Gospel Story Finder

On the plane ride to my mission, I imagined what my homecoming would be like. Cheers would erupt, my family and friends would embrace me, and I would live out the rest of my life in peace, enjoying every blessing that came with being an honourably returned missionary.
Eleven months later, on the plane ride home, every moment was spent in aching anxiety about what lay ahead. My family was waiting, and although they did cheer and embrace me, before I knew it, I was alone with no idea about my future.
The Savior saw my dark days. He knew how I felt lying in bed for three weeks crying and sleeping to avoid reality. He knew I would need His strength because no one else around me could understand or even empathise with what I was going through. But He did. I couldn’t have survived my mission or returning home early without Him.
Ali Boaza, Queensland, Australia

A Jaredite farmer brings a curelom, a rabbit, and a bag of curelom feed to a river. He’s in a real pickle! The raft is only big enough for him to bring one thing across at a time. He can’t leave the curelom alone with the feed, because then the feed would vanish.
Also, as any Jaredite knows, cureloms are deathly afraid of rabbits (at least, they could be). So he can’t leave those two alone together or the curelom would run away. Luckily, rabbits think curelom feed is gross, so those two can be left alone, no problem.
How does he carry all three across the river? (Answer below).

Our crafty Jaredite farmer must carry the curelom across the river more than once. First trip, the curelom. Next, the rabbit. Then he leaves the rabbit on the far bank and brings back the curelom. Now he takes the feed across, leaving the curelom behind. Then the rabbit and feed are on the far side and he simply goes back for the curelom.

1833. Jackson County, Missouri, USA. Mobs forced the Saints living there to leave their homes.
Joseph Smith wondered what to do. Soon a revelation came. Joseph was told to recruit men to travel to Missouri and help the Saints regain their homes.
Joseph left for Missouri with a group of volunteers. The group later became known as Zion’s Camp.
The journey was hard at times, but many enjoyed it.
After a month of marching, the camp stopped near a river.
They heard that men on the other side were waiting to attack them.
What will we do?
Stand still …
… and see the salvation of God.
Soon a storm came.
God is in this storm!
The rain caused the river to rise so much that the camp’s enemies couldn’t cross it.
After a few days, Joseph received a revelation that it was time to return home, even though they hadn’t helped the Missouri Saints return to their homes.
The Lord has accepted our efforts.
We have been brought this far for a trial of our faith. (See Doctrine and Covenants 105:19.)
Some thought the journey was a failure.
We came all this way for nothing!
Why are we going home before helping the Saints here?
Most saw it as a privilege to be with the Prophet and to learn from him.
Zion’s Camp helped prepare future leaders of the Church. Eight men who marched with Zion’s Camp were called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.

Years later, in junior high, I found myself in a hard situation. I had a bad habit I was trying to get rid of. I knew it wasn’t so serious that I had to talk to my bishop, but it was still really bothering me.
I was embarrassed and didn’t want to ask anyone for help. Not even my parents. Not even Heavenly Father. I determined I could overcome this challenge on my own.
Weeks went by. I tried so hard to be better but without result. I was still struggling. I knew the Sabbath should be the focus of my week because of the sacrament. I had also been taught that the sacrament was a tool I could use to access the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
After trying and failing for so long, I finally decided to turn to the Lord. At last I set aside my pride, opened my heart, and prayed to Heavenly Father. I asked for help, strength, and forgiveness. I stopped waiting for change to happen to me and started focusing on taking small steps toward improvement, with faith that the Lord would bless my efforts.
For the first time I focused on preparing for the sacrament all through the week. The sacrament became something I looked forward to. I began to see it as an opportunity rather than a routine because it brought the power of the Savior’s Atonement into my life.
I felt change in my life. The things I was struggling with faded. I became more confident in myself. I was able to open up to my parents and seek more assistance. I felt grateful to the Lord for all of the help I had received. I felt forgiven. I felt clean.
I grew to understand what that speaker meant all those years ago. When I centered my life around being ready for the Sabbath, I came closer to Jesus Christ in a way that purified me and made me stronger.
Through prayer and guidance from Heavenly Father, I learned that I could not walk through this life alone, but that the Savior and Heavenly Father truly had to be a part of my life. I learned that when I spent my whole week preparing to partake of the sacrament, I was better able to fully access the power of the Savior’s Atonement.
I learned that Heavenly Father loves us and has created a way for us to be forgiven and receive blessings, but we need to do our part to make it more meaningful. I am so grateful to Heavenly Father for all that He has done for me and continues to do for me when I remember to prepare for the Sabbath.

