Gospel Story Finder

For my eighth birthday, my dad decided to take me to general conference. He tried really hard to get tickets, but he couldn’t find any. We decided to just try and get tickets the day of conference before it started. It was pouring rain. We were asking people if they had any extra tickets, but no one did. My dad asked a man if he had any extras. He said he didn’t, then he turned around and said, “Actually, I do have one extra ticket,” and he gave it to us. Then another kind woman gave us a ticket. During conference, I felt a good feeling inside. Afterward, my dad and I said a prayer thanking Heavenly Father for all the special things He did for us that day.

Ramona had been her grandmother’s caretaker during the last part of her life. During that time, “I was going through a difficult time when my grandmother passed in 2018, I needed something to help me get out of the way I was feeling.”
Knowing her situation and needs, her missionary friends suggested she investigate The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints’ Pathway program. At first, the program wasn’t available in Barbados. This program is now called PathwayConnect and has grown from 50 students in three U.S. cities to tens of thousands of students in numerous locations worldwide.
Today, Ramona has a year left before she graduates with a bachelor’s in marriage and family studies. “I’m so grateful I kept on pushing through, especially in the difficult times,” she said.
She plans to continue her schooling until she has her master’s degree in marriage and family therapy. Ramona now teaches others about PathwayConnect while she continues her own educational goals.

Nearly eight years ago, on a sunny October morning, I was attending an early meeting with our student team when a FaceTime call came through on my coworker’s phone. It was unusual for her to receive a call like that during a meeting, so she let it ring. But when the phone rang again, she excused herself to answer it. After a moment, she turned to me and said, “Yes, she’s right here.” Then, looking at me, she added, “Jen, you’re going to want to step out to take this call.”

I took the phone, feeling confused, and stepped outside. On the other end, I heard the familiar voice of a colleague. Gently and with compassion, he told me that Cary, my husband, had been in an accident on the Archer/Lyman Highway and that the ambulance was on its way.

I quickly left the meeting. My team kindly gathered my things and walked me to my car. In a logical moment, I decided I should drive myself, so I’d have my own vehicle. So, my dear friend and colleague offered to go with me in her car. We left the Kimball parking lot and headed south toward the temple.

When she turned into the temple parking lot, I wondered, Why are we stopping here? Then I thought, Oh, right. We should say a prayer. What a perfect place to do that. I noticed she was on the phone, so I stepped out of my car to join her. That’s when I realized my hands and legs began to tremble. I knew then that it would be best for her to drive, so I left my car in the temple parking lot.

After finishing her call, she told me that Cary was now in the ambulance, headed to the hospital in Idaho Falls, so we should go directly there. Before leaving, we paused and said a prayer together, and I felt a rush of calmness and clarity settle over me. On the drive to Idaho Falls, I made a few phone calls to family to let them know of the situation, but I really had no information or details to share. Despite the distance to the hospital, the drive went by quickly.

When we arrived, I rushed into the ER only to be handed a stack of paperwork that had to be completed before I could see Cary. I filled it out calmly; the needed information came quickly to my mind. I was anxious to be by his side. When I finally saw him, our eyes met, and he said, “I can’t move or feel anything.” That was when I began to understand the severity of the accident.

It was a miracle that he was alive and coherent—and I was so grateful—but we still didn’t know the full extent of his injuries. While we waited, a family friend and nephew gave Cary a priesthood blessing. That moment brought me great peace. I knew God was aware of Cary and would be with us in the hours and days ahead.

Soon, the neurologist came in with the awaited test results. Cary had no internal injuries, which was truly miraculous, but he had a chipped tooth, a broken rib, minor lacerations on his head and leg, and a shattered C4 vertebra. His spinal cord was bruised but not severed. Surgery would be needed to repair his broken neck. The neurosurgeon on call that day was confident, despite the complexity, that he could perform the procedure in just a few hours. Cary was stable.

Soon after the plan was presented and the proper authorization was given, Cary was moved to a room in the ICU as he waited for his surgery time. My heart wanted to speed up the clock. The sooner his surgery started, the sooner he would be OK. The nurses began to prep him, then the surgery team came to wheel him away. I remember feeling left all alone in that hospital room, hoping, wishing, praying that he would survive the surgery, and he would come back to me. I could not lose him—not now, not ever!

The next few hours of his surgery gave me time to talk to my Heavenly Father. I shared the worries of my heart. I pleaded for understanding: “Why Cary?,” “Why Now?,” “Why us?”

