Gospel Story Finder

In December of 1910, some BYU students told George Brimhall, the third president of the university, that they “had quit praying because they had learned in school that there was no real God to hear them.” Soon after that President Brimhall dreamed a dream of “snow-white birds circling among the clouds.” He watched as the birds were attracted to baited hooks, which were attached to a large machine being operated by some BYU professors. As the birds were pulled to the ground, they were transformed into grieving students garbed in ancient Greek costumes. He went to the students and asked them why they were so unhappy. They told him they were sad because they would never fly again.

Some years ago a priests quorum decided to gather food for the needy as a service project. Jim, one of the priests, was excited to participate and was determined to collect more food than anyone else. The time arrived when the priests met at the chapel. They all went out at the same time and returned at a specified time later in the evening. To everyone’s surprise, Jim’s cart was empty. He seemed rather sober, and some of the boys made fun of him. Seeing this and knowing that Jim had an interest in cars, the adviser said, “Come outside, Jim. I want you to look at my car. It’s giving me some trouble.”
When they got outside, the adviser asked Jim if he was upset. Jim said, “No, not really. But when I went out to collect the food, I really got a lot. My cart was full. As I was returning to the chapel, I stopped at the home of a nonmember woman who is divorced and lives within our ward boundaries. I knocked on the door and explained what we were doing, and she invited me in. She began to look for something to give me. She opened the refrigerator, and I could see there was hardly anything in it. The cupboards were bare. Finally, she found a small can of peaches.
“I could hardly believe it. There were all these little kids running around that needed to be fed, and she handed me this can of peaches. I took it and put it in my cart and went on up the street. I got about halfway up the block when I just felt warm all over and knew I needed to go back to that house. I gave her all the food.”
The adviser said, “Jim, don’t you ever forget the way you feel tonight, because that’s what it is all about.” Jim had tasted the nutrient of selfless service.

While I was serving as a bishop, a wonderful young man came to my office for an interview. As we visited, he mentioned that his only major problem was swearing. He constantly heard vulgar language around him, and he too had started swearing. He said he had been trying to quit but was unsuccessful, and he wanted some counsel on how he might stop using bad language.
I immediately thought of suggestions similar to what is now found in For the Strength of Youth: “If you have developed the habit of using language that is not in keeping with these standards—such as swearing, mocking, gossiping, or speaking in anger to others—you can change. Pray for help. Ask your family and friends to support you.”1 I wish this counsel had been available in For the Strength of Youth at that time.
Photo illustration by Cody Bell
I did tell this young man of an experience I had as a youth in an environment where inappropriate language was often used. It seemed that whenever I heard any type of profanity, those words would take hold in my mind more easily than the good thoughts I wanted to have. A wonderful priesthood leader told me that the mind was like a miraculous storage device and that we could remove inappropriate thoughts by quickly overwriting them with things that were praiseworthy.
A friend and I decided to do just that. We memorized two hymns, “I Need Thee Every Hour” (Hymns, no. 98) and “More Holiness Give Me” (Hymns, no. 131), and the thirteenth article of faith. We agreed that if either of us said something inappropriate, we would immediately sing one of the hymns or quote the article of faith.
We quickly realized we did not want to sing the hymns aloud in certain places. We were too embarrassed! So we quoted the thirteenth article of faith, emphasizing the part, “If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things.”1 It worked! We discovered that when we would repeat it, the inappropriate thoughts would disappear. By changing one word, we also created a simple motto: “We speak after these things!” When either of us said this phrase, we would think, “Are my words true, chaste, benevolent, virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy?” (see Articles of Faith 1:13). If they were not, we knew we had work to do.

My memories of being a five-year-old consist mainly of frayed volleyball nets, floor polish on maple floors, referee shirts and whistles, and roughly scribbled rosters. My dad coached a team of young volleyball players in our ward in Taylorsville, Utah. I was his “assistant.”

My dad taught the team principles of hard work, team spirit, honesty, trust in self and in others, goal setting, perseverance, and sacrifice. There were prayers under the bleachers, 5:00 A.M. practices on Saturdays, and ice cream socials at our house.

One of the most important lessons I learned from my dad and his players was that of honesty. When a net was touched inadvertently, or a pass mishandled, my dad taught each boy that it was important to reveal his error with a raised hand. Later, that lesson would make a lasting impression, not only on the members of the team, but also on a five-year-old “assistant coach.”

The team had started out as a ragged group. But in May 1970, when the all-Church championships were held at the Deseret Gymnasium in Salt Lake City, the team from the Taylorsville First Ward was there to compete. (The last all-Church championships were held in 1972.) When it was time for the final match, the four years the team had spent playing together paid off. Just one more match against the Winder Third Ward stood in the way of their dream of winning the championship.

