Gospel Story Finder

My sister and I have had a complicated relationship for the past 40 years. Recently, I started to pray for her welfare and happiness. I also decided to put her name down on the prayer roll of the temple for eight weeks. During this period, I felt impressed to invite her to spend some time with me during the Christmas holidays (2019). This was a difficult thing for me because we have barely spent more than an hour together during the past ten years. On the day we decided to meet, I prepared a meal, and we agreed to watch a Christmas movie together. From the moment she arrived at my home, I could tell she was different. She was happy and bubbly, and we talked like we used to four decades ago. The visit was so enjoyable that I invited her to return the following week, when we again ate a meal together and watched another Christmas movie. Later I scheduled two more visits that were just as successful and enjoyable as the first two.
A few days later, I was reviewing a journal entry from 23 years ago. In that entry, I had recorded some of the words of a priesthood blessing that I had received because I was so upset about the poor relationship that I had with my sister. As I read the terms of this blessing, I was shocked by what Heavenly Father had told me so long ago. This is what he said:
“The Lord loves you very much. You will be as Nephi of old. You will have the wisdom and strength to counsel your family. With time, you will be able to resolve your relationship with family and friends.”
These words immediately reminded me of a talk given by Henry B Eyring called, A Law of Increasing Returns. In this talk, President Eyring said:
“The simple fact is that there is a God who wants us to have faith in him. He knows that to strengthen faith, we must use it [even with our family members]. And so, he gives us the chance to use it by letting some of the spiritual rewards we want most be delayed. Instead of first effort yielding returns, with a steady decline, it’s the reverse. First efforts, and even second efforts, seem to yield little. And then the rewards begin, perhaps much later, to grow and grow.”1
That is how I felt as I thought about how my relationship with my sister has improved dramatically over the past two weeks. It is no accident that this improvement in our relationship had happened when I was praying for my sister, and I had placed her name on the temple prayer roll.

Kevin watched as his older brother and sister got ready to go to the temple to do baptisms for the dead. Kevin wanted to go too.
Dad, can I go?
You’re not old enough yet, but I’m glad that you want to go. When you turn 12, you can go too.
Kevin helped his sister pack her bag. Then he helped his brother pick out a tie.
They left, and Kevin stayed home with Mom and his baby sister, Erin.
When Erin cried, Kevin gave her a teddy bear.
I know Heavenly Father is happy with the way you are serving Him today.
But I didn’t go to the temple.
Yes, but you helped your brother and sister get ready. And you are helping me take care of Erin.
When you help other people, you serve Heavenly Father.

