Gospel Story Finder

Everyone loves a carnival, but this one was the most exciting of all. The youth from the Boulder Second Ward, Boulder Colorado Stake, sponsored a free “Kids’ Carnival” for the children living in a local low-income housing development.
About 50 young people and leaders provided booths with fishing ponds, sponge throws, ring tosses, etc. for more than 100 children. There were also hot dogs, popcorn, and lemonade. Ward member Brenda Lyle, who has three children in the ward’s youth program and works at the family learning center adjacent to the project where the event was held, helped spearhead the activity.
“I’ve been involved in many service projects,” said Jan Lindeman, 15, “but this was one of the best because you could see the results of all our hard work in the kids’ smiling faces.”

When I was a young woman, my world was my family and friends. But when I found the gospel of Jesus Christ, much of this world was lost to me. Friends teased me because I lived the Word of Wisdom, honored the Sabbath, and tried to keep the commandments. Schoolmates cut off friendships with me. My parents at first refused to give me permission to be baptized, and my father even stopped speaking to me. For a young girl, such personal losses might be considered quite a sacrifice. But God knew that these “sacrifices” for His Church and kingdom would in reality bring not loss but gain.
The Lord taught: “Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit. He that loveth his life shall lose it; and he that hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto life eternal” (John 12:24–25). We are accustomed to defining our losses as sacrifice and our increases as gain. But often our losses are actually the beginning of what will later be a great harvest.
A famous doctor once visited a dejected and despondent old woman. He found that she was alone and separated from the world but that she also had a beautiful greenhouse where she raised African violets. The doctor gave the woman a prescription. She was to subscribe to her church’s newsletter, and whenever there was a baptism, marriage, sickness, or death, she was to send an African violet. Following the doctor’s instructions, the old woman gave away hundreds of potted plants. At her death the newspaper headline read, “The Queen of African Violets Passes Away and Is Mourned by Thousands.” What turned this dejected old woman into someone loved by so many? It was giving to others, not keeping for herself.
Sometimes what we must give up is not a possession but a cherished dream. Growing up in Taiwan, I had always dreamed of going to school in England. After receiving a university degree and studying in the United States, I returned home and made arrangements to continue my studies in England. At this same time I received a calling in the Relief Society. At first I planned to accept the calling for a short time—just until I left for England. Then after much consideration, I decided to postpone my studies abroad for a year.
It was during this year when I was “sacrificing” my studies in England that an amazing blessing came into my life. One day as I was walking by a bulletin board at church, I saw a notice that the Church’s Translation Department was seeking to hire a Chinese language supervisor. I felt the Holy Ghost prod me to apply, but I hesitated. The year was almost up, and it was time for me to go to England. But the Spirit encouraged me, and I applied and was hired. For me, working as a language supervisor for the Church is not just a job. It is a great privilege and blessing. But I could never have received this blessing if I had not been willing to give up my dream of studying in England.
Do we sometimes hold onto our one grain of wheat, not willing to impart it, so that in the end it remains just a single grain? Or do we trust that, planted and cultivated, this single grain can become fruit? Giving up friends, possessions, or dreams can certainly be a trial. But I have learned that, with faith in God’s plan for us, we can confidently plant our grain of wheat, trusting in the bountiful harvest to come.

