Gospel Story Finder

Recently I attended a sacrament meeting given by children with special needs. Each was disabled in hearing or sight or mental development. Beside each was a teenager assigned as a companion. They sang and played music for us. Facing us on the front row was a young girl who stood and signed to those behind us who could not hear.

Jenny gave a brief testimony. Then her parents each spoke. They told of the utter agony they had known when they learned that their child would never have a normal life. They told of the endless, everyday trials that followed. When others would stare or laugh, Jenny’s brothers put an arm protectively around her. The mother then told us of the love and absolute joy Jenny brought to the family.

Those parents have learned that “after much tribulation … cometh the blessing” (D&C 103:12). I saw them bound together by adversity and refined into pure gold—true Latter-day Saints.

They told us Jenny adopts fathers. So when I shook hands with her, I said, “I’m a grandpa.”

She looked up at me and said, “Well, I can see why!”

I first met Sally Pilobello in the Philippines in 1972 when I was sent there as a health missionary. I learned that she and her husband had lost their first baby when the baby was five months old. Sally had other children, but she now was pregnant with another and asked me, “What can I do to have a healthy Mormon baby?” I thought of her courage and faith as she responded to truth and adopted some new habits and traditions. Soon people in the neighborhood were sharing the news: “Mormon baby is coming!”

On 20 January 1973, Sarah Pilobello was born—a healthy, beautiful “Mormon baby.” Her mother’s pioneer spirit had enabled her to do things she had not done before—to add more truth to what she already knew. Sally used to smile at me and say, “Sister, you can never teach an old dog new tricks.” Then she’d pause and add: “But Sister, I am not a dog!”

In 1984 I received a letter from eleven-year-old Sarah—“Little Melon” to her family and friends: “I’m sorry that I have not written for a long time because every time I’m going to start my letter my playmates are insisting me to play with them. Now I firmly decided to write to you. We are glad that Mommy is doing what the family preparedness program of the welfare missionaries taught them. We now purify our water and have a balanced diet. That is why we grow faster than the other children. The temple is now being made and I hope I’ll see you there. I love you. Little Melon.”

I also received a letter from her mother, my dear friend Sally: “I want to express my gratitude for the things I have learned which are making such a difference in my family. I realize now that some of the things my mother taught me—things her mother taught her—were not correct. But the truths I’m learning will now be taught to my children, and to their children, and to the generations to come. We will not be damned any longer by ignorance. ‘Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free!’ As they say, it is never too late to learn and change. God must love us dearly to allow us to have so much truth.”

When Enoch LaVell Manwaring served as a building missionary in Tonga in 1957, he took some of the building missionaries to the island of ‘Uiha to build a chapel. A small, elderly lady named Vaikato insisted upon helping with the construction, although she was believed to be more than one hundred years old. The missionaries tried to persuade her not to carry heavy bricks and lift buckets, but she refused to quit helping them.
As the work progressed on the building, some of the Tongan building missionaries approached Brother Manwaring and asked if he had talked to Vaikato about the construction plans. He told them no, and was surprised when they told him that Vaikato already knew what the chapel would look like:
The men told me that she was telling all of the workers just where the classrooms would be, where the pulpit would stand, and just how the chapel would look when it was finished. It was amazing what she knew.
I learned through an interpreter that twenty years before the building program began in the South Pacific, she had received a blessing from Elder George Albert Smith, who was visiting the Tongan islands. In the blessing, he told her that if she would be faithful, she would live to see a beautiful chapel erected on her island—and she envisioned it perfectly while he spoke.

