Gospel Story Finder

On 27 June 1844 Elder Taylor, Elder Willard Richards, also of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, the Prophet Joseph Smith, and the Prophet’s brother Hyrum were in Carthage Jail awaiting word from the governor. While the four friends waited in prison, Elder Taylor sang the hymn “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief.” The mood was somber and melancholy. “Shortly Hyrum asked him to sing the song again, to which he replied:
“‘Brother Hyrum, I do not feel like singing.’
“‘Oh, never mind; commence singing and you will get the spirit of it.’
“Soon after finishing the song the second time, as he was sitting at one of the front windows of the jail, he saw a number of men, with painted faces. … The mob reaching the landing in front of the door, and thinking it was locked, fired a shot through the key hole. Hyrum and Doctor Richards sprang back, when instantly another ball crashed through the panel of the door and struck Hyrum in the face; at the same instant a ball … entered his back, and he fell exclaiming, ‘I am a dead man!’ …
“… Elder Taylor took his place next [to] the door, and with a heavy walking stick … parried the guns as they were thrust through the doorway and discharged. …
“… Streams of fire as thick as a man’s arm belched forth from the ever increasing number of guns in the door-way, yet calm, energetic and determined, Elder Taylor beat down the muzzles of those murderous guns.
“‘That’s right, Brother Taylor, parry them off as well as you can,’ said Joseph, as he stood behind him.”
But as the gunfire continued and more mobbers pushed their way up the stairs, Elder Taylor sprang for the open window.
“As [Elder Taylor] was in the act of leaping from the window, a ball fired from the door-way struck him about midway of his left thigh. He fell helpless on the window sill and would have dropped on the outside of the jail—when another shot from the outside, striking the watch in his vest pocket, threw him back into the room. … He drew himself as rapidly as possible in his crippled condition under the bedstead that stood near the window.
“While on his way three other bullets struck him; one a little below the left knee—it was never extracted; another tore away the flesh to the size of a man’s hand from his left hip and spattered the wall with blood and the mangled fragments; another entered the forepart of his left arm, a little above the wrist, and, passing down by the joint, lodged in the palm of his left hand.”
While he lay in pain, he heard the mob shout that the Prophet had leaped from the window.
“Dr. Richards … confirmed his worst fears—the Prophet was dead!
“‘I felt,’ says Elder Taylor, ‘a dull, lonely, sickening sensation at the news.’”12
Several days later, Elder Taylor discovered that one ball of shot, aimed at his heart, had smashed into the crystal of his pocket watch, preventing him from falling from the jail window. He said, “I felt that the Lord had preserved me by a special act of mercy; that my time had not yet come, and that I had still a work to perform upon the earth.”13

Another of the great blessings of my life has been to feel the closeness of heaven during those moments when I sit at the bedside of people as they pass away. Early one morning some years ago, I entered the hospital room of a faithful Latter-day Saint widow who had cancer. Two of her daughters were sitting with her. As I went to her bedside, I quickly discovered that she was no longer suffering, because she had just died.

In that moment of death, the room was filled with peace. Her daughters had a sweet sadness, but their hearts were filled with faith. They knew that their mother was not gone but had returned home.23 Even in our moments of deepest grief, in the moments when time stands still and life seems so unfair, we can find comfort in our Savior because He suffered as well.24 It was a privilege for me to be in that room.

Some years ago two of our little boys were wrestling on the rug before the fireplace. They had reached the pitch where laughter turns to tears and play becomes a struggle. My husband worked his foot gently between them and lifted the older, four-year-old boy to a sitting position on the rug, saying, “Hey there, you monkey! You had better settle down.”
The little child folded his arms and looked at his father with surprising seriousness. His little-boy feelings were hurt, and he protested, “I not a monkey, Daddy—I a person.” And indeed he was a person, a child of God loaned to us for a short time, and then he would be on his own. (See Boyd K. Packer, The Shield of Faith [Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1998], 27.)

After I had been in the hospital two and a half weeks, the doctors said I could leave. They suggested, however, that my family take me to a convalescent center. I was quite frightened at the thought of moving. I remember pleading with Cal to ask the Lord what we should do. I had been leaning very heavily on the Lord, and I didn’t want any decision made without consulting him. My family was there, and I had been leaning on them, but I knew that, above all, the Lord was caring for me.
On September 20, I was transferred to a care center. The medication was cut in half, so I became more aware of what was going on around me. For a week, I worked hard at building up my strength and learning how to get around with broken bones. Then I was moved to Cal’s house. I appreciated him and his wife for letting me stay with them. It felt good to be in their home. His children would come to my room after school and tell me what they had done that day. Their visits did much to ease me back into normal life.