“Officer Lansberg, re-e-port to the control room. It’s urgent!”
The sharp command, coming over the intercom, drew me from my scriptures. Turning on the microphone, I said, “Lansberg acknowledging. I’ll be right up.”
Leaving my quarters immediately, I started down the hall to the transit port. As I passed an external viewscreen, I couldn’t help but pause and look at it. There, on the screen, was the Milky Way spread out before me.
The words that I’d read from the book of Moses, just moments before, ran through my mind:
“And worlds without number have I created; and I also created them for mine own purpose; and by the Son I created them, which is mine Only Begotten. … For behold, there are many worlds that have passed away by the word of my power. And there are many that now stand, and innumerable are they unto man; but all things are numbered unto me, for they are mine and I know them” (Moses 1:33, 35).
Those words, unlike some things, seemed to have grown more impressive with the continuing conquest of space.
“They’re waiting for you, Mike!”
Bishop Gentry’s jolly voice pulled me out of my reverie. He was a transport skid operator and had been dispatched to pick me up.
I hurried to the port and boarded the skid. It shot out of its port like a bullet, humming moderately as it clung gondola-like to the track that would carry it across the ceiling of the agricultural dome to the control room at the top.
I was the youngest officer in Delta Colony, but being a teenage prodigy with a flair for history and physics had made me a natural for my position.
Since I was the investigator of extragalactic phenomena I rarely had to respond to an emergency call. Most problems that arose did not involve me, and a majority of those that did could wait until my regular shift.
“You have any idea what’s up, Bishop?” I asked.
“None at all.”
Bishop Gentry, leader of our small ward, always gave direct and concise answers. After a short pause he picked up the conversation.
“I received a bulletin from Church headquarters today.”
Earth seemed almost nonexistent when one lived on a giant metal cylinder, four light-months outside the “edge” of the galaxy. I sometimes marveled that anything from Church headquarters could ever reach us.
“Anything new?” I said, adding, “Did the millennium begin yet?”
He chuckled heartily, “No, nothing like that. It was a statement from the First Presidency, reemphasizing the importance of serving a mission—which reminds me of something. You’ll be 19 in one more week and you haven’t begun to work on your papers yet. I know that you’ve been preparing, I know that you’re worthy, and up until now you’ve been eager. What’s the matter?”
Well, imagine how it feels. You’re in a swiftly sliding aluminum box, 200 feet above the floor, only your bishop with you, and he’s just asked you a question that jabs to the center of your conscience.
“Bishop,” I said, “I’ve seen more of the galaxy than anyone my age ever has, and more than most people ever see in their entire life. A mission would be somewhat anticlimactic.”
I was prepared for him to ask me how I could know that, but instead he asked, “How do you intend to spend the time that you would otherwise spend on a mission?”
“Bishop,” I answered in mock complacency, “with two more years at Antares Academy I could be appointed governor of this colony, or one like it.”
As we pulled into the port, Bishop Gentry responded, “Mike, I agree that to be a governor at 21 would be an unmatched achievement, and I’m confident that you can do it, but would it be that much worse to be a 23-year-old governor?”
I figured that if I made a hasty exit then I could get in the last word, but the door was jammed.
“It’s not just the time, Bishop,” I answered, poking the open button harder than before. “It’s the money, too. I only have so much, and mission and education costs have both become quite astronomical.”
By then I’d resorted to tugging on the door, to no avail. Disgusted, I turned away from the door and saw the cause of my minor dilemma. The bishop was holding his finger on the override lock.
“I just wanted to make sure that I clearly understood every word you had to say,” he commented, wearing one of those smiles that you just can’t get angry at.
As I stepped out of the skid he continued, “Pray about it. Some things, like what God expects of men, are absolute, and endure much longer than the stars.”
Then, much to my surprise, he added, “Remember, the Lord didn’t just tell Moses that he’d made everything. He also said, ‘They are mine,’ and that includes you and me.”
Flashing one last smile, he closed the door.
I stood speechless on the deck as the skid darted away. Did he know that I’d been reading Moses just five minutes before? Could he?
I didn’t have time to ponder those questions. I’d been summoned on an emergency call, and it would require my total attention.
The door to the control room slid open as I entered. Commander Jackson was waiting for me.
“Glad you could make it,” he said, in his stern, deep voice.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“We’re picking up an SOS.”
I stopped where I was. The gentle tapping of fingers against keyboards, and the rhythmic clicking and buzzing of 30 computer consoles bridged the momentary silence. I was puzzled.
“Commander,” I asked, “How am I supposed to help with that? What does that have to do with extragalactic phenomena?”
“The signal didn’t come from out there,” he said, indicating a screen that displayed the Milky Way. “It came from out there,” and he gestured to a screen showing a few clusters of stars, some scattered patches of light, and farthest away, little dots resembling stars.
Every object visible on the screen was a separate galaxy. The signal had come from deep space, much farther out than any official manned mission had ever been sent. No independently funded missions had been undertaken since the Space Bureau had instituted laws against them, one and a half centuries before.
“Who could it be?” I murmured.
“Well,” the commander answered, “it’s obviously not an alien. The transmission is in English. Besides that, there are no spacecraft at the signal’s point of origin.”
“An SOS signal that comes from nothing,” I remarked, “is definitely in my department.”
I thought a moment. There were just a few possible solutions, even including the most improbable ones.
Interrogating the control room staff, I asked, “Are there any malfunctions in the communications system?”
“Negative, sir,” a crewman responded. “We’ve already checked that out.”
“How about a mirage?” I continued. “Is there an ion cloud out there, or anything that the signal could be bouncing off of?”
“Negative, sir,” another crewman answered. “Sensors indicate no ion clouds, and no stray matter for at least a 50-mile radius of the signal’s origin.”
“Thank you,” I said, and I turned back to the commander. I could see just one possibility remaining, though it seemed unbelievable.
“Commander,” I said, “whether it’s a renegade independent from Earth or something more bizarre, I can’t say, but there’s only one place that the signal can be coming from. I’ll need three star scouts, one outfitted with a boarding mechanism, and I’ll need a salvage shuttle as well, with full crews in each craft. I don’t know if the broadcaster can receive a message, but transmit it anyway: ‘Received, awaiting arrival.’ I’ll be in the boarding star scout.”
As I turned to leave, the commander asked, “Where is it coming from, Lansberg?”
Well, when your commanding officer asks you a question, you can’t very well avoid it, however controversial you know the answer will be.
I looked right into Commander Jackson’s steely eyes and said confidently, “Hyperspace,” and quickly departed, certain that the commander thought me to be “space happy.”
Hyperspace was an old theory based more on conjecture than on fact. It had begun with the idea that the three dimensions—length, breadth, and depth—representing space, were not alone; everything had a fourth dimension—duration—representing time. From that a concept of a fifth dimension developed: hyperspace, a bridge or tunnel traversing space and time. If a person wanted to move from one place to another, in much less time than it would take to travel in space, he could travel in hyperspace. It was the long sought “northwest passage” of space travel. I had neither accepted the idea nor rejected it. Theory is theory; fact is fact.
As we waited in space, near the origin of the signals but as far away as caution dictated, I talked on the radio with Commander Jackson.
“Lansberg,” he said, “if you didn’t have such a good track record you’d be under psychiatric observation right now.”
I responded with respect, “Commander, I admit myself that it sounds insane, but frankly, it’s all I can think of. Do you have any other suggestions?”
“No way. This is your territory. Besides, if you’re right, it could revolutionize space travel. Your competence in the past gives me every reason to trust you now, incredible as your idea is.”
“Thank you, sir,” I answered.
An hour passed, and another as well, before anything happened. In the middle of the third hour the SOS signal stopped. Simultaneously, a bright light appeared at the exact point that had been the signal’s origin. It immediately widened and opened until it became the border of a great circle through which a delta-winged spacecraft was passing.
The craft, three times the size of a star scout, was dwarfed by the ring of light, as it came smoothly through the center of the circle. Twenty vessels just like it could have passed through side by side.
What a picture! A tiny spacecraft coming through a giant ring of light, the end of what seemed to be a conduit to another galaxy, for behind it stars blazed in glory! A closely knit cluster of at least 5,000 stars, seen through the ring, paraded before us in majesty, beckoning us to charge through after them.
When the mysterious craft had swiftly passed beyond the ring of light, the passage through hyperspace shut up tightly, just as it had opened.
