Gospel Story Finder

When I was young, falling and getting up seemed to be one and the same motion. Over the years, however, I have come to the unsettling conclusion that the laws of physics have changed—and not to my advantage.
Not long ago I was skiing with my 12-year-old grandson. We were enjoying our time together when I hit an icy spot and ended up making a glorious crash landing on a steep slope.
I tried every trick to stand up, but I couldn’t—I had fallen, and I couldn’t get up.
I felt fine physically, but my ego was a bit bruised. So I made sure that my helmet and goggles were in place, since I much preferred that other skiers not recognize me. I could imagine myself sitting there helplessly as they skied by elegantly, shouting a cheery, “Hello, Brother Uchtdorf!”
I began to wonder what it would take to rescue me. That was when my grandson came to my side. I told him what had happened, but he didn’t seem very interested in my explanations of why I couldn’t get up. He looked me in the eyes, reached out, took my hand, and in a firm tone said, “Opa, you can do it now!”
Instantly, I stood.
I am still shaking my head over this. What had seemed impossible only a moment before immediately became a reality because a 12-year-old boy reached out to me and said, “You can do it now!” To me, it was an infusion of confidence, enthusiasm, and strength.
Brethren, there may be times in our lives when rising up and continuing on may seem beyond our own ability. That day on a snow-covered slope, I learned something. Even when we think we cannot rise up, there is still hope. And sometimes we just need someone to look us in the eyes, take our hand, and say, “You can do it now!”

Shortly after my call as a new General Authority, I had the privilege to accompany President James E. Faust for a stake reorganization. As I drove the car to our assignment in beautiful Southern Utah, President Faust was kind enough to use the time to instruct and teach me. One lesson I will never forget. Said he, “The members of the Church are gracious to the General Authorities. They will treat you kindly and say nice things about you.” Then he briefly paused and said, “Dieter, always be thankful for this, but don’t you ever inhale it.”
This important lesson about Church service applies to every priesthood holder in every quorum of the Church. It applies to all of us in this Church.
When President J. Reuben Clark Jr. counseled those called to positions of authority in the Church, he would tell them not to forget rule number six.
Inevitably, the person would ask, “What is rule number six?”
“Don’t take yourself too darn seriously,” he would say.
Of course, this led to a follow-up question: “What are the other five rules?”
With a twinkle in his eye, President Clark would say, “There aren’t any.”
To be effective Church leaders, we must learn this critical lesson: leadership in the Church is not so much about directing others as it is about our willingness to be directed by God.

Talena was unhappy. It was the first day of school, but not for her. Talena was too little to go to school. Mother and her sister Laresa were hurrying around the house getting everything ready for this important day.
“Where is my other new shoe?” Laresa called. “I can’t find my writing book either.”
“Look in your drawer,” Mother suggested.
Never had Talena seen so much excitement, except maybe on Christmas morning.
“Why can’t I go to school too?” Talena asked.
“Next year you’ll be five and then you can go, honey,” Mother answered as she hurried down the hall with Laresa’s shoe.
“But I want to go today!” Talena insisted. However, everyone was too busy to listen to her.
Talena sat down and frowned. It’ll be awful to stay home without Laresa. There won’t be anyone to play with, she thought sadly as Mother came back down the hall.
“I wish I were five years old like Laresa, then I could go to school today,” Talena said.
“That’s right,” Mother said as she hurried past Talena.
Laresa was finally ready to go.
“Good-bye, Talena,” she called. “We’ll play together after school and I’ll tell you everything that happens to me today.”
“Good-bye!” Talena shouted after her sister.
“Be a very, very good girl,” Mother called to Laresa.
As soon as her older sister had gone, Talena ran to their bedroom. She took one of Laresa’s dresses out of the closet and put it on. Then she put on her play high heel shoes and carefully measured herself on the growth chart. It measured just right! She was as tall as Laresa. Hurriedly she slipped on her sweater and got her writing notebook out of the drawer.
“Mother,” Talena called. “I’m five now. Can I go to school?”
Mother looked at Talena with an understanding smile. “But you won’t really be five years old until July,” Mother said, giving her a hug.
“But I’m as tall as Laresa now and her dress almost fits me. I’m five now!”
Mother sat down beside Talena. “Years aren’t measured by how tall you are or by how big your dress is,” she said.
“They aren’t?” Talena began to frown again.
“No, years are measured by months. The only way you can become five is to wait until all the months have passed and July is here again. Then on your birthday you will be five years old.”
“Can’t I try to be five now?” Talena asked hopefully.
“No. All you can do is wait until July,” Mother said. “But I’m glad you’re still home with me.”
Talena walked back to the bedroom. She slowly hung up Laresa’s dress and began to pick up her toys. As she was working she had an idea. Faster and faster she worked until the room was all clean. She sat her dolls on her bed and put on her very best dress-up hat. Then she put on Mother’s old pink dress and got her dress-up purse.
“Now,” Talena said to her dolls, “I’m the teacher and you had better be very, very good children. It’s time for school to start.”

