Gospel Story Finder

“When our oldest son was about three, he would kneel with his mother and me in our evening prayer. I was serving as the bishop of the ward at the time, and a lovely lady in the ward, Margaret Lister, lay perilously ill with cancer. Each night we would pray for Sister Lister. One evening our tiny son offered the prayer and confused the words of the prayer with a story from a nursery book. He began: ‘Heavenly Father, please bless Sister Lister, Henny Penny, Chicken Little, Turkey Lurkey, and all the little folks.’ We held back the smiles that evening. Later we were humbled as Margaret Lister sustained a complete recovery. We do not belittle the prayer of a child. After all, our children have more recently been with our Heavenly Father than have we.”(Ensign, October 1999, page 2.)

One year the young women in my ward participated in an interesting experiment related to dressing modestly. Here’s an account of one young woman who learned about this gospel principle and applied it to her life.
Anna Larsen* was excited that her turn to shop for clothes had finally come. Sister Jensen, her Laurel adviser, had taken each girl in the class shopping to learn a modesty lesson. Anna wasn’t sure what to expect.
When they arrived at the store, Sister Jensen asked Anna to pick out three outfits. As they walked to the dressing room, Sister Jensen said, “After you’ve put on an outfit, come out. Be prepared to have your eyes opened.”
Intrigued by her leader’s directions, Anna put on the sleeveless button-down shirt and hip-hugging skirt. When she walked out, Sister Jensen motioned her to the mirrors. “Now we’re going to play a game.”
“I doubt the clerks would be happy with me playing in their clothes before I’ve bought them,” Anna said.
Sister Jensen laughed and shook her head. “We’re going to play ‘Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes.’”
Anna looked skeptical.
“I’m serious,” Sister Jensen said. “Let’s start with your head.”
Anna put her hands on her head and saw her shirt pull up, baring her skin. “Oops,” she gasped, tugging it back down.
Sister Jensen put Anna’s hands back up. “That’s part of the game. You see how much your shirt lifts up? Now try shoulders,” Sister Jensen said.
When Anna dropped her hands to her shoulders she noticed even more showing inside the armholes. She also saw the shirt straining at the buttons.
“Now bend over and touch your knees and toes,” Sister Jensen advised.
Between her shirt and skirt was a two-inch gap. “Wow,” Anna said.
“I know,” Sister Jensen said. “Now, go try on the next outfit.”
After repeating the game twice more, Anna’s mood dimmed. None of her outfits had completely passed the “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” test.
“Don’t worry,” Sister Jensen said. “There’s hope. You just have to know how to put things together.” For the next hour Sister Jensen showed Anna how to layer different clothes to make them modest and stylish. She then challenged Anna to look through her closet and see if any changes needed to be made.
Later that night Anna looked at the mess on her bed. It had been overwhelming trying everything on to see what was modest or immodest. With a sigh she picked up one particular pile and carried it to her mom.
“Mom, I was wondering if I could donate these clothes.”
“Sure, honey. Why?” her mom replied.
Anna smiled. “Have you ever played ‘Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes’?”

Alison listened eagerly as the bishop announced that their ward would be having a Christmas open house this year. “We want it to be a special evening,” he said. “It will be a wonderful opportunity to invite friends and neighbors.”
Alison loved the Christmas holidays. She liked shopping for presents for her family and friends and singing Christmas carols. And she loved reading the story of Jesus’s birth and thinking of Him as a small baby.
The bishop’s next words caught her attention. “Because of the open house, we won’t be having our traditional ward Christmas party this year.”
Alison frowned. “No party?” she whispered to her mother. The ward Christmas party was one of her favorite parts of the season.
Mom put a finger to her lips.
“Some of our friends and neighbors do not understand that we are Christians,” the bishop continued. “We want them to know that we believe in Jesus Christ.”
Alison thought about that. She remembered when her best friend, Erica, had said that Mormons weren’t Christians. She didn’t understand what Erica meant, so she had asked her parents about it.
“A lot of people focus on the name ‘Mormon’ or ‘Latter-day Saints,’” Mom had explained. “They forget that our Church is named for Jesus Christ.”
The next day at school, Alison had told Erica the first article of faith: “We believe in God, the Eternal Father, and in His Son, Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost.”
But Erica had just shrugged. “Then why don’t people call you Christians instead of Mormons?” she asked.
Alison turned her attention back to the bishop.
“The open house will focus on Jesus Christ,” he said. “We’re asking families to bring nativity sets, and we will have a live reenactment of the Nativity scene.”
As the time drew near for the open house, Alison started getting excited. Mom and Dad invited an elderly neighbor to go to the open house. Alison invited Erica.
The night of the open house, Alison helped Mom wrap both of the family’s nativity sets in newspaper. Then Mom and Dad drove her to pick up Erica.
When they got to the church, Alison and Erica looked at nativity sets from Japan, Austria, the Philippines, and many other countries.
Then the girls went outside where the young men and young women were acting out the Nativity. There were live cows, sheep, and even a nanny goat. “Everything but a camel,” Alison said.
The bishop asked everyone to gather in the chapel. Alison and Erica sat with the Primary children. The children sang “Picture a Christmas” and “The Nativity Song,” and the ward choir performed parts of Messiah.
“That was really great,” Erica said on the ride home. “I wish my parents could have come.”
“Maybe next year,” Alison said, smiling. She thought about the open house and realized she hadn’t missed the Christmas party after all.

