Gospel Story Finder

One of my cousins has been struggling with depression for the past few years. We try to keep in contact, but because of the miles between us, being there physically for her is hard. I started a care package and filled it with things that she loves and could use as a pick-me-up. I also wrote letters of advice, concern, and inspiring quotes. It doesn’t have to be fancy, but letting someone know that you love and care for them can be enough to help them get through the darkest of times.
Hanne J., Georgia, USA

A young college student found herself almost overwhelmed by personal and family difficulties. “It was a time of grief and loneliness,” she recalls. “Then, Lila, a young woman who served with me in a ward calling, began stopping by my apartment to visit with me. Again and again her visits came at the very moments when I felt nearest despair. Her friendship gave me the courage to go on—not only because it lifted me—but because it showed me that my Heavenly Father knew my need.”

Shaking Sister Turner’s hand was like handling a delicate antique. [Names have been changed.] We had come as we did every Sunday.
“My, your hands are like ice!” she exclaimed for the 10th time in 10 visits. I smiled as I set the sacrament bread and water on the bedside table.
“It’s a cold walk from the church to here,” I explained, sweeping snow off my white shirt for effect.
“Well, where’s your jacket then?” came the quavery accusation, to which I could only shrug as usual. The slow rasp of some medical machine was the only sound as my companion priest opened the Doctrine and Covenants to find the sacrament prayers (see D&C 20:77, 79).
I thought back to when, as a new priest, I had been assigned “home sacrament.” With some embarrassment, I had had to ask who these homebound members were and where they lived. How long had I lived in this ward? Twelve years without even meeting these members?
After blessing and passing the bread, my companion handed me the open scriptures. Clearing my throat, I read the prayer with what I hoped was a voice powerful enough to match the furrowed concentration on Sister Turner’s face.
Watching Sister Turner struggle to raise the cup of water to her lips, I ached in sympathy. How did this fragile sister do it? How could she stay so pleasant after suffering immobilizing pain as long as she had? My thoughts turned to the others we would be visiting. Each of them, despite suffering terribly from the effects of sickness or old age, exemplified endurance, compassion, and love. Each of them had a treasure trove of stories, studded with gems of wisdom. But most of them, as the beeping machines attested, had little time left. Why hadn’t I discovered these treasured brothers and sisters long ago?
As we rose to leave, Sister Turner predictably joked, “You have to be 102 to get this sort of service.” We chuckled and wished her a fond “See you next week,” with a silent “we hope.” We stepped out into the snow with the fervent thank-you from Sister Turner’s daughter still in our ears. We sometimes doubted whether or not Sister Turner remembered us, but we never doubted that she sincerely appreciated our visits.
We knocked at another door. “Come in, boys! I was hoping you would come today!”
I smiled again as I shook the snow out of my hair. “Sister Holt! It’s a pleasure to see you!” And it was.

One night when I was reading my scriptures, I felt overwhelmed with the idea of becoming perfect. I sank back onto my bed and thought, How can I ever become the person I want so much to be?
As I pondered, I glanced around my room reviewing the daily reminders that decorated every shelf. My eyes settled on a small abacus my mother had purchased from a local boutique as a gift for me when I became a Beehive. Seven small wooden beads, each painted a different color representing the Young Women values, were strung on a thin wire arched on top of a small block of wood. On the side was hand painted, “Count on the Values.”
My question was answered. Count on the values to improve each day. How? I asked. More answers poured into my mind. Seven values, seven days—a value a day. I grabbed the nearest pencil to organize my thoughts.
Sunday—Divine Nature I would study the scriptures, listen in church, ponder the things I learned there, and prepare for the coming week by increasing my spirituality.
Monday—Faith I would have the faith to meet the challenges of a new week. I remembered a quotation, “If you believe you can, you can. If you think you can’t, you’re right.” I would have faith that with the Lord’s help I would be able to do all the things that were needful.
Tuesday—Knowledge I would focus on knowledge by scheduling time throughout the week for homework and additional study for upcoming tests.
Wednesday—Choice and Accountability I would hold a midweek evaluation on how I was going. Were the choices I’d made so far in the week helping me become a better person? Were they reflecting my belief in Christ? If I was falling short, there would still be time to renew a commitment to improve. If I was doing all I could, it could be a time of grateful prayer.
Thursday—Good Works I would look for someone in need of my service. It might be a fellow student who needed a study partner or perhaps a cheerful hello in the halls. Maybe it’s my neighbor in need of a ride, a quick errand done, or help with her small children.
Friday—Integrity When I went with my friends, I would remember who I was and what my beliefs are. I would encourage others to make good decisions, particularly when we were together as friends.
Saturday—Individual Worth This was a time to know I had grown in the gospel and come a little closer to the Savior. It was a time to prepare for Sunday and the upcoming week, feeling just a little closer to my eternal goals.
This weekly plan strengthened me as I tried to live one value each day to the fullest extent possible. At first I could only do one or two things to live that particular value, but it became easier. After a while I didn’t even have to plan out each act as I’d had to at first. Soon one day blended into another. I didn’t just serve others on Thursdays, but I thought of things to help others almost without realizing I was even doing it. I discovered myself being accountable daily for the choices I made. Study time became easier because I had taken the time to make a plan to learn new things.
The Lord helped me see that perfection isn’t an immediate accomplishment but an eternal quest as I learned line upon line, precept on precept, each new day.

The smell of freshly cooked bacon filled the cabin where the sisters of our young single adult ward had gathered for a Relief Society overnighter. As I lay in bed trying to wake up from a short night’s sleep, I heard the sisters begin to gather in the kitchen for breakfast. I heard their familiar voices laughing, talking, and then laughing some more. As I listened to the happy noise, I felt a surge of love for these amazing women. I smiled as I thought to myself, “This is the sound of Relief Society.”
I then reflected on all the other wonderful sounds that remind me of Relief Society: a sister sharing her heartfelt testimony of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, the voices of many sisters blending as we sing hymns together, a tender visiting teaching lesson, the hum of a sewing machine as we participate together in a service project, and the tears we shed as we share one another’s sorrows. These are just some of the many wonderful sounds that remind me of the Lord’s organization for women.
But that morning in the cabin, as I lay there listening to my sisters laughing and talking, I realized what was my favorite sound of all: the sound of righteous women rejoicing together, loving each other, and celebrating our common sisterhood as daughters of a loving Heavenly Father. To me, that is truly the sound of Relief Society.