It was a beautiful morning in late summer. The prairie seemed draped in gold as far as Red Moon could see. The vivid yellow blanket was made of goldenrod blooms and bright yellow daisies still glistening with dew. The flowers bowed and rippled in constant motion from the soft wind that stirred them. Along the edge of the forest, the leaves of the sumac and sassafras trees were already tinged with a melon red that signaled the end of summer. Migrating birds were beginning to come together in flocks, in preparation for the long journey to the south.
Ordinarily, the surrounding beauty would have elated the Indian girl. But not today. She stayed well behind her grandfather, trying not to intrude upon his privacy. Hers was an unpleasant assignment. She loved White Eagle deeply and understood his anger and humiliation. Butwhy do I have to be the target for his resentment? she pondered.
White Eagle had been very ill for three moons. His strong heart had grown weary. Sorrowfully, for he was the oldest and most respected member of the tribe, his people had begun to prepare for his death. Then the old man had rallied and left his tepee to sit in the warm sun. The women whispered that the old brave’s spirit had only returned for a short while, to bid farewell to the forest and streams he loved so well.
Red Moon felt that this was true. Why else had her grandfather waited until all the braves and young men were away to decide to go fishing? He was too weak to walk to the river alone, but he seemed determined. He had brushed aside his wife’s pleas and stalked away.
The girl and her worried grandmother watched the old brave leave. “You must follow!” Sequa said. “He may collapse on the way or faint and fall into the water. If so, run back quickly for help. But don’t let him see you follow,” she warned. “His feebleness shames him.”
The Indian girl had drifted along like a shadow. She had walked carefully and stayed well behind her grandfather, but the old hunter was still too crafty to be fooled. Red Moon stopped and stood trembling when White Eagle suddenly stepped out where the trail curved and confronted her. Clouds of anger were on his face, and the piercing black eyes reflected outrage.
“Why do you stalk me with footsteps that would roll a sleeping bear out of his cave?” White Eagle snapped. “Does your grandmother think I’m a frail and feeble child that must be tethered to a keeper? And a girl at that, when I have eight strong, young grandsons! I want to be alone. Return to the village at once and stay there!” he commanded. Red Moon shivered with dread.
“I cannot,” her stricken granddaughter whispered, her head bowed and not looking at him.
White Eagle was a proud man. He felt overwhelmed with frustration and resentment. An old warrior should be allowed to die in the forest alone if he wished. How dare his relatives interfere!
The old man’s eyes softened as he stared down at Red Moon’s bowed head. He could see the misery of the granddaughter he loved, and he understood her dilemma. She had always been an obedient, respectful child, but how could she obey both her grandparents this time?
“Well, then. Since your grandmother has foolishly set you upon me like a dog after a crippled fox, you may follow. But stay away from me!” White Eagle barked. He wheeled and started off down a slope toward the river.
The old man’s full stride alarmed Red Moon. His heart was too weak for such exertion, and his anger didn’t help. Fear swept over her when she saw White Eagle sag against a tree and put one hand to his chest. His bronzed face appeared washed over with gray paint. Even from a distance Red Moon could see that he was panting for breath! How can I slow him down without further injuring his pride? she wondered.
Then, noticing a log lying across the path, she deliberately tripped over it and cried out as she fell sprawling.
White Eagle hesitated, then turned back when he saw her cradling an “injured” leg. He sat down and removed her worn beaded moccasin. Tears trickled down her woebegone face, but there was no mark on the small foot or leg. A fleeting smile crossed the old man’s wrinkled face.
“We’ll rest here until it feels better,” he said softly, pulling her close. Red Moon leaned against his shoulder, holding her breath to keep from sobbing out her sorrow. Resting, White Eagle’s rapid, shallow breathing slowed.
Later when they reached the river, White Eagle selected a mossy bank, spread his blanket to sit on, and leaned back against a tree. It was an ancient oak, old when he was a boy. With trembling hands, he laid out fishhooks of bone and some lengths of hide for lines.
Then he sat quietly contemplating the beauty of one of his favorite haunts. He looked happy and content as he began to speak, his sham of going fishing now forgotten.
“Death is a dreaded enemy to youth, as it should be,” he said softly. “But it is a friend to the old ones. I have lived and hunted for over seventy-five years. My sons are grown and have become braves, and I have seen many grandchildren. I am happy. And I am not afraid, for it is only natural that I should now return and become a part of all the beauty of the earth. Now I ask you once again to leave me here alone. There should be young woodchucks under a rock ledge at the bottom of Turkey Hill. Will you go there and watch them play until the sun touches the treetops?”
Neither I nor Grandmother can keep death from coming, Red Moon thought. White Eagle deserves to greet it alone and with dignity. A brave’s final wish should be granted. She rose slowly and smiled, trying to see her grandfather’s serene face through blurred eyes. His spirit would be gone when she returned, she knew. Then she would cover him with her blanket and return to tell her grandmother.

