Gospel Story Finder

“The Spirit comforts me. Once, I prayed for help on a specific issue. During my prayer, I felt comforted. I knew that as long as I kept following His counsel, God would help and comfort me. This led me to read the scriptures and do all I can to feel the Spirit often.”
Sophie G., 15, Minnesota, USA

John Bennett Hawkins was in the Old Tabernacle on that day and answered the call to help. He was one of the hundreds of individuals in relief parties that set out from Salt Lake City. On the evening of October 21, the rescuer wagons finally reached the Willie camp. They were greeted with joy and gratitude by the frozen and starving survivors. This was the first meeting of John Bennett Hawkins and Sarah Elizabeth Moulton, who would become my great-grandparents.
The company was greeted by hundreds of Salt Lake citizens anxiously awaiting their coming and ready to help with their care. Gratitude and appreciation toward one of the young heroes who had helped save the Moultons from the grasp of death soon blossomed into romance and love for Sarah Elizabeth.
On December 5, 1856, amidst the happy wishes of her loved ones, Sarah Elizabeth married John Bennett Hawkins, her rescuer. They were sealed for time and eternity the following July in the Endowment House. They made their home in Salt Lake City and were blessed with three sons and seven daughters. One of those daughters, Esther Emily, married my grandfather Charles Rasband in 1891.