Our family had been obedient to gospel teachings and commandments. Our oldest son, Logan, had just been married to his sweetheart in the temple six weeks earlier. Our other son, Kaden, had left to serve a mission in Mexico City just one week prior. We were faithfully serving in our Church callings. My list went on and on.

What would happen next? Would Cary’s body heal? Would he have movement and functionality? Would he ever walk again? The uncertainty was overwhelming.

In my grief and pleading, the Lord began to calm my troubled heart. I started to feel the tender mercies and prayers of others give me peace. I was lifted and sustained with the thought that sometimes accidents just happen.

When the surgery was over, they brought Cary back to his room in the ICU. The doctor explained that his surgery was successful.

He was wearing a neck brace, had a tube down his throat, and had oxygen tubes in his nose to allow better breathing, as it was very difficult for him to do this on his own. Pillows were placed under all his limbs to provide comfort and protection since he couldn’t move. A towel was rolled up and positioned next to his head for support and alignment.

So much was going on around us, but in that moment, I felt hope. Hope in his ability to recover.

Evening came quickly, as I was completely absorbed in the steady rhythm of nurses, techs, and custodial staff coming in and out, all providing critical care. I was watching monitors, adjusting sensors, and learning intently what to watch for and how to keep him comfortable. Eventually, the lights dimmed, and the calmness of night settled in.

Cary was awake and was trying to communicate with me, but he couldn’t move or speak due to the breathing tube. He could blink and make some guttural noises.

I tried to guess what he was saying or needed. “Is it your head? Your legs? You need your nose scratched?” I was guessing all the little things he couldn’t do for himself. It was the hardest communication we had ever experienced—what a mess!

I started spelling out words. I began reciting the alphabet aloud: “A … B … C … D … E … F … G … H … I … J … K …”

He blinked and made a sound. “K?” I asked. He blinked again. Yes, that was right. I wrote it down and started guessing words with “K” with none being right.

So, I began again: “A … B … C … D …”

When I reached “I,” he blinked again. I wrote it down. “Kick? Kit?” I looked around the room for something that might help me guess—still nothing.

One more time: “A … B … C …” All the way through, I was watching his eyes. “P … Q … R … S …”

Another blink. I wrote it down and I looked at my paper: K, I, S.

“Kiss!” I exclaimed. “You want me to kiss you?”

I suddenly felt sheepish that it had taken me so long to figure out something so simple yet so far from my thoughts. But in that tiny, tender moment, I felt his worry—not for himself, but for me. He was trying to comfort me.

My eyes instantly filled with tears. I longed to embrace him, but I couldn’t. So, what do you think I did? You’re absolutely right—I leaned over that hospital bed rail and kissed every little space on his face that wasn’t covered by a bandage, monitor, tubing, or brace.

In that moment, the Spirit comforted my soul. I knew Cary was of sound mind. He was 100% with me. My miracle man was still by my side, and I knew that together we would face this trial.

Cary’s recovery journey was filled with unknowns. Each day brought new information and new steps forward. He worked tirelessly, moment by moment, pushing his body and brain to remember what they once knew how to do. When he was accepted into a remarkable rehabilitation center in Colorado, we treated each day as a sacred gift. We did our best to recognize the daily blessings, focus on the positives, and move forward with unyielding determination as Cary spent his days working with five to six different therapists. The schedule was demanding. His body was exhausted. Our family was separated. But we pressed on with faith.

During this time, we often found ourselves wondering, Does “Thy will” match the desires of our hearts? What if the righteous desires for Cary to walk again, to be highly functional, and to possibly make a full recovery are not God’s will for us?

This spiritual wrestle—aligning our hopes with His will—became a constant theme in our prayers. It was a plea offered not only by us, but by our family, friends, ward and stake members, coworkers, temple patrons, the missionaries serving alongside our son in the MTC, and the countless others who knew of Cary’s situation.

I can testify of the peace that comes when we choose faith over fear and our hearts surrender to God’s will. Fear is “what if?” Faith is “even if.”

Age 27
Freelance journalist
Ward Relief Society president
Before I received the gospel, my world was a dark place. I was slow to forgive and harbored ill feelings against anyone I felt had wronged me. I was disillusioned with marriage, seeing all around me husbands who were drunk and women who were battered.
Embracing the gospel of Jesus Christ changed me. It was wonderful to go to church and find families sitting together, to be taught about love, mutual respect, and understanding. I found myself abandoning traditions not in harmony with the gospel.
I felt compelled to make peace with a perceived enemy. We now keep in touch often. I met a wonderful returned missionary and will be married in the temple soon.
I am convinced that I am in the right place. The love and concern the members have for each other gives me a sense of belonging. My life has become more meaningful. I know it is absolutely essential that I remain faithful to the end by avoiding backward glances toward the darkness and remorse of the past.