Some years ago I coached a high school basketball team through a rather unusual season. The season began with a number of disappointing losses. Some of the fans and townspeople didn’t make a secret of their unhappiness over the team’s failures. There was considerable public comment, and it was a challenging time for the players. Several of them finally became discouraged and withdrew from the team. Those who remained didn’t lose faith in themselves or in their coach. The rough going seemed to be an incentive for them to try even harder.
At midseason the team began to win their games. They qualified for the district tournament and surprised everyone there by winning a place in the state play-offs. To the amazement of everyone, they went on to win the state championship—the first ever to be won by their school!
Following the celebration and the awarding of trophies after the championship game, I drove several of the team members back to our city. There was silence during much of the ride as we each reflected on the incredible outcome of our season’s efforts. Finally one of the young men spoke. “Coach,” he said, “I think we were supposed to win tonight.”
I was curious to know what had prompted this conclusion. “Why do you think we were supposed to win?” I asked.
His response was simple and direct—and I will never forget its impact: “Because we paid the price.”

The excitement and anticipation were almost unbearable as I and 77 other American students boarded our flight to Frankfurt. We were on our way to spend a month in Nuremberg, West Germany. We would be attending a German high school (Gymnasium) and traveling within Germany. Most exciting of all was knowing that 78 German families, as nervous and excited as we were, anxiously awaited our arrival. I wished desperately that the New York to Frankfurt flight could be made in less than eight hours!
With my hand luggage held high to avoid any collisions, I made my way to the back of the plane, where I found my seat on the next to the last row. I quickly stowed my bags into the overhead compartment and plopped into my seat with a sigh. I found myself sitting next to a delightful lady from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, who had moved from Germany 18 years previous. She was going to Munich to visit family. We conversed partly in German, partly in English, until our dinner was served.
As we ate, I asked her what Germans usually drink at mealtime.
“Beer or wine,” was her immediate response.
“Oh,” I said. “I don’t drink alcohol.”
“You’ll learn to, once you’re there,” she said with a chuckle.
“But, it’s against my religion,” I replied.
“Are you Mormon?”
“Yes, I am. Do you know any Mormons?” I queried, hoping to start a discussion.
“Well, some young men came to our house one time.”
“Missionaries?” I asked.
“They wore white shirts and dark suits.”
“Yes, missionaries,” I assured her.
“They were very kind,” she said.
“What do you know about them?”
“Well, they pay their own way, and they cannot have girl friends. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right,” I replied.
Soon she was asking questions, and I was thoroughly absorbed in answering them. Our dinner plates were taken away, the lights were dimmed, and a movie projected onto the screen. Neither of us seemed to mind that we were missing it, and we continued our conversation in earnest.
Very quickly, it seemed, we were discussing tithing, eternal marriage, ordinances for the dead, the Word of Wisdom, and other gospel principles. She did not question anything I told her. She simply nodded. When I had finished one subject, she asked a question about another.
Her questions inevitably led to the Book of Mormon. I found myself telling her about the Nephites and the Lamanites and explaining with pride about the important role Moroni played concerning the Book of Mormon. All this led into the Joseph Smith story. I felt so warm inside, knowing that I was sharing truth with her.
After an hour or more I had finished answering her questions, and she didn’t seem to have another one just then. I sat back for a moment and felt overwhelmed with what had just happened to me. I silently thanked my Father in Heaven for letting me be in that seat at that time and especially for helping me know what to say.
Not wanting to simply end things where they were, I offered a copy of the Book of Mormon, feeling sure she would accept. But she didn’t. She said simply “No, thank you.” It took a second for her reply to sink in, but when it did, I was crushed. However, she continued, “I have a very hard time reading English and would not be able to understand most of it.”
Excitedly, I reached into my bag and pulled out a blue book, which I handed to her. “Das Buch Mormon” it read. “Here it is in German,” I said, trying not to sound as triumphant as I felt. Obviously very surprised, she thanked me and leafed through it. “Oh, and here’s a special promise to readers,” I exclaimed, pointing out Moroni 10:3–5.
After a few minutes’ silence she said, “I’ll read a little bit of it and then give it back to you before the flight is over.”
“Oh, but it’s for you to keep,” I quickly stated. “I have my own.” Her eyes shining, she thanked me and began to read. Not long after that, she gave me her address so I could have the missionaries sent to her.
With a prayer of gratitude, I opened my journal and began to write down the experience I could hardly believe had happened. Before I realized it, the flight was over. As I said good-bye to my friend, she thanked me again.
When I returned from Germany, I sent her address to the Pennsylvania Pittsburgh Mission. I haven’t heard if she has joined the Church, but I feel confident that someday she will.