I’ve always asked a lot of myself, especially in high school. And I often fell short because I tried to accomplish so many things at once to prove that I was good enough. One year I decided to learn ballroom dancing, take music lessons, and join an ensemble. I thought I needed to do as much as I could to develop and perfect my talents. But at a certain point, I had to give everything up because it was all just too much for me to handle. I was so hard on myself. I felt like a failure, and failing was one of my biggest fears.

I know I’m not the only person who struggles with perfectionism. So many of us are trying our best every day and feeling discouraged when we don’t accomplish everything perfectly. But despite our efforts, none of us will ever be completely perfect here on the earth. So how can we strive for perfection when all efforts seem so futile? Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles shares an answer: “Be ye therefore perfect—eventually.”1

Striving for perfection is a good thing, but it can become negative if we let it overwhelm us. With everything this life asks of us physically, mentally, emotionally, and even spiritually, it’s important that we don’t burn ourselves out by settling for nothing less than perfection. And it’s even more important to think about what Heavenly Father asks of us. He doesn’t want us to be burnt out from trying to do too much.

The Lord taught in Doctrine and Covenants 10:4, “Do not run faster or labor more than you have strength and means provided to enable you to translate; but be diligent unto the end.” We can apply that to our lives. Heavenly Father wants us to be happy, and we will be if we do what He tells us to do in the best way we can. Even if our efforts are not quite perfect yet.

The word perfect originally comes from the Latin word perficere, which breaks down into per- (“completely”) and facere (“do”). So perfection actually means “complete.” And we cannot be complete without Jesus Christ (see Moroni 10:30). I think many of us often think we aren’t good enough. And, well, we aren’t! That is, without Christ we aren’t. As Ammon said: “I know that I am nothing; as to my strength I am weak; therefore I will not boast of myself, but I will boast of my God, for in his strength I can do all things” (Alma 26:12).

With Jesus Christ, we can always strive to become better, even so much that we will become perfect and complete one day because He will make up for our imperfections. “Yea, come unto Christ, and be perfected in him, and deny yourselves of all ungodliness; and if ye shall deny yourselves of all ungodliness, and love God with all your might, mind and strength, then is his grace sufficient for you, that by his grace ye may be perfect in Christ” (Moroni 10:32).

Over the years I’ve realized I didn’t fully understand and comprehend what the Savior’s Atonement means for and to me. I thought I needed to have a flawless performance here on earth and that I was left alone to figure out how to fulfill this task. But now I know that we are never alone. If we strive to focus on Jesus Christ and keep Him in our hearts and in our minds, our weaknesses will change into strengths—just like how my struggle with perfectionism is changing. I know I’m not perfect. But Christ can help us overcome any weaknesses, sins, challenges, or fears. He understands us and knows how to succor us. I hope we may all enjoy His infinite love. And realize that although we aren’t perfect now, if we strive to follow Him, we will be one day.

A young man who is a friend of mine came to an interview confessing some minor difficulties he was having with sin. He believed them to be major. He had concocted a tremendous guilt trip about what he had done. He had allowed Satan to cause him to believe he was not a good person, that he did not have the power to overcome his weaknesses. He was overwhelmed with the challenges and struggles of life, and had lost the peace that normally accompanies a true disciple of Jesus Christ.
“I know Christ’s role is to save us from our sins,” my friend said. “But what about all the other troubles in my life?”
As I tried to console him, I told him that Christ was sent not only to help us heal the wounds of transgression and iniquity, but also to bear our grief and sorrow and guilt (see Mosiah 14:4–5, 11; Alma 24:10); that in addition to “suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind” he also took upon himself the “sicknesses of his people,” “death, that he may loose the bands … which bind his people,” and “infirmities, that … he may know … how to [strengthen] his people” (see Alma 7:11–12; italics added).
As this young man and I read the scriptures together, he was thrilled to realize that somehow Christ is able to take upon himself, not only sin in a general sense, but also grief, sorrow, death, sickness, lack of peace, guilt, and pain. What a glorious thought that, in truth, Jesus Christ is capable of bearing the problems and challenges that we each face in our daily lives. He will not only help us to be saved at the Judgment Day, but he and his Father will be involved with us on a regular basis if we will find access to them.