In closing, there is a story told by President Kimball. I wish I had it here to quote verbatim, but I shall have to do it from memory and pray that I will not mutilate it too much. He said, in substance, “I went to visit a friend. He met me at the airport. ‘How do you like my car?’ he said as he showed me his luxurious limousine. On the way from the airport to his home, he stopped the car, we got out, and he said, ‘See all this? From the mountains on the right hand over to the river on the left—it’s all mine.’” The way Brother Kimball said “mine” made you feel the covetousness that man had in his possessions. Then they proceeded to his home, which was truly a palace. President Kimball said, “I spoke at his funeral not long ago. They buried him in a piece of land the length of a tall man and the width of a heavy man, and as I returned from the cemetery I observed the cattle in the field, seemingly unaware that there had been a change of ownership.”

So that he could learn all the words by heart, Spencer W. Kimball practiced the hymns even while he milked cows. When a Church leader suggested that everyone read the scriptures, Spencer realized that he had never read the Bible. That very night he set a goal to read it from cover to cover. He lighted a little coal-oil lamp and began to read. He read a little every night. One year later, he had completed his goal.

By December 1827 there had been several attempts to steal the plates, so Joseph decided to move with Emma to the home of her parents in Harmony Township, Pennsylvania.

When Joseph and Emma arrived, Joseph allowed Isaac Hale, Emma’s father, to heft the plates in a box. Isaac later stated, “I was allowed to feel the weight of the box, and they gave me to understand, that the book of plates was then in the box.” Yet he was unconvinced and dissatisfied with the situation. He told Joseph to either show him the plates or remove them from his house. Joseph hid the plates in the nearby woods until he and Emma moved into their own home on the Hale property.10

My husband and I have three children—Thomas (6), Tucker (4), and Madison (1). Thomas and Tucker are learning in Primary about baptism and sharing the gospel.
One day, the children and I were at the doctor’s office. A woman with a very small baby came in. The boys love their younger sister, and they were interested in the woman’s baby. I told the boys to sing the baby a song instead of trying to touch it. They looked at each other, then started to sing “I Am a Child of God.”
Upon finishing the song, Thomas looked straight into the mother’s eyes and said, “You know, we are all children of God. Me, my brother, you, your baby, my mom, my sister. Do you go to church? We should all go to church.”
The mother sat there smiling. It was a very touching moment that ended when the nurse called us in to see the doctor.
We don’t know if we’ll ever see the mother and her baby again. What I know is that Thomas and Tucker are practicing the lessons they are learning in Primary and at home about sharing the gospel. And that I should feel comfortable sharing the gospel whenever possible. I pray that they will continue to share the gospel as they grow and that they will always love Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ as they do now.

One winter was particularly bad for the Young family, and in early March they found themselves without food. John sent his two older boys, Phineas and Joseph, to find work anywhere to exchange for food, corn, or whatever, and he kept Brigham and Lorenzo in the cabin with him.
John Young had tapped the maple trees on his farm and boiled down the sap and made maple sugar. As they finally came to the end of their food supply, he told Brigham he was going to exchange the sugar for food. He said, “Now you stay here, Briggy, and tomorrow morning get out and work all day clearing the brush and chopping what you can. And Lorenzo, you stack the brush. It’ll take me all night and tomorrow to get there and back, but I’ll be back the next day.”
So early that next morning, strapping on his snowshoes and leaving about 300 grams of sugar for the two small boys to eat as best they could, he put on his pack and left.
Brigham and Lorenzo worked all that day, as they had promised they would, and at about four o’clock they started for home. As they were walking along they heard a robin sing. They stopped and finally located the robin on a bush some forty or fifty meters away. Brigham said to Lorenzo, “Now you watch. I’ll run around and get the gun ad we’ll have some supper.” So he circled around to the cabin and got the gun and ran back.
The gun must have weighed nearly seven kilograms, but Brigham managed to aim it. He pulled the trigger and shot it. They ran over and got the bird, skinned it and cleaned it, went to the cabin, and put the bird in a kettle on the fireplace with a little water and began to cook it. They tipped the flour barrel and beat on the bottom, catching what they could in the pan, and managed to get half a cup of flour. They thickened the stew with that and had bird stew and sugar for supper. The next night, John returned home bringing some corn meal and pork, and they were able to survive.