A few years ago I was in a Salt Lake hospital emergency room with my sons and a neighbor boy—the result of a backyard touch football game.
While we waited in the emergency room for the doctor to put one of the participants back together, we saw a young lady brought into the hospital. She may have been 17—tall, willowy, well dressed, and having a wild reaction to an overdose of drugs. While we watched, she collapsed, and I thought, There is no way this young woman can survive this experience.
I wondered how she had come to this sad situation in her life. Had she not heard the words of the prophets? Had she heard them and laughed as if their words were the warnings of men out of touch with the realities of a modern world? Had one of us been negligent in our opportunities to teach her? Had her parents known the truth but not been willing or able to help her understand?
While waiting in that hospital thinking, pondering, and praying for her, I recalled a principle the Lord teaches us in the 89th section of the Doctrine and Covenants. It is found in the fourth verse:
“Behold, verily, thus saith the Lord unto you: In consequence of evils and designs which do and will exist in the hearts of conspiring men in the last days, I have warned you, and forewarn you, by giving unto you this word of wisdom by revelation” (D&C 89:4).
Consider carefully the principle: “I have warned you, and forewarn you, … by revelation.”
We in this church stand before the world, in all humility and sincerity, and declare that Joseph Smith Jr. was raised up by the Lord Jesus Christ and appointed to be the mortal instrument through which the doctrines, powers, keys, priesthood, and ordinances were restored to the earth. Since that day there has been a continual flow of revelation through those who have followed as the Lord’s appointed Apostles and prophets.
Today we sustain Gordon B. Hinckley as the President of the Church, as the prophet, seer, and revelator, and as the only one who possesses and is authorized to exercise all priesthood keys. We also sustain the First Presidency and the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles as prophets, seers, and revelators. Before he became the President of the Church, President Hinckley sat for many years as one of those men who hold this sacred revelatory power. He whom the Lord has called and we have sustained is not a novice in the principles, process, and practice of receiving divine direction.
There is a question that each of us must deal with in a most solemn and serious way if our lives are to be what the Father of us all would have them be. “What is our response when the living prophets declare the mind and will of the Lord?” This is the test of mankind in every dispensation.
I sat in this tabernacle some years ago as President Joseph Fielding Smith stood at this pulpit. It was the general priesthood meeting, the last general conference before President Smith passed away. He said: “There is one thing which we should have exceedingly clear in our minds. Neither the President of the Church, nor the First Presidency, nor the united voice of the First Presidency and the Twelve will ever lead the Saints astray or send forth counsel to the world that is contrary to the mind and will of the Lord.”
There came to me that evening a witness of the Spirit that he spoke the truth. I felt an overwhelming sense of peace and assurance that the Lord loved us and would not leave us without direction.
President J. Reuben Clark Jr. drew a very important distinction concerning revelation from the Lord:
“Some of the General Authorities have had assigned to them a special calling; they possess a special gift; they are sustained as prophets, seers, and revelators, which gives them a special spiritual endowment in connection with their teaching of the people. They have the right, the power, and authority to declare the mind and will of God to his people, subject to the over-all power and authority of the President of the Church.”
President Clark continues: “Others of the General Authorities are not given this special spiritual endowment and authority covering their teaching; they have a resulting limitation, and the resulting limitation upon their power and authority in teaching applies to every other officer and member of the Church, for none of them is spiritually endowed as a prophet, seer, and revelator.”
I emphasize that the rest of us do not have that specific power and authority. The Seventy have an endowment that is uniquely theirs; temple presidents and matrons, stake presidents and bishops, as well as fathers and mothers, have an endowment that is uniquely theirs; but none of us has the power, authority, or responsibility that is given to the First Presidency and the Twelve.
One’s intentions may be of the purest kind. The sincerity may be total and complete. Nevertheless, pure intentions and heartfelt sincerity do not give members of the Church authority to declare doctrine which is not sustained by the living prophets. While we are members of the Church, we are not authorized to publicly declare our speculations as doctrine nor to extend doctrinal positions to other conclusions based upon the reasoning of men and women, even by the brightest and most well-read among us.
The prophets are not only called to receive the doctrine and direct the ordinances through the keys they hold. They are also responsible to keep the saving doctrine pure so that people can hear and feel that doctrine in its sure and certain form.
Surrounded as we are by worldly influences, how can we maintain a sweetness of spirit and a humility that will make us receptive to such counsel? I fear that we have become so enamored with recreation, with fame and fortune, with videos, with television, and with what money can buy that we have little time for eternal things. Yet to obtain a knowledge of the doctrines of eternity requires sacrifice, effort, and struggle. Furthermore, we have learned to live in a world of clamor and noise and haste and hurry to the extent that we have often become immune to the Spirit of the Lord and the “peaceable things of the kingdom” (D&C 36:2).
How do we prepare ourselves to be in harmony with the First Presidency and the Council of the Twelve?
On one occasion during the Savior’s mortal ministry, he was challenged by those who were opposing him. They wondered how a person could speak with such certainty without the education of the world.
“Jesus answered them, and said, My doctrine is not mine, but his that sent me.
“If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of God, or whether I speak of myself” (John 7:16–17; emphasis added).
We must learn the will of our Father in Heaven by earnest study. Next, we must act upon it. Study alone is not sufficient; we must act upon the words of revelation before we know of a surety of the truthfulness of the doctrines.
In all solemnity and soberness I state that God has made known to me in an unmistakable way that he has called and he sustains those who are the living prophets, seers, and revelators. The Lord God of Israel will direct them, and they will not lead us astray.
We do not need greater prophets. We need listening ears. We need hearts that are sufficiently pure that we can feel their words. We need souls that will commit to the keeping of our covenants.
My prayer is that each of us may have that watershed experience of life of having the Spirit carry with power—even fire—to our souls the assurance that we are being directed by His appointed servants.