While serving in Pennsylvania several years ago, I was pleasantly surprised to be visited by a minister of a huge Protestant congregation. We exchanged pleasantries and discussed the doctrinal subjects on which we could find benign agreement. Suddenly he interrupted our conversation by stating, “You teach one belief with which I could never agree. It is your idea that ‘as God is, man may become.’” (See History of the Church, 6:302–17.) He held a well-worn white Bible in his hand. I asked him to turn to Matthew 5:48. His nimble fingers quickly turned to that reference, and he read, “Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.”

He gasped and then hesitatingly agreed to man’s great potential. We read other scriptures, such as: “And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness.” (Gen. 1:26.) He understood, and found a new respect for our teachings. He left a wiser man, and I felt a renewed gratitude for the inspiring truths that we understand and teach.

On the day of my baptism, I felt clean, pure, and truly perfect. I loved the feeling so much that I made a goal to stay perfect forever. I will never sin again, I told myself.
Fast-forward one day.
I wanted to play with my big sister’s new Barbie doll, but she wouldn’t let me, no matter how hard I tried to convince her. So, in a rage that made me forget my goal to remain sin-free, I grabbed a pair of scissors while she wasn’t looking and cut off all her doll’s hair.
Admittedly, I was somehow under the impression that the doll’s hair would grow back. But as I sat looking at all the synthetic hairs piled in my lap, I felt the sting of having ruined my newly perfected life.
When my sister found out, she was furious. My parents explained to me that the doll’s hair would not grow back. Guilt and regret overwhelmed me as I watched my sister cry at the sight of her forever-bald doll.
With a little time and a lot of apologizing on my part, my sister forgave me. But I still never forgot how disappointed I felt for having given up my perfect life all too quickly.
As painful as it was as an eight-year-old to realize I made a mistake the day after my baptism, Heavenly Father provided a way for me to repent. Through the Savior’s perfect example and sacrifice, we can overcome our sins and make good choices that bring us blessings.