—“When I first came here, I didn’t have any idea what I wanted to be,” said Melissa Marley, age 19. “I knew school was important, but it got to a point where just going to classes was a real drag.” Then she read an article in the campus paper about a new program in floral design, and decided to see what it was like.
“Remember,” she said, smiling, “I had just come from Green River, Wyoming. Living in Wyoming, you don’t see too many exotic plants.”
Soon she was spending hour after hour in greenhouses and floral design labs, surrounded by bright colors, breathing in sweet-scented perfumes.
“Even at the grocery store, I’d wander over to the plant section and start naming all the plants. My friends would look at me like I was weird. But I absolutely loved studying plants. I didn’t want to do anything else.”
—As a high school student from Ashton, Idaho, Ryan Gardner, now 18, participated in a student exchange program.
“I spent a year in Finland. While I was there, I was constantly noticing furniture. I was amazed at how beautiful a simple thing like a chair could be. I fell in love with their textiles—there were so many wonderful fabrics. And it seemed like in every home there was some kind of beautiful glassware. The more I saw, the more fascinated I became.
“One family I lived with had completely remodeled their home, from the plumbing on out. They redid everything themselves. It was a small home, and what they did wasn’t anything that cost millions of dollars. But there was a simple elegance in how they tied everything together, from the kitchen to the stairs to the furniture. The result was beautiful.”
When he returned to the U.S., Ryan, who had previously thought about being an orthodontist, decided to major in interior design.
—“My dad runs a welding shop,” said Blaine Hill, 19, who hails from Burley, Idaho. “He was always building swing sets and monkey bars for the family, doing repairs and making things for people. I grew up with welding.”
But he had no idea that it was the sort of thing he could get a degree in.
“I imagined that when you went to college you’d have to major in something big, like being a doctor or a lawyer or something to make money. I thought welding was something you did in your spare time.”
Then in high school, he heard about a welding contest sponsored by Ricks. He entered it, and it changed his life.
“I won a scholarship, so I came here just to get a feel of what it would be like.”
Not only did he discover that “welding is what I’d like to do for the rest of my life,” he also found out that it’s a topic of study and research at a number of major universities.
Blaine is currently serving in the Oregon Portland Mission. When he returns, he’ll “probably go on to Arizona State University for a master’s degree in welding engineering and technology.” That program, like the associate degree program at Ricks, has a job placement approaching 100 percent.
—“In high school, my older brother Jerry and I were real rivals,” explained Charisse Wolflick, 19, from Bend, Oregon. “He was always smarter than me. Then he took a drafting class and had trouble with it. So I took the same class just to show him I could do better.”
She did.
“At first I wasn’t sure that I liked it, but as the semester went on, I found I just loved it. I’d go in at noon and spend extra time on my drafting. Any time that I had, that’s what I wanted to do.”
A faculty adviser at Ricks steered her into design drafting and introduced her to the world of computers. Now she designs things like car parts and machines.
“We study natural forces, like the power of water and air,” Charisse said. “It ties in with the gospel because you think, The Lord made the whole earth, and we’re learning how it operates.”
Melissa, Ryan, Blaine, and Charisse figured out what they wanted to study mostly by being alert. Their road to discovery was fairly direct. But for others, traveling the road to discovery has meant maneuvering around roadblocks and detours, perhaps even making a U-turn.
—The son of a newspaperman, 18-year-old Michael Bitton of Idaho Falls had studied journalism since high school. He had also dabbled in drama. He was amazed when he landed a role in a major production at Ricks.
“I started thinking, This came so easily, maybe I should be in theater!” Soon, however, he found he was spending too much time with the show.
“My grades went down. I was on a scholarship and lost it. I was fired from my job because I didn’t show up.”
He looks back philosophically.
“Maybe being fired was the best thing that could have happened to me,” he said. “I discovered that success in one area is relatively unimportant if the rest of your life is falling apart.”
Now he’s back in journalism, and feels “certain that it’s where I want to be.”
—Melanie Finch, 20, of Idaho Falls, “always wanted to be a nurse.” But after candy striping and a high school vocational program which earned her status as a Certified Nurse’s Assistant, Melanie switched to another field.
“In nursing, you have to associate with just about every kind of person in the world, and have compassion for them all. I found out that’s not always easy to do.”
A year later, however, she became a nursing student again.
“I did a lot of growing during that year,” she said. “I realized just how important it is to take care of people, even if it is hard and dirty. Now I’m dedicated to helping others. And I’m happy to know I’m helping people who really need the help.”
—Caroline Olsen, a 22-year-old interior design student from Brampton, Ontario, Canada, enjoyed her studies, but wondered if they were superficial.
“I started to feel like what I was doing was unimportant. I mean, why be a designer? Who does it help? “Then one of the faculty members sat down with me and said, ‘Carrie, the things you develop will help others. Our environment is the most important thing that surrounds us each day. It creates an atmosphere for our workplace or our family. If it’s a good environment, it will influence us to be better people.’
