Gospel Story Finder

You recall the legend of a king who became bored with his routine living. He announced to his subjects that the person who could provide him with a game that would give him constant pleasure would be rewarded greatly, even unto half of his kingdom. Of course everyone wanted a “piece of the action.” Day after day, month in and month out, he reviewed all of the games that were invented. Finally a subject came to him and told him he had invented a game that would entertain the king as long as he lived. The subject demonstrated the game—he told the king that the game must be played on a board with 64 squares. He said the name of the game was chess. He taught the king all the moves and played several games with him. The king was so enraptured by the game that he told the subject to ask for anything. The man declined, suggesting that he had received enough pay if the king enjoyed the game. However, the king would not take no for an answer. Finally the subject said, “If you are determined to pay me something, give me one grain of wheat for the first square on the chessboard, two for the second, four grains for the third, eight for the fourth, and so on, doubling the number for each square until all 64 squares of the board are covered.”
The king was very disappointed that this was all the subject desired of him. Finally he agreed and sent a servant out to get a bushel of wheat and pay the man off. Well, by now you have the message—it wasn’t that simple. By the time the king tried to pay off the 64th square in wheat, he found that all of the crop of his country was not adequate to pay the debt. To do so would have required 18,446, 744,073,709,551,615 grains!

One night after I came out of the church, my new silver CTR ring fell out of my pocket. My dad and uncle shined the headlights of their cars into the bushes, but I still couldn’t find it. I was feeling sad. My mom said we should have a family prayer. After the prayer, I walked through the bushes and felt a prompting to look down. There was my ring under a bush! I know that my prayer was answered and that yours can be, too.Brian Seegmiller, age 10Fairfield, California

Amherst Ward, Springfield Massachusetts Stake
My name is Nichole Jewkes, and I am eleven years old. I live in Belchertown, Massachusetts. I am one of only three Latter-day Saints in my middle school. This has been a big change for me because I just recently moved here from Utah. Since not many people in my school know about the Church, I have a great opportunity to do missionary work.
I wear my CTR ring to school every day. People look at my ring and ask what CTR stands for. I always reply, “Choose the right.” And they say, “Cool!” and move on.
One day, my friend Christine noticed my CTR ring and asked what it stands for. I answered, “Choose the right.” Christine said, “Wow! This is so cool!” Then she asked me where I had gotten it. I said that I got it from my church. She asked me how much one costs and if she could buy one. I said that I’d get one for her for free. She acted surprised and said, “Thank you so much.”
I got a CTR ring from my Primary president on Sunday and took it to school on Monday. Christine was very excited and said thank you so many times! She continued to wear it every day and was always telling me how neat it was and how much she loved it.
A few days later, another friend named Julie also noticed my CTR ring. She noticed that Christine had one, too. Julie thought they were neat and asked where we had gotten them. I asked her if she would like one, and she said, “Oh yes, please!”
Now when Julie sometimes says the Lord’s name in vain, she’ll remember and say, “Sorry.” And when older kids swear around me, she’ll say, “Don’t swear around Nichole; she doesn’t like it.” It is nice to know that even though my friends do not belong to our church, they are still trying to choose the right and stand up for me.
I have learned from living here and having many friends who are not LDS that most people are still really good people, trying to do good things with their lives. I hope the CTR rings continue to strengthen Julie and Christine and that I can continue to invite them to church and Church activities. I hope we can all continue to be good missionaries, no matter how old we are.