When tragedy strikes in a village in Polynesia, help isn’t very far away. That’s just the way things work in the tightknit communities of the Pacific.
This was especially true for Tevita Lei, a student at Saineha High School in Vava’u, Tonga.
When his family’s home was completely destroyed by fire, they lost everything. The next day, his classmates got together and discussed what the family needed to start putting their world back together.
Mele’ana Mafi teaches computer science at the school, which is operated by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She remembers the day she looked around her classroom and noticed someone missing. Students confirmed that Tevita Lei was not there.
The teacher asked, “Why is he not here?”
A soft voice in the back said, “His house burned down last week.”
“Our simple discussions led everyone to think outside the box,” Mele’ana recalls.
“Students started volunteering to donate things for the most urgent needs, such as uniforms, school materials, a new school bag. The rest of the students volunteered to donate other things such as food, clothes and blankets.”
Mele’ana then went to the school principal, Motuliki Fakatava, to tell him about the situation and to see if he could provide transportation for the class members to deliver the items they had collected. He readily agreed.
“As soon as Mele’ana told me this story,” Motuliki reports, “I felt an overwhelming feeling of gratitude. Several months ago, I felt prompted to begin to set aside in storage some food and clothing, but I didn’t know why or who it would be for. As soon as Mele’ana told me this story, I knew this was the right time and purpose.”
The next day, all the members of Tevita’s computer class got on a school bus during home room time and went to see what was left of his home. In addition to Motuliki’s items, the students brought along all that they had managed to collect including some essentials such as rice, flour, sugar, beans and crackers.
They found Tevita and his father there by themselves amongst the charred remains of their home.
“I told his father the purpose of our visit and asked permission to do a short devotional service with them,” Mele’ana says.
“When we started to sing ‘We thank thee, O God, for a Prophet,’ we truly felt the Spirit present and confirmed God’s love for His children. The sincerity of the prayer offered truly touched our hearts and put everyone in tears.”
She continued: “I was so brokenhearted when we arrived to see Tevita and his father outside trying to clean up the ashes and burned remains of their home. I knew in my heart that this was the right thing for us to do.”
Some of the students shared their feelings about their visit to Tevita and his dad:
“Last night I was confused about what I should take to give the family. It came to my mind that it doesn’t matter if it is something small, big, cheap or expensive, but that you tried your best to help. It shows Tevita’s family that this is not the end and that the good Lord loves them. I saw the smiles on their faces, and it reminded me of my family.”
“I hope that what we gave them was a big help to their family. By helping others, we learn to love them as ourselves. I am grateful, and may God bless their family.”
“As we arrived, I just imagined myself in the position that he is in, with such difficulty and struggling to survive. It touched me most when his father said that he is grateful that Tevita has family out of his actual family, meaning us, his computer classmates.”
“Seeing my classmates’ willingness to help him really touched my heart. It showed the love of a family we had in our class. No matter how big our help was to Tevita Lei, that didn’t matter, but what mattered was that our classmates were willing to give a helping hand to our dearest brother. We will never leave anyone behind.”
“I know that Tevita’s dad was so excited and grateful for what we have been able to do. He said that now he can feel that ‘there is a family for his son that still cares about him.’ Everyone in this life is my family.”
“The moment I saw this brother, my heart and soul filled with the spirit of love. I appreciated my teacher for the great spirit that inspired us as a computer class to visit our beloved classmate Ti Lei. I felt the love that Jesus had for His children.”
Mele’ana summarized her thoughts about this experience: “I am grateful for the opportunity to reach out with our class to Tevita. What has happened this morning was a great start of our day. The acts of kindness, working together, love, empathy, and service, does reflect who they really are. They are sons and daughters of Heavenly Father.”
“As I came back to my classroom and reflected on my students and the goodness and mercy of God for His children, the scripture in Alma 26:37 came to mind:
“Now my brethren, we see that God is mindful of every people, whatsoever land they may be in; yea, he numbereth his people, and his bowels of mercy are over all the earth. Now this is my joy, and my great thanksgiving; yea, and I will give thanks unto my God forever.”

Tithing has always blessed me and my family in our lives. During the time that I was in school, my wife and I were very busy and really very poor. There were times when we wondered if we would have enough money. But we had made the commitment that we’d always pay our tithing first, and we always had enough. We’ve done that all of our lives. There have been challenges, but somehow there’s a way when you pay your tithing that you can do the kinds of things you need to.

For days I had looked forward to my chance to work with the homeless in my city. But that cold Saturday morning it was not easy to feel charitable when I wished I could be back in my warm, comfortable bed. However, I was already committed.
As we arrived at our destination, despite the cold, many were already waiting for the kitchen to open. It was very quiet, and most of the people looked gloomy. There was not one smile or spark in anyone’s eyes, and their dark expressions matched the room they waited in.
I was frightened and decided that I didn’t want to work directly with them. Anyway, what would I say to them? How would I act around them? I didn’t want to make any of them angry with me. Was I supposed to give them pity or treat them like one of my buddies? Yes, it would definitely be easier to just stay away.
As these thoughts went through my head, we were led into a serving area with walls painted yellow, and pictures of rainbows and flowers placed strategically around the room. The brighter room calmed some of my nerves. Perhaps the sunshine and rainbows would subdue the “dangerous” ones.
While I was busy trying to conjure up more pleasant thoughts, the day’s jobs had been announced and I was left as the dishwasher. At least I would not have to interact much with them.
Soon, people began to filter in. Some knew each other, and others looked lost. I was amazed to see how different they all looked. There were even some who I would never have guessed were homeless.
There wasn’t much work for me at first, so I watched the other youth interact with the homeless. The longer I watched, the less scary these people looked to me. Those faces now began to lighten up. Smiles were everywhere, as was the sound of lively chatter. Soon, those who finished eating came and dropped their dishes in front of me. I smiled and tried to look cheerful. Some smiled back. I began to feel a lot better about these people. Maybe they weren’t so bad after all.
Suddenly, it was rush hour. I could barely keep up with the continuous flow of dishes, and my smile soon turned into a grimace and a plea for help. No one seemed to understand what I needed except one man.
Instead of walking off like everyone else, he cleaned off his plate and began to work on the mountain of dirty dishes. He was cheerful and made all those who passed him smile. He talked to me and made my work more enjoyable. This man had few material possessions, but he had a heart and compassion. His dirty appearance did not resemble his character at all. When we were finished, he told my supervisor what a good job I had done. Before I could say a word, he was gone.
In the car on the way home, I could not stop thinking of that kind man. Despite his circumstances he could still be cheerful and help others in need. I wished I could have told him how grateful I was for the example that he set for me.

My wife had a birthday a few months ago. Being a dutiful husband, I determined we should go out to a movie together. We scanned the movie advertisements in the newspaper to find one that had the proper rating we thought we could enjoy watching. We picked out one with a PG rating, only to find after just a few minutes in the movie, the language was such that we could not tolerate it. I was embarrassed to come out and see the crowd standing in line. I didn’t want them to observe me coming out of a movie that had such vulgar language.

I had a particular experience in my life that showed me how using the wrong word can shock those who do not expect such an utterance to come from you. I was in boot camp in the Marine Corps during World War II. Of course, the language among my fellow Marines was not of the caliber that you would want to repeat. Being a recently returned missionary, I determined I should keep my language above the level which they were using. I endeavored consistently to keep from saying even the simplest and most common of swear words.

