Gospel Story Finder

Sometimes we are faced with keeping our covenants when there seems to be no logical reason to do so. I listened to a single sister tell of her experience of “coming to trust the Lord completely.” Her life had not worked out as she had expected. Sound familiar? This period of soul-searching was marked by changing jobs, new financial pressures, tugs from worldly philosophies. Now listen to what she did. She sat down with other sisters in her ward and found that they too were searching to find the peace the gospel brings. She asked for a priesthood blessing. She valiantly carried forward in her calling. She studied and tried to more fully commit her love, appreciation, and conviction to Jesus. She prayed. “I cried to the Lord,” she said, “and told Him I would do whatever He would ask of me.” She did all this despite those difficulties. And do you know what happened? No, her eternal companion did not appear on her doorstep. But peace made its way into her heart, and life got better.

After President Wilford Woodruff joined the Church he desired to serve a mission.
“I was but a Teacher,” he wrote, “and it is not a Teacher’s office to go abroad and preach. I dared not tell any of the authorities of the Church that I wanted to preach, lest they might think I was seeking for an office” (Leaves from My Journal, Salt Lake City: Juvenile Instructor Office, 1882, p. 8).
He prayed to the Lord, and without disclosing his desire to any others, he was ordained a priest and sent on a mission. They went to the Arkansas Territory.
He and his companion struggled through a hundred miles of alligator-infested swamps, wet, muddy, and tired. Brother Woodruff developed a sharp pain in his knee and could go no further. His companion left him sitting on a log and went home. Brother Woodruff knelt down in the mud and prayed for help. He was healed and continued his mission alone.
Three days later he arrived in Memphis, Tennessee, weary, hungry, and very muddy. He went to the largest inn and asked for something to eat and for a place to sleep, although he had no money to pay for either.
When the innkeeper found he was a preacher, he laughed and decided to have some fun with him. He offered Brother Woodruff a meal if he would preach to his friends.
A large audience of the rich and fashionable people of Memphis gathered and were quite amused by this mud-stained missionary.
None would sing or pray, so Brother Woodruff did both. He knelt before them and begged the Lord to give him His Spirit and to show him the hearts of the people. And the Spirit came! Brother Woodruff preached with great power. He was able to reveal the secret deeds of those who came to ridicule him.
When he was finished, no one laughed at this humble holder of the Aaronic Priesthood. Thereafter he was treated with kindness (see Leaves from My Journal, pp. 16–18).
He was under the guiding, protecting power of his Aaronic Priesthood. The same power can be with you as well.

I hesitate to mention today that I have had a dream, because doing so implies something about my age. I would rather report to you about a vision. Nevertheless, I had a dream about another talk I had to give a few months ago.

During the preparation for that talk, I awoke one morning from a dream. I had come to the pulpit in my dream to give my address. However, as I stood by the pulpit, vines began to grow all around the pulpit. They covered the pulpit like a large trellis. As I began to talk, the pulpit was faced backward. I was standing with my back to the congregation and was addressing my remarks to those sitting on the stand. As I stood there, facing backward, with vines all around me, the Orem High School marching band came into the chapel, marching up and down the aisles playing “76 Trombones.” Well, I am happy to be here this morning and to see that the pulpit is facing the right way, that the plants on the stand have not grown, and that the marching band has not arrived.