A young woman I know felt saddened and frustrated because a friend had made unkind, untrue remarks about her. It distressed her that those who heard the false accusations would believe them. She wanted others to know the truth, and she wanted her friend to realize how much hurt her words had caused. The young woman thought of ways to confront her friend in an effort to have the truth known. The situation weighed heavily upon her until finally she thought, “What would Jesus do?” She decided that Jesus would show love toward her friend. And that is just what this young woman did.

Once she let the teachings of Jesus influence her decision and guide her actions, that which bothered her seemed not to matter. She didn’t have to worry about it anymore. She said that she felt a big burden was lifted from her. What had been hard to endure became easier to resolve when a Christian attitude of forgiveness was taken.

In October 1918, 100 years ago, President Joseph F. Smith received a glorious vision. After almost 65 years of dedicated service to the Lord in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and just a few weeks before his death on November 19, 1918, he sat in his room pondering Christ’s atoning sacrifice and reading the Apostle Peter’s description of the Savior’s ministry in the spirit world after His Crucifixion.
He recorded: “As I read I was greatly impressed. … As I pondered over these things … , the eyes of my understanding were opened, and the Spirit of the Lord rested upon me, and I saw the hosts of the dead.” The full text of the vision is recorded in Doctrine and Covenants section 138.
In the Lord’s due time, the additional answers, comfort, and understanding about the spirit world President Smith sought came to him through the marvelous vision he received in October 1918.
That year was particularly painful for him. He grieved over the death toll in the Great World War that continued to climb to over 20 million people killed. Additionally, a flu pandemic was spreading around the world, taking the lives of as many as 100 million people.
During the year, President Smith also lost three more precious family members. Elder Hyrum Mack Smith of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, his firstborn son and my grandfather, died suddenly of a ruptured appendix.
President Smith wrote: “I am speechless—[numb] with grief! … My heart is broken; and flutters for life! … O! I loved him! … I will love him forever more. And so it is and ever will be with all my sons and daughters, but he is my first born son, the first to bring me the joy and hope of an endless, honorable name among men. … From the depths of my soul I thank God for him! But … O! I needed him! We all needed him! He was most useful to the Church. … And now, … O! what can I do! … O! God help me!”
The next month, President Smith’s son-in-law, Alonzo Kesler, died in a tragic accident. President Smith noted in his journal, “This most terrible and heart-rending fatal accident, has again cast a pall of gloom over all my family.”
Seven months later, in September 1918, President Smith’s daughter-in-law and my grandmother, Ida Bowman Smith, died after giving birth to her fifth child, my uncle Hyrum.
And so it was on October 3, 1918, having experienced intense sorrow over the millions who had died in the world through war and disease as well as the deaths of his own family members, President Smith received the heavenly revelation known as “the vision of the redemption of the dead.”
He alluded to the revelation the following day in the opening session of the October general conference. President Smith’s health was failing, yet he spoke briefly: “I will not, I dare not, attempt to enter upon many things that are resting upon my mind this morning, and I shall postpone until some future time, the Lord be willing, my attempt to tell you some of the things that are in my mind, and that dwell in my heart. I have not lived alone these [last] five months. I have dwelt in the spirit of prayer, of supplication, of faith and of determination; and I have had my communication with the Spirit of the Lord continuously.”

Along with six other Latter-day Saints, Debra attends the Hazelwood Integrated College in Belfast, a school where the student body is about 50 percent Catholic and 50 percent Protestant. “I’m fairly new at the school, and at the start they would say, ‘Oh, she’s one of them mad Mormons,’ and they would tease me,” Debra says. “But now, they’re asking questions, like why I don’t take tea or coffee. They’re kind of interested in it more.”

Debbie Sloan, who attends the same school, is popular with her classmates. “At an integrated school, the effort is to help us all get along anyway,” she explains. “They know I’m Mormon. My close friends know my dad is a bishop, that we spend lots of time at our church. I just talk about it the way it is, and they accept me for what I am.”

Claire and Sandra Hoey of Craigavon are members of the Portadown Ward. They talk about the walls that missionaries helped tumble for their family.

“The missionaries had been coming to our parents for a long time,” Sandra says. “But I never paid any attention. Then one night I was upstairs and started listening. I got more interested in what they were saying. I decided it was time to see what it was all about.”

The discussions became more and more serious. The parents were baptized. An older brother was baptized. Then Sandra, then Claire.