As the vessel drifted in space near us, I unsuccessfully attempted to restore radio contact. I then instructed my pilot to maneuver our star scout to search for damage and identifying marks.
As we circled the craft, it seemed to be undamaged. If any of us still harbored any secret desires that we’d made contact with an extraterrestrial, they were quickly dissolved when we discovered an identifying mark on the nose of the craft. What appeared to be its name was written in neat bold letters: SPACE BEAGLE.
After a short search we located a hatch on the Space Beagle’s underside. A dull thud reverberated throughout our vessel as I sealed the boarding tube to the strange craft’s hull. When the gravity-free tube had been pressurized, a section of our star scout’s floor slid open, disclosing the entrance to the tube. When I looked in, I was surprised to see some colored light emanating from the opposite end. The hatch on the other craft had already been opened.
I was to board the Space Beagle solo for the initial investigation. I grasped some handles inside the boarding tube and pulled myself through the hole.
I floated effortlessly towards the opposite hatch. It was strangely different than floating in open space. In space I would have heard no sound, but there I heard the sounds of movement from my craft as they blended with the mystical, musical whisperings that ebbed and flowed from the curious vehicle that I was approaching.
As I entered the Space Beagle I twisted my body so that I wound up landing in a gentle squat on the floor next to the hatchway. While I sat there a strange rhapsody filled the air around me.
Standing up, I looked around the chamber that I was in. Lights on various consoles, reds, greens, and blues, flashed incessantly, creating a hypnotic strobe effect throughout the room.
The eerie music continued as my senses were subjected to a deluge of visual images. Video units lined each wall, alternately showing pictures of planets, stars, and galaxies. Flashing shots of ancient stone structures mingled with shots of desolate landscapes, as well as open meadows and green hills, not unlike those of Earth.
Some screens flashed pictures of chartreuse skies, and others of crimson snow.
Most fascinating of all, in the center of the room was a highly advanced holographic display that intermittently presented many of the images on the screens as three-dimensional moving objects, synchronized with the shifting musical tones that filled the air.
Indigo lions stalked on a lavender veldt. Dragons soared across distant horizons. Living cells seemed to grow larger and larger, until I saw DNA, the double helix, spinning before my eyes.
Elements mixed and changed. Continents slipped beneath seas. Planets broke up to dust, stars exploded in fury, and entire galaxies pulsated with light in front of me.
In no other place that came to my mind could such a comprehensive treasury of knowledge of the universe be found.
Then the words I’d read that morning once again occurred to me, “And worlds without number have I created … for mine own purpose … numbered unto me … they are mine and I know them.” As if that wasn’t enough, the phrase “they are mine” became stuck in my brain on a constant replay.
As I stood, awestruck at the scope of what I was experiencing, the music suddenly stopped, and I heard a deep and tired sounding voice, gentle to my ear, say, “Does my collection please you?”
Looking around I saw no one. I answered the question, “Yes,” adding, “Who are you?”
“I’m just a man like you,” the voice replied. “I’m in an adjacent chamber. When I lived on Earth I was called Desmond Jeffress.”
“Desmond Jeffress?”
“My, but that is sweet. That’s the first time I’ve heard my name spoken in more than 300 years.”
“You’ve been in space that long?” I asked, gasping at so profound a claim. Only the reality of hyperspace would allow such a thing.
The voice simply answered, “Yes.”
“You sent an SOS. What kind of help can I give you?”
A door at the other end of the room opened, revealing a brighter, more substantial light behind it.
“Come here, please,” the voice said.
Still somewhat mesmerized, I complied with the request.
The chamber that I entered was apparently a combination control room and observation deck. The Milky Way, Delta Colony, the salvage shuttle, and the other two star scouts were clearly visible on a wall-size screen that could easily have been mistaken for a window.
A circular console in the center of the room held dials and gauges that I was unfamiliar with, and seated in its center, in a large, well-cushioned chair, was the oldest looking man I’ve ever seen. Long silver hair flowed over his shoulders to the middle of his back, and a beard of the same color reached to his knees.
Looking directly at me with soft, brown eyes, he said, “I’m dying. I’ve lived more than 300 years, and I’ve barely an hour left.”
I almost felt hurt. I’d just met a man with a broader range of experience than anyone else I’d ever met, and he had less than an hour to share his knowledge with me.
“How can you be sure?” I asked.
“I’m sure,” he responded. “That’s why I sent the SOS. I didn’t want to die alone, and, more important, I didn’t want to have lived in vain.”
“Three centuries before you were born I began my chronicle of the universe. Though there are countless planets, stars, and galaxies that I have never approached, I have nevertheless chronicled a total of 237 galaxies with 100 trillion stars and 600 trillion planets. I was able to visit exactly 200,000 of those planets, if only for a moment. If it sounds like I’ve been busy, I have. Never for an instant have I been idle. My last wish was to see all that I have learned safely delivered into another human’s hands. Since that is now assured, I should be able to die knowing that my life was not in vain. Still … still, something is not right.” He paused a moment, wheezing slightly. “I should feel at peace, but instead I’m more anxious than before.”
“Do you know why?” I asked.
“I believe,” he said, “that my mind is still troubled on one matter, on one foolish little matter.”
“What is that?”
“I had,” the old man recalled, “before I went into space, been somewhat of an atheist. I’ve always been analytic and cannot accept anything as true until it has been proven by experimentation. Not long after my voyages began, I found myself believing in God. I had become aware of a pattern, of a design in the universe, and observing mankind’s potential to control it, I felt a relationship, a descendency if you will, with some remarkably infinite power, maybe even a living, tangible being.
“From then on all of my experiments and voyages, of which my journals and chronicles became but by-products, were whole-hearted efforts to prove the existence and nature of God. All my knowledge was continually applied to this single purpose. I was determined to prove God, so that I could know, and not just feel, that he lives.
“However, despite all of my efforts, the most powerful evidence was nothing more than a strong indication of what I believed. It always left room for doubt.
“I’ve been almost everywhere and seen almost everything, and still have no proof that God exists. I’m a scientist believing something with no definite proof of its validity. That is my anxiety.”
I thought his method of research had been like someone trying to learn about a sculptor by studying his statues. He had been experimenting through the wrong medium.
“Have you ever asked God?” I inquired.
“How is that done?” he replied.
I then proceeded to bear my testimony to him. My testimony of God, that he is the Creator, that he is everyone’s Father in Heaven, of the premortal existence, of the plan of salvation, and of the atonement of Christ, and that Jesus is the Only Begotten Son of God; my testimony of all these things fell from my lips with more power than it ever had before.
We talked. In the short time available, our conversation must have touched upon nearly every principle of the gospel.
I told him that I did not just believe the things I’d said. I explained that I knew them by the power of the Holy Ghost, through prayer, that being the only way that anyone could know.
He then prayed one of the most fervent prayers that I’ve ever heard. He ignored my presence in the room as the words of supplication rolled smoothly off from his tongue, and when he ended his prayer, he knew! One quick glance at his tear-washed eyes and it was clear: he knew!
He looked up, right at me, and he said, “Young man, contained in this spacecraft is knowledge accumulated from more than three centuries of constant research, as I traveled from one galaxy to another, and never has it meant more to me than it does now.”
His eyes held mine in a firm stare as he continued, “The knowledge that you have shared with me for the last hour is more important than all the rest of the knowledge I’ve gathered put together. Thank you,” he said.
The moment that he finished uttering those words his final breath wheezed from his lungs. Silence permeated the air.
“You’re welcome,” I mumbled, hoping that someplace his spirit could hear, and added, “Thank you, Desmond Jeffress.”
The entire procedure of impounding the Space Beagle seemed almost melancholy after that. Those who had wondered what had consumed so much of my time while I had been in the vessel were satisfied when they had seen the tremendous storehouse of knowledge within the craft.
The immense value of the Space Beagle to science was obvious. It would prove to open a new renaissance in space travel. No longer would it take years to cross the galaxy. The doors to other galaxies were wide open, and, with the charts provided by one who had been there before, no one would have to travel blindly.
As far as I’m concerned, the greatest results could not have been filed in a library. After I had received credit for the safe recovery of the Space Beagle and its priceless cargo, the League of Interstellar Earth Colonies granted me a full scholarship to Antares Academy.
I was very honored, but I politely and cheerfully declined. I already had a message to share that was more important than anything that the academy could teach me. Besides, the Lord expected me to serve a mission.