The glistening morning sun cast its warming rays over the dilapidated old barn, transforming it into a painter’s dream. On the sagging barn door was a large poster—
STRAY-ANIMAL AUCTION
June 10, 1894—10:00 A.M.
All critters sold to highest bidder
CASH ONLY
Clouds of dust rose from all the roads leading to the barn as a colorful crowd began to gather. There were cowpunchers in worn chaps and ten-gallon Stetsons, sitting cross-legged in their saddles, and be-whiskered farmers in bib overalls and straw hats, tying their horses and wagons to fence rails. A sprinkling of better-dressed townsfolk arrived in black-top buggies. A pair of Navajo Indians had taken up squatter’s rights beside the barn, hoping to trade one of their bright handmade blankets for a goat or a sheep.
Wow! thought nine-year-old T. J. as he scrambled to the top of the high pole fence and stared down at the corral filled with animals churning about. This is better than a circus. He opened his little, ragged purse and counted his coins for the umpteenth time, “Fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two cents. It’s not much, but I don’t care. I’m going to bid anyway!”
The old auctioneer chided him, “Back again, T. J.? Are you going to buy yourself a horse today?”
He’s just poking fun at me, T. J. thought and gave him a disgusted look. “I’ll show you,” he muttered to himself. “I’m really going to bid today.”
In the corral beneath T. J. were several large horses, three old milk cows, a young steer with long horns, two nanny goats, and four sheep.
The auctioneer climbed on top of the auction box. Just as he was about to speak, T. J. lost his balance and plunged headlong into the corral, landing on the back of the steer. The startled animal took off, kicking and bellowing. T. J. grabbed hold of its horns and managed to stay on top as it bucked and plowed in and out among the other frightened animals.
Everyone clapped and hollered, “Hang in there, T. J.” “You can do it.” “Whoopee!”
Suddenly the steer stopped, and T. J. sailed off, landing sprawled out in the dust of the smelly corral. Everyone cheered.
“Humph,” grunted the auctioneer. “Now that the show’s over, we’ll get started.”
A big, bay mare was led out for inspection. “How much am I bid for this fine mare?” the auctioneer asked.
Before anyone else could say anything, T. J. waved his arms wildly and shouted, “I bid sixty-two cents!”
Everybody snickered, and one of the men hollered, “Well, kid, I’ll just have to bid ten dollars and sixty-two cents.”
T. J.’s hopes were dashed. The horse was eventually sold for eighteen dollars and sixty-two cents. Then the next horse was brought forward.
“How much am I bid for this fine gelding?” the auctioneer queried.
Once again young T. J. bravely shouted, “I bid sixty-two cents!”
This time the crowd really laughed and hooted. After several bids, the gelding sold for twenty-two dollars and sixty-two cents. Still determined, T. J. bid unsuccessfully on the third horse.
For a change of pace the auctioneer sold two milk cows and a sheep. Soon there was only one horse left, another mare. As she was led out for display, T. J. could see big, shiny patches of hide here and there between dust and dirt where she had been rolling around in the smelly corral. “All she needs is to be brushed and wiped down,” T. J. sighed. “She’s just beautiful, and I want her.”
As he longingly gazed at the mare, he heard the auctioneer roar with feigned admiration, “I’ve saved the best for last! How much am I bid for this beauty?”
T. J. was shocked to hear Old Pete sneer, “The best? Why she’s the worst-looking critter I’ve seen in all my life. She must be sick, and you must be crazy!”
Pete’s son added, “Yeah, Pa! Worse still, I hear that she’s a stumpsucker.”
Someone else volunteered, “Besides that, I know for a fact that she has a mean streak a mile wide.”
Then they all stopped talking and looked at T. J. The boy felt sorry for that horse; he even loved her. And he didn’t believe one word of what he’d just heard. But he’d given up all hope of being able to buy a horse with sixty-two cents. He just sat there, staring sadly at the horse he wanted so badly. Then he heard a farmer say, “Tell you what—I’ll bid five cents for the nag.”
Somebody else hollered, “I’ll go you one better, Jake. I bid twenty-five cents!”
Old Pete jumped up and shouted, “I’m going to get that mare for fifty-five cents!”
T. J. came to life and wildly waved both arms and shouted, “I bid sixty-two cents!”
Dead silence followed. The auctioneer was very disgruntled to have the bidding go sour. In fact, he was furious. “I have a high bid of sixty-two cents. How about ten dollars and sixty-two cents?”
Not a single word was spoken; not a single head nodded.
“Then how about five dollars and sixty-two cents?”
When no one offered to up the bid, he exploded, “Well, I’m not going to sell this horse for sixty-two cents, and that’s final!”
“Oh, yes, you are!” Old Pete yelled. “You’ll sell to the highest bidder, or none of us are paying for our animals.”
The other men shouted in agreement.
Realizing that the men meant business, the auctioneer meekly declared, “I have a high bid of sixty-two cents. Do I hear any more bids? Going once, going twice, …” Down went the gavel. “Sold to T. J. for sixty-two cents.”
The crowed went wild. They whistled and clapped and threw their hats into the air and slapped each other on the back. T. J. was speechless. He scrambled down off the fence and reached into his pocket for his purse—but it was gone! “I’ve lost my money!” he wailed. He scurried under the fence and ran frantically in and out among the startled animals.
“Hold on, everybody. T. J.’s lost his purse!” shouted Old Pete as he jumped down and began to help T. J. search. Soon there were as many men in the corral as there were animals, all running hither and thither. Dogs were barking, cows were bellowing, and sheep were bleating.
All at once T. J. spied his purse in the muck under the hoof of a cow. “I’ve found it! I’ve found it!” he screamed.
“Hurray!” shouted the men as Old Pete lifted T. J. over the fence.
T. J. counted out his sixty-two cents for the gatekeeper. The gatekeeper gave him a leg up, and there sat T. J. astride his very own horse. “I’m going to call her Beauty,” he proudly announced, lovingly stroking her tangled mane, “‘cause she’s the most beautiful horse in the world, and she’s all mine.”

I grew up in Russia in a close and loving family. My parents worked hard, and I stayed with my father’s mother, Anastasiya Vasilyevna Ustavshchikova. She was always bustling about the kitchen, making wonderful flowers to put on hats, and reading. She read all kinds of books, but I especially remember that she read the Bible. She would tell me about God and how she loved Him and awaited her meeting with Him. She said that if we would live God’s commandments, we would return to Him and inherit one of His kingdoms. That memory has warmed me all my life.
My life before joining the Church is a story with many trials and experiences. But I always loved hearing my grandma’s simple, sincere prayers. She would start with the words “Heavenly Father,” and I would get goose bumps.
In June 1993 I arrived at my mother’s home in St. Petersburg, where a friend invited me to study English with her. We called a number we found in the newspaper, and a young woman answered. She told us to come at noon the next day. Her name was Tat’yana. After the lesson we invited her out for tea or coffee. We were quite surprised when we heard, “I don’t drink tea or coffee.”
“Why?”
“I’m a Mormon.”
“What’s a Mormon?” I asked.
“I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. If you’re interested, come see us Sunday morning at 11:00.”
She wrote down the address. I was very interested to find out what kind of church this was.
The week passed slowly, but Sunday finally came. The meetings were held in a music school. Some young men were at the entrance, and they were smiling. When they found out that I had come for the first time, they took me into the chapel. A lot of people were there, but I felt out of place. I very much liked the opening hymn though, and then a miracle happened. A man walked to the front, and the first words of his prayer were “Heavenly Father.” That is what I had been searching for. Suddenly I felt at home. I was at peace.
After the meeting two young ladies approached me.
“Are you already meeting with the missionaries?” they asked.
“No.”
“Could we teach you about the gospel?”
“Of course,” I said. “That would make me very happy.”
At one of our discussions they began telling me about three kingdoms. I stopped them and said, “May I tell you what my grandmother told me when I was little?” Now it was their turn to be surprised. The more we talked, the more I wanted to learn. On August 15, my missionaries asked if I would like to be baptized.
“Yes.” That was already my desire.
My baptism was to take place in a lake the following Sunday, August 22. The weather had been hot and dry. But on Monday, August 16, a steady rain began, and the temperature dropped sharply. Friday morning I awoke with terrible tonsillitis. My whole throat was congested, and I was running a fever. I thought it would pass before Sunday.
The missionaries came on Saturday to interview me. Elder Parker, a young and very tall missionary, asked me the questions. He also agreed to baptize me. I said nothing about my illness.
The day of my baptism arrived. When I woke up I found that my throat was still the same. It was then I realized for the first time in my life what the Lord wanted from me. I said to myself, “I’ll do whatever I have to for Him. I will be baptized. Everything will be fine. The water will be warm, and my sickness will disappear after I am baptized.”
On the way to the lake I told the sisters what had been going on with me. They both looked in my mouth and said, all bundled up in their raincoats, “This is no joke. Should we move everything to a pool?”
“No, no.” I had firmly made up my mind to go ahead with our plans.
It was beautiful when we got there. The lake was like a mirror, without even a ripple. It was about a hundred meters from the changing room to the water. It had rained all week and was muddy. When I came out of the changing room, I saw Elder Parker in his white clothes walking confidently through the mud toward the lake. That was a stunning sight.
We stood in a circle and sang a hymn. We could see our breath, but we were not paying attention to the weather anymore. As I took my first step into the water, I knew I was doing the right thing. It felt warm. And when I came up out of the water, I was happy and healthy. Everyone laughed and cried. I had taken my first step on the path home. Our Heavenly Father loves us and gives us trials, expecting us to make the right decisions, to not doubt what is good.
I will remember that miraculous day for the rest of my life. It will live in my heart with the memories of my grandmother, who sowed the seed that sprouted so many years after her death

