Gospel Story Finder

During his years in high school, one of my sons withdrew more and more from our family. He resented authority of any kind. He dutifully attended church, but he had no enthusiasm for the gospel.
After he graduated from high school, instead of preparing for a mission, he set goals to earn money for a car and college. But one Sunday he attended Sunday School instead of leaving after sacrament meeting as he often had. The lesson that day was about serving missions.
Our son later told us he had never felt the Holy Ghost so forcefully as during that lesson. Immediately after Sunday School, he told the bishop he wanted to serve a mission. In his farewell talk about a year later, he shared a letter his Sunday School teacher, Shelly Parcell, had written him after she learned of his decision.
Sister Parcell described how she had struggled to prepare a lesson on Doctrine and Covenants 71–75 and 77. She decided on Saturday evening to focus on the prophecies from the book of Revelation as discussed in section 77. “I didn’t sleep well at all that night,” she wrote. “Every time I woke up, the overpowering thought was, What will I teach? What do my students need to learn?”
On Sunday morning, Sister Parcell looked over the lesson one more time, and a lesson about missionary service took shape in her mind. “I knew the Lord had a message for somebody in our class,” she wrote. “During the lesson the Spirit was very strong, and I felt the message was getting through. I don’t remember everything I said, but I remember saying things I hadn’t planned on, and I know the Spirit took over.”
As our son prepared for his mission, he shared his testimony with his older brother. They entered the mission field within months of each other and shared the gospel in Perú and México. I will always be grateful for Shelly Parcell and how she blessed our family by teaching by the power of the Spirit.

But sometimes the pressure of always being the example—of always being the “good” guy, especially when there are those around you trying to make you slip up, can become overwhelming. That’s what happened to Ryan when he was traveling with his marching band. “Sometimes I get made fun of a lot because I don’t swear or tell dirty jokes. I’ve actually had people say they were going to get me to crack before the end of the band season.”

At one point about two years ago during an extended band competition, the harassment got so bad that Ryan reached a breaking point. “I was crying on the bus. I just couldn’t handle it anymore. I didn’t want to be there anymore. I wanted to go home.” When the bus arrived back at the school where the band was staying, Ryan told a friend he was going for a walk and left to find a quiet place to pray.

“I found this spot behind the school, and when I knelt down and started to pray, I broke down. I’ve never cried so hard in my life. I just didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to get through this. I must have prayed for a good 30 minutes where I was literally pouring out my soul. It was really the first night where I felt as if Heavenly Father was near to me. When I felt that, I’ve never felt so much at peace in my life, and I knew right then that I would get through this.

“Before I prayed I was like, ‘I can’t take it,’ and afterward it was one of the most calm and peaceful feelings I’ve ever felt. Then there were tears of joy and tears of happiness. What I felt was truly the gift of the Holy Ghost helping me get through what I was going through.”

Ryan says that as he felt the loving presence of his Father in Heaven, everything changed. Ryan had felt alone and insignificant; now he felt loved and empowered. “I’m a son of God,” Ryan said to himself. “I’m a priesthood holder—a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. That night I really felt like I was someone important to my Heavenly Father.”

The competition circuit continued for another week, and those who had been badgering Ryan stopped. He’d weathered the storm, his testimony now strengthened, his reputation intact. Plus he’d had a few opportunities to share the gospel with others.

