Gospel Story Finder

Not far from the vast expanse of the Ohio River lies a small town on the outskirts of Louisville, Kentucky, called Anchorage. Once a farming community where a riverboat captain established his last portage, it has become home to families of many diverse faiths.
It was there in church, at home, and while exploring the marvelous world beneath the woods of sycamore, oak, maple, chestnut, and willow trees that I learned one of the fundamentals of Christianity: that Jesus came as the master teacher, instructing us in the ways of goodness and integrity.
My parents were good folks, faithful in their church. They taught me how to be a good person and that there are certain things that are right, such as being kind to others, and certain things that are wrong, such as stealing. On the other hand, they also taught that what one person believes to be true is just as valid as what someone else believes to be true, even if those beliefs differ in fundamental ways. In this philosophy, as I understand it, there are no eternal principles true for everyone, just personal viewpoints that intelligent people have the right and obligation to determine are true for themselves.
Because of those underlying tenets of moral relativism, I had a difficult time believing what the Mormon missionaries taught me about the need for the Atonement, priesthood authority, and prophets. Indeed, my journey to conversion took me six long years of constantly challenging and questioning who I was, what I believed, and whether there could, in fact, be a God who had established eternal principles of truth and error, sin and consequence.
Remarkably, I did receive a spiritual confirmation, but it did not come until I was humble enough to accept it. First came a witness of baptism, then of the Book of Mormon, then of Joseph Smith as a true prophet. Additional witnesses followed, line upon line, regarding today’s prophets and apostles.
Eventually, there came a point in my life when I didn’t just believe the gospel was true—I knew it. The culmination of many little witnesses created a foundation upon which my faith was sure, a bulwark against which challenges to testimony break.

In 1993, I began five years in the Nigerian Army, where I served as a peacekeeper in Liberia and Sierra Leone. I had enlisted after finishing school at age 16. I had many experiences at such a young age, but one I will always remember—it serves as a defining incident in my life—happened while I was in Liberia.
My commanding officer, a captain, learned I was a Mormon. He asked me, “Trooper Arungwa, are you a Mormon?”
“Yes, sir,” was my reply. “I am a Mormon.”
My punishment was to run five times around the camp, which was a total of about 25 kilometers. As I finished on that hot, tropical day and reported to him, he told me in stern language that I had received the punishment because I was a Mormon.
He explained his understanding that members of the Church worshiped Mormon as their God. I replied just as sternly, “No, sir!”
“Good night, trooper,” he barked back at me. “I will see you tomorrow.”
This conversation was very upsetting to me because I did not know what tomorrow would bring.
Eventually I was invited to his home and had the privilege of discussing the Church and my testimony. We discussed Adam’s transgression, the Apostasy, and the need for a restoration. At this young age, I discussed with him the coming of the Savior. I was thrilled as we talked about who Mormon was—an abridger, a prophet, and one of the writers of an ancient record.
I presented the commander a copy of the Book of Mormon. He was amazed that I was not afraid to share these things with him. He said I was the only one in the Nigerian Army he had seen preaching of Jesus Christ. He asked me if it was because I was a Mormon. I answered yes.
A year later this same commander, then a major, was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I experienced the deep joy of helping someone gain a testimony. I felt the happiness of bringing “save it be one soul” (D&C 18:15) into the fold.
This event was a great inspiration to me, and after my military service was complete, I obeyed the call of our prophet to serve a full-time mission. I answered that call in April 1998 and served with much enthusiasm in the Nigeria Enugu Mission.

I remember one time Elder Charles A. Callis in a Council of the Twelve meeting. There was a rather spirited discussion on some questions. One of the Brethren said, “You had better listen to Brother George Albert Smith, the President of the Twelve, because he may be the next President of the Church.”
Brother Callis smiled and said, “Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure. Three times in my life I have chosen the next President of the Church, and all three of them died before they came to the presidency.” The Lord only knows, and for us to speculate or to presume is not pleasing in the sight of the Lord.

Last fall some friends came to our home with their children and brought with them a case of the most beautiful, large peaches I have ever seen. They were almost unbelievable in their size, their beauty, and their flavor. Brother Pitt explained that they had just won first prize at the county fair for their peaches, and they had an orchard full of them. I asked how they produced such remarkable fruit, and they were eager to explain. “We learned how to prune the peach trees and thin the weak fruit,” they said. “It’s hard work and must be done regularly.”

