among the Twelve. The man was never chosen, and President Grant is reported to have said at one time that if he ever became President of the Church and there was a vacancy to fill, he would call that man because he was so well qualified.

After he became President and it was necessary to fill a vacancy, he told the Lord that he knew whom he wanted, but that he wanted to select the man the Lord wanted and would like to have. The name of Melvin J. Ballard, whom President Grant knew only slightly, came into his mind and kept coming to let him know that he was the man who should be called; and he was nominated by President Grant and approved by the Twelve.

My wife, Alice Mae, and I were serving as senior missionaries in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA. We were in the next-to-last month of our mission when the degradation of my motor skills became too much to ignore. Following the advice of the mission doctor and nurse, I went to a local hospital.
I had an EKG and a CT scan. Then a neurologist met with me. She asked more questions and did more tests. Finally, to my surprise, she said, “Mr. Lemon, you have Parkinson’s disease.” It was not a diagnosis I expected, and it was certainly not a diagnosis that I wanted. But what could I do?
That was two years ago, and it started a process I have since grouped into four phases. I share them here hoping they may be helpful to others who are dealing with an unwelcome diagnosis. Here are some of the things I have learned.
I searched online. I bought some books. I met with another neurologist. I wanted to know what impact Parkinson’s disease (PD) might have on my life span and ability to function. As I gathered information, I also prayed for guidance. I knew that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ would help me to get the information and medical help I needed. I learned that PD doesn’t typically affect how long you live, but it does affect what you can do. It progresses differently from individual to individual. It gets worse over time. It is not curable.
Once the shock of the initial diagnosis passed, I gradually began to realize the disease was not going to go away. My wife and I talked about our future and what it would mean if I were to lose some of my mobility. What would happen if I couldn’t drive or walk? In one tender moment when I posed those questions to my dear wife, she answered simply and without hesitation, “Then I will take care of you.”
We were grateful we hadn’t waited to serve the Lord as full-time missionaries and that we had been able to serve while our health was still good. We were also grateful that we had moved into a smaller home with no stairs on the main floor, mostly hard floors rather than carpet, and grab bars near all the toilets and showers. We felt that the Lord had known we would need such a home someday and had prepared a way so that when we needed it, it was ready.
During the next few months, I spent a lot of time at home and had plenty of time to think. I grieved for the loss of the person I thought I would be in my later years. I grieved for the future that my wife and I had previously envisioned. I endured days of discouragement. I prayed a lot as my symptoms grew worse. My need to find positive ways of coping increased.
Then the Lord provided an unexpected source of support. My wife and I were called to be our ward’s welfare and self-reliance specialists. As part of our calling, we facilitated a group meeting on emotional resilience. I had not thought about needing the class personally. However, by the end of the first meeting, I thought, “Wow! This is for me!” We talked about avoiding negative thought patterns, being positive, controlling our feelings. It gave me some practical tools that, over time, helped me—and my wife as well—to develop a healthy attitude toward my disease.
I remember thinking one day, “If I was going to pick a disease for me, this would be the one.” Because at this point it doesn’t shorten my life, but it forces me to submit to the will of God. It’s given me no choice but to accept that, and that’s been a blessing. I am calmer, more at peace. I had always lived too much in the future, concerned about what the next chapter of my life would be. Parkinson’s disease has helped me to be content to live in the present, to do the good that I can do now. Gradually, I have learned to submit myself and my future to the Lord more completely and without reservation.
I studied scriptures that talk about growing from trials.1 I re-read talks and articles by Elder Neal A. Maxwell (1926–2004) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.2 I remembered an address in which Elder Richard G. Scott (1928–2015) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles counseled us in times of trial not to ask, “Why do I have to suffer this?” but rather “What am I to learn from this experience?”3
Throughout this process, I have found a level of peace, joy, and contentment that had previously eluded me. I’ve come to see that death and passing through the veil is just another “transfer” on my journey along the covenant path. It is part of God’s plan of happiness.
I made a small sign on my computer and put it on the wall of my home office where I see it every day. It says, “Be Good. Do Good. Be Content. Relax and Trust the Lord.”
Today, at this point in the progression of the disease, I carry on a fairly normal life. I can still drive a car. We were recently called as temple workers. There are things I can do and things that I can’t. I walk with a cane when I leave the house. I get emotional over small things but also have become more sensitive to the needs of others. I’m not sure how my future will unfold, but I have the reassurance that whatever happens, the Lord will help me to endure it well and to find joy. It’s been a good tutoring for me, and I don’t want to miss the lesson.4

