Gospel Story Finder

My friend, Marcia, had moved several times in her young years as her father’s work required it. She was now ten years old and facing another new school. Marcia’s mother could see the concern on her daughter’s face and sat down with her to discuss what was bothering her.
Marcia talked about the challenge of joining classes at midterm and trying to get in step with the subject matter, teacher, and other students. Mother pledged her support to help Marcia make the adjustment. Then tears welled up in Marcia’s eyes. In all honesty, she shared with her mother, “I can overcome the difficulties with the academics and the new teachers. But, Mother,” she said, with tears trickling over her freckled cheeks, “I just hate eating my lunch alone.”
Marcia needed someone to recognize her situation and invite her to join a group and get acquainted. The Savior told us: “And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.” (Eph. 4:32.)

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

Last June, I was on an assignment to South America. We were on a tight 10-day schedule visiting Colombia, Peru, and Ecuador. An enormous earthquake had killed hundreds, injured tens of thousands, damaged and destroyed homes and communities in the Ecuadorian cities of Portoviejo and Manta. I felt prompted to add to our schedule a visit to members living in those cities. With damage to the roads, we weren’t sure we could get there. In fact, we had been told we could not get there, but the prompting would not go away. Consequently, we were blessed and were able to visit both cities.

With such short notice, I expected that only a few local priesthood leaders would attend the hastily organized gatherings. However, we arrived at each stake center to find the chapels filled all the way back to the stage. Some who attended were the stalwarts of the region, the pioneers who had held fast to the Church, encouraging others to join them in worship and to feel the Spirit in their lives. Sitting on the front rows were the members who had lost loved ones and neighbors in the earthquake. I felt prompted to bestow an apostolic blessing upon all who were in attendance, one of my very first given. Though I was standing at the front of that room, it was as if my hands were on each of their heads, and I felt the words of the Lord pouring forth.

It didn’t end there. I felt prompted to speak to them just as Jesus Christ had done when visiting the people in the Americas. “He took their little children … and blessed them, and prayed unto the Father for them.” We were in Ecuador, we were about our Father’s business, and these were His children.

Trusted friends who are older than yourself are always invaluable, especially when you are a teenager. Such friends include parents. I am grateful for the close companionship and association I had with my musician-father, George Henry Durham. It began in early boyhood. Its basis was family life, but extensive activity carried beyond the family. I learned to share much of his specialty, music, by attending concerts and participating in choral groups which he led. For five years of my boyhood, during the period of my father’s advanced study, there were concerts of the Boston Symphony. There were notable times each spring when the Metropolitan Opera of New York played a short season in the Boston Opera House. I shall never forget Verdi’s Aida. Later, in high school, I could join in singing choruses from the “Triumph” scene in the second act with the high school chorus my father led.
The old LDS College was a two-year college and a three-year high school with a business college attached. It occupied the space behind the Hotel Utah and the Church Administration Building where the beautiful plaza and highrise Church Office Building now stand. High school classes began at 8:30. Father wanted a school choir. There was not room for such a class in the regular schedule of classes, so he met the choir daily at 7:45 A.M. in Barratt Hall. The first number I remember rehearsing was Beethoven’s “The Heavens Resound.” There followed selections from Handel’s Messiah, Mendelssohn’s St. Paul, especially “How Lovely Are the Messengers.” We had a wonderful songbook called the Corona Songbook, filled with classical music and songs from various nations. It was a rich experience. It formed a special bond with my father. We had mutual interests to talk about.
The bonds extended into Church activity. Father invited me to join the 31st Ward Choir to sing alto. This was before my voice changed! He kindly let me sit between the sisters who sang alto and the men who sang tenor. This removed any sense of embarrassment and gave me a sense of security. When I shifted from alto to tenor, the transition was simple and easy. As the years went by the ward choir undertook performance of Handel’s Messiah one Sunday evening in December.
Choir practice was every Wednesday night in the chapel at 7:30 P.M. By that time I was also a forward on the ward M Men basketball team, athletic manager, and captain of the team. Choir rehearsals and league games were often scheduled on the same Wednesday night. This produced conflicts. One night father insisted I attend choir practice and miss a game. Usually, in such cases, I was excused from choir practice. As I look back, the bitter taste I felt during that particular rehearsal has long since vanished. The glorious sounds of Handel resonate through my soul while my basketball prowess has somewhat diminished!
Talking things over with Mother was always easy. She was an energetic woman, mother of eight. I was the eldest. We enjoyed an unusual relationship. She was my counselor. I was her confidant. With such a large family it was important to get part-time work as I approached high school. We talked it over. She had a great deal of initiative and management ability. We had engaged in a contest to secure subscriptions for the Deseret News. We didn’t win the prize, but my name received “Honorable Mention,” with mother doing most of the work behind the scenes. When it was time to get a paper route, without my knowledge, she called Ralph Whitney, the circulation manager of the Deseret News, and opened the door. The first thing I knew, my solicitations bore fruit and I received Route 11 in downtown Salt Lake City. I could leave the LDS campus on North Main, go to the Deseret News printing press on Richards Street, get my “sheets” as we called them, then proceed down Main Street to 300 South, back up State Street, crisscrossing 200 and 100 South to deliver papers in the various hotels, cafes, and shops that were subscribers.
Mother and father expected dependability from their sons. This led to an opportunity to get a larger route with more subscribers, Route 69. This extended from 800 South to 1300 South in Salt Lake City between 800 and 900 East. Windsor Street intersected and ran parallel to 900 and 800 East. I had nearly 100 papers. Our earnings were one cent for every paper delivered. Subscriptions were fifteen cents a week, or sixty-five cents a month. We were billed for the number of papers sent to us. I did collecting on Saturday mornings when school was out and always tried to pay the bill to Mr. Knight at the Deseret News office on the southwest corner of Main and South Temple by Monday. The bill amounted to nine cents a week for every paper delivered. With six deliveries a week, that meant six cents on each paper, or the magnificent income of about six dollars a week, provided everybody paid his bill! In collecting I met many older friends, principally the mothers and grandmothers who were home on Saturday mornings. They would respond to my knock at the door, come forward with their fifteen cents for the week’s papers, and we would talk. These friends provided much stability for the social environment of a teenager. I learned early in my teens of the value of communicating, receiving counsel, respecting older people, and responding obediently to my parents. It was a great blessing. It provided me with marvelous lessons at home, such as the injunction in one of my father’s songs: “A friend is a present you give yourself.”
Adult leadership is available to all of us. I shall never forget our ward M Men leader, Leo B. Sharp. He taught our class at Mutual every Tuesday evening at 7:30. He was one of my newspaper customers. He never missed our basketball games and would usually sit on the bench with the coach and the “subs.” We played our games usually at Westminster gym, nearby and easy to rent. It meant much to us on the floor to have Leo watching us and being our friend. He loved us. He knew us. We respected him.
Then there was our bishop, Leo’s older brother, Bishop June B. Sharp, also one of my early subscribers. Bishop Sharp was our priests quorum president. We saw him Sunday mornings. He was our friend. He knew us. We could approach him on any matter. At a ward dance, and they were frequent in those days, you could always see Bishop Sharp dancing with his wife, Ida, bobbing up and down over the floor to a fox-trot or gliding to a waltz. And they would smile and greet us. They were our friends. As I write this, he is still alive and active at age 91, having served as a temple worker for many years and, after serving as bishop, presiding over the South African Mission. Like my parents, his smiling face and figure have always been a visible presence in my consciousness.
Then there was our stake patriarch, Christopher E. Layton, a son of the great pioneer Christopher Layton. He was also the custodian of our ward meetinghouse. He was our friend. He knew us. What a privilege it was to be greeted by him, respond in turn, and shake his hand. Later, when we went to him to receive a patriarchal blessing it was a crowning experience. He was available to us in a different way than Bishop Sharp but stood high in the galaxy of senior friends whose experience, wisdom, and judgment were available.
There were many, many more, too numerous to name. I hope that each of you takes advantage of reaching out, cultivating, and becoming better acquainted with many senior friends in your ward and in your community. They will be complimented and appreciative.
There were many senior friends among the great women of my circles. They were examples during my growing-up years. There was Verna W. Goddard, neighbor, wife of one of our stake presidents. She was the Gleaner leader in the ward (young women 17 to 25). Her home was open to us, and we took advantage of it. By the time we were adults she was a member of the General Presidency of the YWMIA. We were grateful that her leadership was now extending throughout the Church. There was our ward Relief Society presidency: Sister Brinton, the president; her counselors, Sister Michelson and Sister Josephine Matheson. These were beautiful, stately, dignified, cultured women. Although the ward was large, 2,000 members, it was good to get acquainted with such senior friends and feel their influence. Of course, there were always the returned missionaries, a younger group of “seniors” that we looked up to. None of them disappointed us. Although they were several years older when we were 17 or 18, they never approached us as anything less than equals and friends. What a thrill it was to have their friendship, be greeted by them, and sometimes be invited to accompany them in their automobile, or even as one grew a little older, on a date.
Friendship extends horizontally and vertically, up and down the age ladder. Neither dimension should be ignored. One soon finds that some of those “young kids” become very important in one’s own life. It is wonderful to have not ignored them as being “too young” or unimportant when they are 12 or 13 and you have reached the “advanced” age of 16 or 17. The same applies to those who are seven, eight, or nine! And so it goes.
The purpose of this little essay has been to point out the special value of senior friends. I hope that every reader will make it a point to get acquainted with available senior friends, beginning with father, mother, aunts, uncles, and the adult leaders in your ward. It will help stabilize your life. It will add significant dimensions to your social education. It will help open doors of opportunity for your future service. Do not ignore them! Be grateful for the opportunity of developing friendships with senior friends.