There was a spirited atmosphere at the championship match. Hundreds of people filled the bleachers to watch the competition. I took my place on the floor by the coach when the horn sounded to commence play. I don’t remember much of that match, but I do remember the end of the final game. The crowd cheered as the final point was scored by my dad’s team, and participants and spectators flooded the floor. A husky, formidable player on our team named Brent had made the final point with a decisive spike. So powerful was his contact with the ball that even the experienced referee didn’t notice that Brent’s finger had brushed the net. It was a penalty that could have easily been forgotten. But amidst the bedlam, Brent’s hand slowly rose into the air.

The teams were reassembled, the crowd took their seats, and the game continued. Shortly thereafter, the game ended, and my dad’s team had captured the championship they had been working at for four years. They could not only feel good about winning, but about doing it honestly.

Many years have passed since my days of chasing volleyballs for my father and his players. But the memory of a coach teaching the value of honesty to his team still remains firmly planted in my memory. From my low vantage point on the floor that day, most people seemed tall. But the way I saw it, Brent stood the tallest.

Some time ago, my wife and I took our two youngest sons to France to tour the areas I had served in as a full-time missionary. We visited branches of the Church I had served in and rejoiced with members I had taught. We also visited historical sites.
One site was the ruins of the Château de Châlucet. This massive medieval castle was attacked and largely destroyed centuries ago. Vegetation had grown all around the ruins, and the trail to get there was narrow and steep. We had a difficult climb, but it was worth the effort once we arrived.
The boys loved climbing down into what was once the dungeon and high up on what little was left of the castle walls. The castle captivated their imaginations just as it had captivated mine 24 years earlier.
While we were there, a summer storm appeared in the distance. It moved in fast. Dark clouds and lightning filled the sky, followed by great claps of thunder.
We scrambled down the trail and made a run for the car as the storm raced toward us. Soon, torrential, pounding rain drenched us and the dirt trail turned to mud. We worried that we would lose our footing and fall down the steep, rocky trail.
We spotted some shelter among the trees on the edge of the path. We huddled together under the shelter and wondered how long we would have to wait to get back down.
“Let’s say a prayer,” our youngest son said.
He asked to offer it and prayed that the rain would stop so we could get down the hill safely. He looked at us and said, “Now all we need is enough faith.”
I explained that prayers don’t always work like that.
“No,” he said, “it’ll stop in 10 minutes!”
After about 10 minutes, the rain stopped.
“OK, let’s go!” he said.
“If we leave now, the rain will start again and we’ll be trapped,” our older son said.
“It won’t!” our youngest replied. “Let’s go!”
We made our way through the drier parts of the path, holding back bushes and branches as we went. Back at the car, we offered a prayer of gratitude. Soon the rain started again.
“See what a little faith can do?” our son said humbly.
He taught us all a great lesson that day.

The third week of every month we hold a special home evening for a large group of ward members who come to my home. But one night was a particularly memorable one for everyone involved.
Our group of “regulars” consists of widows, widowers, recent converts, new move-ins, and others. We have something to eat, good conversation, and what we have come to call our “sharing time”—when one or two people tell the rest of us about their lives and let us get to know them better.
We had all been particularly eager to get to know one older brother and his newly converted wife and wanted to include them in our family home evenings. But although they always came to church, it seemed they could never come to our monthly gathering. As a result, I was really happy one week when they said they would join us.
Then, the evening before our gathering, this brother telephoned. My heart sank when I heard his voice, and I teasingly said, “Don’t tell me you are going to turn us down again and not come!” Laughingly he responded, “Wait until you hear why we can’t make it this time. The bishop called me this afternoon and said I’ve been cleared for rebaptism.”
I had always assumed that he was a member in full fellowship in the Church and was thrilled to hear the news. He continued to tell me that the wait had been long and painful for him. “You just can’t imagine what this means to me,” he said. “I want to be baptized immediately. The ceremony is scheduled for tomorrow.” I expressed disappointment that none of us could attend because of our planned home evening, but wished him well.
But when the next evening arrived, a telephone call with the frantic voice of our bishop’s wife on the other end interrupted our evening’s preparations. The bishop, a doctor, had been called to the hospital for an emergency, she explained. To make matters worse, the ward mission leader had been called out of town on business. The brother to be baptized was waiting at the chapel with a few members of his family.
While the bishop’s wife tried to contact the stake president, my husband explained to our home evening group, “No one is at the chapel but the man’s family,” he said. “Would you all be willing to go to the chapel and support this brother in this important event of his life?”
His words filled our hearts with the Spirit. We quickly drove to the chapel to meet a worried stake president. As we took our seats, a strong spirit filled the room, so much so that tears began filling everyone’s eyes. When the brother to be baptized walked out and saw all of the tearful, smiling faces—full of support and love for him—he whispered, “I just knew everything was going to turn out all right and that you were all going to be here.”
What followed was a powerful, beautiful meeting I’m sure none of us will ever forget. When it was over, we congratulated our newly baptized brother and said, “We love you.” He hugged us, weeping openly. We returned to our home evening and enjoyed a profoundly spiritual night together, bearing testimonies of baptism, repentance, and the wonders of the gospel.