Last August we took some of our grandchildren to Timpanogos Cave National Monument, one of Utah’s most popular destinations. It is a rather strenuous one-and-a-half-mile (2.4 km) hike to reach the cave but well worth the effort to witness the cave’s beautiful, spiraling formations. I was certain that nine-year-old Ruthie would have little difficulty, but I wondered whether six-year-old Caroline would have the strength and stamina to make it all the way.
We were all very excited to begin the hike, and at first we moved rapidly along the paved trail. One-fourth of the way came quickly, but it took longer to reach the halfway point. Caroline started to get discouraged. Ruthie was doing well and encouraged Caroline to continue. We slowed down so Caroline could keep up. Then it seemed that everything went wrong. Strong winds came up, and the dust from the winds made it difficult to see. It was a little scary, and as if that weren’t enough, we came across a signpost that read, “Rattlesnake Habitat. Stay on the Trail. Stay Safe.”
Slowly we trudged along, three-fourths of the way to our goal, but we still had the steepest part of the mountain to climb. Tired, scared, and doubting her abilities, Caroline sat down and tearfully declared, “I give up! I can’t go any farther!”
We sat down, and we talked about what we should do. We made a plan. We decided to count our steps and see how we felt after 100 steps. Ruthie and I assured Caroline that we would help her. We were to look for something that made us happy along the way and share our discoveries. We even sang some Primary songs.
Things changed. Caroline made the choice to follow the plan. One hundred steps made an impossible task seem doable. Caroline knew we would help her, and as we looked for the good things around us and sang songs, we felt happier.
Young women, choose good friends who will support you in your righteous decision to follow the plan. Like Ruthie, who gave encouragement to Caroline, we know that many of you can do much to strengthen each other. After you receive your Young Womanhood Recognition, it is your turn to be the “big sister.” Earning your Honor Bee will give you opportunities to strengthen another young woman with your righteous example and testimony as you mentor her with her Personal Progress.
Finally, live to be worthy of the companionship of the Holy Ghost. When we helped Caroline, looked for the good around us, and even sang Primary songs, we invited the Spirit. We felt love, joy, and peace, which are fruits of the Spirit (see Galatians 5:22). You will need that peace and assurance when Satan tries to confuse you with winds of doubt, when you are tempted to take another path, or when others are unkind or mock you for your beliefs.

Charleston and Columbia South Carolina Stakes
Charleston County (South Carolina) school superintendent, Chip Zullinger, figured Chicora Elementary School received $100,000 worth of help, help that is hard to come by because of lack of funding.
When youth from the Charleston and Columbia stakes volunteered their time to fix up the school for the beginning of classes, teachers, administrators, and students were grateful. In a true student-helping-student effort, the LDS teens scraped paint from peeling walls, repaired damaged ceiling tiles, and did general cleaning throughout the building.
“It was fun making the school look nicer for the little kids,” said Rachel Bonitz.

At his Blue and Gold Banquet for Cub Scouts, David, a Bear Scout, learned a valuable lesson. He was happy when he won a table centerpiece from the banquet, complete with a gold star that had a number one written on it. But another boy at the banquet took David’s star when he lost his own. The other boy’s father made him give it back. “I was really mad at first,” David says. But then he realized, “It wasn’t worth fighting over.” David set an example by giving the other Cub Scout the star since he wanted it so badly.

October is a month to play tricks, but the youth of the Surrey Second Ward, Surrey British Columbia Stake, decided to give treats to a local hospital instead.
Dressed in their Halloween costumes, the youth delivered uncut jack-o’-lanterns that they had decorated with paints, marking pens, and hats (cut jack-o’-lanterns don’t last as long) to the nurses’ stations at a nearby medical center.
Making Halloween sweet instead of scary for the patients wasn’t just a great way for the youth to give service; they say it was also a lot of fun.

When President Hinckley said to read the Book of Mormon, I told Mom that I would do it. She wasn’t sure I could, but I worked really hard, reading whenever I had time. Some nights I stayed up reading with Mom. I finished three weeks before my eighth birthday. My dad showed me a special scripture in Moroni that says to pray about the Book of Mormon and ask if it’s true. When I read the Book of Mormon I felt the Spirit, and I was so happy when I finished it. I hope you’ll be happy when you finish it too.