A summer rain in the Sierra Mountains usually lasts only a few hours, so I wasn’t worried when the rain began. I told the boys to pack up and we’d hike during the rain to the high secluded lakes in Bench Valley that promised good fishing. We were unaware, after four days of camping and hiking, that Tropical Storm Norman was lashing at California. In a rage of rain, wind, and ship-shoving waves, “Storming Norman” would make itself felt across the state. But that first Monday in September, we merely enjoyed the cooling rain.
A week in the Sierras had become an annual trip for me as bishop and the Explorer-aged boys in my ward. I had been on many hikes in the Sierra Mountains as a teenager. Now as bishop I felt the hikes brought me close to the boys as nothing else could. This was my sixth trip as a leader and one of my easiest so far. In the first place, two other adults, Brother Rich and Brother Christiansen, were helping me. Secondly, seven of the boys had been with me before. Only two 14-year-olds were on their first Sierra hike. Steven Knight had planned on this since his brother Jim came back a year before with enthusiastic accounts of the fishing, camaraderie, and glories of nature. He and Kurt Moody, the other first-timer, were excited. I found their inexperience creating the usual slight problems any beginner presents. They made occasional mistakes. They complained about the difficulties of backpacking and suffered from sore ankles and stiff muscles. But generally, we all enjoyed the 11 kilometer hike that day. We crossed several small streams, walked through one large meadow, and managed a stiff climb into Bench Valley.
“Don’t set up camp yet, boys,” I instructed. “We don’t want wet tents if we can help it. Stay under your ponchos and wait for the storm to end.”
I still thought the rain would soon stop, as it had every other time I had been there. But when the rain hadn’t stopped by midafternoon, we set up our camp.
“Split some logs for dry wood and let’s start a fire,” I instructed.
“Won’t the rain just put it out?” Jim asked.
“Build the fire next to that rock face. It will provide a little protection from the rain. We’ll keep the fire big enough to burn in spite of the rain.”
After a wet but warm supper, we went into our tents to wait for the end of the storm. The wind began blowing. And the rain came down.
“Bishop Brown!”
I woke up. It was still night, and it was still raining. Steven was standing outside my tent, shivering and wet.
“Our tent leaks. I’m all w-w-wet and freezing.”
I got Steven in with Steve Rich, who was sharing my tent. I didn’t know that Steven had left his own tent flap open. For the rest of the night the rain came in on his tent-mate, Kurt.
Several hours later I awoke again, with a feeling of wet suffocation. The wind had pulled the tent stakes out of the ground which was too wet to hold them. One end of the tent had collapsed, dumping its load of water on us. I struggled out and reset the stakes. While I was up, I built up the fire again. By the time I got back to my tent, the other end had blown down. I put it back up and got back in. It took a long time before I felt warm again.
Dawn came, showing a very wet camp. Keith and Mark Nelsen woke to find a pond forming next to their tent, within 15 centimeters of them. A new stream ran between two other tents. The rock overhang used to protect the packs had sheets of water flowing down it, soaking the packs. Most of the boys had wet sleeping bags. The rocky cliffs surrounding us were covered with waterfalls pouring water into the valley. It was spectacular. It was also frightening.
“We’d better leave here,” Brother Christiansen said. “We might get trapped by some flooding.”
Aren’t we up pretty high?” Steve Young asked. “This rain could turn to snow. We might get trapped in a snowstorm.”
They were both right. We decided to start going down for more shelter and less cold. We hurriedly packed our camp equipment.
“How much of this food should we take? We don’t need to carry it all back out do we?” Steve Rich asked.
“No, let’s just take what we need,” I agreed.
“Let’s go all the way out to the cars today. I’m sick of this rain,” Cornell Hansen grumbled.
The boys all loudly agreed. But I wasn’t sure.
“I don’t know if we can hike the full 32 kilometers today in all this rain,” I said. “We had better take food for four meals in case we’re delayed.”
“Oh, bishop, do we have to?” “We have to. Now let’s start.”
The hike soon became a nightmare. Our fears of flooding were well-founded. Small streams we had walked through without wetting our pant cuffs became turbulent rivers, tearing at us and trying to pull us under. Waterfalls were everywhere. The trail itself became a stream and difficult to follow. The wind whipped branches in our way. We missed our turnoff and went down the longer trail to Maxon Meadows. I remembered a Ranger cabin in the meadow from last year. Maybe we could take refuge there. We walked slowly on through the chilling wind and rain. When we finally reached a spot where we could look over the meadow, we stopped in dismay.
“Look, it’s a lake!”
Yes, the meadow was covered knee-deep in water. The cabin looked like some sort of strange ark. The rising water was lapping at its base. We hiked through the lake and kept going.
The trail was now often waist deep in water. We were all cold and miserable.
“Just keep going, boys,” I encouraged. “Then we’ll be out of this mess.”
But I hadn’t taken into account Fall Creek. It was a small creek we had waded through on the way in. Then it had been about 3 meters wide and 30 centimeters deep. Now it was a raging torrent of churning water 30 meters wide and well over our heads.
We had to cross the river. Our situation was becoming critical. We were wet and chilled, with no way to dry shelter, and all the wood was soaked or underwater. It was hard to comprehend the quantity of water around us.
We had to cross the river. But we couldn’t cross the river. It was too deep to wade, too rough to swim, and too wide to bridge. Upstream, the river came down a deep gorge between cliffs. We couldn’t cross there. I prayed to our Heavenly Father that, like Moses, I could somehow part the waters. We started downstream, hoping to find a way across.
After hiking about 400 meters Brother Rich discovered a huge pine tree that “happened” to span the river. We had often seen pines crossing streams before, but never one the dimensions of this huge patriarch. While it didn’t reach from shore to shore, both ends were on ground high enough that we could reach them by wading waist deep.