The oars lapped softly in the still water as Warren rowed his small boat through the marsh. The stars had disappeared, and a pale pink light showed on the horizon. Almost in unison the birds began their joyful crying and squawking, rising up from cattails and grassy patches of land, some circling above or soaring into the sky. The noise surrounded Warren. His skin prickled and his heart pounded with excitement as he watched the wild ducks and geese, a few gray herons, and some small marsh birds whose names he didn’t know yet.
Warren tried never to miss this moment of first light on the marsh. The excitement of the birds thrilled and fascinated him. And after he’d found a nest hidden in the tall grass along the far shore, the experience became even more exciting. Warren stepped out of the boat into the soft mud and pulled it up onto the bank. He stretched and looked around him, watching the ducks take off from the water into the sky.
Here in the marsh Warren didn’t miss his old friends too much. And it didn’t seem so important to him that he had made no new friends. His father managed the reserve where they lived. It was several miles out of town and in the six months that Warren had lived there he felt strange and different among the other kids. They had called him a sissy because he wouldn’t go shooting sparrows with them.
Warren loved all animals, but especially birds. He never tired of watching them. Now he turned and walked stealthily along the shore again, hoping to find the hen off her nest so that he could examine the eggs more closely. When he parted the tall grass, his heart was pounding. He knelt and studied the blue-gray eggs cradled snugly among the downy feathers the hen had pulled around them. She was nowhere in sight, so Warren relaxed and peered closely at the eggs, wanting to touch them but knowing he shouldn’t.
Suddenly the loud twang of a slingshot startled him. He jumped up and saw a small marsh bird spiraling out of the sky. It splashed softly into the water.
“I got one!” someone near Warren suddenly shouted. Then two boys splashed out of the high cattails. When they saw Warren they stopped, and Warren recognized them from school—Tom Jenkins and Steve Peterson.
“Do you think he saw us?” Tom, the smaller one, whispered.
“How could he help it? He’s right here. But if he knows what’s good for him he won’t tell anyone.”
“This is a game reserve,” Warren declared. “It’s against the law to kill birds here.” He moved closer to the nest, hoping they wouldn’t see it.
“Hey, look!” Tom called. “There’s a nest right there in the grass.” Both boys looked at the nest.
“So this is why you’re out here prowling around,” Steve said, smiling at Warren in a sneering kind of way.
“You’d better not bother those eggs, or you’ll be in even more trouble,” Warren warned.
“Smash them, Tom” Steve urged. Tom stepped around Warren and raised his foot above the nest.
“Don’t do that!” Warren yelled, “I won’t tell.”
Tom paused, his foot still in the air, and looked at Steve.
“Is that a promise?” Steve asked.
“Yes, I promise,” Warren answered.
“Come on, Tom.” The two boys turned and walked away from the shore toward town.
Warren stood for a long time looking after them, then went to his boat and rowed home.
All day in school, Warren thought about the nest and about Tom and Steve and the bird that had fallen into the water, dead. He knew he should tell his father, but he had promised not to. They still might come back and smash the nest anyway, he worried. At lunchtime he saw Tom and Steve in the hall, but they pretended not to see him.
After school, Warren walked very slowly up the dirt road from the bus stop, still thinking about what he should do. He wondered how long he’d have to wait for the day when he’d part the grass and see three tiny naked geese in the cloudy down of the nest or if it might never happen. Tom’s big ugly foot could crush the eggs with one smash. Warren didn’t like to think about it. He breathed in the moist spring smells all around him and heard small animals scurrying through the underbrush. He couldn’t understand why some kids wanted to destroy beautiful living things. If he told his father about Tom and Steve, they’d tell his classmates how he’d squealed, and everyone would hate him. Still, Warren knew he would eventually have to tell. If he didn’t, the bullies might be even more destructive. He couldn’t stand to have kids killing birds, especially here on the reserve.
Warren could see his father near the shed, squatting down with a pan in his hands. He was feeding a small animal. The boy was curious and began to run, but stopped when he saw the black and white fur of a skunk. He approached his father slowly, stopping a short way off. The skunk looked up at him, but when he didn’t move, it began eating again. “Dad, why are you feeding a skunk?” Warren asked softly. “He might spray you.”
His dad smiled. “He only does that to his enemies. I’m making him my friend.”