Vienna. What a magnificent, historic city, but what a huge place in which to be looking for a missionary companion! Elder Thomas Biesinger, age 39, just off the train from Germany, looked in vain for Elder Paul Hammer, who was to arrive by train about the same time. November 25, 1883. 5:30 A.M. He waited in the railroad restaurant until daylight, then walked outside the station and from an elevation looked out at the Austrian capital. He was awestruck as he thought about his difficult mission, and in his mind he conversed with Vienna:
“Thou City of Vienna, thou boasteth thyself as being one of the proudest cities of the East and the beauties of thy gardens and parks are perhaps not excelled in the world. Thou also containeth many ancient relics amongst the abode of a monarch who sways his proud sceptre over a dominion containing nearly forty millions of inhabitants.”
Vienna, he recalled, had 20 years before expelled one of the most noble and intelligent Apostles of the Restoration, Orson Pratt. “Again God has extended his mercy unto thee,” he warned Vienna in his mind, “and has inspired his servant the prophet to send to thee other messengers. One of these has just entered the city, though much inferior in wisdom and intelligence to the one thou rejected.” The lonely elder then prayed for God to have mercy on Austria, to “soften the heart of the emperor and officers of the land, that thy servants may be permitted to stay and [be] given liberty to search for the honest in heart.”
His prayer, however, would require decades for fulfillment. For Austria-Hungary, an empire old and mighty, was not a land of freedom. In order to keep its different states and nationalities from breaking away, a police state prevented anyone from preaching new ideas, political or religious.
He rented an inexpensive room with cooking facilities, then checked with the Vienna police to see if his companion had registered with them. No sign of him. Because Elder Hammer was the senior companion, Eider Biesinger did not start his actual missionary labors yet, except to enter into conversations with people he met as he went back and forth to the railway station. They finally found each other on December 3 and discovered that for a week they both had been living in different quarters on the very same street!

In 1979 we held in St. George, Utah, our 20-year class reunion for Dixie High School. An effort was made to find current addresses for the entire class and get everyone to the reunion. In the midst of all that fun, I remember the terribly painful letter written by one very bright—but in her childhood, somewhat overweight and less than popular—young woman who wrote, “Congratulations to all of us for having survived long enough to have a 20-year class reunion. I hope everyone has a wonderful time. But don’t reserve a place for me. I have, in fact, spent most of those 20 years trying to forget the painful moments of our school days together. Now that I am nearly over those feelings of loneliness and shattered self-esteem, I cannot bring myself to see all of the class and run the risk of remembering all of that again. Have a good time and forgive me. It is my problem not yours. Maybe I can come at the 30-year mark.”

But she was terribly wrong about one thing—it was our problem, and we knew it. I have wept for her and other friends like her in our youth. We simply were not the Savior’s agents or disciples that he intended a group of young people to be.

I cannot help but wonder what I might have done to watch out a little more for the ones not included, to make sure the gesture of a friendly word or a listening ear or a little casual talk and shared time might have reached far enough to include those hanging on the outer edge of the social circle, and in some cases barely hanging on at all.

I used to be the type of girl that wore 10 different rings on each hand, 15 or more gold and silver necklaces around my neck, and twice as many bracelets around my wrists and ankles.
My makeup was just as heavily caked on as my jewelry, and my layers of black and white clothing piled up as well.
I was not only weighed down on the outside, but on the inside as well. I was constantly depressed, and I felt down on myself for no reason.
I had been reading the Book of Mormon for some time, but as I kept piling on the jewelry, makeup, and clothing a passage from Isaiah in 2 Nephi kept running through my mind:
“In that day the Lord will take away the bravery of their tinkling ornaments, and cauls, and round tires like the moon;
“The chains and the bracelets, and the mufflers;
“The bonnets, and the ornaments of the legs, and the headbands, and the tablets, and the ear-rings;
“The rings, and nose jewels;
“The changeable suits of apparel, and the mantles, and the wimples, and the crisping-pins” (2 Ne. 13:18–22).
It goes on to say that even the daughters of Zion will be bald, and smell, and wear sackcloth instead of fine clothing.
I decided that if it might all be taken away eventually, why not try to go without it now? So little bit by little bit, more and more jewelry came off each day. I turned to more natural-looking makeup and simplified my clothing.
As the weight from my accessories on the outside came off, so did the weight on the inside. My spirit seemed to be coming uncovered and letting my personality and love show through. I had not felt so happy inside since before I can remember. My friends even commented that I was a lot more fun to be with lately.
I found myself to be much more compatible. I could hardly believe the feeling of happiness and love that seemed to encircle me.
I am so thankful for those few verses. They helped me get rid of the burdening “weight” that was inside of me and let my spirits soar higher than they ever had before.