One day we were on the rifle range firing for our final qualification scores. I had done well in the 100-, 200-, and 300-yard positions. Now we were back at the 500-yard position. All I needed was a reasonable score—just hitting the target without even having to hit the bull’s-eye, and I would make Expert Rifleman. We had been charged up with the desire to excel and be the top platoon in firing for qualifications. I tensed up at the 500-yard standing position, and on my first shot threw my shoulder into the rifle. Of course, the flag waved—I had missed the target. And likewise, I missed the opportunity of being named an Expert Rifleman.

Out of my mouth came a little four-letter word that I had determined never to use. Much to my shock and chagrin, suddenly the whole range stopped firing and everyone turned and looked at me with their mouths open. Any other Marine firing from that position that day could have used the word I used without anyone paying attention. Because I had determined that I would carry the standards of the mission field into the Marine Corps, everyone was shocked when I forgot myself.

When we received a letter calling us to serve a full-time mission from 2016 to 2019, we did not know in which mission. With my wife, Lucie, we started to think about where it could be. Then we decided to wait for the assignment letter from the First Presidency to know the place. Later, the letter arrived, and I was on trip for my assignment as an Area Seventy. I asked Lucie to wait and to not open the letter until I returned home so that we could read it together.

When I returned home, we went in our bedroom to open the letter. We read it and learned that we had been called to serve as mission leaders in Democratic Republic of the Congo Mbuji Mayi Mission. As we discovered the place, we stopped reading the letter and we did not even finish it. We were kind of upset and many questions and concerns came to our mind in few minutes. We thought about our three children who were 14, 11 and 7 years old. We thought about their school, the change of life conditions, a new area with a new local language that none of us could speak. We were overwhelmed and stuck. Suddenly we look each other, and I suggested that we pray.

Our prayer was not to change the place to serve. We went on our knees and I did pray our Heavenly Father sincerely about our concerns and feelings.

After the prayer, we felt peace, confirmation, and comfort that it is about the Lord’s work. All fears and concerns had been replaced by an assurance and understanding and with the desire to serve God. We stood up and we finished reading the letter.

We then decided to start preparing ourselves and our family for the move to serve the mission. We went on mission and the Lord was in charge until the end of our three years of mission service.

As a young married couple, my wife and I were expecting the birth of our first child. I was studying law at the university and working nights in a gasoline station. We had very little money. We had furnished our small basement apartment with some used furniture and many wooden boxes.
As the time of the birth approached, we had assembled everything we would need, except we had no bed for the baby and no money to buy one.
It was our practice at that time to pay our tithing each month on fast Sunday. As that day approached, we discussed the possibility of postponing the paying of our tithing so that we could make an initial payment on a baby bed. In the spirit of the fast, and after praying, we decided to pay the tithing and trust our Heavenly Father.
A few days later, I was walking in the business district of the city and unexpectedly met my former mission president, who asked if I was in school or working at a job. I replied that I was doing both.
Was I married? “Yes!”
Did we have children? “No, but our first child will be born in just a few weeks.”
“Do you have a bed for the baby?” he asked. “No,” I replied reluctantly, startled by the direct question.
“Well,” he said, “I am now in the furniture business, and it would please me to have a baby bed delivered to your apartment as a gift.”
A great feeling of relief, gratitude, and testimony came over me.
The gift filled a temporal need but is still a poignant reminder of the spiritual experience that accompanied it, confirming again that the law of tithing is a commandment with a promise.

I am embarrassed to think of the times I hesitated to spend extra time and effort with the seventeen teachers of the Provo Thirteenth Ward while I was their advisor. It is true. I had a growing family, a new job and home, and other responsibilities, but I needed to be reminded of my obligation to these young men. As I came to know and love them, their challenges and problems became my own. Gradually I found myself serving not out of a sense of responsibility but in a spirit of love and concern.

Fifteen-year-old Taitia Wilihana spends much of his free time painting black designs on his face and sticking his tongue out at tourists. He does it in the name of entertainment and in an effort to educate people about his native culture. Taitia is a Maori, a descendent of the first people to inhabit his native New Zealand. He lives in Queenstown, a beautiful city on the southern tip of the south island; and because of its picturesque setting on the shore of Lake Wakatipu, it is a tourist mecca with plenty of interest in the Maori culture. Half of the youth in the Queenstown Branch—Rachel Ruru, 14, and Taitia—are Maori; and Taitia performs traditional songs and dances nightly at the town’s Maori cultural center, owned and run by Rachel’s parents.
Every night except Sunday and sometimes Monday, you’ll find Taitia on stage singing and dancing, while hordes of tourists watch and eat the traditional Maori hangi, food steamed underground. Taitia and his group have even performed for the prime minister of New Zealand. The cultural center is a sort of branch gathering place during the week. Branch members and missionaries often mingle with the audience and are asked questions about their heritage. Missionary-minded performers take advantage of this opportunity to mention the Church and its emphasis on family unity and family history. It’s all very subtle, but it leaves a strong impression.
“There are so many tourists coming and going, there aren’t very many permanent members,” explains Angelina Giles, 15, half of the branch Young Women’s group. “When the missionaries make contacts and get referrals, they’re usually with people from other parts of the world.
“There are so few of us here, and we have such different standards, that we really stand out,” she continues. “We’re all very close and we stick together.”
In Sundays the branch meets in a hotel conference room. Deacon Ashley Giles, 12, and Taitia, being the branch’s only Aaronic Priesthood holders, always pass the sacrament. Angelina is the ward chorister. Rachel helps in the Young Women program. During the week, the three oldest attend early-morning seminary, held alternately at Taitia’s house and at Angelina’s. All four have unwavering testimonies of the gospel and realize they’re blessed to have it in their lives.
“I’m adopted,” Taitia explains. “I’m the youngest of eight children now. My real mother is a relative of the family that adopted me. My adoptive mother used to look after her when she was little. I’m lucky though, because my family now has the gospel. My other one didn’t.”
“We’re all lucky to be members of the Church here,” explains Ashley, referring to the fact that since most people in Queenstown are there on holiday, many have a party attitude. The gospel, he explains, helps them remember the important things in life.
“If you can stay away from Satan’s temptations here, you’ll probably be good anywhere else,” agrees Taitia.
And they all plan to try their hands elsewhere. Ashley, at 12, isn’t quite sure yet where he wants to go or what he wants to do, but Angelina will spend a year or two at the LDS church college on the north island, then perhaps go on to study law. Taitia wants to go on a mission, then become a physical therapist, and Rachel thinks she’d like to study graphic design. This will require them all to leave their homes and families in Queenstown, although Taitia and Rachel will have family and a place to stay almost anywhere in the country because of their heritage. “It’s the Maori way,” says Taitia.
In the meantime, they realize that the tourism that seems to be almost everywhere in their town isn’t all bad. It provides them with a living.
“All our parents are involved in it somehow,” says Angelina. “Our dad works in the city of Dunedin, and takes people on yacht charters during the day. At night he does hotel work. To help support our older brother, who’s on a mission, our family delivers advertising flyers.”
You get the feeling that all four of the LDS youth in Queenstown have a sense of purpose. Through the gospel they have found normalcy and stability in a city teeming with adventure-seeking tourists.
“It’s a good way to grow up, and a good place to grow up in,” says Angelina. “We can never forget we’re children of a Heavenly Father who loves us.”