The leading association in French Polynesia to assist jobless people will be benefitting from a set of self-reliance courses developed by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
In a meeting earlier this year, Marshall Raihauti, project manager and educator for Te U-irau, met with Manea Tuahu, national director of self-reliance for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in French Polynesia, to talk about their partnership.
“The people we work with often lack confidence and really have no plans for the future,” said Marshall.
Showing his Church self-reliance course textbooks with some delight, he continued, “I had the opportunity to attend a Church-sponsored self-reliance course in Punaauia in 2018 and was impressed that the program first helps people to identify their personal issues through a spiritual process.
“My motivation is to create that same turning point in them, as I have experienced it. And you can achieve it with the Spirit; that is at the heart of your empowering programs.”
He continued, “We have the expertise, we have the material, the financial resources and the appropriate training. But we are missing something that only your programs can provide. You can touch them spiritually. The Latter-day Saints have the magic that we don’t have. This is the Spirit of the Lord. It is what triggers the change of heart. And that’s the most important.”
Averii Nollemberger, coordinator for Te U’irau in Pirae, Faaa and Moorea job and training centers, said: “I liked that the person is at the center of change and that the principle of individual responsibility prevails.”
Manea presented the resources of the Church with courses such as “Starting and Growing My Business” and “Personal Finances.”
He explained the concept of self-reliance: “In the Church, self-reliance is not just about having a good job, food reserves, or money in the bank. It is the ability to provide for the spiritual and temporal necessities of life. It is a complementary, inseparable whole.
“When people become independent, they have more capacity to help others, and serving others is at the heart of self-reliance.”
Marshall concluded, “Despite all the support that we in the government have put in place, a majority of our job seekers continue to be dependent, unable to get long-term employment. What’s missing is the change of heart. I know that when you put God first, the doors begin to open.”

Al and I were married in 1959. A decade later we had three children and were living in a small town in Canada. Al ran a construction business, and I was a stay-at-home mom who sometimes helped with the business. On the weekends, Al and I partied with our friends, always with alcohol. My dad had been an alcoholic, so I hated that drinking was such a big part of our lives, but it had become our way of socializing.
That year, 1969, I realized my life was going nowhere and that our children deserved better than what we were offering them. One night after another drinking party, I got down on my knees and prayed, “Dear God, if You are there, please help me change my life.” I promised Him I would never drink alcohol again, a commitment I’ve honored ever since.
That was the first memorable prayer, and it was answered quickly. My sister-in-law’s daughter, my niece, had been invited to attend Primary with a Latter-day Saint friend. As my sister-in-law learned more about the Church, she felt inspired to send me a subscription to the Church magazines, which arrived within a month after I had said that first prayer. I didn’t know what a Mormon was, but I loved the messages the magazines contained and read them cover to cover. I decided to investigate the Church and therein found my answer. I did change my life, and I was baptized on June 19, 1970.

I’m from France, but my sister and I spent a year in the eastern United States as exchange students. During that time, we met lots of people, but the one who left the biggest impression on me was a girl named Destiny. She became one of my best friends. We did all kinds of things together, during school and after school, and with my sister. Destiny was always happy. That was the thing I liked most about her.

Then one day I saw her in a troubled mood I had never seen her in before. I asked her what was wrong. She said she didn’t want to talk about it. Then I noticed a paper in her hand. I took it and read it.

Someone had written unbelievably mean things to her. The anonymous note said she was ugly, that no one liked her, that she didn’t have any purpose for being alive, and that she ought to go and kill herself. I would never have believed someone like her could be attacked like that. It affected me deeply to know the pain she was going through.

From then on, I made an even bigger effort to be Destiny’s friend—not just to spend time with her, but to always be there for her, and especially to be sincere. I explained to her that she is a daughter of God, blessed with a divine nature, worthy of admiration and capable of great things.

It’s difficult to try to love yourself when others treat you badly and criticize you. As I befriended Destiny, I learned that sometimes the best way to help others is just to love them and to help them know who they truly are.

At the end of the year, when I had to return to France, Destiny told me something I will always treasure. “Emma,” she said, “you saved me. Before you came, I wanted to kill myself. But then you and your sister helped me a lot, just by caring. Today I love myself, and I love you.”