I come from a small village in Sicily, Italy, where the lemons bloom and the boundaries between the fields are marked by green rows of prickly pears bristling with thorns bearing the sweetest of fruits. I remember with pleasure the years I spent there preparing to become a Catholic priest. After entering seminary at age ten, I completed my high school and advanced theological studies in various cities in Sicily. I was a good student and seminarian.
But my story, now told in old age, is one of sorrow as well as joy. After having spent a lifetime in anguished searching, I dedicate this brief account of my conversion to all believers of good faith, Christian or non-Christian, and especially to those who are searching for the restored Christian church.
After I was ordained a priest in 1950, my faith in the Catholic Church started to waiver. At a certain point, I thought I had lost my faith altogether. This was the first of many crises of belief to follow. However, I spoke of this to no one; I don’t know whether any of my colleagues or superiors were ever aware of my internal anguish. Externally, I continued to carry on as before: I said mass, prayed in public, and administered the sacrament regularly. My superiors conferred positions of trust upon me. Among other things, I was appointed Dean of the Seminary and became a preacher much in demand.
But I was deeply unhappy, because my old faith had collapsed inside me. I requested the opportunity to pursue further theological studies at the Pontifical University in Rome, hoping to dispel my doubts. My request was granted, and I spent four years obtaining my doctorate in the Department of Dogmatic Theology.
But instead of dispelling my doubts and strengthening my faith, the experience had the opposite effect. Thus, I returned to Sicily with another doctorate—but with a faith that was literally in pieces.
I no long viewed my situation as a passing crisis, but as a permanent reality. Deeply unhappy, I envied those uneducated believers who maintained their simple faith. Not only was I enduring the internal anguish of religious doubt, but I was also facing a moral and professional quandary: How could I remain in the service of a church whose teachings I did not believe?
When someone advised me to use caution and to prayerfully continue my studies, I enrolled in the Department of Letters and Philosophy at the state university. For four more years I analyzed my questions. But my faith only continued to deteriorate.
I could find no answers to my major problem: As a result of my historical research on my church, I was certain that an apostasy had occurred as early as the end of the first century after Christ. But how could I reconcile that fact with the never-changing nature of God? Surely, I reasoned, when God established his church, he wouldn’t have let it vanish forever after lasting only one century; it must endure eternally. But where was the solution to the apostasy? Surely there must be another Christian church that had inherited the doctrine of the true church of Christ.
After achieving yet another degree, I arrived at a crossroads. Only two possibilities existed: continue on as a priest of a church that clashed with my conscience, or leave my church and my profession in order to remain consistent with my religious convictions.
I knew very well that the first option was ethically immoral, but it certainly would be the most convenient. And I knew that the second option would create enormous difficulties. But at that point, I did not hesitate. On 25 September 1965, I gave my official and final adieu to my church and my profession.
As I expected, my decision created an enormous void around me; even close relatives ostracized me. Alone and without money, I left for northern Italy, where I began a new life. There, I quickly found a job as a teacher of letters in a technical institute in Bologna.
