Gospel Story Finder

When my mom was expecting my sister Chantel, the whole family tried to guess if the baby would be a boy or a girl. I was sure it would be a boy, since we already had seven girls. We had only three boys, and all of them were older than I was. I hoped I was right, because it would have been nice to have a brother who wasn’t big enough to tease me. But when Chantel came to our family, I was grateful for this special new girl who is my sister.
Chantel has Down’s syndrome, which makes it hard for her to learn quickly. We have discovered, however, that Chantel is a peacemaker. When everyone else is fighting or yelling at each other, Chantel always helps us remember that we should be helping, not hurting, each other.

Martin, who mortgaged—and later lost—his farm to finance the publication of the Book of Mormon, was rebaptized in 1842 in Kirtland, Ohio. He didn’t move to Utah, however, until 1870.
During the final five years of his life, Martin had ample opportunities to share his witness with the Saints. During the last year of his life, he testified: “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.”11
George Godfrey, a longtime acquaintance, sat up with Martin for many nights while he battled the illness that eventually claimed his life on July 10, 1875, in Clarkston, Utah. Just a few hours before Martin’s death, Godfrey said, “I asked him if he did not feel that there was an element, at least, of fraudulence and deception in the things that were written and told of the coming forth of the Book of Mormon, and he replied as he had always done, so many, many times in my hearing, and with the same spirit he always manifested when enjoying health and vigor.”
Martin then declared: “The Book of Mormon is no fake. I know what I know. I have seen what I have seen and I have heard what I have heard. I have seen the gold plates from which the Book of Mormon is written. An angel appeared to me and others and testified to the truthfulness of the record, and had I been willing to have perjured myself and sworn falsely to the testimony I now bear, I could have been a rich man, but I could not have testified other than I have done and am now doing, for these things are true.”12

Julius Blackwelder, teachers quorum adviser in the Trumbull (Connecticut) First Ward, explained his plan to the quorum members in 1991. He wanted to form a sailing group that wouldn’t just be for the young men’s enjoyment. His vision was to have the youth gather each Friday during the summer at Jennings Beach on the Atlantic Ocean in nearby Fairfield for a day of catamaran sailing. And he wanted it to be a fellowshipping tool—a way to attract the less-active in the ward and the boys’ nonmember friends.
Everybody liked the idea, and the plan, along with the boats, was launched. They called themselves the Sea Rats.
“We start right at the beginning of June. Once school is over we start sailing,” says 17-year-old Aaron Blackwelder, Brother Blackwelder’s son. “We start at ten in the morning, set up the boats, and just go out and sail. We felt we had to be friends with the less-active members first, and this is a way to bring nonmember friends out and make friendships with less-active members.”
In the group’s five-year existence, the Sea Rats now count 50 kids from the New Haven Connecticut Stake who spend the day on the group’s four catamarans. The Sea Rats have a routine that rarely changes—unless a worldwide event rolls into town.
Last July, organizers of the Special Olympics World Games approached the Sea Rats and asked if they would donate the use of their boats for the Games’ sailing events being held at nearby Savin Rock.
“We said, ‘Sure, no problem. We’ll donate the boats,’” says Drew Brown, 17, “but we also told them we wanted to donate our services and work as safety officers for the Olympians.”
As safety officers, the Sea Rats served as dead weight—or ballast—on the boats they loaned. “We made sure [the Olympians] were safe, that they didn’t get dehydrated,” says Drew. “We got to help them out and make sure they didn’t get tangled in the line. Things like that.”
Adds Ryan Brown, Drew’s younger brother, “It was fun getting to know these athletes. They’re a little slower in doing things, but they’re a lot more trusting.”
That’s something Aaron understands. His older sister Liz has both physical and mental handicaps. “I’ve always grown up with a sister with some disabilities, and that’s normal for me. It’s helped me to have patience and to deal with people better,” he says.
After only a few hours at the beach with the Special Olympians, Victor Solis, a member of the Trumbull Spanish Branch, understood why the Sea Rats gave up, not only their boats, but their time for this one week.
“These athletes have a few setbacks, but they’re choice spirits and they’re special. They just can’t get everything to work like we can. Because you have been given much, like the hymn says, you, too, must give. We’re just giving back a little bit more because of all we have.”