Phan Phon and his wife make sure they teach the gospel to their grandchildren. The gospel of Jesus Christ helped their family move forward after the tragedy of losing their home in a fire.
When Phan’s home caught on fire, he could only save his three grandchildren. Everything else burned to the ground. Phan was angry at the neighbor who caused the fire. When his anger spread to his family and neighbors, Phan knew he needed to forgive.
Leslie Nilsson, photographer
The first time I heard the explosion, I asked my wife, “What is that sound?”
She said, “Maybe the neighbor is burning something.”
Then I heard a second explosion. Someone next door told me, “There’s a house burning behind your house!”
We went to get some water, but we couldn’t put the fire out. The fire spread to my house. I ran in the house to get my three grandchildren. Smoke was coming through the windows, but I didn’t think about anything besides my grandchildren. They are the most important thing to me. I left everything else inside.
We got out and all we could do was watch the house burn. Firefighters did not arrive in time because the road to our house was too small. My house was old, and it burned quickly. I stood with my wife and grandchildren and watched it burn.
After the house burned down, I felt hopeless. I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know what to do to find a new place to live. The day after the fire, we knelt to pray and asked the Lord to show us the way and bless us to be able to find a new home. I was weeping while praying to the Lord, but I trusted that He would help me.
At first, I was mad at the neighbor who caused the fire. I wanted him to pay for what had happened. My family and the neighbors affected by the fire were also mad and wanted to send a letter to the government to make the person who caused the fire legally responsible for what happened. They asked me to sign the letter, but I didn’t want to.
I realized that my neighbor was poor like me. He didn’t intend to start the fire. If I made him pay, he would be in trouble, and I would still feel hatred. I remembered the word of the Lord that we should love our neighbor. I felt that I should forgive.
When I decided to forgive, I felt peace.
I told everyone affected by the fire that I wanted to forgive. Except for one family, everyone decided to do the same thing. They wouldn’t make him accountable for what happened.
My neighbor was happy I forgave him. My family is more happy too. When I see this, I am also happy.
Members and neighbors contributed what they could to help my family. I received a lot of rice and shared it with others. They asked me why I give when I’m in a bad situation. I tell them when I serve others, I serve the Lord. I want to give to Him because He made many miracles happen in my life. We have a beautiful home, better than the one that burned down.
Phan’s anger toward the neighbor who caused the fire was replaced with peace when he remembered the word of the Lord. Phan is grateful for the guidance he receives from the scriptures.
As his home burned down, Phan could only think about his grandchildren. Phan loves his family. “They are the most important thing to me,” he says.

Perhaps the strongest lesson the children learned was to obey their father without question. Sometime after Fred's death, one of his sons: I think it was his second son, Harold: who served in the army during World War II--was in charge of a group of men. The men had bivouacked for the night. Several hours after going to sleep, Harold heard his father's voice telling him to move camp to another place. Without questioning his father's voice, Harold roused his men, had them break camp, and move to the place his father had indicated. A short time later, the original campsite was shelled. It was not until later that Harold realized two things: his father was not in the army with him and his father was dead. Nevertheless, Harold had heard his father's voice and had obeyed.

