Gospel Story Finder

Laney was trying very hard to be reverent in church. But she was tired, and her legs felt wiggly.
After the sacrament was over, Laney opened her book about Jesus. She found the picture of Jesus with the little children. It made her feel peaceful and happy inside.
After sacrament meeting was over, Laney asked Mommy, “Why is it easier to be reverent when I look at my book about Jesus?”
“I think it’s because it reminds you how much Jesus loves you,” Mommy said.
Laney smiled. “Do you think Jesus knows that I love Him too?” she asked.
Mommy gave Laney a hug. “Yes, I’m sure He does.”

I recall a young man who, as a boy of 13, led his quorum of deacons in a successful search for the Christmas spirit. He and his companions lived in a neighborhood in which many elderly widows of limited means resided. All the year long, the boys had saved and planned for a glorious Christmas party. They were thinking of themselves, until the Christmas spirit prompted them to think of others. Frank, as their leader, suggested to his companions that the funds they had saved so carefully be used not for the planned party, but rather for the benefit of three elderly widows who resided together.
The boys made their plans. As their bishop, I needed but to follow. With the enthusiasm of a new adventure, the boys purchased a giant roasting chicken, the potatoes, the vegetables, the cranberries, and all that comprises the traditional Christmas feast. To the widows’ home they went, carrying their gifts of treasure. Through the snow and up the path to the tumbledown porch they came. A knock at the door, the sound of slow footsteps, and then they met.
In the unmelodic voices characteristic of 13-year-olds, the boys sang: “Silent night! Holy night! All is calm, all is bright.” They then presented their gifts. Angels on that glorious night of long ago sang no more beautifully, nor did Wise Men present gifts of greater meaning. I gazed at the faces of those wonderful women and thought to myself, “Somebody’s mother.” I then looked on the countenances of those noble boys and reflected, “Somebody’s son.”
Not one of those boys ever forgot that precious pilgrimage. Christmas gifts had become Christmas blessings.

Elder Gibbons is currently President of the Brazil Area. Speaking about that assignment, Elder Gibbons said, “One time I had some important meetings that I needed to attend in Campinas, Brazil. I had a map that showed me where I was to meet the stake president, but I didn’t know that there are two roads that lead into Campinas and that we had taken the wrong one.
“After we had traveled some distance, it was obvious that we had taken the wrong road. My wife and I then drove into the city, hoping to find our hotel. Unable to communicate with anyone, we finally admitted that we were lost.
“I began to pray fervently to Heavenly Father to please help us find our stake president. Soon after I had prayed, I had the impression ‘Stop here and go into that building.’ I stopped and backed up. Sister Gibbons went into the building and found a man who spoke English. He said, ‘I can’t tell you how to get to your hotel, but I’ll lead you there.’ He got into his car and led us six or seven miles through Campinas to the outskirts of the city. The stake president was just pulling into the driveway of our hotel. Because of Heavenly Father’s help, I was able to make my meetings on time.
“I can’t think of any time in my life when I have prayed with fervency and faith that the Lord hasn’t answered that prayer.

One young woman found that when she was humble the Lord helped her make the type of decision the prophet spoke of.
“When I first heard these marvelous words by our prophet, it was during the time when I was struggling,” she wrote. “I was currently dating a nonmember friend, and I could see my life changing—and not for the better. As I took the dear prophet’s advice, I got down on my knees and humbly prayed to my Father in Heaven. A few weeks later my Sunday School teacher gave me the answer I needed as we were talking about our choices and consequences that follow. I knew right then that I was going to stop dating this good friend.
“I know with all my heart that the Lord humbled me enough so I could receive the answer I needed. Through this powerful experience I have been able to give this great young man a copy of the Book of Mormon, and within a few short weeks he is going to be baptized.”

I love playing soccer and making stop-motion videos. Last summer, I turned 11 and was so excited that I could be ordained to the priesthood in a year. I decided to prepare. I became more sensitive to the Spirit and repented regularly. Soon after, President Nelson announced changes that meant I could be ordained before I turned 12! I was grateful I had prepared so that I could be ordained at the beginning of this year.
Atticus P., 13, Utah, USA

Like many of you, I have shared the gospel with some who are soon baptized or activated, and others—such as my nonmember friend Tim and his less-active wife, Charlene—take much more time.
For over 25 years I engaged Tim in gospel conversations and took Tim and Charlene to temple open houses. Others joined the rescue; however, Tim declined each invitation made to meet with the missionaries.
One weekend I was assigned to preside at a stake conference. I had asked the stake president to fast and pray about whom we should visit. I was shocked when he handed me the name of my friend Tim. When Tim’s bishop, the stake president, and I knocked on the door, Tim opened it, looked at me, looked at the bishop, and then said, “Bishop, I thought you told me you were going to bring somebody special!”
Then Tim laughed and said, “Come on in, Merv.” A miracle occurred that day. Tim has now been baptized, and he and Charlene have been sealed in the temple. We must never give up.