He was still only a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, but Grandpa (Lorenzo Snow) was president of the Salt Lake Temple, so Chauncey was ordained an elder and received his endowments. He also participated in baptisms for the dead. He enjoyed almost a unique opportunity to examine the interior of the Temple:
“We started to see the interior of the Temple at one o’clock and went in the six towers as far as we could safely get. We went almost to the top of the west, middle tower, up past the last strait projection. I never care to be in a nicer place than the Temple. When we came back down, I sat in the chair made for the President of the Temple (my Grandpa). It was as soft and easy as life could wish to rest upon. I walked over the top of the Temple. We came out after 3 hours of walking and seeing. I went through as thoroughly as anybody and more than visitors and workers.”
The next day, too, he spent time looking through the Temple, “and enjoyed myself very much under its holy roof.”

Sue Ann wants to share the gospel with as many people as she can. Recently a friend of hers, Elouise Meyers, finished the missionary discussions and was baptized. Sue Ann explained, “I had an appointment with my bishop and decided to take a buddy with me. I took Elouise. I knew she didn’t know much about the Church. While we were waiting for the bishop, the missionaries walked by. I asked them if they were teaching anyone that night. They answered, ‘No.’ ‘Well,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you teach my friend?’ They set up an appointment.”

In January 1844, Joseph Smith announced his candidacy for President of the United States, but on June 27, Joseph and his brother Hyrum were killed in Carthage Jail. The next morning their bodies were placed in two wagons, covered with branches to shade them, then driven to Nauvoo. They arrived in Nauvoo about three o’clock in the afternoon and were met by huge crowds of silent people. It was the saddest day Nauvoo or the Church had ever known.
John Taylor, who was with Joseph at Carthage, wrote, “Joseph Smith, the Prophet and Seer of the Lord, has done more, save Jesus only, for the salvation of men in this world, than any other man that ever lived in it” (D&C 135:3).
Many of the anti-Mormons thought that Joseph’s death would bring an end to the Church, but it did not. The Saints knew that the Church was God’s Church, not Joseph’s, and so they carried on God’s work. Instead of dying out, the Church continued to grow. What the mobs did not understand was that the faith of the Saints was much stronger than their fear.

When I was a small boy, each December my father would take us all across the street to the home of Bishop Duncan for tithing settlement. The bishop did not have an office in the ward building, and so he had to conduct business in his home. We would all sit in his living room and, one by one, he would invite us into the dining room. Our tithing might be 25 cents, or maybe 50 cents, but it was a full tithing. He wrote out a receipt and recorded the amount in the ward record. The amount may have been so small that it cost more to record it than it was worth. But it established a habit which continued through all of these years. With the payment of tithing have come innumerable blessings as the Lord has promised.

On one occasion a Church leader was confronted by a grieving parent who wanted one of God’s commandments softened to accommodate a wayward child who had been disciplined by the Church. In his grief the parent had suggested that the Church leader was unchristian in denying the child the full benefits of membership in the Church.

The Church leader shared the sorrow of the parents and the child, but he remained loyal to the commandments of the Lord. In response to the accusation of not being a Christian, the leader said, “If I were to attempt to change the commandments, at that very moment I would no longer be following Christ’s teachings.”