I walked to school alone as usual, occupied by thoughts of my dad, who was sitting in prison and of my mom, who had no idea of what we would do now for income. You bet it would have been easy to point fingers and feel sorry for myself, but I didn’t want any more hurt. Like so many times before, however, the questions, “Why? Why me?” came to mind.
While sitting in seminary class later that day, my teacher read aloud one of the scriptures we were to learn that year. It was from the book of Joshua: “Choose you this day whom ye will serve … but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord” (Josh. 24:15). It was as if someone had spoken directly to me, “It’s time to choose whom you will serve, Barbara.”
Wow! I’d never thought of that scripture quite like that. My life so far had been difficult, but I’d learned to forgive and forget. Sure, I went to church, when I wanted to. My Primary, Sunday School, and Young Women lessons were all right, but something had been missing. I finally found that missing something in a small seminary class on an ordinary day. It was my personal commitment to the Lord that had been absent. I wondered what might have happened if I had been sleeping, skipping class, or doing something else instead of listening to a very special teacher and the Spirit that day.
How good it felt to have the knowledge that someone cared. My Heavenly Father and Jesus wanted me to choose whom I would serve so that I could get going with my life and be happy. A warm feeling crept over me.
Since that day, I have tried through my thoughts and actions to serve the Lord. It’s not always easy, but I know for sure that a loving Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ will help, if I will only ask.

A positive and happy attitude is indispensable for people working in sales, as I do. Yet several years ago I was feeling discouraged and had no desire to talk to anyone. This was especially true one afternoon.
My countenance must have betrayed my poor spirits because one of my co-workers, with whom I had talked on many occasions, inquired about my situation. I explained that after being married for six years, my wife and I had divorced. This month marked the six-year anniversary of the divorce, so I had now been divorced for the same amount of time I had been married. My mind and heart were troubled, and my soul was filled with pain and sorrow. I knew I was missing many of my children’s experiences, and that realization was constant torture. Loneliness consumed me, and I saw no solution—or even hope—on the horizon. This, I told my co-worker, was the price I had to pay for my mistakes.
My colleague, who was a member of another Christian church, then responded. “What price are you talking about?” he asked. “Jesus Christ has paid the price, if you have truly repented of your sins. Or do you not remember why He came to earth?”
I was astonished by his reply, and his words left me speechless. They resonated inside me all afternoon. Yes—even though I lived with the consequences of my mistakes, Jesus Christ had paid the price. Why had I not realized this? I knew the doctrine, and I knew that it was true. Recognizing that the Atonement had power in my life filled me with a feeling of peace and comfort that I still remember today.
Years have passed since this experience at work. I have learned that some consequences of our actions remain with us all of our lives. Many of them affect the lives of our loved ones. The loneliness has not been easy, but it has helped me recognize my weaknesses and ask forgiveness of my Heavenly Father and the people who were most affected—my children and their mother.
In contrast with how I felt that afternoon, I can say that I now have peace and hope. I know that Jesus Christ has paid the price, and I have no doubt of this because I have repented. He has sustained me during these years of trials. Although my trials continue, I know that as I repent, turn to the Lord, and keep the commandments, He will continue to sustain me.

During World War II, President James E. Faust, then a young enlisted man in the United States Army, applied for officer candidate school. He appeared before a board of inquiry composed of what he described as “hard-bitten career soldier[s].” After a while their questions turned to matters of religion. The final questions were these:
“In times of war should not the moral code be relaxed? Does not the stress of battle justify men in doing things that they would not do when at home under normal situations?”
President Faust relates:
“I recognized that here was a chance perhaps to make some points and look broad-minded. I knew perfectly well that the men who were asking me this question did not live by the standards that I had been taught. The thought flashed through my mind that perhaps I could say that I had my own beliefs but did not wish to impose them on others. But there seemed to flash before my mind the faces of the many people to whom I had taught the law of chastity as a missionary. In the end I simply said, ‘I do not believe there is a double standard of morality.’
“I left the hearing resigned to the fact that [they] would not like the answers I had given … and would surely score me very low. A few days later when the scores were posted, to my astonishment I had passed. I was in the first group taken for officer’s candidate school! …
“This was one of the critical crossroads of my life.”