Years ago, in search of adventure, my two sons and I accompanied a Young Men group to the Moaning Cavern, so named for a sound that at one time echoed out of its mouth. The cavern is a chimney cave which opens into a 180-foot-deep (55 m) vertical chamber, the largest single-cave chamber in California.
There are only two ways down: the safe circular staircase or rappelling to the cavern’s floor; my sons and I chose to rappel. My older son went first, while my younger son and I purposely went last so that we would descend together.
After our guides instructed and secured us with harness and belay gear to a strong rope, we inched backward until we stood on a small ledge and gathered our confidence, as this was the last place to turn around and the last place we could see any sunlight from the mouth of the cave.
Our next step backwards plunged us into a cathedral cavern so tall and wide that it could swallow the Statue of Liberty. There we dangled in a slow spin as our eyes adjusted to the relative darkness. As we continued our descent, the glow of electric lights illuminated an amazing wall of glistening stalagmites and stalactites.
Without warning, the lights suddenly went completely out. Suspended above the abyss, we were engulfed in a darkness so profound that we could not even see our hands on the ropes in front of us. A voice instantly called out, “Dad, Dad, are you there?”
“I’m here, Son; I’m right here,” I responded.
The unexpected loss of light was designed to show that without electricity, the darkness of the cavern was impenetrable. It succeeded; we “felt” the darkness. When the lights did return, the darkness instantly surrendered, as darkness must always surrender, to even the faintest light. My sons and I have been left with a memory of a darkness we had never known, a greater appreciation for light we will never forget, and the assurance that we are never all alone in the dark.

Some years ago the entire United States was shocked with the report that a group of cadets at the U.S. Military Academy had been discharged because of cheating on their examinations in violation of the honor code and the solemn promise they gave at the time they entered the service. The reaction among the people of the United States was, to some extent, disappointing. Instead of feeling indignant, many seemed to justify cheating, stating that the honor standards were too high and that some cheating should be expected. One of the cadets who had withheld information said, “You don’t ‘fink’ on your buddies.”

Does it pay to be honest? This is probably one of the most constant questions for all children and young people. Older people have usually given their answer one way or another. How will you decide?

While in high school I watched my classmates play a special classroom game. The students were matched against the teacher. The name of the game was “How to pass the answers in an examination from one side of the room to the other without the knowledge of the teacher.” One boy in the middle of the room was the “quarterback.” He had a special knack and skillfully and joyfully carried out the process. The game was so much fun that many of the students participated, not thinking themselves dishonest, but merely playing a game. I tried it myself a time or two, though I felt little need of help in answering the questions. On one such attempt the teacher caught me, and the embarrassment and overpowering sense of guilt put an effective stop to my participation.

I noticed, however, that in the following years there was a little soft spot in my character. For example, after having served as a missionary and for four years in the U.S. Armed Forces, I was studying at a university, and there, sometimes, sitting in the back of the room during an examination, I discovered that I had a physical disability. A certain muscle in my neck had a tendency to twist my head in the direction of my neighbor’s paper. I was unaware how this weakness had developed, but it began to trouble me. I knew, of course, what was right, and I didn’t cheat, but how was I to control the involuntary muscle spasm?

One day I performed mental surgery on my neck. It was in the form of a lecture to myself, as follows: “Grant, before you came to school this morning you knew about this examination and you have studied the material carefully. Don’t you remember how, because it was so important, you knelt down and asked Heavenly Father to quicken your mind and increase your powers of memory and recall? Now, Grant, you know the rules of the gospel. You understand that if you take help from your neighbor, you are not going to get any from the Lord. Just make up your mind. Whose help would you rather have?”

You can see how, after that little pep talk, my neck muscle was completely cured.

The name Rudger Clawson will, unfortunately, be unfamiliar to many of you. For forty-five years Brother Clawson was a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and for twenty-two of those years served as the president of that quorum. But long before any of those responsibilities came to him, he had a chance to prove his faithfulness and demonstrate in his youth just how willing he was to defend his beliefs, even at the peril of his life.

As a young man Brother Clawson had been called on a mission to the Southern States. At that time in America’s history, well over one hundred years ago, malicious mobs were still in existence, outlaws who threatened the safety of members of the Church and others. Elder Clawson and his missionary companion, Elder Joseph Standing, were traveling on foot to a missionary conference when, nearing their destination, they were suddenly confronted by twelve armed and angry men on horseback.