Brother Rich started across first to test if it was safe. As he climbed on the pine, it bobbed in the water, but stayed where it was. Carefully he made his way safely to the other side. There he climbed off and waded out of sight through the trees to higher ground.
I was the third one to attempt the crossing. I had gone only a few steps when I stopped. I had a feeling that the two younger boys would not be able to get across without help. I turned around, but others were on the log behind me.
“Keith,” I called. The big blond boy looked up. “Cross with Steven and help him if he has trouble.” He nodded in agreement.
“And, Jeff, you go with Kurt.”
“I will do that,” Jeff answered.
Keith and Steven started across the slippery tree. Branches, twigs, and other debris washed down by the flood were trapped by the tree. The fallen tree’s own branches impeded their progress.
“Step there,” Keith instructed.
Steven stepped, but he had misunderstood Keith’s directions. The branch disappeared under the foaming water. Steven followed it. His pack pulled him down, completely under the water. The current started pushing him under the log. He was in danger of being trapped and drowned. Acting quickly, Keith reached in and grabbed Steven’s pack. With one strong pull, he pulled him back onto the log.
Scared, but with no other choice, they continued across the tree. But danger wasn’t through with Steven yet. He stepped on some branches that snapped underneath him. Again he went in over his head and started being pulled under the huge tree. Again Keith reached in and pulled him out.
By now, Steven was afraid to take another step. Keith helped him off with his pack and carried it. Without its added weight, Steven made his precarious way to safety:
When Steven reached solid ground he began shaking. He was thoroughly chilled and apparently in shock as a reaction to his near drowning.
“Let’s get you some dry clothes,” I said heartily, trying to get his mind off his past peril. I gave him the shirt and dry wool sweater I was wearing. One of the boys gave him some dry pants from his pack.
While he was changing, the rest of the boys came across the tree.
“Be careful,” Jeff told Kurt. “You’re bigger than Steven and I’m not sure I can lift you.”
They began to carefully walk across. But the slippery tree moved—Kurt lost his balance and fell in, He caught himself and didn’t go completely under. However, with the force of the current and the weight of his pack, he couldn’t climb back on the tree and Jeff couldn’t lift him. They struggled futilely for several minutes. Jeff almost lost his balance himself. Finally Jeff helped Kurt off with his pack. Now Kurt was able to get back on the tree and continue across the river.
A new danger was now apparent. Kurt was soaked after his icy bath, I had given up my own dry clothes, and Steven was still shivering. In spite of his dry clothes, he was shaking so hard he couldn’t speak. I knew we had to get warm, but I didn’t know how.
Everything—equipment, clothes, wood, ground-everything was wet. The temperature was dropping, and the wind was adding to the chill factor. The only thing I could think to do was to keep on moving. Brother Rich and Brother Christiansen, agreed. We had to get out. But the rain was falling and the rivers were rising.
We hiked on. I was becoming very chilled. I was having a hard time thinking clearly. I recognized this as a symptom of a lower than normal body temperature, and I was becoming frightened. As the body temperature drops, the body loses its ability to warm itself. It’s a very real danger for wet hikers and I wasn’t sure if the two younger boys would be able to get out all right.
I sent a couple of the older boys ahead to look for dry wood and ground up out of the water. And I prayed.
About 15 minutes later we got to them. They had found a fallen log.
“We managed to split it,” Jeff said. “We dug some dry wood from the middle, but none of our matches will light.”
“Here,” I said as they moved aside. “I’ll use my lighter.”
I flicked the lighter. Nothing happened. Flick. Still nothing. Flick. Flick.
“Maybe it’s out of fuel,” someone offered.
“It can’t be. I bought it just for this trip.” I flicked it again and again. It wouldn’t light.
I got out my matches. Thank goodness they were still dry. I struck one. It wouldn’t light. Another. It still wouldn’t light. One by one I struck them all. Not one would light.
“Oh, Father,” I prayed, “thou knowest we need help. I am afraid these two boys will die if they don’t get warm. If we have to spend the night wet in this rain and wind, I may die too. Please help us light a fire to warm ourselves. We need thy help!”
We tried everyone’s matches. We didn’t get one spark.
“Why, Father why? I am their bishop, and we need thy help. Why are my prayers unanswered? We need thee. Please don’t turn away.”
The only answer was the blowing rain.
“Lord, it depends on you now. I don’t know anything else to do.”
We hiked on. I was shivering violently now. The trail was sometimes chest deep in water on the boys. Only the marked trees kept us on the correct trail. I knew we couldn’t hike all the way out. The younger boys were slowing down. There was another river ahead. It was bigger than all the others. It would surely be unpassable.
“What will I tell their mothers?” I worried. “Will this end all camping trips for Church teens? How will my wife manage our seven children? Little Melanie’s only two weeks old. I’ll never know her.” My mind continued on its frightened course. I continued praying, hard and constantly.
Almost in despair, we hiked on, leaning into the rain. We walked wearily around a bend. There was a cabin. It took a moment for us to realize it was real. A cabin! A cabin with smoke coming out of the chimney. Other than the inundated one on Maxon Meadows, it was probably the only cabin within 32 kilometers. Pacific Gas and Electric Company kept it to measure winter snowfall.
Inside the cabin were four other hikers who had taken refuge from the storm. A fire was burning hotly. There was a huge stack of firewood, trashcans full of wool blankets, and ample food supplies. We were safe.
When we were all warm and dry, I thanked God for his mercy. I realized that had we been able to light a fire, we would still be out in the storm, fighting for our lives.
“Thank thee, Father, for not answering my pleas for fire. Help me remember, when I complain and wonder why, that I do not know what shelter is is around the next bend.”
I tried my lighter. It flicked its merry little flame on the first try.
The storm forced us to stay for two and a half days. Then, with snow on the ground, we hiked out.