Sister Christine Altieri joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when she was ten years old. Although she did not marry a Church member, her husband, John, supported her in her beliefs. One by one their children were born: Corie (15), Lauren (13), Brittany (12), Michael (10), Chandler (7), Ty (5), Abigail (2), and Drew (11 months). Their family shared a lot of happiness and love. But one thing was missing: Dad had never joined the Church. He attended regularly and participated as fully as he could without being a member. But his family wanted him to become a member so that they could be sealed together as an eternal family.
Michael was going on eight. His dad had never had the opportunity to give a name and a priesthood blessing to or baptize any of his children. A few months before his birthday, Michael decided that, “All I want for my birthday is for Dad to baptize me.” Michael, his mother, brother, and sisters fasted and prayed harder than ever that their father would decide to join the Church and be able to baptize Michael.
Weeks passed, then months. “We kept praying and praying and praying,” Michael recalled. The week before he turned eight, his mother said, “It didn’t work. We need to talk to the branch president about your baptism and who will perform it.”
“But Mom, we’re praying, we’re praying.”
The next Sunday Brother Altieri volunteered to talk to the branch president about Michael getting baptized and to take care of all the details.
In sacrament meeting, the family was stunned with joy when the branch president announced an upcoming baptism—not Michael’s, but his father’s! The family’s prayers had been answered! Brother Altieri was baptized that week, and the following week, Michael’s dream was realized when his father baptized him. Michael said, “I had really wanted him to baptize me, and it finally happened. It felt really good.”

Two sister missionaries from the United States had come to my grandmother’s home one day and gave her a copy of the Book of Mormon. They thought she had no interest in the Church, for she answered their questions with nothing more than a simple nod and a yes. But when they returned the next day, they found she had begun reading the book and could answer everything they asked her. A few days later she became one of the first converts in El Salvador. She was faithful all of her life.

Not long ago I received a letter concerning a choice young deacon, Isaac Reiter, and the deacons, teachers, and priests who served, lifted, and blessed his life and their own lives.
Isaac fought cancer from the time he was seven months old until his death at age 13. When he and his family moved to a home near a hospital so that Isaac could receive proper medical attention, the Aaronic Priesthood members in the nearby ward were asked to provide the sacrament to them each Sunday. This weekly ordinance became a favorite of the Aaronic Priesthood holders who participated. Along with their leaders and Isaac’s family, they would gather around Isaac’s hospital bed, sing hymns, and share testimonies. Then the sacrament would be blessed. Isaac always insisted that, as a deacon, he pass the sacrament to his family and to those who had brought it. As he lay in his bed, he gathered the strength to hold a plate of either the blessed bread or water. All present would come to Isaac and partake of the sacrament from the plate. Nurses and other medical staff soon began to participate in the meeting as they realized that Isaac was close to his Heavenly Father and always honored Him. Though weak and in pain, Isaac always held himself with the honor of someone holding a royal priesthood.
Isaac was a great example to the young men in the ward. They saw his desire to fulfill his duties, even on his deathbed, and they realized that those duties were really privileges. They began showing up earlier in order to prepare the sacrament and to be in their seats on time. There was more reverence.
Isaac Reiter became a living sermon concerning honoring the priesthood. At his funeral, it was said that throughout his life he had one foot in heaven. No doubt he continues to magnify his duties and assist in the work beyond the veil.

Ammon Arvidson and Brooke Noble, two youth from the Maitland Ward, Newcastle Australia Stake, were chosen to represent Port Stephens, Australia, at the first World Child Summit, held in Kushiro, Japan, last summer. The theme was “The Natural Environment and Our Future.” To be chosen, they each had to present a 10-minute speech on the environment of Port Stephens, the problems facing the habitat, and their role in protecting the natural beauty of the world.
Speaking of the presentations he made at the summit, Ammon, 12, said, “It makes me very aware of the beautiful world our Lord has created for us to enjoy.” Then thinking about all the people, languages, and cultures created by the Lord, Ammon added, “It makes me look forward to serving a mission wherever Heavenly Father sends me.”