With cocked rifles and revolvers shoved in their faces, the two elders were repeatedly struck and occasionally knocked to the ground as they were led away from their prescribed path and forced to walk deep into the nearby woods. Elder Joseph Standing, knowing what might lie in store for them, made a bold move and seized a pistol within his reach. Instantly one of the assailants turned his gun on young Standing and fired. Another mobber, pointing to Elder Clawson, said, “Shoot that man.” In response every weapon in the circle was turned on him.

It seemed to this young elder that his fate was to be the same as that of his fallen brother. He said: “I … at once realized there was no avenue of escape. My time had come. … My turn to follow Joseph Standing was at hand.” He folded his arms, looked his assailants in the face, and said, “Shoot.”

Whether stunned by this young elder’s courage or now fearfully aware of what they had already done to his companion, we cannot know, but someone in that fateful moment shouted, “Don’t shoot,” and one by one the guns were lowered. Terribly shaken but driven by loyalty to his missionary companion, Elder Clawson continued to defy the mob. Never certain that he might not yet be shot, young Rudger, often working and walking with his back to the mob, was able to carry the body of his slain companion to a safe haven where he performed the last act of kindness for his fallen friend. There he gently washed the bloody stains from the missionary’s body and prepared it for the long train ride home (in David S. Hoopes and Roy Hoopes, The Making of a Mormon Apostle: The Story of Rudger Clawson [New York: Madison Books, 1990], pp. 23–31).

I tell that story with some concern, hoping no one will dwell on the death of a young missionary or think gospel living brought only trials or tragedies in those early years. But I do share it for an ever younger and ever newer generation in the Church who may not know the gifts that earlier men and women—including young men and women—have given us in what our new film states simply in another single word—Legacy.

In 1983 his beloved wife, Clara Jeffs Hunter, passed away. She had suffered a devastating stroke several years before that had left her very much diminished. President Hunter tended to her needs, providing loving care with respect and an uncommon devotion for many years, with a complete disregard for his own health. But there was a reward, for as diminished as she was, Claire would smile and respond only to him. The tenderness so evident in their communication was heartrending. We have never seen such an example of devotion of a husband to his wife. Theirs was a many-splendored love affair. Love is service.