I must have stared at his picture a thousand times—sometimes in anger and jealousy, other times with curiosity and wishful wondering. There it sat in the same place, year after year, on the top shelf of the bookcase in our living room. Once again I was looking at it, studying every detail, and searching my memory for any recollection of the laughing face in the picture before me.
I lifted it from the shelf, then curled up on the couch to study it. The boy in the picture was 15 years old at the time it was taken. He had black hair like my father and soft blue eyes like my mother. He had the wide grin that definitely belonged to my grandfather and the perfect, straight family nose that we all have. He had always been big for his age, but in this picture, he was quite thin. I knew that this was taken when he first became sick and at the same time his little sister was born, his little sister who was me.
At times I nearly hated him. Because of him and his sickness, I had a neglected babyhood. There are hardly any pictures of me as a baby in our family photo albums, and my family remembers few “cute” things I did while growing up. No one is sure when I started to walk, talk, or cut my first tooth. You see, at this time, the boy in the picture—my brother Brett—got leukemia. According to my family, he put up a huge fight for two years; but the disease eventually won, and at the age of 17, he died.
Whenever our family gets together for anything, the conversation always works its way back to memories of times with Brett, and then, of course, about his heroic struggle with his illness. But to me, he is a stranger, an envied, wondered about, sometimes resented stranger.
I suppose it’s self-centered of me to feel I was neglected as a small child, but being the youngest, you’d think I would have received a lot of attention. Brett must have demanded everyone’s time, love, and attention. I was sure I always had to take the back seat during my early childhood. My accomplishments—like pronouncing my first words—just weren’t as important as Brett’s accomplishments—like going into remission for a while.
Sometimes I’d feel angry and a little sad when my family would talk about times with Brett before I was born. Last weekend, when my brother and sister and their families came for Mother’s Day, it didn’t take long before I’d had enough of the memories I couldn’t share, so I escaped to the kitchen to scrub the countertops and dishes. Mom followed me into the kitchen.
“Honey, what’s wrong? Don’t you want to …”
I turned from the sink to face her with my arms folded. “Mom, since we always talk about stuff that happened when Brett was alive, I guess no one in this family thinks we’ve done anything interesting since Brett died, right?”
“Honey, you know that’s not true. We’ve had some wonderful times together since Brett died. We’ve had some great times. I know it’s hard for you to have to listen about times that you weren’t part of …”
Suddenly, from the other room, voices became even louder.
“Oh, that reminds me. Remember when Brett started high school?” Chuckling and laughter followed this remark of my sister, Tara.
“He wasn’t anything like the rest of you. He had to be the class clown and make everyone laugh.” That was Dad. “And yet he always managed to get wonderful grades.”
“And don’t forget what he did for the school itself. I remember how the principal and some of his teachers would tell him what a disappointment he was because of the stunts he’d pull. And look what he did—he won the debating awards and helped the football team go to state one year and region the next.” My brother Alex was only a year older than Brett. He remembers a lot of things about Brett that the rest of us never knew.
“I can’t believe how easily he could weasel into and out of all kinds of situations, like sneaking out his window at night and down the tree, and yet always making it back home just in time.” Tara’s voice again.
The conversation had pulled Mom back into the room. “Just exactly where he would sneak off to is something I’d like to know!” Mom laughed.
“Stop—I don’t want to know!” Dad laughed back.
I stood in the kitchen listening. I smiled to myself as I thought about some of the things he’d done that I’d heard stories about. But I couldn’t help the familiar, hollow feeling that grew inside of me. Sometimes I could laugh along with everyone else, but I’d always feel as if I’d missed out on something—and I hated feeling that way.
My family didn’t constantly talk about Brett. In fact, I could go for days, even weeks, without even thinking about him. But then I’d go into the living room and see his picture, and I’d start wondering again.
Today I turned 16. I had a pretty good birthday. My parents gave me lots of nice things, and Alex and Tara and their families came over to help me celebrate.
This evening Mom came into my room and dropped a long, faded white envelope into my lap with only the name “Kitty” printed on it in an unfamiliar handwriting.
“What’s this?” I questioned. Kitty. That had been an old family nickname for me when I’d been really little, but no one had called me that for years.
“Open it and find out.” Mom smiled at me in a funny kind of way, then left me, closing the door quietly behind her.
I frowned at the envelope in my hands. I couldn’t stop looking at the name “Kitty” suspiciously. Who would call me that? I finally ripped it open. Inside was a single sheet of lined paper filled with handwriting that matched the name “Kitty” on the envelope.
Dear Kitty,
If Mom has done what she promised she’d do, then right now, today, you must be turning 16 years old, and I’m probably not around anymore. But at this very second, as I write this letter to you, you’re barely two.
Ever since you were just a little baby, you’ve saved your biggest smile for me. It’s impossible for me to believe that you’ll never remember me. You see, I’m very sick, and I know I’m not going to be here for much longer, so I won’t see my beautiful baby sister grow up. I won’t be there to help you along in your life. It doesn’t seem fair, and as I’ve watched you these past two years, I feel like I’m going to be cheated out of something incredible.
Two years ago, right before you were born, I found out I have leukemia. The fact that from then on, I would never lead a “normal” life made me want to give up and die. And then Mom came home from the hospital with you. The first time I held you and looked into those blue eyes of yours, I knew that now I had a reason to live. I couldn’t give up now—you needed me. And I knew I needed you. I wanted to see you grow up and help you, be there for you, and, hopefully, be your friend. We had a great start. I’ve spent more time with you these past two years than practically anyone else.
I have to thank you for these past two years you’ve given me. I know I wouldn’t have had them if it weren’t for you. Now I can honestly say that they’ve been two of the best. I’ve fought hard, but I know my time is short. The doctors say it’s amazing that I’ve lasted as long as I have, because I’m in bad shape. But don’t think I’m giving up or that I’m just going to leave you now. Not a chance! You helped me through the roughest two years of my life, so I have something for you that I hope will help you as much as you’ve helped me. It’s in the bottom of my gray strong box. Your name’s on it.
I love you,Brett
After retrieving the key for Brett’s strong box from Mom, I found a package covered with faded wrapping paper covered with lots of once-colorful balloons. The package was addressed to “Kitty—for her 16th birthday. With love, Brett.” With trembling hands, I ripped off the paper and carefully lifted the lid of the white box inside. A scarlet-colored book lay nestled in white tissue paper. Not just any book. It was a journal done by Brett, as if he were talking to me, of the last two years of his life, starting with the day I was born and ending on the day he died. He recorded everything we ever did together, including all of my babyhood milestones, along with his own milestones, as well as his feelings as he struggled with his illness. He also added in a lot of advice for me for when I was older, since he knew he wouldn’t be able to tell me in person. And on every page, no matter what happened during the day, he never forgot to write, “I love you.”
I was staring at a picture again today, studying it for the hundredth time. In the picture was the image of a dark-haired boy, sitting under a tree, smiling down at a tiny little girl sitting on his lap, laughing up at him. I smiled myself just looking at it. I placed it back on its spot on my dresser, right by the mirror. I had found it in Brett’s journal on my 16th birthday, so I’d framed it and filled an empty space on my dresser with it. I opened one of the drawers and took out the journal, my special journal from Brett, and hugged it. It too had filled an empty space—an empty space in my heart.