We need not go into Mormon folklore to find strange and miraculous happenings of protection—almost any missionary journal tells of them. Many of you have served missions and have had both great and small experiences with the promptings of the Holy Ghost. On our own mission, my husband and I were protected and blessed. An example of just a small blessing occurred one evening when we were parking our car in a lot behind an apartment complex where we were to give the missionary discussions to some investigators from Brazil. As my husband pulled into a parking spot, I suddenly said, “Don’t park here.” I’m sure he thought, “There goes my nutty wife again.” There didn’t seem to be any reason for my request, but my husband pulled out and moved to a different spot. It was dark when we came out of our discussion sometime later, but we noticed that another car was where we had originally parked. It was totally hemmed in by other vehicles.

Susan woke with a start. What was that noise? She listened carefully. The wind howled through the eucalyptus trees and knocked seedpods onto the roof above her bedroom. The noise of their falling sounded like heavy rain, and it had awakened her.
Susan sighed. Her family had just moved into this house, and she wasn’t used to all the new sounds. It didn’t help that Susan now slept alone. In their old house she had shared a bedroom with her older sister.
She pulled her blankets up under her chin as another shower of pods hit the roof. She was scared, lonely, and, she realized, missing her dad. Susan’s dad was an officer in the military. He was away on training. Although he wasn’t in danger, Susan suddenly grew frightened. What if someday her dad was sent to war and got killed? She didn’t want to grow up without her father. She needed him.
Tears pricked her eyes, and Susan knew she needed help to calm her growing fears. Her sister wasn’t nearby, but she knew that Jesus and Heavenly Father were always close.
Gathering her courage, Susan slipped out from under her blankets and knelt by the side of her bed. She prayed to Heavenly Father to help her, to take away her fear.
And then Susan heard something. It was softer than the clatter on the roof. It was her mother’s voice, and she was singing. As her mother walked through the house, finishing up her chores and getting ready for bed, she sang.
Susan’s mother had a beautiful voice and sang often, but this was the most wonderful song Susan had ever heard her sing. Though Susan didn’t recognize the tune, the words were about Jesus. The song filled her with peace.
Susan thanked Heavenly Father, then climbed back into bed, and listened to her mother’s song. Tears came to her eyes again, this time tears of gratitude and relief. She felt that all was well. She knew she had a loving family. She knew that Heavenly Father cared about her. She believed that no matter what happened, there would always be a reason to hope. Susan knew that whenever fears threatened to overcome her, she could find peace by remembering the night her mother’s song was stronger than fear.

I would like to share with you a personal experience that I had while serving as an Area Seventy years ago. When I was called by the Area President, he asked me how my German was. I told him that I could order a schnitzel.

He said that was nice—I would not go hungry—but then invited me to read the Book of Mormon in German. And that is what I did between receiving the call in December and being sustained during the April conference.

Shortly after, I started my service in the Europe Area and received a phone call asking if I would be ready to visit a district conference on short notice. I told our Area President that I could do that. Then he told me that the district was located in the eastern part of Germany where they do not speak any English. He said there will be no one to translate for you. He quickly ended the phone call before I could change my mind.

The worst part was that I needed to call the district president to discuss the conference. Marjan prepared the computer with Google Translate for me, and I knelt down and pleaded with the Lord to help me. Well, we had an hour-long conversation in German, and Marjan and our youngest son, Hyrum, were amazed.

A week later, we traveled to the Erfurt District and held all the meetings in German. On Sunday, my nephew, who was serving a mission there, joined the congregation. He later told me that it went well but that I made one big mistake. I thought I asked the parents to testify to their children, but instead, I asked the parents to make more children. I used Gezeugen instead of bezeugen. As good, faithful Germans, they kept straight faces.

Well, I hope to return there someday; they might have a stake.

On several occasions, I have received a testimony of the Atonement of Jesus Christ. And not only about the cleansing part—but also that we can receive power that enables us to do what we could never imagine doing.
I have felt that power time and time again in my life, and especially when I am out of my comfort zone.

An anteater began to feast upon a group of thirty ants. After he had eaten six of them, along came a buddy and asked him to share. They split the remaining ants between them evenly and began eating. They had each eaten three of their ants, when another friend happened by. It would be rude not to share with him, they thought, so they divided the remaining ants equally among themselves. How many ants did each anteater eat?

For me, that’s my dad. He has a December birthday. He passed away just after Christmas nearly 18 years ago.
My dad always had a job that required travel.
He traveled by airplane at a time before headphones or earbuds. There was no screen in the back of the seat in front of him. No online entertainment. No mobile phone, tablet, or laptop computer.
Back then, to pass the time while you traveled, you had three choices: sleeping; reading a book, magazine, or newspaper; or talking to the person sitting next to you.
My dad always chose the third.
He came home from every trip with a story about his seatmate. His or her life story!
I don’t know how much my dad gave up about himself. But he had an uncanny ability, a listener’s gift. People felt comfortable with him. Comfortable enough to share their personal stories—heartaches and triumphs and everything in between.
And because my dad was ever an optimist, a true disciple of Jesus Christ, I know people left their flights known, heard, loved, happy, and a little more optimistic than when they boarded.