Warren looked at the skunk. Its thick black and white fur gleamed in the sunlight. It ate quickly from the pan and then ambled off toward the woods. His father stood up. “How was school today?”
“All right,” Warren said. He knew his dad was waiting for him to go on, but he didn’t know what to say. They began walking toward the house, Warren watching the shadows of the new aspen leaves on the dirt path. His father put his arm on his son’s shoulder. “Dad,” Warren began, “should you always keep your promises?”
“Yes, you should,” his father replied.
“Even if you’ve promised to do something wrong?”
His father was quiet for a minute. “I see what you’re asking now. No, I think that would be one time a promise should be broken.”
“I think I’d better break one then,” Warren said. “I saw two boys from school shooting birds in the marsh this morning.” His father looked at him sharply. Warren told him about the nest and about the boys’ threat to smash it if he told.
His father was silent again for several seconds. Finally he said, “You did the right thing to tell me, son. When you see someone breaking the law, you have an obligation to report it.”
“I guess I shouldn’t have promised not to tell,” Warren said.
“Probably not, but I can see why you did.”
“What will happen now?”
“I’ll talk to their fathers tonight, and they’ll be fined.”
“But what if they come back and smash the eggs?” Warren reminded him, shuddering. “The least they’ll do is beat me up at school,” he added.
“I think they’ll be afraid to come back into the reserve once they know that I know about them, but it’s true that they might want to beat you up. Maybe you can think of a way to turn them into friends,” Warren’s father suggested.
“Friends! I don’t want to be friends with guys who shoot birds and smash eggs,” Warren retorted. He felt angry that his dad would suggest something like that.
“Maybe they don’t understand about birds and animals the way you do. Maybe they haven’t had a reason to think about it much.” His dad smiled at him and squeezed his shoulder. “Let’s go in and eat.”
All through dinner and chores and homework, Warren thought about what his dad had said. He didn’t want the eggs crushed, and he didn’t want to be clobbered by two bigger boys either. He didn’t much want them for friends, but maybe it was the best choice if it could be done. However, it didn’t seem likely that they’d want to be his friends after he’d told on them.
Warren waited up for his dad to come back from seeing Tom’s and Steve’s parents, but when he came in all he said was, “I’m going up the canyons to stock the streams with trout on Saturday. You want to go?”
“Sure,” Warren answered. He usually went with his dad to stock the streams, and it was always exciting.
“Better get to bed now,” his dad said.
“But what happened at Tom’s and Steve’s?” Warren asked.
“Nothing much. They have a fine to pay. Good night, Warren.”
Warren stood for a minute as his father picked up the newspaper. Then he went up to bed. He lay awake for a long time, thinking about Tom and Steve and about how he might possibly make friends with them. He thought, too, about the fun of stocking the streams on Saturday and seeing hundreds of tiny fish squirming wildly in the water and then taking off downstream. Finally Warren knew what he could do. “It wouldn’t hurt to try,” he murmured.
The next day during the lunch hour, he saw Tom and Steve standing together near the drinking fountain in the hall. Warren’s heart was pounding as he walked toward them. They were waiting for him, glancing at each other.
“So you told after all,” Tom said.
“Our dads are making us pay the fines out of our own money. No allowance for four months, and it’s your fault,” Steve said. “You broke your promise, and you’re going to pay, just as soon as we catch you off the school grounds.”
Warren stood for a few seconds, his stomach churning with fear. Then he said what he had planned. “On Saturday my dad’s taking me up the canyons to stock the streams with trout. Do you guys want to go along?”
Steve and Tom looked at each other, surprised and speechless.
“It’s really fun,” Warren said. “He takes millions of little fish and puts them in the water. And while we’re there he’ll probably show us badgers’ dens and stuff like that. Later on when fishing season opens, I can show you some of the best fishing places.” Warren stopped, a little breathless. “You want to go?”
Steve shoved his hands into his pockets and shifted his feet. “Well, yeh, I guess so.” Steve glanced at Tom. “You want to go, Tom?”
“Sure, if you’re going. Maybe we could beat him up while we’re there.”
“You crazy? With his dad there?” Steve laughed and jabbed Tom with his elbow.
Tom laughed too. “Sure, we’ll go,” he said.
“What time?”
“Early,” Warren replied. “I’ll let you know the exact time on Friday.”
The bell ran, and kids raced past them.
“See you later,” Warren called as he ran to his class.
All afternoon Warren had a peaceful feeling. He knew his dad would be proud of him too. Making friends with Steve and Tom is an even bigger accomplishment than making friends with a skunk, he decided.