Early the next morning we had one of the loveliest experiences of our lives, as we visited the Church School of Western Samoa. As we entered the gymnasium, the largest building on the campus, we saw seventeen hundred children sitting cross-legged on the gymnasium floor, crowded in as tightly as little sardines in a can. They ranged from small four- and five-year-old kindergarten children in the front to teenaged high-school youngsters in the back of the hall. What a beautiful, thrilling sight they were as they sang “I Am a Child of God”! They were all dressed in their school uniforms in colors of blue and gold. With their beautiful dark hair and big brown eyes, they presented a picture of youth and beauty that was breathtaking. The tears came to our eyes quickly and without shame. At the close of my remarks, I announced to the students that in honor of the occasion I was declaring a holiday for the rest of the day. Judging by the sound of the applause, I think I may have become an instant hero—at least for that day. After the brief meeting, we left the hall with the haunting strains of the Samoan farewell song, “Tofa My Faleni,” ringing in our ears and warming our hearts.

“Fred Astaire was an iconic actor, dancer, and singer of American cinema. He starred in dozens of Broadway and Hollywood shows. One of his early auditions was evaluated with these words: ‘Can’t act. Slightly bald. Can dance a little.’
“Hardly a glowing report!
“Through persistence and hard work, he developed his abilities until he became one of the greatest performers of all time—known for his ‘elegance, grace, originality, and precision.’”

Frédéric, a research biologist from Sandy, Utah, was born in France but his roots are in India. In 1854 his great-great-grandfather, Arokium (he had no last name and his name has become the family surname), left his village of Thanjavur in Tamil Nadu and sailed from Chennai with his parents to Mauritius. His father was an indentured servant contracted to work in the sugar cane fields there.

After the death of his own father two years ago, Frédéric began to wonder about his family history. “We could trace all our family in Mauritius, but the connection to India was lost,” he explained. “I was curious about this great-great-grandfather Arokium, whose first name became my last name, so I asked my aunt for his picture. I had tears in my eyes when I saw it. I took a copy to the National Archives [in Mauritius] to find out where he came from.” That is where Arokium’s quest began.

More than 150 years after his ancestors left, Frédéric returned to India to find out more about them. “Being in Chennai,” he said, “is very emotional for me. This is where all my ancestors boarded ships at different times to come over to a strange land. I believe that it was heart-rending to leave, but they kept moving forward with hope in their hearts. They have sacrificed a lot for us to be where we are today.”

He added, “It is important to know their story to better appreciate my life now and understand the amazing legacy they left to me: courage, hope, hard work, hospitality, strong family values and faith in God.”

Frédéric wants to help others find their Indian roots. For this reason, he has created the Indian Diaspora Genealogy Group on Facebook.

His message to Saints in India is to get a temple recommend; start talking to family members and gather names, old photos and stories; get in touch with a family history consultant; download the FamilySearch app and create an account; enter your ancestors’ names and get their temple work done.

After the fireside in Chennai, Frédéric talked excitedly with a young woman from the audience. It appears that they have ancestors from the same village in Tamil Nadu. Perhaps her research can help him find another generation of family. They exchanged contact information.

“This is a labor of love,” Frédéric said. “After all they have done for me, this is the least I can do for them.”

My parents did not belong to a church when I was a boy, and they didn’t talk much with me about Jesus Christ. But even as a little child, I always said my prayers. I slept in an upstairs loft on a couple of mattresses. I climbed the stairs, knelt beside the mattresses, and talked with Heavenly Father. Then I rolled into bed. I’m sure I didn’t use hallowed language, but I learned to feel comfortable praying, so that when I heard the missionaries as a teenager, it was an easy thing for me to pray about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon, and to ask Heavenly Father if the Church was true.