When my husband, Joe, told me he wanted to get baptized, I was anything but excited. I had grown up in the Church, but over the years I had struggled with certain ideas and policies. As a young adult, I eventually stopped going to Church meetings and started studying other religions as well as nonreligious lifestyles.
During this time of exploration, I met Joe, and we began living together. My family was concerned about me, but we always had a great relationship. Joe and I often went to family and religious events to support them. We lived this way for four years, and I was happy with it.
Joe and I eventually got married, and soon I became pregnant. During this time, we went to a family reunion with my side of the family. Every day during the reunion, my family held a devotional. Each individual family gave a lesson or bore their testimonies. One devotional was about how amazing my grandparents’ lives had been and what a great role the Church had played in that. Many also talked about how the gospel had brought strength and happiness into their own lives.
When we returned home, Joe was determined to meet with the missionaries. When I asked why, he said, “I need to know for myself what your family members were talking about.” I told him to go ahead. I figured he’d get the basics and then call it good. But after three lessons, Joe wanted to be baptized!
“This is so fast,” I said. “Are you sure you know what it means to be a member of the Church?”
“It means we’re going to go to church and figure it out,” he said with a smile.
I wasn’t terribly excited, but we agreed that he could keep taking the lessons, though he wouldn’t commit to baptism until I was OK with it.
After a few weeks, my feelings about the Church hadn’t changed. But Joe had. He had discovered faith and prayer. He had a sense of peace and confidence that he hadn’t felt before. And it was beautiful to see. I decided that no matter what I was feeling, I couldn’t take this away from him. We determined that if he was going on this journey, we were going to do it together. So Joe got baptized.
A lot of people at the baptism knew I’d been raised in the Church and assumed I must be thrilled. But I felt a mixture of pride in Joe for being so brave, and fear for what this was going to mean for our life together.
I started going to church with Joe, and we made a plan to deal with my concerns. The first step was to identify what, exactly, bothered me about the gospel. We bought a small journal that I brought with me every Sunday. Whenever someone made a comment that irritated me, looked at a scripture with a perspective that I thought seemed odd, or talked about a policy that rubbed me the wrong way, I wrote down my feelings.
I scribbled in that journal for months. I would say things like, “I hate it when people say … ,” “Doesn’t anyone fact-check?” and “That makes no sense to me.” Expressing my feelings as I had them made them easier for me to understand and process. Before, when something bothered me, I would hold on to it all day, and it would poison my church experience. But as I wrote in my journal, I became free to enjoy more of church, in between the moments I struggled with. I was getting more out of it than I had in a long time.
Now that I had identified what bothered me, the next step was determining why these things bugged me. As we would eat Sunday dinner, Joe and I would discuss what I’d written in my journal. Sometimes I would simply say, “This is how I feel. I don’t know why.” Figuring things out took a lot of discussion, personal thought, and prayer. One thing I’ve always believed is that prayer is the most important and accurate source of information on pretty much everything.
Working together, Joe and I realized that when you know who you are and what you believe, it builds a wall of protection around your heart. And so, after a while of writing in my journal and discussing it with Joe and with Heavenly Father, I ran out of criticism regarding the Church.
When the one-year anniversary of Joe’s baptism was approaching, he started asking about going to the temple. Again, my reaction was, “Whoa! Slow down! I’m not ready for that.”
So my patient husband waited. Every now and then, he would slip something into the conversation like, “Honey, I read a great article about the temple. Do you want to read it?” or “Hey, babe, I saw a wonderful video about the temple. Do you want to watch it with me?” His enthusiasm was endearing, but it wasn’t getting me any closer to being ready to go to the temple. Finally, one day he asked me directly what made me feel unprepared.
“You know I had some issues with the Church growing up,” I said. “But I loved going to the temple. Baptism trips were my favorite. I loved the way I felt in the temple, so calm and peaceful. But I don’t know about the rest of the temple. What if someone says or does something that bothers me? What if that ruins going to the temple for me? What would be the point of being a member of the Church if you can’t go to the temple? So I don’t want to go until I’m sure nothing will shake me.”
I found solutions to most of my issues, but I was still struggling with one: how could I be part of a church I didn’t always agree with? This led me to the final step of learning from my journal. I realized I needed to try to understand why other people believe what they believe and say what they say. I needed to know why God had directed the Church to be the way it is today.
I found my answer through my husband. When he first started reading the Book of Mormon, a line from the title page stood out to him: “And now, if there are faults they are the mistakes of men; wherefore, condemn not the things of God.” Joe had quoted this over and over, but now it meant something more to me.
I realized that the Church exists in an imperfect world populated by imperfect people. And that includes me. We all have times when we get things wrong before we get them right. I realized I needed to stop judging others, just as I wouldn’t want them to judge me. We are all on a path of learning and growth.
I also realized that the Church is the Lord’s. It is in His hands. Yes, He works through imperfect people, but He directs His work. He knows what is needed, and when.
After this, I felt ready to go to the temple. I was pleased to find that it felt just as good on that day as it had years before when I had done baptisms. On our third wedding anniversary, my husband and I went to the temple again to be sealed together and have our son sealed to us. It was so sweet and such a happy day. I kept thinking that this was what all families are meant to be—eternal. And I had yet another realization: though there might be policies or doctrines that might take me time to sort out, there are also rare and beautiful truths in the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. One is that each of us can actually talk to Heavenly Father and receive answers. Another is that through living prophets, He gives guidance for our day.
Through my experiences, I truly know that revelation for the Church (given through Church leaders) and personal revelation for each of us allow Heavenly Father to guide us through our mistakes and triumphs. As we follow His map for our lives, we can find great happiness in knowing Him and His Son, Jesus Christ (see John 17:3). I am proud to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Pete Penguin had lived in the zoo all his life. It was a nice place to live. There were flat rocks warmed by the sun, a pool with a sloped back to slide on, and lots of people who came to see the penguins.
Pete liked the visitors. Every morning he groomed his black and white feathers so that he would look beautiful when the visitors came.
“Isn’t he pretty?” people said as Pete strutted by.
Pete never tired of their admiring words. He was very proud.
One day, as he was showing off for the visitors, Pete heard two children giggling. Why are they laughing? he wondered as he moved closer to the fence of his pen.
“Look at him,” a girl cried. “Doesn’t he look funny?” She pointed at Pete.
“He looks like a little old man in a suit,” a boy said, and they both broke into peals of laughter.
“All he needs is a tie,” the girl said, still giggling.
“Silly bird!”
The children moved on toward the lion’s cage, and Pete watched them go. He looked at the other penguins and studied their white breast feathers and sleek black coats. No one had ever laughed before at the way he looked.
We do look silly, he decided. Walking away from the fence, Pete sat in the shadows where no one could see him. He watched the other penguins strut past the visitors. I’ll never act like that again, he thought.
Pete wanted to hide, but even in the shade, his white breast feathers glistened. Finally he waddled to the edge of a pool where there was lots of gooey brown mud. He sat in the mud and used his short wings to splash it all over his white feathers.
“What are you doing, Pete?”
Pete looked up at his friend Paul. “I’m covering myself with mud.”
“Why?”
“Because we look like silly little old men in suits.”
Paul shook his head. “You look awful,” he said and walked away.
But no one will laugh at me now, Pete thought.
Every day, while the other penguins groomed their feathers, Pete covered himself with a new layer of mud. No one laughed at him, but Pete didn’t feel better. In fact, he felt awful. When visitors came, he huddled in a corner.
“Come on, Pete,” Paul called. “Let’s play water tag.”
Pete just shook his head, and soon even Paul left him alone.
One morning, as Pete huddled behind a rock, he heard someone say, “Look at that bird over there. What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s all dirty.”
“He doesn’t even look like a penguin.”
“I guess he doesn’t like himself very much.”
The voices faded away, and Pete thought for a long time about what they’d said.
That afternoon Pete went to the pond and slid down the bank into the cool water. He splashed and swam and splashed some more until all the mud was gone. Then he climbed onto a rock and groomed himself.
“You look great,” Paul said as he passed the rock. “But aren’t you afraid you’ll look silly?”
Pete put one more feather in place, then looked at his friend and said, “I discovered that it’s not what other people think of me that makes me feel good. It’s what I think of myself.”