Authenticity also implies an attempt to speak in a situational language our audience can understand. A few years ago I had the opportunity to role-play with English-speaking MTC missionaries. I chose to play a husband who had just lost his wife. I decided to go easy on the missionaries, and after welcoming them to my “home,” I spoke about my grief at the loss of my imaginary spouse and my sincere need to understand her whereabouts. I felt I had given them an obvious approach to take. “Man,” I thought to myself, “I wish I had seen such a golden investigator on my mission.”

Their fresh young faces looked up at me, and they opened their scriptures and began to enthusiastically launch into what was their most comfortable vehicle: the story of the Restoration. “In the spring of 1820 in upstate New York . . .”

I stopped them. “Now elders, listen to what I just asked and see if there is a more comforting approach.” I repeated my deep yearning for knowledge about the state of the soul after death.

With even brighter smiles they began again: “In the spring of 1820 in upstate New York . . .”

And this time I just let them talk. You see, to them the story of the Restoration is so central, so relevant, that it was of course the answer. We would all agree that the words of Alma about the Resurrection that I wanted them to quote or the messages about the sealing power that I was hoping for would not be ours without the Prophet Joseph, but they were just a little too ready to use their new MTC squirt guns to squirt the gospel on me and feel that they had done their job. I wanted them to also take responsibility for the absorption of that message. Their testimonies of Joseph Smith would be critical to my understanding as an “investigator,” but they were out of place in messaging hierarchy. If these elders had caught my situational questions and affirmed that their message had the answer I was seeking about my dear departed, I would have been happy to wade through any lesson on the Restoration, even in questionable Finnish or Tagalog or Swahili. Likewise, as we strive for authenticity, we need to listen and construct a message hierarchy.

That October conference, Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles shared some of his experiences related to moving his young family to Connecticut for graduate school. We had also moved to Connecticut for graduate school. Then he described how he and his family had fit all of their possessions into their little car—we had done the same. He explained that when the trip began, his car had overheated and broken down not once but twice! Our vehicle also broke down twice.
Finally, he described a more recent experience of driving a reliable car by the spot where his car had broken down 30 years earlier. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself as a young father and said these words: “Don’t give up, boy. Don’t you quit. … There is help and happiness ahead—a lot of it. … You keep your chin up. It will be all right in the end. Trust God and believe in good things to come.”1Elder Holland’s experience helped me feel understood and loved. His example gave me the courage to seek the spiritual witness that more education for my husband was the will of the Lord for our family.

“This is it, Mark,” I say as I gaze out at the field strewn with hundreds of colorful eggs. “Next year we’ll be too old, so we have to win the prize basket today.”
“I know, Emily,” Mark answers, his grip tight on our basket, his body poised to bolt onto the field.
At the community egg hunt, we’re allowed to work in teams of two. My friend Mark and I have come close to winning before, but this year we have to win the prize basket. Besides the chocolate eggs and stuffed animals in it, there are a gift certificate to a video store, a bunch of CDs, two passes to that new amusement park—all kinds of great stuff.
And we’re going to do it, because this year, Mark and I are among the oldest, tallest, and fastest kids here. I know we can scoop up more eggs than anyone else.
Behind me I hear a woman saying, “I just don’t know if it’s a good idea to let her try this, Mike.”
I glance back and catch a glimpse of a girl in a yellow skirt. She is with her parents and looks younger than me.
The flag goes down, and everyone goes tearing onto the field. Mark and I have planned out our strategy. We run past the kids stooping down to pick up the first eggs they come to. Instead, we head for the eggs beyond them. We grab eggs like crazy.
Mark and I have loaded our basket by the time the others have cleaned the front part of the field and start swarming into the area where we are. Even so, Mark and I continue to find a few eggs with the other children.
“You’re going to win,” one of the older boys groans when he sees our basket.
I smile. Yes, we’re going to win. I’m sure of it.
By now, the field has almost been picked clean of eggs. Mark and I start to recheck our chances of winning. We feel pretty confident.
Then I notice the girl in the yellow skirt walking slowly toward us. What is she doing? I wonder. She doesn’t have a partner, nor has she found a single egg. She holds her empty basket in one hand. Her other hand grips a long white stick tipped with red. She taps the stick to the ground and sweeps it in front of her as she walks as if she’s looking for something in the grass.
She can’t see! That’s why she has no eggs. Everyone ran out in front of her and grabbed every single egg, leaving none for her to find.
Why did she try this? I wonder. She couldn’t possibly beat us to eggs, let alone win.
Then I realize something. All I care about is finding the most eggs and winning the prize. But that girl doesn’t care a bit about the prize. She just wants to find eggs for the fun of it. And we’ve all taken that chance away from her.
I look over at Mark. He’s watching the girl, too. I can tell by the way he looks at me that he knows what I want to do. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s begging me not to do it. He wants to win.
But I step forward, lift an egg from our basket, and place it quietly in front of the girl. As her stick hits the egg with a satisfying clicking sound, she smiles. She bends over, gropes around for the egg, and finding it, places it in her basket.
I put down another egg. As she finds that one, Mark adds one to the grass. We both put out a couple more.
A little boy darts in front of me, heading for the eggs. I gently grab him before he can reach them. “No,” I whisper in his ear. “They’re hers.”
I know the girl will never have the most eggs—it takes her a long time to find them, and the hunt’s almost over. But at least she’ll have some. And the smile on her face shows how much fun she’s having.
The contest judge announces that the hunt is over, that we should bring all our baskets up to determine the winner. Mark and I go, but we know that we may have lost. We do lose by four eggs.
Suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to see the woman who stood behind me earlier. Her eyes glisten with tears, and she mouths “Thank you” at me before she goes to admire the eggs in her daughter’s basket.
And then my mom’s there. “Emily, Mark,” she says. “I know how much you wanted that prize.”
I shrug. “It’s OK that we didn’t win.”
My mom puts her arms around our shoulders and squeezes. “But you two did win.”
She’s right. Even if our basket was totally empty right now, I think I would still feel like a winner, and I can tell that Mark feels that way, too. We wanted that prize basket. Instead, we’re taking home a wonderful feeling and the memory of a young girl’s smile. That’s the best prize of all.