Susanna’s mother, Eeva, joined the Church in 1989, before Susanna was born. Sister Ståhle had a good friend who was a member of the Church, but they never talked about religion until Sister Ståhle’s sister was in a bad car accident. Soon after that, Sister Ståhle went with her friend to church. Immediately she felt that she had come home. She was baptized a month later, and Susanna’s father, Sven, was baptized a few years later.

Sam’s dad, Chris, has some precious possessions—six ordinary grey pebbles given to him by his daughter when she was little. Sam tells the story:
“I was about seven when my dad was going on a business trip for three days. He didn’t travel often, and I was nervous that while he was gone he would forget us. I wanted to give him something to remind him of his wife, my two older brothers, me, and even our dog. I don’t know what made me get the pebbles. I guess since I was in Primary, they taught me about the brother of Jared and his stones.
“I went outside and picked up six pebbles. I cleaned them off and put them in a paper towel. I took them upstairs and told him not to forget us while he was gone. I told him that each one was for a family member. It’s a good thing I gave him six, because my youngest sister was born after that, and she took over the dog’s pebble. I didn’t think he would keep them forever. Now he talks about them all the time. He was excited that his little daughter understood the importance of families and how the Church is based on family. He still keeps them in his trinket box and takes them with him whenever he has to travel. I didn’t know that as a seven-year-old I would have such an impact. It makes me feel kind of special as well.”

Thank you for printing the article on patriarchal blessings in the February New Era. I had been interviewed and had my recommend, but was still slightly puzzled over the form of patriarchal blessings and why they are given. So I prayed. When I got home from college the next day, the February New Era with the article by Elder Richards was waiting for me. If that is not the answer to prayer, I don’t know what it is. The Lord surely moves in mysterious ways. I have only been in the Church a year but have a strong testimony. I know I could never leave the gospel now.
Elizabeth BullenLondon, England