Christl Fechter faced this challenge and, with the Lord’s help, overcame it. As a young woman, she was forced by political upheaval to leave her home-land—what is now Czechoslovakia—for Germany. There she learned about the Church and was baptized. She later moved to the United States. While living in Utah, she was hurt terribly by someone and, for the first time in her life, felt hatred.
“I had been through all the terrors of the invasion of my country, but I had never before experienced the feeling of hate,” she says. “I knew this feeling was wrong, but I did not know how to change it.”
One day she read Matt. 5:43–44: “I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you; …
Christl felt that this passage was meant just for her. “I could not imagine myself praying for this person, but I wanted to do what the Lord said, and I knew I had to get rid of the hatred,” she says. So she knelt that night and prayed, through clenched teeth, that the Lord would bless the person who had hurt her.
She felt a little better. The next night she prayed again, this time sincerely, and she immediately felt the hatred leave her, never to return. She discovered that the Lord could pour out his Spirit upon her and teach her to love as he does.

“Soldier!”
Meltiar Hatch leaped to his feet and saluted the man on horseback. The Mormon Battalion had been on the march since dawn. Meltiar had taken advantage of a break to bring his sixteen-year-old brother, Orin, to rest in the shade of a tree. He hadn’t heard the officer’s horse until it was right next to him.
Lieutenant Smith returned Meltiar’s salute. “At ease, soldier.” He looked down at Orin, who lay unmoving, his eyes closed. “Your companion looks to be very ill.”
“Yes, sir,” Meltiar said sadly. “He contracted the fever at Fort Leavenworth, but I know that in time—”
“Time? Time?” Lieutenant Smith loudly interrupted. “This troop has no time. The untimely death of our former commanding officer has set us back two weeks. We cannot defer to the sick and the weary. Leave him.”
Meltiar’s protests were ignored as Lieutenant Smith turned and gave the order to assemble. As the drums sounded, men began to scramble to collect their provisions and line up. Meltiar sat down heavily and put his head in his hands.
“Meltiar,” Orin’s voice was barely audible. “Forgive me. I joined up only because I wanted to finally be useful, like you were in Nauvoo. I never imagined it would end like this.”
“Well, none of us imagined we’d ever be led by Lieutenant Smith, either. Few of the Gentile leaders have been unkind; he’s just the worst of the lot. Let’s not forget the promises given by Brigham Young and the Twelve,” Meltiar said with conviction. “If we conduct ourselves properly on this march, our lives will be spared.” He put his pack and canteen in Orin’s hands. “Here are some extra food and water to keep you for a while. I must go now, but I’ll be back, I promise.” He got to his feet.
“I never meant to be a burden.”
“Brothers can never be burdens.”
Later that night Meltiar awoke with a start. He wondered why he was alone in the woods in the middle of the night. Then he remembered that he was on an urgent mission, that someone’s life depended on him. His first thought was that he was still a messenger in the Nauvoo Legion.
Meltiar shook his head to clear his jumbled thoughts. He spoke aloud to himself. “The Prophet Joseph is dead. I couldn’t have prevented his assassination. However, I should’ve gotten help when my horse went lame, instead of trying to walk to Carthage. Then I might’ve delivered the last message from his loved ones before he died.” He shook his head sadly. “But I was young and full of pride, just as Orin is now.”
At the thought of his brother, Meltiar stumbled to his feet. That’s whose life depended on him now! Weary as he was, he had to keep walking. The two previous nights, Meltiar had another soldier help him bring Orin back to camp on horseback. Each morning, when Lieutenant Smith discovered what had happened, he angrily ordered that Orin be left behind again. Last night Commander Smith had informed Meltiar that if he wanted to keep up his “foolhardy venture,” he could no longer disturb the sleep of other men or beasts. That was why he was now alone and on foot. And he knew that he must be only about a third of the way back to where he’d left his brother.
Meltiar had prayed fervently for help when he’d set out. He knew he had an impossible task. Even if he had not been exhausted from lack of sleep, it would take him most of the night just to reach Orin on foot. Although Orin was much improved and could probably walk, he couldn’t travel very fast in his weakened condition. Meltiar knew that if he didn’t reach the battalion before it pulled out at dawn, it would leave them both behind. But he also knew that he could never leave Orin.
Several times on these night trips, Meltiar had had the uneasy feeling that he was being watched. Now he was certain he saw movement by a large rock up ahead. He stopped walking and slowly reached for his pistol. But the pistol was gone! He must’ve dropped it back where he’d fallen asleep. He started to reach for his knife but froze when an Indian stepped out of the shadows. In the light of the moon something glinted in the Indian’s hand. It was Meltiar’s pistol!
As Meltiar stood wondering what to do, he heard the sound of a horse approaching. Could someone from the battalion be following me? he wondered. Or could it be another Indian? The Indian appeared not to have heard the sound, but stood unmoving, the gun down at his side.
When the horse came into the clearing, Meltiar’s heart sank when he saw that it was an Indian pony with two riders. Meltiar closed his eyes and prayed for help.
“Meltiar?” a familiar voice said.
Startled, Meltiar opened his eyes to see that one of the riders had dismounted and was approaching him cautiously.
“Meltiar?” the voice repeated, “Is that you?”
“Orin?”
The two brothers rushed together in a brief, fierce hug, then turned to face the waiting Indians. The Indians had both mounted the pony, leaving the brothers’ guns and packs on the ground. One Indian slowly raised his hand in a salute. “Brothers,” he said before they turned and rode off into the shadows.
“That’s what he said when he came and got me,” Orin said. “I thought he meant that something had happened to you, so I went with him, even though I was scared. How did they know we were brothers?”
“They’ve been watching us these past few nights,” Meltiar said with sudden realization. “And maybe they could see how much we cared for each other. They could also see how much we needed their aid, so they helped us! Or—” he smiled at Orin—“maybe he meant that we are all brothers.”
“I’m grateful for their help,” Orin said softly, “but sometimes it isn’t easy to accept help from others.”
“I know what you mean.” Meltiar leaned on Orin. “But if you are as strong as you look, now it’s time for you to be useful. I need your help to walk back to camp. I hate to be a burden, but I am very tired!”
“I am much stronger now, Meltiar. Don’t worry,” Orin told him with a smile. “Brothers can never be burdens.”

As a father I was blessed to see great futures in God’s kingdom for my daughters as well as my sons. When I prayerfully sought guidance, I was shown a way to help my daughters recognize the trust God had placed in them as servants who could build His kingdom.

When my daughters were young, I saw that we could help others feel the love of those beyond the veil, throughout the generations. I knew that love comes from service and inspires hope of life eternal.

So we carved breadboards on which we placed a loaf of homemade bread and went together to deliver our offering to widows, widowers, and families. The legend I carved on each of those breadboards read, “J’aime et J’espere,” French for “I love and I hope.” The evidence of their unique spiritual gifts appeared not just on the boards I carved but more clearly as we distributed them to those who needed, in the midst of pain or loss, reassurance that the love of the Savior and His Atonement could produce a perfect brightness of hope. This is life eternal for my daughters and for each of us.

Now, you may be thinking, “Brother Eyring, are you saying that I have to learn how to carve?” The answer is no. I learned to carve only with the help of a kind and gifted mentor, then-Elder Boyd K. Packer. What little skill I achieved can be attributed to his great gift as a carver and his patience as a teacher. Only heaven can provide such a mentor as President Packer. But there are many ways you can shape children’s hearts without carving wooden boards or height boards for them.

For example, new communication technologies allow sharing messages of faith and hope across the miles that separate us, instantaneously and at little or no cost. My wife helps me do this. We begin by talking by telephone with grandchildren or children we can reach. We ask them to share stories of their personal successes and their service rendered. We also invite them to send photos of those activities. We use those photos to illustrate a few paragraphs of text. We add one or two verses from the Book of Mormon. Perhaps Nephi and Mormon wouldn’t be very impressed by the spiritual quality of our content or the limited effort required to create what we call “The Family Journal: The Small Plates.” But Sister Eyring and I are blessed by the effort. We feel inspired in selecting the passages of scripture and the brief messages of testimony we write. And we see evidence in their lives of their hearts being turned toward us and to the Savior and upward.

There are other ways to reach out; you are already engaged in many of them. Your habits of family prayer and scripture reading will create more lasting memories and greater changes of heart than you may realize now. Even apparently temporal activities, such as attending an athletic event or watching a movie, can shape a child’s heart. What matters is not the activity but the feelings that come as you do it. I have discovered a good test for identifying activities with the potential to make a great difference in a young person’s life. It is that they suggest the activity out of an interest they feel has come to them as a gift from God. I know that is possible from my own experience.

When I became a deacon at the age of 12, I lived in New Jersey, 50 miles (80 km) from New York City. I dreamed of being a great baseball player. My father agreed to take me to see a game played in the old and storied Yankee Stadium, in the Bronx. I can still see the swing of the bat as Joe DiMaggio hit a home run into the center field stands with my father sitting beside me, the only time we ever went to a major league baseball game together.

But another day with my father shaped my life forever. He took me from New Jersey to the home of an ordained patriarch in Salt Lake City. I had never seen the man before. My father left me at the doorstep. The patriarch led me to a chair, placed his hands on my head, and pronounced a blessing as a gift from God that included a declaration of the great desire of my heart.

He said that I was one of those of whom it had been said, “Blessed are the peacemakers.”6 I was so surprised that a perfect stranger could know my heart that I opened my eyes to see the room where such a miracle was happening. That blessing of my possibilities has shaped my life, my marriage, and my priesthood service.

From that experience and what has followed it, I can testify, “For all have not every gift given unto them; for there are many gifts, and to every man is given a gift by the Spirit of God.”7

By the Lord revealing to me a gift, I have been able to recognize and prepare for opportunities to exercise it to the blessing of those I love and serve.

God knows our gifts. My challenge to you and to me is to pray to know the gifts we have been given, to know how to develop them, and to recognize the opportunities to serve others that God provides us. But most of all, I pray that you will be inspired to help others discover their special gifts from God to serve.