Elder Caussé developed a love for music when he began taking piano lessons at age seven. Today, singing and instrumental music fill the Caussé home, with every family member playing the piano, violin, or cello.

Here’s a novel idea for a New Beginnings night. The Middleburg Ward, Jacksonville Florida West Stake, gave it a new twist by adding a Young Women Jeopardy game, with categories covering each of the Young Women values.
Of course, the evening included traditional aspects like a program and awards presentation, but the Jeopardy game gave both parents and young women a chance to have fun together while learning about the values. The Mia Maids liked it best—they won.

Martin’s wife, Lucy, who had been involved in the loss of the manuscript pages, died in Palmyra in 1836. Within a year thereafter, Martin and his family located in Kirtland, and Martin married Caroline Young, a niece of Brigham Young.
When most of the Saints moved on—to Missouri, to Nauvoo, and to the West—Martin Harris remained in Kirtland. There he was rebaptized by a visiting missionary in 1842. In 1856 Caroline and their four children took the long journey to Utah, but Martin, then 73 years of age, remained on his property in Kirtland. In 1860 he told a census taker that he was a “Mormon preacher,” evidence of his continuing loyalty to the restored gospel. Later he would tell a visitor, “I never did leave the Church; the Church left me” (quoted in William H. Homer Jr., “‘… Publish It upon the Mountains’: The Story of Martin Harris,” Improvement Era, July 1955, 505), meaning of course that Brigham Young led the Church west and the aging Martin remained in Kirtland.
During part of his remaining years in Kirtland, Martin Harris acted as a self-appointed guide-caretaker of the deserted Kirtland Temple, which he loved. Visitors reported his alienation from the leaders of the Church in Utah but also his fervent reaffirmation of his published testimony of the Book of Mormon.
Finally, in 1870, Martin’s desire to be reunited with his family in Utah resulted in a warm invitation from Brigham Young, a ticket for his passage, and an official escort from one of the Presidents of Seventy. A Utah interviewer of the 87-year-old man described him as “remarkably vigorous for one of his years, … his memory being very good” (Deseret Evening News, 31 Aug. 1870). He was rebaptized, a common practice at that time, and spoke twice to audiences in this Tabernacle. We have no official report of what he said, but we can be sure of his central message since over 35 persons left similar personal accounts of what he told them during this period. One reported Martin saying, “It is not a mere belief, but is a matter of knowledge. I saw the plates and the inscriptions thereon. I saw the angel, and he showed them unto me” (quoted in Investigating the Book of Mormon Witnesses, 116).
When he reiterated his testimony of the Book of Mormon in the closing days of his life, Martin Harris declared, “I tell you of these things that you may tell others that what I have said is true, and I dare not deny it; I heard the voice of God commanding me to testify to the same” (quoted in Investigating the Book of Mormon Witnesses, 118).
Martin Harris died in Clarkston, Utah, in 1875, at age 92. His life is commemorated in the memorable pageant Martin Harris: The Man Who Knew, produced each summer in Clarkston, Utah.