I stood with my face pressed against the window, trying to see the shed next to our house. For three days, the whirling, howling wind had threatened to blow our house down. We were in the middle of a big blizzard. My family was living in Wisdom, Montana, where Dad was working on a large cattle ranch. He said I was his best cowhand, aside from Mom, of course.
“Danny, it’s time to go feed the cows,” Mom called as she walked into the room carrying my two-year-old sister Brenda. My other sister, June, trailed behind.
We bundled up in our coats, hats, and gloves, and climbed into the red pickup. “We should have a truck with four-wheel-drive in these conditions,” Dad said, shaking his head. Mom looked at Dad with concern. But she knew that the cattle must be fed, even in a fierce storm like this.
The raging wind yanked the truck from side to side as we drove to the haystack. A frozen snowdrift completely covered the fence. It was frozen so hard that the cows could walk right over it and eat the hay.
When Dad opened the truck door and jumped out, a cold blast of wind made us huddle in our coats. It took Dad a long time to dig the tractor out of the snow and load it with hay. It took even longer to move the hay to where the cows could eat it. The wind kept blowing it away.
Finally the cattle were fed, and we headed for home. The wind had picked up speed and was blowing snow from the open fields all around us, surrounding us with white. Snow had also blown across the road, creating huge snowdrifts. Dad had to speed up before each snowdrift. Without a running start, the truck couldn’t make it through them. It seemed like it took forever just to go a short distance.
About the time Mom said we were a mile from home, we hit a drift that stopped us in our tracks. Dad and Mom worked for some time to dig us out, but we stayed stuck. They climbed back into the truck and Dad thought for a moment.
“Danny,” he said, “you and I will walk to the house and come back for Mom and the girls on the snowmobiles.”
“Good idea, Dad!” I exclaimed. Excitement welled up inside me. I loved riding the snowmobiles! I slid out of the truck and walked in Dad’s footprints through the snowdrifts toward home. Even though the wind threatened to knock me down, and the snow blowing against my face felt like bundles of knives skinning me, I still felt like I was having a great adventure with Dad.
Anticipation kept my feet going until we arrived at the shed with the snowmobiles. I looked up at Dad. “Can I ride up over the hill?” I asked. “I’ll stay alongside the road and then go on down to the truck.”
“No, Son. Please stay on the road,” Dad said without hesitation. He turned and looked right at me. “Blizzards are very dangerous, Danny. You need to stay on the road and go straight to the truck. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Dad.”
He started a snowmobile for me. “Can I go now?” I asked.
“OK, but remember to stay on the road. It will guide you back to the truck.”
I climbed on the snowmobile and headed out. “I’ll go over the hill. It will be faster. I can beat Dad back to the truck,” I thought once I was out of Dad’s sight. I quickly turned and drove up the hill. The wind swirled around me and I was having trouble seeing very far ahead. But I was having fun. Surely I could beat Dad to the truck.
I rode and rode in what I thought was the right direction. No truck. I rode further. Still no truck. Fear started to creep up inside me. “I should be to the truck by now.” I came to a large ravine, stopped, and looked around, trying to recognize my surroundings.
“Where am I?” This wasn’t fun anymore. My glorious adventure was gone, and I was freezing! The wind yanked at me. It was so loud I couldn’t think.
I was lost and plain scared. “What can I do?” I remembered Dad’s words and how I had disobeyed him. I closed my eyes tight, trying to hold back the tears. Suddenly I realized I could die in this blizzard!
“Oh please, someone help me.” My words were scattered by the wind just as the hay had been.
Then I felt a warm, tingling feeling spread over me like a blanket. I knew what I needed to do. I quickly climbed off the snowmobile and knelt beside it to offer a simple prayer. “Heavenly Father,” I said, “I’m lost. I’m sorry I disobeyed Dad. Please help me get home.”
As soon as I finished my prayer, a feeling inside me said, “Look up.” I looked up and saw the power lines. This was the way home and an answer to my prayer!
I hopped back on my snowmobile and carefully followed the power lines back to the house. Leaving my snowmobile running, I ran inside to see if Dad had made it back with Mom and the girls. No one was there. I turned and ran back outside, jumped on the snowmobile, and started for the truck, this time following the road. But I only made it a few yards when the snowmobile ran out of gas. I was so cold! I ran back inside and curled up in a sleeping bag to warm up.
Moments later, Dad, Mom, and my sisters arrived home on the other snowmobile.
“Danny!” Mom exclaimed as she rushed in, pulled me to her, and held me tight. “What happened? Why didn’t you make it to the truck?”
I looked up into her eyes and told the truth: I had disobeyed Dad and gotten lost. “Mom, I know Heavenly Father loves me because I made it home safe again. He answered my prayer today.”