I promise you that if you ask, you will be blessed to help and lift others to their full potential in the service of those they lead and love. I testify to you that God lives, Jesus is the Christ, this is the priesthood of God, which we hold, and God has prepared us with special gifts to serve Him beyond our fondest hopes. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

One time Bessie got tangled up in some barbwire and had deep, bleeding cuts on both hind legs when we found her.
Papa came out of the house with a curved needle and some black silk thread.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“To sew her up—like you do a tear in your dress,” he explained and showed me how to take a stitch, tie a knot, cut the thread, and take another stitch.
Quickly the wound was pulled together and Papa washed off the blood.
“It’ll soon be good as new,” he assured us.
After that, whenever an animal had a bad cut, I ran to get the curved needle and thread for Papa and watched while he sewed it up.

Whitney Rich says, “I have to admit that when I was growing up, I was afraid of marriage because I saw so many unhappy and failed ones. I wondered what I could do to make sure that my marriage to Justin would succeed.” Whitney and Justin spent a lot of time discussing this. They prayed, studied scriptures, and read Church-oriented books on the subject. They finally concluded that staying close to the Spirit was the best possible way of staying close to each other. Justin says, “The best marriage is not just a two-way partnership between a husband and wife. It’s a three-way partnership between a husband, a wife, and the Lord.”

I also learned about prayer from my mother. I grew up in the country on a cattle ranch. When I was eight or nine, my dad gave me a Shetland pony for my birthday, and I was really happy because I liked horses. A few days after I received this gift, a couple of boys asked if I wanted to go horseback riding with them. Mother said that I could go, so I rode with them for about three hours into the mountains. Suddenly, the two boys looked at me and said, “We have to go home now. We promised our mothers we would be back soon.” They had big horses. Mine was a little pony. They took off on a gallop, and my little pony couldn’t keep up with them. When they got out of sight, I stopped and I had no idea where I was. I became frightened.

Then I remembered what my mother had told me—if you get in trouble or if you need help, remember that you can pray to Heavenly Father. I got off my pony, knelt on the ground, and prayed. I don’t remember what I said, except “Please help me to get home.” After I finished my prayer, I got back on my pony. I sat there for two or three minutes holding the reins, not knowing what to do. I decided to drop the reins on the horse’s neck. After a few seconds, the horse started to walk. He walked faster and faster, and just before dark he walked into our backyard.

I learned two things from this experience. The first is that if we will pray to Heavenly Father in sincerity, He will answer our prayers. The second is that a horse knows its way home! I didn’t know that before I prayed.

I staggered away from the table saw, my ears ringing, my stomach churning. Warm blood reached my elbow and flowed to the sawdust-covered cement floor, but I dared not look at the hand. With the palm of my undamaged hand, I cradled the mess, terrified at the sight of the red blood, white bone, and yellowing skin.
“Tim, what happened? Tim? Tim!”
I heard a voice yelling my name. It was Jeff, the only other person in the shop, and out of blurring vision I saw him running toward me.
“Go. Go get help! Call an ambulance! Hurry!” I screamed out to Jeff, and he ran out a side door.
Now alone, I lay on a large roll of plastic to stave off the dizziness I started to feel. I had just finished a year of college and landed my dream job—working for the U.S. Forest Service in the remote mountains of southwestern Colorado. Not only that, but a week before I had received my mission call to Melbourne, Australia. I was to finish my summer job in Colorado, then report to the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah.
Where are they? I wondered. I started to get up, thinking I would go outside, get in the truck, and drive myself to the hospital. With dizziness fast returning, I lay back down on the slippery plastic and closed my eyes. Soon I heard the wail of an ambulance.
“He’s in here.” I recognized Jeff’s voice.
Opening my eyes, I saw Jeff and a uniformed man and woman from the ambulance standing over me. Almost simultaneously, the man grabbed my cut hand and the woman took my pulse on the other arm.
“You’re going to be all right,” he said as my hand was surrounded with white gauze. I was glad the wound was no longer my responsibility and was relieved the injury was out of view.
“How old are you?” The woman now spoke.
I whispered the answer. My throat was dry, making it difficult to speak. She asked more questions about allergies, past medical problems, and current medications I was taking. I responded quickly until she got to her last question.
“What family member do you want me to call that can come to the hospital?”
I thought of my family, more than 600 miles away. Mom would be eating lunch at work and Dad would be sleeping after working a graveyard shift as a security guard. My younger sister, Erin, would be in school.
“Tim?”
“There isn’t anyone that can come now. I don’t have any family in Colorado,” I replied. As they lifted me into the ambulance and drove toward the hospital, I remembered times that summer when I hiked into isolated wilderness areas to repair eroding trails and didn’t see anyone for days. When I came back into town, I always felt detached and alone, the way I felt now.
“Tim.” It was the woman from the ambulance. Her voice sounded distant. She continued, “Is there someone else I could call—like a minister or a priest?”
I thought of the small branch in Gunnison. The members had been friendly to me during the past few months, but as an outsider, I didn’t want to bother them with this problem. I looked down. The blood had saturated through the white gauze. I winced when I thought of the ripped flesh inside.
“Phone Willy Akers or Bud Smith,” I said at last. President Akers had just been called as branch president, and Bud Smith was his counselor.
“I know Willy. I’ll call him when we get inside,” she said with assurance.
The ambulance was stopping in front of the small hospital. I saw the doctor at the door waiting for me to be wheeled inside. Once inside, I looked around at the small emergency room as they placed me on an examination table and started an IV. The doctor spoke calmly to the nurse as he unwrapped the dark, red gauze. I looked away.
Finally, he finished and directed the nurse to wrap it again. Without a word, he left. I could hear his voice on a telephone in the next room and knew he was speaking about me. He stopped talking after a few minutes and entered the emergency room.
“Tim,” he started, speaking slowly, “you’ve cut yourself pretty good, and I don’t have the equipment or expertise to do much for you. I just called for a helicopter to fly you to a limb preservation unit at a hospital in Denver. They will do everything they can to save it there. Meanwhile, I’ll give you some pain medication to make things more comfortable for you on the way. Do you have any questions?”
I managed a weak no, then thought about what he had just said. The words “save it” kept repeating themselves. I had never had a cut that required more than a few stitches, and now I was faced with the possibility of losing my hand.
“It’s a good thing this happened while I was home for lunch or you wouldn’t have caught me,” President Akers said as he entered the small room. Brother Smith followed close behind. “They tell me you get to go on a long helicopter ride too.” I nodded, too weak to speak.
“Would you like a blessing?” Bud asked. I nodded again, and in the curtained partition of the two-bed emergency room in a small hospital, I was promised two things: my hand would be all right, and I would be able to fulfill my mission to Australia. President Akers went back to work, and Brother Smith stayed with me until I was loaded on the helicopter.
“Now I’m really alone,” I thought as the machine flew above Gunnison. I knew a few people in this small town of 6,000, but in Denver, a city of half a million people, I knew no one.
But I was wrong. When the helicopter landed and I was wheeled into the doors of the hospital, a missionary couple from the Denver South Mission greeted me. Their gray hair and warm smiles reminded me of my grandparents.
“Your branch president’s wife called and asked if we’d visit you sometime this week, and we came right over,” Sister Jeffreys explained. They sat by my bed until late that afternoon when the surgery team had assembled and was ready for me in the operating theater.
I wanted Brother and Sister Jeffreys to stay, but knew they would not be allowed in during the operation. I said good-bye and watched them leave down the long hallway.
“Hello. I’m Lile Hileman, one of the anesthesiologists here,” a man said, approaching my bed. “I was supposed to get off at 4:30, but when I saw you were the only Mormon besides me here, I thought I’d ask if it would be all right if I stuck around as your anesthetist.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” I joked for the first time since cutting myself.
“For you, I’ll learn fast,” he said, laughing.
It took the surgeons more than 14 hours to repair the damage, and I was in Denver for just as many days.
The day after the accident, my mom flew to Denver from our home in Orem, Utah, and she was greeted at the hospital by the full-time missionaries. For the three days she was in Denver with me, she stayed in the home of Church members she had never met.
After my mom returned home, and during the ensuing weeks, I continued to receive visits from the Jeffreys and Brother Hileman. In addition, half a dozen members of the Denver South Singles Ward showed up three times each week to cheer me up. The night before I left, they all “kidnapped” me from my room and took me to an ice cream shop close to the hospital.
I flew home, and after six more operations and months of therapy, I was able to use my hand again. Although my mission call was delayed six months, I served two years with an added vigor, for I now could teach the people of Melbourne about their caring brothers and sisters they’ll always have as part of their church family.