“We also learned what happens when you don’t prune,” said one of the children. Their father had wisely suggested that three trees in the orchard be left to grow without the harsh results of the pruning knife. They explained to me that the fruit from those trees was not only very small in size but did not have the sweet taste of the other fruit. The lesson was obvious. There was no question in their minds about the far-reaching value of careful pruning.

One year I had a goal to improve my spiritual learning. I would bring Church books, pamphlets, manuals, and scriptures everywhere, including to school, as I hungered for the words of God. But my efforts slowed when I became busy studying for an upcoming quiz.
One day our teacher led a discussion in which she asked all the non-Catholic students in the room to stand. I was the only Latter-day Saint in the class. Six other students also stood.
Then we were questioned: What church do you belong to? Who was the founder? How was your church established?
I was the last to answer. I was nervous when I realized I hadn’t brought my Church books, but I tried to remember the things I had studied. A Bible verse came to mind:
“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths” (Proverbs 3:5–6).
I stood in front of the class with boldness and forgot my fears. I stated that I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I shared the story of a young boy, Joseph Smith, who saw God. I felt a burning in my bosom, and tears fell from my eyes. I shared that the Church had been organized on April 6, 1830, and I testified that a prophet of God had been called and the priesthood restored. I testified that I knew all this was true.
The many hours of gospel study had been worth it. It had helped me defend my faith and share the gospel. I was proud when, several weeks later, four of my classmates joined me at church.
That experience taught me the importance of a testimony. At first I wondered why the Lord hadn’t prompted me to bring my books that day. They would have helped me perfectly answer the questions being asked. But then I realized that we need not memorize everything about the Church or rely on references—we should study, live, and share the gospel, relying on the Holy Ghost. I may not have had my books, but I had my testimony.

I remember as a youth walking with my mother up the dusty road to the bishop’s house in a day when we often paid tithing from our animals and produce. As we walked, I said, “Why do we take the eggs to the bishop?” She answered, “Because they are tithing eggs and the bishop receives the tithing of Heavenly Father.” My mother then recounted how each evening when the eggs were brought in, the first one went into a small basket and the next nine went into a large basket. I first learned the law of tithing from my beloved mother.

The wind rattled the windows, and the rain sounded like hundreds of pebbles falling on the house. Billie was glad that she didn’t have to go to school that day.
Mother was baking in the kitchen, and sweet, spicy smells filled the house. Billie decided to stay by the stove and play with her special toy, an old wooden stool. She turned it upside down and climbed inside.
“Where are you going?” Mother asked.
“Up into space,” Billie answered. Suddenly there was a noise like a roaring engine, the wooden “rocket” shook, and Billie zoomed away. She flew past the moon, circled the planets, and headed for the twinkling stars. She waved to other spaceships and laughed at funny faces in the clouds below. After a while she steered her rocket back to earth.
“Did you have a good trip?” Father asked.
“Yes, but I have to leave again,” Billie answered.
“Where are you going this time?”
“Out to sea.” Billie took an old broom handle and tied it to one of the legs of the stool. After she hung a big towel at the top, she waved good-bye and sailed away.
For a long time her ship moved through gentle waters.
Then a fierce storm arose. Winds howled, and giant waves rolled and rocked the ship. Billie was tossed from side to side and almost fell into the sea, where huge whales, hungry sharks, and strange fish with bright, flashing tails darted to and fro. The sea was wild, but Billie was strong and finally steered the ship back to port.
“Was the ocean rough?” Mother asked.
“It sure was!” Billie answered.
“Maybe you need a cookie and some milk after your long trip.”
Mother has some good ideas! Billie thought.
“One of these days,” Father said, “we’ll have to take that old stool apart and make you a real toy.”
A worried look crossed Billie’s face. “But I like my stool just the way it is, thanks,” she said.
Mother and Father looked at each other and smiled. “And we love you just the way you are,” they told her.
Billie finished her milk and climbed back into the upturned stool. “Goodbye,” she called. Then a mighty whistle blew, and a silver train sped along an invisible track. It climbed a mountain where eagles nest, roared through a long, dark tunnel, and raced the wind on another magic journey.