Cut down on television time. We found that even though watching television is relaxing, it doesn’t give us quality time as a family. We decided not to watch television between the time Dad comes home from work and when the children go to bed. After we got used to having the television off, we were surprised at how much interaction we had as a family. We began communicating and feel closer to each other than we used to.

A good example of compassion and service making a difference is the example of Don and Marian Summers, which represents the experiences of many other missionary couples. While serving in England, they were asked to serve the last six months of their mission in the Swindon Branch to teach and assist in activating members. For eighty years Swindon had been a branch with a faithful few and with many good members becoming less active.
Don and Marian recently wrote me, recalling the following:
“Our first visit to Swindon Branch was a bit disheartening as we met with the Saints in a cold, rented hall. The congregation numbered seventeen, including President and Sister Hales and four missionaries. Still wearing our winter coats, we all huddled around a small, inadequate heater while we listened to a Sunday School lesson.”
The letter continued:
“A branch member approached me one day: ‘Elder Summers, can I give you a bit of advice? Never mention the word tithing to the Swindon members; they really don’t believe in it, and all you will do is upset them.’”
Brother Summers said, “We did teach tithing and all the other gospel principles. With example and the encouragement of a branch president, there was a change of heart, and faith and activity started to increase. The membership records were completely updated as we visited every member’s home. When the leaders started caring, the members began to respond, and a whole new spirit pervaded the branch. The members became excited again about the gospel and helping one another.
“Firesides were held in our homes, and we worked closely with stake and other proselyting missionaries. We made a promise to the Lord that we would not let one new or reactivated member fall into inactivity while we were in Swindon.
“One young couple had a difficult adjustment to make as their customs, manners, and dress were different. They became offended at suggestions for changes. The couple twice wrote to the bishop [since by then it was a ward] and asked to have their names removed from the Church records. In the last letter they forbade any of the members to visit them, so Marian and I went to the florist and purchased a beautiful plant of chrysanthemums and had it delivered to the young couple. It was a simple note: ‘We love you; we miss you; we need you. Please come back.’ Signed, Swindon Ward.
“The next Sunday was fast and testimony meeting and our last Sunday in Swindon. There were 103 members in attendance compared to seventeen six months before. The young couple was there and, in bearing his testimony, the husband thanked the Swindon Ward for not giving up on them.”

