Gospel Story Finder

It was our first Christmas away from home. Elders Heemeyer, Bright, Kehoe, Schulze, Westover, and I had all gathered in one apartment to share Christmas Eve. We hoped that spending the evening together as a missionary district might make it easier to be away from home.
It was about 5:30 in the afternoon, and we were all a little discouraged. Setting up appointments with investigators and finding new people to teach had been difficult recently. “Come back after Christmas,” everyone said.
After talking for a few minutes, Elder Schulze suggested we go caroling to the homes of our investigators and some of the members. We all thought it was a great idea, and we planned a short program. We would start with two hymns and a spiritual thought. Then we would conclude with another hymn and a prayer. The whole program would be only 20 minutes long, but we all felt pleased with it.
Before we left, we knelt to pray. Then we set out into the cold night on the south side of Chicago, Illinois, in the United States.
Our first stop was the apartment of a member whose daughter and two grandchildren were investigating the Church. We certainly weren’t the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, but for six elders we sounded pretty good. After we shared our program, the family told us our “gift” was the best they had ever received.
Soon we were at a different apartment presenting our program to another family. At every stop, our enthusiasm and joy grew. We kept hearing the same response: “This is the best gift ever. You really brought the Christmas spirit.”
That night I came to better understand the true meaning of Christmas—that sharing and serving others are what Jesus Christ’s ministry is all about. And while we were busy in the service of others and of the Savior, home didn’t really seem so far away.

While going through my e-mails one morning, I noticed a name I could not place: Enrique Jorge Dias. The subject line read, “Saludos [greetings] from a golden contact.”
I had no idea what the message might be about, and I considered hitting the delete key. Curiosity got the best of me, however, and I opened it. It was written in Spanish.
As I read, I learned that when Enrique Dias was 18, he was living in Adrogué, Argentina, where I served as a full-time missionary more than 30 years earlier. One morning as he was walking through the center of town, I stopped him and handed him a pamphlet about the First Vision. My companion and I, in accordance with instructions from our mission president, often spent mornings handing out pamphlets on the sidewalks of Adrogué. We probably spoke with hundreds of people, though we seldom got their names. Most of our conversations lasted no more than 30 seconds.
More than three decades later, there was no way I could remember speaking to a young man, but he remembered me. A few weeks before I received his e-mail, I had posted my name on the Argentine Mission Web page, where Brother Dias had found it.
In his e-mail he explained that he took the pamphlet home and showed it to his mother, who encouraged him to learn more about Joseph Smith. By the time he tried to find the missionaries a few months later, I had been transferred to a new area.
Enrique received the discussions and was baptized and confirmed. I labored in Argentina for another 20 months but never heard anything about his baptism.
The brief conversation we had shared in the street that morning long ago had transformed his life and the lives of many others. Two years after his baptism he was called on a mission to northern Argentina. Afterward he married and continued faithful in the Church, serving in a variety of callings, including bishop, counselor to two stake presidents, and high councilor. He added that his oldest son had served a mission in La Paz, Bolivia.
Words cannot express the joy that came to my heart from reading that e-mail message. My mission was filled with many gratifying moments, but this long-delayed news from Enrique Jorge Dias made all of my memories of serving as a missionary even sweeter.

Zachary is a very kind little boy, and he is sensitive to the feelings of others. When Zac was attending preschool, a new little boy moved into town from another country and was in his class. Samuel*, the new boy, couldn’t speak English, a new language for him, and he was a little uncomfortable in his new class.
One day at school, Samuel was really sad and wanted his mom. The preschool teacher asked Zac if he would play with Samuel. Zac took Samuel by the hand, led him over to where the toys were, and they began to play together. Zac really tried to treat his classmate the way the Savior would want him to by becoming his friend.