On August 25, 1975, a big bully who operated a shoe repair shop, along busy Herran street in Paco, Manila, resenting Elder Mabunga’s protest over the obvious overcharging for the repair of Elder Larkin’s pair of shoes, held the Filipino missionary by the collar and started to manhandle him.
The ensuing commotion caught the attention of an off-duty cop who was by chance in the vicinity and who came to the aid of the missionaries. The incident ended with a brief interlude of friendship with the cop, to whom they related their experience a week before, who in turn promised to help in the apprehension of the holdup men.
They shook hands and parted ways—but the harrowing experience of two unnerving incidents in a week’s time apparently was disconcerting to the two missionaries. Both forgot to take note of the cop’s name and address! That evening, they prayed hard for an opportunity to cross paths with him again.
One evening during the same week, they were teaching the gospel to the big Molinos family residing at Fabie Estate, Paco, Manila when someone knocked on the door. The elders momentarily stopped as the head of the family excused himself to open the door.
The Lord, indeed, works in strange ways. Who should come knocking on the door but the cop whose name the two elders forgot to take note of, and who turned out to be a relative on an unscheduled visit to the Molinos family without any purpose in mind.
The reunion resulted in a new turn of events in the life of the cop. He joined the Molinos family in listening to the message of the elders, hardly realizing that Elder Larkin and Elder Mabunga were silently thanking the Lord for an opportunity that came at the least expected moment.—P. Ocampo Jr.
Notes: The cop, Patrolman Antonio Buenaflor Molinos of Precinct 5, was baptized September 27, 1975, almost a month ahead of the big Molinos family of 2174 Road 5, Fabie Estate, Paco, Manila.
One of the holduppers was apprehended and jailed.

Nine times seven is sixty-three. Six times eight is … forty-two? No, that’s not right!
Luca furiously erased his answer.
“Time!” Luca’s teacher called. “Everyone pass in your tests.”
Oh no! Luca thought. But I’m not even done!
Luca sighed as he handed in his test. He had to get a 90 percent on his timed tests to pass his multiplication tables and become a class Multiplication Master. But he just didn’t know how he was going to do it!
That night during family scripture study, Dad read from the Doctrine and Covenants: “Therefore, if you will ask of me you shall receive; if you will knock it shall be opened unto you” (D&C 6:5).
Luca’s head popped up. That was the answer! Prayer!
Luca started praying every day to do well on his timed multiplication test. This would work. It had to work. He would finally become a Multiplication Master!
On Tuesday, Luca came home from school and grabbed his basketball.
“Do you need help studying?” Mom asked.
“Nope! I’ve got it taken care of!” Luca said as he ran out the door. He believed so much in prayer that he didn’t even take out his flash cards to practice his math.
On Friday, Luca knew he was going to pass the test. But when he sat down to take it, the answers just didn’t come, and he did even worse than before!
Luca walked home from the bus stop with his head down. He had prayed so hard to be a Multiplication Master. Why didn’t Heavenly Father answer his prayer?
When he got home, he shot baskets until Dad came home from work. Dad honked the car horn as he pulled up.
“How was school?” Dad asked, walking over.
“Not very good,” Luca said, looking down. “I can’t pass my multiplication test.”
“That sounds pretty discouraging,” said Dad. He held up his hands for a pass.
“I should have passed!” Luca said. “I prayed and everything. Dad, you said that Heavenly Father answers prayers. He definitely didn’t answer mine today!”
“Did you practice with your flash cards?” Dad asked.
“No.”
“Did you study?”
“No,” said Luca. “But I prayed all week!”
Dad dribbled the ball and looked at Luca. “Well, multiplication is kind of like basketball. How did you get so good at basketball?”
“I practiced,” said Luca.
“Yes, and so when we pray for Heavenly Father to help you before your games, we’re not praying for Him to magically make you a better basketball player. What do we pray for?”
“For me to remember what I practiced,” Luca said.
“Right. Prayer works best when we do our part and also ask Heavenly Father to help us.”
“So my part is studying my flash cards?” Luca asked.
“Exactly,” said Dad, passing the ball back to Luca.
Luca heaved a big sigh and took a shot. The ball bounced off the rim. “So … I should study hard and ask Heavenly Father to help me.”
“There you go!” said Dad. “Now, are you ready for a little one-on-one?”
Luca grinned and stole the ball from Dad. “Sure! As long as you help me study at the same time.”
“You’re on,” said Dad. “Six times five is?”
“Thirty!” Luca took another shot. This time it swished through the hoop.
Between practice and prayer, maybe he would become a Multiplication Master after all.