“A young mother on an overnight flight with a two-year-old daughter was stranded by bad weather in Chicago airport without food or clean clothing for the child and without money. She was . . . pregnant and threatened with miscarriage, so she was under doctor’s instructions not to carry the child unless it was essential. Hour after hour she stood in one line after another, trying to get a flight to Michigan. The terminal was noisy, full of tired, frustrated, grumpy passengers, and she heard critical references to her crying child and to her sliding her child along the floor with her foot as the line moved forward. No one offered to help with the soaked, hungry, exhausted child.

“Then, the woman later reported, ‘someone came towards us and with a kindly smile said, “Is there something I could do to help you?” With a grateful sigh I accepted his offer. He lifted my sobbing little daughter from the cold floor and lovingly held her to him while he patted her gently on the back. He asked if she could chew a piece of gum. When she was settled down, he carried her with him and said something kindly to the others in the line ahead of me, about how I needed their help. They seemed to agree and then he went up to the ticket counter [at the front of the line] and made arrangements with the clerk for me to be put on a flight leaving shortly. He walked with us to a bench, where we chatted a moment, until he was assured that I would be fine. He went on his way. About a week later I saw a picture of Apostle Spencer W. Kimball and recognized him as the stranger in the airport.

“Several years later, President Kimball received a letter that read, in part:
“‘Dear President Kimball:
“‘I am a student at Brigham Young University. I have just returned from my mission in Munich, West Germany. I had a lovely mission and learned much. . . .
“‘I was sitting in priesthood meeting last week when a story was told of a loving service which you performed some twenty-one years ago in the Chicago airport. The story told of how you met a young pregnant mother with a . . . screaming child, in . . . distress, waiting in a long line for her tickets. She was threatening miscarriage and therefore couldn’t lift her child to comfort her. She had experienced four previous miscarriages, which gave added reason for the doctor’s orders not to bend or lift.
“‘You comforted the crying child and explained the dilemma to the other passengers in line. This act of love took the strain and tension off my mother. I was born a few months later in Flint, Michigan.
“‘I just want to thank you for your love. Thank you for your example.’”2

I was twelve years old when my grandfather died. To me he was the epitome of a saint—kindly, gentle, purely good.
His death was difficult for me to believe, and it made me very sad. I had not only lost a friend but I was also convinced that somehow heaven had allowed him to die too early. In my childish (though enthusiastic) understanding of the gospel, I had been sure that he was destined to be a great leader in the Church before he left this world. He was a man of great charity, who had literally given his shoes to a beggar knocking at the door, his coat to another man who was colder than he. I was sure that his death came too early. He had too much more service to give.
As I look back now, I see that I equated service with high callings. So many of the Saints have a basic goodness, a charity that qualifies them to be disciples. But serving is not synonymous with position. Whether serving in a visible calling or in secluded corners, disciples follow the example of the Christ. A calling may formalize our work for him, but serving is a blessing available to all of us, whether officially called through the Church organization or in our daily association with others.
My grandfather tried to copy the Savior’s life. My grandfather’s life was not wasted. I was deeply affected by his life, and I’m sure many other people were also influenced by him. I will tell my own children about the patterns of goodness that emerged in his life in simple yet powerful ways. Any one of us can become a disciple by following examples of goodness as he did.