“Come on, guys,” Brother Larmouth said, breaking into our discussion of the basketball game our team had lost the night before. “We have a service project to think about.”
Brother Larmouth leaned forward in his dark suit, placed his forearms on his knees, and held his black pocket calendar in front of him. Brother Larmouth was vice president of one of the banks in town and everything he did was always precise, proper, and meticulous. He studied his calendar a moment and then asked, “Well, men, what’s it going to be?”
The room went quiet. I always hated this part of our planning session. Service projects never were my first love. I didn’t mind doing them, but coming up with the idea was always a royal pain. They were always so much the same.
“Sister Seymour might need some help,” Brother Larmouth suggested after observing our sudden silence.
“Yeah, that sounds all right,” Chris Frei mumbled without conviction.
“She can always use some help.”
I leaned back in my chair and stretched. “The widows get all the breaks,” I muttered jokingly. “Let’s skip them this month.”
“Any suggestions, Kyle?” Brother Larmouth asked, glancing over at me and adjusting the tie that didn’t need adjusting.
I thought for a minute. “How about picking out a good widower?”
Brad and Chris began to smile while Brother Larmouth shook his head and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
“We could activate Willard Weatherford,” I suggested, fighting not to smile.
“Kyle, can we get back to our planning?”
“What’s wrong with Brother Weatherford?” I asked.
“Kyle, I’ve lived in the 12th Ward since I was a kid. To my knowledge Brother Weatherford has been inside this church twice during that time. Once for his wife’s funeral and the other time for a friend’s. He smokes. He cusses. For years he wouldn’t even let the home teachers inside his house. He’s been a prospective elder since I went on my mission.”
“Well, I say it’s about time we got him out to church.”
“Kyle, can we wrap this up in the next few minutes?”
“So we just write him off?”
“Kyle, he wrote himself off a long time ago.”
Because our stomachs were growling, Sister Seymour finally ended up as our service project for the month, but as I left the church and headed for home in the crisp January air, I couldn’t help thinking of Willard Weatherford and wondering what it was like to be written off by everyone.
Willard lived just five houses down from me in a modest, red brick home with a large garage to the south. He had been an auto mechanic for years, so he’d set up an auto shop in his garage to tinker in his spare time. He was a stocky, grizzly old guy with gray, short-cropped hair, a round head, and flat nose. He rarely spoke or smiled, always looking like he’d just bitten the heads off a handful of nails.
Before I went into the house that Sunday afternoon, I glanced down the street toward Brother Weatherford’s place where a few patches of old snow lingered on his lawn. His old Ford truck was parked in front and the living room drapes were pulled closed.
Mom called me in to dinner and her fried chicken, hot rolls, mashed potatoes, and cherry cheese cake made me forget all about Willard.
Four days later a winter storm moved in and dumped seven inches of snow overnight. Dad woke me up in the morning, pushed a snow shovel into my hands, and pointed me to the driveway, reminding me that I would have to hurry to make it to school on time. I grumbled most of the time but worked fast to get out of the cold. I was about to hurry into the warmth of the house to eat breakfast when I glanced down the street in Brother Weatherford’s direction. The house was dark; the snow in the driveway, undisturbed. For a moment I pondered. Then I did one of the craziest things I’d ever done in my life. I walked down the street and began pushing the snow from Brother Weatherford’s driveway.
“What you doing, boy?” a voice growled behind me when I was about half finished with the driveway.
Startled, I turned to see Willard Weatherford standing at the top of the driveway wearing a faded, grease-spotted parka. His hands were stuffed into the pockets, and his head was scrunched into the coat’s collar.
I shrugged. “Just pushing a little snow to stay in shape.” I banged the shovel on the cement and stomped my feet.
“I do my own driveway. I can’t pay you, if that’s what you’re planning.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” I answered undaunted, returning to my shoveling.
He watched for a moment and then turned and walked into the house. I finished the driveway. Then, just to be ornery, I shoveled his sidewalk too. I suppose I was curious about him, wondered what made him tick.
“Hey, boy,” Brother Weatherford called to me from the front door as I was about to head for home. He came down the steps in a T-shirt and held three dollar bills in his hand. “This is all the change I have,” he mumbled. “I usually do my own work.”
I looked at the three dollars. “I didn’t do it for money.”
He seemed puzzled. “You Tom Jordan’s boy?”
I nodded.
“He put you up to this?”
I shook my head and muttered something about being late for school.
Three other times I cleaned off Brother Weatherford’s walk and driveway. Each time I finished he came out with a few one dollar bills and handed them to me. Each time I refused.
The last time I cleaned off his walk was the end of March after a wet snow dumped two or three inches. He came out with a 20 dollar bill.
“Take it,” he insisted, thrusting it towards me.
I laughed, shaking my head and shouldering my shovel. “I’m still trying to get myself in shape.”
Who makes you do this?” he demanded.
We stared at each other for several seconds without speaking. It was a question I had asked myself. Part of the reason went back to the fact that everyone had just crossed him off as one more negative Church statistic. Ever since that first morning I’d felt sorry for Willard Weatherford, living alone in his house, just waiting for life to run out on him. Everybody deserved more than that out of life. Chances were that the next time he went to church might be to attend his own funeral. “I guess I just figured you—” I hesitated, chewing on my lower lip. “I better get going,” I mumbled. “School, you know.”
Willard pulled out a cigarette, put it in the corner of his mouth, and lit it. He inhaled deeply, and as he exhaled he muttered, almost as though he didn’t want me to hear, “Well, thanks.”
One Saturday morning in late April the Young Men and Young Women planned a cleanup day in Sister Seymour’s yard. Brad Hunt and Chris Frei stopped by so we could walk over together. On the way I spotted Willard Weatherford in his backyard putting up a fence.
“Sister Seymour’s going to have more people than she needs,” I remarked, stopping.
“You skip out on another service project,” Chris grinned, “and Brother Larmouth will have the bishop all over you.”
“Nobody’s skipping out. We’re just changing projects. We can call Sister Seymour’s to let them know we can’t make it. Brother Weatherford needs a hand.”
“Old man Weatherford?” Brad groaned. “He wouldn’t let you help him even if you wanted to.”
I started into Willard’s yard.
“You’re not serious?” Brad called after me.
I just kept walking.
Brad and Chris hesitated a moment, but their curiosity got the better of them and they soon followed.
“Well, what do we do?” I asked jovially.
Willard looked up from the posthole he was digging. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glancing first at me and then at Chris and Brad. “I can’t pay you anything,” he muttered.