December 13th was the day I was to become a Christmas “secret pal.”
Every year the seminary students at Mingus Union High School in Cottonwood, Arizona pick people in need of love to become a part of their lives. Each night for 12 days before Christmas, the students share a gift, a treat, or a thought with someone. I picked my quiet, friendly neighbors Mr. and Mrs. Boyle to be the object of my secret attentions.
The first night I went to their back door to knock and run, leaving a little gift. I had to run to the door about four times before they heard me knocking. Each time, I ran quickly out the gate to hide behind their little blue car and wait to see if they would find my gift.
The next day I realized that their mean dog, who I thought at one time was going to take off half of my face, suddenly began to like me. He even licked me one night, and to think I had been afraid of him!
One night I knocked on the back door, and the Boyles answered lightning fast. They found the small present I’d left and came out with flashlights looking for me. I ran again to the back of their car. They both flashed the bright lights into my eyes and I didn’t dare breathe. I felt like I was part of the bumper. I almost stood up thinking I was caught, when suddenly they turned around and went back inside. I was so excited I hadn’t been caught.
One night I was walking home, and I overheard them say that they were going to be waiting for their secret admirer. So I put that night’s goodie in the mailbox. I called them on the phone and sang, “I wish you a Merry Christmas, I wish you a Merry Christmas, I wish you would go look in your mailbox, Merry Christmas, I truly love you.”
Three days before Christmas, I sneaked into the yard after dark as usual and glanced in the window. I saw Mr. Boyle sitting near Mrs. Boyle’s chair. I said to myself, “Now is the time to do it.” I was on my way to the back door when suddenly a hand grabbed me, and Mr. Boyle yelled, “Gotcha!” I was caught. Mr. Boyle took me inside to talk to his wife. When Mrs. Boyle saw who I was, she got tears in her eyes and they thanked me. When I was in their house I noticed that they didn’t have a tree or any kind of Christmas decorations up.
Even though I had been found out, I decided I wasn’t through yet. On Christmas I bought them a small decorated Christmas tree. This time I didn’t try to hide. When I took it over, they invited me in, and Mrs. Boyle, with tears streaming down her cheeks, told me about their son.
The Boyle’s son fought in Viet Nam. Mrs. Boyle promised him that she would never celebrate another Christmas without him. He was killed in the fighting. My efforts to bring a little Christmas into their lives was the first time since their son left to fight that they had felt the love of Christ and the Christmas spirit. Together, all hugging each other, we cried.

Before his death, the Prophet Joseph directed that a canvas tabernacle be built to shelter the Saints during large meetings. In 1845, as the temple was nearing completion, Elder Orson Hyde of the Quorum of the Twelve was sent back East to raise funds and to buy “about four thousand yards” of canvas to build what Brigham Young referred to as “the Tabernacle of the congregation in Zion.”
Brother Orson Pratt outlined the proposed location and design of the canvas tabernacle in a letter written on August 30, 1845:
“It is intended to erect a tabernacle of canvass in front of, and joining the Temple on the west. The form of this tabernacle will be that of an ellipse. … The area of its base will be sufficient to contain eight or ten thousand persons; its seats will gradually rise one above another in the form of an amphitheatre.”
The brethren the next day began to clear the ground for the construction of the canvas tabernacle. However, because of the intense persecution from their enemies, the Saints had to leave Nauvoo, so the canvas tabernacle was never built. Orson Hyde “loaded the canvas into wagons in 1846 and headed west with it.” Some have speculated that “the canvas was put to good use for such things as tents, tent ends and wagon covers” for the Saints in the exodus to the Salt Lake Valley.

Donovan aimed his slingshot at the empty soup can on the stump.
He stretched back the slingshot’s rubber tubing.
“What are you doing?” his little sister, Dana, asked.
“Watch this!” he said.
Thwack!
The rubber snapped back into place as Donovan let go, sending the small rock flying. Some leaves in a nearby tree rustled. But the tin can didn’t move. Donovan stuffed the slingshot into his back pocket. He had missed. Again!
Dana tilted her head to the side. “What am I supposed to see?”
“Nothing,” Donovan said. “Come on. Let’s go home.” They started heading back to the house.
Donovan kicked a stick out of his way. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to use Dad’s slingshot right. And he loved that thing! He always liked using it when Dad was out of town working, like now. It helped him feel close to Dad when he couldn’t see him.
He pulled the slingshot from his pocket and spun it slowly in his hand. The rough bark had become smooth a long time ago. Dad had made the slingshot out of a strong tree branch and used it for years before giving it to Donovan.
Dad had pointed at the soup can that day. “When you focus, amazing things can happen.” Donovan still remembered what happened next. Dad had aimed the slingshot and hit the soup can. In one try! He made it look easy. Donovan really missed him.
He was still thinking about Dad when he fell asleep that night.
The next morning, Donovan carried his slingshot to his favorite patch of trees to try again.
“Focus …” Donovan said as he stared at the can on the stump. He placed another small stone in the slingshot and pulled back.
Dad keeps trying, even when things don’t always work out, Donovan thought.
Donovan tried to stop thinking about all the times he had missed before. He closed one eye, the way Dad taught him. He really focused. Donovan didn’t look at anything else but the red soup can.
Taking a deep breath, he let go.
Thwack!
CLUNK!
Donovan blinked in surprise as the can sailed off the stump. “I did it!” he said. “Yes!”
Later that night, Donovan sat next to Mom after dinner. He held up the slingshot.
“I finally hit the can today,” he said, grinning.
“Well done!” Mom said.
“You know, I think this slingshot is my favorite thing in the whole world,” Donovan said.
“Oh?” Mom asked.
“Yup. Because it helps me think about Dad and feel close to him.”
Mom smiled. “I think he’ll be happy to know you feel that way. And guess what? Dad will be home in only three days. You can show him your new skills.”
Donovan could hardly wait! “That gives me an idea,” he said.
He ran to find Dana. He could teach her to use the slingshot the same way Dad had taught him!
“Hey, Dana,” he said. “Wanna learn how to use the best slingshot in Jamaica?”