In my gym class, we had to run the mile every Monday. We called them “Mile Mondays.” Everyone dreaded them because they were exhausting. Each Monday, one classmate was always picked on because he was a little overweight and always finished the mile a few minutes after everyone else. I felt bad for him and wanted to help him out, but I wasn’t sure how.
One day I had an idea. After I finished running the mile, I went back and ran with him until he was done. I was a little nervous because I wasn’t sure what everyone would think, but I decided that what other people think shouldn’t matter that much. I was surprised when more people joined me the next week. Every week, more people joined until eventually everyone in the class joined in! As we ran, we encouraged him by saying things like, “You can do it!” and “Only one more lap!” He began to smile while running, and people didn’t pick on him anymore. Each week he finished the mile in less time, and we cheered him on every time he beat his personal best.
I’m glad we could boost his spirit and help him do his best. It really brought our class closer together, and we were all a little nicer to one another. This experience helped me remember that we are all God’s children and of great worth, and everyone needs to be treated that way. I’m glad I decided to run a little extra, and I know that Heavenly Father gave us all added strength to help His children feel loved.

“I am so excited to see my friend again,” one young woman kept telling her parents as she prepared for the special reunion. She had recently returned home after having lived far away. She had looked forward to this moment for a long time.
When the two friends saw each other, they were all smiles. They hugged and laughed as they left together to enjoy becoming reacquainted. However, the parents were surprised when their daughter returned home much earlier than expected.
“What’s wrong?” they asked.
“I was so excited to talk the way we used to, but she just spent the whole time text messaging her other friends.” Her hurt and disappointment were apparent as she declared, “I wish texting had never been invented.”
Like all communication tools, cell phones with text messaging capabilities can be positive or negative depending on how they are used. Stories can be told of a texted birthday greeting that made someone’s day or a disaster that was avoided because someone was warned quickly and effectively in a text message. Still, not-so-positive stories can also be told of teenagers texting their friends during Sunday School or seminary lessons, of people being hurt by the content of a message received, or, as in the example above, of people avoiding or disregarding those around them in favor of texting someone else.
Like e-mailing, texting can be a wonderful way to communicate and build relationships, but it’s not the relationship itself. If texting is managed and kept in control, it can have positive results. However, if it is allowed to take over, it can be disruptive and even damaging.
We asked several recently returned missionaries about text messaging. These friends who spent their missions in a “textless” environment commented on some disturbing trends they have noticed upon returning home. They spoke of how text messaging can create a false sense of security and poor communication skills and how it can be a detached and emotionless activity.
“It is pretty easy to feel like you have a protective wall around you when you are texting,” said one. “It is easy to fire off a thoughtless invitation or biting response because you feel safe.” Such a feeling is not always healthy. It is like yelling at another driver from the safety of your own car. The distance makes you feel comfortable in saying things you would never say in a face-to-face encounter. Have you ever had a teacher write some harsh and even cruel comments on an essay or short story on which you have spent hours? From a distance, the teacher felt safe in giving feedback that may not have been uplifting. Had he or she faced you in a one-on-one conversation, the feedback would probably have taken on a much softer and more tactful tone.

With canteen in hand, I was prepared for my second 50-mile hike and campout in the Uinta Mountains. I was about as well prepared as a 14-year-old could be. My equipment was all set to go, my boots were sturdy, and my pack was full of all the essentials.
The day of the hike arrived, and our leaders reminded our group of young men that the mountains could be very dangerous. Hikers and campers were often lost in the rugged hills and on the numerous trails. We were warned not to wander away from the path. Our leaders—my father included—all seemed concerned for our safety and were anxious to keep us from straying off of our chosen path.
Being one of the stronger hikers and a leader in the group, I soon found myself and three other boys leading the way. Sometimes we waited for our group at the forks in the trail to make sure we followed the correct path and would not become lost.
We hiked for hours, laughing and joking all the way. We were having a great time. Suddenly, we heard frantic calls and the sounds of running. We knew something must have gone wrong. We wondered if maybe some of the group had become lost. I was concerned for the friends I’d left behind with the leaders. Something bad must have happened.
We stopped to listen so we could hear what the distant voices were yelling. We heard our names. More specifically, I heard my name being called. I recognized my father’s voice. We called back and heard their heavy footsteps coming in our direction.
Something bad had happened. We learned that four of the boys in our group had strayed from the correct path and had become lost. It was us. We were the ones who were lost. My father was thankful to have finally found us, and together we began the hike back to the correct trail.
In my head, I retraced my footsteps. I couldn’t figure out how I’d become lost. I felt like I was still on the original path. I’d been so sure! We retraced our steps and my father showed us a turn we had missed. It was just a small path with a little hidden sign marking the correct way. We had hiked two miles off the right trail! We were thankful we’d been found before dark. For the rest of the hike, we stayed close to our leaders and the rest of the group and were never in danger again.