Several years ago, I was basically an atheist.
I had been born Catholic, but from my teenage years until I was 25, I felt as though there was a spiritual gap inside of me. I tried attending different churches, but none of them could quite fill the gap. I decided after a while that it would be easier to give up believing in God than it would be to keep trying to find the right church.
I first learned about the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith from a TV program about people who buy and sell antiques and other valuable collectible items. Someone in the episode I was watching had brought a very old copy of the Book of Mormon to sell.
As an expert explained what gave the book value, she told a little bit about the history of the Church and the book. The expert told the host, “This is by far the most valuable book you’ve ever had me appraise.”
I was impressed by the book and the story, so I decided to learn more.
I did some research, and the more I learned about Joseph Smith, the more I respected him and related to him.
I too had been searching for truth and didn’t know where to find it.
I too had attended countless churches in search of the right one and hadn’t found it.
As I was scrolling Facebook later, an ad popped up for a page called “Come unto Christ.” I didn’t think much of it. However, something drew me in, and I soon found myself putting my phone number into the site.
A few months later, I received a phone call from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I didn’t answer.
After a quick Google search, I decided to call the number back. The missionaries who answered explained that they’d gotten my information from the Come unto Christ website, and suddenly everything was clear. I’d unknowingly signed up for information from the very Church that I had been learning about.
I started meeting with missionaries and learning more. The spiritual hole inside of me started to be filled. Around the time I was deciding to get baptized, some Christian friends invited me to one of their church campouts.
During the final sermon on the last day of camp, I prayed for God to confirm to me that the Book of Mormon was true. At that exact moment, a student who was studying to be a pastor pulled out the Book of Mormon and said, “Why don’t we read from this book? This book is all about Jesus Christ and is in line with the Bible.” The crowd went silent. I am convinced that this was an answer to my prayer.
After hearing from that student, I felt the Spirit confirm to me that this book is another testament of Jesus Christ. I was baptized soon after.
Since joining the Church, the spiritual hole inside of me has been filled, and my testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon has only continued to grow.
Heavenly Father has helped me know, through prayer and His Spirit, that this is Jesus Christ’s Church. Honestly, I wish I could’ve known about the Church when I was younger. I love this Church. It truly is the Church of Jesus Christ on the earth today.
Cristian Emanuel lives in Argentina. He wants to thank the two sisters who encouraged him to write down his testimony of the gospel.

I returned to Italy shortly after. Then, in May 1930, while looking in a French dictionary for some information, I suddenly saw the entry “Mormon.” I read the words carefully and found that a Mormon Church had been established in 1830 and that this church operated a university at Provo [Brigham Young University, Utah]. I wrote to the university president, asking for information about the book and its missing pages. I received an answer two weeks later telling me that my letter had been passed on to the president of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
On June 16, 1930, President Heber J. Grant answered my letter and sent a copy of the Book of Mormon in Italian. He informed me that he would also give my request to Elder John A. Widtsoe, president of the European Mission, with headquarters in Liverpool, England. A few days later, Elder Widtsoe wrote to me, sending me a pamphlet that contained the story of the Prophet Joseph Smith, the gold plates, and the coming forth of the Book of Mormon. Finally, I had learned the rest of the story of the torn book I had found on top of a barrel of ashes.

After graduating from high school, I got a good job as a secretary at the university and was able to help Papa support the family. He had been the only one in the family working, and it had been hard for him to support four of us in school. We had sometimes gone without necessities.
Then when I was 18, my father died unexpectedly. My mother could not work because she was ill, and as the oldest I would have to support the family.
One day when I was upset because I hadn’t made enough money to cover all our expenses, I remembered the promise in Malachi. I prayed to Heavenly Father, reminding Him that I was paying a full tithe, even when I lacked money for food. Later that day the bishop came to visit, bringing food and help. Never in all the time I was supporting my family did the Lord fail me.
When my brother became old enough to serve a mission, he wanted to stay home and work to help pay for household expenses. But we felt he should go, so he quit his job and left for a mission. The following month, my salary was raised. The whole time he was on his mission, my family never lacked for anything. I received a scholarship and was able to study to become a commercial engineer. During this time our shoes lasted longer, our clothes didn’t wear out as quickly, and we didn’t get sick as often.
After supporting my family for six years, I married a wonderful man in the Guayaquil Ecuador Temple. Our goal was always to pay tithing, and we always did. Every month we took our tithing out first. We didn’t have everything, but we didn’t suffer either.
Two years after we married, my husband died in a traffic accident. Now once again I support my own family. But I have a good job, and I know that if I continue to live the law of tithing, my young son and I will have what we need. With all my heart I know that the Lord will never forsake me and that He will continue to pour out blessings—not only temporal but also spiritual.
Karina Vanegas Barcia, Monay Branch, Cuenca Ecuador Stake

When I was young, my friends and I often played ball in an alley behind our home. A woman named Mrs. Shinas rented a tiny house nearby, and she used to watch us play from her window. She rarely came out of her house, and when she did, she never smiled. We all thought that she was mean. She had a big dog, an English setter, and whenever one of our baseballs rolled in its direction—which happened often—Mrs. Shinas would send the dog to fetch it. We wouldn’t see the ball again. Soon we ran out of baseballs.