In my free time, I continued my research, first embarking on a study of Protestantism that left me even more disillusioned and bitter than before. Not one church seemed to possess the requirements of the true church of Jesus Christ. If the Book of Mormon had come into my hands at that time, or if someone had told me about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, perhaps my journey would have ended there.
Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. I went on to study other religions besides Christianity—Islam, Buddhism, and Hinduism—eventually neglecting my search for the true church of Jesus Christ. Instead, I became an expert in Oriental philosophy and came to believe that perhaps one religion was as good as another. As a result of all my study, I seemed to have fallen into religious indifference.
But, thanks to the grace of the Lord, I still believed in God and in his divinity. And I never completely lost my faith in the divinity of Jesus Christ. For this reason, I continued to search for Him.
In the meantime, I had married. My wife, Ines, had been reared in a Catholic home but was not a practicing church member. We decided not to instruct our two children in any religion, leaving the choice to them.
With the passing of years, I had grown closer to Christ. I had started praying regularly and reading the Bible again. I was a Christian without a church—but still engaged in the search for the true church of Jesus Christ.
By this time I was old, past sixty. It was at this time that the good Lord took pity on me, sending me premonitions, in the form of dreams, that my chance would soon arrive.
On a clear September morning, I had just left my car when I saw two boys at a distance. They watched me as though they recognized me and were waiting for me. Strangely enough, I didn’t assume the defensive stance that I normally used in order to shun the annoying approaches of sellers or missionaries. Much to my surprise, I felt drawn to them, as though I, too, had been waiting to meet them for a long time. Although they were strangers, I was open and friendly to these clean, sincere young men.
They were two Mormon missionaries. When I found this out, it hit me like a thunderbolt, and I listened to them with great joy in my heart. I felt that God had finally answered my questions. I willingly took a Book of Mormon from them and started reading it with anticipation later that evening.
Sitting alone at my desk with that book, I felt overcome with joy and tenderness. Sweet feelings that I had never known before made me feel almost lightheaded in a semi-conscious state that lasted for perhaps an hour.
God gave me the inner assurance that I would find in that book the truth I had been seeking for so many years. The reading of the Book of Mormon bound me immediately. The Book of Mormon and the Bible both pointed me toward a single divine revelation: the Christian church, which had fallen into apostasy, had been restored! Christ had not abandoned his church after all—it was man who had been the author of the Apostasy, and now the Lord had again placed his church upon the earth! Even I, in my small way, felt that I had been restored. My long night, which had lasted for many years, was finally at an end!
Thanks to God, I was finally happy. My testimony grew every day as I continued to study the scriptures and to discuss the doctrine with the missionaries and the branch president, Ezio Caramia. A few months after meeting the missionaries, I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Adding to my happiness, my wife also decided to be baptized a few months later.
I later received the Aaronic Priesthood and then the Melchizedek Priesthood. And I testify today, with absolute certainty, that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the true and only church of Jesus Christ. I am also grateful for my testimony of a living prophet and of the modern-day Twelve Apostles.
This is my joyful testimony, molded from much suffering, which I offer humbly to all those whom it may help. The Church is eternal, as are all the works of God. It is his masterpiece.