“All of a sudden I understood that what I was doing was important. Thanks to that teacher, I found out I was doing something good.”
For Michael, Melanie, and Caroline, part of the journey to discovery was figuring out they were already following a good route. That’s the same sort of discovery others made in a different way, by becoming interns. It’s a process that allows students to temporarily enter the working world before returning to the classroom.
—Kevin Leach, 20, from Sparks, Nevada, spent a summer as an emergency medical technician intern in Atlanta, Georgia. He was able to associate with a lot of other people in the medical field. He came to see that besides his EMT and paramedic training, a nursing degree would be important. Since returning, he’s taken the additional courses necessary, and will soon graduate with three degrees.
“I’m not only going to be able to be a paramedic out on the streets, but I’ll be able to be a nurse in the hospitals, to ride on Life Flights, to teach emergency medicine up to a certain point, and to move up into administration. What I discovered was that some extra work can open a lot of doors.”
—Michelle Beach, 19, worked for 10 weeks in a floral design shop in Darmstadt, West Germany, not far from where her father is stationed with the army.
“They really wanted me to learn, so they gave me a lot of opportunities,” she said. “I worked on displays, color selection, care and handling of flowers, just about everything they do in the shop, except that I don’t speak much German, so I didn’t have much interaction with the customers.”
She studied firsthand the similarities and differences between German and American business practices, and between European and American floral designs.
“I learned that running a shop is not an easy thing to do. But it’s an opportunity to use your talents and work hard. And,” she said, “I found out that it’s really what I’m interested in.”
Through their internships, both Kevin and Michelle discovered something critical. They found that education doesn’t end when you leave the classroom. Learning is a lifelong pursuit.
That’s a topic Bart and Annette Heiner like to discuss, too. After all, they met in school.
—Annette describes herself as an “outdoorsy person,” a tomboy who was happy riding dirt bikes but not comfortable in the kitchen. It didn’t bother her at all to be the only girl in a welding class.
“When I first came here, my intentions were to graduate from Ricks, go on to Utah State University and graduate as a welding engineer, then to work.”
Bart grew up on a farm in Star Valley, Wyoming.
“I was always interested in industrial arts, particularly welding,” he said. He was also “kind of shy,” and only asked Annette for a date after prodding by an instructor who had them both in his class.
A friendship developed. Bart and Annette enjoyed doing things together.
“Then,” Annette said, “one time on the way home he started naming all these talents he wanted his wife to have—sewing, cooking, playing the piano—all these abilities I didn’t have. I said, Well, that’s it. I’ll never see him again. But by the time we got home, I’d forgotten about it, and we kept on dating.”
Soon they were married in the Idaho Falls Temple, and just recently their first child, Zachary, was born.
“Since then, I’ve discovered something,” Annette admits. “With a baby, every day you’re learning. I still enjoy outdoorsy things, and I still enjoy welding. But now I can hardly wait to graduate, so I can stay home and take care of our son.”
As students discovering a lot of things about welding, Bart and Annette made another major discovery—each other.
“And we learned there is something more important than anything else we want to be,” Bart said. “We want to be an eternal family.”
The Discovery.
Yes, it involves figuring out what to study. But it’s also more, much more. It begins as an awakening of curiosity, a finding of direction and purpose, an uncovering of natural talents and affinities. It blossoms into a growing knowledge of who we are and what we can do.
In fact, as these students at Ricks College are learning, finding out who you are is much more than an academic pursuit. It’s part of a lifelong discovery charted by our Father in Heaven—that we are his children, each blessed with unique abilities, and that if we will pursue them, he will magnify our skills.
Here are some tips to guide you along your road to discovery:
—Remember Heavenly Father knows you better than anyone. Pray. Get a patriarchal blessing. Study the scriptures. You’ll find that he can guide you to a great understanding of who you are and what you can be.
—It’s hard to feel inspired if you aren’t living right. If you need to, repent. Then the inspiration can be unrestrained.
—There may be many things you could successfully do. It may not be as important what you do as that you are honorable in doing it.
—You’ll spend a lot of time at work. Look for a career that will allow you to employ skills you enjoy using every day.
—Those who have discovered what they really want to do rarely talk about grades or money. They talk about how much they enjoy their work.
—Sometimes you have to try something to know it isn’t right for you. Chalk it up to experience. It can be a great discovery to know what you’re not interested in, too.
—Study lots of things. The more you become familiar with, the better chance you have of discovering what you really want to be. Take advantage of general education programs. If you’re at a Church school, attend forums and devotionals.
—Remember that a full-time mission, in addition to being a great opportunity to serve, is also an opportunity to learn and grow. A mission can be an education all by itself.
—Anything you truly learn will stay with you, through the eternities. (See D&C 130:18–19.)