Your choice of music can also affect your ability to accomplish tasks or to learn. Two researchers explored this relationship by studying the effects of music and rhythm on the nervous system of mice. For eight weeks, one group of mice constantly listened to Strauss waltzes (highly organized and orderly music), while a second heard disharmonious sounds in the form of continuous drumbeats. A third group was raised in silence.

After eight weeks, the mice were placed in a maze to find food. The mice in the second group wandered off with no sense of direction—“a clear indication they were having trouble learning”—and took much longer to find the food than they had at the beginning of the study. The mice exposed “to discordant sounds not only developed difficulties in learning and memory, … but they also incurred structural changes in their brain cells.” The researchers’ diagnosis is very interesting: “We believe that the mice were trying to compensate for this constant bombardment of disharmonic noise. … They were struggling against the chaos.”5

One day I went for a stroll with my two daughters, aged three and four. We walked by beautiful homes and gardens with flowers of spectacular colors. We saw tall trees with disorderly wildflowers clustered around them, which were lovely, too.
Then the girls saw some dandelions that were blooming like small bright suns. They each picked one. To their disappointment, the yellow blossoms soon withered into grey shadows.
“Why did you pick them?” I asked, thinking it was time for a lesson.
“Because they were so pretty!” both cried.
“Are they pretty now?”
“No,” answered my older daughter. “Throw them away!”
I explained that it’s best to admire nature without interfering. When living things are rooted up, they weaken and die. The girls understood.
They returned to their play, while I thought about those little flowers. I remembered the less-active people at church whose testimonies didn’t receive the nurturing necessary to survive difficult times. How easy it is, I thought, if our testimonies are not rooted in faith and constantly nourished, for them to wither and die.
Suddenly my heart trembled as I recognized in this humble analogy the answer to a problem that had been troubling me.
My husband had stopped going to church, and I had been contemplating becoming less active myself, just to avoid conflict. It would, I reasoned, be only “temporary.” I had been praying, trying to know the right thing to do. Now Heavenly Father had given me the answer.
That night when my husband came home, I told him about our outing and about the dandelions. I told him that if I did truly love him—and he knew that I did—it was due, in great part, to the attention and care I received at church. It was because each Sunday I was in the Lord’s garden, being fed by his Spirit and by the love of my brothers and sisters. It was because I was watered every day as I read the scriptures. All of these things helped to make me the person that loved him. They made me the person that he loved.
He smiled and gave me a kiss as a token of peace. And I gave thanks for the message I had received that day—in the form of two dandelions.