I was on the baseball team in high school, but I needed shoulder surgery my junior year and was unable to recover enough to play. When I had to quit baseball, I was very torn up. I wasn’t sure what to do with my life.
I have always been into music and had started writing songs on my guitar. For a long time I did this as a hobby and nothing more, but when I couldn’t spend my time playing baseball, I decided to transfer all of my passion into my music. I contacted a friend who had a home recording studio, and we started recording some of my songs. After four months I came out with an eight-song CD.
My parents have been encouraging me to save up for my mission since I was very young, but until this point I still didn’t have a lot of money in my mission fund. I decided that once my CD was finished I would sell it and save all of the profit for my mission fund. My goal is to make half the money I need for my mission through my music.
I know how important serving a mission is, and I’m working hard to earn the money I need. While it was disappointing to not be able to play baseball anymore, I know the Lord has a plan for me. I can’t play baseball, but I can play music. I see now how the Lord has opened up a way for me to earn some of the money I need to serve Him on a full-time mission.

For a long time, something else puzzled me. Forty-six years ago I was a 37-year-old seminary supervisor. My Church calling was as an assistant teacher in a class in the Lindon Ward.
To my great surprise, I was called to meet with President David O. McKay. He took both of my hands in his and called me to be one of the General Authorities, an Assistant to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
A few days later, I came to Salt Lake City to meet with the First Presidency to be set apart as one of the General Authorities of the Church. This was the first time I had met with the First Presidency—President David O. McKay and his counselors, President Hugh B. Brown and President Henry D. Moyle.
President McKay explained that one of the responsibilities of an Assistant to the Twelve was to stand with the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles as a special witness and to bear testimony that Jesus is the Christ. What he said next overwhelmed me: “Before we proceed to set you apart, I ask you to bear your testimony to us. We want to know if you have that witness.”
I did the best I could. I bore my testimony the same as I might have in a fast and testimony meeting in my ward. To my surprise, the Brethren of the Presidency seemed pleased and proceeded to confer the office upon me.
That puzzled me greatly, for I had supposed that someone called to such an office would have an unusual, different, and greatly enlarged testimony and spiritual power.
It puzzled me for a long time until finally I could see that I already had what was required: an abiding testimony in my heart of the Restoration of the fulness of the gospel through the Prophet Joseph Smith, that we have a Heavenly Father, and that Jesus Christ is our Redeemer. I may not have known all about it, but I did have a testimony, and I was willing to learn.

I never realized how important patriarchal blessings were until my family and I lived with my grandparents for three months while our new house was being built.
My grandfather is a patriarch. And his home, where people receive their patriarchal blessings, is dedicated to the Lord. For my brother, sister and me, this meant that while we lived there, we often had to be quiet, help clean the house, and try not to quarrel. If we ever argued, we were sent outside, because contention makes the Spirit of the Holy Ghost leave. You can tell my grandparents’ home is different. It’s always clean, and it seems to have a glow about it.
Whenever someone was scheduled to receive a patriarchal blessing, we would clean everything really nice the day before. We’d wash the windows and the floors, sweep the deck, and vacuum everywhere—even places where no one would be. Until after the blessing was given, we weren’t allowed to wear shoes in the house, because they would make tracks. When we finished cleaning, it was the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen. It was basically the closest thing I’ve ever felt to heaven on earth.
The day someone was coming to receive a blessing, we all planned to either stay downstairs or leave to visit relatives. Grandpa would then prepare to give the blessing. First he would put on his suit. Then he would spend time praying, reading the scriptures, and listening to appropriate music.
Before giving anyone a blessing, Grandpa always talks to them to make sure they feel at ease. He wants to make sure they understand who is giving them the blessing. He tells them that the blessing is not from him but from Heavenly Father.
Although I never knew who came to get their blessings, and though I couldn’t hear what was said, I could feel the Holy Ghost—even downstairs.
After the blessing had been given and recorded, my grandma would type the blessings, using headphones and a transcribing machine. She went over the blessing several times to make sure she had it exactly correct.
My grandma says that when she types the blessings, she feels just about everything that the person feels because she knows for a fact that the blessing is from God. Sometimes she just starts crying because it’s such a beautiful blessing. She says that after she’s done typing, she usually doesn’t remember which blessing is whose. And she’s glad that’s the way it is, because the blessings are really personal and shouldn’t be shared with everyone. It takes my grandma a lot of time to type everyone’s blessings, and I’m not sure many people realize how much she contributes to my grandpa’s calling.