I’m the only Latter-day Saint in the family, so it gets kind of lonesome sometimes. I never believed there was a God. I wouldn’t go to church or read the Bible, but when I met two missionaries through a friend of mine, I wanted to hear and learn more and become a part of this wonderful church. The greatest day of my life was the day of my baptism. It was so beautiful that I couldn’t understand why I had ever been scared about being baptized. It was so fantastic that I cried. I am sure that I have taken a step that I will never regret. I really do enjoy receiving the New Era. It’s a fantastic book. Every time it arrives, my mother says that it really makes her day.
Sue E. HaydenLondon, England

There was a night when we had the blessing of having in our home a stranger, sorely afflicted. After all these years I have some hesitance to mention the incident, lest anyone know or connect her with it. She was from far away. She was away from her family. She had been incarcerated in institutions, had been released to go to her parents in another state, also far away, but after months of little progression and apparently with little hope in sight, had been relieved of her restraints there. Having affiliation with the Church, she found her way to Salt Lake City, to Temple Square, which she thought to be the heart of the Church, and sat across the desk from me, hopeless, her eyes blank, talking about her children, talking intermittently also about the voices she heard. She was ill. There was no appropriate place to send her, so we took her home.

Our holiday season was impaired a bit, as I now impair the memory by the repetition. That didn’t matter much. We missed a few parties; we felt someone should be with her, because she was obviously seriously ill. We didn’t know the therapy; we knew how to pray to God, and she joined us with our then very little family. The days went by. Christmas arrived. That morning she arose with us. She sat in a chair and watched as the presents were given and received. For everyone received by anyone else, she also received a gift. I fancied I saw the curtain going up a little. I watched a tear come trickling, and then, without premeditation and certainly without instruction, a little girl climbed onto her knee, put her arms around her neck, and said, “Susannah, I love you.” And the tears gushed and the curtain rose and the humanity came through. She wept, then talked freely about her little ones, about her husband at home, about her problems.

A little later I made a telephone call. I spoke to a man who was agonizing through the day. He didn’t want her away, but her illness had made it improbable to have her home. I talked with him of her present circumstance. He said, “Is there any way to get her home?” We found a way. There was an airplane and gracious people who made way, and a lady who got nervously aboard and soon thereafter arrived home to the arms of her own loved ones. She wrote us regularly for many years to thank us for a simple gift of brotherliness at a special time.

My grandmother is also such an example. She was widowed when my father was two years old and one of my uncles only days old. She did not have a high school education. Yet she was a modern mighty woman in Israel. This uncle, who was only days old at the passing of my grandfather, later wrote:

My dad lost his dad three weeks before he was born. His dad was also thirty-three at his passing. His mom died when he was seventeen and therefore had no one to support him on a ­mission. He wanted all of his sons to serve missions and extracted a promise as he was dying that my mother would see that all of his sons would serve a mission.

As a young man growing up, I was reminded many times of that promise that my mother made to my dad as he was dying—that she would see that each one of his boys would serve missions. I always knew that I would serve a mission. I have always had a testimony of the truth of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, even though I didn’t always do the right things. I think I was a little like Amulek in the Book of Mormon when he said [Alma 10:5–6]: “I never have known much of the ways of the Lord, and his mysteries and marvelous power. I said I never had known much of these things; but behold, I mistake, for I have seen much of his mysteries and his marvelous power; yea, even in the preservation of the lives of this people. Nevertheless, I did harden my heart, for I was called many times and I would not hear; therefore I knew concerning these things, yet I would not know.”

My grandmother was the one who taught my uncle of the Lord’s mysteries and of His marvelous power. My grandmother kept her promise, even though it required that she work three jobs while supporting two missionaries out in the field at the same time. Additionally, a schoolteacher boarded in her home and added to the family income.

I remember that same grandmother expecting me to continue to fulfill that promise made to my grandfather. She successfully sent all of her grandsons and many of her granddaughters on missions.

Remember what President Nelson said: “It would be impossible to measure the influence that such women have, not only on families but also on the Lord’s Church.” Well, let’s try and measure the impact of this one uneducated—by worldly standards—modern mighty woman of Israel. Her posterity have now given more than 160 years of full-time mission service! Four have served as mission presidents and one as a mission president’s companion. Now, how many missionaries all over the world have been impacted by her? How many were invited and accepted the invitation to come unto Christ and become members of His Church because of one righteous woman? President Nelson is right. We cannot measure the impact of even one such woman, let alone all of them.

During this time, my life has been an emotional rollercoaster. It started in April 2015, when I received an email from my mother with the subject “ALAN NEEDS YOUR PRAYERS!!”. She proceeded to tell me that my brother was having some breathing problems and had asked the ambulance to come. I remember stopping the movie we were watching, letting my kids know he needed a prayer, and praying for him. No sooner had I finished the prayer, than I received a call from my dad informing me that my brother had passed away. I was shocked! He was only 48! He passed away of a massive heart attack. He left a wife of 16 years, and three kids ages 13, 11, and 8. No one, and I’m no exception, expects their brother or sister to pass at an early age! The emotions that fled through me at the time were pain, sorrow, anguish, hate, frustration, all of which I am sure many of you are familiar with. The funeral occurred two weeks later. Mind you this was the first funeral that I had attended in my life in which someone I was very close to had died. It was quite difficult. It was made more difficult as I had had a strained relationship with my brother for quite some time. We spoke rarely, maybe once or twice a year, and he seemed busy with his life, so I didn’t “bother” him. I loved him, I told myself, as he was my brother, but he had offended me many years previous. I had chosen to be offended and suffered over the years because of it. We had made strides in the years leading up to it to heal the rift, but the healing was not complete. My failure to bridle my passions with my brother and treat him selflessly made me question whether or not I will ever be at peace with him or with his death. However, the Lord knows us better than we know ourselves and he will provide us with the chance to change. I was surprised at how much a funeral was like a baby blessing or like a marriage reception. There was just as much happiness at my brother’s funeral as there was sadness, if not more. We celebrate when one of God’s children comes into the world, when a family unit is created, and when one leaves this life. Each is a celebration of love. At these times, I am amazed at the love that God has for us. It doesn’t heal the pain of the loss of our loved one, but it does help start the healing. I felt the tempering influence of Heavenly Father at that funeral.

Two weeks after my brother passed, my wife and I found out that we were expecting a baby girl, our seventh child. We knew it was a baby girl before the ultrasound because we had been told clearly by the Lord a few years before that she was missing from our family. This blessing in my life is more evidence that God loves us and looks out for us. I strongly believe that my brother, Alan, played a strong role in bringing her to us, which has softened the sadness I felt at my brother’s death. Our little Clara was born to us on January 4, 2016.

