Gospel Story Finder

A lot of my friends and classmates who are not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints would often ask me about the Church. After a while, I got tired of answering the same questions over and over, so I came up with a solution.
I love to make internet videos to entertain people. I do music videos, informational videos, and parodies. One day when I was thinking about what I would do for my next video, I decided to make a video that answered questions about the Church.
I grabbed my camera. Then, without writing down what I was going to say but remembering important scriptures I wanted to mention, I made the video. I had no idea what would happen. I just felt prompted to make the video. “And I was led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand the things which I should do” (1 Nephi 4:6).
Without worrying how my friends, classmates, and relatives—members of the Church or not—might respond, I uploaded it.
A few weeks after uploading the video, I started receiving feedback on my social media accounts. People I didn’t even know began commenting and thanking me for my video. Because of my video, one person even began taking the missionary discussions. Later, that person decided to get baptized.
Since I made the video, people I know who are not members of the Church seem to like me just the same—maybe even more. Several of them have even quit criticizing the Church. Others have stopped asking the same questions about the Church because now they have answers.

As a physician, I once had a patient come to me after a routine blood test was out of normal range. In the days between her test and our visit, she had consulted the internet about what the results could mean. When we met, she was upset and worried. I tried to explain the results, but she was still distraught.
“Don’t worry about what could go wrong,” I told her. “That’s my job! It’s what I’m here for. I studied hard to know what to do about this. We’ll get through this together, and if you’ll follow my instructions, you’ll know how to be whole again. Trust me and let me take the burden of medical worries. Then you can focus all your energy on getting better.”
This helped to calm her fears. We made plans to run more tests, and I promised we’d move forward together.

I have a friend who belongs to another church. Last year he came to me at school one day and started to try to prove to me that the Book of Mormon was not true and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was not a Christian church. After replying to all of his questions, I began to realize that he wasn’t even paying attention to my answers because he kept challenging me with the same question. From what I learned from this experience, my advice is that all you can do is explain that you don’t want contention and bear testimony of the truthfulness of the Lord’s Church.
Jayden C., 13, Washington

That night, Chase’s parents gathered the family together for family home evening. After the opening prayer, Chase’s father said, “Tonight we’re going to talk about two of your ancestors—your great-great-grandparents, Joshua and Elizabeth McGowan.
“I think you older children have heard about them already, but Chase and Emily probably haven’t. I just felt impressed that I should tell you their story. As a young man, Joshua joined the Church in England and soon afterward came to America and settled in Kirtland, Ohio. There he met a lovely young woman named Elizabeth Sanders, who was also a member of the Church. They married and bought a farm with money Joshua had saved in England.
“One night,” Chase’s father continued, “an angry mob came and burned all their crops. They burned the barn and their farmhouse. Everything was destroyed. Elizabeth and Joshua had to start all over. Joshua became a blacksmith, and he did that for the rest of his life. They moved to Nauvoo and then later went to Utah with the Saints.”
“But wait—I don’t understand why those people burned their farm,” Chase interrupted.
“Simply because Joshua and Elizabeth were members of the Church,” Dad explained.
“But they must have done something to make those people so mad,” Chase insisted.
“No, Son, they didn’t do anything. It’s just that back then, being a member of the Church was often dangerous. Many people didn’t like members of the Church.”
“Why not?”
“Because they were different. They belonged to a new religion. Most folks didn’t know what the Church was really about. It’s just human nature, I guess, for some people to resent anything that’s new or different.”
“Well, it doesn’t make sense, Dad.” Chase frowned.
“No, Son, it doesn’t.”
That night Chase lay awake thinking about Joshua and Elizabeth and Derek and Gishi.
Tuesday morning was cold and cloudy. It wasn’t hard for Chase to go to school on such a dreary day. As he parked his bike at the rack, Chase heard Derek’s voice coming from the playground.
As he walked over, Chase saw Derek pointing his finger and making fun of Gishi. Gishi bowed his head and looked nervously at the crowd forming around him. Some of the boys and girls snickered.
Chase ran up to Derek. “Knock it off!”
“What?”
“You heard me, Derek. Leave him alone.” Chase looked Derek right in the eye so he would know he was serious. Derek stared back at Chase. Finally, Derek shrugged.
“I was just fooling around,” Derek muttered as he walked away.
“Are you OK?” Chase asked Gishi.
“Yes. OK.”
“Believe it or not, Derek’s really not so bad. I think he just needs time to get to know you.”
Gishi said nothing, but nodded.
Then Chase asked, “Do you want to come to my house after school and play video games?”
Gishi smiled shyly. “Yes. Fine. You live where?” Chase wrote down his address and gave it to Gishi.
That afternoon, the two boys played video games for a while, then talked about some of the differences between English and Chinese. They took turns pantomiming various actions and having the other say the word for the action in his language.
Gishi wrote something on a paper and showed it to Chase. “This is you in Chinese.”
Chase looked at the pencil strokes shooting out at different angles. “You mean that’s the word for ‘Chase’ in Chinese?”
“No,” Gishi said. “Friend.”
“Love one another. Be kind to one another despite our … differences.”Elder M. Russell Ballard of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, “Doctrine of Inclusion,” Ensign, Nov. 2001, 38.