Newel Kimball Whitney was born in Vermont, USA, on February 5, 1795. He was a talented businessman and started up a friendship and business partnership with Sidney Gilbert. In their early business days, they traveled frequently. On one of these business trips, Newel met Elizabeth Ann Smith in Kirtland, Ohio. Newel and Ann courted for three years and married in 1823.
Together Newel and Ann sought for truth and, for a time, took part in the Campbellite movement, which professed to have restored ancient Christianity. One night Newel and Ann prayed “to know from the Lord how [they] could obtain the gift of the Holy Ghost.” Ann described the vision they received in answer to their prayer: “The Spirit rested upon us and a cloud overshadowed the house. … Then we heard a voice out of the cloud, saying: ‘Prepare to receive the word of the Lord, for it is coming.’”1
Shortly after this answer to prayer, in October 1830, Latter-day Saint missionaries came to Kirtland. In November, Newel and Ann were baptized. Only months later, Joseph and Emma Smith came knocking on the Whitneys’ door. When Joseph greeted Newel by name, Newel couldn’t say he knew the Prophet’s name, so Joseph responded, “I am Joseph the Prophet; you have prayed me here, now what do you want of me?”2 The Whitneys then housed the Smiths for several weeks and provided a home for them in September 1832.
In addition to providing the Smiths a place to stay, Newel also gave the Church full use of the upstairs space in his store. At the Whitney store, Church leaders held meetings and the School of the Prophets.
In December 1831, Newel was called as the second bishop of the Church and later served as the manager of financial operations of the Church, helping the Church manage its funds and get out of debt. In the fall of 1838, the Whitneys moved to Far West, Missouri, where Newel was again called as bishop, and 10 years later, he and his family crossed the plains to Salt Lake City, where he served as Presiding Bishop of the Church.
Newel died on September 24, 1850, in Salt Lake City from a respiratory condition.

During my college years I looked at a fellow student, whom I will call Roy, in amazement. Where did he get such a gigantic ego? His need to be recognized and praised was never ending. Every conversation he had with anyone always centered on his recent triumphs and the projects he was now involved in that would ensure his fame. He was underappreciated and let everyone know it. His name became a joke. We had him pegged as an obnoxious egomaniac who blew his own horn from morning until night.
One day I learned that one of my friends knew his family. She began to tell me some things. “Roy’s father was an alcoholic. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Oh, yes. He made their life just miserable. He was a crazy man. Once, when Roy was about five, he walked in the kitchen and saw his father attempting to kill his mother. It was a terrible scene and Roy was there to watch it all.”
The tremor was instant. All my perceptions, all my judgment shattered, and I saw past the facade into the reality. I saw past the obnoxious adult to the traumatized little boy that I wanted to take in my arms and comfort. I never looked at Roy the same again. I knew his secret, one of his secrets, and I understood.

Now I want to tell you about Samantha. Samantha had just started work in the administrative offices of a local university. She was excited to work in a stimulating environment full of diverse thoughts, ideas, and backgrounds. One day at work a co-worker approached Samantha, said she had heard that Samantha was a Mormon, and asked if that was true. Samantha cheerfully responded that it was, but the question that followed surprised her.

“So why do you hate gays?” her co-worker asked. Samantha was surprised by the question but tried to explain her belief in God and God’s plan for His children, which she said includes guidelines on moral and sexual behavior. Her co-worker countered by telling her that the rest of society had progressed beyond those beliefs. “And besides,” she said, “history is full of people using religious teachings to wage wars and marginalize vulnerable groups.”

Samantha restated her convictions and her understanding of God’s love for all people and then asked her co-worker to respect her right to believe. The co-worker felt compelled to tell other employees about their conversation, and over the next few weeks, Samantha felt increasingly isolated as more and more co-workers confronted her with questions and attacks.

Samantha’s boss, seeing the increase in religious conversations in the workplace, cautioned Samantha that proselytizing in their work environment would put her job in jeopardy. Her work, like Ethan’s, began to suffer. Rather than risk being fired, Samantha started to look for another job.

Now, these are hypothetical stories, and yet they are not. There are many Samanthas and Ethans. However we choose to live and whatever choices we make, we all share a common humanity and desire for fairness and kindness. Ethan should not have been fired for being gay, and Samantha should not have been intimidated for being religious. Both were wrongly criticized, judged, and retaliated against.