“That’s about it for announcements and assignments. Oh, but I would like to see Greg and Tom Glenn after class, if you boys wouldn’t mind.”
“Uh oh,” I thought to myself as I poked my brother in the side and let out a nervous laugh. Trouble was waiting for us, for sure. I suddenly became very pious, bowing my head, folding my arms, and hoping that the closing prayer would go on forever.
We knew all too well what Brother Reed wanted to see us about. Tom and I hadn’t been on time to priesthood meeting for weeks. Sometimes we didn’t come at all, and sometimes we sneaked silently through the door and slipped into the back row at the very last minute, just in time to get our sacrament passing assignments and leave.
Now, it wasn’t that we were sleeping in or fooling around at home. On the contrary. We were wide awake every morning at 4:30 to do the chores on the dairy farm where we lived. Dad had recently had a heart attack, so it was up to Tom and me to milk the cows and clean the place, and do all the other dairy work. We had the cows on a fixed schedule which easily got us to school during the week for 8:30 classes; but on Sundays, finishing everything, then showering and dressing for priesthood at 7:30 was rough. It was an awful lot of work, and we thought we were doing pretty well to make it to priesthood at all.
Evidently, though, our priests quorum adviser didn’t think so. After everyone else filed out of the room, Brother Reed pulled a chair up close, so he was only about a foot or two away from us. Although he didn’t touch us, we could sure feel him, sitting so near.
“Boys,” he said in a surprisingly gentle tone, “there’s really something missing from the quorum when you’re absent. What am I doing wrong? Are my lessons bad, or is it something I do personally?”
Talk about throwing us a curve! We thought we were going to be chewed up and spit out in little pieces, but here was Brother Reed, thinking he was the reason we were late. We both started explaining simultaneously that it wasn’t his fault at all, but that we just had to take care of all the chores at the dairy.
“Well, would it be of any use to you if I came over early on Sunday and helped with the work a little? It would be a privilege for me, and it might help you get to priesthood on time. What do you say? What time does the work start?” he asked, wearing the most sincere look I’d ever seen on a man’s face.
Tom and I had the same thought at the same time. We couldn’t let him do that. First of all, 4:30 was far too early to drag anyone out of his bed and away from his family on a Sunday morning. Second, we didn’t want him to have to suffer the subfreezing weather. And third, there wasn’t that much he could do anyway. We were not about to give him any of the grubby work.
So when he asked us when we started, we pushed the clock back an hour and told him 3:30 A.M., thinking no one in his right mind would get up that early, no matter how helpful he felt. We thanked him for his generous offer, shook his hand, and assured him that we would try to make more of an effort to be at our meetings on time in the future.
We didn’t think about it much for the rest of the week, until Sunday when I groggily crawled out of bed at about 4:15 in the painfully cold morning. I looked out the window and was shocked to see Brother Reed’s ancient wreck of a Rambler silently parked in the driveway. I threw my clothes on, raced outside, and tapped on his car window.
“Good morning,” he said cheerily as he rolled down the window. His words formed small icy clouds in the air between us. He reached out to shake my hand, and I noticed his grasp was one of the coldest I’d ever felt. I could have kicked myself. It was obvious he’d been waiting in the driveway for some time—probably since 3:30. And his financial state was such that he didn’t have enough money to run the car’s motor—and heater—while he waited.
“Come on inside while Tom gets dressed,” I said as I led him to the house. Then I raced upstairs to hurry Tom into some kind of working condition.
In a few minutes, the three of us were trudging through the snow to the barn. The one thing we hadn’t exaggerated about was the amount of work there was to do, and Brother Reed pitched in the best he could.
At one point in the milking process, though, Brother Reed paused for a second and rather timidly asked, “Do you suppose I could have just a little sip of that milk? I’ve almost forgotten what fresh milk tastes like, we’ve been using the powdered kind for so long.”
Our hearts went out to our quorum adviser. It seemed he sacrificed for everyone. Not only did we give him a drink, but we packaged several gallons for him to take home to his family. It was the least we could do for him.
Well, maybe not the least. The hour for class to begin was drawing nearer and nearer, and the work still wasn’t finished. Finally Brother Reed told us he would have to go home and get ready for church. “Now I understand why it’s so hard for you boys to get to class on time,” he told us as he stood up and wiped the sweat away from his forehead. “I’ll try to be a little more understanding in the future.”
You should have seen the look on his face when he arrived at church to find Tom and me already seated there, clean, with scriptures in hand. We had decided that if he cared enough to go that excruciatingly cold extra mile to help us, we could work a little faster and help him. I can’t honestly say that we were both on time for every meeting from then on, but we did always see that at least one of us was there every Sunday.
And we found that Brother Reed’s lessons were actually quite good. But none of them ever matched the lesson he taught us about service and love before priesthood meeting on that cold winter morning.