Before I was a General Authority, I had an extremely frightening experience while flying from Reno, Nevada, to San Rafael, California, with a friend in his twin-engine Aztec airplane.
When we left Reno, the weather was a little cloudy, and my friend was somewhat worried about it. Because of his concern, we landed at the Lake Tahoe airport to get a second report on the weather. It did not indicate that the weather was too bad, so we continued our flight to San Rafael.
Our destination was an airport in the northern part of San Francisco Bay. As we approached the Bay area, the clouds became increasingly low and dense. We tried to stay under the clouds so we could see the water and keep our bearings. But suddenly we flew into dense clouds and could see nothing.
When you fly into such clouds, you become totally disoriented. You do not know whether you are flying straight, sideways, or upside down. You lose your sense of forward motion, and it takes a few minutes for the pilot to orient himself from visual flying to instrument flying. At 180 miles an hour, you move a long distance in that few minutes and can get into serious trouble very quickly. Unfortunately, my friend had not flown entirely on instruments for two years.
My friend struggled intensely and was near the point of panic as he tried to recall all that he had learned about instrument flying. I knew very little about instrument flying, so I could not help him. All I could do was put my hand on his shoulder and tell him to take a deep breath and get hold of himself. The only instrument that I could read was the altimeter. I said, “We are now at 500 feet. Don’t make any quick moves; just think it out, and you can pull us through.”
It seemed an eternity before he finally made radio contact with Hamilton Air Force Base. He said to the people there, “I am in trouble; please help me.” The air traffic controllers had us on their radar screen and immediately began to help my friend regain control of the plane. They told us where we were and started to give us instructions to help guide us to safety.
When my friend heard the voice from Hamilton Tower, he regained a sense of confidence that enabled him to gain control. But he knew that the plane was completely out of control and that our chances of pulling out of this danger were marginal. We could easily go the wrong way. The foothills, buildings, towers, and bridges were not far away. At one point we dropped to only 200 feet. We must have been flying upside down at one time because the maps and other items in the visor above my head fell into my lap.
At the peak of this crisis, an instant replay of my entire life flashed through my mind. I thought of my wife, my seven children, my parents, my business partners, the 37 priests whom I was the adviser to, and many other things. I prayed fervently all through this crisis and made a commitment more deep and more sincere than ever before in my life. I began, “Heavenly Father, guide us out of this thick, dense cloud, and help my friend remember all he knows about instrument flying.” And then I said, “In the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the holy priesthood, bless my friend that he might regain control.” My prayer continued. I committed to Heavenly Father that if He would help us, I would place my life in His hands. I promised Him that I would be what He wanted me to be.
Finally, we saw the lights on the runway. The white line in the center of the runway was a most welcome sight.

Minerva’s spiritual life was guided by dreams and by an increasing ability to rely on the Lord. As a young mother, she turned down an opportunity to study in London, England, with her great teacher Robert Henri when she dreamed of a daughter who would soon be born to her. Laurie, the only Teichert daughter, was born with the next year or so. In the same way, Minerva saw future daughters-in-law in dreams before she met them. She trusted implicitly what she felt the Lord had told her and taught her children and grandchildren to rely on His guidance.