Many years ago, my family happily awaited the birth of our son, Randolph “Ray” Gibson. But a routine ultrasound produced a sledgehammer to our hearts.

Ray was diagnosed with hypoplastic left heart syndrome (HLHS), which is a condition where the left side of the heart does not develop properly. Blood cannot circulate for the heart to function, and it is often fatal for the infant.

As our family processed this diagnosis, our friends and family offered prayers for us, family fasts, and outpourings of love and concern. We remained hopeful. Nevertheless, a follow-up test brought more discouraging news: Ray’s HLHS was extremely severe.

Compassionate medical professionals discussed our options with us. To terminate the pregnancy was not a decision we would consider. But we had to balance a wish for our son to live—however faint the odds—against pain he would suffer from attempts to repair his heart. Efforts to keep Ray alive would likely lead to a lifetime of suffering and to death at a very young age.

My wife, Kati, and I prayerfully made a very hard decision. We would greet our son into this world, keep him comfortable, and allow him to die peacefully. Our commitment to the gospel of Jesus Christ and our belief in the plan of salvation helped us make this choice. It was not easy watching our son grow in the womb, knowing his death would occur after birth. We also worried how our two-year-old would deal with meeting a baby brother and then attending his funeral a week later.

We were strengthened by the Lord’s declaration that “little children are holy, being sanctified through the atonement of Jesus Christ” (Doctrine and Covenants 74:7).

Kati and I can attest that the year in which we awaited Ray’s arrival helped us understand the true meaning of a husband and wife cleaving to each other (see Genesis 2:24 and Doctrine and Covenants 42:22). We clung to one another, allowing our love and trust to help us endure. We poured our hearts out to God, asking for strength to go on and to bless our family through this ordeal. Our marriage grew stronger.

Before Ray was born, we found out he was breech. The doctors worried that he would not survive the strain of normal birth, so they performed a C-section delivery. Minutes after the birth, I, along with my bishop and several others, gave Ray a priesthood blessing outside the operating room. During this chaotic, traumatic situation, I uttered several sentences and finished “in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” Ray was then washed, bundled, and taken to his family in the hospital room.

Ray lived for 24 hours and 16 minutes. Family and friends filled the hospital room during the day, holding Ray and loving him. It was a surreal experience—the only day we would have with our son. I treasured holding him, kissing him, and changing his diapers.

The next morning our son died. We held him and loved him fiercely in his final hour.

A few years ago I had the assignment of supervising several students who were completing internships in New York City. Included among the interns were photographers, graphic designers, illustrators, and studio artists. They were working with some very prestigious individuals in their respective fields—individuals of considerable influence and notoriety. Part of my responsibility was to follow up with each of the internship providers and see how our BYU interns were performing. It is sometimes tempting for the interns to try to fit in and do the kind of work that is frequently seen in the world, and they are counseled to be true to their culture and upbringing and to “be just who you are and you’ll stand out and be noticed.”

As I contacted the various mentors, I received almost the same response: “They are so refreshing. They are so culturally solid. We love having these BYU interns. Send us more.” I recall one very important and highly respected photographer—one who we felt had given us a gift by accepting a BYU intern—thanking me for sending the intern and saying, “He is so non–New York. He is so refreshing. He has changed us.” He said it three times: “He has changed us.” He then added, “And we think we’ve changed him a little as well.”

There are many modern day Calebs and Joshuas. One such man was my wife’s grandfather John Hulme. One day in 1926, the bishop had a conversation with John. The bishop brought up the topic of a mission. This caught John off guard.

John had always wanted to serve a mission, but his life was complicated. Why? Because John was 42 years old. He was a married man with four children, ages 15, 12, 4, and 2. He was a self-employed rancher. He had land and cattle that would need supervision while he was away. He would have to find a way to make sure his family and property were taken care of while he was gone.

The bishop told John that this was not an official call, just a suggestion. John told the bishop he would think about it and let him know the next day.