But like so many others, I have not always clearly understood what it means to know spiritually. As a young man, I met a beautiful young lady who was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

She is now my wife of 44 years. In fact, let me digress with an African proverb, which I have found to be completely true. It says:
A happy man marries the girl he loves, but a happier man loves the girl he marries.
I was happy because I did marry the girl I love, but now I am happier, having grown more deeply in love with my wonderful and beautiful wife, each year of those 44.

Anyway, getting back to my story—I had never before heard of this church of which she was a member. Having grown up as a Catholic, and having embraced that religion, I felt that in order to accept the teachings of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I needed to be totally convinced intellectually that my previous, Catholic beliefs were mistaken and that these new teachings were truly teachings of the restored gospel that Jesus Christ had previously established. Several consecutive sets of missionaries taught me, but I always had questions for them. When they could not answer my questions, they would go away and then return the following week with the answers; but then I had more questions. This continued for several weeks as I tried to receive an intellectual conversion.

Then, one day as I sat in a church meeting, I felt clearly this message from the Holy Ghost: “Terry, all of your questions have answers. It is not important for you to know them all now. As the questions come to you, they will be answered. But I need you to act, and to be baptized now.”

Do you see what had happened? My study and pondering gave rise to revelation. I immediately acted and was baptized. Over the subsequent 44 years, the prophecy contained in that revelation has been fulfilled. All of my questions have been answered, including those I had not even considered 44 years ago.

Sometimes grown-ups come to visit Myriam’s school. They walk around and look at the tapestries that Myriam and the other children are making, but they are not allowed to give advice about what the children should weave. This is what makes the Wissa Wassef School unusual. Professor Ramses Wissa Wassef believes that every person is a natural artist but that by the time most people grow up they have learned not to be artists.
The professor set up his school in Myriam’s quiet little village to prove his idea. He provided looms for several children, ranging in ages from six to eleven, and taught them how to string the looms and how to weave. Then he told them to make up their own designs. He did not allow them to follow patterns or to copy someone else’s work. Grown-ups were not allowed to criticize the things the children made. An artist once asked one of the children how she could weave without first drawing what she was going to weave. The girl replied, “I can’t draw; I can only weave.”
Myriam and the other children have proved that they can produce works of art. People have bought the tapestries to hang in their homes, museums, and art galleries, so the children are paid for their work.