“Mom, hey, Mom!” Devin’s voice floated in through the open kitchen window as she finished crimping the pie crust. A little breeze followed his voice, ruffling the white curtains and carrying a sharp smell, like rain. Instinctively she glanced toward the mountains, and yes, there were gray clouds gathering.
The screen on the back door banged shut, and she heard hesitating footsteps. “In the kitchen, dear,” she called, wiping her hands on a towel. The clump of boots sounded nearer, and she glanced up to see him framed in the doorway, temporarily blocking out most of the light.
“My goodness,” she said, with just enough tease in her voice, “if those shoulders grow any more you’ll have to go through sideways!” and then saved him the embarrassment of having to reply to such a typically motherly statement by handing him the mixing bowl and spoon. She waited with cocked head and inquiring eyebrows while he sampled the filling.
“ ’Sall right,” he said casually, but she knew from the glint in his eye that it was really good.
“It’s for the Jeffersons,” she explained, “for this afternoon, after the funeral. But I made one for us, too.”
“You’d better take ’em both over,” he said wryly. “They’ve got a regular army of relatives swarming around the house.”
“They have?”
“Yeah. I was over that way just now.” His voice was slightly muffled, coming from behind the refrigerator door. She heard the clink of milk bottles. “On my way back from Jess Willard’s.”
Jess Willard’s. She was alert now but cautious. Don’t say anything, she told herself. Just wait.
“Y’know, Mom, he’s willing to knock off another two hundred on that Chevy.”
Here we go again, she thought. But not this morning. I’m not up to this on a busy Saturday morning.
“That car is really a bargain now.” His words came in a rush, tumbling together in his eagerness to win her over. “Just a little time and effort and it’d be worth twice what he’s asking. I can do the transmission work myself and …”
“Devin!”
There was silence in the kitchen. I don’t want to sound like this, she thought, forcing back the irritation clutching at her stomach. Make it light: joke! she told herself.
“This is the Voice of Doom speaking,” she said, imitating a telephone recording. “You can’t afford Jess Willard’s fancy motorcar. There’s no way you can put together that much money—and your folks can’t give it to you, either.”
He rinsed the glass and slid it into the dish drainer.
“I told him I’d take it.” His voice was so quiet—and so final.
“What?!” There wasn’t time to control the astonishment.
“Bill Whipple was there this morning. He said he was going to buy the car as soon as he could sell his pickup. Oh, Mom, what would Bill Whipple do with a car like that?”
“And how would Devin Edwards pay for a car like that?” she demanded.
“With the fund,” he replied, avoiding her eyes.
“Your missionary fund?”
Unreal, went her brain, unreal, unreal. He didn’t really say that—not Devin, not the boy who picked strawberries all summer when he turned 12 and put every penny, minus tithing, into the fund.
“It would just be a loan, Mom. I’d pay it back.”
“Wait a minute.” She fluttered her hands in front of her closed eyes, trying to think, reaching for control. “You’ll be 19 in less than a year. You couldn’t …”
“Who says I have to leave the exact minute I turn 19?” he retorted, a hard, angry edge to his voice.
She could say nothing. The silence stretched as she stood at the wooden chopping block, stunned and still. Gradually her hands swam into focus. She was looking down and felt faint surprise to see flour and little bits of dough clinging to her fingers. Then she became aware of the receding footsteps and the slam of the back door.
“Bobby … Lisa! It’s time to leave!” she called. Then she stood, somewhat nervous, studying her reflection in the glass panes of the ponderous grandfather clock which had always stood in the entryway. Ten forty-five according to the filigree hands: the funeral was to begin at eleven. Bad enough that Bob is out of town, she thought, and now to appear without Devin either! But there had been no sign of him since he had slammed through the back door an hour ago.
“Here I am, Mom.” Lisa’s face appeared suddenly in the glittering glass, and her mother turned to give her a quick hug.
“You look lovely, dear,” she said softly. “Thanks,” replied Lisa, patting her hair into place and smoothing down the full skirt of her new blue dress. “I’ll wait out in front.”
“Bobby … please come now!” she called, putting a little more insistence into her voice. It was going to be all right. She had felt it so strongly at the conclusion of her prayer half an hour earlier. Somehow Devin would see—would get his values straight again. The funeral. She had decided the funeral would do it. Devin would be sitting hunched forward on the bench, and one of the speakers would look him right in the eye and say just the perfect thing. And now Devin might not be there to hear it.
Bobby appeared at the top of the stairs, slightly out of breath. “Sorry, Mom,” he puffed as he came down toward her, taking the steps two at a time, “couldn’t find my tie. Where’s Devin?”
“I don’t know,” she said simply, trying to keep it even, trying not to let the distress show through. But Bobby sensed it anyway.
“Maybe he’s already gone over to the church,” he suggested.
“In his boots and levis?”
“I guess not. Wanna wait for him?”
“No,” she sighed. “I left him a note.” She plucked two umbrellas from the stand near the clock. “Here, you’d better take this,” she said, offering him one. “It looks like a storm.”
The downpour had eased to a steady drench by the time Devin vaulted over the hedge and made a dash for the back door. When he strode into the kitchen, his wet T-shirt was plastered against his back. He walked over to the fridge and removed the note from the two flat magnets holding it against the door. It read: “10:40 A.M. Dear Devin: We are leaving for the Jepperson funeral, which starts at 11:00. Please change quickly and meet us at the church. We’ll sit at the back and save you a seat. Love, Mom.”
He glanced at the clock in the middle of the stove: 12:30. He crumpled the note and tossed it into the wastebasket. A few quick strides to his room, and he was back in the kitchen again in a dry T-shirt, rifling the fridge. He arrived at the table with an armload of milk, bread, mayonnaise, ham and cheese, and became aware of the two pies sitting in plastic-wrapped silence in the center of the table, waiting to be delivered. His gaze kept returning to them as he ate a quick lunch. When he had finished and cleared away the clutter, he fished the keys to his dad’s truck out of his pocket, picked up a pie in each hand, and headed through the kitchen door into what was now a mere drizzle.
He drove in silence, letting the slip-slap of the windshield wipers keep time with his thoughts, which were so deep he almost missed the Jepperson turnoff. He parked the truck in the side yard and, carefully balancing the pies, made his way up the wooden stairs to the old screen porch, where he expertly flipped open the screen door with the toe of his boot. It was just a few steps to the back kitchen door, which was slightly ajar. Devin nudged it open with his shoulder, stepped into the dimly lit room, and deftly deposited the pies on the counter near the sink. Then, with his hand on the doorknob, he was just in the act of stepping back out when a low, growling voice came from the interior of the darkened house: “Who’s there?!”
Startled, he swallowed hard and called, “Devin Edwards. Just leaving some pies for after the funeral.”
“Devin Edwards, is it?” came the voice. “Come on in here a minute, Devin Edwards.”
He made his way through the gray rooms with the ease of someone who’d been through them a hundred times or more, and as he came through the archway into the front room, a light flickered on. Carl Jepperson was sitting in his shirt-sleeves and suspenders in the big leather chair by the window.
“Why aren’t you at the funeral?” blurted Devin, the surprise evident in his voice.
“Don’t believe in ’em, son,” said Mr. Jepperson slowly, his deep voice rumbling through the room. “I can mourn my father better sitting here, in his chair, in his house, than I can over at the church with all those fancy flowers and crowds of people.”
“Uh … I was planning to go to the funeral,” explained Devin quickly, “but I was over at the Willard’s, and by the time …”
“Oh yes,” Carl Jepperson interrupted, with an impatient wave of his hand, “I hear you’re going to buy Jesse’s red Chevy. My boy’d sure like to have it.” He turned to look through the window as lightning flashed briefly across the sky and then continued, almost to himself. “There’s a mighty high price on that car. ’Course, if some people’d pay their bills …” He shifted his weight in the chair suddenly and looked straight at Devin.
“Your dad doesn’t have the money for that last load of lumber he took from me on credit. But he’s got plenty for hot rods, eh?”
Devin slid damp palms across his jeans and cleared his throat. “You know my dad’s short on cash right now. I’ve … uh … sort of decided to borrow the money from my missionary fund.”
“Borrow?” repeated Mr. Jepperson, and then barked a short, ironic laugh. “That’s the whole fund, boy, the whole thing. Spend is the word you’re looking for.” And then, before Devin could reply, a crafty look came into his eyes and he inquired, “What did your father say about all this?”
“Dad’s up at the construction site in Twin Lakes. He won’t be back until Tuesday.”
“So your Dad’s gonna have quite a little surprise,” mused Carl Jepperson, a bitter smile curling his lips. “I sure would like to see his face.”
Wheels crunched on the gravel driveway in front of the house, and headlights suddenly illuminated the rain-streaked windows. Devin’s feet took him to the front door almost of their own accord.
“Looks like somebody’s back from the funeral,” he commented, opening the door and peering through the rain. “I’ve got to be going now, anyway.”
He stepped out quickly, not looking back, but the growly voice followed him onto the porch: “Tell your dad I’ll be over to see him next Tuesday.”
He took the three steps leading down from the porch in a single jump, wincing slightly as the cold rain hit his shoulders, and then dodged quickly around to the side of the house where the old truck stood with rainwater streaming across its battered hood.
Wrenching the door open, he climbed up into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and backed down the driveway at a faster speed than was really safe. Soon he heard the steady hum of pavement under the tires as the road smoothed out, and then his fingers absently kept time with the steady pulse of the wipers as his thoughts went deeper and deeper.
“Lisa,” she called, “it’s your turn to set the table.” There was no response. The house was quiet for a change, and even the soft drippings from the rainspouts had gradually faded as the storm had passed. “Lisa!” she called again, and heard a faint rustling from the front room. A moment later Lisa appeared, book in hand, rubbing her eyes and stumbling slightly.
“Were you asleep, dear?” she asked.
“I was reading by the fire,” explained Lisa, “and it was so warm and comfortable …” She yawned and stretched languidly, her arms reaching high, and then abruptly dropped the book on the table with a loud slap that seemed to shatter the air. “Do you want the lace cloth or the gold one?” Lisa inquired over her shoulder, already heading into the dining room.
“The gold one, please,” she called as the door swung shut. Saturday dinner was the big meal of the week in the Edwards household. A tradition, she thought, handed down from my own childhood. I’m glad Mother refused to cook on Sundays, her mind continued. There were always such wonderful leftovers from the Saturday night dinners.
“Flowers,” she said softly under her breath, “for a special centerpiece.” And then an idea blossomed suddenly in her mind. Suppose I get the gold jeweler’s scale from the front room and put one of Bobby’s matchbox cars in one side and a picture of Jesus in the other. She paused to visualize the effect: fantastic for her Relief Society lesson; disastrous for Devin. The feeling of sad futility began to settle slowly into her soul again, but she shook it off and headed resolutely out into the backyard to see what flowers could still be gleaned for the dinner table.
The air was wonderful outside. The rain had stopped, but its fresh fragrance lingered. Leaves and branches were jeweled in liquid crystal. How beautiful! she marveled, lifting her head and drawing the quiet twilight scene into her soul.
She moved gracefully among the trees and hedges, choosing daisies and lilac branches. Her hands were nearly full when the pickup’s noisy rattle cut through the air. She turned to watch, screened by the shrubbery, as the old truck pulled up in the driveway and Devin swung out almost immediately. By the time she had walked over to the truck, he had lowered the tailgate and was struggling to lift an old but unfamiliar dirt bike to the ground.
“Whose is that?” she asked in surprise.
“Mine,” he grinned, enjoying her amazement. “But it used to be Bill Whipple’s. ’Course, he won’t be needing it, now that he’s gonna be driving Jess Willard’s ‘fancy motorcar.’”
“But …”
“So he sold it to me for 250 dollars.”
“But Devin, you don’t have …”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars worth of work on his new car, that is,” he added. His head was down as he moved around the bike, wiping off drops of water which had beaded up on the tarnished chrome. “The transmission’s got to be completely redone, and it needs new points, and Bill wants me to …”
“Oh, Devin,” she said, relief washing over her in a tremendous wave.
He looked up at her and, for a brief moment, comprehended her emotion. She felt the old, familiar closeness there, stronger than ever. Then he ducked his head again, taking hold of the handlebars and pushing the bike slowly toward the garage.
“Hey, Mom,” he said casually, “did you notice that the storm’s over?”