John sought out the bishop early the next morning and said he would accept the call to serve. That morning, after what was probably a very sleepless night, John did not know how he would make arrangements to serve a mission. He only knew he would serve. Like Caleb and Joshua, he knew God would help him find a way. And God did. John was able to hire a neighbor to care for his land and his cattle, and the ward and community rallied to support his wife and children.

It must have been quite a culture shock when John, a rancher from a small town, arrived to serve his mission in New York City.

John came from a small country town with a population of about 500. He was accustomed to riding a horse and working the land. When he was called to serve in New York City, it must have been quite a culture shock. He probably felt like a grasshopper among giants. But John served a successful mission. His example has given his posterity the desire to place their trust in God regardless of the obstacles and unknowns. “With God nothing shall be impossible” (Luke 1:37).

Twelve-year-old Monica Saili loves swimming. She is one of the top young swimmers in New Zealand. She may be part fish.
Well, the fish part probably isn’t true. But the only other explanation for why she’s so good is because she trains so hard.
She’s at the pool for two hours every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning at 5:00 a.m. On Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday she runs track or cross-country after school.
Her least favorite swimming drill is having to do the butterfly stroke with just one arm, keeping her chin up, and alternating arms every 100 meters. “Your shoulders really burn,” she says.
But she’s learned that when the going gets hard, giving up doesn’t make life easier. Doing the hard work is what makes her stronger.
All that hard work has helped. She started winning medals at age 10. At 11 she was in the country’s top 10 for her age group in the butterfly stroke. At 12 she was selected for a development swimming camp with the national team and was picked to swim in the Oceania Games in Samoa against swimmers from other countries.
She says, “My dad always said, ‘Success comes with hard work. It doesn’t just land in your lap.’”
Monica learned that is true for swimming, and she found out it’s also true in life when her father died unexpectedly a few months after her 11th birthday.
“I was very close to my dad,” Monica says. “He started me in swimming. He took me to all my practices and competitions. When he died, I felt like I had no one to talk to.”
Losing her father was hard. But Monica doesn’t give up during difficult practices, so when her dad died, she wasn’t going to give up on her faith in Heavenly Father either.
“My dad was my example,” she says. “He taught me how to live the gospel.”
Since his death Monica has started studying the scriptures before bed, “trying to make it a habit,” she says. She stands up for her beliefs at school. “I get a lot of questions about the Church,” she says. And she serves as the ward music director.
“I am blessed for being a member,” Monica says. “I am comforted when I get too stressed.”
Monica still misses her father. But with the support of her mother and family, she keeps going.
Her life is full of piano and violin lessons, student council meetings, swimming, Personal Progress, and leading the music during sacrament meeting.
She doesn’t know yet how far her swimming will take her or how long she’ll stick with it. But as far as the gospel is concerned, she is determined to stick with that to the end.
“Sometimes life is hard,” Monica says. “But doing hard things can make us stronger. You just have to keep swimming.”

The fickle wind can carry balloonists into some truly quixotic adventures. They flew over Tony’s house one day, and just then the wind died, so they hung there for a while. The milkman came by on his route and looked up and said, “Those guys must be insane!” “That’s my husband,” Sister Seymour replied. Tony had his kids come out, and he talked to them from the balloon, reminding them to brush their teeth. “They’re pretty obedient when you talk to them from the sky,” he says. His little daughter Amy thought quietly about it all day and finally asked, “Mommy, did Daddy die and go to heaven?”

I was born and raised in a small town in Korea. My father died when I was 10, leaving my 33-year-old mother a widow with five young children. Do you realize how people without the gospel knowledge feel about death? We thought this was the ultimate end of our father. As far as we knew, we’d never see him again—he had simply vanished into pure emptiness.

After Father’s death, the only work Mother could find with her fourth-grade education was as a day laborer doing any odd jobs available from sunup to sundown and beyond. There was no welfare program of any sort at the time, nor was there anyone capable or willing to help us in that small farming town. Without going into much detail, we struggled with hunger, sadness, and affliction for most of our growing years. Even so, my mother was my moral compass and is still the kindest, wisest soul you’ll ever meet. She would always tell us to wipe the sink after we washed our hands so the next person could have a clean sink. Sometimes, on a rare occasion, she would get paid for her labor with a chicken. As you can imagine, one little chicken could hardly be enough for a family of six, so she would watch her five children eat. While devouring the chicken, one of us would offer her some meat, but she would refuse and assure us that she loved the bones the most. So she waited until we had finished to get to her favorite part. My remarkable mother and her immeasurable sacrifice and kindness were my strength and anchor in my youth.