When I was growing up, each summer my family stayed at our cabin in Utah. One morning my friend Danny and I decided we wanted to clear an area in a nearby field so we could have a campfire. We began to pull at the tall grass, but we knew this would take the entire day.
I said to Danny, “All we need is to set these weeds on fire. We’ll just burn a circle in the weeds!”
I want to make it clear that both Danny and I were forbidden to use matches without adult supervision. Our parents had warned us many times of the dangers of fire. However, I knew where my family kept the matches, and we thought we needed to clear that field. I grabbed a few matchsticks, making certain no one was watching.
Back to Danny I ran. I struck a match and set the grass ablaze. It ignited as though it had been drenched in gasoline. At first Danny and I were thrilled as we watched the weeds disappear, but soon we saw that the fire was not about to go out on its own. We panicked as we realized there was nothing we could do to stop it.
Finally we had no option but to run for help. Soon all available men and women were dashing back and forth with wet burlap bags, beating at the flames to try to put them out. After several hours the last remaining embers were smothered.
Danny and I learned several difficult but important lessons that day—not the least of which was the importance of obedience.

After hearing many wonderful lessons about ways to keep the Sabbath day holy, we concluded as a family that one of our family rules would be to keep the Sabbath day.
Keeping the Lord’s commandments comes with an invitation to “prove me now herewith” (Malachi 3:10). Of course, we were put to the test, and we wanted to prove to the Lord that we believe. One Sunday after church, our daughter who was attending the graduating class at elementary school, was called by her teacher who asked her to come to the school.
The teacher was at the classroom with other students preparing for an island-wide competition on Monday morning. My daughter explained to the teacher that one of our family rules is not to do schoolwork on Sundays. The teacher wanted to speak to my wife, who made the same statement. Then the teacher wanted to speak with me. Of course, I shared the same comment. She was very disappointed. She told us that she believes in keeping the Sabbath day holy, but this was a very important competition where preparation was key to winning. I told her I understood how important the competition was but keeping the Sabbath day holy is more important to us. She hung up on me leaving me speechless.
On Monday morning, our daughter was afraid to go to school where she would have to face the teacher. My wife drove her to school but found the teacher had left our daughter behind. My wife took her to the competition venue where my daughter joined her classmates. Our daughter did not win the competition that day, but she was the only student from her school who won a prize.

My story begins with a loss that shaped my destiny. My father, Mr. Kofi Donkor Adane, died just a week before I was born. My mother, deep in her grief, held me for the first time with tears streaming down her cheeks. In my culture, there is a belief that a mother’s profound sorrow can cause a newborn’s spirit to “go back”—to return to the spirit world. Fearful of this, my aunt, Mrs. Faustina Boahin, came for me. She persuaded my mother that it would be safer if I stayed with her. And so, as a tiny baby, I left my mother’s arms and went to live with my aunt and uncle, growing up believing they were my true parents and that my cousins were my siblings.
My aunt was a strict disciplinarian. While my uncle was kind, my aunt believed in corporal punishment to “put me in line.” I was kept indoors, often watching the neighborhood children play football from behind the louvers of our window, shouting instructions as if I were their coach but never allowed to join. This isolation made school my sanctuary, a place where I could finally engage with friends, join clubs for acrobatics and drama, and feel a sense of belonging. Coming home late from these precious hours of play always meant a beating, but to me the fleeting freedom was worth the price.
The foundation of my life was shattered when my cousin, Kwesi, revealed the truth. “Is Faustina really your mom?” he’d tease, until one day he stated plainly, “No, she’s not. Auntie Mina is your mother.” I was stunned. Auntie Mina was the woman who visited often, always bringing a special gift just for me—a donut, an orange, a sweet—a fact for which my aunt had often scolded her. The pieces began to fall into place. I noticed the differences in treatment: I had more chores, I was denied meat at meals, and the punishments were more severe. The truth, once seen, could not be unseen.
I eventually moved in with my biological mother, Fatima Wilhelmina, and entered a new world: a Muslim household. My mother had been raised Muslim by her father, and she had remarried a Muslim man. I embraced this new identity with the fervor of a child seeking belonging. I learned to pray in Arabic, fasted during Ramadan, and perfected the ablutions. I even joined a wazi team, Muslim evangelists who would set up in town. My role was to read from the Bible, drawing parallels to the Qur’an, while others demonstrated Islamic prayer. I didn’t see it as outreach then; it was simply the faith I was living. For a time, it was my entire world.