After Sister Teh and I dated for a little while, it became obvious that I wanted to spend eternity with her. Naturally, I made it a subject of earnest prayer and fasting. No particular change in my feeling followed. I did not feel a burning in my bosom. I did, however, continue to feel good about my decision, so I persevered. Sister Teh got the same answer, so here we are. Since that experience, I have arrived at many of my decisions in a similar fashion (see D&C 6:22–23).
Contrast that with experiences I now have concerning specific assignments from the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles to call a new stake president. As I approach this assignment in the spirit of prayer and fasting, I have been blessed with distinct impressions that help me know who should be called. The impressions come sometimes before, sometimes during, or sometimes even after the interview process. I always feel a burning in my bosom. I have since recognized that as the way the Holy Ghost guides me in such assignments.

Tom jumped off the school bus, shouting his good-byes. Mrs. Lee, the driver, waved to him, and the bus rumbled on. Tom heard a snort and turned to see his horse leaning over the fence, blowing frosty clouds into the icy air.
“Hi, Taffy,” he called. “I can always depend on you to meet me,” he said as he rubbed the little buckskin horse on the nose. Then he slipped onto Taffy’s back, and galloped bareback the half mile through the pasture to his house.
Later, as Tom sat down to dinner, Dad sternly asked, “Why didn’t you feed your horse this morning, Tom?”
“I’m sorry. I forgot,” Tom replied. He had overslept and had almost missed the school bus.
“You forgot twice last week,” his father continued. “And there’s something else you have to remember. In this cold weather, it’s important to keep the ice broken in the water trough. I found Taffy trying to get a drink this morning by licking the ice.”
Tom lowered his head.
“I don’t want to rub it in, Tom,” Dad said in a kinder tone, “but when you got your horse, you agreed to take care of him. Remember, son, if you take care of Taffy, he’ll take care of you.”
Tom quickly ate a little food and then excused himself. All he could think about was his horse. I just have to think of some way to remember Taffy every morning, no matter what, he decided.
He slowly undressed, said his prayers, and climbed into bed, murmuring, “Remember to feed and water Taffy. Remember to feed …” Suddenly Tom sat up. “I know,” he said, jumping out of bed. He grabbed his marble jar and raced barefoot to the hall closet. Taking his gloves from the pocket of his jacket, he stuffed a marble into a finger of each glove. “That will do it!” he said, pleased with his plan as he went back to his room. “When I feel those marbles in my gloves, I’ll remember Taffy.”
Morning came cold and gray. It was snowing. Tom was slow getting up. He gulped his breakfast and gathered up his books. It was time for the bus. Tom struggled into his heavy coat and pulled on his gloves. His fingers touched the marbles. “Oh, no,” he groaned. “I have to take care of Taffy. I’m late now and I’ll probably miss the bus!” But then Tom remembered what his father had said to him the night before. He removed the marbles as he ran to the corral.
Taffy neighed a greeting. Tom measured some oats into the feed bucket, then broke the thick ice the length of the trough with a hammer from the shed. He gave Taffy a quick pat, and ran down the lane toward the road.
Snow was falling heavily now, and luckily the bus was late. Tom was glad the school bus had been delayed as he climbed aboard.
All morning the snow fell. Then the wind picked up, threatening to turn the storm into a blizzard. At noon school was dismissed. The buses headed home through the blowing snow.
About half the children from Tom’s bus had been let off when the driver turned to Tom. “We’re almost to your house,” she said, “which is lucky because I can hardly see the road. I hope your folks will let the rest of us stay at your house tonight. Can you help me find the turnoff to your lane?”
Tom stood beside the driver, peering through the snow. “I think it’s just ahead, Mrs. Lee,” Tom said, but the storm was so bad he wasn’t sure, for just then a terrific blast of wind turned everything outside into a gigantic white wall.
Mrs. Lee pumped the brakes. Gradually, the bus tilted sideways until Tom had to lean against the window for balance. The older children began shouting, and a younger child started to cry.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Mrs. Lee. “We’ve gone off the road, but we’re not far from Tom’s house so we don’t have anything to worry about.”
Tom stared through the windshield. He could see nothing but swirls of white. When a lull in the storm came, he glimpsed a familiar form. Tom pushed open the tilted bus door and forced himself out into the blizzard before Mrs. Lee could stop him. Then he heard Taffy’s welcoming whinny. He plunged blindly across the snow-filled ditch toward the sound and came up against a barbed wire fence. He slipped and went down in a heap. The next thing he heard was a hoarse whuff and Taffy was nuzzling him.
“Taffy!” Tom said, giving the horse a loving pat. “You didn’t have to meet me in this blizzard. You’ll freeze. And so will I if I stay here.” He looked back, but couldn’t see the bus. He knew that if his friends were not found until morning they might all freeze too.
Tom made his decision. He climbed the fence post and mounted Taffy. “You’ll have to take me home,” he told his pet. The snow stung his face and the wind tore at his body. He leaned forward and buried his face in the horse’s mane. They barely plodded along, and Tom had no idea where they were. He felt numb when Taffy stopped.
“Go on, Taffy,” he urged. “Don’t give up.” But the horse wouldn’t budge. Tom squinted into the snow. There, at the end of Taffy’s nose, Tom finally made out a gate—the corral gate! Tom slid off and opened it. “First things first, old fellow,” said Tom, and he led the horse into the safety of the shed. Then Tom followed the fence hand over hand till he reached the house. He opened the door and tumbled into the arms of his mother and father.
It took his father three jouncy trips in the jeep to bring everyone on the bus through the snow and safely to the house. Finally, when they all were gathered safely around the roaring fireplace, Tom began pulling on his coat and gloves.
“Where are you going, son?” Dad asked.
“Out to the shed. I want to rub down Taffy and snap on his blanket,” Tom answered. He smiled at his father as he continued. “We made a deal, remember? I take care of him and he takes care of me.”
Dad gave Tom an understanding look. “Right, son. But it’s still blowing pretty hard. Hold on, I’ll go with you.”
And together they headed for the shed.