A couple years ago, I was very frustrated. I was trying to make new friends, and my family was having problems. After the terrorist attacks on 11 September 2001, I was worried about the possibility of war and was scared that something else bad would happen to the United States. Focusing on all the negative things going on around me made my own battle with Satan more difficult. I needed to be comforted.
My brother, Jordan, had just left on his mission. He was the peacemaker in the home, and I could always talk to him when I was troubled. In a letter, his advice to me was to read the scriptures. I opened the scriptures and read D&C 75:10: “Calling on the name of the Lord for the Comforter, which shall teach them all things that are expedient for them.”
I got a feeling to pray for comfort and answers. When I did, the Spirit came to me, and my heart felt warm. I felt that the scriptures are true and that if I lived righteously, I didn’t have to worry. My prayer calmed me, and I didn’t worry anymore.

President Dieter F. Uchtdorf shared a story in general conference about a challenge from his own life that became a massive blessing for him. During the challenge, however, it was hard for President Uchtdorf to see much value in the struggle. He was 11 years old at the time and had to pedal a heavy bicycle and cart to deliver laundry for his family’s laundry business.
“Most of the time, I was not overly excited about the bike, the cart, or my job,” he said. “Sometimes the cart seemed so heavy and the work so tiring that I thought my lungs would burst, and I often had to stop to catch my breath.”
There was a reason the work was so hard for him. He was battling a lung disease he didn’t even know he had. But here’s the miracle: all that strenuous exercise proved to be exactly what he needed to heal his lungs. Not until many years later, when he took a physical exam to enter the military, did President Uchtdorf learn there had ever been anything wrong.
“It became clear to me that my regular exercise in fresh air as a laundry boy had been a key factor in my healing from this illness,” he said. “Without the extra effort of pedaling that heavy bicycle day in and day out, pulling the laundry cart up and down the streets of our town, I might never have become a jet fighter pilot and later a 747 airline captain.”1

On a trip to the Orient it was my privilege to attend a sacrament meeting of the Naha Branch on the island of Okinawa. I was so impressed with the quality of the sacrament service and the reverence and dignity exhibited by the Aaronic Priesthood that when I was called to speak I asked one of the young men to join me at the pulpit. I asked him, “How do you feel knowing you hold the priesthood of God?” Not tall enough to see over the pulpit, he raised on his toes so he could see the congregation, then with deep emotion responded: “It’s the greatest honor of my life!”

I am a member of the Church because of a five-year-old missionary.
When I was young, my mother was searching for a church that could answer all her questions. As a result, we attended a different church each week. Eventually Mom became frustrated because every religion contradicted the others and none of them satisfied her. Finally she gave up.
My best friend at the time was a girl named Sandy Guthrie. We played together nearly every day. One Saturday evening she asked me if I would like to attend Sunday School with her the next day. I asked her which church she belonged to, thinking that I had visited them all. She told me that it was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, often called the Mormon Church—a new one to me. I decided it was the church for me because my last name is Moore and I thought she said “Moore-man Church.”
I agreed to go, but I had to ask Mom. Unfortunately, she said she had other plans that Sunday.
The next week, Sandy invited me again, and once again I asked Mom. She had another excuse, and I wasn’t allowed to go.
Being a good missionary, Sandy didn’t give up. She suggested that on Sunday morning I get up and get ready by myself before asking my mother if I could go. I thought it was a great idea. If Mom didn’t have to make a special effort to get me ready, she might be more willing to let me go.
On Sunday morning, I put on my best clothes and woke Mom up. This time she flatly refused. She offered no excuse and left no room for bargaining. She simply said no. So I did what most five-year-olds would have done. I cried.
I suppose the tears and my steadfast dedication touched my mother, because she agreed to let me go on the condition that she go with me.
Mom called Sandy’s mom to make arrangements, and we attended church with them that morning. Mom felt the Spirit so strongly that she knew immediately we had found the true Church. That evening she took the first discussion from the missionaries and agreed to be baptized.
More than twenty years have passed since then. When I tell my own two children this story, I draw a chart showing everyone who joined the Church because Sandy invited a friend to Sunday School. There are well over a hundred people on the chart. Many of them not only accepted the gospel but in turn served missions and brought others to the knowledge of the truth. I, myself, have served a mission. The chart proves that one child’s dedication to sharing the gospel can bless the lives of many people.
I don’t know how many others Sandy invited to church or how large her complete chart might be. I do know that I owe her more than I can say. I only hope that she realizes how much her faithfulness has meant to me, my family, and all the others touched indirectly by her missionary work. I know I can’t repay her, but I’ve made a goal to share the gospel whenever and wherever possible—just in case I meet another family like mine, waiting for the truth.