The flight from Brisbane, Australia, to San Francisco is a long one. There is time to read, time to sleep, and time to ponder and think. As a passenger on this flight, I was awakened by the calm, resonant sound of the pilot’s voice as he announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re now passing over the Coral Sea, scene of the great sea battle of World War II.”
Through the cabin window I could see billowy, white clouds and far below the azure blue of the vast Pacific. My thoughts turned to the events of that fateful eighth day of May in 1942 when the mammoth aircraft carrier Lexington slipped to its final resting place on the ocean floor. Twenty-seven hundred thirty-five sailors scrambled to safety. Others were not so fortunate. One who went down with his ship was my boyhood friend Arthur Patton.
May I tell you about Arthur? He had blond, curly hair and a smile as big as all outdoors. Arthur stood taller than any boy in the class. I suppose this is how he was able to fool the recruiting officers and enlist in the navy at the tender age of 15. To Arthur and most of the boys, the war was a great adventure. I remember how striking he appeared in his navy uniform. How we wished we were older, or at least taller, so we too could enlist.
Arthur’s mother was so proud of the blue star which graced her living room window. It represented to every passerby that her son wore the uniform of his country. When I would pass the house she often opened the door and invited me in to read the latest letter from Arthur. Her eyes would fill with tears, and I would then be asked to read aloud. Arthur meant everything to his widowed mother. I can still picture Mrs. Patton’s coarse hands as she would carefully replace the letter in its envelope. These were honest hands which bore the worker’s seal. Mrs. Patton was a cleaning woman—a janitress for a downtown office building. Each day of her life except Sundays, she could be seen walking up the sidewalk, pail and brush in hand, her gray hair combed in a tight bob, her shoulders weary from work and stooped with age.
Then came the Battle of the Coral Sea, the sinking of the Lexington, and the death of Arthur Patton. The blue star was taken from its hallowed spot in the front window. It was replaced by one of gold. A light went out in the life of Mrs. Patton. She groped in utter darkness and deep despair.
With a prayer in my heart, I approached the familiar walkway to the Patton home, wondering what words of comfort could come from the lips of a mere boy. The door opened and Mrs. Patton embraced me as she would her own son. Home became a chapel as a grief-stricken mother and a less-than-adequate boy knelt in prayer.
Arising from our knees, Mrs. Patton gazed into my eyes and spoke: “Tom, I belong to no church, but you do. Tell me, will Arthur live again?” Time dims the memory of that conversation. The present whereabouts of Mrs. Patton is not known to me; but, Mrs. Patton, wherever you are, from the backdrop of my personal experience, I should like to once more answer your question, “Will Arthur live again?”
I suppose we could say that this is a universal question, for who has not at a time of bereavement pondered the same thought?
Death leaves in its cruel wake shattered dreams, unfulfilled ambitions, crushed hopes. In our helplessness, we turn to others for assurance. Men of letters and leaders of renown can express their beliefs, but they cannot provide definitive answers.
The dim light of belief must yield to the noonday sun of revelation. We turn backward in time, that we might go forward with hope. Back to Him who walked the dusty paths of villages we now reverently call the Holy Land, to Him who caused the blind to see, the deaf to hear, the lame to walk and the dead to live. To Him who tenderly and lovingly assured us, “I am the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6).
The plan of life and an explanation of its eternal course come to us from the Master of Heaven and Earth, Jesus Christ the Lord. To understand the meaning of death, we must appreciate the purpose of life.
In this dispensation, the Lord declared: “And now, verily I say unto you, I was in the beginning with the Father, and am the Firstborn” (D&C 93:21). “Man was also in the beginning with God” (D&C 93:29). Jeremiah the prophet recorded, “The word of the Lord came unto me, saying, Before I formed thee … I knew thee; and before thou camest forth … I sanctified thee, and I ordained thee a prophet unto the nations” (Jer. 1:4–5).
From that majestic world of spirits we enter the grand stage of life to prove ourselves obedient to all things commanded of God. During mortality we grow from helpless infancy to inquiring childhood and then to reflective maturity. We experience joy and sorrow, fulfillment and disappointment, success and failure; taste the sweet, yet sample the bitter. This is mortality.
Then to each life comes the experience known as death. None is exempt. All must pass its portals. Death claims the aged, the weary and worn. It visits the youth in the bloom of hope and glory of expectation. Nor are the little children kept beyond its grasp. In the words of the Apostle Paul: “It is appointed unto men once to die” (Heb. 9:27).
To most, there is something sinister and mysterious about this unwelcome visitor called death. Perhaps it is a fear of the unknown which causes many to dread its coming.
Arthur Patton died quickly. Others linger. Not long ago I held the thin hand of a youth as he approached the brink of eternity. “I know I am dying,” he said touchingly. “What follows death?” I turned to the scriptures and read to him: “Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it” (Eccl. 12:7). “There is a time appointed unto men that they shall rise from the dead; and there is a space between the time of death and the resurrection. … Now, concerning the state of the soul between death and the resurrection—Behold … the spirits of all men, as soon as they are departed from this mortal body, … are taken home to that God who gave them life” (Alma 40:9, 11).
To me, the lad said, “Thank you.” To my Heavenly Father I said silently, “Thank thee, O God, for truth.”
Mrs. Patton, do not grieve as you think of your boy in the depths of the Pacific or question how God’s purposes can be fulfilled. Remember the words of the Psalmist: “If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me” (Ps. 139:9–10).
God has not forsaken you, Mrs. Patton. He sent his Only Begotten Son into the world to teach us by example the life we should live. His Son died upon the cross to redeem all mankind. His words to the grieving Martha and to His disciples today bring comfort to you: “I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die” (John 11:25–26). “In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. … I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also” (John 14:2–3).
Mrs. Patton, the testimonies of John the Revelator and Paul the Apostle are also significant to you. John recorded: “I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; … And the sea gave up the dead which were in it” (Rev. 20:12–13). Paul declared: “As in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive” (1 Cor. 15:22).
Until the glorious resurrection morning, we walk by faith. “For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face” (1 Cor. 13:12).
Jesus invites you, Mrs. Patton, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls” (Matt. 11:28–29).
Such knowledge will sustain you in your heartache. You will never be in the tragic situation of the disbeliever who, having lost a son, was heard to say as she watched the casket lowered into mother earth: “Good-bye, my boy. Good-bye forever.” Rather, with head erect, courage undaunted, and faith unwavering, you can lift your eyes as you look beyond the gently breaking waves of the blue Pacific and whisper, “Good-bye, Arthur, my precious son. Good-bye—until we meet again.”
And the words of Alfred Lord Tennyson may come to you as though spoken by your boy:
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
· · · · · · · · · · · · ·
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.
(“Crossing the Bar,” lines 1–4, 9–16)
To the words of the poet I add the testimony of a witness. Mrs. Patton, God our Father is mindful of you. Through sincere prayer you can communicate with Him. He, too, had a Son who died, even Jesus Christ the Lord. He is our advocate with the Father, the Prince of Peace, our Savior and Divine Redeemer. One day we shall see Him face to face.
In His blessed name I declare to you the solemn and sacred truth: Oh, Mrs. Patton, Arthur lives.
Note: Following the original broadcast of this message, President Monson received a touching letter from Mrs. Terese Patton, Arthur’s mother, who was living in Pomona, California. Among other things, she wrote, “I don’t know how to thank you for your wonderful and comforting words. God bless you always.”