“Yes, I watched that show! I loved it! There wasn’t anything concerning in it—just some bad language.”
I was recommending a show to a friend. Because I’d enjoyed the story so much, I hadn’t thought twice about the amount of profanity in each episode.
It wasn’t until later that I thought about what I said and gave myself a spiritual facepalm.
“Since when is profanity not a problem in the shows I watch?” I thought.
As a disciple of Jesus Christ, I have always tried to be mindful when it comes to the media I enjoy. However, profanity was becoming common in the shows and books I consumed. I had started to become numb to it.
This led me to ponder on what other less-than-wholesome content I was allowing into my life.
Was I letting things slide in the music I listened to? Was I batting an eye when explicit content appeared in my books or crude reels on my Instagram feed?
I think you know the answer.
President Russell M. Nelson has taught, “In coming days, it will not be possible to survive spiritually without the guiding, directing, comforting, and constant influence of the Holy Ghost.”
I could see how easily media was interrupting my connection with the Holy Ghost each day. I needed to “resensitize” myself to the Spirit. But when inappropriate media is a constant in this world, how do we do that?
For a more specific example of this realization, not too long ago, I was reading books that my friends (many of whom are members of the Church) were reading.
Often, I would be enjoying the stories, only to be unexpectedly jarred by profanity or sexual content.
For a while, I convinced myself this wasn’t a big deal. They were just books, right? Everyone from the millions of readers on social media to my friends seemed to be reading them with no complaints.
So how could I not agree?
I enjoyed these books and wanted to be part of conversations about them! Deep down, though, they were affecting me and my outlook on life and relationships. But I was afraid to stop reading them because I didn’t want to be seen as prudish or immature.
The Lord offers this warning: “The weak things of the world shall come forth and break down the mighty and strong ones, that man should not counsel his fellow man, neither trust in the arm of flesh” (Doctrine and Covenants 1:19).
This helped me realize I needed to be honest with myself.
I was justifying my behavior by following everyone else’s choices. I was fearing their judgment and ignoring the Spirit’s red flags instead of heeding His warnings.
A few years ago, President Nelson invited us to fast from social media for 10 days. While studying his challenge recently, I noticed that in addition to social media, he included “any other media that bring negative and impure thoughts to your mind.”
So I started taking note of what content I am sensitive to. I’ve tried to establish better habits with the media I consume. Media use isn’t inherently bad, but it’s always important to make sure we pay attention to the Spirit when consuming it.
If you are having trouble knowing where to make changes in your media habits, try asking yourself questions like these:
Are you feeling uplifted and inspired? Or numb and lonely?
Have you felt any discomfort that might be prompting you to step away from certain content?
Are you feeling a need to “fit in” with others by watching or reading certain media?
Are you being honest with yourself?
Elder Ulisses Soares of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles recently taught, “It takes a courageous and a willing heart to pause and pursue an honest and meek introspection to acknowledge the presence of weaknesses of the flesh in our life that may impede our ability to submit ourselves to God, and ultimately decide to adopt His way rather than our own.”
And he’s right. It can be hard to acknowledge our weaknesses and make changes that align with God instead of the world. I still have a lot of work to do when it comes to my media choices (and all my choices), but I’m striving to do better each day.
We have the beautiful promise of having the Spirit as our constant companion as we renew our covenants through the sacrament each week and through the gift of repentance. As we do this—and are truly honest with ourselves—we can “resensitize” our hearts to His guiding influence.
I know that we can always try again when we don’t always make choices that align with the Lord’s commandments. But by focusing on Jesus Christ, we can increase the Spirit’s influence in our lives and limit the world’s.

The first day I saw Frances, I knew I’d found the right one. The Lord brought us together later, and I asked her to go out with me. I went to her home to call on her. She introduced me, and her father said, “ ‘Monson’—that’s a Swedish name, isn’t it?”

I said, “Yes.”

He said, “Good.”

Then he went into another room and brought out a picture of two missionaries with their top hats and their copies of the Book of Mormon.

“Are you related to this Monson,” he said, “Elias Monson?”

I said, “Yes, he’s my grandfather’s brother. He too was a missionary in Sweden.”

Her father wept. He wept easily. He said, “He and his companion were the missionaries who taught the gospel to my mother and my father and all of my brothers and sisters and to me.” He kissed me on the cheek. And then her mother cried, and she kissed me on the other cheek. And then I looked around for Frances. She said, “I’ll go get my coat.”