I was 20 years old and had spent most of my life as a member of my parents’ church. But for three years I had not gone to church because I was considering other religious and moral philosophies—although none of them felt right to me.
One day when I arrived at my parents’ house, my brother and my best friend were there. They said some young women had come to visit and had left a book with my brother. My brother had asked my best friend to be at the house when they came back. He wanted him to be the one to tell them not to come anymore.
But when the missionaries returned, my friend said, “Come back in three days because I want to hear the discussions.”
My brother was furious. I asked my friend what he had been thinking, and he just said, “Well, they are very beautiful, and they have a nice way of talking about Jesus Christ.”
“Well, I will get rid of them,” I replied arrogantly.
Two weeks went by without my being able to do so. They were now visiting my brother and my sister and many of my friends. They were surrounding me on all sides, and I didn’t even know who was responsible for what felt like an ambush.
The following week, my brother told me that two of my friends had already been baptized and that another was going to be baptized that Sunday. I agreed to go to church on Sunday just to see my friend’s baptism. “But this is crazy,” I said to myself.
That Sunday I finally met the two missionaries who had been giving me so many headaches. At the end of the baptismal service they came up to me, gave me a Book of Mormon, and invited me to hear the first discussion. On the inside I was resisting and shouting, “No!” But on the outside I was crying, and I said, “Yes,” to all their invitations.
A week later, there I was watching another of my friends be baptized. And on the following Sunday, my best friend and I also entered the waters of baptism.

“At first, Sam was hesitant and quite dependent upon the other deacons when passing the sacrament. But the quorum members rallied around him and gave him a lot of help—a hand on his shoulder, a gentle nudge. Now, due to the supportive attitude of the other deacons, Sam is very eager and confident about passing the sacrament and fulfilling his other duties.” This was the comment made by Dale Peterson, second counselor in the bishopric of the Camarillo Second Ward, Camarillo California Stake.

Just over thirteen years ago, my wife at the time, through a series of choices that led her to question her testimony, ultimately decided to leave our marriage and our family and to move out of state. She said that I could have the house and our six children.

I found myself a divorced, single father trying to balance employment, my calling in the bishopric, fatherhood, and an attempt at being "mister mom." My four daughters were 15, 10, 9, and 7 years old at the time, and my two sons were 12 and 5. Boy did I ever need help. I prayed several times a day pleading with the Lord for guidance and direction.

A short time later, a good sister in my ward mailed a note to me which had a profound effect. It said that I should remember, "This is not life, but only an event in life. Pain and suffering are required; misery is optional." I realized that I could not change the situation, but I could control how I reacted. I concluded that I would have to exercise as much faith as I could and place my trust in the Lord to get through this ordeal, recognizing Christ as my rock and my foundation.

During my trial of being a single dad, I learned to do a lot of new things. I learned to cut my children's hair. I learned to use a curling iron on my girls' hair. I learned to take my daughters on those special shopping trips as they matured. My children survived my cooking and my girls' sometimes endured bangs that I often cut too short, but we learned to work together as a team. We placed our trust in the Lord and faithfully continued having daily family prayer and family scripture study, and weekly family home evenings. Through faith, obedience, and an increased trust in the Lord, my children and I were sustained through this difficult period.

A little over a year after the divorce, my parents were visiting and on the morning they were preparing to leave, I asked my dad for a father's blessing. I was promised that if I trusted in the Lord, I would find a new companion. With fear and trepidation, I jumped into the dating game. In a few months I met a wonderful woman. I could quickly tell that she loved the Lord. After a five-month courtship, we were married and together we began the process of blending our two families. I gained a beautiful new daughter and two more handsome sons. My wife and I have been blessed in this effort to blend our families. It has not always been easy, but as she and I work together in a three-way relationship with Jesus Christ and place our trust in Him, we are confident that we will succeed.

One of many outstanding missionaries with whom Sister Funk and I served was Elder Pokhrel from Nepal. After being a member of the Church for only two years, he was called to serve in the India Bangalore Mission, an English-speaking mission. He would tell you he was not well prepared. That was understandable. He had never seen a missionary until he was one, because no young missionaries serve in Nepal. He did not read English well enough to understand the instructions included with his call. When he reported to the missionary training center, instead of bringing nice slacks, white shirts, and ties, he packed, in his words, “five pairs of denim jeans, a couple of T-shirts, and a lot of hair gel.”2

Even after he obtained appropriate clothing, he said he felt inadequate every day during the first few weeks. He described that time of his mission: “Not only was the English difficult, but the work was just as challenging. … On top of all of that, I was hungry, tired, and homesick. … Even though the circumstances were tough, I was determined. I felt weak and inadequate. I would pray at those times for Heavenly Father to help me. Without fail, every time I prayed, I would feel comforted.”3

Though missionary work was new and challenging for Elder Pokhrel, he served with great faith and faithfulness, seeking to understand and follow what he was learning from the scriptures, Preach My Gospel, and his mission leaders. He became a powerful teacher of the gospel—in English—and an excellent leader. After his mission and some time in Nepal, he returned to India to continue his education. Since January he has served as a branch president in New Delhi. Because of the real growth he experienced as a missionary, he continues to contribute to the real growth of the Church in India.

Certainly President Spencer W. Kimball was not ambitious to be President of the Church, but when the call came, unexpected as it may have been, he was ready. He never slipped off his shoes while the game was still on—not ever.
Let me cite just one example of that preparation which started many years ago, when President Kimball was the age of many of you. When he was 14 years old, a Church leader visited a conference of the stake over which his father presided and told the congregation that they should read the scriptures.
President Kimball, in recalling that experience, said: “I recognized that I had never read the Bible, [so] that very night at the conclusion of that very sermon I walked to my home a block away and climbed up in my little attic room in the top of the house and lighted a little coal-oil lamp that was on the little table, and I read the first chapters of Genesis. A year later I closed the Bible, having read every chapter in that big and glorious book. … It was formidable, but I knew if others did it that I could do it.
“I found,” said President Kimball, “that there were certain parts that were hard for a 14-year-old boy to understand. There were some pages that were not especially interesting to me, but when I had read the 66 books and the 1,189 chapters and 1,519 pages, I had a glowing satisfaction that I had made a goal and that I had achieved it.
“Now I am not telling you this story to boast,” President Kimball concluded, “I am merely using this as an example to say that if I could do it by coal-oil light, you can do it by electric light. I have always been glad I read the Bible from cover to cover” (Ensign, May 1974, 88). In this and a thousand other ways, young Spencer Woolley Kimball silently and efficiently prepared, never dreaming of what lay ahead.

I have a sweet feeling in my heart about President Spencer W. Kimball, who was the prophet when I was baptized. He was a great influence in my life. When I was a new member, he shook my hand in São Paulo, and I have never forgotten it. At one general conference he asked the members to stay out of debt, and I decided I would. In Brazil we have inflation and a lot of financial troubles, but I have never had debts. I am not a rich man, and my family has had many challenges. But we have always overcome them because we followed this wise advice.

