Gospel Story Finder

Sister Amy A. Wright remembers a night several years ago when she was undergoing treatment for stage 4 ovarian cancer. She was in so much pain that she was past feeling. Despite her testimony and her faith in Heavenly Father, the Savior, and the plan of salvation, she was in need.
As a young child, Sister Wright had been taught by her mother and Primary leaders that when feeling afraid, lonely, or in need of the Spirit, she should sing a Primary song.
“But that’s for children,” she thought now. “Does that really apply to me?”
Then came the answer—and the song.
“I am a child of God too,” Sister Wright remembered. “So, in my mind, I started singing, ‘Heavenly Father, are you really there?’1
“That’s as far as I got. Every fiber of my being was enveloped with the love of God. It was tangible, which was strange because I couldn’t feel anything else. I knew He was there, that He knew exactly what I was going through, and that He was a loving God.”

For a final profile, I mention the mother of one noble missionary son. The family lived in the harsh climate of Star Valley, Wyoming. Summer there is brief and warm, while winter is long and cold. When a fine son of nineteen said farewell to home and family, he knew on whom the burden of work would fall. Father was ill and limited. To mother came the task of milking by hand the small dairy herd which sustained the family.
While serving as a mission president, I attended a seminar for all presidents held in Salt Lake City. My wife and I were privileged to devote an evening to meeting the parents of those missionaries who served with us. Some parents were wealthy and handsomely attired. They spoke in a gracious manner. Their faith was strong. Others were less affluent, of modest means and rather shy. They, too, were proud of their special missionary and prayed and sacrificed for his welfare.
Of all the parents whom I met that evening, the best remembered was that mother from Star Valley. As she took my hand in hers I felt the large calluses which revealed the manual labor she daily performed. Almost apologetically, she attempted to excuse her rough hands, her wind-whipped face. She whispered, “Tell our son Spencer that we love him, that we’re proud of him, and that we pray daily for him.”
Until that night I had never seen an angel nor heard an angel speak. I never again could make that statement, for that angel mother carried with her the Spirit of Christ. She, who with that same hand clasped in the hand of God had walked bravely into the valley of the shadow of death to bring to this mortal life her son, had indelibly impressed my life.

In March 1989 I was seriously ill in a hospital in Wismar, in what was then the German Democratic Republic. At the age of ninety-four, I felt completely helpless and had lost all desire to live. In my prayers, I constantly asked God to take me home.
Seeing my pain, my daughter visited me from Hamburg. On each visit, she tried to give me new hope, encouraging me to hold on. Eventually, she and my son-in-law checked me out of the hospital and brought me into their home.
I had always admired my daughter’s strength and confidence. When I asked about her strength, she said that it came from attending church every Sunday. She had joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints years before, but I had not felt any interest in her new religion. I didn’t want to abandon my Protestant church.
Now that I was in her home, my daughter began telling me about the Church and reading to me out of the scriptures. She also invited two lady missionaries to tell me more. I enjoyed the visits of these sweet sisters, and through our discussions I eventually gained a conviction that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is indeed the only true church.
So I let myself be baptized on 27 August 1989. There I was—ninety-four years old and born again!
The change I felt was immediate and wonderful. I knew that I would still have to suffer pain but that I could ask the Lord to help me stay faithful to the end. I also knew that our Heavenly Father knows when we will return to him. It was his will that I make the baptism covenant with him in this life.

A small note on the keyboard read, “This computer is reserved for Samuel at 5:00 a.m.” In response to his stake president’s challenge for the stake to index one million names, 14-year-old Samuel B. of Utah started getting up at 5:00 a.m. so that he could index before school. With one computer in the home and seven siblings with homework to do, Samuel had to sacrifice some sleep in order to get time on the computer.
But Samuel’s enthusiasm spread to the rest of his family. Soon his brother Nathan sacrificed basketball time and his sister Ivyllyn sacrificed reading time in order to index. “I’ve never been challenged as much by my children,” Samuel’s father says. “Until they got involved, I thought indexing was hard. They taught me that it could be easy and fun.” The following New Year’s Eve, the children were rushing to finish their yearly indexing goals before midnight.
Thousands of miles away, the Lanuza family in Guatemala caught the same enthusiasm. This family of nine—five children, Mom, Dad, Grandma, and Grandpa—share one computer. With the children using the computer for homework, Mom finishing her studies at the university, and Dad working, the computer is always in high demand, and each family member takes turns indexing. Together, the family indexed more than 37,000 records in 2011.