In the spring, Jason planted three pumpkin seeds in the corner of the garden. His sister, Ellen, planted three tomato plants, and his brother, Tom, planted a row of corn.
The warm sun shone. The rain fell. All the plants grew, but Jason’s pumpkin vines grew the most. They spread all across the garden and had large, green leaves. By July, they had beautiful orange flowers. Jason kept busy pulling the weeds from around them and watering them with the garden hose.
Ellen’s tomato plants blossomed, too, but they had only small, yellow flowers. Before long, though, little green tomatoes appeared on them. And ears of corn began to grow on Tom’s cornstalks.
“Where are my pumpkins?” Jason asked.
“Look under the leaves,” Tom told him.
Sure enough, tiny green pumpkins were growing there.
Soon the first of Ellen’s tomatoes were large and red. Mother sliced some for sandwiches. Then Tom’s ears of corn grew big and plump, and they roasted some on picnics. The tomatoes and the corn were delicious, and Jason wished that he had planted them, instead.
“Just wait,” Ellen told him. “The pumpkins will get ripe.”
The pumpkins got bigger, but they were still green and hard when Tom and Ellen started back to school. Tom’s corn had all been eaten or quick-frozen for winter meals by then.
One night there was to be a frost, so the whole family went to the garden and picked all the tomatoes—even the green ones—still on Ellen’s plants. They would be made into spaghetti sauce or preserves.
“What about my pumpkins?” Jason asked.
“They’ll be all right. Pumpkins like frost,” Father said.
The next morning Jason ran outside and across the white, frosty lawn. “My pumpkin vine is black and dead!” he cried.
“But look at your pumpkins,” Mother pointed out. “They’re turning orange.”
Soon the pumpkins were bright orange. They were huge. Father cut one from the vine, and Mother made it into delicious pumpkin pies. Then, on the Saturday before Halloween, the rest of the pumpkins were cut from the vines. A couple of them were canned for winter pies and pumpkin bread, then all but three were given to friends.
The last three were for Tom and Ellen and Jason for jack-o’-lanterns. Tom and Ellen made scary faces on theirs, but Father helped Jason cut a big grin on his. Jason was very proud—pumpkins were worth waiting for!

Eric, another son, describes his father’s example: “He has always gone to the real sources: the words of the prophets and the scriptures. He is bold but he listens. He will ask inspired questions and then listen to your answer, and then he will ask another inspired question. Once he was giving me something similar to a temple recommend interview when I was about 14. He asked me if I sustained President Ezra Taft Benson. I said that I did. And then, after a pause, he asked, ‘What have you read lately of what President Benson has said?’” The lessons from those inspired questions and others like them are still teaching Eric and his brothers.

The personal revelation to serve a mission was one of the clearest answers to prayer I’ve ever received. Admittedly, I was not thrilled about the prospect of leaving my family for 18 months, but I could not deny the answer I received. So, I obediently heeded the call.
There were wonderful parts of my mission, but I also experienced a lot of challenges that tested my faith and caused me to wonder why I was even prompted to serve a mission! However, as I look back now, I can honestly say that the difficult experiences on my mission strengthened me in many ways, and they prepared me to receive blessings later on.

Losing one of my brothers while he was serving faithfully in the Abidjan West Mission was the beginning of gloom and dark clouds for my family. Things began to go badly in all facets of our lives. My maternal family members, who are not members, made lots of allegation against my parents but that never moved my parents, because of their unwavering faith in the Savior. My dad would say “it is the will of the Lord and what the Lord sees fit for His children, He does that for them”. Having a perfect knowledge of the plan of salvation gave us an assurance that surely, we would meet and be happy with my brother again after this test of mortality.