I guess I knew it would happen sooner or later. You know, have one of those experiences you only hear about in Sunday School or seminary lessons—the “what would you do if …” kind. It happened to me during the summer following my high school graduation.
One evening, two friends and I went to see a movie. It was almost midnight when the movie let out. On the way to the parking lot, one of my friends suggested we head to another theater to watch an X-rated movie scheduled to begin about 30 minutes later. My other friend quickly agreed.
I wasn’t tempted to go; I knew I would not go. But I was not sure how I would get out of going. One excuse after another flashed through my mind. None of them sounded convincing to me, and I was sure they would not convince my friends. I thought about saying I wasn’t feeling well—and at that point, I wasn’t! In the end, I simply said I did not want to go.
My friends tried their best to persuade me. Among other things, they said if they took me all the way home, they would be late to the other movie. Thinking fast, I told them I had a friend who lived just around the corner. I said they could take me there.
“What friend?” they asked.
“Just a guy I know,” I answered.
“Who is he, and what’s his name?”
“His name is Bill.” I was sure my friends were not buying this. I cleared my throat and swallowed hard.
They persisted. “Ah, he won’t be up this late. Just come with us,” they said.
“He’ll be up,” I said, hoping I was right.
My friends finally agreed to drive by Bill’s home, and if the lights were on they would stop and let me out. Otherwise, they were taking me with them.
A few minutes later, we arrived at Bill’s house. What a relief! The lights were on. I got out of the car and went to the door. My friends waited to see if someone would answer. I knocked, and after what seemed like an eternity, Bill opened the door. I quickly explained what was happening and asked if I could call my dad and wait inside for him to pick me up. Bill agreed and practically pulled me into the house as I waved my friends on their way.
While we waited for my dad, Bill told me he had decided to watch television for a few minutes before going to bed. “Otherwise,” he said, “I would have been in bed a long time ago.”
It wasn’t long before my dad came to take me home. As we drove, my dad said if I were ever in trouble like that again, he would drive across the state in the middle of the night to get me out of the situation.
That’s probably a pretty good place to end one of these Sunday School stories. But here’s just one more thing. You see, before that night I had never referred to my friend Bill Cantrell by his first name. I had always called him Bishop Cantrell.