I grabbed a shovel. “What do you want us to do?”
Things were awkward for a moment, but then Willard saw that we weren’t going to leave, so he grumbled some instructions to us and we got to work. Brad and Chris thought I was crazy at first, but they didn’t hold back. It was a bigger project than any of us had anticipated, but we stayed with it.
Willard chain-smoked most of the day and occasionally grunted instructions. Several times he told us we should go, that we’d done all that a person could expect us to do. But we stayed till the end, which was about three in the afternoon.
As we were helping Willard put the tools away, Brad announced, “Well, I better get home. I need to do some work on my car.”
“When did that old bomb of yours start working?” Chris asked.
“I didn’t say that it was working. I said that I had to work on it.”
“What kind of car do you have?” Willard asked.
“A ’67 Mercury,” Brad said sheepishly.
“The one his dad dated his mom in,” Chris kidded.
“Maybe I could look at it sometime.”
“It’s not a bad car,” Brad said.
“Yeah,” I said, “everything works but the engine.”
That evening Willard dropped by Brad’s place and towed the Mercury back to his garage.
The following day in quorum meeting, Brother Larmouth mentioned that he was sorry the three of us hadn’t been able to make it to Sister Seymour’s for the service project.
“We found another project that was more urgent,” I explained.
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. We were helping Brother Weatherford.”
The rest of the quorum began to snicker—except for Brad and Chris. I looked around without smiling. Back in January when I had first brought Willard’s name up, I would have appreciated the chuckles because Willard was just a joke then, but the last three months had made him a person, and finally a friend. I knew then that I hadn’t skipped Sister Seymour’s service project just to do my own thing. I had been at Willard’s place because I really wanted to be there.
A week later Willard called and asked if I’d bring Chris and Brad over to his place. I was shocked. The last person I had expected to call me on the phone was Willard.
When the three of us arrived, Willard was in the garage puttering about. Brad’s car was parked in the middle of the garage. Willard reached into his pocket, pulled out Brad’s keys and tossed them to him. “See what you think.”
Brad caught the keys. “Does it work?” he asked.
Willard shrugged and turned away, going to his workbench and pushing a set of wrenches about. “Try it,” was all he said.
Slowly, Brad put the key into the ignition and turned it. The engine cranked over and began to purr.
“I don’t believe it,” Chris gasped.
“What’d you do to it?” Brad called out, stepping from the car and letting the engine idle.
Willard turned around, his face expressionless, but his eyes beamed with pleasure. “Don’t ever give up on a car like that.”
“What do I owe you? I mean—how much did all this cost?”
“Didn’t cost me a thing. Some of the wrecking yards around here owe me some favors. They coughed up the parts.”
After that it seemed that Brad, Chris, and I were always over at Willard’s. We worked in his garage, sipped sodas on his front lawn, talked baseball. We even teased him about his smoking. We told him that every time he took a drag he was throwing away 30 minutes of his life.
He chuckled and wagged his head. “I’ve been at it too long to kick it now.” But after that we noticed that when we walked up, he would flip his cigarette away.
Then one afternoon as we sat in his shop, he seemed more nervous than usual. He kept rubbing his hands on his pants, scratching the back of his neck, pacing the floor, and shuffling his feet.
“What’s on your mind, Willard?” Brad asked.
Willard shook his head. He tried to smile, but his attempt was more a grimace. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I chucked my smokes. I haven’t had a smoke for a couple of days. But I don’t know if I can handle it.”
For a moment the three of us were quiet. Then Chris jumped up. “You’ll make it, Willard. You just need something to take your mind off it. Do you chew gum?”
“I could chew nails.”
“You need to stay busy too,” I offered. “I have an uncle that quit. He said the only thing that saved him was to stay busy. He worked himself into exhaustion.”
For the rest of the day we stayed with Willard and pulled him through. It was almost ten when we left him, but he’d made it. As far as we knew, he never took another smoke.
“Hey, Willard, we’ve got a favor to ask,” I mentioned one afternoon as we were changing the oil in Brad’s car. “We’re in charge of a dinner over at the church this weekend.” I shrugged and felt my cheeks color. “The kids in the ward are putting on a dinner for some senior citizens. Now I don’t mean that we think you’re a senior citizen or anything like that,” I quickly added, “but we wanted you there. How about it?”
Willard looked up. His eyes went to each one of us, and then he stared down into the Mercury’s engine. For a long time he didn’t speak. Slowly he pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped his hands. A wan smile tugged at his lips. “The last time I was in church was when Mary died. That’s been better than three years. And it was a lot longer before that. There’ve been times when I wanted to go back, but I couldn’t come up with a good enough excuse. And there’s nobody there I know.”
“You’ve got an excuse now. We’re having barbecued chicken. And you know us. We’ll be there,” I pointed out.
“Why would you want me to go to a nice, fancy dinner with you?” he asked without looking at us.
For a moment I didn’t answer, pondering the question. “Because you’re our friend,” I answered simply.
He shook his head. “I don’t know if I could. People would stare. They’d wonder why—”
“You’ll be with us,” Brad spoke up. “The whole time. Honest.”
We all waited, holding our breath. Willard thought for a long time. Finally his face softened into a smile and he said, “Well, I’ll think about it.”
The night of the dinner I was nervous. Brad had promised to pick up Willard while Chris and I helped get things ready at the church.
“Did you invite anyone tonight?” Brother Larmouth asked as I was carrying food from the kitchen to the serving table in the cultural hall.
“Willard Weatherford.”
Brother Larmouth sighed. “When are you going to get off this Willard Weatherford kick?” He smiled and shook his head. “The day you get old Willard inside this church I’ll buy you the biggest, fattest steak you’ve ever had in your life.”
Just then Chris and Brad came through the doors on the far side of the cultural hall with Willard between them. Brother Larmouth had his back to them so he didn’t see them approach until they were right there. When he turned around, he almost dropped his jaw.
“Brother Larmouth,” I started out, “I’d like you to meet a good friend of ours, Brother Weatherford.”
For a moment Brother Larmouth could hardly speak. Then he held out his hand and greeted Willard. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he stammered. “The guys here have talked about you a lot.” He looked at the three of us and then back to Willard. “I guess I can believe everything they’ve told me.”
Willard nodded his head. “They’re good boys. I figure you can believe what they say.”
As Brad and Chris led Willard away, Brother Larmouth turned to me and muttered, “I would have never believed it. I guess I owe you a steak.”
I shook my head and swallowed back the lump in my throat. “Forget it.” I smiled. “Some things you don’t do for a steak.”