One day my companion and I were teaching a couple, and we told them that the Father and the Son had appeared to Joseph Smith in answer to his prayer. The man said that no one could see God. Immediately the alarm on my watch went off, letting us know that we needed to head home. We left their home that day without answering that statement.
The next day I read a scripture in the Bible that says, “If there be a prophet among you, I the Lord will make myself known unto him in a vision” (Numbers 12:6). I knew this scripture would help this brother believe.
The time of the next visit arrived, and we spoke about prophets. I showed him this scripture, and his countenance changed. His eyes filled with tears, and he said, “This is true. There are people prepared to see God.” Later we taught him about Book of Mormon prophets who have seen God, and he knew it was true.
Elder Diaz, age 25, Mexico Mérida Mission

I would like to tell you of another who lived the Golden Rule. Many already know part of this story. It occurred a few years ago in the winter at O’Hare International Airport, that great and busy place that serves the city of Chicago. On this occasion a severe storm had caused delays and cancellations of flights. The thousands of people stranded or delayed there were impatient and cross and irritable. Among those in trouble was a woman, a young mother standing in a long line at the check-in counter. She had a two-year-old child who was on the dirty floor at her feet. She was pregnant with another child. She was sick and weary to the bone. Her doctor had warned her against bending and picking up anything heavy, so as she moved slowly with the line she pushed her crying and hungry child with her foot. People who saw her made critical remarks, but none offered to help.
Then a man came toward her and with a smile of kindness on his face said, “You need help. Let me help you.” He lifted the dirty, crying child from the floor and held her warmly in his arms. Taking a stick of gum from his pocket, he gave it to the child. Its sweet taste calmed her. He explained to those in the line the woman’s need of help, then took her to the head of the line, spoke with the ticket agent, and soon had her checked in. He then found seats where she and her child could be comfortable, chatted for a moment, and disappeared into the crowd without giving his name. She went on her way to her home in Michigan.
Years later there came to the office of the President of the Church a letter which reads as follows:
“Dear President Kimball:
“I am a student at Brigham Young University. I have just returned from my mission in Munich, West Germany. I had a lovely mission and learned much. …
“I was sitting in priesthood meeting last week, when a story was told of a loving service which you performed some twenty-one years ago in the Chicago airport. The story told of how you met a young pregnant mother with a … screaming child, in … distress, waiting in a long line for her tickets. She was threatening miscarriage and therefore couldn’t lift her child to comfort her. She had experienced four previous miscarriages, which gave added reason for the doctor’s orders not to bend or lift.
“You comforted the crying child and explained the dilemma to the other passengers in line. This act of love took the strain and tension off my mother. I was born a few months later in Flint, Michigan.
“I just want to thank you for your love. Thank you for your example!”
The world truly would be a different place if each of us frequently and seriously considered our Lord’s request: “Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them” (Matt. 7:12).

Tom and Joan (names have been changed) had both lost their spouses. Tom’s wife had passed away from cancer, and Joan’s husband, because of addiction, had left for other relationships. Tom and Joan met at a singles conference and were looking forward to marriage.
Each of them had children, age 15 and under. Their families had been on several outings together, and both Tom and Joan could see potential problems in blending the families. They came to counseling for some ideas on how to communicate in healthy ways to navigate this new chapter of their lives.
I suggested they review the message on family councils by President M. Russell Ballard, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. “Children desperately need parents willing to listen to them,” he taught, “and the family council can provide a time during which family members can learn to understand and love one another.”1
For their family councils, they decided on the following agenda:
Define the problem.
Brainstorm solutions.
Choose a plan.
Put it into action.
Evaluate the success of the plan the next week and renegotiate the plan if necessary.
In addition to counseling together as a family, Tom and Joan learned that when relationship stress is high, there can be a need to learn how to improve one-on-one communication as well.
Tom and Joan learned several techniques that helped them improve their communication and their relationships with their children.
The parents stood together in finding solutions to problems with the children.
If a child had difficulty completing their daily tasks, one of the parents would spend time with them, discussing the day while they worked to complete the tasks.
They spent time each week deepening their relationship with every child.
They established ahead of time that they would take time-outs when the “emotional” brain (yelling) took over from the “rational,” solution-focused brain (discussion).
Whenever there was a power struggle between parent and child, the parent, when impressed to do so, withdrew and came back later to brainstorm a new solution.
As the family did their best to approach challenging relationship issues in faithful, healthy ways—communicating about their challenges and working through them together—Tom and Joan recognized important growth in their children as well as themselves.