Jason C. Jones climbed out of the hatchway and stepped on the deck of the ship. Full daylight spread across the ocean. He looked up at the enormous square sails spread overhead. Usually the rising sun tinged them gold, but this morning the clouds were heavy. No sunlight came through.
Jason walked around boxes and barrels lashed on deck that belonged to the emigrants. He was looking for his friend William Baxter, first mate of the ship.
William had told Jason shortly after they embarked from Liverpool, England, that he was glad to sail on a ship with Latter-day Saints on board.
“Sailors know,” William had said, winking at Jason, “that ships carrying your people aren’t apt to be lost at sea.”
During the long days of the voyage, William had talked with Jason, explaining many things about the ship. He pointed out how the sails worked and even let Jason raise and lower the small, triangular canvas sheets he called jibs and staysails.
He also told Jason what the captain was doing when he used a sextant. “He’s finding our way across the water,” William explained. “There are no roads on the sea. Our landmarks can’t rightly be called that. We must steer by sun and stars.”
Walking to the rail on this morning, Jason looked down at the water. He clung to the rail, frightened. Never had he seen such high waves. They looked like vast green hills, rolling forward, with deep valleys between. The waves caused the ship to pitch up and down, heavily. It was hard for Jason to stand. He was afraid.
The great square sails fastened crosswise on the ship’s mast billowed outward as the wind blew even harder. People who were beginning to come on deck for air after a night spent between decks felt its force. Jason saw Mrs. Perkins grab for her skirts as they swirled about. Mr. Wilson’s long white beard blew straight out. In spite of his fear, the sight made Jason laugh.
Then he saw his father going toward Captain Brown. Jason followed. He heard the captain shout, “Best get your folks below again, Elder Jones. She’s comin’ on to blow hard!”
Jason’s father, holding his black hat with both hands, began to direct the people back down the hatchway. Jason saw William swinging along the deck.
“Can I help?” he called, running beside the sailor.
He thought about how much William had taught him. Once they had even gone into the wheelhouse where he had let Jason take the wheel, alone. Holding the big wooden spokes, feeling the great square-rigger ship move under his hands, had made Jason feel like a king.
Now that ship was in danger, and so were the people on it! Jason worried about the old folks, the young couples with their children—even a baby born the day before—who had left their homes in England to go to new homes in the Salt Lake Valley.
Jason heard William shout, “Grab a line there, boy! Help reef the sail!”
He ran along the tilting deck. Pulling hard on a rope end, Jason helped the sailors shorten sails. Wild wind whipped his clothes. Pelting rain blew sideways and slashed at his body as he shivered with excitement and cold.
Captain Brown, standing on the forward deck with his legs sprawled wide, pointed upward. Jason heard him bellow, “Aloft, men!”
He could hardly believe that sailors were to be sent along those high ropes and into the rigging in such a storm. Jason saw the huge sails billow, felt the ship under him leap like a runaway horse. Then he knew the sailors must obey their captain; the safety of the ship depended on it.
Captain Brown took Jason’s shoulder and shouted, “Go tell your father we could use a special prayer!”
Jason scrambled down the hatchway into the darkness—no candles could burn in such a storm. Even though he knew there were more than four hundred people gathered below decks, he heard no sound except roaring wind and pounding water.
Then he saw his father. He and several other men were kneeling in a circle. Jason knew they were already saying the prayer for which Captain Brown had asked.
Jason returned to the deck. Tilting his head back, he saw sailors hanging, high above, to wooden booms that were anchored crossways on the tall mast. The sailors struggled to anchor sails to the booms. How could they keep from being blown off the swaying booms while they fastened flapping canvas? Finally the sails were secured. One by one the sailors lowered themselves on the ropes and jumped to the deck.
Suddenly Jason felt his feet slip under him. The ship was sliding sideways. Down, down it went, until Jason was sure it would never again float upright. An enormous wave crashed on deck, smothering him with green water. He gasped, fighting for air, as the ship slowly returned to an even keel.
Wiping water out of his eyes, Jason looked around. Captain Brown stood still. So did the sailors, their faces tight with fear. But the wild waves were beginning to smooth out. The screaming wind died. Gradually the calm sound of the creaking mast and of a baby crying below deck could be heard.
William Baxter spoke with awe. “The storm’s blown out.”
Jason’s father and two other men came on deck. Captain Brown went to them. He held out his hand.
“In my thirty years at sea,” he declared, “I have never seen a terrible storm end so quickly.” Then he added solemnly, “The Lord be praised!”

While I share a personal story about the importance of listening to the promptings of the Holy Ghost and having the courage to act, I invite you to ponder what this might look like in your life. What role does the Holy Ghost play in your prophetic commission to help gather Israel?

Several years ago, I was the recipient of a simple act of service that strengthened my relationship with my Heavenly Father in a very profound and personal way. I was in the middle of battling an extremely aggressive cancer.

One week, after spending three days in the infusion room, I collapsed on the couch trembling and depleted. Several hours later, I woke up to the sound of my son coming home from school. I could not move. The bone and tissue pain had set in for the week and blisters filled my mouth and throat. I had not eaten much that day and was starving. However, the thought of moving my mouth to chew or swallow was more than I could bear.

As I laid motionless on the couch assessing the awfulness of my situation, in my mind I began to ask the following questions: “Heavenly Father, do you know that I am here? Do you know what I am going through? Do you care?”