Many years ago my brother, LeRoy E. Matthews, and his family lived in a town where a state operated hospital was located.
One day Roy was invited to the hospital superintendent’s office for a brief interview. The superintendent explained that after a great deal of consideration, he had decided to ask Roy to serve as chaplain to the hospital for the coming year. He further explained that for many years it had been the hospital’s policy to appoint a different minister each year from among the churches in that area on a kind of rotation basis. Up to that time, these appointments had gone to clergymen of other churches, even though the town was approximately 50 percent Latter-day Saint.
Roy told the superintendent that he felt honored and would be very happy to accept this appointment.
A few days later, however, Roy was called back to the superintendent’s office, where he learned that the ministers of the area had objected to his appointment. They pointed out that they had nothing against Roy Matthews personally, but were very much opposed to his appointment as chaplain because he was “not even an ordained minister of the gospel.”
The superintendent then asked Roy if he had any document that might substantiate his position as a minister of the gospel. Roy said he would go home and be back in less than an hour with the necessary information.
Shortly afterward, Roy returned to the office and handed the superintendent a card on which was typed his priesthood line of authority, a list showing how ordination to the priesthood had descended to him through earlier brethren who had each been ordained in turn. The superintendent read it carefully and then said, “Do you mean, Roy, that your authority traces back to our Lord?”
“Yes, Doctor, that is correct,” he replied.
The superintendent expressed joy and amazement and asked if he could keep the card for a few days. Of course Roy consented.
Later in the week Roy was called back to the office, where the superintendent explained that he had met with the ministers, had read Roy’s priesthood line of authority to them, and asked if they had anything that could compare with this. Their only reply was that they had each been schooled and ordained in ministerial colleges.
Roy was granted the appointment without further protest or opposition.

You could start in your room today. Is there an unfinished school paper somewhere in the stacks? (I assume there are stacks there; I think I know your room.) Perhaps it is typed and apparently ready to turn in. Why bother more with it? I learned why during a religion class I taught once at Ricks College (now Brigham Young University–Idaho). I was teaching from section 25 of the Doctrine and Covenants. In that section Emma Smith is told that she should give her time to “writing, and to learning much” (verse 8). About three rows back sat a blonde girl whose brow wrinkled as I urged the class to be diligent in developing writing skills. She raised her hand and said, “That doesn’t seem reasonable to me. All I’ll ever write are letters to my children.” That brought laughter all around the class. Just looking at her I could imagine a full quiver of children around her, and I could even see the letters she would write. Maybe writing powerfully wouldn’t matter to her.

Then a young man stood up near the back. He had said little during the term; I’m not sure he had ever spoken before. He was older than the other students, and he was shy. He asked if he could speak. He told in a quiet voice of having been a soldier in Vietnam. One day, in what he thought would be a lull, he had left his rifle and walked across his fortified compound to mail call. Just as he got a letter in his hand, he heard a bugle blowing and shouts and mortar and rifle fire coming ahead of the swarming enemy. He fought his way back to his rifle, using his hands as weapons. With the men who survived, he drove the enemy out. Then he sat down among the living, and some of the dead, and he opened his letter. It was from his mother. She wrote that she’d had a spiritual experience that assured her that he would live to come home if he were righteous. In my class, the boy said quietly, “That letter was scripture to me. I kept it.” And he sat down.