As a young boy, I knew I wanted to be involved with space travel and the great adventure of exploring the “final frontier.” Engineering was a good career to help me. I studied hard and took classes in math, science, and engineering. I also learned that listening, communicating, and public speaking were important too. These skills prepared me to work for the USA’s National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA).
At first I was a space shuttle flight director. Later I became director of the space shuttle program. I planned the shuttle missions to space and managed the missions from launch through landing. I worked with hundreds of engineers, scientists, and astronauts to put the shuttle together and have a successful mission.
Watching the giant space shuttle blast off from Kennedy Space Center was a thrill every time I saw it. With a rush of sounds that shook the ground, the space shuttle roared to life. In just eight minutes, the shuttle soared miles above the earth’s surface, traveling more than 25 times the speed of sound. I loved working with others to accomplish this goal together.
My priesthood quorum and Boy Scout activities helped me develop leadership skills for my career. As I grew, the principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ helped me as well. President Thomas S. Monson teaches, “When the time for decision arrives, the time for preparation is past.”* This simple idea helped prepare me for my life and for every space shuttle mission. In my job, I have been able to witness the majesty of the universe and God’s creations.

However, this calling was only a stepping-stone to what was to come. Eighteen months later, I was listening to the blessing setting me apart as a Relief Society president. I knew there was much work to do to help uplift and strengthen the sisters, many of whom came from cultural and economic backgrounds different from my own. I especially wanted to encourage those sisters who didn’t attend church regularly to come back into full activity and enjoy the fulness of the gospel.
Almost overnight after my setting apart, I felt a confidence I had never possessed before. My compassion increased noticeably. The Lord was truly magnifying my abilities, and I felt that with his help I could accomplish anything he required of me. As I started visiting sisters in their homes, my love for them grew.
I learned patience as I sat beside the elderly and infirm, listening to them talk of their challenges. With tears streaming down her face, one dear sister in her 80s told me how she no longer felt like knitting or crocheting. Every part of her body hurt, and the days and nights were long and sad.
A year later I sat by her hospital bed, holding her withered hand and stroking her thin arm. As she labored for every breath, I pleaded with Heavenly Father to release her from her terrible suffering if that was his will. Many sisters in the ward had helped her feel loved as cancer ravaged her body; we all longed for her to be at peace.
Forty-eight hours later, she breathed her last breath, and we all wept together. We could envision her joy as she entered into a new life of freedom from earthly cares.
As I sat with her that last night, I knew that even in her terrible physical condition, there was still purpose in her life—not only for her personally but also for us. How could we learn to give of our time and love if there were no needy souls?
There were dear sisters in our ward who could no longer see and who relied on others to read to them and keep them informed. There were sisters with hearing loss who couldn’t benefit fully from the lessons and talks given during Sunday meetings. Yet many of them continued to attend, eager for the fellowship and love found within the walls of the meetinghouse.
I learned to give of my time and to feel it was not a sacrifice. Many Saturdays I woke up feeling burdened. How I wanted to take the day off, to stay home and wallow in my own worries and cares! Sometimes the heaviness of heart almost overwhelmed me. But in every case, when I drove up to a hospital or home to visit someone in need, my own worries subsided and the feeling of peace returned. Once again, I was reminded that the Lord greatly blesses us when we sacrifice to reach out to another soul.
I loved the unity I felt among the sisters in my ward. Amid our differences in backgrounds, interests, and cultures, we felt close and united in our love for one another.
I am grateful for the inspiration I received as I sought to meet the needs of others. Ideas flowed, and as I attempted to implement those ideas and prayed for guidance, more light and knowledge came to me. It was a most humbling experience. I felt myself being spiritually stretched and filled.
The greatest experience I had as a Relief Society president was receiving an increase of love beyond anything I had previously experienced. I know that the Lord increased my capacity to love and care, and this feeling has not left me. Never before have I worked so hard and found so much joy in any calling. Relief Society changed my life.

Another characteristic that we must develop is that of personal authenticity. A number of years ago, at Universal International Studios, I watched the filming of television programs and movies. It was delightful, with one exception. Everything that I saw was false—the sheriff’s office, the jail, even the running rivers and sagebrush were made from plastic. As I was observing this artificiality, a beautiful young television star came up and asked, “How do you like what you see here?” “I love it,” I answered, “and I’m enjoying my self; but I’m sort of disappointed because everything is false.”

She looked up and said, “But that’s why we must be so real. The audience must focus on us.”

And then I thought, “Oh, how true that is with life!” Almost everything we see outside in the world, brothers and sisters, is false; it is misdirected. That is why we must be so real, why we must be so honest, why integrity must be tattooed upon the spirits of us all.