It was an uncommonly warm spring evening in Port Alberni, the small mill town in British Columbia, Canada, where I lived. I was looking forward to attending Mutual and spending time with my Latter-day Saint friends. I was friendly by nature but was nevertheless struggling socially both at school and at church.
As was our habit, a group of us gathered in the foyer of our meetinghouse and began chatting. I spent little time on center stage in these conversations, and from my outside vantage point I spotted two sister missionaries coming in the front doors with a boy beside them. I recognized him from my neighborhood.
While her companion stood off to the side speaking to the boy, Sister Eaton approached us and said, “Look, you guys. We’re really excited about this. We’ve been working with this boy and his family for months, and this is the first time he’s agreed to come. Would you make him feel welcome?”
We nodded halfheartedly, said our hellos, and made a small opening for him to stand with us. He looked awkward and uncomfortable and mostly stared at the floor. In comparison to most of us, he was poorly dressed and unkempt. We talked for a few more minutes until the adult traffic became too intrusive. Then we slipped away to the rest room for more privacy.
All of us, that is—except the new boy. We were so caught up in our discussion we didn’t notice him turn and walk out the door alone. Nor did we miss him in the rest room.
A few minutes later the bell rang for the start of opening exercises. We filed out of the rest room, joking among ourselves. Just outside the door, however, Sister Eaton was waiting for us, tears pouring down her face.
“What’s the matter with you?” she cried out, more in disbelief than anger. “All you had to do was be friendly to him, to include him. Was that too much to ask?”
“Where’d he go?” I stupidly asked.
“What do you care?” she snapped back. “You won’t have to worry about him again. He won’t be back.” With that, she turned, joined her companion, and left the building to look for the boy. It was a five-kilometer walk back to our neighborhood.
Stung by her chastisement, we filed quietly and sheepishly into the chapel. Even when the others began to revive their spirits, my conscience burned. I was deeply disturbed by what we had done. Later that evening after I returned home, I talked to Laurence, my older brother, about it. He had returned from college and would soon go on his mission. I respected his advice on spiritual matters.
“What do you think you should do about it?” he asked me after I had blurted out the whole story.
“I don’t know,” I answered glumly. “What can I do now? Sister Eaton says it’s too late.”
By now Laurence sensed how upset I was.
“Maybe not,” he said with a tinge of hope in his voice. “The sisters should be home by now. I’ll call over there.”
Within five minutes Laurence had the boy’s address, and we began walking there together. Although it wasn’t far, it was getting dark as we walked into the poorly lit part of town where the boy lived. I was glad my brother was with me. I didn’t know what kind of reception awaited us, and I was nervous.
We approached an old house that needed a coat of paint. Laurence checked the number under a streetlight and pointed toward it.
“That’s it,” he announced. Taking a deep breath, I headed toward the front door with Laurence at my side. I knocked quickly before my courage failed. My heart was pounding. A few moments later, a woman I assumed to be his mother answered the door. She looked older than I had expected and seemed tired.
“Hi, is your son here?” I asked.
“What do you want with him?” she asked suspiciously.
“He came to our church tonight, and we kind of ignored him,” I stammered. “I want to apologize and invite him back.”
She folded her arms and looked directly at us. I saw in her eyes a look of disgust at the way we had treated her son.
Ignoring me, she looked over at Laurence and said, “Thank you for coming by, but I don’t think he’ll want to come back.”
As she began to close the door, Laurence made a last attempt to reassure her of our repentance. “The boys made a mistake, and I know they’re sorry. I know them. It won’t happen again.”
But the door had closed before he could finish. For the second time that night, I felt stung by my actions.
“Do you think he’ll ever come back?” I asked apprehensively.
“I doubt it,” Laurence replied bluntly.
We said very little the rest of the way home. I had done wrong, and I knew it. I had felt deep remorse, and I had even tried to make restitution. But I had failed. I wondered why, after I had followed all the steps I had been taught, the Lord hadn’t recognized my repentance and lifted my burden of guilt. I felt awful.
The answer finally came from my heart: I hadn’t done enough. But I was too afraid to go back and try again. So I never did.
For me, this was a complete failure, one I’m still deeply ashamed of. Yet in a curious way I learned an important lesson from it—one that still humbles me and reminds me of what it takes to be a true disciple of Jesus Christ.