While raising our young family in Hawaii, my wife and I were grateful for the wonderful Latter-day Saints who assisted us. These dear members embraced us and treated us as their own family. On several occasions men in the ward would take my young son on ocean fishing adventures. These excursions did not involve boats but rather ancient fishing techniques developed by the early Hawaiians.
Using one such method, a skilled fisherman would meticulously fold and layer a circular net that had weights attached to the perimeter. He would then carefully carry the net to a location along the rocky shore above a clear pool of water. As he would see fish entering the pool, at just the right time and with great skill, he would throw the net, which would unfold to its full capacity and land in a large circular pattern on the water below, quickly sinking to the bottom and enmeshing the gathered fish.
While the skill of any such fisherman is impressive, he will be the first to tell you that without a good net that is clean, mended, and in full repair, his efforts would be futile. Experienced fishermen know that their success is contingent upon the integrity of their fishing nets and that effective, productive fishing does not begin until the nets are inspected and in good order.
We see an understanding of this principle among the original Apostles, several of whom were fishermen by trade. We are introduced to these fishermen in the early chapters of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, where they are casting, mending, and washing their nets when they first encounter their future Master (see Matthew 4:18, 21; Mark 1:16, 19; Luke 5:2). These men fed their families and the families of others by toiling daily to catch fish. Their fortunes and their families depended on their preparation and skill and on the integrity of their nets.
When Jesus invited them to “follow me, and I will make you fishers of men,” “they straightway left their nets,” “forsook all, and followed him” (Matthew 4:19, 20; Luke 5:11; see also Mark 1:17–18).
I have thought of this example many times as I have considered that those who stand at the head of the Church have responded with similar faith to the invitation to “follow me.” Like the ancient Church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is led by prophets and apostles, who have forsaken their nets and their hard-earned professions and have developed new skills in order to serve and follow the Master.
What does it mean to become “fishers of men”? In His simple words of invitation to the early Apostles, the Savior introduced what was to become His common and powerful form of teaching—teaching in parables. He knew that those called to follow Him would understand, to a degree, what He meant by the words “fishers of men.”
President Harold B. Lee (1899–1973) taught, “To become ‘fishers of men’ is just another way of saying ‘become leaders of men.’ So in today’s language we would say … : ‘If you will keep my commandments, I will make you leaders among men.’”1
A leader of men is someone who is called to help others become “true followers of … Jesus Christ” (Moroni 7:48). Handbook 2: Administering the Church says, “To do this, leaders first strive to be the Savior’s faithful disciples, living each day so that they can return to live in God’s presence. Then they can help others develop strong testimonies and draw nearer to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.”2
All who have accepted the call to lead in the Church have accepted the Savior’s invitation to become fishers of men.
From the highest level of leadership in the Church to Aaronic Priesthood quorum and Young Women class presidencies, leaders are organized into councils. Leaders are instructed to prepare spiritually, participate fully in councils, minister to others, teach the gospel of Jesus Christ, and administer the priesthood and auxiliary organizations of the Church. Additionally, they are to build unity and harmony in the Church, prepare others to be leaders and teachers, delegate responsibility, and ensure accountability.3
Just as the early Apostles applied their knowledge of fishing to become fishers of men, we can apply the principles found in their use of nets to the councils of the Church. Like a net, these councils are organized and prepared to gather Heavenly Father’s children—each council member acting as an important and integral strand of the net. Just as a net is effective only if it is in good repair, so are our councils compromised when council members are not organized, focused, and functioning as they should.
Leaders of councils follow the example of the ancient Apostle fishermen by regularly inspecting and mending these “nets.” Council leaders do so by providing regular training, leading out in council meetings, giving timely and appropriate feedback to council members, and offering love, encouragement, and praise. There is no substitute for the effective strength and gathering capacity of properly functioning councils.
Perhaps the council with the greatest opportunity to influence individual members of the Church is the ward council. Men and women in this council are truly called to be fishers of men with the charge of leading the work of salvation in the ward, as directed by the bishop. They live and serve in their respective wards, where they can know and associate with those they have been called to lead.
“Members of the ward council strive to help individuals build testimonies, receive saving ordinances, keep covenants, and become consecrated followers of Jesus Christ (see Moroni 6:4–5). All members of the ward council have a general responsibility for the well-being of ward members.”4
Members of ward councils play an integral role in hastening the work of salvation. When the ward council is not functioning as it should, the work slows. The gathering capacity of the “net” is compromised, and council efforts yield limited results. But when the ward council is organized and focused on strengthening individuals and families, the results can be astonishing.
I am familiar with a ward that struggled with an ineffective ward council. It was difficult for the bishop to embrace the direction found in Handbook 2 because he was comfortable in his ways and liked his old patterns. After much counseling and training by a loving stake president, however, the bishop softened his heart, repented, and began in earnest to organize the ward council as instructed. He watched training videos available at LDS.org, he read sections 4 and 5 of Handbook 2, and he acted upon what he learned.
Members of the ward council quickly embraced the changes, and a spirit of love and unity settled on them as they focused on strengthening individuals and families. In every meeting, they spoke at length about investigators, new converts, less-active members, and members with needs. Their hearts began to be drawn out to these brothers and sisters, and miracles began to happen.
The bishop reported that almost immediately after these changes were made to the ward council, previously unknown less-active members began to attend church. These members said they suddenly felt moved upon to return to the Church. They said they had received a clear and compelling impression that they needed to once again associate with the Saints. They knew they would be loved and that they needed the support members would offer.
The bishop shared with me that he is certain Heavenly Father was just waiting for him to follow the counsel he had received and organize the ward council as instructed before He could put the desire into the hearts and minds of these less-active members to return to activity in the Church. The bishop realized that he needed to create the loving, nurturing environment these members needed before the Spirit would lead them back. His words remind me of the experience of Peter the fisherman:
“And [Jesus] entered into one of the ships, which was Simon’s, and prayed him that he would thrust out a little from the land. And he sat down, and taught the people out of the ship.
“Now when he had left speaking, he said unto Simon, Launch out into the deep, and let down your nets for a draught.
“And Simon answering said unto him, Master, we have toiled all the night, and have taken nothing: nevertheless at thy word I will let down the net.
“And when they had this done, they inclosed a great multitude of fishes” (Luke 5:3–6).
As we listen to and follow the counsel given us by modern-day prophets, seers, and revelators—true “fishers of men”—and as we inspect and mend our nets while serving, our capacity to hasten the work of salvation will be greatly increased and we will become instruments in Heavenly Father’s hands to gather His children.