As a pilot, I flew all over the world. I never tired of looking at the stars, the clouds, the landscapes. I saw the beauty of the different countries with their different cultures. I know from going to those places and seeing the people and seeing the Church in those different places that the gospel is for everyone, no matter what nation you live in or what your traditions are. It is the gospel of Jesus Christ. The word of God—whether it is written in the scriptures or spoken by the living prophets, whether we read it in Church magazines or hear it at general conferences—is for everyone.

There was no uncouth or profane language heard in those homes. Civility and altruism were also taught in those days. A man recently sent me a recording of a talk given some years ago by Abner Howell who lived in my neighborhood. Belonging to a minority race, he had worked hard to achieve an education. He served as sergeant at arms for the Utah State Legislature. In that talk he expressed appreciation for the time when he was a boy in school and my mother helped him with his work and defended him against those who were taunting him. We were taught in our home that all of the people of the earth are sons and daughters of God. The color of their skin may be different, but their hearts and emotions are the same.

When Farid was 14 years old, he thought he knew what he wanted in life, and religion wasn’t a part of it. He told his family he didn’t want to attend any church.
He had a full life in the beautiful city of San Pedro Sula, Honduras. His favorite activities were music, dancing, soccer, volleyball, swimming, and hiking. He spent most of his time reading philosophy books and hanging out with his friends. Farid was working toward a career in medicine, and he just wanted to enjoy life.
Farid said he was a selfish 14-year-old—he only thought about himself. “I didn’t care about my family or their needs,” he says. “I would fight with my cousin a lot.”
Then one Sunday, Farid’s life took an unexpected turn. While he was bored at home, his friend Isaías texted him and asked if he wanted to go to his church with him. That was the first time Farid visited The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Then Isaías invited him to attend seminary, and he loved it so much.
“I felt something in my soul that told me that I was in the right place, with the right people, and the right church,” says Farid.
Soon after he attended seminary for the first time, he joined the Church. And soon after that, he started noticing some unexpected changes in himself.
Farid says, “I went from an immature 14-year-old who only wanted to be rebellious, to a young man with eternal perspectives. My family noticed, too.”
Farid stopped fighting with his cousin. Instead, he now tries to find ways to serve him such as making him lunch, cleaning his room, or asking him if he needs help. But in spite of the positive changes in Farid’s life, some of his family members were upset when he first joined the Church.
“I never let their comments change my opinion about the Church,” says Farid. “I am very grateful that my faith never stopped. Instead, it grew more and more. My family now accepts my beliefs because they’ve seen my example and how I’ve changed.”
There have been other big changes in Farid’s family as well. His mom is now taking lessons from the missionaries, and she wants to be baptized!
“Heavenly Father promises us that when we put in the effort, we will receive blessings,” says Farid. “But He has His timing. It has taken almost four years for one member of my family to want to get baptized. It hasn’t been easy for me. I’ve been tempted to think that the Church is false. But when I’ve asked Heavenly Father about the truthfulness of the Church, I’ve received my testimony, which keeps me strong.”

In conclusion, let me share the lesson I learned about how to take upon us the name of Christ and testify of Him by using the correct name of the Church.

President Nelson, God’s living prophet, in a 2018 general conference address titled “The Correct Name of the Church,” said: “It is a correction. It is the command of the Lord. Joseph Smith did not name the Church restored through him; neither did Mormon. It was the Savior Himself who said, ‘For thus shall my church be called in the last days, even The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints’ [Doctrine and Covenants 115:4].”

We all left general conference that day committed and determined to follow the prophet and to use the revealed name of the Church from then on. I really watched myself to make sure I used the correct name of the Church. The first few times, I had to be very conscious and not allow myself to go back to the old ways. After the first attempts, I felt more comfortable with using the revealed name of the Church. I admit that many times, I would speak the name of the Church quickly. I felt concerned that people would not pay attention to the Church’s full name and that they might think it to be a bit long.