I am writing to thank you for the New Era, which I have found to be spiritually uplifting, and to share with you my little miracle. At a point in my life when I had become totally inactive and thought that life was no longer worth living, I started to receive the New Era. I don’t know who paid for the subscription, but I will be eternally grateful because it helped to bring about the turning point in my life. I am now back on the right road, and I know that life is worth living. I have a lot of steps to climb and a lot of praying and learning to do, but I know that my Heavenly Father is beside me all the way.
Terri WhittingPerth, Australia

While at the hospital where they took my daughter Natalie (who had already passed), I was in a state of shock. I was completely numb, physically and mentally. Things were happening around me that I could see but not feel: police asking questions, friends crying, medical staff informing. It’s all a blur yet perfectly clear.
My former bishop and his wife were there. A colleague of mine had called them. My daughter, Natalie, and I had moved from their ward only a few months prior. My bishop and his wife were beloved friends of ours.
The bishop’s wife, also named Natalie, said I would be staying with them. The next thing I knew, I was in their vehicle riding back to my old neighborhood. I had no comprehension of time passing, yet I was aware it was dawn of the next day when I received a priesthood blessing from the bishop and a friend.
I was kept in the loop with all of the funeral arrangements, yet I was unaware of all the details. I would get dressed when I was told to get dressed. I would get in the car when I was told we had somewhere to go. I was a robot following simple commands. That was all I was capable of doing. Surprisingly, I had not yet shed a tear.
My daughter’s funeral was beautiful. There was a lot of laughter mixed with tears, and the Spirit was very much present. My oldest daughter, Victoria, traveled back to Utah from another state. She wrote a song and performed it at the funeral.
I was never approached about the funeral costs except to be informed it was being handled. Within a few weeks the funeral had been paid in full by donations from Church members.
At the time, I was still staying with my former bishop’s family. Members from my previous ward were looking for a new place for me to live. A cute little basement apartment became available, and the next thing I knew, I was signing a lease. This did not happen by my own doing. It was the actions of a network of Church members, including my dear friend Natalie, the bishop’s wife.
Ward members helped move my personal effects and got me and Victoria settled in. The first two months’ rent had been paid in advance—again, by Church member donations. I still had no perception of time, and I was still emotionally numb to a certain degree, yet I was starting to get feeling back.
A few weeks after my daughter’s death, the realization and magnitude of what had happened started to creep in. It was like heavy, thick black smoke seeping in at first, followed by all-consuming billows until I was surrounded by complete darkness. Grief in its rawest has its own dimension of blackness.
Natalie had died on Thanksgiving Day. It was now Christmas. The holidays only magnified my loss. The agony lingered throughout the day and tormented me throughout the night. It was relentless. The tears poured endlessly for days. Minutes passed like hours. Hours passed like days. Days passed like years.
As a divorced woman, I did not have a husband who could go out and earn a living. If I could have, I would have curled up in a ball, locked myself in a closet, and remained there forever. But I didn’t have that luxury. I had to somehow gather the strength to function. I had to find a job. I was working when Thanksgiving Day happened, but somehow in all the chaos, I had forgotten about my job. I could have gone back to it, but my Natalie loved to hang out there, and the thought of going back without her was unbearable.
By the first week of January, I had gotten a low-paying job. I tried to act like I was normal. My body kept going, but I felt like my soul had died. No one knew I was a hollow shell of a being just going through the motions. It was only during the drive to and from work that I was able to break down emotionally. This was my new normal.
I started going to my new ward a little at a time. I just knew if someone asked me how I was doing, I would fall to pieces. I desperately wanted to go to church, but I didn’t want to talk to anyone, much less make eye contact. I wished with all my heart that I could be invisible. More than anything, I just wanted to rip this all-consuming pain out of my chest!
I have no idea what the sisters in Relief Society thought of me, and at the time I didn’t much care. I was too busy just trying to breathe! I’m sure I gave off the impression that I wanted to be left alone, for none of them bothered me. They did, however, occasionally give me a warm smile that I found a little comforting—just the exact small dose to keep me from running out the nearest exit, which was a constant thought.
Time is a healer. It doesn’t erase events, but it allows gaping wounds to slowly close.
That fateful Thanksgiving Day was in 2011, and it took me a few years to realize just how much I was helped by my brothers and sisters in the Church. I felt like I was carried off the battlefield after having been critically wounded. I was nursed back to health and cared for until I could stand on my own.
Countless blessings have come my way, in a variety of ways. My testimony has grown to near full maturity. I know now what it feels like to be held in the loving arms of our Savior.
So to answer my friend’s question, “How did the Church help you through this ordeal?” I say, “They didn’t help me. They saved me.”