You take your place in line, rubbing the chalk deeper into your hands. You take a quick glance at your older sister. She is running, jumping, spinning—making difficult gymnastic moves into something beautiful.
“I can do it,” you say to the air.
Then you run at the vault. There is a low crack, a moment of uncertainty as the ground disappears and you begin twisting. I can do it, you repeat. The landing is perfect. You turn and your older sister is watching. You both smile. For a moment anything is possible.
If you’re not 13, try to remember what it was like. Standing in the shadow of an older brother or sister. Wondering who you are. Proving yourself in a big world.
Denice Pauga is 13. She is also one of the best gymnasts her age in Canada, but her sister Cassandra, 16, has always been that little bit better. It has taken a long time, but Denice is beginning to find her own way, in life and at the gym.
In Lethbridge, Alberta, the west wind always blows hard off the plains, twisting and dancing through town. The wind is persistent, like the girls have learned to be. In the quiet city of Lethbridge, Denice and Cassie have found anything is possible.
For Denice, persistence is not a natural quality. Oh, she has talent, lots of it. In fact, when Denice was only two she followed her sister into gymnastics—the routines, the moves, they all came easy to her and it was fun. But getting to a point where she could compete with the best was hard work. Cassie never objected to training long hours, skipping parties, missing her friends. But for Denice it was different.
She complained about having to practice every night. Her dad said she didn’t have to go and for six months Denice played with her friends, instead. No gymnastics.
In the end Denice missed the competition, the limelight, and asked to go back—this time for good. “I think one of the things Denice loves about gymnastics is showing a crowd what she can do,” says Cassie.
And that love of performance is apparent as soon as you meet her. So is her distaste for practice. In a way it is charming, that she cannot fake an attitude. Denice grumbles all the way up to the bars; then she grabs a hold and her eyes focus. She turns professional. She seems to relish each movement that defies physical law—to know that she can do something so wonderful, so fascinating for the people watching.
But even with that love of performance, there have been difficulties. “It’s hard because Cassie is always one step ahead of her,” says Robby, their mom. “What Denice doesn’t realize is that she is actually a better gymnast than Cassie was at her age. But Cassie always gets to move first.”
“I feel competition to do as well as Cassie, but I have realized that I can do some things as good as her,” says Denice. “Some things I can do even better. That makes me feel equal.”
And in time she has found something of her own that has helped—a relationship with her Heavenly Father. “It’s become important in my life. I always pray before a meet and I haven’t been hurt yet. And I know if I stick to the standards of the Church, if I don’t give them up, He will help me out when I need it.”
Cassie was the opposite of Denice. She never wanted to leave gymnastics. “You could put her in the gym at eight o’clock in the morning and come back for her at eight o’clock at night and she’d still be working hard,” says Robby. She loved the practice as much as competing—the thrill of nailing a move that only a handful of girls in the world could make.
But along the way Cassie had her own obstacles to overcome.
In December of ’89, Cassie was coming off a remarkable year. She had placed 13th in Canada her first year as a high performance senior (the highest class of amateur—Denice competes in the Open Class, 13- and 14-year-olds). But then, as she was performing a routine on bars, she slipped and tore ligaments in her back. For the next six months she was in pain, at first barely able to move. She rested, did all the right things, but Canadian nationals came and practice and competition were still painful.
She convinced her coaches and parents to let her compete anyway. The night before the meet, Cassie said a prayer that her back would be better. That morning, as she was warming up, her grandmother came up and said she had been fasting and praying for her, to help her through the competition.
“My back had hurt for all those months. It was hurting all the time. But at that moment it stopped.
“I’d always prayed before a competition, but that was the first time I realized Heavenly Father does answer our prayers, that he is there to help us get through the tough things in life.”
Although she missed most of the year due to her injury, she was able to place 13th again, one spot off the 12-person Canadian international traveling team.
From then on life and gymnastics were different. They meant even more. It was like the Lord was there, always, and it was through him that anything was possible.
Of course, there’s more than the gym in Cassie and Denice’s lives. Cassie attends seminary faithfully, and Denice starts this year. Both girls sing and play instruments. They enjoy attending Young Women. And there are friends and family.
Mom and Grandma take the girls to the gym and travel with them on trips. Little sister, Kirsten, is also in gymnastics, and the older girls enjoy helping her. And there’s Dad. Tony loves his family, but he has found he has his own obstacles. He’s a perfectionist—he admits it. Tony has always been a top athlete and he expects his children to win. So usually he stays away from the meets, not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares so much.
“I’m afraid that my presence will be too much—that they will perform to satisfy me, rather than themselves, and end up making a mistake.
“I’m a very hard person for them to have for a dad. I don’t actually know if they think I’m proud of them. I think Cassie knows.”
They know. Through time Dad has become less of a mystery. “I’m learning to deal with it,” says Denice. “It’s like other problems in life. You just take them one step at a time, just like learning a new move.”
You strive for excellence, but eventually you realize you can’t be perfect in everything you do, everything you try. You just have to do your best and accept that in others.
That includes accepting each other. In training they have put aside sisterly differences and offer encouragement.
“Believe it or not, they train together like friends, not sisters,” says their coach, Dan Niehaus, who supervises the girls’ 25 hours a week of training. “They transmit a good feeling to the younger girls in the gym. They make it a fun place to be.”
As for the future, it is rich with hope like the present, full of challenges and occasional victories. This year both girls are hoping to place well at nationals and realize a life-long dream, to make the Canadian traveling team.
“I think representing my country would be the best,” says Cassie. “Being at an international competition and having a Canada track suit on—the suits are really nice.”
All that seems so far from Lethbridge. But it started here on the southern Alberta plains—with the support of a family and a determination to do their best.
Outside, the prairies seem to stretch on forever. The persistent west wind always blows, twisting and dancing. Cassie and Denice know Lethbridge is a place, like any place, where anything is possible.