I depart from my text to give you an example of the blessings that flow from simple faith in the plan of salvation. About three and a half years ago a young mother, Vicki Nichols, came to my office. Something I had written had apparently helped her, and she wondered if she could visit. As the conversation began, she told me that her husband had recently died of a brain tumor, leaving her with four children. I began to bestow expressions of sympathy, but she, being strong, said, “Brother Maxwell, I am handling that, but I just learned that I, too, have cancer, and I wonder what is going to happen to our four precious children.” She is a woman of great faith, strong intellectually, strong spiritually! Sister Maxwell and I felt it a great privilege to be in touch with her from time to time in the intervening several years during which the Lord gave Vicki some prolongation of her time for the nurturing and preparation of those four children. Several days before she died, I called her in Spokane. By now her voice was very weak. She said something like, “You will understand how wrenching the prospect is of my leaving the four children,” expressing the kind of feelings that only a loving mother could have. However, because she understands the plan of salvation, Vicki said, “Brother Maxwell, can I tell you something? I am so torn at the prospect of prolonged separation from my children, but I want you to know that, nevertheless, I have a sense of anticipation about going through the veil of death.” It was a privilege to speak a few days later at Vicki’s funeral. The oldest of her children, Traci, is about sixteen, a wonderful daughter. As related to and remembered by me, soon after Vicki died, the oldest daughter gathered together her three siblings and they talked about their mother and the gospel’s plan of salvation. What a simple, yet powerful act of faith!

There is no adversity that can set aside God’s plan of salvation. It is an immense blessing to know about the plan, to believe in it, and to have faith in it.

As a teenager, I especially liked driving the furniture delivery truck. One evening when I was backing the truck out of the driveway to go back to the store, I came to a sudden stop accompanied by a loud crash. I pulled forward and then backed up only to crash again. When I got out to inspect, I discovered that I had left the tailgate down, and it had punctured the door of a car parked across the street from our driveway. When I had pulled forward and then backed up to see what had happened, I had crumpled the fender of another car. I waited until I got home later that night to tell my dad and was relieved that he only gave me a stern talking to rather than a licking. Actually, I think he was pleased that I had told the truth.