I swim on a winter swim team at the Lexington Aquatic Academy. Our team practices all winter and has weekend meets. Right at the beginning, I told my coach that I could compete in the meets that were held on Saturday but not those held on Sunday.
In March we had the last meet of the season, the Kentucky State Championship. The relay race was scheduled for Sunday. A couple of the team members who usually swim the relay were ruled ineligible. The coach asked my mom if I could swim just that one race on Sunday. Mom told him that it was my decision. When he asked me, I remembered something my dad had told me during a family home evening lesson. He had said that it is easier to decide how to handle a situation before you are actually faced with it. That way, when you have to make a decision, it will be easier to do the right thing. I had made the decision not to swim on Sunday before I joined my team. That made it easier for me to tell the coach that I couldn’t swim the relay.
I thought the coach would be mad at me. But at the end-of-the-year banquet, he presented me with a plaque engraved with the words “Christian Attitude Award—John Netherton 1999.” He told the team how proud he was of me for having standards and then sticking to them even when others tried to convince me to do something “just this once.” A couple of families called my mom to tell her about all the nice things that the coach had said about me. We weren’t at the banquet to hear him because it was on a Sunday! One mom even asked my mom where we went to church.
I am grateful for gospel standards and for the chance we have to be an example when we try to follow the teachings of Jesus.