I think of a young man I know who, as a Christian, trying one church after another, could find none that taught of a modern prophet. Among the Jewish people he found reverent mention of prophets, and so he accepted and embraced the Jewish religion.
In the summer of 1964, he went to New York City and visited the World’s Fair. He entered the Mormon Pavilion and saw pictures of the prophets of the Old Testament. His heart warmed within him as he heard the missionaries speak with appreciation of these great men of ages past through whom Jehovah revealed his will. Then, as he progressed through the pavilion, he heard of modern prophets—of Joseph Smith, who was called a prophet, a seer, and a revelator. Something stirred within him. His spirit responded to the testimony of the missionaries. He was baptized. He served a mission in South America. He returned home and has since become the means of bringing his family and others into the Church. It is heartwarming to hear him testify that Joseph Smith was indeed a prophet of God and that all who have succeeded him have been legal successors in this high and sacred calling.

Dave and Rosemary Smart were live-at-home missionaries assigned to the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard in Maine. They learned of a young seaman in the coast guard who would soon leave for three months’ sea duty. The seaman and his wife, members of the Church, had three children.
Until the Smarts contacted them, the young couple were unaware of military relations missionaries. They were relieved to know that Elder and Sister Smart would be nearby to offer support to the family in the absence of their husband and father.
The Smarts introduced the couple to the manual Becoming a Self-Reliant and Resilient Family. They explained how to find it in the Gospel Library and on the Gospel Library app. The app version would be of benefit to the seaman when he was at sea and there was no wi-fi aboard ship. He realized that the manual would benefit him and his family and that it would assist him in his job. As a health services technician, he often counsels others.

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

My big brother and I were sealed to our parents in the Provo Utah Temple. We drove for a long time to get there. When we went into the temple, Grandma Lee, who serves at the temple, and another nice lady took my brother and me to a special room. We listened to stories, had cookies and punch, and watched a movie about temples. Then we dressed in white clothes—I even wore a little white tie. The nice lady took us to the room where our parents and other family members were. When we were sealed to each other there, I felt happy. I know that our family will be together forever if we keep the commandments.

Brother Ayerdis currently serves as bishop of the Brooklyn Second Ward, where meetings are conducted in Spanish. He recalls the day when he took his family to see the judge who would grant them permanent residency in the United States: “Our children sat beside us on the long bench—quiet, like angels.” The judge thought that New York would corrupt the children and said to the family, “What a shame that you had to bring your lovely children here.” Sister Ayerdis responded, “We may have left our furniture, our house, and our clothes behind in our native land, but we did bring our traditions.”