In the summer of 2001, Sister Oaks and I were in Manaus, Brazil. I spoke to about 100 missionaries in that great city on the Amazon. As I stood to speak, I was prompted to put aside some notes I usually use on such occasions and substitute some thoughts on the importance of timing—some of the scriptures and principles I have been discussing here.
I reminded the missionaries that some of our most important plans cannot be brought to pass without the agency and actions of others. A missionary cannot baptize five persons this month without the agency and action of five other persons. A missionary can plan and work and do all within his or her power, but the desired result will depend upon the additional agency and action of others.
Consequently, a missionary’s goals ought to be based upon the missionary’s personal agency and action, not upon the agency or action of others. But this is not the time to elaborate on what I told the missionaries about goals. Instead I will share some other applications of the principle of timing, giving illustrations from our personal lives.
Because of things over which we have no control, we cannot plan and bring to pass everything we desire in our lives. Many important things will occur in our lives that we have not planned, and not all of them will be welcome. Even our most righteous desires may elude us or come in different ways or at different times than we have sought to plan.
For example, we cannot be sure that we will marry as soon as we desire. A marriage that is timely in our view may be our blessing or it may not. My wife Kristen is an example. She did not marry until many years after her mission and her graduation.
The timing of marriage is perhaps the best example of an extremely important event in our lives that is almost impossible to plan. Like other important mortal events that depend on the agency of others or the will and timing of the Lord, marriage cannot be anticipated or planned with certainty. We can and should work for and pray for our righteous desires, but despite this, many will remain single well beyond their desired time for marriage.
So what should be done in the meantime? Faith in the Lord Jesus Christ prepares us for whatever life brings. This kind of faith prepares us to deal with life’s opportunities—to take advantage of those that are received and to persist through the disappointments of those that are lost. In the exercise of that faith, we should commit ourselves to the priorities and standards we will follow on matters we do not control and persist faithfully in those commitments, whatever happens to us because of the agency of others or the timing of the Lord. When we do this, we will have a constancy in our lives that will give us direction and peace. Whatever the circumstances beyond our control, our commitments and standards can be constant.
The commitments and service of adult singles can anchor them through the difficult years of waiting for the right time and the right person. Their commitments and service can also inspire and strengthen others. Wise are those who make this commitment: I will put the Lord first in my life, and I will keep His commandments. The performance of that commitment is within everyone’s control. We can fulfill that commitment without regard to what others decide to do, and that commitment will anchor us no matter what timing the Lord directs for the most important events in our lives.
Do you see the difference between committing to what you will do, in contrast with trying to plan that you will be married by the time you graduate or that you will earn at least X amount of dollars on your first job?
If we have faith in God and if we are committed to the fundamentals of keeping His commandments and putting Him first in our lives, we do not need to plan every single event—even every important event—and we should not feel rejected or depressed if some things—even some very important things—do not happen at the time we had planned or hoped or prayed.
Commit yourself to put the Lord first in your life, keep His commandments, and do what the Lord’s servants ask you to do. Then your feet are on the pathway to eternal life. Then it does not matter whether you are called to be a bishop or a Relief Society president, whether you are married or single, or whether you die tomorrow. You do not know what will happen. Do your best on what is fundamental and personal and then trust in the Lord and His timing.
Life has some strange turns. I will share some personal experiences that illustrate this.
When I was a young man I thought I would serve a mission. I graduated from high school in June 1950. Thousands of miles away, one week after that high school graduation, a North Korean army crossed the 38th parallel, and our country was at war. I was 17 years old, but as a member of the Utah National Guard, I was soon under orders to prepare for mobilization and active service. Suddenly, for me and for many other young men of my generation, the full-time mission we had planned or hoped for was not to be.
Another example: After I served as president of Brigham Young University for nine years, I was released. A few months later the governor of the state of Utah appointed me to a 10-year term on the supreme court of the state. I was then 48 years old. My wife June and I tried to plan the rest of our lives. We wanted to serve the full-time mission neither of us had been privileged to serve. We planned that I would serve 20 years on the state supreme court. Then, at the end of two 10-year terms, when I would be nearly 69 years old, I would retire from the supreme court and we would submit our missionary papers and serve a mission as a couple.
I had my 69th birthday two years ago and was vividly reminded of that important plan. If things had gone as we planned, I would have submitted papers to serve a mission with my wife June.
Four years after we made that plan I was called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles—something we never dreamed would happen. Realizing then that the Lord had different plans and different timing than we had assumed, I resigned as a justice of the supreme court. But this was not the end of the important differences. When I was 66, my wife June died of cancer. Two years later I married Kristen McMain, the eternal companion who now stands at my side.
How fundamentally different my life is than I had sought to plan! My professional life has changed. My personal life has changed. But the commitment I made to the Lord—to put Him first in my life and to be ready for whatever He would have me do—has carried me through these changes of eternal importance.
Faith and trust in the Lord give us the strength to accept and persist, whatever happens in our lives. I did not know why I received a “no” answer to my prayers for the recovery of my wife of many years, but the Lord gave me a witness that this was His will, and He gave me the strength to accept it. Two years after her death, I met the wonderful woman who is now my wife for eternity. And I know that this also was the will of the Lord.
I return to the subject with which I began. Do not rely on planning every event of your life—even every important event. Stand ready to accept the Lord’s planning and the agency of others in matters that inevitably affect you. Plan, of course, but fix your planning on personal commitments that will carry you through no matter what happens. Anchor your life to eternal principles, and act upon those principles whatever the circumstances and whatever the actions of others. Then you can await the Lord’s timing and be sure of the outcome in eternity.
The most important principle of timing is to take the long view. Mortality is just a small slice of eternity, but how we conduct ourselves here—what we become by our actions and desires, confirmed by our covenants and the ordinances administered to us by proper authority—will shape our destiny for all eternity. As the prophet Amulek taught, “This life is the time for men to prepare to meet God” (Alma 34:32). That reality should help us take the long view—the timing of eternity.
I pray that each of us will hear and heed the word of the Lord on how to conduct ourselves in mortality and set our standards and make our commitments so that we can be in harmony and in tune with the timing of our Father in Heaven.

When our children were young, we moved into a small house with a beautiful yard. On either side of the front door were two empty flowerbeds, and though my gardening experience was limited, I was excited to plant flowers there. I bought a gardening book and ordered plant and seed catalogs and studied them carefully.
Over the next few months I planned my garden, prepared the soil, and planted more than 200 bulbs. I knew it would be a few more months before I would see any results, but still I checked the garden often for growth. In early spring my flowers started to bloom, beginning with tiny purple irises and then daffodils. By the middle of spring my flower boxes were filled with a splendid display of tulips. I loved my garden, and I often sat on the front steps just to look at the flowers.
One afternoon our four-year-old daughter, Emily, had a friend over to play. Just before her friend’s mother came to pick her up, the girls struggled in through the kitchen door, their arms filled with heaps of tulips. “Look what we’ve brought you,” they said happily. They had picked nearly every bloom.
Tulips bloom only once a year. I was heartbroken—all that work, all that waiting. We filled my vases with flowers and sent the rest home with Emily’s friend. Later, as I complained to my mother about the disaster, she said, “Well, it’s a good thing you’re raising children and not flowers.”
I realized that I needed to change my perspective. I remembered the Primary song I had sung with my girls about gathering flowers:
Dear mother, all flowers remind me of you.
O mother, I give you my love with each flower.1
I saw the ruin of my garden, but two four-year-old girls saw a gesture of love.
Planting a flower garden had required patience, and stepping back and looking at this incident through my child’s eyes required even more patience. But learning patience as a mother draws me closer to the Lord.

The blessings we receive might not always be money. A true story about a man named Edward Stokes Rich shows how we can be blessed by paying our tithing.
When Edward Stokes Rich was twelve years old he went to work to help earn money for his family because he didn’t have a father. He worked at night for a local newspaper. He always gave the money he earned to his mother and she would take his tithing out for him to give to the bishop.
One month his mother said, “Edward, I know that you have no overcoat, and you must walk many miles to and from work each night. With winter coming soon, it’s going to be very cold when you walk home at four or five o’clock in the morning. So I’ll give you your tithing money and you can either pay your tithing or buy an overcoat. I’ll leave the decision up to you.”
He did exactly what she knew he’d do. Edward later recorded, “I took the money, ran immediately over to the bishop’s house, and paid the tithing.”
A week later his Aunt Mary came to visit, and brought with her an overcoat that one of her sons had outgrown. It fit Edward perfectly and “was a better overcoat than he could have purchased.” From that day, Edward recorded, he was always generous in paying his tithes and other Church offerings. (See Carol Rich Brown, Tambuli, December 1982)