My sweet Frances had a terrible fall a few years ago. She went to the hospital. She lay in a coma for about 18 days. I sat by her side. She never moved a muscle. The children cried, the grandchildren cried, and I wept. Not a movement.

And then one day, she opened her eyes. I set a speed record in getting to her side. I gave her a kiss and a hug, and I said, “You’re back. I love you.” And she said, “I love you, too, Tom, but we’re in serious trouble.” I thought, What do you know about trouble, Frances? She said, “I forgot to mail in our fourth-quarter income tax payment.”

I said to her, “Frances, if you had said that before you extended a kiss to me and told me you love me, I might have left you here.”

Brethren, let’s treat our wives with dignity and with respect. They’re our eternal companions. Sisters, honor your husbands. They need to hear a good word. They need a friendly smile. They need a warm expression of true love.

Illustrations by Alyssa Tallent
Steven rolled up his tie right under his chin as the rest of the Primary kids practiced the new song. Nope, no way was he going to sing this song.
The father of our home leads our family …
Steven looked out the window and up at the ceiling. He moved around so much in his chair that he was almost dancing. He couldn’t sing even if he wanted to. Something big and uncomfortable was stuck in his throat. The rest of the Primary kept singing, learning the new words one line at a time.
With wisdom’s light in all that’s right;
My father’s good to me (“Fathers,” Children’s Songbook, 209).
Steven felt a tap on his arm. His mum, who had been quietly watching from the Primary room doorway, tugged gently on his arm. She led him out into the hall. Away from his friends in Primary, Steven couldn’t stop the tears from falling. Mum pulled him close into a warm, strong hug.
“It’s OK to be upset,” Mum said, patting his back. “I know hearing and singing that song is hard.”
Steven nodded, then wiped his eyes. “I don’t want to sing at Father’s Day because I don’t have a dad.” Steven’s eyes burned, and he bit his lip. “I don’t want to call him Dad anymore. I haven’t seen him in ages, and he doesn’t even want to be my dad.”
Steven tried really hard to not cry—but he could still hear them singing. That song just made him hurt deep inside. Just like when his dad wrote and said he and his new wife had decided that he wouldn’t see Steven or his brother anymore.
Mum pulled him in for another hug, and Steven let a few more tears soak into her shirt. “I’ll talk to the Primary president. You don’t have to sing if you don’t want to. But hey—I have an idea.” Mum looked straight into his eyes. “This year we won’t celebrate Father’s Day—we’ll celebrate Future Father’s Day!” She smiled, and he stared back.
“Huh? Celebrate what?”
“Future Father’s Day—we’re going to celebrate how amazing you and your brother are going to be as dads someday. We’ll have presents and a cake and your favorite soft drink!”
Mum kissed his forehead and then tried to fix his mangled tie. “You, Steven, are going to be a brilliant dad—I can tell already. Because you are already thinking about what you are going to do with your kids and planning what kind of dad you’ll be.”
The more Steven thought about it, the bigger his smile grew. He hugged Mum and went back to Primary feeling much better.
Two weeks later Steven stood in front of the mirror, straightening his cool new bow tie. Mum had given it to him that morning for his first ever Future Father’s Day! Steven picked up his scriptures and walked to the front door to head to church.
He smiled at his mum.
“Happy Father’s Day, Mum.”
Mum grinned. “Happy Future Father’s Day, Steven.”

My husband and I were assisting our daughter and her two sons at the airport, where they were preparing for their return flight home. We helped our daughter as she juggled luggage, located passports, and managed an active three-year-old. Tommy, our one-year-old grandson, was fast asleep in his stroller until he awakened abruptly. He panicked as he struggled to take in all the noise, bright lights, and general chaos.
I saw his expression and knew what was about to happen, so I cried out to my daughter. She quickly stooped down, cupped Tommy’s face in her hands, met his gaze, and lovingly said, “Hello, little lamb.”
In an instant his furrowed brow, turned-down mouth, and tensed-up shoulders relaxed as his whole body sighed with relief. He gave a little smile before his heavy eyelids closed again. His fear was replaced by a calm assurance and a peace that seemed to envelop him. It was a small but powerful manifestation of the trust Tommy had in his mother. Her familiar touch, voice, and presence comforted him.

Although the Youngs were a Bible-reading family and three of Brigham’s brothers became itinerant preachers for the Methodist Reformed Church, Brigham himself was not really converted to any church until he received a copy of the Book of Mormon from his brother Phinehas and studied it. Even then “I weighed the matter studiously for nearly two years,” he said, “before I made up my mind to receive that Book.”
In the fall of 1831 five elders from an isolated branch of the Church in Pennsylvania came to the neighborhood to preach. Brigham and his friend Heber C. Kimball listened to them and believed what they taught. Within a few months they were both baptized. Father Young, all Brigham’s brothers and sisters, and his ailing wife also became members.

In October 2011, while serving a full-time mission in South Africa, I received a phone call from Sister Catherine Wood, our mission president’s wife. All merry and bright, she told me that President Thomas S. Monson had just announced the construction of a temple in my home town, Kinshasa. I remember shouting—with joy with tears flowing down my cheeks—in gratitude to the Most High for the blessing of having a temple in my country.

Allen C. Ostergar, administrative director, comments, “We have many visitors come here, most of whom are not even members of the Church. They want to see how we do it. They see missionaries out in the world, and they’re impressed. They want to see how we train these outstanding young men and women. We’ve had many people from universities all over the world. We’ve had government officials from state departments, from the United States government, from many other governments. We’ve had people from other churches. We’ve had people from the Vatican. We’ve had people from the Church of the Nazarene. We’ve had Baptists and Methodists. We’ve had military personnel here to see how we train in languages. Once a group of five high-ranking military officers from the Pentagon visited us. They were responsible for the language training of military units in the United States. They spent two days visiting classes, talking to missionaries, reviewing our materials. At the end of the time they said, ‘We’d like to contract with you to train our people here.’