Elizabeth Ann Butler was born on the 10th of May 1846 in Norfolk, England, only 16 years after The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was organised by the Prophet Joseph Smith in Fayette, New York.
In the early 1850s, Elizabeth’s family joined 90,000 gold rush migrants across the world to Victoria, Australia. They settled near Bendigo in 1853, when Elizabeth was seven years old.
Sadly, her family did not make their fortune in the gold rush. By the time Elizabeth was an adult, her parents had both left the family. She was raised mostly by her uncle, was unable to attend school and often worked long hours on his farm.
Elizabeth married a Chinese farmer, but he was also lured away by the gold rush and left her to raise their eight children with only her housekeeping and sewing skills. Times were difficult.
Although illiterate, Elizabeth knew the value of education and found creative ways to learn. She was determined to give her children more opportunities to elevate themselves than she had received. For example, she had her young sons read the daily newspaper to her, and they became good readers by the time they started school.
At 53, Elizabeth seized another learning opportunity. She and her daughter Jessie were walking down the street in Bendigo when a man in a black coat and top hat introduced himself as a missionary from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He offered them a book and said it would teach them God’s plan for His children. Elizabeth always eagerly accepted free books, but this one would change their lives.
All through that night, Jessie read The Book of Mormon to her mother, and the Holy Spirit affirmed to them this book was true.
Elizabeth and three of her children were baptized on 2 February 1902. A couple years later, her two grandsons were baptized.
The family eventually moved to Melbourne, where they connected with other members of the Church. It was a haven for them to be around like-minded people. Elizabeth was especially touched by the warm welcome they received from the sisters, who opened their homes for Sunday meetings and generously provided meals.
Although they were not organised as part of the official Relief Society organisation yet, the sisters worked together to cook, sew, and coordinate fundraising efforts for a new chapel. Elizabeth felt a companionship with these women that she had never known before.
Meanwhile, World War I broke out. To help connect women with each other during that challenging time, the Church published its Relief Society Magazine, which became an important resource for the sisters in Melbourne. They discussed its articles, poetry and stories as they gathered to knit socks and prepare parcels for soldiers in Europe and the Middle East.
Elizabeth’s two grandsons had enlisted to serve in the war. Her son Horace also enlisted and was sent to the Middle East as part of Australia’s Light Horse regiments.
Church attendance dwindled as more brethren were called to military duty. Soon, it was up to the women—Elizabeth and her friends—to keep their small branch together. The sisters looked forward to their weekly meetings for spiritual renewal and social and personal upliftment.
By the end of the war, almost every family in their area had lost a brother, a husband, a son or grandson. For Elizabeth, it was her grandson William Wallace Cameron Butler who died in the Battle of Fromelles. The bond amongst the sisters in the branch grew even stronger as they supported each other through the heartbreak. Then they began rebuilding their lives.
President Arnold Miller was called to lead the Victorian Conference—what we would now call a district. One of his first objectives was to support the official organisation of Australia’s Relief Society, under priesthood direction.
The first Relief Society meeting in Australia was held in Victoria on 15 July 1921. By 1923, Elizabeth was amongst the 22 sisters enrolled in the Melbourne Branch Relief Society. These were happy times where sisters could strengthen and feel strengthened.
In later life, Elizabeth hesitated to talk to her children about her childhood—her story was too sad to tell, she would say. Yet, the seed of faith that she allowed to be planted in her heart had grown beyond measure. In her wake, descendants for whom Elizabeth set the example, have been stalwarts in wards and stakes, faithfully building the Church wherever they live.
Through the lens of this humble lady’s life, we can look back at the beginnings of the Relief Society organisation in Australia and see through her legacy its true purpose: to prepare women for the blessings of eternal life, to strengthen individuals and families and to unite to help those in need.