Then, the doorbell rang. My son went to answer it and came back holding a 99-cent, half-melted Frosty with the instructions, “Here, give this to your mom.” It tasted amazing! It was the perfect consistency and melted just enough where I could swallow with little effort and yet still cold enough for it to be soothing as it went down.

I could not believe it! I found out later that a dear sister started off her morning with a prayer for me and my family. Then, later that day while driving in her car, the impression came, “Take Amy a Frosty now!” She knew where this impression came from and acted immediately.

I have contemplated often how she must have felt and the courage that it would have taken, knowing that on the other side of our front door was a family in crisis, barely keeping their heads above the water. And her offering? A half-melted, 99-cent Frosty. I did not know what I needed in that moment, but my Heavenly Father did! How grateful I am for this ministering angel who had the faith to listen to the promptings of the Spirit and the courage to act!

Gradually and painfully Peter became more stable. With his arms and legs tied up to prevent bleeding and his eyes bandaged, the doctor told him what had happened. In the accident, he had dislocated an arm and a leg; had broken three ribs, seven or eight fingers, and his jaw; had a serious concussion; had lost 50 percent of his skin; and had another 40 percent with first and second degree burns. But Peter had one big question. Since the gas splashed into his eyes, would he ever see again?
I could hear the doctor leaving. He hadn’t answered my big question. I got my arm swinging. I must have caught his attention because he came by me and asked, “What is it, Peter?” I could only say, “My eyes, my eyes, my eyes.” He just squeezed my arm and didn’t answer. He knew what I meant. There was just the unspoken answer that there was no chance I would see again. He started to weep a little, and I could tell that things were very serious.
Peter spent months in the hospital slowly recovering. In fact, he would spend one year as a full-time patient and many more months in and out of the hospital as he underwent dozens of operations. One of the first operations to be performed was to remove the scar tissue from his eyes. Following the operation, while he was in the recovery room, Peter knew that the moment of truth would come that following morning. Then the bandages would be removed and his eyes tested.
Awake and alone in the middle of the night, Peter thought about what was to come.
I couldn’t cope with the thought of that scene when my eyes would be uncovered. On the one hand, if I could see, what a grand moment it would be! But on the other hand, what if I were blind? All hope would be gone.
Awkwardly, because his hands were wrapped in bandages, Peter started to remove the wrappings from his eyes. He managed to maneuver a pan from beside the bed onto his chest. His plan was to reflect the light from his overhead bed lamp into his eyes. He flipped the switch, and the light exploded in his eyes. He could see. As his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, he lifted the shiny, metal pan once more.
There in all my excitement was this horrid face. Because my family had been told that I didn’t have a chance to live, they hadn’t told me about some other things. They hadn’t told me that I had lost one ear and all my eyelids and all my facial features. My nose was gone; all my mouth was gone. In my excitement to see, I hadn’t thought about what I would see. I couldn’t cope with it emotionally. I let out a big scream.
Now faced with new dilemmas, Peter spent all night with a sympathetic nurse asking her about what could be done. What plans had been made? What was going to happen to him once he got out of the hospital? What was it going to be like going to a store? What about going to a dance? What if he wanted to dance with a girl? What if he liked a girl? What if he wanted to give her a kiss? Abruptly, he started to laugh. The nurse wanted to know what was so funny.
Now here I was in the hospital remembering how silly I had been. Here I was having fought for my very life and having fought for everything I had, even though it didn’t look very good. In fact, it didn’t look good at all. Yet, I knew I could see. I took a little moment to say a prayer of thanks to my Father in Heaven because he had answered that prayer. There really had been no chance that I would see again. But I’ll never forget how silly I was about that blemish.

On Thursday of that week, members of the Relief Society presidency visited to introduce themselves and welcome our parents to the ward. On Sunday the bishop came to meet them and inquire whether they needed anything. He spent almost an hour with them, genuinely getting to know them and asking if they’d be willing to take ministering assignments.
Within two weeks of their arrival, they had ministering brothers and sisters assigned to them and were contacted by both. They also received ministering assignments and were introduced to their assigned families. Even with Mom’s late-stage dementia, her ministering companion made the effort to invite her and bring her along as they visited the sisters they were assigned to. The ministering brothers were consistent, loving, and genuine. They immediately found a commonality with roots from Wyoming, and my parents felt loved from the first visit.