In those days, we didn’t have lawn sprinklers, and so each day I watered our lawn by hand with a hose. One day as I stood watering our little stretch of grass, I noticed that Mrs. Shinas’s lawn looked a little shabby. It took only a few more minutes to water it, too, and soon I was watering her lawn each day.

When autumn came that year, one of my tasks was to clear our yard of leaves. I sprayed the ground with a hose, pushing the leaves into a pile with the force of the water. I decided to gather up the leaves on Mrs. Shinas’s yard as well, and as I was doing this one day, she came to her door and beckoned for me to come inside. I turned off the hose and went into her house.

She invited me to sit in her living room, and she gave me a cookie and a glass of milk. As I sat there eating my cookie, she showed me her collection of little china dogs. I could tell that they were her most prized possession. Then she thanked me for taking care of her lawn. It was the first conversation I had ever had with her.

Mrs. Shinas then went into her kitchen and returned with a box. In it were all the baseballs that her dog had taken. She handed me the box, said thank you—and smiled! It was the first time I’d ever seen her smile.

For a few years at the Missionary Training Center, I supervised those learning American Sign Language. One day the supervisor brought her group to my office door to announce they’d been asked to sing for the MTC Christmas program. I could tell something funny was about to happen by the look on her face.
“Do you want to know what they’ve chosen to sing?”
“Of course I do!”
“Our two numbers are “Do You Hear What I Hear?” and “I Heard Him Come.’” The missionaries, several of whom were deaf, laughed and clapped. So did I!

Do you know what it means to minister? Think about this question while I tell you about a girl named Chy Johnson.

When Chy started high school last year, she became the victim of cruel and thoughtless bullying. She was mistreated, shoved, and taunted as she walked to class—some students even threw garbage at her. You have probably seen people mistreated like this in your school too.

For too many people, the teenage years are a time of loneliness and fear. It doesn’t have to be this way. Fortunately for Chy, there were young men at her school who understood what it means to minister.

Chy’s mother had asked teachers at the school to help stop the bullying, but it continued. She then contacted Carson Jones, an Aaronic Priesthood holder and the starting quarterback of the football team. She asked him to help her find out who was doing the bullying.

Carson agreed to help, but in his heart he felt that he could do much more than just identify the bullies. The Spirit whispered to him that he needed to help Chy feel loved.

Carson asked some of his teammates to join him in ministering to Chy. They invited her to sit with them during lunch. They walked her to class to make sure she was safe. Not surprisingly, with football players as her close friends, no one bullied Chy anymore.

This was an exciting season for the football team. But even with the thrill of an undefeated season, these young men did not forget about Chy. They invited her to join the team on the field after games. Chy felt loved and appreciated. She felt safe. She was happy.

The football team went on to win the state title. But something more important than a football championship happened at their school. The example of these young men has motivated other students to be more accepting, more friendly. They now treat each other with more kindness and respect.

National news media found out what these young men had done and shared their story across the country. What began as an effort to minister to one is inspiring thousands of others to do the same.

Chy’s mother calls these young men “angels in disguise.” Carson and his friends are quick to say that Chy has blessed their lives much more than they blessed hers. That’s what happens when you lose yourself in serving others—you find yourself. You change and grow in ways that would not be possible otherwise. These young men have experienced the joy of ministering and continue to seek opportunities to bless others. They are anxious to extend their ministering in the coming months when they serve as full-time missionaries.