After the baptisms, a friend “noticed that since I’ve joined the Church I’ve been happier,” Claire says. “She wanted to find out what it was that was making me happy.” Now the friend is taking the discussions in the Hoeys’ home. “I can remember asking the same questions, praying to resolve the same doubts,” Claire says. “It helps when I can tell her I’ve been through the same thing and gained my own testimony.”

At the Lisburn Ward, Rachael Edwards, Karen Edwards, and David Schmidt say being fully involved in seminary helps break barriers, too.

“Before I started seminary and I’d explain to my friends what my religion was, they’d have a lot of questions, and I couldn’t answer them well,” Rachael says. “Now, having taken seminary, I feel more confidence whenever I talk to people about the Church.”

“There are 13 students in our seminary class,” Karen explains. “It’s the largest in Ireland. We have home study; then we meet with our teacher, Sister Susanna Thompson, on Tuesday nights. At school, everyone has what we call R.E. (religious education) classes. The R.E. schoolwork helps me with seminary, and seminary helps us have a different viewpoint, more depth than what we get at school. So they balance each other.”

“There’s a lot of videos and anti-Mormon literature that go around to the other churches,” Karen says. “It’s hard because what they hear has been severely twisted, and they really need to start from the basics.”

“A lot of my friends didn’t think we read the Bible,” Rachael says. “So I was really glad I could show them my seminary scriptures. They think it’s just their churches that have Bible study. They’re surprised to find we Mormons have our own study classes as well.”

“We change people’s views,” David says. “Like our teacher said, ‘So, you’re a Mormon. That means you’re not totally Christian?’ And I said, ‘Well, we are actually.’ We talked about it and got that all cleared up.”

David also tells of inviting friends and family to meetings. “Last year when my family was getting baptized, my mother invited our granny and our aunts all to church, and they came along and said they quite enjoyed it. They thought it interesting that we didn’t have just clergy up there, but had everyday people bearing their testimonies. And my friends enjoy our church.”

Rachael, Karen, and David tell story after story—the teacher who wanted a floor plan of an LDS chapel to compare it with other churches, and the exams where Mormons had to explain that they do get baptized in a font, which for other churches is a tiny basin holding water for sprinkling.

But it’s Karen who sums up the overall experience. “There’s lots of opposition here,” she says. “But if we make them aware of the Church, maybe eventually they’ll understand the Church. And that can only do good.”

Talk to the young Latter-day Saints in Northern Ireland long enough, and you’ll find that the youth are doing what Karen says.

Sara Magee of Portadown will talk about standards: “Most of my friends, if someone offered me a cigarette or a drink, they’d say, ‘Nope, Sara, you’re not allowed.’” Karen Weir of Portadown will tell you how having the London Temple reopened and the Preston Temple under construction has made a lot of people curious about the Church. Simon Noble of the Holywood Road Ward describes a stake play that was a missionary play, too. “It was all about the plan of salvation, and we invited non-LDS friends to come and learn about what we believe,” Simon says.

Debra Boyd, of the Cavehill Ward, will join the conversation again to talk about her bishop, Ronald Sloan, and how he has shown her that a bishop can be a great ally in living a worthy life. And Debra will tell of the joy she felt when her friend Leigh-Ann Kelly (and her family) were baptized. “We were crying our eyes out,” Debra says. “That scripture that talks about bringing one soul into heaven? You know that one? It’s really true” (see D&C 18:15–16).

Through the center of Belfast runs a thick scar, a no-man’s-land as ugly as a war zone. Its red bars, brick, barbed wire, and yellow barricades mark the dividing line between two parts of the city. For many, it is a symbol of a hopeless situation, its barriers a monument of mistrust and misunderstanding.

But young Latter-day Saints don’t dwell on such a reminder of despair. They look to a day when the Savior will come, when every knee will bow and every tongue confess that he is Lord, whose right it is to reign. In that day, if not before, all walls will tumble down. And when they do, they’ll be replaced by hope, love, peace, and understanding.