In 1907 a wealthy Englishman named George Herbert, the fifth Earl of Carnarvon, moved to Egypt and took up an interest in archaeology. He approached a well-known Egyptologist, Howard Carter, and proposed a partnership. Carter would oversee their archaeological excavations, and Carnarvon would provide the funding.
Together they successfully explored a variety of locations. Then they received permission to excavate in the Valley of the Kings, located near modern-day Luxor, where the tombs of many pharaohs had been found. They decided to look for the tomb of King Tutankhamun. Tutankhamun had ascended to the throne of Egypt more than 3,000 years earlier and reigned for 10 years before his unexpected death. He was known to have been buried in the Valley of the Kings, but the location of his tomb was unknown.
Carter and Carnarvon spent five years unsuccessfully searching for Tutankhamun’s tomb. Eventually Carnarvon informed Carter that he was finished with the fruitless quest. Carter pleaded for just one more season of excavation, and Carnarvon relented and agreed to the funding.
Carter realized that the entire floor of the Valley of the Kings had been methodically excavated—except the area of their own base camp. Within a few days of digging there, they found the first steps leading down to the tomb.
When Carter eventually peered into the antechamber of Tutankhamun’s tomb, he saw gold everywhere. After three months of cataloging the contents of the antechamber, they opened the sealed burial chamber in February 1923—100 years ago. This was the most famous archaeological find of the 20th century.
During those years of ineffectual searching, Carter and Carnarvon had overlooked what was literally under their feet. Some five centuries before the Savior’s birth, the Book of Mormon prophet Jacob referred to taking for granted or undervaluing what is nearby as “looking beyond the mark.” Jacob foresaw that the people of Jerusalem would not recognize the promised Messiah when He came. Jacob prophesied that they would be a “people [who] despised the words of plainness … and [would seek] for things that they could not understand. Wherefore, because of their blindness, which blindness [would come] by looking beyond the mark, they must needs fall.” In other words, they would stumble.
Like those people in Jerusalem, and like Carter and Carnarvon, we too can be prone to look beyond the mark. We need to guard against this tendency lest we miss Jesus Christ in our lives and fail to recognize the many blessings He offers us. We need Him. We are counseled to rely “wholly upon the merits of him who is mighty to save.”
After Carter and Carnarvon excavated elsewhere in the Valley of the Kings looking for Tutankhamun’s tomb, they realized their oversight. We do not need to labor unsuccessfully, as they did for a time, to find our treasure. Nor need we seek counsel from exotic sources, prizing the novelty of the source and thinking such counsel will be more enlightened than that which we can receive from a humble prophet of God.

I remember the first time Jenni walked into my seminary class and said hi to me, her new teacher. She had a very difficult time speaking, her words were slurred and hard to understand, and she limped and hobbled as she tried to make her legs carry her body toward her desk. During Jenni’s first week of “main-streaming” in my class, she seemed content to be mostly ignored by her classmates, who appeared to be struggling to figure out how to interact with her.
Jenni would try to speak, but very few students could understand her. She had a difficult time keeping her nose wiped, and sometimes she would drool and soil her shirt. The students in my classroom were unaccustomed to the needs and actions of someone like Jenni, so most of them distanced themselves from her both physically and socially and, as a result, proceeded to politely ignore her.
However, they weren’t aware that inside Jenni’s deformed body was a keen mind, a heart of gold, and an indomitable spirit crying out to be heard, to be understood, to be accepted, and to be loved. She wouldn’t be ignored, politely or otherwise.
I’ll never forget the day when Jenni asked me if she could say something to the class. I wondered what she wanted to say to everyone, but I never expected her to deliver the message she did.
“I neeeeed a frrriennnd,” she stuttered. “I neeeeeeeed sommeonne toooo ssiitt bbyy mmee attt lllunnch.”
As she finished her last word, a hush settled over the class. Jenni stood erect and, rather than doing the socially acceptable thing and taking her seat, waited for a volunteer. Finally, from the back of the classroom, Treasure raised her hand and said, “I’ll be your friend, Jenni.” Jenni responded by asking, “And sit by me at lunch?”
Treasure responded, “And sit by you at lunch.”
“Every day?” asked Jenni.
“Every day,” answered Treasure.
This conversation relieved the class and also gave Treasure’s friend Wendy the confidence to raise her hand and tell Jenni that she would also be her friend and sit by her at lunch every day. The “miracle of Jenni” had begun!
The next day Treasure and Wendy sat by Jenni at lunch and then helped her through the school parking lot to the seminary building. I noticed as the days turned into weeks that Treasure and Wendy began to translate Jenni’s words when we couldn’t understand her.
As the students began to see what a beautiful, intelligent person Jenni was, they began to invite her to activities, to pick her up, to help her with her difficulties. On one occasion, Jenni excitedly told me she had a date with a young man named Kurt. “He’s so cute!” she told me. This led to other dates, more recognition, and more fun.
Often during class when someone would be sharing their feelings and begin to weep, Jenni would, unannounced, get up and walk over to this person and put her arm around them and hold them. This would touch the class, and soon we would all be weeping. Jenni would often bear her testimony to the class. She would express her gratitude for her many blessings, especially her family, and then share her firm faith in Jesus Christ.
The months turned into years, and soon it was time for Jenni to graduate from seminary. I remember the love I felt for her as she awkwardly walked up to receive her diploma, and I realized all over again how she had blessed my life. As the ceremony and the meeting ended, I encountered Jenni’s mother at the back of the chapel. Her eyes watered as she said something like this: “You’ll never know what you’ve done for my little girl.”
I replied, “Oh, not me. Look around,” as I pointed to Jenni’s classmates. “They’re the ones.”
Jenni’s classmates helped her realize what a wonderful person she is. They’re the ones who included her in their circle of friends and helped her feel like she belonged. They’re the ones who saw through her disability to the special needs of her heart—a young woman wanting to be accepted and understood. They’re the ones who came to see into the beauty of her soul, the ones who helped perform a modern-day miracle—the miracle of Jenni.