This story happened in Nigeria.
“Welcome to Primary!” Sister Agbor, Gift’s Primary leader, stood at the front of the room. “Today we will learn the song ‘Love One Another.’”1
The music started, and the younger children got ready to sing. But Gift already knew this song. She had sung it a hundred times! She didn’t really feel like singing it today.
Gift was tired of Primary. She was older, taller, and bigger than all the other kids. Her friends at church were all in Young Women now. She still had almost a whole year before she could go with them to Young Women classes and activities.
While everyone else sang, Gift was quiet. She mumbled some of the words to the songs, but she was busy thinking.
Then she had an idea. Maybe if she talked to the bishop, he would let her go to Young Women early so she could be with her friends.
Gift found Bishop Achombi after church. “Hi, Bishop,” she said. “I don’t really feel like I belong in Primary anymore. I’m bigger and older than all the other kids. Can I start going to Young Women instead?”
Bishop Achombi smiled. “I know moving to Young Women is exciting,” he said. “But you can only start going the year you turn 12. I’m sorry.”
Gift looked down at her shoes. “OK.”
“The Primary is lucky to have you,” the bishop said. “I think the younger children admire you a lot. You can make a big difference to them.”
For the rest of the day, Gift felt sad. A year was a long time to feel lonely in Primary.
But then Gift thought more about what Bishop Achombi said. Did the other children really admire her? She had never noticed that before.
The next week, Gift waved goodbye to her friends as they walked to the Young Women room. She sighed and walked to the Primary classroom.
“Gift,” Sister Agbor said, “would you be willing to help me teach this week’s song?”
“Um, sure,” Gift said. “What song are we learning?”
“‘I Am a Child of God,’”2 said Sister Agbor. “Thank you for your help! I think the kids will have fun learning from you.”
When singing time started, Gift stood in front of the room. “Today I’m going to teach you one of my favorite songs,” she said. She helped the children learn the words. Then she sang the song with them. As they sang, Gift felt warm and happy inside. She knew she was feeling the Holy Ghost.
Before long, Primary class was almost over! After the closing prayer, Gift started to walk to the hall. She wanted to find her friends after their Young Women class and say hi.
But one of the little girls stopped her. “Thank you for singing with us!” She gave Gift a hug. “I want to be like you when I get big.”
Gift smiled. She still couldn’t wait to go to Young Women, and she hoped the next year would go by fast. But she knew she could still learn and do good things in Primary.
And maybe Bishop Achombi was right. She could make a difference.
Illustrations by Simini Blocker