I have been trying to think of the ways in which my life has been influenced by the youth organizations. I cannot remember when I began, but it seems to me like I can remember going to the old Robinson Hall in Thatcher, Arizona, almost as early as I could walk. It was only two blocks from our home, and we could walk to and from it, and we crossed the Union Canal time and again. This big Robinson Hall was a brick building of rectangular shape, and an all-purpose building for the community dances, for the Sunday School and Primary, for all Church services, for the funerals, for celebrations, and for everything that went on in our little rural town.
One night this great building caught fire, and I remember the lighted sky and the columns of smoke and the consternation and excitement for all of us, for a big fire like this attracted the entire town and all came hurrying with their buckets to help put out the fire. We had no fire department, but all men and their sons rushed across the town at the earliest call of “fire.”
He who gave the leadership sent all the men and boys to the canal bank and lined them back to back toward the burning building. Standing on the bank of the canal, the first man drew a bucket full of water and handed the full bucket to another man and he to another and back to the crackling flames in the building. The last man doused the bucket of water on the flames. Many buckets of water were thrown on the fire, but the fire was gaining and finally the walls stood out as blackened sentinels, and we returned to our homes saddened and defeated. It was many years before the fire department was organized in our little town.

“I got here as soon as I could, Bishop,” said Keith, meeting the bishop in front of his office. The bishop opened the door but didn’t say anything. When Keith stepped inside, he saw Mike Wade and a thin, familiar-looking girl standing in the far corner of the room. They both looked uncomfortable.
“Keith,” the bishop said, “I think these people have something to tell you.”
Mike pointed to the girl. “My sister Sharon. I know we don’t look like we’re from the same family. I got all the healthy genes, I guess. She’s … ” Mike’s voice trailed off.
The pale girl started to speak. Before she could, it hit Keith.
“Hey, you’re the girl that came to my Sunday School class. And haven’t I seen you around school? Only with different hair?”
“Keith,” Sharon began in a soft, clear voice. “I’m afraid we’ve been doing some awful things to you. It was all my idea, so don’t blame Mike. We’ve been spying on you, following you, and causing you all sorts of grief.”
“I, I don’t understand.”
“I had to find out if you really believed what you said.”
“What I said about what?”
“Let’s just say we caught your broadcast from the lunchroom.”
“Ohhh no. Not that again,” Keith sighed.
She smiled. “It wasn’t only that. It’s a long story.”
Mike cut in. “We live near your church, and every day we’d wake up when your car would come chugging down the road.”
“I go to church on Sundays and early-morning seminary the rest of the week,” Keith explained. “I guess I better get my muffler fixed.”
Sharon picked up the story. “At first, the noise just made us mad. But then I got to thinking. Why would someone get up at 5:30 every morning? After hearing what you said last week, I—we—followed you to your church. I realized you go all alone; like no one’s forcing you to do this religious thing. I was curious to know more in view of my current situation.”
“Current situation,” Keith repeated mechanically.
“Under this wig, I don’t have any hair. Chemotherapy. And it’s not doing much good anymore.”
Keith stared blankly, then allowed what she had just told him to sink in.
“I’m not looking for miracle cures or healings. I’m beyond that, I think. What I am looking for is—how do I put this?—not why I’m going to die, but why I lived in the first place. Does my life count for anything? Is there some sort of plan to all this?”
“Anyway,” Mike continued, “Sharon’s got this funny feeling that maybe you know something most everybody else doesn’t. So she crashed your church class, eavesdropped, tested you, and even made me threaten you. I’m sorry about that.”
Keith looked from one to the other and found himself speechless.
“I don’t blame you if you’re angry, but I was getting kind of desperate to know if there was anybody out there who really believed in anything. I remember what you were saying in that church class, and it made me feel really good inside. I think you can tell me what I want to know. You can tell me why?”
Keith met her gaze. “Yeah, I think I can.”
The bishop, who had been standing behind them, finally spoke. “She’s asked to take the discussions from the missionaries, Keith. Maybe you’d like to sit in on them with her.”
Keith smiled and hooked a thumb at Mike. “What about His Wallness?”
Mike grinned. “Well, I could go. I guess I owe you that much.”
Keith added, “Maybe I could learn a few things too. Maybe even pick up a few pointers that will come in handy for the next two years.”