When I was 15 years old, my parents were hit by a drunk driver on their way to the Los Angeles California Temple.
When my brothers and I arrived at the hospital, we were informed that my dad had already passed away and that my mom had suffered massive traumatic injuries.
My mom ended up surviving, but her life was nothing like the one she had before. After the accident, she was no longer able to move, speak, eat, or drink. For the next 18 years until her passing, she lay in a hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, or propped up in a wheelchair.
For years, I thought it was my unrighteousness that had caused my parents’ accident. I had the mistaken belief that I had done something wrong to incur the displeasure of a wrathful God upon me. I thought that no matter how hard I tried, God was against me, and I was doomed to a constant state of misery.
That was the story I told myself, and it was extremely destructive. That narrative colored the way I viewed everything in life.
Like Laman and Lemuel, I also told myself a false narrative for a long time. I believed I had been wronged and robbed, mainly by God. I had sought my whole life to do the right things and felt I was being presented with one trial after another. I too felt angry.
I lived with this perspective until a friend explained to me that we all suffer and said that I should consider how I am labeling my suffering.
My first impression was, How dare he? How could he understand what I had been through?
But then my thoughts slowly changed, and I felt embarrassed at the rage I felt as I pondered.
I wondered: Do I really think Heavenly Father is punishing me? Do I think everything in life is unfair? Do I only focus on my suffering and nothing else? Do I see the world like Laman and Lemuel did?
Hoping to better understand my mindset and the narrative I had been telling myself, I started writing. I wrote and rewrote my life story, exploring different life choices to see what might have happened if the accident that transformed my life hadn’t occurred.
As I looked back on my life and considered alternative paths, I realized that if I had been able to pursue my own interests, I likely would’ve gone down some wrong paths and may not have gained the strong testimony that I have today. As extremely hard as it was to go through the experiences I did, I wouldn’t have gained the strength, courage, and faith in Jesus Christ that those years of hardship had developed.
Due to my parents’ accident, I was forced to make critical, life-altering decisions at a young age that caused me to stay true to Heavenly Father. And though I chose Him over and over again, I was furious about it because I thought He was being unfair and punishing me.
However, after 20 years, when I decided to stop kicking and screaming and told myself a new story, I started viewing myself through the eyes of a loving Heavenly Father. I realized Heavenly Father would guide me in and through tragedy. Knowing this gave me great hope and confidence in Him and how I could live my life. If I was on Heavenly Father’s side, then who could be against me? (see Romans 8:31). With this perspective in mind, I started to make changes, and my life got infinitely better in numerous ways—and with surprising speed:
I began to love, support, and care for myself as a loving parent would.
I made it a daily practice to exercise, journal, and immerse myself in the scriptures.
I sought meaningful relationships that brought connection and community into my life.
I met with a therapist to better understand myself and the consequences of my choices.
I developed my talents and pursued my goals.
I served others and attended the temple often.
I stopped blaming God and others for the circumstances of my life and started taking responsibility for them.
I woke up each morning excited to start the day; life became joyful.
I have experienced change firsthand through the actions I’ve taken. As I have relied on the Savior, He has helped bring true joy into my life.

Katya, a dear sister in Ukraine, has a deep love for the temple. Before the temple in Kyiv was built, she and others in her branch sacrificed to travel 36 hours on a bus to attend the temple once a year in Germany. These devoted Saints prayed, studied scriptures, sang hymns, and discussed the gospel as they traveled. Katya told me, “When we finally arrived at the temple, we were prepared to receive what the Lord had to give us.”

In a small way, I experienced this spirit of sportsmanship while attending a BYU basketball game. My son and I were attending a game in the Marriott Center in 2009. The crowd was sparse with Christmas less than a week away. The opponent was Eastern Washington University. Nothing our opponent shot went in. Every shot was off the backboard, around the rim, or in and out. Every once in a while I glanced at the scoreboard. I saw 9–0, then 21–0; in fact, our BYU basketball team went ahead 33–0. I was beginning to find myself conflicted. I was thrilled we were winning, and yet my heart sank for these poor athletes from Eastern Washington. I began privately pleading for them to make a shot. They were about 800 miles from home, it was just before Christmas, they were in an opposing arena, and the ball wouldn’t drop through the hoop for them. Then suddenly they scored, and the Marriott Center erupted in spontaneous applause. I was never happier to be a Cougar as the fans began cheering Eastern Washington on. We didn’t stop cheering our team, but we were also cheering for our struggling opponent.