One of the greatest joys of my life came when my family was spiritually united in seeking the Lord’s aid in my behalf, supporting me through a time of intense struggle. I learned by experience why the Lord placed us in sacred groups called families.
When I was in my eleventh year of school I contracted a kidney disease. Over the next few years my health gradually declined until my condition became critical. Despite the best medical care, the disease eventually destroyed both of my kidneys.
In January 1968 I was admitted to the University of Washington Health Center. My parents were called and told that my condition was so poor that I might not survive the night.
My father and a close friend administered to me; then, my mother took a copy of my patriarchal blessing from her purse and read several passages. She bore her testimony, then handed me the blessing. “You have a great mission to fulfill,” she said quietly, “and the Lord wants to help. But you need to do your part, too, Brent.” She leaned over and kissed me good night.
My father bore his testimony, shook my hand, and hit me lightly on the chest.
“Good night,” he said. “We’ll see you in the morning.”
Then I was alone in the quiet solitude of my hospital room—alone with my thoughts, memories, and a blessing.
As I thought about my mother’s admonition, I began to reach out to my Father in Heaven, something I had never really done before. As I prayed, I at first tasted the bitterness of a life that had failed to reach its potential. But as I continued to pray, the bitterness subsided, and I felt as if a tremendous burden had been lifted from me. I was at peace again—warm, comforted, and assured that my prayer was being answered. I knew in my heart that all would be well.
It took about two weeks to regain the strength I needed to leave the hospital, and another seven months passed before my first treatment on an artificial kidney machine. But it was time well spent, for I had decided to really find out what the gospel of Jesus Christ was all about.
My first project was to read the Book of Mormon. For hours at a time I studied that tremendous book of scripture, gaining a testimony of its truthfulness and a love for the book itself. Now life took on new meaning, as if a light had been turned on and I could see and understand as never before. I was uplifted, enlightened, instructed, and spiritually quickened. Today I look back on this period as perhaps the most significant period of my mortal life.
In those early years of artificial kidney development, the expense and lack of facilities meant that treatment was restricted to a few fortunate people. Kidney center personnel were responsible to determine who would receive treatment and who would not. As I approached the artificial kidney center, my application seemed a bit lacking. I was, after all, single with no dependents, no real income, and no resources. But I did have something that encouraged me—a super family. And the doctors knew it. They reasoned that because I had such close and supportive family, I would always have people around to help take care of me. This made me a good candidate for a new experimental kidney machine which can be used at home—and perhaps someday, even for a kidney transplant.
I learned a great deal during those three years I was on the kidney machine. My faith in the Lord grew as I watched his hand guiding my life. I was close to my family, and in spite of the kidney machine I loved life more than ever before. I had never been so free, nor as happy. Yet, I yearned to be rid of my mechanical companion.
This goal, like so many others, became a family project. We often spent family home evenings and family interviews discussing alternatives to being on the kidney machine and the justifications for a kidney transplant.
I recall one memorable week when the family was all together after an extended period of separation. Missions, marriages, and college had scattered us across the globe for a number of years. Then Christmas of 1970, like a magnet, brought us all back home again.
During that week we spent a great deal of time talking about my health. We had all researched the possibility of a kidney transplant, and each member of the family had personally volunteered to donate one of their kidneys to me.
One afternoon while playing basketball with my brothers, I stepped back for a moment and watched them play. Each was a superb athlete. Craig had been a contender for the Olympic swimming team; he was now married and had a family. Barry had been one of the best football players in the state and was now an expert snow skier. And Kevin was one of the best high school basketball players in the state.
“Thanks anyway,” I thought as my eyes brimmed with tears. “I love you all for the desires of your hearts, but I simply don’t feel right about it.”
With Christmas over, Barry returned to Brigham Young University and Craig and his family returned to their home in California. I eagerly busied myself with missionary labors, and all returned to normal.
Then one evening a marvelous and unexpected event occurred during family prayers. My father said the prayer, and when the prayer was completed we all knew what was to transpire. With tears in our eyes we discussed our feelings. Yes, each had felt the same confirmation. We should go ahead with the transplant.
In retrospect, that decision may have been the greatest miracle of all. Logic and personal feelings just didn’t matter anymore; we knew what the Spirit had directed.
That evening I made a long-distance phone call to my brother Barry in Provo, Utah, and talked with him about the transplant. I explained to him the answer we had received and asked him to pray about it. But Barry eagerly accepted immediately saying he had prayed about it many times and was simply awaiting my call. I told him we could wait until June, but the next day he dropped his classes and came home.
After Barry arrived, however, the surgical team discovered that he had developed an immunity to Parrot’s Fever while serving his mission in Mexico, and they feared a reaction to the medications necessary after the transplant. To Barry’s deep disappointment, it was determined that his kidney was not transplantable.
About two weeks later, we had another of those extra special family home evenings. And again we felt impressed to proceed with a kidney transplant. Again I went to the phone and called a brother, this time my older brother, Craig. Again I received a positive response.
Within a week, Craig, his wife Penny, and their one-year-old son Jason flew in from California. That same afternoon I went to the hospital, and Craig was admitted the next day.
Our names were placed on the prayer rolls of six temples from London to Los Angeles by friends of the family.
The night before surgery we held family home evening in my hospital room. At one point I tried to tell the family that it didn’t seem worth the risk or sacrifice required of my brother to attempt that transplant. But Dad looked at me soberly, put a hand on my shoulder, and softly said, “We all feel that this is what the Lord wants, and your brother is proud to be able to do it. Remember, Brent, we’ll all live to see you running across the park lawn again, with that large grin of yours.”
Surgery began the next morning at 6:00 A.M. with my nurse giving me a sedative before the operation. At the end of the day I opened my eyes to see my parents close to my bed. I was back in my hospital room, and I knew everything was all right.
I remember seeing other members of the family briefly that evening. But I couldn’t find Craig. “How is Craig? Where is my brother?”
A familiar hand rested on my shoulder, and I heard my mother’s voice: “Brent, Craig is fine and your new kidney is fine, too.” With those words I went to sleep. “Thanks, Father in Heaven. Thanks, Craig. Thanks a lot, family.”
During those first few days after my transplant, I got a feeling that something was wrong when I looked at the troubled faces of my parents and brothers. All was not well with Craig. By the third day I was sure he had died and no one would tell me about it. Actually, he hadn’t died. But he was very ill and having a difficult time recovering from his part of the surgery.
On the afternoon of the third day, my father and brother carried Craig to see me. He was the color of a ripe banana. With a half smile on his face he said, “How’s it going, brother?” At that moment, seeing his pain and considering his sacrifice, I knew what love was and what having a family meant.
Two days later, the medical reports indicated that my body was rejecting the new kidney. It appeared that we had failed. Drastic medical measures were taken, but with little success. As it turned out, the most powerful aid of all was prayer. Etched deeply into my soul is the memory of many nights when family members knelt around my bed and one by one prayed to our Father in Heaven. I listened as my brothers wept, praying that I might live. Then, silently, none of us able to speak, we’d touch hands to say good-night. And they were good nights, for we each experienced the pure love of Christ.
My body’s rejection of the kidney was finally overcome; Craig, too, rapidly regained his health and strength. Today, my doctors report that I am one of the healthiest kidney recipients in history. I have a beautiful wife, two sons, and a daughter. Craig, now the father of three, lives a normal life surrounded by people who still don’t know why he made that quick trip to Seattle, Washington, several years ago.
I can testify that one of the greatest joys of mortality comes when a family is spiritually united in seeking the Lord’s aid and comfort. I am awed by the love displayed in my behalf. When I think about my family I think about the Lord, who is the true head of our gospel family. I think about his love, his devotion, and his willingness to sacrifice for us. And I feel that I have gained a special testimony and appreciation of the atonement of Jesus Christ, for I know what the love and sacrifice of an older brother can mean.