Even though it was a cold, hard piece of plastic, at that moment my chair was my only friend. Our English teacher had asked us to express our opinions about controversial statements. If you supported a statement, you were to move to the left side of the room. If you didn’t support it, you were to stay to the right. “First statement: Coed sleepovers should be allowed,” she said. There was a brief pause, then a giddy stampede to the left side of the room. I was the only one left sitting.
In my mind it wasn’t an option to go to the left side of the room. I knew what I believed. So I stood up, faced my friends, and told them I didn’t think coed sleepovers were appropriate. As I did so, I said a silent prayer that my words would make sense and testify of truth. Then the bell rang, and the students scrambled to collect their backpacks. A girl from my class stopped me in the hall. “I just wanted to say that was really brave of you,” she said. “I don’t think I would be able to do that.” I smiled and said a silent prayer of thanks to Heavenly Father for showing me that I was able to touch someone.
Although that was a difficult experience, I was able to define myself. Because I had the gospel in my life, I knew where I stood and I knew nothing could shake me. I eventually found friends who really cared about me and respected my beliefs. I am a much happier person because I understand that when I stand up for my beliefs, the Lord is with me and He will never leave me alone.

A dozen years ago, in one of the countries of Africa, we had faithful members of the Church who had been meeting in their homes for several years. I went to that country to see if we could receive permission from the government to bring in missionaries and establish the Church. I met with a high-ranking government minister. He gave me 20 minutes to explain our position.
When I finished he said, “I do not see where anything you have told me is any different from what is currently available in our country. I see no reason to approve your request to bring missionaries into our country.”
He stood up to usher me out of his office. I was panic-stricken. I had failed. In a moment our meeting would be over. What could I do? I offered a silent prayer.
Then I had an inspired thought. I said to the minister, “Sir, if you will give me five more minutes, I would like to share one other thought with you. Then I will leave.” He kindly consented.
I reached for my wallet and removed this small For the Strength of Youth booklet, which I have always carried.
I said, “This is a little booklet of standards we give all of the youth in our Church.”
I then read some of the standards I have mentioned tonight. When I finished he said, “You mean to tell me you expect the youth of your church to live these standards?”
“Yes,” I replied, “and they do.”
“That is amazing,” he said. “Could you send me some of these booklets so that I could distribute them to the youth of my church?”
I replied, “Yes,” and I did.
Several months later we received official approval from the government of that country to come and establish the Church.