When a young mother in South Africa recently became ill with cancer, the sisters in the ward rallied around her family, bringing meals almost every day. They cared for her children. And as the young mother became more ill and depressed, her Relief Society sisters took turns staying with her in her home until evening, when her husband returned from work. When she had to go to the hospital, her Relief Society sisters continued to remain at her side. They were with her and her family when she died.
Says one woman who joined in this charitable work, “She left behind a sisterhood greatly saddened, yet unified and strengthened by their opportunity of service and love.”

I was preparing to serve a mission while many things were shut down due to COVID-19. I needed to travel to the capital city of Uganda—Kampala—to get my passport but couldn’t take a taxi because of the pandemic. I knew I needed my passport to go on my mission, so I decided to walk four hours into the city.
When I finally got my passport, I was exhausted and my feet were swollen, but I knew it would be worth it.
And I was right!
The Lord promises that when we bring others to Him, we will experience joy (see Doctrine and Covenants 18:15).
As I shared the joyful message of the gospel of Jesus Christ while on my mission, I became more like the Savior and felt God’s love more deeply.
Now that I’m home, I can continue feeling that love and joy by sharing the gospel with friends and family.

In 1975 my wife, Sabine, and I were a young married couple with a 16-month-old son. We lived in Celle, which was then part of the Germany Hamburg Mission.
The missionaries probably never would have found our home, which was hidden behind a gas station and an automobile repair shop. But they did find me—sitting on a bench at the train station one sunny June day. I was probably smoking a cigarette.
The two young Americans introduced themselves as representatives of a church. I don’t remember what we talked about, but it must have been interesting because I agreed to let them call at our home the following day.
They arrived on time and began discussing principles that most people believe. Both Sabine and I had a good feeling about them and enjoyed the conversation. But then the subject turned to God. I told them I did not believe in either God or Jesus Christ. The missionaries seemed somewhat dismayed and left us a pamphlet describing a visit by Jesus Christ to the Americas.
We didn’t make another appointment, but we read the pamphlet attentively and had the impression these Americans were crazy. Christ in America! Who ever heard of such a thing?
One Sunday in September we found ourselves near the home of some friends we hadn’t seen for several months. We decided to drop in. They were just getting ready to go to their new church, which they were very enthused about. Quite spontaneously, we decided to go with them. We too found the atmosphere of the branch enchanting, and everything we heard there was interesting and believable. We were eager to return the following Sunday.
Soon we were learning all about the Church from the full-time missionaries and from member missionaries. Brother Horst Klappert taught a class for investigators. Horst and his wife, Rotraud, had a lot in common with us. We became good friends, and soon we were being invited everywhere by Church members. We enjoyed many wonderful evenings that were different from anything we were used to.
One of the full-time missionaries was an elder named Max Fisher. When we got to the third or fourth discussion, Elder Fisher asked me—me, Jochen Beisert, someone who did not believe in God—to offer a prayer. At that moment I suddenly remembered something that had happened to me more than 10 years before.
Over the years my hectic lifestyle, combined with the trials of life, had caused me to forget this experience. But now when I started to pray, it came back to me, and I had a tender talk with my Father in Heaven. All those present—our recently converted friends and the missionaries—felt the Spirit and were close to tears. A few weeks later, on 18 October 1975, I was baptized by Elder Fisher. Sabine was baptized by one of our member missionaries.

As I have reflected on my friends and my life experience, I have concluded that there was not just one special friend that made a difference. Rather, my life has been lifted and sustained by relatively large numbers of people. As I mention one particular friend, I would wish for no one to be confused that he was any more my “best friend” than were all my other “best friends.” He was just one of the guys in my ward and school “gang” (when that was a positive term!). Whatever else we did, or whatever else our other divergent activities, we were always good friends.
Jim was more than a year older than I and a year ahead in school. One of the things I appreciated about him is that age or school grade didn’t seem to make any difference to him. Jim was not necessarily always the best behaved until his later teens. He did, however, constantly have a good heart.
Jim is a talented musician and his natural aptitudes declared themselves quite early. He was a skilled saxophonist who did things seemingly much easier than did I, who also tried to play, but in a very ordinary way. Even when we were young boys, Jim was always patient with my musical deficiencies and those of others and built our self-esteem with his tolerance and good-natured support. One interesting observation about Jim is that as a teenager, he had more than a few people who were sure that he was their “best friend.”
One of Jim’s greatest accomplishments, in my judgment, was his dramatic change for the good when he entered the army after high school graduation. Recognizing that for perhaps the first time in his life his behavior would reflect not only on himself but on his family and the Church, he quickly became exemplary to his mainly non-LDS associates and qualified to serve a mission.
After his release from military service, he was called on a mission, which he successfully served. He then graduated from the university and married in the temple. He has served with distinction in the Church as a bishop, teacher, and in other assignments.
In all of this he continues to be a great friend to many and to me.

David Wichtermann, 17, a member of the Schwamendingen Ward, Zürich Switzerland Stake, knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end of priesthood service. “I was sick and in a lot of pain,” he says. “When my father gave me a blessing, the pain went away immediately. I look forward to the time when I can also use the priesthood to give blessings.” In the meantime David loves serving with the priesthood authority he already has. “I was able to help ordain my younger brother a deacon,” he says. “To participate in giving someone else the priesthood is a nice feeling.”

Wilford Kimball was our bishop when I was an older teenager. He had two daughters who were my age, Ardyth and Virginia. Every, I mean every, Sunday evening we would go to Bishop Kimball’s house. Always they would be there. Always we would have refreshments. Never once did any of us feel unwelcome. It wasn’t just for a few months but literally for a few years. I don’t know how they ever afforded it, let alone put up with ten to fifteen teenage youths for two to three hours every Sunday night.
From the little group who attended those get-togethers there have been five or six bishops, several high councilors, two stake presidents, several counselors in stake presidencies, a General Authority, and wives of all these priesthood brethren. Bishop Kimball himself was later called as a stake president and then as a mission president, and there are some who were there who followed him and also became mission presidents. What a privilege to walk with Wilford Kimball and his wife in high places, their home.