Dan’s missions fulfilled Joseph Smith’s last recorded prophecy. The night before the Prophet Joseph Smith was killed, he heard gunfire outside the window of Carthage Jail, so he chose to sleep on the floor. Near him was Dan Jones. The Prophet asked Dan if he was afraid to die. He replied, “Has that time come, think you? Engaged in such a cause I do not think that death would have many terrors.” Then Joseph prophesied, “You will yet see Wales, and fulfill the mission appointed you before you die.”2
The Prophet’s promise was fulfilled in 1845, when Dan and his wife, Jane, were called to serve in Wales. Dan used his talent for speaking to teach the gospel with great conviction. He was fluent in Welsh and English, and witnesses recorded that he spoke so captivatingly that he could hold his audience’s attention in either language for hours.
While in Wales, Dan published Latter-day Saint periodicals, tracts, and books in Welsh. Under Dan Jones’s direction, missionaries in Wales established 29 branches and baptized nearly 1,000 people each year of his first mission. He was called on a second mission to Wales in 1852, and despite growing persecution of the Church, some 2,000 people were baptized in four years.
Upon his return to Utah, Dan helped bring many Welsh converts to Utah. When he died at age 51, he had helped bring an estimated 5,000 people to the western United States.

As I was preparing to be baptized in eastern Argentina in December 1955, my branch president advised me, among other things, to ask forgiveness of those I might have offended, pay any debts, and return anything I had that didn’t belong to me. I admitted to him that I had owed a debt for half a bicycle for more than 20 years.
When I was 18 years old, I had worked part time as a photographer. I earned very little—just enough for food and to help my parents a bit. I had longed to have my own bicycle ever since I was a small boy, but we never seemed to have the money to buy one.
Luckily, my brother knew the Zuzci family. They were selling a very nice bicycle for a reasonable price. I had to pay half the money before getting the bike, and I could pay the rest later. When I had saved the first half, I went to their house and bought the bike.
To tell the truth, I had no intention of ever paying the rest of the money. I was poor and lived in humble circumstances; the Zuzcis were rich and enjoyed a fine home. I thought they would soon forget about the small amount of money I owed them.
As the years went by, I continued my education, became an optical technician, and eventually bought my own optical shop. My financial situation greatly improved. But I always avoided passing by the Zuzci house. My conscience was not clear about that bicycle!
Later in life, I felt a great desire to search for God. Now I had found Him and wanted to join His Church.
I was 38 years old when I made my way to the house I had avoided so many times. When the door opened, Mrs. Zuzci stood before me.
“Good morning, Mrs. Zuzci. Do you remember me?”
“Yes, Mr. Blanc. How could I forget you?”
“Then you remember,” I said, “that I still owe you money for a bicycle I bought 20 years ago.”
“I remember, Mr. Blanc—as if it had happened yesterday,” she answered.
I told her of my decision to be baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. “I ask your forgiveness,” I said. “I know that 20 years have gone by. I am willing to pay whatever you feel the debt is worth today.”
I could see tears forming in Mrs. Zuzci’s eyes. She said I was doing a beautiful thing and forgave me my debt. Then we both wept. What a beautiful spirit we felt to finally have the issue of the bicycle debt resolved!

When I started my final semester of college, I thought I’d finally know what I was doing with my life. I was a senior, about to graduate; surely I’d mastered being an adult. But trying to juggle classes and jobs and social life and health quickly turned into a nightmare. Going to school at Brigham Young University–Idaho should’ve made it easier, but being surrounded by so many members of the Church was overwhelming. I felt like I didn’t belong. I never doubted my testimony or the Lord, but I didn’t have a lot of confidence in my own abilities.
I’m a native Floridian who loves to be in the water, so to have a little taste of home, I decided to take a swimming course that semester. It was perfect. I already knew how to swim … or so I thought.
Swimming laps is very different than casually playing in the pool. And I learned that the hard way. During one of my first classes, only five seconds into a lap going back and forth down the swimming pool, I already couldn’t breathe. Pulling myself forward in the water took more energy than I thought it would. I knew how to swim, but I didn’t know the proper strokes or techniques, and all the other swimmers in my class were breezing past me in the water.
As soon as I finished a few laps, my instructor came over to me and said:
“You’re kind of flailing. Try to focus on how your body moves with the water, instead of trying to get to the other side of the pool as fast as possible.”
I left class soaking wet, exhausted, and humiliated.
Later that day, I sat down with my scriptures and pushed swimming from my mind. Thinking about how that class went just made me feel stupid.
But the embarrassment was far from over.
As I prayed and reflected, I kept thinking about my imperfections. I compared myself to who I wanted to be and definitely did not measure up to the expectations I had for myself. Failing at swimming opened my eyes to all the ways I was failing or not progressing in every other aspect of my life. Not only did I fail to measure up as a swimmer, but I also felt like I wasn’t being the best disciple I could be. I was impatient, lazy, and easily annoyed. I’d been working on becoming a better person all my life, but I still could only see all my imperfections.
I began repenting and apologizing, telling Heavenly Father that I knew exactly what I was doing wrong and asking Him to show me what else I needed to change. I told Him I was so sorry, but I was going to work on becoming a better person as much as I could.
Before I even finished my prayer, I felt a clear impression from the Spirit saying that even though I was flailing, Heavenly Father was pleased that I was trying. This impression brought peace and a feeling of joy. I even laughed as I felt just a glimpse of Heavenly Father’s intimate awareness of me and how I was feeling.
I realized in that moment that He knew I was holding myself to an impossible standard. He didn’t expect me to suddenly be perfect, just like how my swimming instructor didn’t expect me to become an Olympic swimmer in a day.
Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles recently taught: “I believe the Savior Jesus Christ would want you to see, feel, and know that He is your strength. That with His help, there are no limits to what you can accomplish. That your potential is limitless. He would want you to see yourself the way He sees you.”1
That’s one thing the Savior can do for us—He can change how we see ourselves and our imperfect efforts.
President Gordon B. Hinckley once said: “Please don’t nag yourself with thoughts of failure. Do not set goals far beyond your capacity to achieve. Simply do what you can do, in the best way you know, and the Lord will accept of your effort.”2
By the end of that semester, I wasn’t flailing anymore. I could glide through the water without any problems, and it wasn’t because I suddenly became an expert overnight. It’s because I showed up to class every week, knowing that whatever happened, I would just try to do my best.
As I struggled to get through my last semester, the Lord knew that I was trying. And instead of condemning me for my imperfections, He helped me find joy in my efforts—even if they were messy and uncoordinated. He could see that behind all my mistakes was a girl who just wanted, more than anything, to be a good disciple … and a good swimmer.