“Take that!” Josh growled, jabbing the controller with his thumb and slamming a bad guy to the ground. Josh loved video games.
“Better get out of your school clothes,” Dad called. “We’re due at the priesthood preview in an hour. Your mother went to get Grandpa—they’ll meet us there.”
Josh switched off the game without the usual grumbling. “Great!”
He was clipping on his Sunday tie when Dad laid a large hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re so excited about receiving the priesthood.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” Josh exclaimed. “Sister Burke says that priesthood is the power Jesus used to make the world. When I get part of that power, nobody had better mess with me!”
Dad cleared his throat. “Josh—”
“My friend Devin’s a deacon already,” Josh interrupted. “He says that I’ll have more power than the president of the United States, and he can launch missiles and order whole armies around.”
Dad sighed. “Josh, the power is the Lord’s. He’s given the priesthood to us so that we can serve others. We don’t use it to hurt people.”
“Not even bad guys?”
“Which of us is perfect?” Dad replied. “Let’s go sit at the kitchen table—I’d like you to read something in the Doctrine and Covenants.”
At the table, Dad pointed to a passage and Josh read it aloud, sounding out some of the harder words. “No power or influence can or ought to be maintained by virtue of the priesthood, only by persuasion, by long-suffering, by gentleness and meekness, and by love un-un—”
“Unfeigned,” Dad said. “It means genuine, not faked.”
“What good’s power if you have to be wimpy and weak to use it?”
“It doesn’t say wimpy and weak. It says gentle and meek.”
“Same thing.”
“Josh, will you come downstairs with me, please?”
Dad put the bracelet back into his wallet, and Josh followed him upstairs to the living room. Taking a picture of the Savior from the wall, Dad said, “On my last day of school, I hobbled into Brother Jones’s room and told him that I hoped to be as strong someday as he was. He smiled and handed me a graduation gift. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘but here’s a better example to follow.’ I unwrapped this picture. Since then I’ve studied the life of the Savior and done my best to follow his example.”
Dad handed the picture to Josh and got his Bible. “When Jesus was arrested, one of his disciples tried to defend him with a sword. Jesus said, ‘Thinkest thou that I cannot now pray to my Father, and he shall presently give me more than twelve legions of angels?’”*
Josh whistled. “Twelve legions! That’s a lot!”
“According to the Bible Dictionary, each Roman legion had some six thousand foot soldiers plus cavalry. If angel legions are about the same size, that would be more than seventy-two thousand angels.”
“Wow!” Josh exclaimed. “They could wipe out an army!”
Dad’s voice grew very serious. “Josh, he didn’t call for those legions. He let himself be whipped and spat upon and mocked and crucified. Instead of conquering men, he conquered death itself, even for those who had hurt him.”
“Wow!” Josh said again, softly this time.
Dad reached out and touched the picture. “The best power of all is the power to help and heal. Jesus has that power, and he’s willing to share it with those who love him and follow him. I think you’re one of those.”
Josh looked him in the eye. “I’ll try to be.”
“Good!” Dad said. “So will I. And now we’d better be on our way to the priesthood preview.”

As a freshman here at BYU–Hawaii in the early 90’s, I received a full tuition scholarship for one year. This scholarship was awarded to all seminary graduates from Laie with 100% attendance for all four years. Thanks to my goodly parents, they woke me up every day for early morning seminary. While studying, I worked part time in the P.E. Cage. My work schedule started at 5 AM Monday-Friday. After completing my work assignments, I sat patiently waiting for patrons to pick up issues or equipment. During those free moments, I read the Book of Mormon. I challenged myself to read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover.

Despite my perfect seminary attendance, I had not yet read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover. Plus, I knew that I should serve a mission. But how could I serve a mission if I didn’t know for myself if it was true? So I decided to put it to the test. As Alma taught: “an experiment upon my words, and exercise a particle of faith, yea, even if you can no more than desire to believe…” (Alma 32:27) As I read each morning all by myself in the P.E. Cage, the words spoke to me and touched my heart and soul. “for it beginneth to enlarge my soul; yea, it beginneth to enlighten my understanding, yea, it beginneth to be delicious to me.” By the time I finished Moroni chapter 10, I did not need to ask if it be true, because the Holy Ghost had already “manifested the truth of it unto” me. (Moroni 10:4)

I coined that spiritual experience my “Enter to Learn Go Forth to Serve” experience. It changed the trajectory of my life and literally, it motivated me to go forth to serve a full-time mission for the Church in Tokyo, Japan. My personal testimony strengthened from that experience and it motivated a lifetime of “Go Forth to Serve” opportunities.