My amazing mother has had dementia-Alzheimers for over 10 years now. My dad’s lovingly taken care of her and attended to her every need at home until the last four years, when she needed to go to a memory care facility. He feeds her every meal because her capacity is so diminished. But she’s been a bright, multi-talented woman all her life…and a wonderful mother. I want to tell you a little about her…

She was an incredible pianist and taught for just $2 a lesson…just so children who couldn’t really afford it could learn to play.
Mom was an awesome seamstress! She’d stay up late making something special for homecoming or other dances. By the time my sister Alicia came along 8 years later—our folks had some money to buy her clothes. But Mom sewed all of mine…through most of college. And she did a great job!
She drove us great distances to music lessons so we could develop our talents—and even joined me playing violin in the orchestra at a Catholic girls’ convent, which my violin teacher conducted.
Mom was such a good homemaker…she was a great cook…and so clean, you could lick her floors and think they tasted good!
As an adult, she was a substitute teacher, a volunteer, and she took voice lessons. She was a renowned choir director in our California stake for decades…and put on more beautiful programs than you can count—both religious and secular. And, after they retired and moved to Utah from California …Mom played the violin in a local symphony orchestra.
She would do anything to help anyone, always serving. And she and my dad served a senior couple mission to Ireland—even though she was a bit nervous. But she was faithful and found she could do that, too…and her sweet personality won many Irish hearts. I love her dearly…and that’s the way I always think of her in my mind. Gentle and fun…never overbearing. Always kind.
Even though Mom still looks much the same…her memory is gone…along with her recognition of most of her family members. She doesn’t speak and can’t really do anything for herself. It is so very sad—yet we are thrilled she is still with us…and she’s still wonderful, beautiful Renée. I often wonder—why her? And, sometimes, I think--why us? Or why me?
But maybe, instead, we should ask the question Elder Maxwell asked when he was diagnosed with leukemia: “Why not me?” And ask…What am I to do? What am I to learn? What am I to change? Whom am I to help?
In time, we all realize that “there are beautiful sunrises even after devastating sunsets.” Heavenly Father continues to pour down blessings, even when we’re in the midst of our trials. And we, too, have seen that in our family.

When the full-time missionaries came to my home in France to do a service project, my parents were not active members of the Church, and I hadn’t been baptized. Soon the missionaries taught me the gospel, which I loved. And soon my parents returned to church.
“Who’s going to baptize you?” the missionaries asked me.
“My father,” I replied.
My father, who was from Italy, was a good man. He taught me to see people as Jesus would see them. Sadly, he died a few weeks before my baptism.
Later, when I received my mission call, I was so excited that I asked my mother to open it.
“You’re going to be happy,” she said, crying. “You’re going to your father’s home country!”
I had dreamt of serving in Italy. Missions are about serving people, not about serving in areas. But I prayed that I would serve in Italy, specifically the city of Gaeta, where my father’s ancestors had lived since the 10th century.
After serving in Rome and Sicily, I received the glad news that I was being transferred to the area that included Gaeta. Before that transfer in early 2023, my companion and great friend Elder Jack Beck gave me a gift I will never forget. Elder Beck is a talented artist. From a small picture I had of my father, Elder Beck drew a beautiful portrait of him.
I looked at that portrait every day during personal study. It gave me strength to share the gospel.
As soon as I was assigned to Gaeta, I sought out my relatives. When I showed my father’s older brother the portrait, he wept. He hadn’t seen his brother for years and had no pictures of him.
I taught my uncle that one day he would see his brother again—not in a portrait but in person. I taught him that through the gospel, he could live with his brother again in love and peace with the Savior.
I saw great miracles in Gaeta as I shared with family members the good news that because Jesus Christ overcame death, loss of loved ones is only temporary (see Mosiah 16:8). I testify that through His atoning sacrifice, the Savior has made it possible for our families to be gathered eternally.