Min-Jun stared out the window at the clouds. “It looks like it will rain tomorrow,” he said.
Grandfather looked up from his newspaper and nodded. It was late summer in Seoul, South Korea, and monsoon season had begun.
Min-Jun set an umbrella next to his clothes for Sunday. “I think we should leave early tomorrow.”
Grandfather smiled. “Good idea. We’ll have to walk the longer way, in case the lower road floods.”
“Do you think the Church building will be all right?” Min-Jun asked. Last year the basement had flooded during monsoon season.
“Yes,” said Grandfather. “But it never hurts to pray.”
“Then I’ll pray for the church tonight. And that we can make it there safely. Jal-ja-yo (good night).” Min-Jun bowed and went to bed.
In the morning they left the apartment early. Min-Jun looked up at the dark clouds that filled the sky.
“Have faith,” Grandfather said.
Min-Jun followed Grandfather up the narrow staircase on the hill near their apartment. They paused at the top to catch their breath. Their white shirts were already damp from the heavy humidity in the air.
Grandfather held out his hand to feel the first raindrops. “Do you feel that? The rain is starting.”
They opened up their umbrellas. By the time they reached the next staircase, the rain was coming down fast. Min-Jun squinted to see each step through the rain. “Whoa!” he cried as he slipped and landed on his knee.
“Are you hurt?” Grandfather asked. He leaned down to look at the hole in Min-Jun’s trousers.
“It’s just a scrape,” Min-Jun said, his voice shaking.
“We can fix it up at the church,” said Grandfather.
Min-Jun and Grandfather climbed the rest of the stairs and turned onto the upper road.
“The wind is worse up here,” Grandfather said, clutching his umbrella. Min-Jun could barely control his umbrella. Suddenly a gust of wind came and flipped it inside out, tearing the umbrella at the seams. Min-Jun’s shoulders drooped.
Grandfather held out his umbrella. “Come under mine. We’re almost there.”
Min-Jun and Grandfather shared the umbrella, but it did little to keep out the constant rain. As they came near the church, Min-Jun heard music playing.
“They’ve already started!” Min-Jun ran to the front doors. Then he saw his reflection in the glass. His hair was matted and dripping, his trousers were torn, and his shoes were muddy. He shrank away from the door and back down the steps.
“I … I can’t go in,” Min-Jun stuttered.
“You’re just fine,” Grandfather said.
“But I’m all dirty and wet!”
Grandfather looked at Min-Jun, then looked at the rain gauge tied to the fence.
“It’s easy to measure the rain, Min-Jun, but how do we measure ourselves?”
Min-Jun blinked up at Grandfather.
“You see muddy shoes, a scraped knee, and messy hair, and you think you don’t measure up to much,” Grandfather said. “But Jesus Christ has a better way of measuring. He sees your heart and knows that you’re doing what’s right. If you measure yourself His way, you’ll see that the gauge is overflowing.”
Min-Jun looked at the rain gauge. It kept rising with each raindrop. He thought of how hard he had worked to get to church and how warm and happy he felt when he was there. He thought about how much he loved the Savior and how much the Savior loved him.
Min-Jun hugged Grandfather, and together they walked into church.

One of my favorite things is soccer. I participated in a soccer challenge. We demonstrated our skills, and then winners were chosen. I qualified to go to the state competition. I was so excited and really wanted to go, but it was on a Sunday. My mom and I talked about it one morning before school. We had a prayer, and she asked me to think about it. After school, my mom met me at the bus stop. I told her I was going to go to church instead of the state competition. I know I made the right decision. Every time I look at my trophy from the local competition, I will remember that it means more than winning at soccer.

I would like to comment on another song in our hymnbook. The text of “How Great Thou Art” was first written by a young minister in Sweden. His name was Carl Gustav Boberg. He was only 25 years old. After attending a church meeting, he walked two miles along the southeastern coast of Sweden in a thunderstorm. The experience inspired him to write the words, which were later translated into English by Stuart K. Hine:
O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder
Consider all the works thy hands have made,
I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder,
Thy pow’r thru-out the universe displayed;
Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee,
How great thou art! How great thou art!

May I share with you an account of an opportunity of service which came to me unexpectedly and in an unusual manner. I received a telephone call from a granddaughter of an old friend. She asked, “Do you remember Francis Brems, who was your Sunday School teacher?” I told her that I did. She continued, “He is now 105 years of age. He lives in a small care center but meets with the entire family each Sunday, where he delivers a Sunday School lesson. Last Sunday Grandpa announced to us, ‘My dears, I am going to die this week. Will you please call Tommy Monson and tell him this. He’ll know what to do.’ ”
I visited Brother Brems the very next evening. I could not speak to him, for he was deaf. I could not write a message for him to read, for he was blind. What was I to do? I was told that his family communicated with him by taking the finger of his right hand and then tracing on the palm of his left hand the name of the person visiting and then any message. I followed the procedure and took his finger and spelled on the palm of his hand T-O-M-M-Y M-O-N-S-O-N. Brother Brems became excited and, taking my hands, placed them on his head. I knew his desire was to receive a priesthood blessing. The driver who had taken me to the care center joined me as we placed our hands on the head of Brother Brems and provided the desired blessing. Afterward tears streamed from his sightless eyes. He grasped our hands, and we read the movement of his lips. The message: “Thank you so much.”
Within that very week, just as Brother Brems had predicted, he passed away. I received the telephone call and then met with the family as funeral arrangements were made. How thankful I am that a response to render service was not delayed.

On that same London study abroad program when I was a student, the group took an excursion to the Soviet Union. This was not the tourist-friendly, come-see-Anastasia’s-parlor Russia of today. It was 1981. The Cold War was raging. The two superpowers were wrestling close to the brink of another world conflict—this one full of nuclear mushroom clouds. Both sides were armed and ready. I was surprised to see on the runway of the Moscow airport that even Soviet passenger jetliners had guns sticking out of the nosecones. Anyway, there was nothing a good Soviet bureaucrat would love more than to make life difficult for an American.