Looking back at those days, it is awesome to realize that even though we didn’t really know God, I know now that He knew and cared for us all along. Mother’s wise guidance helped me to prepare for a much larger change in my life.

When I was 17, one Saturday afternoon in August, I roamed the town with two of my friends. We were passing a large banner with a very long, strange church name located above a furniture store on a busy market street. A small, makeshift church was located there, and I asked my friends to go up with me. When we walked up those stairs, the missionaries were waiting for us.

One of the missionaries asked me if I believed in God. I told him I thought I did, but I didn’t know anything about Him. Then he said that there is a God in heaven who loves me, and He wants me to be happy and has prepared a plan of happiness for me. I am pretty sure I didn’t know exactly what that meant, but at that moment, I felt that heaven was opening up and a ray of sunshine was shining down over my head. I felt something that I had never felt before, and all I knew was that I had to be on that plan! That makeshift church became my refuge every day, and I was baptized exactly two weeks later. And a month later, my younger sister and my dear mother were both baptized. Life didn’t get magically easier, and my family’s hardships didn’t disappear, but I received strength to go on. For the first time, I knew I was destined to be happy by beating the odds.

Bernard Lewis, 16, received a few invitations from the Boston First Ward. The first was from the Young Men president, Rob Smith. Brother Smith, Bernard’s neighbor, saw him outside playing basketball one day and invited him and his brother to come play at the church—after they helped clean the chapel.
Bernard was happy to come, and when he got there the other young men immediately welcomed him. “They were like family to me. I really liked it there,” he says.
Brother Smith invited him to church, and as Bernard started to attend church, youth conference, and other activities, he decided to stay because it all made him feel so good. He says that during this time Jonathan was a good example to him. “I look up to him,” he says. “He’s like my big brother.”
Jonathan agrees. “We became really close. I call him my little brother now.”
And when Bernard’s mother allowed him to join the Church, Jonathan was able to baptize him.
Besides the invitation to come to church and be baptized, the young men in the ward also invited Bernard to read his scriptures. His testimony of the scriptures led him to join the Church, and he continues to study them regularly.
“The scriptures lead you to the right place,” Bernard testifies. “You need to read the scriptures to know what you believe in and ask the Lord if they are true. The scriptures are important. They are the word of the Lord.”

It is also important to recognize that the Church is a church of action, not just words. An example of how the youth of the Church can function in espousing good causes was demonstrated in 1970 in the Salt Lake Valley. A black congregation had great difficulty in completing their chapel. They approached the leaders of our church for assistance. It was felt that this was a wonderful opportunity for our Aaronic Priesthood-age young men and women to band together and raise funds for others in need. Literally thousands of young Mormon men and women engaged in projects from washing cars to babysitting to mowing lawns in order to raise thousands of dollars to assist their neighbors. At the conclusion of the drive, a wonderful banquet was held with representatives from the various bishop’s youth committees and the black congregation. There was no marching, carrying of banners, or loud oratory; but rather, in an orderly, enthusiastic spirit, under the direction of their own organizations, these Latter-day Saint youth demonstrated how other Mormon youth can go about espousing a good cause—this one appropriately designated as “Operation Good Samaritan.”

In this week’s discussion board, Wadzanai described that seeing God’s hand in her life brings her the most happiness. That is true for me as well. A year and a half year ago, my father passed away; then two days later, my youngest sibling—a brother only 32 years old—unexpectedly died. It was a really difficult time. When I returned to work, I found a copy of this painting waiting for me as a gift. That image reminded me of Christ’s love, that He knew my pain and was reaching to lift me up, that because of His sacrifice, my father and brother would one day be resurrected. Having that eternal perspective gave me solace during a time of grief. Five months later, my husband and I were devastated when our 31-year-old son passed away. Once again, trusting the Lord and His promises has given us hope.