Teresa Perez had had the same dream for three nights in a row. In her dream, she saw a small room filled with white clothing hanging from a line.
Could the dream have something to do with the lessons she and her family had been taking from the Mormon missionaries?
Elder Nichols and Elder Benjamin had started teaching her family three weeks ago and challenging them to read the Book of Mormon and to pray.
She and her parents had started reading the Book of Mormon and praying together. Teresa knew that her parents were struggling with the decision to accept the gospel that the American missionaries taught and to join The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
In their small town outside of Madrid, Spain, nearly everyone belonged to the same church. Some family members and friends had made unkind remarks about the “Mormons” and ridiculed Teresa’s family for even listening to the missionaries.
Teresa didn’t understand everything that the missionaries taught, but she liked the warm feeling she had as she listened to them. They spoke of Jesus Christ and of His love for all children. Teresa liked that. In her old church, she rarely heard about Jesus’ love.
She saw love for the Savior and His gospel in the elders’ eyes. She heard it in their voices when they spoke of Him.
When the missionaries arrived that day, Teresa told them of her dream.
“Can you describe the clothes?” Elder Nichols asked.
“There were lots of white clothes hanging from a line. Pants. Shirts. Dresses. Some were little and some bigger.”
Elder Nichols looked at Teresa’s papa. “Can you meet us at the church tomorrow evening?”
Papa nodded. “We will be there.”
The lesson continued, but Teresa barely heard what the young elders said. Her dream and Elder Nichols’s request filled her mind.
That night, the dream came once more. The beautiful white clothes were so white that they shined.
Teresa and her parents made the hour-long trip by bus to the chapel. Elders Nichols and Benjamin met them at the door and led them down a hallway to a small room.
“Is this what you saw in your dream?” Elder Nichols asked.
Teresa looked at the white clothes of all different sizes hanging from a large rack. There were dresses, pants, shirts, just as in her dream! “Yes. It is just as I saw in my dream.”
“These are baptismal clothes.” Elder Nichols explained, “When a person gets baptized, he or she wears all white. It’s a symbol of purity.”
A frown crossed her papa’s face. “We have been baptized. When we were babies. For Teresa, that was only ten years ago.”
“We understand,” Elder Benjamin said. He pointed to the scriptures he always carried. “We learn from the prophets that those who take upon themselves the name of Christ must be baptized by the proper authority.”
Teresa remembered that from the discussions. “The priesthood.”
Elder Benjamin nodded. Then he bore his testimony. Elder Nichols followed. Tears filled his eyes as he spoke of his love for Jesus Christ and of his gratitude for the priesthood which he held and which included the proper authority to baptize people.
Teresa heard the truth in the testimonies. Even more, she felt it. She turned to her father and mother. “It is good, what we hear. I feel it.” She placed a hand on her heart. “I feel it here.”
Elder Nichols smiled. “The word gospel means the good news.”
Teresa’s papa wiped tears from his eyes. “Good news. You have brought us very good news.”
“Always we search for something,” her mama said. “Now we have found it.”
“When can we be baptized?” Teresa asked.
Elder Nichols’ smile widened. “How does Saturday sound?”

“Five, six, seven, eight.” The music started, then stopped again. We had been practicing all morning!
“Sally!* Turn out more! Anne, your kicks are too low! Bethany, it’s a triple pirouette. Get it right! Give me 50, and do it again!” We sighed. We still had half an hour more of this.
It was my junior year and my first year on the school drill team. Being on drill team had always been my dream. We performed at basketball and football games, and everyone knew who we were! Being on the drill team would make my life fun.
From day one our coach informed us that we would call her “Mrs. Smith” because first names were too personal. Dancing was strictly business. I put everything I had into the practices. I was always on time and ready to work.
When Mrs. Smith passed out competition costumes, I felt sick. “What is that? It’s like a skimpy piece of fabric!” This was going against everything I had learned in Young Women. Life was crazy. During the week, it was school and drill team. On weekends it was competition. I had no time for church or family.
My older brother received his mission call, and we were all so excited for him. He told me when he would report to the Provo Missionary Training Center, and my heart dropped. It was the week before regional drill competition. I knew if I wanted to see him off, Mrs. Smith would cut me. I talked with her and hoped she would understand, but she threatened to take me out of all the routines. I was sorry, yet I didn’t let it shake my decision. I went to the MTC with my brother and family. I also danced at region and state competition, where our team took second both times.
At the end of the school year talk of tryouts began. Everyone expected me to try out again, and I assumed I would.
One night, as I was lying on my bed doing some scripture study, I felt strongly impressed to read my patriarchal blessing. As I read, I thought about the past year. What kind of person had I become in the past year? I was wearing immodest clothing for performances. I wasn’t going to church anymore. My relationships with my family had deteriorated. I had forgotten who I was. Where was my testimony? What were my priorities?
I went to my mom’s room and flopped onto her bed. We talked about what I had just discovered. We made a list of pros and cons, but she told me the decision was up to me.
That night many thoughts swirled inside my head. I knew what the right decision was, but I didn’t want to give up the popularity, the status, and the prestige of drill team. Did family and church mean enough to me to change?
I didn’t go to tryouts the next day. Never had I felt such relief and comfort about a decision. Although Mrs. Smith and my team accused me of abandoning them, I didn’t regret my decision. I had abandoned myself for too long and was ready to straighten out my priorities.