Well, the lucky man in our group was a student who also happened to be someone who was less than fully cooperative with our faculty director, even by his own admission—there was a bit of a personality conflict. As we were about to leave the airport, this same student was detained by Soviet officials over some passport issue—real or trumped up, I don’t know, but I do know I had never seen just about anyone as scared as he was. He was not getting out of the Soviet Union, he was in trouble, and there was no negotiating.

Our director tried some quick diplomacy, but it wasn’t working. One of the director’s older children with us, a teenager who knew this was a difficult student and said what most of us were thinking but dared not say. In offhanded teen talk she said, “Oh, Dad, just leave him. He’s not worth it.”

In the tension of that moment, I will never forget the director’s perfectly calm response: “Oh, yes he is. He is worth it. We are not leaving without him.”

My director treated this student as the Savior treats us: we are all “worth it.” The crisis was resolved, and we were on our way.

As Gladys Monson lay in Salt Lake City’s St. Mark’s Hospital on Sunday, 21 August 1927 with her first son, her husband, G. Spencer Monson, told her a new bishop had been installed in the Sixth-Seventh Ward of the Pioneer Stake that day. The mother’s response, “I have a new bishop for you,” proved to be prophetic. On 7 May 1950 this son, Thomas Spencer Monson, was sustained as bishop of this ward. Not yet 23 years old, the son, named for his father and his maternal grandfather, Thomas Sharp Condie, was perhaps the youngest bishop in the Church. And the ward, numbering more than 1,000 members, including 85 widows, had the largest welfare responsibility in the Church.
Any concern whether the young bishop could handle this stunning administrative load was misplaced. Although young at the time, Thomas Monson was not a novice. He had served as a counselor in the bishopric, was a veteran of the United States Navy, was an honors graduate of the University of Utah, was the classified advertising manager at the Deseret News, and was married to a beautiful young bride, Frances Beverly Johnson.
Once installed in office, Bishop Monson went about his work with customary enthusiasm. Continuing the fine work of his predecessors, the once dowdy chapel was spruced up; the youth organizations were energized; sacrament meeting attendance soared; the needy were nurtured; and the widows were given tender, loving care. Indeed, Bishop Monson’s care of the widows stands as the most enduring badge of his service. It is well known that at Christmastime he called personally at the home of each widow, leaving a gift and his blessing. That practice has continued over the years. At first he took a week of his vacation in order to do it. At this writing only six of the widows remain alive. Those living next Christmas can anticipate his visit.
Such achievement did not go unnoticed. At a conference of the Temple View Stake in June 1955, President Joseph Fielding Smith presented the name of Bishop Thomas S. Monson as the second counselor to stake president Percy K. Fetzer. Said President Smith: “Bishop Monson knows nothing of this appointment, but if he will accept it, we will be pleased to hear from him now.” Caught unaware, Brother Monson had to improvise. Pausing momentarily at the pulpit, he began by referring to a song sung earlier whose lyrics admonished obedience to the Word of Wisdom: “Have courage, my boy, to say no.” He then developed the theme “Have Courage, My Boy, to Say Yes.” This has been a recurring theme of Thomas S. Monson’s life. His service in the stake presidency entailed responsibility for youth programs, among others. His role in Scouting there and in the Sixth-Seventh Ward foreshadowed his eminent leadership in the Boy Scouts of America. At present he is the longest-serving member of its national executive board, is the recipient of the Silver Beaver and the Silver Buffalo Awards, and has received the Bronze Wolf, international Scouting’s highest recognition. He was honorably released from the stake presidency when he and Frances and their two children, Tom and Ann, moved to their new home in Holladay.

Some years ago such a precious seed was planted in fertile soil in Germany.
Robert Frederick Lippolt, his wife, and daughters lived in a small city in Central Germany. Robert, a house painter, provided a moderate living for his family. One Sunday, while on her way to the Protestant church, Robert’s wife was approached by Mormon missionaries, who invited her to attend sacrament meeting. She attended and was impressed.
After subsequent visits by the missionaries, she was baptized and became active in the Church. From the moment of his wife’s baptism, her husband grew in animosity and bitterness toward the Church. Their daughters were also baptized, resulting in more bitterness.
Robert could bear the Mormons no longer; he moved his family from Germany to Vera Cruz, Mexico, and then on to Porto Alegre, Brazil. As soon as they were settled, Robert’s wife continued to spread the news of the gospel. She was causing excitement in Brazil, for the doctrine that she preached was completely new.
Bitterness filled Robert. He hated the Mormons. He prevented his children from going to public school, for fear they would learn to read and would thus be further indoctrinated with Mormon literature.
Finally, in desperation, he took his family away from civilization to the interior of Brazil. They settled in the remote, peaceful valley of Ipomeia, in the state of Santa Catarina.
Filled with a burning testimony and a desire to share the “good news,” Robert’s faithful wife wrote to the mission president in Germany, who in turn referred her to the Argentine Mission president. She asked that he visit Brazil. President Reinhold Stoof visited Brazil in 1927 and reported that much success could be realized among the German-speaking people of Brazil.
From the tiny seeds sown by missionaries in Germany and carried across the Atlantic, the First Presidency established a mission in Brazil in February 1935. The work now flourishes. Hundreds, then thousands heard the good news. Now there are four missions in Brazil and four stakes of Zion.
Even Robert Frederick, the once bitter husband and father, was eventually touched by the seed of truth, for at the age of 83 he was carried in his wooden rocking chair to the nearby River Rio de Peixe and baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. How could one ever describe the deep abiding love of Robert’s faithful wife for the gospel and for her family?

It was Gerald Brown who gave the challenge to his son to chop what seemed like way too much wood on that clear fall morning in Cardston, Alberta, Canada. Young Vic Brown would rather have been out on the Alberta prairies, running his horse through the crisp morning air, but he respected his father. He knew that he had been asked to chop more wood than a young man of his age should really be capable of chopping. But it was that special kind of father-to-son challenge—and challenge was something that Victor Lee Brown liked, something he faced head on. The wood was needed for cooking and heating in the Brown family home, and Vic knew that cutting the wood was not just a challenge, but one of those necessities for which he could share the burden of responsibility. With the smooth handle of the axe in his young hands, he began to chop. As he swung the axe, Vic could feel the warmth build inside as he worked. The thunk of the axe and the sweet smell of the newly split logs were partial payment, but the best came nearly five hours later as he split the last log and stacked it away. It was a warm and weary feeling, knowing that his task was well done. The appreciation from his father was just as warm and sincere, and it was tinged with just a bit of surprise because his young son had been able to accomplish a man-size task.
Victor L. Brown was serving as first counselor in his deacons quorum presidency at the time of the wood chopping incident, and he was a young man who accepted responsibility and loved the challenge of an unfinished task. The future would prove to hold many great challenges for the young deacon from Cardston.