Four days later a winter storm dumped eighteen centimeters of snow overnight. Dad woke me up in the morning, pushed a snow shovel into my hands, and told me to clear the snow away from the house. He thoughtfully reminded me that I would have to hurry to get to school on time. I grumbled most of the time but worked fast to get out of the cold. I was about to hurry into the warmth of the house to eat breakfast when I glanced down the street in Brother Watts’s direction. The house was dark; the snow around his house was undisturbed. For a moment I pondered. Then I did one of the craziest things I’d ever done in my life. I walked down the street and began shoveling the snow from Brother Watts’s house.
“What are you doing, boy?” a voice growled behind me when I was about half finished with the job.
Startled, I turned to see Willard Watts standing at his front door. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his old jacket, and his head was scrunched into the coat’s collar.
I shrugged. “Just shoveling a little snow to stay in good shape.” I banged the shovel on the cement and stomped my feet.
“I clear my own snow. I can’t pay you, if that’s what you’re planning.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I answered, returning to my shoveling.
He watched for a moment and then turned back into the house. I went on clearing the snow. As I worked, I wondered what made Willard behave the way he did. I soon finished clearing the snow, put the shovel over my shoulder, and headed for home.
“Hey, boy,” Brother Watts called to me from the front door. He came down the steps and held three dollar bills in his hand. “This is all the change I have,” he mumbled. “I usually do my own work.”
I looked at the three dollars. “I didn’t do it for money.”
He seemed puzzled. “You’re Tom Jordan’s son, aren’t you?”
I nodded yes.
“Did he tell you to do this?”
I shook my head and said something about being late for school.
Three other times I cleaned off the snow in front of Brother Watts’s house. Each time I finished he came out with a few one dollar bills and held them out to me. Each time I politely refused them.
The last time I cleaned off the snow was the end of March after a storm had dumped quite a bit on the ground. He came out with a twenty-dollar bill. “Take it,” he insisted, thrusting it towards me.
I laughed, shaking my head. “I’m doing this to get myself in good physical condition,” I said.
“Who makes you do this?” he demanded.
We stared at each other for several seconds without speaking. It was a question I had asked myself. Part of the reason went back to the fact that everyone had just crossed him off as one more negative Church statistic. Ever since that first morning I’d felt sorry for Willard Watts, living alone in his house, just waiting for life to end. Everybody deserved more than that out of life. It was possible that the next time he went to church might be to attend his own funeral. “I guess I just thought you—” I hesitated, chewing on my lower lip. “I better be going,” I mumbled. “Don’t want to be late for school.”
Willard pulled out a cigarette, put it in the corner of his mouth, and lit it. He inhaled deeply, and as he exhaled he muttered, almost as though he didn’t want me to hear, “Well, thanks.”