My seminary teacher began my very first seminary class by passing out small booklets to all the students. I was ready to really dig into the gospel at seminary, so I was excited to find out what wisdom these little books held. When I received my book and flipped through it, however, I realized it was full of blank pages.
My teacher explained that these blank books were for us to record our own spiritual impressions. He then shared a quote from Elder Richard G. Scott (1928–2015) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles:
“Write down in a secure place the important things you learn from the Spirit. You will find that as you write down precious impressions, often more will come. Also, the knowledge you gain will be available throughout your life.”1
My teacher bore testimony of Elder Scott’s words and encouraged us to write down insights we received as we studied the scriptures that year.
I was touched by Elder Scott’s promise that the Lord will give us more direction when we write down what we receive, and I wanted to show Heavenly Father that I valued His guidance. The only problem was that I wasn’t sure I even knew how to receive personal revelation. I couldn’t think of anything I should write down. There was no way I could ever fill up my book with insights!
But Elder Scott’s words stuck with me throughout the day, and by the next morning I had decided that I would trust the counsel of a living prophet and try to write down impressions.
Within a couple of weeks my daily scripture study changed. Before, I would read a few verses every day just to be able to check “read my scriptures” off my to-do list. Now I was looking for answers. I was looking for something that the Lord wanted me to write down.
Soon I found out that Elder Scott’s promises were true. I started to recognize the Spirit’s voice as I studied, first helping me feel God’s love, then testifying of truth as I read, and finally giving specific direction for my life. Not only did I have things to write in my study journal, but also—and much more importantly—I was learning how to recognize personal revelation.
Blessings continue to come. The act of writing things down helps me remember them later more easily, and I also now have a record to reference if I can’t quite remember the details of a lesson I learned. When I’m discouraged or struggling with a gospel question, I go back and read about specific experiences where I received undeniable confirmation of the basic truths of the gospel. These experiences are the backbone of my testimony, and my study journal is a way to always keep them fresh in my mind.
I will always be grateful that I decided to take an Apostle’s advice and write things down, even though at first I thought I had nothing to write. Keeping a study journal has shown me how to recognize when God speaks to me.

Years ago, while I was serving as a young bishop, an older gentleman asked to meet with me. He described his departure from the Church and the righteous traditions of his parents when he was in his youth. He described in detail the heartache he experienced during his life while vainly seeking lasting joy amidst the momentary happiness the world has to offer. Now, in his later years of life, he experienced the tender, sometimes nagging whispering sensations of the Spirit of God guiding him back to the lessons, practices, feelings, and spiritual safety of his youth. He expressed gratitude for the traditions of his parents, and in modern-day words, he echoed the proclamation of Enos: “Blessed be the name of my God for it.”

As a young forest technician recently graduated from college, I was working with the project forester in the Porcupine Hills of Alberta, Canada. We were assessing what had happened in the forest over the winter in regard to the mountain pine beetle infestation.
As the two of us prepared for our day’s activities, the forester noticed I had failed to pack water. I justified my decision by explaining to him that since this was early spring, there would be plenty of water from streams and creeks flowing in the hills. By not carrying any water, I’d be saving weight and room in my day pack. He seemed to accept my reasoning just fine, and off we went for an exhilarating day of work in the bush.
After we had worked for a few hours, I was starting to get thirsty. I could hear a creek flowing not too far distant from where we were, so I headed off through the forest to the creek. What I saw intensified my thirst: crystal clear water flowing over white, pristine sheets of ice. It was beautiful to the sight, and I knew I was in for a treat. As I knelt by the creek’s edge and cupped my hands, the forester said, “I wouldn’t drink that if I were you.”
I didn’t pay any mind to him as I had a thirst to quench. The second the water wet my tongue, I knew I’d made a mistake. I immediately spit the water out. The forester had been right, and now he was having a pretty good laugh at my misfortune. What should have been pure heaven to my taste buds left me with the rancid and putrid flavor of cow manure. I might as well have been chewing on a cow patty!