Several years ago, two Latter-day Saint missionaries visited me in Marshall, Texas. But I politely told them I wasn’t interested. I was afraid that I didn’t know enough about the Bible to be able to judge what they were telling me, and I had a great fear that they would ask me to pray. They left a Book of Mormon with me. But when I opened it and saw names that I had never heard before—such as Lehi, Nephi, and Alma—I immediately closed it, put it on a shelf in the closet, and forgot all about it.
As the years went by, I hardly gave religion or spiritual matters a thought. But one night I became troubled with the way I was living my life. “If there really is a God,” I thought, “I want to know it.” I decided to make an honest effort to find out and felt the best place to start was the scriptures.
I started studying the New Testament and attending a Protestant church. I enjoyed what I learned there, but something bothered me. In Ephesians 4:5 [Eph. 4:5], we read of one Lord, one faith, and one baptism—yet I had friends of various faiths who seemed content with their different beliefs. I wondered how they could all be right. When I mentioned this to them, they just laughed. “It doesn’t matter what you believe,” they said, “as long as you accept Christ as your personal Savior.”
I didn’t feel comfortable with that concept and tried to find the answer in the scriptures. But I wasn’t getting any answers, and I became upset. Why didn’t the Bible just say which church was right? Next I went to the encyclopedia to see if I could find the answer there. If I learned when different churches were organized, I reasoned, maybe that would help. Again, I was disappointed.
Then one day I found the book I had put on the closet shelf years before. And I began to read it. This time I found it interesting—so interesting that I began to tell my friends at work about it. Whether I was at home, at work, or at a movie, I couldn’t get it off my mind.
When I reached the point where I had to know if the book was really of God or of the devil, I considered praying about it but was afraid of being deceived. Then I read the scripture in Moroni 10:4–5 [Moro. 10:4–5]where we’re told to pray about what we have read in the Book of Mormon. I was still afraid the answer might come from Satan, but then a biblical scripture came to mind that alleviated that worry:
“What man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone?
“Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent?” (Matt. 7:9–10). I know that the answer that later came was indeed from God.
After having read and studied for a good while, I thought, “I wonder if my minister would like to hear about this book.” I was sure he didn’t know about it because he had never mentioned it. To my surprise, he wasn’t interested. “Clifford,” he said, “evidently you don’t feel as if you’ve ever been saved.” So we knelt in his office and prayed. When we arose from our knees, he looked at me as if to say, “Now everything is okay.”
I said, “I don’t feel any differently now than I did when we knelt.”
“Don’t you believe in the scriptures that say that whosoever shall call on the name of the Lord Jesus Christ shall be saved?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, “but I can’t help how I feel.” I left, miserable. I felt I had failed because I couldn’t make him understand what I was feeling about the Book of Mormon.
I continued to read and study. Sometimes I’d have to stop. I can’t describe the mental anguish I suffered during those days. I had to know if this book was true. I would go to the Bible, then to the Book of Mormon—back and forth, study and compare.
I decided to talk to my minister again. At one point during the lengthy discussion, I asked him what happens to people who die without ever hearing the gospel of Jesus Christ. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Clifford, they die and go to hell.” Again, I was very depressed when I left him.
Then one day I remembered that the missionaries who had given me the Book of Mormon had told me that the local Latter-day Saint branch president owned a business in town and that if I ever had any questions, I could go to him. I visited President Murray Conley, asked some questions, and was pleased with his answers.
Later, some members of my church visited me and informed me that I was being misled. The next night, the minister and his wife came to visit. But when I asked him to explain Malachi 4:5–6 [Mal. 4:5–6], he got angry and told me I had been brainwashed by the Mormons and there was nothing more he could do.
One night I read 3 Nephi 14:13–14: “Enter ye in at the strait gate; for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, which leadeth to destruction, and many there be who go in thereat;
“Because strait is the gate, and narrow the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.” [3 Ne. 14:13–14]
I got up from my chair and walked outside. Alone in the darkness, I could see myself standing at that narrow scriptural gate, pacing back and forth, afraid to go in. I realized at that moment that I had found the way. The Lord spoke to me that night, not as we speak to one another, but with a still, small voice that said, “What are you going to do about it?”
I went back to tell President Conley I wanted to be baptized. But he was in Salt Lake City. Thinking that only the branch president had the authority to baptize, I left, intending to return a week later.
During that week, Satan placed another stumbling block in my path—more doubts. “Do I have to start all over again?” I wondered. After struggling with my doubts for three days, I started reading a book President Conley had given me—Truth Restored, by President Gordon B. Hinckley. As I did, the Spirit, which had borne witness to me of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon, also bore witness to me that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the Lord’s true church.
When President Conley returned from Salt Lake City, I told him I wanted to be baptized. As we drove to Gilmer, Texas, for my baptism on 19 October 1970, I asked him, “Do I understand correctly from what I have read in the scriptures that just because I’m being baptized, I’m not saved, but that I have to endure to the end?”
He said, “That’s exactly right.”
I cried all the way to my baptism. I felt very strongly that the Church was true. After baptism, I felt it ten times more strongly.
Many times after, I wondered, “Why me? Why do I know the truth while many good Christian people don’t?” And a scripture always came to my mind, “Seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you” (Luke 11:9).
Several weeks after I was baptized, I had the privilege of receiving a witness of the Holy Ghost once again, stronger than before. One morning at about 3:00 A.M., I sat up in bed with tears streaming down my face. The Holy Ghost was bearing such a powerful witness to me of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon and of the Church that I felt like saying, “Please, Lord, no more, no more. I know it’s true.”
I do know with all my heart and soul that the Book of Mormon is true. It led me to the living God, to his Son Jesus Christ, and to his church guided by a living prophet.