When I was in elementary school, we walked home on a paved trail that wound back and forth up the side of a hill. There was another trail, unpaved, called the “boys’ trail.” The boys’ trail was a path in the dirt that went straight up the hill. It was shorter but much steeper. As a young girl, I knew I could walk up any trail the boys could. More important, I knew I was living in the latter days and that I would need to do hard things, as did the pioneers—and I wanted to be prepared. So every now and then, I would lag behind my group of friends on the paved trail, remove my shoes, and walk barefoot up the boys’ trail. I was trying to toughen up my feet.
As a young Primary girl, that is what I thought I could do to prepare. Now I know differently! Rather than walking barefoot up mountain trails, I know I can prepare my feet to walk on the covenant path by responding to the invitations of the Holy Ghost. For the Lord, through His prophet, is calling each of us to live and care in a “higher and holier way” and to “take a step higher.”

Eighteen-year-old Chris Garrett has made a dramatic recovery from drug addiction so severe that he is considered lucky to be alive. He first drank alcohol as a small boy, was smoking marijuana by his early teenage years, and, within a few years, was using anything he could find: marijuana, cocaine, LSD (lysergic acid diethylamide), opium, crack, speed, and many types of prescription drugs. He even grew marijuana among his mother’s house plants. To finance his habit, he burglarized people’s homes, picked pockets, and took money from purses left in parked cars during church services. Three years ago, Chris entered a treatment program that took him fourteen months to complete.
Chris did not look like what most people think a drug abuser looks like, which is perhaps part of the reason his habit escaped his parents’ notice for a time. He was neat, well-dressed, and well-groomed. “You don’t have to look like a drug-user or associate with the ‘bad’ kids anymore to get into trouble,” says Carol White, a community leader in drug prevention. “I know one boy who started using drugs at work, and he used drugs with his closest friends and their parents. Many of those friends were leaders at his school.”

No one else should have noticed it. That I was aware of it was odd. In the midst of a crowded church foyer filled with lively Japanese members hurrying to Sunday School, the tiny spider was truly insignificant. Having arrived at the church a few minutes early with my missionary companion, I was sitting on a flight of stairs observing the members as they arrived. The spider had first appeared from under a wall heater, a tiny brown speck slowly progressing toward the middle of the hall. By the time its painstaking progress had lengthened to three feet, most of the members had arrived and were socializing in the hall before meetings.
My first impulse had been to brush it back under the heater. This idea was followed by the more childish notion of stepping on it. Fortunately for the spider, cruelty was quickly substituted by curiosity. The spider’s remaining lifetime appeared to be limited, increasingly so as it continued in a determined course toward the center of the crowded foyer. I was fascinated into inaction, watching and wondering how it would end—that inevitable, accidental footfall.
I will never understand how Brother Tashiro, the district president, saw it. He was obviously late as he hurried through the outside door to yet another meeting, briefcase in one hand, cassette recorder and slide projector precariously positioned under the opposite arm. His mind was surely filled with the endless responsibilities of running a mission district; yet he, too, somehow saw the tiny spider among the crowd. Immediately stopping, he set aside his load and, excusing himself, parted the crowd, stooped down and gently scooped the spider into his palm, then released it outside to a more hospitable environment. As though hardly aware of the interruption, he hurried to the waiting meeting.
It was so simple, such a natural act for that humble servant of the Lord. Then a wonderful analogy unfolded before me. I saw in my mind’s eye the Savior, stooping down from the complex business of creating worlds without number, to personally teach, exhort, and sacrifice for the sake of an uncomprehending human race, a seemingly insignificant speck in the endless corridors of eternity. With Godly devotion, he lifted man from certain doom, transporting him to an environment of freedom and opportunity wherein he could live and grow.
I thought of all the thousands of Japanese people yet unaware of the Savior’s great love, people I had been sent to teach. A new resolve filled my breast as I hurried into Sunday School class. Next time, I resolved, I would save the spider.