We need not worry about knowing the right thing to say or do when we get there. The love of God and the Holy Spirit may be enough. When I was a young man I feared that I would not know what to do or to say to people in great need.
Once I was at the hospital bedside of my father as he seemed near death. I heard a commotion among the nurses in the hallway. Suddenly, President Spencer W. Kimball walked into the room and sat in a chair on the opposite side of the bed from me. I thought to myself, “Now here is my chance to watch and listen to a master at going to those in pain and suffering.”
President Kimball said a few words of greeting, asked my father if he had received a priesthood blessing, and then, when Dad said that he had, the prophet sat back in his chair.
I waited for a demonstration of the comforting skills I felt I lacked and so much needed. After perhaps five minutes of watching the two of them simply smiling silently at each other, I saw President Kimball rise and say, “Henry, I think I’ll go before we tire you.”
I thought I had missed the lesson, but it came later. In a quiet moment with Dad after he recovered enough to go home, our conversation turned to the visit by President Kimball. Dad said quietly, “Of all the visits I had, that visit I had from him lifted my spirits the most.”
President Kimball didn’t speak many words of comfort, at least that I could hear, but he went with the Spirit of the Lord as his companion to give the comfort. I realize now that he was demonstrating the lesson President Monson taught: “How does one magnify a calling? Simply by performing the service that pertains to it.”

As a child, one of my neighbors owned a large orchard, and my summer job was picking pears and peaches. I would ride my bike over there early in the morning and pick all day. One day, I knew by lunchtime that I had picked fewer bushels than usual, and I thought something really bad would happen to me because I was behind. So I hurried home on my bike for lunch, hoping that somehow my parents would make it right. I was in tears on the way. I remember thinking, “Oh, no, what a terrible thing! What’s going to happen?”
But when I arrived home, nobody was there. The whole family was gone to one place or another. I thought the world was going to come to an end! I had nowhere else to turn, so I knelt down to pray. I asked Heavenly Father to somehow save me from whatever was going to happen. Right away I felt a very sweet inner peace. I knew that everything was going to be all right, and that I didn’t have to worry. So I dried my tears, had lunch, and went back to work. And, indeed, the world did not end—everything was all right. That experience taught me that the Lord is willing to hear my prayers. When problems are important to me, He notices. He will help us when we have trials, even if they seem unimportant to other people.