Then there was Picoco Primary School, where 1,300 children were being taught from just three classrooms.
“The story of these children and just three classrooms is a touching one,” said Gilberto Albano Chiburee, the director of the school.
Originally, the school’s three classrooms accommodated its 200 students. “But over a short space of time, our community flourished in numbers,” said Chiburee.
The number of students kept increasing. The primary school was strained to evenly distribute students into three sessions, the first group in the morning, the second group in the afternoon, and the third group of students in the evening.
When the number of students passed the 500 mark, Chiburee and his faculty of teachers knew that they had to do something different. They approached nonprofit organisations, government and corporations to ask for assistance, but to no avail.
So Chiburee and his staff started planting trees.
“We used these trees as makeshift classrooms because we did not have any other option. We had sought the help of various companies, nonprofit organizations, and the government but to no avail,” Chiburee said.
This predicament only made matters worse when the number of students enrolling in the school kept climbing. The first and second graders were prioritized to learn in classrooms, while third up to seventh graders learned under trees.
“It broke my heart to have children arrive as early as 6 AM only to sit on the hard and uncomfortable ground until noon. Some of the children started experiencing back problems,” an emotional Chiburee said.
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, along with No Poor Among Us, then heard about the school and arranged to construct five new classrooms.
The news about the construction of five new classrooms was received with great excitement, many thanks, and tears from teachers, students, and locals. Chiburee expressed how thankful he was that no student of the school would be sent home as a result of rain or the wind.
The project was expected to be completed by the end of June this year. An additional 900 students will be accommodated.

On October 26, 1964, the city of Kingston, Jamaica, officially recorded the birth of twins. This was the beginning for me. I never knew my parents. I was raised by my grandmother. The first home I knew was a one-room wooden shack in the ghetto.
While growing up in the severe poverty of the ghetto, I realized how hard my grandmother worked for us. She would rise at 5:00 every morning from the tattered old bed she shared with five other family members. After waking us kids, she would take us to the gully to search for bricks. With the bricks we collected, Grandma built an oven to bake bread that would be sold to neighbors. Grandma struggled every day, yet she always had a smile on her face and seemed happy.
We didn’t have running water in our shack that combined with many others to form a compound. There was one main pipe. Everyone caught their water there in buckets. We had to take the water on our heads to our homes. The water pipe was surrounded by a green muddy area; the children used it for a playground. Ghetto children didn’t always wear clothes. Usually they were just covered with mud and dirt. The toilets and bath places were placed in the center of the compound so everyone could use them.
Low self-esteem and lack of money in the neighborhood caused many there to turn to immorality as an escape. This leads to higher population and congestion in the ghetto. Most people didn’t work, and depended on the government for food. To obtain nice clothes and other material possessions they would often steal.
My best friend was born outside in the streets. Her mother was only 14. Following in her mother’s footsteps, she conceived her first child at the age of 13, making her mother a grandmother at age 27. She had her third child by the age of 19. After leaving her third boyfriend, she moved in with her mother, adding her three children to her mother’s six. My friend had the responsibility for nine children under the age of seven before she reached her twentieth birthday. As I looked at my friend’s life, I realized that I wanted something better for myself. I wanted a home and a family. I knew I had to leave the ghetto.
My grandma had taught me to pray at night before going to bed. But to whom was I praying? What was he like? Where did he come from? These were questions that couldn’t be answered. I felt as if I was in a dark and dreary world with no hope of light.
Determined to understand more about this mystery, I started attending the church to which we then belonged because Grandma said God could be found there. But it didn’t do much good. It confused me more. They taught me about Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost, which, I was told, belonged to God, and they were all one.
I visited many other churches. When we studied the Bible and the life of Christ, I felt a very different feeling.
I discovered that this feeling had something to do with Christ, the Bible, the Holy Ghost, and God, but I was still confused. I started to pray and have trust in the Lord. Still, there was something missing. Although I could have the feeling while reading the Bible, I couldn’t have that feeling with me all the time.
One teacher told me a way to retain this feeling was by being baptized, so I was baptized. But nothing changed. All churches seemed the same, so I decided to stay home and study on my own. I found myself praying more intensely for the Lord to help me find the true path that led to him. He heard my prayers.
I met a young man in the gym, and we became friends. For the next ten months we shared our ideas and thoughts about many things, but never religion. One day I found that my friend traveled with a Bible, so I asked him if he went to church and what the name of his church was. It was some long name—The Church of Jesus Christ of something something Saints. I wasn’t the least bit interested—it sounded like just another church to me.
My friend later told me he was going to serve the Lord for two years in another country. I figured he was going to be a pastor. As he left, I began to wonder what his church was like, and I began to search for their meeting place.
I found it a few months later, but I also found something more. As I walked through the doors of the meetinghouse, I felt a feeling that is impossible to describe; it was joy, peace, comfort, surety, and happiness all in one. It was like coming home. My questions had now been answered.
The members of the church welcomed me with open arms. At first, I was reluctant to accept these welcomes because it was a little too much. I wasn’t used to so many people. They welcomed me whether they knew me or not. At the end of the meeting time, a calm feeling came over me and I heard the words in my mind, “Debbie, this is the place, and these are the people you have been searching for.”
Looking back, darkness to light, my life in the ghetto was difficult, and a person could make it harder by making wrong choices. There was little opportunity for progression. But I wanted something worth living for. When the opportunity came to leave the ghetto with part of my family, I decided this was my chance.
Many of the girls I grew up with never left the ghetto. I could not have made it without following the desires of my heart and trusting in my Father above to lead me. At times, while walking around Ricks College in Idaho, I realize all that I have been blessed with. I was blessed with the chance to leave the ghetto, be baptized a member of this church, gain an education, and fulfill a mission in Utah. I know Heavenly Father loves us all and is mindful of our circumstances no matter where we are. He desires above all things our happiness.
I often feel that the song sung at my high school graduation was written for me: “This is my quest—to follow the star. No matter how hopeless, no matter how far. To fight for the right, without question or pause, to be willing to march into hell for a heavenly cause.” I know if I am true to God’s commandments, I will reach that unreachable star.