“We told them that wouldn’t work, of course, and then they asked us a lot of questions. First of all they asked the same question that everybody who comes here asks. ‘How do you do it? What is it about these young people that makes them do what they do? We don’t understand it.’ And then thoughts like ‘testimony,’ ‘righteousness,’ ‘the Spirit of the Lord’ go though your mind—things some of these people don’t understand very well. Those are the things that make all the difference.

“We have a beautiful facility. We have a great training system. And then you add to this the great spirit of missionary work and the Spirit of the Lord, and there’s no way a missionary can fail if he’ll do his part.”

While there, I had the opportunity to perform ordinances on behalf of my uncle who had died of cancer. When I was being baptized for him, I thought about the blessings he would receive through this temple ordinance. I was so happy, and I recognized what the temple president told me when I had come to the temple for the first time and had been a little bit confused. He told me, “Brother, you may not understand all of what you are doing right now, but a day will come when you will feel you have done great things here.”
I got my answer. It has taken me four years to understand by visiting the temple for the second time.

My parents, Apparecido and Mercedes, came from different religious backgrounds, but their life experiences prepared them to accept the restored gospel.
My father was raised in a good family but not religious. Nevertheless, as a young man he was interested in religion. He read the Bible, attended Bible classes, and studied the life of Jesus Christ. His studies caused him to have great interest in both the Savior’s gospel and the family, leaving him with a desire to marry someone of like mind.
By contrast, my mother came from a deeply religious family. They embraced gospel principles, attended church services, and faithfully practiced their religion. Growing up in that environment, my mother became the type of person who never missed a church meeting.
And so, after my parents married and my three brothers and I came along, they did their best to raise us within the light of their knowledge of gospel principles. One day my aunt, who was an inactive member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, said to my father, “You have four boys, dear. If you really want to raise a family centered in Christ and have God in your family, you need to go to my church.”
My father heard what she said, but he didn’t take any action until the day the full-time missionaries tracted in our neighborhood, knocked on our door, and began teaching us. He quickly realized that they represented the church my aunt had encouraged him to investigate.
One of the things that initially interested my parents in the restored gospel of Jesus Christ is the importance the Church places on the family and the teaching that “much of God’s work of salvation and exaltation is accomplished through the family.” Before they were baptized, my parents were so impressed with what they were learning that they invited neighbors to join them for the missionary lessons.
As they met with the missionaries, and continued studying the gospel after their baptism, my parents learned of ways “to bring up [their] children in light and truth” and how to spiritually “set in order [their] own house” (Doctrine and Covenants 93:40, 43).
They learned that “the family is central to the Creator’s plan for the eternal destiny of His children” and that “happiness in family life is most likely to be achieved when founded upon the teachings of the Lord Jesus Christ.”
They learned that “successful marriages and families are established and maintained on principles of faith, prayer, repentance, forgiveness, respect, love, compassion, work, and wholesome recreational activities.”
They learned that families can be eternal and that the “same sociality which exists among us here will exist among us there, only it will be coupled with eternal glory” (Doctrine and Covenants 130:2).
And they learned that “the ultimate purpose of every teaching, every activity in the Church is that parents and their children are happy at home, sealed in an eternal marriage, and linked to their generations.”
With that knowledge, they desired to be sealed as a forever family.
After my parents were baptized, they practiced what they were learning, moving from the world to the gospel kingdom. They worked to unite our family by having home evening and family scripture study, faithfully attending Church meetings, and doing family history work. With those efforts toward unity, they hoped to create a family centered on the plan of salvation with an eye toward eternity.
In 1965, the year my parents were baptized, the closest temple to São Paulo, Brazil, was in Mesa, Arizona, almost 6,000 miles (9,650 km) away. Travel was too expensive for our family, so my parents had to wait until the dedication of the São Paulo Brazil Temple in 1978 before they could receive their temple ordinances and be sealed. At that time, I was serving a mission in Rio de Janeiro.