Sister Emily Belle Freeman shared this experience in general conference. Please pay attention to the simple way she accessed His power in her personal life:
“Recently my husband, Greg, received a diagnosis that would require an intensive surgery and months of chemotherapy. Like many of you who have faced a similar situation, we immediately began praying for heaven’s help and God’s power. The Sunday following Greg’s surgery, the sacrament was delivered to our hospital room.

“On this occasion, I was the only one taking the sacrament. One piece of bread. One cup of water. At church, my mind often focuses on the delivery system of the sacrament—the preparing, the blessing, and the passing. But on that afternoon, I pondered the gift of God’s power available to me through the sacred ordinance itself and the covenant promise I was making as I took that piece of bread and that cup of water. This was a time when I needed power from heaven. In the midst of great heartache, exhaustion, and uncertainty, I wondered about this gift that would allow me to draw upon the power from Him that I so desperately needed. Partaking of the sacrament would increase my companionship with the Spirit of the Lord, allowing me to draw upon the gift of God’s power, including the ministering of angels and the Savior’s enabling strength to overcome.

“I don’t think I had ever realized with this much clarity before that it’s not only who officiates in the ordinance that matters—what the ordinance and our covenant promise unlock also deserves the focus of our attention.” [13]

Chaplain Brent Jones served as an army chaplain at Ft. Carson, Colorado, in January 2004. He remembers having the responsibility to provide support and comfort to the family of a soldier who had been killed in action. Because the soldier’s unit remained in Iraq to fight, Chaplain Jones was flown to California to honor the dead, which is one of the vital missions of a chaplain.
Chaplain Jones did not know the family or the soldier and was not asked to participate in the soldier’s viewing, funeral, or graveside service. A ministry of presence would have to suffice. However, “on the morning of the funeral,” he says, “I felt the impression that the Lord wanted me to offer a special prayer at the graveside service that would indeed be a blessing to this killed-in-action soldier and his family. But how could I do this when I was not on the program, and I certainly didn’t want to offend anyone?
“After the funeral, as I was walking toward the grave, his religious leader caught sight of me. We had a brief conversation, and it was determined that near the end of the graveside service, when he looked in my direction, I could step forward and offer a prayer. That’s just what I did: I was given the opportunity to offer that special prayer that the Spirit had told me about earlier that morning. I was extremely grateful that the Lord had prepared a way for me to bring honor and comfort to a grieving family.”

A long line of cars and large trucks sped along the freeway through the steady rain, tires hissing on the wet pavement. Water squirting from under the wheels of the trucks formed a curtain behind each speeding colossus. Every time we passed one of those road giants, a streaming shower blocked our view.
Often, when a long line of cars was in front of us, we had to drive for minutes beside one of those enormous vehicles. Shivering with fear, my wife would look up at the monster that thundered along only a couple of meters away from us.
I grumbled to myself because we had left so late that I had to hurry in these dangerous weather conditions to arrive on time for our appointment.
Suddenly we heard a mysterious sound against the side of the car. It went “klack-klack-klack-klack,” sounding like the first four beats of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, of which the composer said, “That’s the way fate knocks at the door.” The sound repeated itself every so often.
I stopped the car in the emergency lane and inspected the tires and the body of the car. I could find nothing that could have caused this knocking sound, so we continued our trip. After several kilometers, we heard the same knocking sound. I stopped and inspected the car again. Nothing was to be found. But when I stopped a third time, I did discover something—a bump on one of the tires that slowly grew to the size of a coconut!
When the mechanic who came to change the tire inspected the inside of the tire, he whistled fearfully. Even though the tire had been new, it had a big tear in the canvas—a factory defect. “You couldn’t have driven another kilometer with this,” the man said. “The tire would have had a blowout.”
I shivered with the thought of what could have happened if we had had a blowout when we were driving next to one of those huge trucks. That day, I clearly felt the protecting power that we so often plead for in our daily prayers.
Years later, one stormy night. I felt that protection again. We were a little older and little bit more forgetful. The wind roared around the house and gusted at doors and windows. However, inside it was quiet and safe, and we slept warm and comfortable.
The next morning, we awoke, said our morning prayers, and went downstairs. In the kitchen, we had the scare of our lives! There was a strong gas smell, and the kitchen door, which we normally locked tight, was wide open in the wind. Without realizing it, we had left the gas knob of the stove wide open and the door unlocked. Somehow the storm wind had blown the door open. Had the door not been open, the gas would surely have been ignited by the flame in the water heater, causing a potentially serious explosion.
We are not wise people, just a simple couple striving to keep the covenants we made with Heavenly Father when we were married in the temple. We feel protected. Perhaps we are protected many more times than we even realize. Certainly, we believe that it was the hand of our Heavenly Father who saved us twice from misfortune.