Although seven-year-old Caylen Craven of Pawhuska, Oklahoma, has not ever had to go to war, he is a “stripling warrior” because he has learned how to be honest, too. One day while walking through the airport with his family, he saw a man in front of him accidently drop some money. Even though he is normally very shy around strangers, Caylen ran to pick up the money and return it to its owner.
Caylen’s mother wrote, “We were thankful that his first reaction was to do the right and honest thing, that he didn’t even think about keeping the dollar.”

I always thought that I was one of the lucky exceptions to some gospel standards. So I did my own thing, deciding which standards were important and which weren’t. One of the standards I saw as optional was not listening to profane and vulgar music (see For the Strength of Youth [2011], 22). I didn’t think that the music I listened to made a difference in how I acted and how I felt about the gospel. I still had a strong testimony of Jesus Christ, and I did my best to serve others and attend my Church meetings. I told myself that it was unfortunate that those musicians didn’t live virtuous lives, but I was OK listening to their music—after all, it didn’t keep me from living a gospel-oriented life.
As I prepared to serve a mission, I didn’t think twice about how the music I listened to was stifling my spiritual progression.
However, within hours of opening my mission call, the scripture Alma 32:27 came into my head: “But behold, if ye will awake and arouse your faculties, even to an experiment upon my words, and exercise a particle of faith, yea, even if ye can no more than desire to believe, let this desire work in you, even until ye believe in a manner that ye can give place for a portion of my words.”
And then I thought of that one word: experiment. If I wanted to receive the blessings I was missing out on, I had to experiment. So for the next three weeks, I went without my inappropriate music. It was hard at first, and I had many relapses. But after a few days, the peaceful feelings I began having every day were enough to get me through. On top of that, as a college student, I began to do better in my classes. I could focus more, and I was more in tune with the Spirit in a time of my life where heavenly guidance was especially important.
I found that even my desires changed. I wanted to have every blessing that Heavenly Father is waiting to give me. My experience in changing my music habits helped me realize that there are no optional standards and that every commandment we are given is designed to deepen our relationship with our Heavenly Father and make us more like Him. Skipping out on ones we don’t like will only deny us His promised blessings.