Celie turned the butter knife over and leveled the top of a cup of flour. “I can make it flat with one try,” she told her grandmother.
“I think you’re going to be a baker when you grow up,” Grandma said, pitting the cherries. She pinched another plump cherry, and juice splattered all over her glasses. “Uh-oh. I’m going to need windshield wipers for my glasses if the juice keeps hitting me instead of the bowl.”
Celie laughed. “I can measure the flour, but I’m glad you did the seed part. That’s too messy.”
Grandma finished the cherries and walked over to check on the pie dough Celie was making. “It looks like there might be too much salt,” she said. “What did you use to measure it?”
Celie leaned over the bowl and stared at the mixture inside. A big tear slid down her nose. “I think I goofed. I put one cup of salt into the bowl instead of one teaspoon.”
Grandma wiped away Celie’s tear. “I know how to solve this problem. I have a great play-dough recipe that calls for lots of salt.”
Grandma pretended to have a magic wand and waved it over the bowl. “Poof, you’re now play dough—not pie dough.”
Celie giggled.
Grandma set aside the play dough. “I’ll help you start over with the pie dough. After we measure the dry ingredients, I will teach you how to cut in the shortening.”
“Cut it?” Celie asked. “With scissors?”
Grandma laughed. “No, I use a pastry cutter.”
“How are we going to get all those crumbs flat?”
“The rolling pin makes the dough smooth and round,” Grandma answered.
“You mean like when I roll clay into a long, round snake?”
Grandma chuckled. “No snakes in our pie.”
“You know what I like about cooking?” Celie asked, wiping the flour off her hands.
“Licking the bowl?”
“That’s second best,” Celie said. “Most of all I like doing things with you.”
Grandma squeezed Celie’s shoulder. “When I was a little girl my grandma taught me how to make tarts. They’re like miniature pies. While my grandma was busy peeling apples, I stuffed the tiny tart tins full of dough. I filled them so high there wasn’t room for the apple filling.”
“Did she get mad?” Celie asked.
“No, she showed me how to fix the tarts and rolled the leftovers into a ball. I got to play with it. She even let me sneak a taste of the dough.”
Grandma pinched off a piece from the edge of the cherry pie and popped it into her mouth.
“Grandma, you’re still sneaking it,” Celie said, shaking her finger.
Grandma laughed and gave her a hug.
Celie was quiet.
“What are you thinking?” Grandma asked.
“Your grandma taught you to make pies. And now you’re the grandma and you’re teaching me.”
“That’s right,” Grandma answered.
“Heavenly Father has a good plan,” Celie said. “He puts us in families. When I’m a grandma, I can teach my granddaughter to make a pie. If she puts in too much salt, I’ll turn it into play dough too.”
Grandma smiled. “We all make mistakes, Celie. Sometimes we have to do things over. Sometimes we just learn and go on. Mistakes help us grow.” Grandma sprinkled sugar over the pies and slid them into the oven. “Let’s go finish that play dough.”
Celie held Grandma’s hand and skipped to the counter.
“I’m kind of glad you put in too much salt,” Grandma said. “I think I’ll roll out a long play-dough snake.”
Celie laughed. “And I’m going to make some windshield wipers for your glasses.”

In April of 1950, my wife, Frances, and I were in attendance at the Sunday afternoon session of general conference, held in this building. President George Albert Smith was the President of the Church, and in closing the conference, he delivered an inspiring and powerful message concerning the Resurrection of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Before he concluded his remarks, however, he sounded a prophetic warning. Said he: “It will not be long until calamities will overtake the human family unless there is speedy repentance. It will not be long before those who are scattered over the face of the earth by millions will die … because of what will come” (in Conference Report, Apr. 1950, 169). These were alarming words, for they came from a prophet of God.
Two and a half months after that general conference, on June 25, 1950, war broke out in Korea—a war which would eventually claim an estimated 2.5 million lives. This event prompted me to reflect on the statement President Smith made as we sat in this building that spring day.
I attended many general conference sessions in the Tabernacle, always being edified and inspired by the words of the Brethren. Then, in October of 1963, President David O. McKay invited me to his office and extended to me a call to serve as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. He asked that I keep this sacred call confidential, revealing it to no one except my wife, and that I be present for general conference in the Tabernacle the next day, when my name would be read aloud.
The following morning I came into the Tabernacle not knowing exactly where to sit. Being a member of the Priesthood Home Teaching Committee, I determined that I would be seated among the members of that committee. I noticed a friend of mine by the name of Hugh Smith, who was also a member of the Priesthood Home Teaching Committee. He motioned for me to sit by him. I couldn’t say a thing to him about my call, but I sat down.
During the session, the members of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles were sustained and, of course, my name was read. I believe the walk from the audience to the stand was the longest walk of my life.
It has been nearly 44 years since that conference. Until the year 2000, when the Conference Center was dedicated, it was my privilege to deliver 101 general conference messages from the pulpit in this building, not including those given at general auxiliary conferences and other meetings held here. My remarks today bring the total to 102. I have had many spiritual experiences over the years as I have stood here.
During the message I delivered at general conference in October 1975, I felt prompted to direct my remarks to a little girl with long blonde hair who was seated in the balcony of this building. I called the attention of the audience to her and felt a freedom of expression which testified to me that this small girl needed the message I had in mind concerning the faith of another young lady.
At the conclusion of the session, I returned to my office and found waiting for me a young child by the name of Misti White, together with her grandparents and an aunt. As I greeted them, I recognized Misti as the one in the balcony to whom I had directed my remarks. I learned that as her eighth birthday approached, she was in a quandary concerning whether or not to be baptized. She felt she would like to be baptized, and her grandparents, with whom she lived, wanted her to be baptized, but her less-active mother suggested she wait until she was 18 years of age to make the decision. Misti had told her grandparents, “If we go to conference in Salt Lake City, maybe Heavenly Father will let me know what I should do.”
Misti and her grandparents and her aunt had traveled from California to Salt Lake City for conference and were able to obtain seats in the Tabernacle for the Saturday afternoon session. This was where they were seated when my attention was drawn to Misti and my decision made to speak to her.
As we continued our visit after the session, Misti’s grandmother said to me, “I think Misti has something she would like to tell you.” This sweet young girl said, “Brother Monson, while you were speaking in conference, you answered my question. I want to be baptized!”
The family returned to California, and Misti was baptized and confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Through all the years since, Misti has remained true and faithful to the gospel of Jesus Christ. Fourteen years ago, it was my privilege to perform her temple marriage to a fine young man, and together they are rearing five beautiful children, with another one on the way.