Several LDS groups invited my minister friend to speak on the topic of “loving our neighbor despite religious differences,” and she experienced a great deal of acceptance from those who attended. In turn, she invited several Latter-day Saints, including me, to speak to different congregations on the same topic. After the services, I found myself surrounded by congregants wanting to talk to me, hug me, and even shed tears of mutual love and understanding. In experiences like these, I have found Elder Holland’s conclusion to be true: “When we look beyond people’s color, ethnic group, social circle, church, synagogue, mosque, creed, and statement of belief, and when we try our best to see them for who and what they are—children of the same God—something good and worthwhile happens within us, and we are thereby drawn into a closer union with that God who is the Father of us all.”14

Nina Lyn Oliver is a young woman who cares a lot about her country and her community.
The 17-year-old from West Jordan, Utah, knew that when war broke out in the Persian Gulf, there would be a lot of turmoil and concern. She wanted to do something to comfort families that were torn apart, as well as to support those serving overseas.
“Nina Lyn is a get-things-done kind of person,” comments her mother, Pat Oliver. “She got this idea and away she went!”
First of all, Nina Lyn and her sisters canvassed the entire ward community (approximately 200 homes) in the West Jordan 66th Ward, West Jordan Stake, and asked each neighbor, both LDS and non-LDS, if they’d like a yellow ribbon decoration for their mailbox or door in support of the troops. “The response was remarkable. Only one family did not wish to participate,” comments Nina Lyn.
Next, Nina Lyn and her mom blitzed several fabric stores and bought up 500 yards of yellow ribbon. “We cleaned them out!” she laughs. The neighbors shared in the costs. “They were very generous,” Nina Lyn comments.
Along with more help from her mom and her three sisters, Heidi, 15, Julie, 13, and Mandi, 11, and her two brothers, Brant, 9, and Mark, 6, Nina Lyn plunged into her ambitious project. Everyone worked all day on Saturday, and on Sunday evening, six of the Beehives and four of the Laurels in her ward’s Young Women program pitched in and helped, too.
Early Monday morning, on Human Rights Day, Nina Lyn and her family members set out in freezing snow flurries and high winds to tie the yellow ribbons on mailboxes and doors throughout their neighborhood. “It was a challenge,” comments Nina Lyn, “but on occasion the weather was kind of nice to us.” Several hours later, they returned home chilled to the bone and with fingers sore from tying on the bows with wire fasteners. The entire project from start to finish took over 100 hours of work.
Where did Nina Lyn get her idea? “My dad, Klare Oliver, is in the army reserves, and although he doesn’t have to go to war because he is diabetic, it’s important to me to support the troops—to be patriotic. They are carrying out their responsibilities to our country and helping others to have their freedom. I believe it’s important that we all support them. And the yellow ribbons are a way of showing this.”
Nina Lyn is a senior at West Jordan High School. “She is highly motivated and a bundle of energy,” comments her mom. Nina Lyn’s alarm clock goes off every morning at five o’clock so she can attend early-morning seminary. She sings with the concert choir and madrigals, and plays viola in the orchestra. She also teaches 15 piano students through the week. Nina Lyn is a member of the Peer-Leadership team, which is teens against drug and alcohol abuse. “I keep busy to make life fun,” she says with a smile.
Nearly every hour of every week in Nina Lyn’s life is accounted for, and yet during a crisis she took time out of her hectic schedule to involve herself, her family, and her neighbors in a show of patriotic support.