Larry scuffed at the dirt with his worn sneaker. His hands were pushed deep into his jeans pockets as he considered the deepening hole that he had unconsciously dug.
“Well, c’mon then, let’s go,” Steve said impatiently. “We won’t get caught,” he added. “I’ve done it lots of times.”
“How far is it?” Larry asked.
“It’s not far. C’mon, let’s go.”
Larry kept his head down as he dug out the sloped sides of the hole with his toe. Now the walls were almost straight. Perfect, he thought, for a game of pots. Since he’d left the prairies, he hadn’t played marbles. They just aren’t big on marbles out here, he had decided.
“Ahh, forget it. You’re just afraid of getting caught,” Steve said, turning to walk away.
“No, I’m not,” Larry mumbled, but he knew that he was. He had just moved to the West Coast with his family, and he knew that his parents would be unhappy with him if he got into trouble with the first friend that he made. On the other hand, Steve had seemed like a decent guy to have as a friend, and now Steve was going to show him where a real cherry tree was!
“OK, OK, I’m coming,” Larry called, “but I have to be home for supper.”
“No problem,” Steve called back, gesturing for Larry to catch up.
“I hope there aren’t any dogs,” Larry added as he trotted up beside Steve.
“Don’t worry. There’s just an old lady who lives by herself.”
“Those cherries better be as good as you say they are.”
“They’re the best cherries around. Hey, haven’t you ever gone raiding before?” Steve asked.
“I swiped some tomatoes once,” Larry answered, embarrassed. “But I knew I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Tomatoes!”
“They don’t have cherry trees on the prairies, where I came from.”
“There’s the yard,” Steve whispered.
A two-story house, surrounded by a tall wooden fence, was at the intersection of two quiet streets. In the middle of the backyard, reaching as high as the house itself, was the cherry tree. Larry could make out the tempting clusters of ripe cherries. He told himself that they couldn’t possibly taste as good as the ones in the store—the ones that his mother usually said were too expensive to buy.
“This way,” Steve said as he quickly cut into the lane that ran behind the house.
Peering through a crack in the fence, Larry could see beautifully manicured bushes and rows of brightly colored flowers that lined the fence and the carpetlike lawn. It’s just like a picture, Larry thought. Then he spied a woman meticulously weeding a bed of flowers at the back of the house.
“Rats!” Steve growled. “We’ll have to call it off for today.”
“Why?” Larry asked.
Steve drew his cheeks in and puckered his lips as if he had just bitten into a lemon. “Why! Man, are you crazy? The old lady is right there. How are we supposed to get to the tree without her seeing us?”
“I have an idea,” Larry said. “Follow me.”
“What are you going to do?”
Larry was pretty sure that Steve wouldn’t think much of his idea, so he didn’t answer. Instead, he strode along next to the fence until he came to a gate that was next to the back of the house. He felt a little strange, knocking on a gate, but he did it anyway.
“What are you doing?” Steve hissed again, just as a small, pleasant voice called out from inside the yard, “Yes?”
“Uh, my name’s Larry. I was wondering if my friend and I could pick your cherries for you.”
“I don’t believe it,” Steve muttered. “I’m getting out of here.” He turned to go, but Larry grabbed him by the arm.
The gate opened with a click, and a tiny, smiling face with glasses peeked out. “Hello,” the old lady said. “I couldn’t quite hear you before. What did you say?”
Steve folded his arms and looked up at the sky.
“I noticed that you hadn’t picked your cherries yet, and well, I was just wondering if we could pick them for you … and maybe keep some for ourselves too,” Larry stammered. He scuffed his toe in the dirt next to the cement walk, unconsciously digging another marble pot.
The orange ball of a sun began to dip into the west horizon, and a light, cool wind rustled through the leaves of the sturdy cherry tree. Larry grabbed a clump of four dark red cherries dangling in front of him. He put three into the plastic pail and popped one into his mouth. He couldn’t believe how sweet the cherry was, better than any he had had from any store.
“I don’t believe it,” Steve said, spitting out a cherry pit. “We get to keep half of what we pick. How did you know she’d go for it?”
“I guess when you want something bad enough, you’ll even ask for it,” Larry told him.
“My folks will sure be happy to have some of these,” Steve said, holding up a pail loaded with ripe cherries ready to be divided.
“Mine, too,” Larry agreed, looking at his own pail.
“I was just thinking,” Steve said as he climbed down from the tree. “I know where there’s a great plum tree just a few blocks from here.”

Parents and church leaders play an important part in molding our children and youth to become valiant missionaries. The things they learn will help them as they serve because
a mission is not a bed of roses. Challenges and trials are part of the missionary experience, as experienced by Brother Gym Vergel Ramos from Binmaley, Pangasinan.

Gym was 8 years old when he joined the Church in 2010 together with his entire family. He was called to the Philippines Butuan Mission and was supposed to enter the Missionary Training Center in June 2020, but it was postponed due to the lockdown. He underwent virtual MTC and was reassigned to his home mission, the Philippines Urdaneta Mission. On September 21, 2020, two days before he was supposed to report to the Urdaneta Mission home, his paternal grandfather, Fernando Ramos, passed away. His nonmember relatives could not understand why he wouldn’t postpone his mission any further to stay and grieve with the rest of their clan.

After 11 months of service in the field, he learned that his father Virgilio passed away due to Covid19. His area was a few towns away from their home, but his mother counselled him against going home, telling him to stay focused on his work as a missionary. His mission president gave the same advice, and he stayed put and continued to serve. Two months later, Elder Ramos learned that his maternal grandparents Efren and Julieta Manalo passed away one day apart. Despite all the loss, he soldiered on and gave his best as a missionary.

“Death is inevitable and the gospel is true,” says Gym Vergel, who honorably finished his mission last June 2022. “I don’t have any regrets. Heartaches are a part of life and learning. Because of the trials I experienced during my mission, I grew closer to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. The atonement became more meaningful and gave me strength whenever I felt sad.”

Gym also said he learned to rejoice in the promise of the resurrection. It gave him hope, not just in coping with the loss of family members but also in becoming a better person so he can be strong for his mother and siblings. The tragedy they experienced made them closer and stronger as a family.

Looking back at his mission, Gym is grateful for who he has become. He is blessed not just by the things he learned but also by the people he met. Friends who are now like family continue to help and support him as he works hard to gain an education and at the same time stay on the covenant path.

One Sunday at church I realized that my time with the Young Women program was almost over and I would soon be with the young single adults. I was sad because I knew that things would never be the same. After Sunday School, I tried to cheer up, but I just couldn’t do it. I tried to tell myself that Heavenly Father did not want me to feel sadness but rather joy (see 2 Nephi 2:25).
I was just about to cry on my friend’s shoulder in the hallway when the ward clerk came up to me and said, “Sister Danelys, here’s the mail!” He handed me a white envelope with only my name on it. I was curious to know what it was, so I asked the clerk who had sent it. As he walked away, he told me it was from the patriarch and that it was a copy of my patriarchal blessing. I did cry, but my tears were tears of joy because I knew God had seen my sadness and had provided a way for me to find joy in my sadness. My patriarchal blessing had finally arrived in writing, at the precise moment when I needed it most.
When I got home and read it, I cried again and prayed and thanked God for it and for helping me to remember how fortunate I am to be His daughter and to have the light of the everlasting gospel in my life.