An impressive example of a mind vision comes from Zebedee Coltrin, an early Church member, who experienced an unusual vision with Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery. In 1834, while in New Portage, Ohio, the Prophet requested that Oliver and Zebedee go on a short walk with him. After finding a suitable place, Joseph requested that they kneel and each pray in turn. After praying the Prophet said, “Now breth[r]en . . . we will see some visions.” Joseph laid himself on the ground, and Oliver and Zebedee rested their heads on his outstretched arms. “The heavens gradually opened,” Coltrin recalled, and we “saw a golden throne, . . . and on the throne were two aged personages, having white hair, and clothed in white garments.” These personages were “the two most beautiful and perfect specimens of mankind” he had ever seen. Joseph said they were “our first parents, Adam and Eve.”

A little over a year earlier, this kind of work would have been impossible for Peyton. At that time he was battling a dangerous infection that threatened to paralyze him. On top of that, his family had just moved to Idaho from Oregon, USA, and during the months he was stuck in bed and making daily hospital trips, he relied on his new friends and his trust in God to get him through.
Just before Peyton’s junior year of high school, his dad got a new job in Idaho. The family packed up everything and started the drive. “It didn’t really hit me until we started driving that we were actually moving,” Peyton says. “Then I really got scared.” Peyton’s mom remembers him quietly crying through a lot of the drive. “In fact, it was one of the only times I’ve seen him cry,” she says.
After the move Peyton joined the school soccer team. Although Peyton met a lot of new people, he had a hard time connecting with them. “It was all scary because everything was new,” he says. “The first couple of months were super hard.”
But his new friends kept reaching out to him. And it made a difference.
“There wasn’t a specific day where everything magically changed,” Peyton says. “It just happened slowly and over time as they kept inviting me to hang out with them. I slowly grew closer and closer to all of them.”
From the time Peyton was little, he loved all sports—but he had dreamed of playing on a high school varsity basketball team. Even though he didn’t make the team at his new school, he decided to play on the junior varsity team to prove himself.
Halfway through the season, Peyton noticed that his lower back began hurting, and gradually the pain got worse. For a while, taking a simple hot bath would relieve it. Then one morning Peyton woke up in intense pain, and over the next few days, he could barely walk. Finally, Peyton’s mom drove him to the emergency room.
The doctors gave him painkillers. “After that,” Peyton says, “I thought things would return to normal soon.”
They didn’t.
After a scan, the doctor told Peyton that he had a rare condition called a spinal epidural abscess—possibly from a freak hit to Peyton’s back during a basketball game. It was serious. If not treated in time, the swelling from the abscess could cause paralysis and even death.
Because the doctors wanted to avoid surgery, they put Peyton on the strongest antibiotics available. A permanent IV was put into his arm to give him internal medication. Peyton had to return to the hospital every day for treatments and tests, and he couldn’t go back to school. “I was scared,” Peyton explains. “But mostly I was frustrated that I couldn’t do anything I’d normally do.”
Peyton’s new friends visited him in the hospital after school. They texted, they heart-attacked his room, they helped throw a small birthday party for him, they even brought junior prom to the hospital for him, and they prayed.
“One of my friends, Ellie, would visit me pretty much every single day,” Peyton says, “and it was such a big help, strength, and source of joy to me. My friends were so helpful and supportive.”
But the weeks of treatments and waiting were still really hard. Peyton turned to the scriptures for comfort. One night, while reading in the Book of Mormon, he came across a passage that reached him: “And now, O my son Helaman, behold, thou art in thy youth … [and] I do know that whosoever shall put their trust in God shall be supported in their trials, and their troubles, and their afflictions, and shall be lifted up at the last day. … I do put my trust in him, and he will still deliver me” (Alma 36:3, 27; emphasis added).
“I trusted in those verses,” Peyton says. “They taught me to look to God, and I knew He would help me get through.”
Six weeks later Peyton had a follow-up scan. “I thought and hoped that I’d be declared infection-free,” he explains.
The results: the infection had diminished but not been eliminated, and there was potential it would come back. That meant another six weeks of treatment and increasing his trips to the hospital to three times a day. “I was super sad and frustrated. That was really hard.”
Finally, after the second round of treatments, Peyton was declared infection-free. “When they told me that I would be able to walk again and I wasn’t going to be paralyzed as long as I was careful, I was so relieved. I still pray and give thanks almost every day for the ability that I have to be able to walk and to exercise.”
With life somewhat back to normal, Peyton was eager to play sports again, especially basketball. “I really wanted to play, but I didn’t know if my back could handle it. I knew I had to take my question to God. I prayed a lot. Then I started having dreams about playing basketball and getting hit and becoming paralyzed during a high school game. At first I just brushed it off, but I kept having them. Then I started having dreams about me being a dad in a wheelchair.
“I decided I shouldn’t play basketball because one day I wanted to be able to play and do stuff with my kids. I felt like I was following a prompting.”
The following March, Peyton began his mission in North Carolina. One month later, Hurricane Matthew ravaged the eastern coast of the United States, and North Carolina was in emergency status. Although he had to be careful, Peyton and the other missionaries helped fill and place thousands of sandbags to protect businesses and homes from the floods.
Peyton reflects: “All of my experiences in Idaho prepared me in different ways for my mission. All of my experiences made me physically, mentally, or spiritually stronger, and I’ve needed all those in helping the people here in North Carolina.
“I’ve realized that God gave me that trial to humble me and to give me more compassion for other people. This experience also made me a lot more grateful for all the things that I take for granted. There was a reason the Lord preserved me and that I wasn’t paralyzed or dead. That’s when it really hit me that I was here to help and bless others.”