I can say as Nephi said, that I was “born of goodly parents” (1 Ne. 1:1). During World War II my father was captured by the Germans when they invaded our country of Belgium. He escaped from them and disappeared into the Underground (a group opposing the invaders). As a young child, I remember seeing my father only once or twice. He made very short visits, then disappeared again into the Underground, where he was a radio operator.
Even when the war was over, he didn’t come home right away but went to Germany with the Belgian Army. Then he was assigned to another city in Belgium. Fortunately my mother was a very strong and faithful person. When my father was away, she was the head and the strength of the family.
We were not Latter-day Saints, but I have always had faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. That has never been in doubt for me. I don’t know where my faith came from. I grew up in a typical European home. We did not go to church, and we never prayed in our home. Yet as a child, I knew. I had faith. It was a spiritual gift that I could never deny.
As a teenager, I lived with my family on a hill in Namur, Belgium. We often noticed missionaries pushing their bicycles slowly uphill or riding swiftly back down. One day they came to our house. Knowing they were Americans, we were curious and invited them in. It was 1951, and I was about sixteen years old.
When the missionaries started talking about religion, we four children were not too interested, but my mother listened and kept inviting them back. As they taught her, she gained a testimony of the Church. Then came the question of baptism. My mother’s parents didn’t want her to be baptized, and my father was in Germany in the occupation forces. He came back only once a month for a two- or three-day visit. My mother got his permission, however, and was baptized. But he insisted that we children wait and make our own decisions when we were older.
In the meantime, we attended church with our mother. I went mostly because I wanted to perfect my English. I participated in the youth activities. It was a very good experience because I learned how to sing, dance, and act in the theater. I became acquainted not only with the Church but with the missionaries. I was getting closer to them in age, and we became good friends. They were in our home at least two or three times a week.
When I turned twenty-one, I attended college in Liege, a city about forty miles from home. The missionaries challenged me to be baptized, and I had to make a choice. It was a matter of testimony. I had questions about the Book of Mormon. I was ninety-five percent converted, but I needed a spiritual confirmation. The missionaries helped me find it by teaching me to pray, praying with me, and helping me recognize the answers I received. I was soon baptized. Since that time in that small branch, I have continued to grow in the gospel.
My faith helped me when I experienced peer pressure. I was the only member of the Church in my high school and college and, later, in Belgium’s Air Force. To resist temptations, I had to turn somewhere. I could not just turn to a magazine or a book. I had to have the internal strength that comes from a testimony of Jesus Christ. Once you have faith and rely on it, you will be strengthened even more. Faith becomes your determining factor in making decisions and moving forward.
My father never did join the Church, but he was a fervent supporter of it because he could see its blessings in the lives of his four children. (My sister and two brothers were also baptized.) Prior to his death, he asked me to give him a priesthood blessing, and I did. We had a very special conversation, and he confided in me for the first time that he had faith. Coming from him, this was a major step.
With age, physical challenges are starting. At the end of last year I suddenly had a serious back problem. I was unable to move or to function normally. Through a priesthood blessing and my faith in the Lord, my back got better.
I think that faith is our “homework” as Latter-day Saints. When you go to school, you have a textbook, but unless you do the homework each night, you don’t progress. The scriptures are our gospel “textbook,” but we have to do our homework. Our faith needs to be practiced. Faith without works is dead.
My message to you children is to listen to your parents and follow their teachings. I had a foundation in my life from the teachings of my mother and my father, who were great examples. They were not perfect, and your parents may not be perfect, either. But if you can separate their problems from the true principles they teach, and follow by faith, you will be blessed for it. If you will turn to your parents and to the Lord, it will make a big difference.

One day at recess I was bored, so I went over to my teacher. I was surprised when she asked me about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She said she went to a Christian church, so I told her about ours. I told her what the sacrament represents. She told me about her church and seemed interested in what I was saying about our church. I felt glad for doing missionary work. I’m glad I had the chance to teach my teacher.

Young missionaries always have an idea as to where they would love to serve. Usually it’s a faraway place with a strange-sounding name.
One day I was in the men’s suit department of a large store when I encountered two missionaries with their mothers. It isn’t difficult to spot missionaries or their mothers. The two elders were conversing, and one said to the other, “Where are you going to serve?”
Came the reply, “I’m going to Austria.”
The first missionary responded, “You lucky dog, going to Austria! Those beautiful Austrian alps, that wonderful music, those delightful people! I wish I were going there.”
“Where are you going?” said the missionary assigned to Austria.
“California,” came the answer. “You know, less than two hours away by plane. We go there every year for a vacation.”
I could see by the expression on the mothers’ faces and the near tears of the one missionary that it was time for me to intervene. “Did you say California?” I asked. “Why, I once supervised that area. You have an inspired call. Do you realize what you will have in California to help you? You’ll have chapels and stake centers that dot the land, and they’ll be filled with Latter-day Saints who can be inspired to be fellow missionaries with you in sharing the gospel. You are a very fortunate missionary to be going there.” I glanced at the other mother, who said, “Brother Monson, say something about Austria, quick!” I did so.

Did you like that Friend magazine I gave you?
Yeah. My dad liked it too, but he just lost his job, so we don’t have money for things like magazines …
Dad, I know we don’t have a lot of money this year because we had to move, but can we get Audrey a Friend subscription for Christmas? You could take it out of whatever you were going to get me.
In fact, I really don’t need much. Could we just give Audrey’s family most of what you would have spent on me? Without letting them know who it was?
I guess so, if you’re sure that’s what you want.
I was really hoping for that cool new scooter. She’s Mandy’s friend, not mine. In fact, she acts like I don’t exist.
But Mandy looked really happy when she told Dad what she wanted to do.
Dad, I heard what Mandy was saying. Would you do the same thing with my Christmas presents? But don’t tell Mandy. I mean, I don’t want her to think I like her friends.
You know what I mean.
You’re never going to guess what those two kids of ours just did.
Uh oh! Do I want to hear this?
Oh, trust me. You do.

There comes a time in all of our lives when we question the existence of our testimony. For me it came when I discovered that though within my mind I knew the Church to be true, within my heart there had been no such witness, or so I supposed.

I wanted my own special witness. I prayed and fasted, fasted and prayed. Finally one day, as I sat in sacrament meeting, my heart began to tremble and my eyes began to water. This is something that often happens to me in testimony and sacrament meetings. I realized then that this was my witness that the gospel is true. I knew that I had always known the Church to be true.

Do not be ashamed to admit you do not know the Church is true. We all must be converted to the gospel spiritually, no matter how many generations our families have been in the Church.
Tony S. RollsWestmead, Australia