But the Verano children enjoyed Primary, which then was held one afternoon a week. Sig or Ana would drive them to the chapel for the meeting. One afternoon, the car wouldn’t start. “Well, it isn’t my fault,” Sig told them. “I guess you won’t be able to go.”
Back in the house, six-year-old Edison wouldn’t give up. “Let’s pray,” he pleaded. So they knelt in prayer, then went back out to the car. To Sig Verano’s surprise, it started immediately.

Illustrations by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
Wendy: You Mormons aren’t really Christians.Mandy: Let me help you with that.
Wendy: You believe in Joseph Smith, not Jesus.Mandy: Joseph Smith taught us to believe in Jesus. He spent his whole life following Jesus. He died serving Him.
Wendy: I still say you’re not a Christian, and if you say you are, we can’t be friends.Mandy: Wendy, I know that Jesus Christ is my Savior. He suffered for my sins. He died on the cross for me. He was resurrected so that I can live again. I love Him with all my heart. If you don’t think I’m a Christian, that’s OK. I still want to be your friend.
Wendy: Thanks for helping me with the playhouse.Mandy: You’re welcome.
Wendy: Let’s keep being friends.Mandy: Let’s do.

Two of my ancestors have sent me messages of faith which have encouraged me. First, from Sarah Elizabeth McDonald Baskin Patterson. Sarah was born in 1809 and died sometime after 1871. She is my first cousin, five times removed. Among the letters we have from my McBryde ancestors in Alabama, we have a letter written by her.

On September 11, 1870, she writes:

"I have been a poor unprofitable servant in the service of my master, yet that service has been my comforter all my life. Whenever troubles innumerable assailed me I could just open my Bible and find something adapted to my case showing me that my troubles were nothing more than the common lot of man and I can truly say today that every trial and temptation through which I have passed has been profitable to me."[48] Additionally, in FamilySearch I came across the history of my sixth-great-grandfather, Captain David Perry, who, before he died, prepared his autobiography for publication in 1822.

In it, he reflects on his experiences during the Revolutionary War and gives his posterity an admonition. He requests that we, his posterity, remember that “the Lord stood by us and put our enemies to flight in a marvelous manner, and wrought wonders for us as a nation: and we have the greatest reason to bless and praise his holy name, of any people on the earth.” [49]

He also testified that “the Lord discomfited [the enemy], . . . so that we may see, that the effectual, fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.” [50]

And finally, Captain Perry testified that “had not the Lord been on our side, and fought our battles, we must have failed to maintain our liberties against so potent a foe.” [51]

These testimonies from my ancestors sustain me today. I am certain they never imagined that their cousin or granddaughter in 2018 would find comfort in their words from so long ago. However, the Lord knew I would need to hear their testimony. He inspired them to write so I could gain comfort from their testimonies and find gladness in my journey. I encourage you to consider what your posterity might need to hear and then record it for them.

My wife, Ruby, and I recently celebrated our sixty-fifth wedding anniversary. We were married in the Salt Lake Temple on September 4, 1930. The next morning we went up to see her mother on M Street in Salt Lake City to bid her good-bye. And as part of those tender moments, she fixed a little basket for us to put in the car. She said to me, “David, promise me that you’ll take good care of Ruby.” And I said, “I promise.” I remind Ruby periodically that someday I’m going to meet her mother, and I hope I will be able to look her straight in the eye and say, “I think maybe I’ve done it.”
Ruby and I were married the right way, sealed in the temple with its divine covenants and commitments that promote trustworthiness, faithfulness, devotion, and dedication. Now, after sixty-five wonderful years, we look back on our time together and realize that it gets better as time goes on.