However, I later realized that speaking the full name of the Church with intent gave me valuable opportunities to speak the name of Jesus Christ and in fact bear testimony of the Savior by declaring His name in the name of His Church. I also noticed that when I spoke the correct name of the Church with others, I more frequently remembered Jesus Christ and felt His influence in my life.

By following the prophet, we can all learn to testify more of Jesus Christ by using the correct name of the Church, thus taking upon us more fully the name of the Lord.

As I pondered how to maintain my positive spiritual momentum, I remembered an experience I’d had in Jerusalem. My first Sunday there, we attended the BYU Jerusalem Center for church. A student studying there gave a talk. She shared that when she’d first come to Jerusalem, she’d thought she would feel the Spirit so strongly all the time. She’d assumed that since she was walking where Jesus had walked, her testimony was going to be effortlessly strengthened.
Through her time there, she came to realize that it wasn’t about walking where Jesus had walked—it was about walking with Him. She emphasized how this could be anywhere, not just in Jerusalem. As President Emily Belle Freeman, Young Women General President, shared about walking with Jesus Christ, “It’s not the course alone that will exalt us; it’s the companion—our Savior.”

One day when President Cowley and I were traveling, we arrived at the home of Brother Stewart Meha, a great and wonderful Maori man. He presided over his large family as a true father and leader. President Cowley and Brother Meha spent all afternoon sitting on the porch and talking about the Church and other interesting things.

When it came time for the evening meal, Brother Meha stood on his front porch and, in the Maori language, shouted out to all of his large family, “Haere Mai Ki te Kai.” Then he said, “Haere Mai Ki Te Karakia.” These phrases meant, “Come on home for supper, Come on home for prayer.”

Soon family members came from every direction. We all assembled in his home in the big front room. The room had very little furniture in it, and everybody gathered in a large circle. Brother Meha was at the head of the circle, President Cowley was on his left, and I was next to President Cowley. On Brother Meha’s right was a little child about eight years of age. All around the rest of the circle were the other children, with some adults in between.

Brother Meha said to the little boy on his right, “You start.” I bowed my head in anticipation of the little boy’s prayer. Instead of praying, he quoted a scripture, after first reciting the chapter and verse. Then the young person next to him recited a scripture with the reference. After about four scriptures had been given, I realized that we were going around the circle, with each person quoting a different passage of scripture. One youngster started to quote one that had already been used, and he was quickly corrected.

Eventually it was my turn and then President Cowley’s. Then Brother Meha prayed.

When I was 14, my dad left our family, and my mom was forced to flee the country. I was left with my three younger siblings, Ephraim, age 9; Jonathan, 6; and Grace, 3 (names have been changed). Nothing could have prepared us for this sudden change. For the first time, we were alone.
Extended family soon offered to take each of us in, but if we went to live with them, we would be separated. It was a difficult decision. How could we reject their well-intentioned help? But at the same time, how could we give up years of playing, laughing, caring for one another, and watching each other grow?
Initially, my brothers and I turned down their help, thinking I could work to support us and we could stay together. But we knew that we could not provide the care our youngest sister needed, and so, with tears in our eyes, we let her go.