The Poole England Stake had the opportunity to host an event during National Interfaith Week in November 2023.
Stake members have been building a friendship with a Dorset-based charity named Unity in Vision, by hosting English Connect classes with refugees, and having international lunches monthly at Bournemouth chapel. Since the event was celebrating the charity’s chairperson, Rita El Gazi, it was the ideal venue.
Unity in Vision first launched through a female migrant group in Bournemouth in 2020. Now a social enterprise, and in partnership with Westbourne Rotary Club, the group helped feed people during the COVID-19 pandemic. One of their current projects is training people seeking asylum or refuge to prepare and serve meals, orchestrated through the vehicle of the international lunches, and named Unity International Catering.
Five days into a weeklong visit to Sudan in April 2023 to visit her ailing father, Rita found herself suddenly caught up in the armed conflict. The evening’s speakers revealed the depth of their friendship with Rita, heralded her achievements and reflected on her strength and faith. They also shared how their own faith gave them hope and guidance as they tried to do what they could, despite the distance, to get Rita and her family back to the UK. Rita showed photos and footage of her experiences, discussing the journey that she and a small group of family took to safety, and the miracles that they encountered along the way.
The mayor of Bournemouth, Councillor Anne Filer, ended the evening. Each of the three Abrahamic religions was represented at the event alongside multiple other friends. The Unity International Catering Project afterwards provided the refreshments.

“Hurry, Cathy,” Anne called over her shoulder. Her tennis shoes pounded along the side of the road, and her ponytail swished from side to side.
“I am hurrying!” Cathy yelled back, barely three steps behind her. Laughing, they turned away from the road and ran across the gravel parking lot of Mr. Parkins’s Plant Place. Breathing hard, they burst through the front door into the rich smells of potting soil and damp, growing things.
“Well, hello, girls.” Mr. Parkins had a smile in his voice as he looked up from the cash register. “Did you come to work?”
“Yes, please,” Anne said. “Today and tomorrow.”
In the early spring Mr. Parkins often paid the neighborhood children to help transplant seedlings. “Where is your cousin Emmy today?” he asked.
“She went to help Granny,” Cathy said.
“Well, come along.” Mr. Parkins led them through the back door and into one of the long, low greenhouses. “We’re working on the petunias right now. I need all the help I can get. Are you saving up for anything special?”
Anne and Cathy exchanged a secret smile. “Yes,” Cathy answered. “A Mother’s Day present for Mum.”
“I know where you could get her some nice bedding plants at a good price.” Mr. Parkins winked at them.
“So do we!” the girls said together.
At the end of the greenhouse, Mr. Parkins opened another door and led them into another greenhouse. There, long tables were covered with solid flats of young petunia plants. Allen, Tom, and Lance were already working and laughing loudly.
Mr. Parkins stayed only long enough to make sure that the girls knew what to do, and to check on the boys’ work. “I’m sure glad the five of you could come,” he said as he left.
The greenhouse smelled warm and damp. The potting soil was crumbly and moist on Anne’s fingers as she carefully separated the tiny plants. Cathy worked silently beside her, filling each of the tiny container compartments with soil and planting the seedlings. For a long time no one said anything.
Then Lance elbowed Allen and whispered something in his ear. Allen laughed loudly, then whispered in Tom’s ear. Tom snorted.
Anne’s fingers started to shake, and she felt slightly sick. They were doing it again. “I wish Emmy was here,” she whispered to Cathy.
Cathy nodded. “So do I.”
In the next few minutes, Lance stopped whispering and started saying nasty things out loud. Some of it Anne didn’t understand, but she knew that it wasn’t good because of the way it made her feel. Again she wished Emmy was here. Emmy would know what to do. She was as brave as Nephi.
Just last week, Anne and Emmy had been walking home from school with several other girls. The sun was shining, but they all walked with their hands in their pockets, moving quickly to keep warm. Then someone started singing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” in a really silly way. Everyone laughed and joined in. The next song they sang even sillier, singing high and then low. It was fun until one girl started singing “I Am a Child of God” in the same way. It hadn’t felt funny to Anne anymore. It had given her the same sick feeling then as the bad talk in the greenhouse was giving her now.
But Emmy had known what to do.
“Hey, let’s not make fun of Church songs, OK?” she had said quietly. She made it sound friendly.
The other girls had looked surprised for a moment, but one said, “OK,” and started singing the song the right way.
But Anne wasn’t Emmy, and she didn’t know what to do. She was afraid that if she asked the boys to stop, they’d just get worse. Now they were using words that Anne knew were not right.
She looked over at Cathy. Her sister’s lips were pressed tightly together, and she looked as if she was going to cry.
“Shall we leave?” Anne whispered to her.
“But I want to buy something nice for Mum,” Cathy said quietly.
“Yeah. Me too.” They were silent for a few seconds, trying to not listen to the boys. “Besides,” Anne added, “Mr. Parkins said he needs all the help he can get.”
Cathy nodded and blinked as two tears slid down her cheeks. She tucked her chin down so that Lance, Allen, and Tom wouldn’t know that she was crying.
Anne moved closer to her. She was angry now. It was hard to remember to be gentle with the plants. If only Emmy was here! she thought. If only I knew what to do! Suddenly she had an idea.
Softly, almost too softly to hear, she started humming “A Child’s Prayer.” When Cathy heard the first few notes, she looked up at Anne in surprise. She smiled. By the end of the song, both of them were softly humming together.
The boys were still making ugly jokes, but Anne didn’t feel angry any more. She started humming “I Am a Child of God,” only just a little louder. By the end of that song, Lance was quieter, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Anne, feeling braver, gave him a big smile as she started singing “Nephi’s Courage” out loud. Cathy joined in, and their two voices echoed sweetly off the walls and ceiling, while the boys’ voices softened to silence.
Anne and Cathy were still singing one Primary song after another when Mr. Parkins poked his head in an hour later. “Sounds good, girls.” He came over to the long table. “Your work is good too. But it’s almost dark—you’d better get on home. I’m glad you’ll be coming back tomorrow—I can always use good, cheerful help.”
Rubbing the soil off their fingers, the children followed Mr. Parkins out of the greenhouses and into the early evening light. Lance, Allen, and Tom scooted past Anne and Cathy.
“Primary babies,” Lance hissed as he went past. Anne just smiled at him again.
The air was cooler now, and goosebumps dotted the girls’ arms, but they didn’t feel cold.
“I feel all warm and happy,” Cathy said, looking up at the pink sky.
“Me, too,” Anne said. “Race you home!”