Eye Care 4 Kids CEO Joseph Carbone fits Israel M. for new glasses.
The nonprofit foundation Eye Care 4 Kids offers free eye exams and discounts on glasses and contacts to children who wouldn’t otherwise have access to it. The foundation has eight clinics in Utah, Nevada, and Arizona, does vision screenings in California, and has made several international outreach trips.
Siblings Anel M., 16, and Israel M., 12, have received eye exams, glasses, and contacts from the clinic. Donations to the Light the World Giving Machines help make that possible.
“Every single time we’ve been in, they’ve always been really friendly,” Anel says. “When we’ve been to other places, the glasses are really pricey, and right here they’re affordable. My family isn’t the type of family that has a lot of money, and these are necessities.”
Anel M. gets fitted for glasses.
“The glasses have really helped me,” Israel says. “I couldn’t really see that good, and I can finally see the mountains and the sky.”

Later when he married and began raising a family, a sense of humor helped him deal with three children (and one wife) who possess a weakness for stray animals. Although he himself was raised in a family that believed animals belong in a barn, dad has survived over the years any number of dogs, cats, guppies, goldfish, turtles, lizards, rabbits, chickens, frogs, toads, chameleons, mice, rats, hamsters, guinea pigs, gerbils, parakeets, and one foul-tempered cockatiel named Doosey. I remember one winter when I brought home two full-grown cats and asked if I could keep them.
“Are they males?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Their names are Sam and George.”
That convinced him. “All right, but they have to stay outside.”
That spring Sam and George had 13 kittens between them. And they didn’t stay outside either!

Most of the youth in Abby’s ward in Oklahoma have known her since Primary, and one of her fellow Laurels in the ward, Shelby, is especially close to her because she has been working with Abby in her special education class at school. You see, Abby is autistic, and she has been changing the lives of the youth in her ward for the better in a big way.
The young women of the ward had a great time as they banded together to help Abby earn her Young Womanhood Recognition. And the spirit of helping became contagious as many of the young men joined with the young women to help with Abby’s Special Olympics basketball team. From practicing to cheering the team on, the experience was a blessing and a missionary experience for the youth of the ward. Several nonmember parents of these special-needs youth expressed their appreciation and admiration for the help given to the basketball team.
Abby’s friend Shelby says, “By helping Abby and her team, I learned more about myself than anything. Abby’s teammates are all very unselfish and kind to one another, and that makes me want to be more like them.”
“I have grown up with Abby, and she is so sweet,” adds Jourdon, a priest in the ward. “She is always happy and brings a smile to my face every time I see her. As I was working with Abby and her team, I learned that while we are all different, in Heavenly Father’s eyes we are the same. We’re all His children.”

As a sophomore moving to a new high school, I wanted to keep a low profile. Unfortunately, hazing was the norm at this school; thus no sophomore was safe from any number of abuses from the upperclassmen.
On one occasion, as I was preparing in the locker room to get ready for tennis practice, a senior and two juniors came barging in looking for any sophomores in the vicinity. Since I happened to be the only sophomore around, they wrestled me to the pool area and threw me in. They thought it was funny, and, frankly, so did I.
What happened in the aftermath, however, was anything but funny. One of the boys who grabbed me was caught and made an example of by being suspended from the basketball team. So much for keeping a low profile. I was blamed, and suddenly the school seemed more like a war zone than a place of learning and friendship.
This turned out to be one of the most difficult experiences of my life. I was yelled and sworn at, and I constantly felt humiliated. No one would believe the truth about the situation, so the ill treatment against me continued. I’m not exaggerating when I say I cried more during that time than the rest of my life combined.
In the midst of my suffering, I felt a deep need for comfort, and I turned to the scriptures to find counsel that might help. On one occasion I talked with my mother about the Book of Mormon and how I might develop my own testimony. We read one of her favorite scriptures, Alma 32:28, in which Alma compares gaining a testimony to planting a seed. He says, “If it be a true seed, or a good seed, … it will begin to swell within your breasts.”
After the discussion with my mother, I decided that I, too, wanted to know for myself. Over the next couple of months, I read in the Book of Mormon nearly every night, prayed, repented, and begged for my own witness of the truth. As I began to feel the spiritual “swelling motions” described by Alma, I began to know that the word was “good” and “delicious,” as the scripture said, but I wondered whether or not I had really received my answer. I wasn’t sure about what I was feeling until one day at church during a Sunday School lesson.
As I sat in my class and listened to my teacher, Brother Millard, speak by the power of the Spirit, I was overcome with the warmest and most beautiful feeling I had ever experienced. I cried through most of his lesson. When it was over, I went to sacrament meeting. Before the meeting began, Brother Millard put his arm around me and said, “Victor, you’ve had a special experience, haven’t you?” I replied that I had.
As sacrament meeting began, the feeling returned and tears again streamed down my face. For the first time in my life, I knew I had really felt the Holy Ghost and learned how to organize my life in such a manner that I could obtain the Spirit on my own.
I was amazed! I now knew for myself that God lives and that Moroni’s promise is true (see Moro. 10:3–5). I will forever be grateful for a Heavenly Father who, in the midst of my trials, allowed me to cry out in anguish for knowledge and understanding and who answered my prayers.

On April 29, 2019, my father-in-law, who was 95 years old, was baptized. It was truly a miracle for his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. We had waited for his baptism for a long time. What a gift for our family!
What changed him? Why did he commit to be baptized?
A few months before his baptism, he had a stroke and was hospitalized. My wife, Tazuko, returned home to see him. He was very pleased to see her. He had been afraid that he wouldn’t see her before he died. He started to tell her many things that he was worried about. He was thinking about his funeral.
But Tazuko told him, “Father, if you trust in God and leave everything to Him, your mind will be at ease and you will feel peace.” She explained about Heavenly Father’s plan of happiness and what the Savior Jesus Christ has done for us. They talked about the spirit world, where my father-in-law’s wife, his oldest son, and his parents already are. “The next world will be amazing,” she said.
She also told him that it is better to be able to go there without sin. She said that thanks to the Atonement of Jesus Christ and thanks to baptism, he could be spotless before God. He thought a little and said, “I want to be baptized.”
Then he said, “It has been wonderful to see your children establish their own faith and continue to go to church, keep the commandments, and rely on God. I am so impressed with them.” And softly and with emotion, he said, “Family is really important! It is wonderful that our family can be one.”
After he joined the Church, I asked my father-in-law why he finally committed to be baptized. He replied without any hesitation, “I chose the right.”