One of my favorite childhood stories happened when I was about three years old. I don’t remember the experience, but my mother has often told me about it.
My father had been called to serve a mission in the Southern States Mission. At the time, my parents and I were living in southern Nevada. Although they knew that it would be difficult to be separated, my mother and father were thrilled with the opportunity it gave my father to serve the Lord.
So my father left his wife and only child at home and headed for Salt Lake City for initial training and instruction before he left for the mission field.
The day after he left, my mother was washing clothes. In those days water had to be heated on a stove, after which it was poured into the washing machine. She had just picked up a bucket of boiling water and was carrying it over to the washing machine when I scurried past her. She tripped, and the scalding water poured all over me.
Priesthood holders were called in to administer to me. Before they began, my mother gave them strict instructions: “Bless this child that he will be healed so that his father won’t have to interrupt his mission.”
After the blessing, the pain ceased, and in a short time I was healed. I was promised that I would have no scars, and I have none.
My father was told about the accident, but he was assured that I was well on my way to recovery. In the meantime he had been set apart by a General Authority and was given the promise that his wife and son would be blessed while he served the Lord and that all would go well with them. He took the Lord at His word and went on with his mission.
My father died when I was six, leaving me with almost no memory of him and leaving my mother a young widow with two babies. But my mother never expressed regret for the time that my father had spent on his mission serving the Lord. To this day she still speaks of his mission as a blessing in our lives. She always taught me how important serving a mission is.
I have always insisted that missionary work be part of my life and part of my family’s lives. I have told this story many times to my children and to their children to help them understand the importance of serving the Lord and to teach them that a mission comes first.

Many years ago John Orth worked in a foundry in Australia, and in a terrible accident, hot molten lead splashed onto his face and body. He was administered to, and some of the vision was restored to his right eye, but he was completely blind in his left. Because he couldn’t see well, he lost his job. He tried to get employment with his wife’s family, but their business failed due to the Depression. He was forced to go door-to-door seeking odd jobs and handouts to pay for food and rent.

One year he did not pay any tithing and went to talk to the branch president. The branch president understood the situation but asked John to make it a matter of prayer and fasting so that he could find a way to pay his tithing. John and his wife, Alice, fasted and prayed and determined that the only thing of value they owned was her engagement ring—a beautiful ring bought in happier times. After much anguish, they decided to take the ring to a pawnbroker and learned it was worth enough to pay their tithing and some outstanding bills. That Sunday, John went in to the branch president and paid his tithing. As he left the office, he happened to meet the mission president, who noticed his damaged eyes.

Brother Orth’s son, now serving as a bishop in Adelaide, later wrote: “We believe that [the mission president] was an eye doctor, for he was commonly called President Dr. Rees. He spoke to Dad and was able to examine him and offer suggestions to help his eyesight. Dad followed his advice, … and in due course sight was restored—15 percent sight to his left eye and 95 percent sight to his right eye—and with the help of glasses he could see again.” With his vision restored, John was never unemployed again; he redeemed the ring, which is now a family heirloom, and paid a full tithing for the rest of his life. The Lord knew John Orth, and He knew who could help him.

“President Dr. Rees” was my mother’s father, and he probably never knew of the miracle that was wrought that day. Generations were blessed because a family decided they would pay their tithing regardless of the difficulty—and then met a man who “happened by” and “happened” to be an eye surgeon who was able to make a great difference in their lives. While some may be tempted to believe these are just coincidences, I have confidence that even a sparrow cannot fall to the ground but He knows it.

Our family didn’t know this story until two years ago, but we know this about our grandfather: he loved the Lord and tried to serve Him all his life. And we know this about the Lord: He knows who we are and where we are, and He knows who needs our help.

In the late 1990s, my twenty-something self was all about pursuing my passions. After I had returned home from my mission in Paraguay, a study abroad in Mexico led me to change my major from biology to Spanish. I worked as a backcountry guide in the summer and a ski patroller in the winter. A mentor and I started two companies in the outdoor recreation industry. So naturally, when the time came to pursue a master’s degree, I chose parks, recreation, and tourism, with an emphasis in finance and marketing. Later, at the end of the 1990s, I worked in business development for a technology start-up. My life was busy and demanding, but it was also full of promise and always exciting.

Then things changed. In 2000, when the growth of all my business ventures was peaking, I began having impressions that I should return to school, complete a PhD, and, of all things, become a professor. I didn’t know anything about being a professor. But the impressions became clearer when I heard a talk by President Gordon B. Hinckley in which he counseled listeners to “get all of the education you can.”1 In 2001, without really knowing what I was getting myself into, I left the technology company and the two start-ups I had cofounded. Amy and I packed up our things in a U-Haul truck and drove south, away from our families in Utah, to College Station, Texas—in the middle of a hot and sweaty August.

I started classes and quickly became overwhelmed. I questioned if I had made a mistake. I sat in my tiny, windowless office—hour after hour, with a foul-mouthed office mate—asking myself how I could run another regression, review another paper, or evaluate one more ridiculous theoretical puzzle assigned to me by my professors. I was surrounded by people who seemed much smarter and more capable than I was. I worried that someone was going to figure out that I didn’t deserve to be there.