Based on folktales and dances of west Africa, the storyline of the celebration followed Kwaku Anansi, who searched for all the good things in the world to keep for himself. Each stake and district sang and danced and gave him something good, like courage, love, or family. But when Anansi saw the Accra Ghana Temple, its beauty convinced him that he should share all the good things he had collected.

I first learned the importance of the First Presidency as a boy growing up in western Canada. When I would go to Grandma and Grandpa Walker’s home, I was greeted in the entry by a framed photo of the First Presidency of the Church. I remember it well. It seemed that they stood as sentinels, greeting all who entered.
The beautiful color photo was of President George Albert Smith, with his counselors J. Reuben Clark Jr. and David O. McKay. The photo showed them standing together by a large world globe. I loved the picture. They were such handsome and dignified men; I knew them as the prophet of God and his counselors.
That picture hanging in the front foyer of my grandparents’ home had a powerful influence on me. I lived in the small prairie town of Raymond, where my grandparents lived. I could walk to their home, so I visited often. I remember frequently standing quietly alone in the foyer, reverently looking at that picture of the First Presidency. I remember thinking about why my grandparents thought it was so important to honor the First Presidency and have that picture prominently displayed in their home. All who entered would see it. Perhaps most importantly, for their children and grandchildren it was a constant reminder of what was deeply important in the hearts and lives of Grandma and Grandpa.
Years later I concluded that displaying the picture of the First Presidency was equivalent to Joshua’s beautiful expression: “Choose you this day whom ye will serve; … as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord” (Joshua 24:15).
All who entered the home of James and Fannye Walker knew that written upon their hearts were the words “As for us and our house, we will serve the Lord.” As their grandson, I knew it, and I have never forgotten it.