One particular conversation has been a great blessing to me in my spiritual progress and will continue to be forever. When I finished my mission, I had an exit interview with my mission president. He talked about the changes that would come into my life when I went home. He told me that if I wanted to stay active, I needed to always have a calling, and if I didn’t have one, I should talk to my bishop. The other piece of counsel he gave me was even more emphatic. He said that if I wasn’t going to marry in the temple, I should not get married at all.
I followed his advice to the letter, and every time I was tempted to marry out of the temple, I remembered his words. They gave me the strength I needed to hold to my decision to marry in the temple.
Generally speaking, returned missionaries struggle because we want to get married soon. It is even more difficult when members of our wards and branches ask us why we’re not married yet. Time goes by, and if we aren’t married, we often hear conversations that are hurtful and may make us bitter.
But I’m grateful to my mission president, who gave me the wise counsel to marry only in the temple, because now I’m reaping the fruit of it. Ten years went by after my mission before I met my eternal companion. We were married in the Caracas Venezuela Temple in 2000, and it was a beautiful experience. While I waited, nothing could stop me from trusting the words of the Lord’s servant.
I now have the good fortune to be the mother of a little girl, and I’m glad I was able to give her the blessing of being born in the covenant. When I look at her, I see the impact of the conversation I had with my mission president.

I love to dance, and since I live in a small town, my mom drives me to Weatherford, Texas, every Thursday to take jazz and tap lessons, and on Friday for ballet.
I have moved up to Level 2, which means I have a different teacher on Thursday. We’ve been working on a dance for a competition. We compete for a trophy.
We had learned half the dance, when the teacher put it to music. The music wasn’t the best choice, and one girl dropped out because her mom didn’t like it. Then we learned some more steps. One day at an extra practice, the teacher asked me, “Have you seen the costume yet?” When I saw the picture of it, I knew that I wasn’t going to wear it.
When my mom (who hadn’t seen the costume) and I were home, we talked about it. We decided that it was too immodest. She called the studio the next day to tell them that I would not be participating in the dance. I hope that my decision helped the other dancers choose the right.
Christy Abraham, age 9Azle, Texas

Last summer, the Olympic Games were held in Sydney, Australia. Certain rules and disciplines were attached to the various Olympic events: runners and swimmers had to stay in their lanes, shot-putters had to stay within the circle marked on the playing field, wrestlers had to stay on the mat—or the athletes would be disqualified. In addition, the use of performance-enhancing drugs was forbidden.
One young man from Denver, Colorado, who won an Olympic silver medal later was awarded the gold because the gold-medalist in his event was disqualified for using a banned steroid. In his response, he referred to his unfortunate competitor’s loss of the medal:
“I do feel sorry for him. But we all have choices. … He made his choice, and I made my choice. …
“I believe God was watching out for me. I believe he watches out for all of us. I’ve learned so many lessons from how this has taken place. I experienced the agony of defeat before the thrill of victory. That made me so much more of a stronger person, mentally and spiritually.”

For example, President Henry B. Eyring, First Counselor in the First Presidency, remembers when, as a young man, he’d convinced himself he couldn’t understand math. His dad thought otherwise and helped him through his homework. “I can’t remember the gifts my dad wrapped and gave to me” for holidays, he said. “But I remember the chalkboard and his quiet voice. … Because he had spent time [studying as a boy], he and I could have that time at the chalkboard and he could help me.”1

I have a brother who experienced kidney failure. For over a decade his kidneys kept failing and during this time, the family knew he would eventually need a kidney transplant. There are six boys in my family and he asked each of us if, when the time comes, we would consider donating a kidney. At the time the answer was easy because it seemed so far away. We all said yes. I am the youngest of the six boys and my brother is 10 years older than I am. In good fun, I would tell him if I was the eventual donor he could average the age of his internal organs and reduce his overall age by a few years. I actually think he may have started doing that.