I remember writing my first academic paper. I spent days working to produce what I thought was a well-written manuscript. My professor returned the paper covered with red marks and critical comments. I walked outside to a wooded area near the business building. My hands crumpled the paper as I paced next to a small creek. I sobbed as I prayed out loud. I could not understand why God had prompted us to travel to this place only to let me fail.

I lay awake night after night contemplating how I would get out and how it all would end. I met with a counselor and tried medication to help. I even took up the habit of eating a huge bowl of Blue Bell ice cream every night—which did help a little! I prayed for answers, but none seemed to come. What was I to do?

In Texas, when everything seemed so hopeless to me, I dragged myself to sacrament meetings, fulfilled my callings, and kept praying for help—even though the heavens seemed closed. Those actions kept me in good places in the orbit of good people. They were my way of being faithful even though my path to future success felt tenuous. Rather than focusing on outcomes, which I mostly could not control, I spent time on inputs—the things I could control.

One day during my first October in graduate school, I was feeling particularly discouraged, unsuccessful, and marooned. The southern Texas weather was still balmy, and there were no colorful autumn vistas. I missed feeling the crisp air of a Utah fall and getting together with family for general conference.
Nothing felt awesome in Texas—not even my favorite hobbies. I had tried camping, but then I discovered fire ants. I had attempted kayaking in a river, but the signs warning of alligators scared me off. I was certain my life of pursuing my beloved passions was over. Forget about ­awesome—I longed for anything that just felt normal!
So between general conference sessions, Amy and I acted. We got on our bikes and rode, searching the neighborhoods and back roads in hopes that we might see some fall colors. We rode for over an hour and did not see a single autumn vista. Eventually we found ourselves down a beautiful, rural dirt road. Birds were chirping and toads were croaking under a vast Texas sky. We rounded a corner, and there it was: a tree with two branches of leaves that were turning color! They were mostly brown, not bright yellow or red, but it was something. It was a divine surprise. We cut off one of the small branches and placed it on our little kitchen table. It became a precious reminder to me that God was aware of my challenges and was giving me glimpses that He was there. While I did not find exactly what I was looking for that day, I received a reason to keep believing.

What we did in this little exercise made a big difference for me when I was in Texas. It struck me hard when President Hinckley said to “get all of the education you can.” But the feeling dissipated over the years. During those dark and difficult times in my doctoral program, even when I couldn’t feel or see God’s influence in my life, I reflected on that memory. And that memory gave me hope to keep going.

The actions I have shared—acting, remembering, and seeking thin places—were important choices that I began to practice during my PhD program, even on the days when I felt numb to the Spirit and had a difficult time remembering what hopefulness felt like. But slowly, as I practiced them, things began to change. The awe returned and darkness began to give way to more light. I studied until my brain hurt and got better at understanding the material. My office mate and I began exercising together and became close friends. My grades improved, and I started to realize that I was capable of doing the work.

With one assurance after another, the Lord nudged me to continue on. I began to notice Him in the simple details of my everyday life, in things I had previously taken for granted or been unable to enjoy: my interactions with classmates and professors, my daily bike rides to and from school, Wednesday night activities with the youth in the ward, and the remarkable goodness of my wife, Amy, whose love and support was constant and whose faith was unwavering. All of these small miracles had been there from the beginning of my journey, but I hadn’t been able to notice them.

I finished my PhD program, and nearly five years after beginning our adventure in Texas, I stood as a faculty member in front of my first class of students here at BYU—something I could never have imagined during that first semester of my doctoral program. After a student said an opening prayer, I had a distinct impression—a ­realization—that Heavenly Father had brought me to where I was. It was He who had made all of this happen as I gave my best efforts. This was truly a divine surprise.

The Warwoods always planned to go on a senior mission, and Sister Warwood was certain she knew where the Lord needed her to serve. As a neonatal nurse practitioner, she felt drawn to humanitarian work in developing countries.
“I always thought I would serve a humanitarian mission in a third-world country, something with mothers and babies,” she explains. But when they visited Africa a year before their mission call, something unexpected happened. “When I thought to myself, ‘We’ll be here in a year,’ I just had this dreaded feeling,” Sister Warwood recalls.
Back home, during a senior mission meeting, coordinators asked about their preferences. She answered, “Third world, something medical, saving lives.” The dread returned. “I thought, ‘I guess I don’t really want to serve a mission. This is a horrible feeling.’”
Everything shifted when coordinators learnt the couple’s backgrounds—he an accountant, she in healthcare. They explained that “the Mission Health Adviser (MHA) is the most coveted job in the mission because you get to know, love, and serve all of the missionaries.” Sister Warwood realised the MHA “did many of the things I did in the NICU—just with much bigger babies!”
“By the time we left the meeting, instead of feeling dread, I was very excited.” She realised: “The Lord’s been trying to tell you third-world humanitarian is not where you’re supposed to be. He couldn’t have made it more obvious.”