My third example highlights the importance of recognizing and accepting the will of God in our lives. Several years ago there was a young father who had been active in the Church as a boy but had chosen a different path during his teenage years. After serving in the military, he married a lovely girl, and soon children blessed their home.

One day without warning their little four-year-old daughter became critically ill and was hospitalized. In desperation and for the first time in many years, the father was found on his knees in prayer, asking that the life of his daughter be spared. Yet her condition worsened. Gradually, this father sensed that his little girl would not live, and slowly his prayers changed; he no longer prayed for healing but rather for understanding. “Let Thy will be done” was now the manner of his pleadings.

Soon his daughter was in a coma, and the father knew her hours on earth were few. Fortified with understanding, trust, and power beyond their own, the young parents prayed again, asking for the opportunity to hold her close once more while she was awake. The daughter’s eyes opened, and her frail arms reached out to her parents for one final embrace. And then she was gone. This father knew their prayers had been answered—a kind, compassionate Father in Heaven had comforted their hearts. God’s will had been done, and they had gained understanding. (Adapted from H. Burke Peterson, “Adversity and Prayer,” Ensign, Jan. 1974, 18.)

The events of that Christmas Eve took on added meaning for me the next year in the winter beauty of Utah Valley. Daddy had died during the preceding year, and no one really felt like holding to the family caroling tradition; emotions were still too close to the surface. So mother gathered us children together, and again we made a trip to the cemetery. We took with us a German wreath. Our family was alone this time; no one was there to hear our songs of Christ’s birth as we placed the wreath on daddy’s grave. Around us was a thick blanket of fog, shrouding us in its quiet mystery, and we could not see much beyond the edges of the cemetery—as if the world ended there.
But oh, what joy filled our hearts as we remembered we were celebrating Christmas, that because of the Savior the world is more than it was, that life does not end with the burial of the body, and that our loved one is not alone! There, in the cemetery, remembering daddy, we celebrated the birth of our Savior, our Hope, our Redeemer; and the peace of his message was a great salve for our loneliness.

In a talk entitled “Freedom, A Terrible Risk,” by Harvey Jacobs, he related the following:
“In a Japanese novel of several years ago, the main character, wandering in a strange village, becomes trapped in the bottom of a sand pit. Food and water are lowered to him but no ladder. He wants out desperately. He begs his captors to let him go. He tries to bargain with them but nothing works. Months pass. The begging, the scheming becomes a way of life. After a long time he is granted what he wants, what he has been striving for with all his will, day and night—the freedom to come out of his pit and go on his way in complete freedom.
“Suddenly he is afraid, he is alarmed by the prospect of facing the world without protection. He could get lost, he thinks. In his little pit he was at least sheltered from unknown harm. Now he understands that freedom is not a reward but a terrible risk.”

As a boy I dreamed of someday going to the islands of the Pacific. These places came to life for me in books and stories, and through the travels of others.

I doubt very much—no, you never dreamed of coming to the island where I lived as a boy. It was a small farm near a tiny town in Tennessee—surrounded by an enormous ocean of dense, hardwood-covered hills—deep forests on steep inclines that went on forever.

"Out of the way" and "insignificant" were understatements in describing it! It was so isolated that the sound of a passing car or truck motor on the road some distance from our farm house qualified as excitement.

I was one year old and my mom was 23 when my dad died; I never knew him. Seven years later, out of the need for a family circle, we continued to live with my grandparents.

As you might expect, my mother was a great influence in my life. She was a doer—a petite and beautiful woman with drive. She owned a restaurant, had traveled some, and always paid her own way in life. She read to me, laughed with me, and she took me to the Presbyterian Church every Sunday morning. We didn't miss.