Courage is one of Joseph Smith’s special qualities. Without it, he would have shrunk from carrying out his remarkable role. At about age seven, he had a gravely infected leg. Amputation seemed inevitable. He refused alcoholic anesthetics when his leg bones were surgically and painfully treated in a new technique. By the way, that thoughtful little boy asked his mother to leave the room so she wouldn’t have to witness his suffering.
For Joseph’s ailment, the best medical help available in America was surprisingly just a few miles away: Dr. Nathan Smith, founder of Dartmouth’s medical school and the experienced pioneer of this advanced technique (see Le Roy S. Wirthlin, “Joseph Smith’s Boyhood Operation: An 1813 Surgical Success,” Brigham Young University Studies, spring 1981, pp. 131–54; see also “Joseph Smith’s Surgeon,” Ensign, Mar. 1978, pp. 59–60). He led the team who saved Joseph’s leg, including for the grueling march of Zion’s Camp.

Heading into downtown La Paz, Bolivia, it was getting dark when rocks began hitting our bus. Through the windows we could see angry people in the streets, throwing rocks and putting up barriers to stop the traffic. Our bus continued moving swiftly to the center of town. That night was the start of a revolution in Bolivia.

We got off the bus and began looking for a hotel. The only one we could find was very expensive, but after repeating my explanation to a good man who worked there, he boarded us in the hotel’s cleaning supply room very cheaply. He placed a mattress on the ?oor and gave us blankets to protect us from the cold and the sounds of gunfire that echoed outside all night.

We left early the next morning, frightened and hurried. On our way to the bus stop, we saw soldiers supported by tanks firing ri?es at those protesting the revolution.
Fuel was beginning to run scarce, and instead of three bus departures a day as usual, only one was being announced. The seats had sold out days in advance. I found the manager and said the words I had used with everyone else: “Sir, we are Mormons, and we are going to the temple to get married. And you can help us.” He asked, “Where do you need to go?” “Cochabamba, sir.” He opened a drawer and pulled out two tickets. I could see there were no more. “Hurry up,” he said, “the bus is about to leave.” Our suitcases seemed weightless, and our feet barely touched the ground—in our hands we held that day’s blessing.

We arrived in Cochabamba amidst more chaos from the revolution. We found a market filled with tents, where a kind fellow Peruvian let us wash up and then store our suitcases while we went to the bus terminal. Using our same plea, we made it standby onto another bus and arrived days later in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, near the Brazilian border. For three mornings, I went to the train station to ask if there would be any departures. The answer was always no. But on the fourth day, news spread that a train would be leaving soon for Brazil.

By this point, we were running out of money. I shared my concerns with my wife, who ?rmly replied, “Even if we have to arrive by foot or on the back of a donkey, we’re going to make it.” Her reply made me happy. I wasn’t unsettled about money for the rest of the trip because our confidence was placed in our faith.

As we talked, an old lady walked toward us. She stopped in front of my wife and said, “Young lady, wouldn’t you like two tickets for today?” My wife practically ripped the tickets out of her hand. I paid the old woman, and she vanished among the crowd. It took us a few seconds to realize that the Lord and His angels were still by our side.

When we finally arrived at the São Paulo Temple thanks to one last ride from a friend we made on the train, the temple lodging was closed. Resigned but happy, we made ourselves comfortable on a couple of benches outside the temple. There it was, just as beautiful as we had dreamed it would be. It was now midnight, and we cried as we hugged, tired and wet from the falling rain. We didn’t feel the dampness, the hunger, or the cold, just an indescribable sense of happiness for being so close to the house of the Lord. We had been obedient, and there was our reward.