But it was the inspiring words of Elder Boyd K. Packer of the Council of the Twelve, given at the Relief Society conference in Salt Lake City in the fall of 1971, that gave me the courage to tell my husband how I felt about him joining the Church. Among other things, Elder Packer said:
“I have often said that a man cannot resist membership if his wife really wants him to have it, and if she knows how to give him encouragement.
“If you have faith enough and desire enough, you will yet have at the head of your home a father and husband who is active and faithful in the Church.
“Some who have long since lost hope have said bitterly, ‘It would take a miracle!’ And so I say, Why not? Why not a miracle! Is there a purpose more worthy than that?
“And I repeat, if your husband doesn’t feel at home going to church, then do everything you can to make him feel at church while he’s at home.
“Sisters, make the gospel seem worthwhile to them, and then let them know that that is your purpose.
“He needs to know, he needs to be told that you care about the gospel and what it means to you.” (“Begin Where You Are—at Home,” International Magazines, July 1972.)
Now an apostle of the Lord had told me to tell my husband what it would mean to me for him to accept the gospel. What a task! In our home the gospel was never mentioned unless my husband started talking about it first. I wept, trying to figure out how I’d ever be able to do it. Then I remembered the scripture, “I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say; but when ye do not what I say, ye have no promise” (D&C 82:10). I decided once again to fast and pray and trust in the Lord. It took me until January 1972 to find the courage to speak.
Then, one night, I asked Norman if he felt he could ever accept the gospel. He gave me a firm, but not unkind, no. Taking a deep breath, I told him how much the boys and I loved him, what a fine father and husband he had been; but, I said, he was unable to give me the thing I wanted most of all. Well, I had done it! An apostle of the Lord had told me to do it. Within six months of that night, after thirty-seven years of marriage, Norman was baptized. It was indeed a miracle.
Looking back on the months following that January conversation, I can see that many things happened to bring this about. Some friends from Salt Lake City gave Norman the book, No More Strangers by Hartman and Connie Rector, and challenged Norman to take his place at the head of his family and bear the priesthood. After our younger boy’s missionary farewell, where Norman spoke briefly, Norman’s Sunday School teacher challenged him to be baptized. Steven wrote letters of encouragement and asked his dad to read the Book of Mormon. Douglas also bore testimony to him. Though Steven had left a nonmember father behind in 1972, he returned in 1974 to find his father sitting on the stand as second counselor in the bishopric.

Watoy paused under the colorful Filipino flag outside his school before heading inside.
“Good morning, class,” his teacher said. “It’s time for our morning prayer.”
All around, Watoy’s friends each touched their foreheads, chests, and shoulders to form the shape of a cross. Then they recited the prayer they always said at the beginning of class. As usual, Watoy didn’t join them. Instead, he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and said his own silent prayer. He prayed about different things each time, the way he was taught to pray at home and in Primary.
When he finished and looked up, he saw that his teacher was watching him with a confused expression on her face.
“May I talk to you after school?” she said.
Watoy swallowed and nodded. Was he in trouble?
When classes had ended for the day, Watoy’s teacher walked over to him.
“I see that you never cross yourself or recite our morning prayer,” she said. “Will you please tell me why?”
Watoy breathed a sigh of relief. His teacher wasn’t upset, just curious! He thought about how to answer.
“Well,” he began, “in my church, when we pray, we talk to Heavenly Father about many different things. And the cross reminds us of when Jesus died. But Jesus is not dead. He lives!”
His teacher thought about this for a moment and then nodded slowly.
“Thank you for sharing this with me,” she said.
As Watoy walked to football practice, he felt warm and good inside. He liked teaching others about Jesus Christ.

It was my second week in the mission field. I was fresh out of the missionary training center, ready and willing to face anything that came my way.
One night we rode our bikes along a slightly icy road and then came to some trolley tracks that were part of the road. My companion made it past them, but by the time he looked back to warn me, it was too late. My bike tire caught in the track, and I flew off my bicycle and slid about three feet.
I panicked. I knew I’d been hurt, so I checked my head, my arms, my knees—all were sore. Then I checked my face and discovered that some of my teeth had been knocked out. I sat on a cold, dark street wondering why this happened to me. What had I done wrong? Did the Lord not want me to serve? Questions and concerns raced through my mind as my companion sat by me and offered words of comfort. Nothing seemed to help.
I felt lost and alone, but suddenly an overwhelming sense of warmth and peace came over me, and the dark clouds of fear and hurt disappeared. I became calm. My personal relationship with the Savior grew as I felt His Atonement work on me. I realized that the Lord has taken upon Himself all of our pains and afflictions so that He can help us through them (see Alma 7:11–12).
Many good things came from my accident, and I learned that the Lord really does see the big picture. If we follow Him and seek to understand His plan for us, He will bless us through our trials.