When I was young, I didn’t get to spend a lot of time with my dad. He went to college all day and worked most of the night. It was really wearing him out, but he had himself, my mother, and four children to support.
I used to play with the wooden toys my dad made for us. He made such things as blocks, wooden animals, and puzzles when he had time. But my favorite was the little knife he carved for me from a small piece of wood. It wasn’t using the knife to fight an imaginary foe that intrigued me so much. It was the fact that my dad had made it himself, just for me and no one else.
I was so proud of my dad. I thought there was nothing better than someone who could turn an ordinary piece of wood into something as magnificent as my little knife. I would just sit and hold it in my hands, looking at it and thinking about the time he spent making it for me.
Years later, when my dad was out of school and had a good daytime job, I was able to spend a little more time with him, but the value of that knife never lessened.
One day I walked outside and what I saw sent a flood of memories into my mind. My dad was sitting on the steps, a pocketknife in his right hand, and in his left a piece of wood slowly taking the shape of a little knife. I could see little slivers of wood fly as he whittled and whistled a happy song. He turned to me and smiled.
Before I knew it, I was sitting right next to my dad, a pocketknife in my right hand and a piece of wood in my left. Twice as many little shavings of wood flew as my dad taught me how to carve a little knife by myself. Mine didn’t look nearly as good as his, but it was okay. My dad was sitting next to me, and that was all that mattered.
Every once in a while, I looked up at him, all smiles, to compare my knife with his, as he kept carving the wood and whistling his songs. Once he caught me looking at him and gave me a big smile and winked at me. That made me feel good because he would wink at me when he was really happy. I winked back.