Ricky lay sprawled across his checkered blue bedspread, scratching his curly brown head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me this year,” he muttered. It sure was different being in the Senior Peewee hockey league. Ricky had only scored two goals this year. Steve had made nineteen, and Kevin twelve.
Ricky had scored lots of time in the Junior Peewee league last year, but play was a lot rougher this year. The players checked each other a lot more and a lot harder. Ricky probably got the brunt of it because he was the smallest of the nine-year-olds—and all the ten-year-olds were bigger, of course. It sure was hard for him to get a breakaway with the puck.
Ricky heard the doorbell ring and ran downstairs to answer it. “Hi, Kev.”
“Want to come out and play road hockey with me?” Kevin asked.
“Sure!”
“I’ll play goalie first,” Kevin offered.
“Great!” Ricky exclaimed. “I need all the shooting practice I can get!”
Ricky ran toward Kevin, “deking” back and forth with his stick and the old tennis ball, trying to jockey his friend out of position. Although Kevin was good at defending the net, Ricky got the ball in several times.
“How come you don’t do that on the ice when we’re playing a real game?” Kevin asked.
“It’s a lot easier playing in rubber boots instead of skates,” answered Ricky. “Besides, at the arena all you big guys hog the puck.”
The next day Ricky hurried home from school and gulped down a couple of oatmeal cookies along with his milk.
“I really want to get a goal today,” he told his mother as he gathered his hockey equipment. “There are only two games left to play this season.”
The team always did lots of warm-up exercises before the game started. Ricky didn’t like the warm-ups. Even though he knew they helped him to be a better hockey player, he still liked the games best.
When the coach blew his whistle, the two teams hurried to their boxes. Ricky was on the Lions’ team, and today they were playing against the Royals. Ricky’s coach told the team members what positions to play and made sure that every boy had equal playing time.
The Lions played hard, but with just a little over a minute left in the game, the Royals were beating them 5–0. As the players fought over the puck, Ricky edged back so that he wouldn’t get hit. Kevin brushed by him and skated into the middle of the skirmish. He stole the puck and made a quick wrist shot. The puck skittered past the sprawling goalie into the net. Ricky wished he had done it.
The game ended with the Royals winning 5–1.
“You know what, Kev?” Ricky said on the way home. “I really wanted to get a goal today. I even prayed to Heavenly Father to please let me score. I thought for sure He would help me, but He didn’t.”
Kevin was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Maybe the Royals’ goalie and the other players asked Heavenly Father to help keep the puck out of the net.”
“I never thought about that,” Ricky said. “Well, we still have one game left on Friday.” When Friday finally came, Ricky was one of the first players on the ice. Every moment of playing time he got, Ricky was working just as hard at getting the puck from the other team as he was at passing and shooting. He didn’t just stay back and wait for a pass as he had done before. Not once was he able to get the puck into the other team’s net, but time after time he rescued the puck from in front of the Lions’ net.
When the final whistle blew, the Lions had won by one point. All the boys on the team let out a big cheer, but Ricky could hardly hide his disappointment at not having scored. His eyes burned as he headed for the dressing room to hand in his team shirt.
A few minutes later, however, he came out with his face beaming. “You know what Coach said to me?” he asked Kevin. “He said that I played my best game ever today! I may not have gotten a goal, but I did help the team win the game.”
“You sure did,” Kevin said as he ruffled Ricky’s hair. “Not letting the other team make a goal is as important as scoring any day—maybe even better.”
“Come on,” said Ricky. “Let’s go home and get out the old stick and tennis ball. Maybe I’ll be a defenseman next year.”

Cardiff, Wales—
I had an experience that I thought was going to be awful, but from it I gained my testimony.
I’d been having some hassles in school. One of my teachers was making anti-Mormon comments and telling people that since I was a Mormon I wasn’t Christian. A few of my friends started asking me if what I believed in wasn’t a bit farfetched. All these questions made me wonder about the Church.
About this time, I got a letter from the stake president asking me to bear my testimony in our stake conference. I thought, What am I going to do? I wasn’t even sure I had a testimony.
The more I thought about it, the more unsure I was. I started fasting and praying about it, and I just wasn’t getting an answer. I had grown up in the Church, but I had relied on my parents’ testimonies. Up until then, I had never tried to find out for myself.
The more I prayed, the more disheartened I became. I wasn’t getting an answer at all. I was thinking that if there was really someone there, he would answer me.
The day before stake conference, I was fasting, and I still hadn’t received an answer.
We drove to stake conference, and I still didn’t have an answer.
I was sitting on the stand, waiting to bear my testimony, and I still hadn’t received an answer.
Then as the speaker before me was closing, this feeling just came over me that was fantastic. I was filled with the Spirit. I got up and bore my testimony. I was only supposed to speak for five minutes, but I went on for about ten.
I’m glad I have my answer, and I know that Heavenly Father knew about me and answered my prayer.