Growing up in southern Utah, some of us sought employment at the many gasoline service stations that lined old Highway 91 as it made its way through downtown St. George. My younger brother, Paul, then 18, worked at Tom’s Service, a station located about three blocks from our home.
One summer day, a car with New York license plates pulled in the station and asked for a fill-up. (For you brethren under the age of 30, in those days someone actually came out and filled your car with gas, washed your windows, and checked your oil.) While Paul was washing the windshield, the driver asked him how far it was to the Grand Canyon. Paul replied that it was 170 miles.
“I’ve waited all my life to see the Grand Canyon,” the man exclaimed. “What’s it like out there?”
“I don’t know,” Paul answered. “I’ve never been there.”
“You mean to tell me,” the man responded, “that you live two and a half hours from one of the seven wonders of the world and you’ve never been there!”
“That’s right,” Paul said.
After a moment, the man replied, “Well, I guess I can understand that. My wife and I have lived in Manhattan for over 20 years, and we’ve never visited the Statue of Liberty.”
“I’ve been there,” Paul said.
Isn’t it ironic, brethren, that we will often travel many miles to see the wonders of nature or the creations of man, but yet ignore the beauty in our own backyard?
It is human nature, I suppose, to seek elsewhere for our happiness. Pursuit of career goals, wealth, and material rewards can cloud our perspective and often leads to a lack of appreciation for the bounteous blessings of our present circumstances.
It is precarious to dwell on why we have not been given more. It is, however, beneficial and humbling to dwell on why we have been given so much.
An old proverb states, “The greater wealth is contentment with a little.”
In his letter to the Philippians, Paul wrote, “Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content” (Philip. 4:11).
Alma instructed his son Helaman, giving him counsel that all fathers should teach their children: “Counsel with the Lord in all thy doings, and he will direct thee for good; yea, when thou liest down at night lie down unto the Lord, that he may watch over you in your sleep; and when thou risest in the morning let thy heart be full of thanks unto God; and if ye do these things, ye shall be lifted up at the last day” (Alma 37:37).
Alma says, “Let thy heart be full of thanks unto God.” The Lord desires that we give thanks. In Thessalonians we read, “In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you” (1 Thes. 5:18).
As holders of the priesthood we should constantly strive to increase our gratitude. Gratitude may be increased by constantly reflecting on our blessings and giving thanks for them in our daily prayers.
President David O. McKay has said: “The young man who closes the door behind him, who draws the curtains, and there in silence pleads with God for help, should first pour out his soul in gratitude for health, for friends, for loved ones, for the gospel, for the manifestations of God’s existence. He should first count his many blessings and name them one by one” (in Conference Report, Apr. 1961, 7–8).
A constant expression of gratitude should be included in all our prayers. Often prayers are given for specific blessings which we, in our incomplete understanding, believe we need. While the Lord does answer prayers according to His will, He certainly must be pleased when we offer humble prayers of gratitude.
Brethren, the next time we pray, instead of presenting the Lord petition after petition for some action in our behalf, give Him thoughtful thanks for all with which He has blessed us.
President Joseph F. Smith has instructed us that “the spirit of gratitude is always pleasant and satisfying because it carries with it a sense of helpfulness to others; it begets love and friendship, and engenders divine influence. Gratitude is said to be the memory of the heart” (Gospel Doctrine, 5th ed. [1939], 262).
In October of 1879 a group of 237 Latter-day Saints from several small southwestern Utah settlements was called to blaze a new route and colonize what is today known as San Juan County in southeastern Utah. The journey was to have taken six weeks but instead took nearly six months. Their struggles and heroics are well documented, particularly their seemingly impossible task of crossing the Colorado River at a place called Hole-in-the-Rock. Those who have visited this place marvel that wagons and teams could have been lowered through this narrow crack in the red rock canyon walls to reach the Colorado River far below. Once the Colorado was crossed, however, many other severe tests awaited them on the trail to San Juan County. Tired and worn out, early in April 1880 they faced their final obstacle, Comb Ridge. The Comb is a ridge of solid sandstone forming a steep wall nearly 1,000 feet high.
One hundred and twenty years later, our family climbed Comb Ridge on a bright spring day. The ridge is steep and treacherous. It was difficult to imagine that wagons, teams, men, women, and children could make such an ascent. But beneath our feet were the scars from the wagon wheels, left as evidence of their struggles so long ago. How did they feel after enduring so much? Were they bitter after the many months of toil and privation? Did they criticize their leaders for sending them on such an arduous journey, asking them to give up so much? Our questions were answered as we reached the top of Comb Ridge. There inscribed in the red sandstone so long ago were the words, “We thank Thee, O God.”
Brethren, I pray that we might keep our hearts full of thanks and appreciation for what we have and not dwell on what is not ours. As holders of the priesthood, let us adopt an attitude of gratitude in all we do is my prayer, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

In October 1984, I was working as a quality control supervisor for a paper mill in Orani, Bataan, Philippines. Like most paper mills, ours recycled waste paper. One day, the book Meet the Mormons was included in a load of magazines. I got curious, took it into my office, and started reading it. I learned about Joseph Smith and his vision, and I readily accepted that God would reveal himself to a boy. I did not understand the section on the priesthood hierarchy, but I liked the Relief Society section. I read the book several times.
For many months, I had been trying to find more meaning in life. I had always been an active Catholic, and had even attended several meetings to become a Franciscan nun. Still, I felt like a piece of wood drifting in the ocean.
Two weeks later, I was inspecting the raw material in one of the delivery trucks when I noticed a blue book. It was the Book of Mormon! I asked the driver if I could have it. I took it back to my office and started reading. Inside the front cover were the steps of prayer. “Maybe I should try praying this way,” I told myself. It also listed the pages that told of Christ’s visit to America. I eagerly turned to those pages. Here were the Beatitudes and other teachings Jesus gave to the Jews! Were these chapters not copied from the New Testament? Then I realized that he was the very same Christ. Surely he would give the same teachings. I wondered if Christ might have come to the Philippines, too. I turned to 1 Nephi. Who were Lehi, Nephi, and Laman? They were such strange names. I treasured both books.