The second type of harmful guilt—feeling guilty for no apparent reason—frequently develops out of similar self-esteem problems caused by an individual’s inability to take charge of his life. I counseled with one such person, a forty-five-year-old successful business executive who really wanted to be working with young people instead. But he felt that he couldn’t ask his family to go through the lifestyle adjustment necessary for this kind of career change. He found himself avoiding work as much as possible because he disliked it, but he also found himself avoiding his family. This paralyzing ineffectiveness in both areas made him feel guilty.
The solution for both the sister and this brother was basically the same. They started making plans and carrying them through. As they saw that they could make decisions, their self-esteem rose, their guilt decreased, and they were able to see their guilt in perspective.

While visiting a sacrament meeting on Okinawa, I was so impressed with the manner in which the Aaronic Priesthood prepared and passed the sacrament that, when my turn came to speak, I invited two of the deacons to join me at the pulpit. Of one I asked, “What are your goals in life?” His prompt reply: “To become like my Savior!” Of the other I asked, “What does it mean to you to know that you hold the Aaronic priesthood?” He drew himself to his full height and looked out over that pulpit, and proudly said, “It is the greatest honor in my life!”

President Marion G. Romney tells of this incident which happened to him:
“I remember years ago when I was a bishop I had President Heber J. Grant talk to our ward. After the meeting I drove him home … Standing by me, he put his arm over my shoulder and said: ‘My boy, you always keep your eye on the President of the Church and if he ever tells you to do anything, and it is wrong, and you do it, the Lord will bless you for it.’ Then with a twinkle in his eye, he said, ‘But you don’t need to worry. The Lord will never let his mouthpiece lead the people astray.’” (Conference Report, October 1960, p. 78.)

When I was called to serve as a General Authority, I had an interview with President James E. Faust. He noticed I was concerned because I felt inadequate for such a call. In his tender way, President Faust told me, “Athos, be yourself. Be yourself.” That night I lay awake in bed, thinking of my new responsibilities and of President Faust’s words. And I prayed. I asked myself, “Who am I?” And the answer came as clear and bright as the dawn of that brand-new day. I am, like each one of you, a child of God who wants to obey the Lord and serve wherever He sends me and thus be a better child of our Heavenly Father and a faithful member of the true Church of Jesus Christ.

When I was a little boy, growing up on the family farm, I wanted to be a cowboy in the worst way. I loved to watch The Lone Ranger and his faithful friend Tonto on our little black-and-white TV.
In the evenings, after chores and dinner, my father and I would lie on the living room floor and listen to old western music on the phonograph.
On my fourth birthday I got a shiny pair of pistols in leatherette holsters. I thought I was in cowboy heaven, even in red puppy slippers.
In my youth, I planned in more or less rapid succession to be a police officer, a spy, a scientist, an astronaut, a crop duster, and an airline pilot.
In the meantime, my Father in Heaven blessed me with good and wise parents who tried to teach me to work hard on the farm, to keep covenants, and to be kind to my sisters. He put teachers and family members in my way, who taught me, by word and action, about my Savior and His love for me.
Years later, I went off to college, planning to be a great scholar. I had a decades-long plan to scale the ivory tower, with no thought of bringing a family up with me.
In the meantime, God put in my way a handful of truly great teachers who taught me to love not having knowledge but knowledge itself. More importantly, Father in Heaven introduced me to a certain brilliant and beautiful young woman named Barbara Gale, and He gave me a vision of the joyful life we might have together. That was one of His most precious works in my life.
Then, still scaling that ivory tower, my sweetheart and I went to Oxford University. I planned to become the Mormon C. S. Lewis.
In the meantime, the Spirit prompted Sister Merrill to glance at a copy of the Church News left open on a friend’s side table, and her eye fell upon a notice about a faculty opening at Ricks College, and we came.
God's Plans to Make Something of You
You will note, as I have, that almost all of the best things in my life have come in the meantime, while I was busy with other things. While I was planning my future, doing my thing, living my life in my way, my Father in Heaven had other plans, was doing His thing, gently leading me toward His life in His way.