Life had become a comfortable routine; you know, secure. I had my own bedroom. I had a horse to travel the farm's acres and sometimes trot into town. And I had a faithful dog that shared my every adventure. Granddad sometimes even let me drive his new, red Farmall tractor. What more could an 8-year-old boy ask for?

. . . Well, there was one thing I wanted in the worse way: I wanted to know something that I had long thought about. Mom didn't have the details and neither did my grandparents. Brother Davis, the minister at the Presbyterian Church couldn't really explain it; and even seemed annoyed—more like frustrated—at my persistence in asking.

So I thought I would turn to someone who did know. I clearly remember offering a prayer on my knees one summer night—a secret prayer—that was different from the rote prayer I had repeated every night since I could remember. The prayer was simply to know how I could see my father some day. It was a simple, but sincere prayer and I continued to ask and think about it. I knew that God was there; I just didn't know if he ever heard me.

I had also been thinking a lot about what it would be like to have a dad. It didn't seem complicated, and I determined that it was awfully important to a boy who had never had one.

Now I share this because exactly a year later, my mom sat me down, looked into my eyes and explained that she was soon to be married; that I was going to have a dad. She couldn't mask her excitement.

Frankly, I was shocked—in awe! I didn't know how to react. How could just thinking about having a dad actually produce that kind of results? Maybe God had considered it to be a prayer, I thought!

Living on my little island ended abruptly. In what seemed like minutes, my instant family was speeding on its way to Detroit, Michigan, 700 miles north, where my new dad worked in Ford Motor Company management.

As the last familiar farms and landmarks flashed past the car windows and then disappeared, so did my huge ocean vanish a few hours later. I felt a kind hopelessness; something akin to mild terror.

I knew things were never to be the same again. The journey that was beginning was filled with uncertainties I couldn't begin to articulate. It was time to add some more requests to my long-standing prayer about knowing my father someday, and then really hope that God would hear it.

The cultural shock was instant. I did not blend in. School confirmed that American English was not spoken in Michigan. It sounded like English, only spoken with lightening speed. After a couple of days in class, I resolved to speak it faster than anyone in the state. I think I came close!

Needless to say, my world had been turned up-side-down, but eventually it became righted. Dad loved baseball and spent years trying to teach me the art of pitching. Mom placed a premium on education. And home became a haven.

And, yes, every Sunday morning Mom and I went to church. Dad was always asked to come, but declined.

One Sunday morning, however, when I was seventeen, mom gathered the magnitude of her southern communications skills and almost pleaded for Dad to go to church with us: "It would mean so much to me, Joseph, if you would come," she said.

Dad opened the phone book, made a call, put on a suit and tie, and unceremoniously announced, "Let's go."

The building was rather plain, but stately. One cornerstone pronounced: A.D. 1928. The other read, Glory to God. A stone panel above the door read, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

We couldn't leave the building that day after the meeting until we shook hands with everyone there; some people twice. It seemed to be a tradition. Some guys with whom I ran track in high school offered slaps on the back, and the man who directed the meeting walked us out to our car.

It turned out that dad was a member of the Church since he was a boy in Tennessee; had left the farm as a teenager to survive the after-effects of the Great Depression, and had become inactive.

After mom and I were baptized, we went to church as a family and it brought her immeasurable happiness. Dad never missed again—ever.

The missionary lessons answered the very questions I had longed and hoped would be answered: who God really was, and, how I might someday see my real father. I consider finding that information, and the gospel, a miracle.

Having a dad come into my life, a great dad, was a wonderful bonus; the catalyst in my finding the gospel.

The most practical principle to me in finding the restored Church was that prayers are answered. That knowledge became increasingly profound while serving a mission, while at BYU, in the process of finding my sweetheart, also in being a father and grand father, during long years of a career, and while serving in the Church. That principle has never been more apparent than now while being with you on this unique campus.

I do not fully understand why the prayer of a little boy who was not a member of the Church, in a place known relatively to a few, was answered. I just know that it was and my entire life was changed. Every day I marvel. And I am still grasping to capture words to thank my Heavenly Father.