About two years ago, the joking stopped because his kidneys were completely shutting down, and to survive he would either need to begin dialysis or receive a kidney transplant. He asked all of us brothers the same question: "Will you donate a kidney?" I can imagine how hard it must have been for him to ask that question knowing what a donor might go through. We all said yes and began the testing. I passed my initial screening with flying colors. I also passed the next phase. The next test was to determine if we were a match. The results came back and showed we were a very strong match; as strong as a match can be when the donor and recipient are not identical twins.

Now things were starting to get serious. I was being narrowed down as the donor. In fact, my other brothers paused their testing to wait and see what would happen with me. By this time I only had one test left: a psychological analysis to see if I could mentally handle being a donor and to evaluate my decision. They needed to make sure I was not being forced, coerced, or rewarded financially.

Throughout all of this I remember thinking how much I really wanted to be the donor. Deep down within myself I know why I wanted to donate, but to this day I can't articulate why. They are feelings that are difficult for me to put into words. Just know it is something that I really wanted to do.

At the time my wife and I had five children. I remember someone asking me, "What is going to happen to your wife and kids if something happens to you or you have long-term medical issues as a result of donating kidney?" I had honestly never thought about that question, but it caused me to ponder the decision even more deeply. I remember feeling I needed to take this decision to the Lord.

On June 1, 2010, I took a vacation day from work and went to the Rexburg Idaho Temple. I was taking this issue to the Lord, seeking instruction to determine if I should donate my kidney to my brother. I remember after a wonderful session walking into the Celestial Room in the Rexburg Temple. I sat down and began praying and seeking direction. I glanced over at the table next to me and noticed a set of scriptures on it. A feeling came to open the Bible, but I thought to myself "I didn't come here to read. I am seeking answers from the Lord." Again the thought came, "Open the Bible." Again, I told myself I didn't come here to read but to seek direction. Finally, as if the Lord was to speaking to me, I remember thinking, "I know. Open the Bible."

After going through this mental exercise, I realized the Lord was trying to tell me His advice through the scriptures. So I opened the Bible not knowing where to go and found myself in Proverbs 16. Verse 9 jumped out from the pages and into my soul: "A man's heart deviseth his way: but the Lord directeth his steps."[3]

I testify that this message was sent directly from the Lord. Remember: donating my kidney was something I wanted to do. In my heart of hearts, I wanted to do it. However, the message to me was that even though my heart was behind this, the Lord was directing my steps and all of this was not a coincidence. I got the prompting that He had created my brother's body, and He had created my body. He knew that one day I would need to give a kidney to my brother and created both of our bodies for the transplant to occur. In my opinion, that is why we were such a good match. I was created to be a good match; it was part of the Lord's plan for me.

On July 13, 2010, a very successful transplant occurred. It was a life-changing experience. I received deep lessons about the Savior, the Atonement, and His sacrifice that I could not have received any other way. It was something I needed and in the end I was the recipient of great blessings.

And as I thought about that, I remembered something that had happened when I was much younger. My little boy Lexon, fifteen years ago, was slithering around the floor in his diaper while I was lying on the couch. He came paddling across the floor (I was serving on President Lewis’s high council at the time, as a matter of fact) and crawled up to me. His hot little breath raked the side of my face, and then he stood up to put his cheek against mine. I pretended to be asleep, but he lifted one eyelid. He looked inside, and then he let it fall back. Just learning to talk, he cupped his little mouth against my ear and gently whispered, “Hello, in there.” I thought, isn’t it interesting that he would say, “Hello, in there”? He knew that I wasn’t really outside. I wasn’t in my hands or in my feet or even in my eyeballs. He knew that there was some inner dimension, a part of me that he was trying to reach—the same part I was trying to discover in the mirrors. You see, we all want to learn who we are and what we’re about.