Members of the Charlotte North Carolina (USA) South Stake answered the First Presidency’s call for a day of service during 2011 by partnering with a local charity to put on a welcome basket item drive.
More than 2,000 paper bags with a list of much-needed items were placed throughout the community. A week later, nearly 130 volunteers spent 150 hours collecting the bags and donating the items to families transitioning from homelessness to new housing.
Primary children from the ward made “Welcome Home” signs for the families.

Oh, what joy there is in temple attendance! While the Salt Lake Temple was undergoing remodeling, my wife decided one day to gather up some of the ladies in our condominium building and drive out to the Jordan River Temple to enjoy a session there. After completing the session, they came out of the temple to find the land being blessed with hard rain. As they drove out of the temple grounds, standing under the shelter waiting for the bus was a little, elderly lady. My wife stopped and asked her if she wanted a ride into the city. She immediately came forward. On the ride into the city they heard a most humble testimony of a sweet sister, who every day was taking the bus out to the Jordan River Temple, summer and winter, rain or shine, to accomplish her temple work. She was only eighty-four years of age. She possessed a spirit of enthusiasm for temple work which deeply affected the riders in the car that day.

On a winter day not long after her baptism, Renee learned firsthand about the protection of the Holy Ghost. As she walked out the doors of her school, she heard a voice say, “Stop!” She looked around. She couldn’t see anyone, so she started forward again. Once again, the voice said, “Stop!” She obeyed.
As soon as she stopped, a pile of snow and big chunks of ice slid off the roof of the building and landed right in front of her! Her heart beat fast as she looked at the snow. If those ice chunks had hit her head, she could have been badly hurt.
Renee knew the Holy Ghost had warned her to stop. That night in her prayers, she thanked Heavenly Father for the gift of the Holy Ghost.

My own childhood is a testament of the powerful influence a Christian adult can have on the life of a child. My mother died when I was four years old, and my grandmother helped care for me and my siblings. She belonged to the Salvation Army church, and she taught us to pray, love our enemies, and treat others kindly. Her guidance during those few critical years laid the foundation for my future choices.

I loved Christmas because we got to be together as a family. For example, we always went caroling on Christmas Eve. The year I remember best was the year my siblings scattered after we had sung at just a few houses. They had plans and other things they had to do, leaving just my parents, my brother Jeff, and me to finish the caroling. I was upset that we wouldn’t all be together as we had been in years past.
Still, caroling was fun, even with our smaller group. We were heading home when Jeff begged Dad to stop at the home of an older sister who used to be in our ward. But when we saw her dark house, Dad said, “Looks like no one is home.”
“I see a light on downstairs,” said Jeff as he jumped out of the car. Jeff rang the doorbell, pounded on the door, and then started rapping on the downstairs windows. My dad, certain that the neighbors would be suspicious, told Jeff to give up. Just then, the door opened, and there stood Jeff’s friend. Jeff ran up with a plate of goodies and gave her a hug.
The rest of us got out of the car. We hadn’t decided the songs to sing, so we asked her about her holiday plans. She said she was alone, but her youngest daughter was coming the next day. A smile spread across her face and she said, “Will you sing for me?”
“Sure,” we responded. Then my dad’s voice led out with “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” As we sang, I thought about the words, how Christ had saved us, and the comfort and joy of that thought.
“Thank you,” she said with tears in her eyes. “This is the best Christmas present I’ve received yet.” As we walked to the car, we could all feel the warmth of the Spirit. Jeff mentioned that this woman had been struggling lately, and he thanked my dad for picking out that song.
“It just came into my mind that it was the right song to sing,” said Dad. “Even though it’s not one we usually do.”
It was a testimony to me that the Lord knows each one of us and our problems, that we are not forgotten. By acting on the Spirit’s promptings, not only were we able to share the love the Savior has for her, but I was filled with his gift of love for me.