In my case the Book of Mormon became the keystone of my testimony over a period of years and through a number of experiences. One powerful experience in forming my testimony occurred while I was a young missionary serving in my first area: Kumamoto, Japan. My companion and I were house-to-house proselyting. I met a grandmother who kindly invited us into the entry of her home, which is called a genkan in Japanese. She offered us a cold drink on a hot day. I had not been in Japan very long, and I had recently completed reading the Book of Mormon and had been praying to know with certainty that it was true.
Because of my newness to Japan, I didn’t speak Japanese very well. In fact, I don’t think this woman understood much of what I was saying. I began teaching her about the Book of Mormon, describing how Joseph Smith received from an angel an ancient record engraved on plates and how he translated them by the power of God.
As I offered her my testimony that the Book of Mormon is the word of God and another testament of Jesus Christ, I received the strongest impression, accompanied by a warm feeling of comfort and serenity inside my chest, which the scriptures describe as “your bosom [burning] within you.” This feeling reaffirmed to me in a powerful way that the Book of Mormon truly is the word of God. At that time my feelings were so strong that tears came to my eyes as I talked to this Japanese grandmother. I have never forgotten the special feeling of that day.

When my husband, Mick, died suddenly, I was devastated. He had been a constant source of inspiration, goodness, and patience. I wondered how I could raise our five children without him.
Shauna was one of my visiting teachers at the time. Occasionally she and her husband, Jim, who was also my home teacher, would take me out to a movie or to the temple.
Fall came, and as the weather turned cold I pulled my coat out of the closet. It was about 15 years old and looked very worn. I was embarrassed to wear it on my outings with Shauna and Jim; the lining was torn, and each time Jim helped me put on the coat, my hand got caught in the lining.
As Christmas drew near, I began to feel lonely. This would be my first Christmas without Mick, and I missed him very much. I tried to act happy for the children’s sake, but it was difficult.
Just a few days before Christmas, Jim, Shauna, and their oldest daughter came to visit me. They handed me a beautifully wrapped package with a card attached. The card read: “To Cheryl. Love, Mick.” Tears began to stream down my face. Inside the box was the most beautiful coat I had ever seen. It fit perfectly. “We knew that if Mick were here, he would have bought it for you,” they said.
Whenever I wear my coat, someone always compliments me on how beautiful I look. I know it is because I am glowing—remembering the love of my home teacher, my visiting teacher, and my husband each time I put it on.

Remember a few years ago when devastating fires burned out of control in Southern California? As fierce winds blew, the public was restricted from the area by police. A few families were allowed to remain and try to save their homes.

Soon a van arrived at one house, filled with brethren from the quorum, carrying their shovels. They were asked, “How did you get past the police barricade?” Response: “It was easy. We just told them our brother lives here.”

The count was soon up to thirty-nine brethren who were helping dig a trench for fire protection. A curious police officer appeared and said, “I just want to meet the man who has thirty-nine brothers!”

It was during one of these fishing trips, in late December, that Wilford’s life changed in an unexpected way. Azmon’s wife, Elizabeth, answered a knock on the door of their home. Two missionaries stood on the front step. Wilford and Azmon weren’t home, so the two elders asked Elizabeth to tell the brothers that they would love to have the Woodruffs come that night to the schoolhouse and listen to their message about a newly restored Church and gospel.
When Wilford arrived home and heard about the missionaries, he was eager to hear them preach. He had spent many hours as a boy reading the scriptures and praying, searching for the truth.
Without even waiting for supper, Wilford raced out to his horse and galloped to the schoolhouse. When he arrived, the room was already packed with people. He eased his way through the crowd and finally got a seat at a front desk.
What he saw and heard that night filled his soul with the Spirit of God. “I felt that I had just heard the first true gospel sermon in my life,” he later said. It was exactly what Wilford had been looking for—prophets, apostles, revelation, spiritual gifts. These were things Wilford knew about from studying the Bible, and he knew that they were important. He was so excited that he jumped to his feet at the end of the sermon, turned to the crowd, and said, “Friends and neighbors, I feel to tell you not to oppose these men. They are true servants of God. They have preached to us the pure gospel of Jesus Christ. I witness to you it is true!”