Black Otter beached his canoe and stepped ashore. He pulled the boat under some low branches of willow trees that lined the riverbank and tied it fast. The fragile craft would not be easily noticed and the spot was protected from pounding waves. This was desolate country. He would not like to be stranded here.
Perspiration streamed from the youth’s bare chest as he moved away from the river with its cooling wind. The hot air was stifling to breathe and a shimmering curtain of heat moved ahead of him, distorting the shapes of giant boulders. Black Otter walked slowly, conserving his strength as he searched for what he now considered a treasure cave. He had not seen it for two years. Can I find it again? he wondered.
The youth veered to avoid a large rattlesnake dozing in the sun. His tribe did not take life unless it were unavoidable. Except for a lizard that darted into a crevice and a soaring giant bird of prey, the reptile was the only live thing he had seen. He felt very uneasy here.
Black Otter’s heart leaped with hope when he saw the cave entrance. He had feared that he could not find it again, because he had been with his uncles and cousins when they stumbled across the cave and took refuge there from a raging blizzard two winters ago. Without its protection they might have died in the storm.
During the days they had been stranded, Black Otter became bored with waiting and decided to go exploring. He had taken a torch and crawled into a narrow tunnel at the back of the cave. At the other end he discovered an even larger cavern. He gasped at the eerie beauty of it. Imbedded in the walls and ceiling were pockets of glistening crystals that reflected thousands of torches. Everything shimmered with dancing light. The floor was littered with chunks of stone that had fallen and shattered. Black Otter placed three of them in his pouch.
Until the white man came and explained that he was a collector of fossils, agates, and semiprecious stones for an eastern museum, Black Otter had not realized that these colorful rocks might have value. The man laid out many rock specimens to show the various stones he was seeking. “I have not come to cheat you,” he said. “These samples are not as valuable as diamonds and rubies, but I have brought brass and iron pots, good hunting knives, and metal fishhooks to trade.”
The man looked disappointed when nothing was offered. The tribe was very poor. The people wore many necklaces but they were fashioned of drilled bone, claws, or hard seeds, not colorful stones. The specimen hunter saw how the Indians admired the trade goods when he began to pack up. Their fishhooks were thick bone ones that allowed many fish to escape. Now he selected a large and small metal fishhook for each brave and presented them as gifts.
Black Otter had stayed back in the crowd, timid about approaching the white man. But he had watched his mother’s eyes that kept returning to the largest cooking pot. It was made of black iron with legs and a hook for hanging over a fire. Hesitantly, he stepped forward and laid the smallest of his three rocks near a similar specimen. Black Otter’s rock was clearer and gave off more colors in the sunlight.
The man examined the stone, then he smiled and offered a skinning knife and a small mound of fishhooks in trade. His smile faded and he sighed regretfully when Black Otter pointed to the iron pot. “I’m sorry, but your crystal is not worth that much,” he said. The youth felt that the man was being honest. He obviously wanted the rock.
The white man caught his breath when the Indian boy pulled out the two larger stones. When the deal was finished, Black Otter owned the pot, a razor-sharp hatchet, two fine knives, one for hunting and the other with many blades that folded into the handle, and a mound of fishhooks. Such sudden wealth stunned his parents. They’d never expected to own such things.
Black Otter was disturbed by the envious looks on the faces of his tribesmen. The youth did not want envy to set his family apart from the rest of the tribe. The price of jealousy could mean the loss of their friendship. “If I bring many stones, will you return with tools and utensils for all my people?” Black Otter quietly asked. The man agreed to return with a larger supply of trade goods, and so the youth had set out to search for the beautiful cavern.
But now that he had found the cave, Black Otter felt dismay. He had grown taller and wider in the past two years and the tunnel seemed much smaller! No one knew where he had gone, for he had waited until everyone was asleep and then slipped away. If he became wedged in the narrow opening, he might never be found!
Black Otter squirmed along like a worm, trying to make his shoulders narrow. Several times he became wedged and almost panicked. He trembled with relief when he finally reached the inner cavern and could stand upright again. He shuddered and tried to forget that he must return through the tunnel. He lit his torch and watched the rainbows of color streak across the rough walls and the roof of the secret place. Have any other eyes seen it? he wondered.
This time Black Otter had brought a knife to pry out larger crystals. And he would try to select as many different colored stones as possible. Since he would probably not be able to enter the cavern again, he must take many rocks this time. The youth wedged his torch between stones and set to work.
When he had lit the last of his three torches, Black Otter prepared to leave the inner cavern. He was grateful that the tunnel sloped downward. This allowed him to roll the large stones down to the outer cave. He hoped they would not shatter. It was the only way to remove the large pile he had collected, since he could not carry so many. He had choice stones of many colors. The white man would get full value for his trade goods.
The torch began to sputter, and Black Otter scooped up a handful of small deep red stones and placed them in his pouch. He sensed these were more valuable because he had found so few of them.
Black Otter’s body stung from many small cuts and scratches when he emerged from the tunnel. He discovered that he had rolled down many more crystals than he could take back without sinking the canoe. But perhaps I can return for them someday, he told himself. After selecting what he felt would be a safe load, he hid piles of the shimmering stones behind boulders in the back of the cave. Then he packed the others in leather carrying bags he had brought along. It took two trips to carry the heavy stones to the river.
The sun was low and it was cooler when the youth began to paddle upstream with strong, silent strokes. There would be a full moon to light his nightlong journey; and he could stay near the shore, where the sluggish current would not endanger his hard-won cargo.
Black Otter smiled with pride. Now every family will have fine cooking pots, axes, and hunting knives, he thought. The rock trader had promised to bring needles, nails, and even the biting barbed wire that would keep their sheep and horses from straying. His hard work would make life better for all his people.

I would like to relate to you an experience that I have had concerning the November 1983 issue of the New Era. I was attending college and was seriously dating a young man who had not gone on a mission. He started having a bad influence on my thoughts and actions. When I received the November issue, I read “Crisis at the Crossroads” by Elder Monson. It reminded me of my duties and responsibilities here on earth and gave me strength to break up with that young man.
From that day on I changed. I set some new goals for myself so I would not fall into the same trap as I had with that previous young man. Not only did it help me, but it was also a positive influence on him. It set him straight. Not long afterwards, he sent in his papers for a mission. I am so thankful for that article and the powerful message it had for me at that time in my life.
Name withheld