In 1986, I was invited to give a special lecture at a university in Accra, Ghana. There I met a number of dignitaries, including an African tribal king. As we visited prior to the lecture, the king spoke to me only through his linguist, who then translated for me. I responded to the linguist, and the linguist then translated my responses to the king.
After my lecture, the king made his way directly to me, but this time without his linguist. To my surprise, he spoke in perfect English—the Queen’s English, I might add!
The king seemed puzzled. “Just who are you?” he asked.
I replied, “I am an ordained Apostle of Jesus Christ.”
The king asked, “What can you teach me about Jesus Christ?”
I responded with a question: “May I ask what you already know about Him?”
The king’s response revealed he was a serious student of the Bible and one who loved the Lord.
I then asked if he knew about the ministry of Jesus Christ to the people of ancient America.
As I expected, he did not.
I explained that after the Savior’s Crucifixion and Resurrection, He came to the people of ancient America, where He taught His gospel. He organized His Church and asked His disciples to keep a record of His ministry among them.
“That record,” I continued, “is what we know as the Book of Mormon. It is another testament of Jesus Christ. It is a companion scripture to the Holy Bible.”
At this point, the king became very interested. I turned to the mission president accompanying me and asked if he had an extra copy of the Book of Mormon with him. He pulled one from his briefcase.
I opened it to 3 Nephi chapter 11, and together the king and I read the Savior’s sermon to the Nephites. I then presented the copy of the Book of Mormon to him. His response lodged in my mind and heart forever: “You could have given me diamonds or rubies, but nothing is more precious to me than this additional knowledge about the Lord Jesus Christ.”
After experiencing the power of the Savior’s words in 3 Nephi, the king proclaimed, “If I am converted and join the Church, I will bring my whole tribe with me.”
“Oh, King,” I said, “it doesn’t work that way. Conversion is an individual matter. The Savior ministered to the Nephites one by one. Each individual receives a witness and testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ.”1

The first example comes from when I was a young missionary serving in Ha’apai, Tonga. One of the best gifts a missionary can be given is a referral. One Friday we received a referral from a family saying, “If you will be on our island next Wednesday evening, we have a family who would like to listen to you.” We were overjoyed and said we would be there.

The only way we had of getting there was by sailboat. So, early Wednesday morning we started to sail north. It normally took six or seven hours with good wind to get there so we gave ourselves an extra six hours just in case. We had a good morning breeze and by noon we were two-thirds of the way there. Then suddenly the wind just stopped, and we were becalmed. You can imagine my frustration. I will let the following brief clip tell the rest of the story.

The family didn’t join right then but did later. Think of the joy this man who rowed me to shore must have felt from helping not just me, but this family, with all his heart. Tired? Yes! Full of joy and gratitude? Certainly forever!

I started attending my new senior school last September. In a school of over a thousand students, I was the only Latter-day Saint. In my religion class of 30 people, only I and one other girl attend church of any kind. On my first day of class, my religion teacher, Mrs. Johnson*, asked us to name the holy books that are used in different religions. I said the Book of Mormon, and at first she wasn’t sure which church used it. I explained that I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She asked me to choose my favorite scripture for the following week and also tell the class about my church.
The following week I read Moroni 10:4, which was the first scripture the missionaries shared with me and my mom. I told the class about the First Vision and how Joseph Smith received and later translated the gold plates. I was really nervous because my friends think that you are a geek if you go to church. I was afraid that they would make fun of me. But when I started speaking, the Spirit was with me, and everybody listened with interest. Afterward, they asked questions.
Since then, Mrs. Johnson has started reading the Book of Mormon and the Ensign, although she hasn’t yet come to church. Also, in every religion lesson we talk about my beliefs. And some of my friends are planning to come to church activities.
My prayer is that one day I will be just one of many Latter-day Saints at my school. Everyone deserves an opportunity to learn about Jesus Christ and His Church and return to live with Heavenly Father. If we keep the gospel to ourselves, we are being selfish. We should share it with everyone, no matter who they are. That is what Jesus Christ wants us to do, and I am trying to be like Him.