I was shy and lacked confidence as a sophomore in high school in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Then my life began to change dramatically one Friday afternoon. I attended a football pep rally. It was the typical high school rally: a jam-packed auditorium, a speech or two, lots of yelling and shouting.
As I sat near the back of the auditorium watching the players and cheerleaders, I realized more than ever before that I wasn’t part of their social group and probably never would be. The only thing that kept me from feeling totally dejected was the feeling that my current position didn’t mean that I couldn’t excel at something.
Somewhere during my walk from the pep rally to home I realized that I needed to do something better than anyone else at East High School. My self-image needed this shot of excellence. It was just a simple decision involving no drum rolls, no trumpets, no crowds, and no big buildup.
At this pivotal point in my life, the Holy Ghost touched me and directed me to the Book of Mormon. Being “directed” was a new experience in my life, but it felt so easy and so right. I went straight to our bookshelf when I got home and dusted off Mom’s old hardback edition of the Book of Mormon. As I sat down, I decided that I would learn more about the Book of Mormon than any other person in my high school. I read all of 1 Nephi during that first sitting.
Some of the words on those pages were difficult for me, and I didn’t learn much from that first reading. But I had started toward my goal, and that was immense progress. I felt good inside as I closed the cover. I knew I was doing the right thing. My goal and those feelings launched me on a never-ending path of gospel study and represented the beginnings of a testimony. As time passed, I read more and more from the Book of Mormon, and I began to understand more of what I read. I don’t know if I achieved my goal to learn more about it than any other person at my high school, but I do know what reading it did for me and for my feelings of self-worth.
The spiritual security I found in the Book of Mormon was a haven. I had increased my understanding of eternal truths. And if I couldn’t excel academically, athletically, or socially, it was all brought into realistic perspective by those eternal truths.

Dad was out of town on a business trip, so the only one to greet me when I limped off the plane from my mission was my mother. She held me and we cried.
I took as many medical tests as possible, but the doctors could not find the problem. Taking off my missionary tag nine months early was the hardest thing I have ever done. I felt like a failure for not finishing my mission.
Being a missionary had always been in my plans. When my older brother left on his mission, I dressed up with a homemade name tag to see him off. When the mission age change was announced in 2012, I had just turned 19 and knew that the announcement was an answer to my prayers. I danced around the room, filled out my paperwork that day, set up my medical appointments, and put my papers in within the week. I received my call to the California Anaheim Mission two weeks later and reported to the missionary training center two months after that.
I hit the mission field with “greenie” fire and never wanted to slow down. My trainer and I literally ran to some lessons because we were so excited to teach. For me, being a full-time missionary was the most natural thing in the world. I was awkward and struggled at times, but there was nothing more amazing to me than being a missionary.
Around eight months into my mission, my companions and I were given bikes because of a car shortage. I hadn’t ridden a bike in a long time and wasn’t entirely sure how to do so in a skirt, but I was thrilled anyway. After a few weeks, though, I developed a pain in my side that would come and go. I ignored it and kept working.
The pain became more frequent and more intense until one night my companion had to take me to the emergency room. I took many medical tests but the doctors couldn’t find the source of my pain.
In the weeks that followed, I prayed to Heavenly Father to make the pain go away and received several priesthood blessings, but it just got worse. Every possible position hurt; the pain was constant. But I decided that I could get used to it and kept going.
One day I collapsed on the side of the road, unable to move anymore. I was transported to the hospital to do tests with yet again no results. I tried to take it easy and sit on bus-stop benches with my companions and teach people as they waited for their buses. I sat through lessons, biting my lip through the pain. I eventually pushed myself too far and ended up in the hospital again. I realized that I might permanently damage myself if I stayed on my mission. After a lot of prayer, I received the answer that I should go home to sort out my health issues.
When I realized I was home for good, I was devastated. But I tried my best to maintain my faith and scripture study. My family handled it well, but the other people around me weren’t sure how to react to my situation. They kept asking me questions, and I barely kept it together. One man, however, called me unexpectedly and told me that his son had come home early from a mission a long time ago. He told me that this trial had the potential to destroy my faith and happiness and that it frequently did with many early-returned missionaries. “What you have to remember,” he said, “is that as long as you are trying as hard as you can to live your life righteously, it’s always a step forward no matter what happens outside of your control.”
That became my motto, and I relied on it heavily for the next year. For eight months I could barely walk, but people would still judge me when they found out that I had come home early. They said that there were people with worse medical conditions who had finished serving. They didn’t understand why I couldn’t have finished, even with medical difficulties. It was agonizing to hear this when I had loved my mission so much, but I had faith that Heavenly Father had a purpose for my trial and that it would be a step forward.
I began school again and started dating. I could see that I was progressing, but I felt that I would always view my mission with a little bitterness. Then a friend of mine reminded me that the Savior’s Atonement can heal all pain and bitterness. With His help I could be happy when thinking about my mission.
I knelt down and prayed to my Heavenly Father. I told Him about my pain and my efforts to be healed and comforted. I asked if He would take away the bitterness I felt. After my prayer, the Lord opened my eyes to see my mission from His perspective. Both my service and early return were a part of the Lord’s plan to help make me into who He wanted me to be. I could see the miracles that He had provided since I came home. It has been a hard path, but now I can look back on my early return home with peace, knowing that God has my best interests at heart.