While we were basking in that moment, someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was one of my former mission companions, who had been sealed in the temple that day and was returning from dinner with his wife. He let us stay in their apartment that night, and the next day he was a witness to our sealing, performed by the temple president himself. How beautiful it was to see my wife in the celestial room, all dressed in white.

With a loan from my missionary friend and help from the temple president, we made the return trip in less than five days, without any delays—and with only $20 dollars to begin a life with my wife, Maria Ondina, as my eternal companion.

A young friend of ours named Karl walked joyfully out of the temple after his wedding. He said he had first met Kate, his bride, when he was only 14. "That's when I first saw the vision," he told us, smiling at Kate in her white dress. "But I wasn't worthy of her, so she never knew how much I admired her. Then after years of school, seminary, and a mission, I saw her again. And this time I was ready."

I have seen this principle work in my own life. Like many of you, I grew up in the Church. From a young age, I felt a deep love for the scriptures and gospel truths. When I was about twelve years old, I finished reading the Book of Mormon for the first time, and I remember feeling deeply that it was written and translated by prophets of God. However, it wasn’t until I entered the MTC as a young missionary that I received a powerful spiritual confirmation of its truthfulness.

One day in an MTC class, our instructor taught about Moroni’s promise in the last chapter of the Book of Mormon: “Behold, I would exhort you that when ye shall read these things… and ponder it in your hearts… that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost. And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.” [7]

He explained that, as missionaries, we would invite all to read and pray about the Book of Mormon, with the promise that they would receive an answer through the Holy Ghost. A thought immediately came to my mind: I believe the Book of Mormon is true—but I have never actually asked God. How could I invite others to do what I had not done? For the rest of the day, I couldn’t think about anything else. I decided that I would pray for a confirmation that very night.

That night, after my roommates were asleep, I knelt down and offered one of the most sincere prayers of my life until that point. It was a simple prayer. I said ‘Heavenly Father, I’m about to give two years of my life to teaching and testifying of Jesus Christ and His restored gospel. I need to know: is the Book of Mormon true? Is Joseph Smith a prophet of God? Is this Church true?’

I had barely finished speaking when I felt as if my entire body was on fire. Tears flowed down my face, and I felt overwhelming joy and peace. It was a distinct, powerful feeling, different than anything I had felt before. I had received my spiritual confirmation. God had answered my prayer. I knew without a doubt that those things were true. From that moment on, I have testified boldly that the Book of Mormon is true, that Joseph Smith is a prophet of God, and that this is Christ’s restored Church—and that anyone who sincerely asks God can receive their own confirmation.

My dream since childhood had been to play the piano. When I was 12, a beloved member of the Church taught me to play. Later I received a keyboard as a present from my father. However, the enchantment of playing began to diminish because I became nervous when trying to play in sacrament meeting. I made many mistakes, felt ashamed, and did not want to play anymore. I told myself that I would try it again only after I had practiced a lot and could play almost perfectly. But I became discouraged and ended up selling my keyboard and hiding this talent.
Years later, one Sunday there was no accompanist. The sister who played the piano in our ward had moved. When I saw the members singing without a piano or organ to accompany them, I felt the Spirit encourage me to talk to the bishop. I said, “Is it all right if I play?” He accepted.
After years of avoiding the piano, I conquered my fear of making mistakes. To my surprise, I began to play as though there had not been much time since I stopped. I made mistakes on some notes but not many. That experience gave me the strength to suggest to my bishop that I would commit to play every Sunday.
I practice every week, and I have learned to love the piano again. Whenever I practice, I feel the Spirit strongly in my home. Sometimes when I play, my family members who are doing housework join in singing. We become one, singing the same hymn.
Many members of the ward have noticed my progress and congratulate me. I am grateful to contribute to the spirituality of my ward’s meetings and grateful that I went back to a talent that I had left behind.
I have learned to appreciate piano music; the calmness it brings is marvelous. I hope that in heaven we will hear this style of music, and who knows, I might be there playing in the celestial choirs!