I arrived at the Salt Lake Tabernacle early Saturday morning for general conference. As an usher, I was to be there before the doors opened at 6:00 A.M. for the first session. Most of the seats were filled by 7:00, but there were a few single seats here and there. Many times these seats were filled by visitors to Temple Square who would wander in not fully understanding what was happening. They were normally dressed in casual attire, and often, feeling out of place, they would soon get up and leave.
I remember one young man, however, who was sent to my section along the south balcony. I had one vacant seat on the top row. As he approached, I could tell he was not there specifically for conference. He was dressed in a somewhat shabby flannel shirt and wrinkled pants. His hair was not combed and looked as though he had not washed it in several days. He also had a strong tobacco odor about him.
After greeting him and showing him to the vacant seat, I immediately received several stares and other expressions of disapproval from those around him. It was obvious they had come to hear the messages from the Brethren and were not pleased to have to endure the smell of tobacco for the next couple of hours. I thought to myself, He’ll soon realize what is happening and leave. Then these people can relax and enjoy conference. Fifteen minutes passed, then 20. The session would begin soon. Once the lights dimmed, I realized this young man was not going to leave, and I began to sympathize with those around him.
During the session, I watched the young man. He was listening more closely than many of those around him. Others’ heads nodded as they dozed. He sat intently listening to every word. Each message was being devoured by a hungry soul seeking nourishment.
What touched me most was when the congregation stood to sing the closing hymn, “The Spirit of God” (Hymns, number 2). The young man stood with the rest. He joined in singing all the verses without a book or paper, never missing a word. As he sang, tears flowed down his cheeks. Oh, how I have misjudged this young man, I thought. He knew exactly why he was there. And he was touched by the Spirit that had brought him there in the first place. Others noticed what I had, and the looks on their faces told me they felt as ashamed as I did.
The greatest lessons I learned during that conference session came not from the Lord’s anointed but from a humble young man seeking something he had lost. I learned that I shouldn’t judge others and that lessons learned in our youth can be rekindled by the Holy Ghost.

The log cabin was small and homey, a chimney rising from one end and two windows and a door on the front. Around it the fertile fields of Fayette, New York, were turning green. Nearby trees were awakening to spring, shading the fresh, new blossoms struggling to lift their heads to the sun. Parked around the cabin were the horses, buggies, and wagons that had carried the many men and women who were gathered there on that Tuesday morning. It was April 6, 1830, the day chosen by the Lord for the official organization of His church in the last days. (See D&C 20:1–2.)
Inside the main room of the cabin, the Prophet Joseph Smith, only twenty-four years old, asked five of the men present to join him in legally organizing the new church so that the requirements of the law could be met. Then, after all those present had knelt together in solemn prayer, Joseph asked them if they would accept him and Oliver Cowdery as their teachers and leaders. They agreed. Joseph turned to Oliver, laid his hands on his head, and ordained him an elder in the Church. Oliver then ordained Joseph. In a confirming revelation, the Lord called Joseph “a seer, a translator, a prophet, an apostle of Jesus Christ, an elder of the church” (D&C 21:1).
The sacrament was blessed and passed. Others were ordained and confirmed. The gift of the Holy Ghost was given to many, and its presence filled hearts of all. The small cabin overflowed with gladness and hope.
Among those who accepted baptism into the Church that day were Joseph’s parents, Joseph Smith, Sr., and Lucy Mack Smith. The young prophet was so overcome by the joy of the occasion that he went alone into the woods and wept.
The Church of Jesus Christ was again upon the earth. Its members were few and humble, some with little formal education. But that Tuesday they faced the future with great courage, and they were eager to learn the things of God and to serve Him and His church.
Mistakes would be made and some would stumble, but the work would go forward, for the Lord promised them, and us, “I will bless all those who labor in my vineyard with a mighty blessing” (D&C 21:9).