Illustration by Allen Garns
Several years ago, I received a voice mail on my phone: “Is this Dan Hobbs who lived in Idaho Falls and served a mission in Washington in 1974? This is Tom Janaky. I think you taught my mom and dad.”
I was surprised. I had served in Texas, USA, not Washington, but I recognized the name. I immediately thought of the book on my dresser—a 1948 edition of the Book of Mormon. I opened it to a handwritten message on the cover page: “May God be with you. God bless you! Frank and Virginia Janaky, 1974.” Suddenly my mind went back 35 years.
I was 21 and close to the end of my mission in Houston, Texas. My companion and I were tracting without much success when we knocked on a door that was answered by a man who warmly invited us in. He introduced himself as Frank Janaky and introduced us to his wife, Virginia. We visited with them briefly.
On subsequent visits, we taught them the gospel. They weren’t interested in baptism, but they were always friendly. During one discussion, I noticed an old copy of the Book of Mormon on a bookshelf. I can’t remember how it came to be in their possession, but I do remember mentioning how much I admired it.
Shortly before I returned home, my companion and I stopped by to say goodbye. Before we left, Frank signed the old Book of Mormon and gave it to me as a parting gift. He asked if I would sign his family Bible with my name and address. That was the last time I saw the Janakys, but I have always treasured their gift.
I returned the phone call that evening. Tom asked again if I had served a mission in Washington in 1974. I told him I had served in Texas and asked if his parents were Frank and Virginia.
He told me his parents had moved from Texas to Washington. He had assumed the missionaries who visited his parents were in Washington. He said he had found my name and address in the family Bible.
“I am calling you to tell you that my brother and I have both been baptized, partly because of how nice the missionaries were to our parents,” he said. “They were so fond of all the missionaries who contacted them through the years.”
Tom then informed me that they had both passed away.
“But we are now completing their temple work,” he said.
With tears in my eyes, I thanked Tom for his call.
For years I felt that my mission wasn’t much of a success. Sometimes I wondered if I had touched anyone’s life while serving. Tom’s phone call was a tender mercy from the Lord. I am grateful for my mission and the small part I played in bringing the gospel to the Janaky family.

Haroon sat under the lone acacia tree that spread out like a huge umbrella shielding him from the hot sun. He looked across the dreary Somali nomad settlement that was now his home.
Those round huts look a lot like the piles of grass I used to see donkeys bringing to market in Mogadishu, Somalia, he thought. His eyes held a faraway look. What’s Dad doing? he wondered. I wish I could be sitting with him at home, enjoying the sea breezes and eating Mom’s tasty bariis iyo maraq (rice with meat stew). Our house is big enough to live in. Here I must stoop to enter the aqal (huts). They’re just big enough for several of us to sleep in.
The land reaching to the horizon in every direction was as flat as the shallow winnowing basket he had watched Amina weave with strips of bark. Nearby there were a few low bushes around which the goats gathered like baby chicks around a mother hen. Farther away he could see the large herd of camels belonging to the settlement.
Everything was quite still as Haroon continued to think of home 800 kilometers to the south. Then he recalled the words of President Mohammed Siyad Barre. He had told the students before they were sent out to participate in this campaign to teach the people to read and write, “Haddaad taqaan bar, haddaadan aqoon baro (If you know, teach; if you don’t know, learn).”
Haroon had been sure he had much to teach the nomads. He was eager to take the skills of reading and writing the Somali language to the nomads who made up over 70 percent of the Somali people.
In August of 1974 the literacy campaign was taken to the nomads in the bush country. All schools, except technical schools and the senior classes, were closed for the year. Students fourteen years and older were sent into the bush to teach the nomads to read and write Somali.
Thousands of students were assigned to various sections of the nation. Haroon was one of these. He had stepped up to the official handing out the supplies. “Nabad miyaa,” he greeted.
“Haah waa nabad weeya,” came the cheerful answer. “Here is what you’ll need, Haroon: a blanket for cold bush nights; a folding blackboard that is used as box for the eraser, pens, pencils; a textbook; and a class register. Nabad gelyo. Llaah ha ku barakadeya (Go in peace with God’s blessing).”
Haroon began with great confidence, but he found the nomad chief was not interested in learning anything from a city youth who knew nothing about camels. Only the children and some women attended classes—sometimes.
Haroon longed for the comforts of his father’s house, especially plenty of water for showers. He longed for a chance to talk with friends, for most of the men here ignore him.
Just when he felt especially low in spirit, he met Osman, a former schoolmate, traveling with another group of nomads. Osman was bubbling with enthusiasm about the literacy campaign and all that he was learning from the nomads. “I even helped load the camels for this move,” he said with a grin. “I’d never touched a camel before. And do you know what?” Osman continued, stroking the flank of the animal near him. “This animal actually obeyed my command to get up after we had put on its load.”
After they parted, Haroon thought about Osman’s words and obvious enjoyment of his experience. I guess I’ve just been thinking of one part of the president’s challenge. I think I know so much the nomads should learn that I haven’t thought about learning anything from them. He softly repeated the president’s words, “Haddaad taqaan bar, haddaadan aquoon baro.” (If you know, teach; if you don’t know, learn.)
That night he moved closer to the men around the campfire. He was captivated by the stories Chief Abdi told of Somali heroes of the past. Just before he fell asleep, he thought, I ought to write those stories in Somali. But the next day there was no time for classes nor for story writing, for the clan had to move to find more pasture.
Haroon tried to be helpful. By the time they got settled in their new location, he was feeling as though he were almost a part of the group. However, he was also feeling sick with a fever. He did not complain, but when Chief Abdi heard about his sickness, he was concerned. He sent a young man to find a special plant that was used for a fever medicine. To Haroon he said, “Perhaps you want to return to your father. Life in the bush is hard.”
But Haroon was determined to remain, now as eager to learn as to teach. After his recovery, when the chief observed Haroon’s genuine desire to learn of the nomadic way of life, he became more friendly. He ordered his people to attend classes.
Sometimes in the afternoon when the youths gathered under the spreading branches of an acacia tree, the camels shared the shade. It was very different from the classroom in the city where Haroon had studied English. Here the blackboard hung on a tree. And the strong, acrid odor of camels hung on the dusty air.
Some of the nomads were keen students and helped others. Little children chanted the alphabet as they herded goats. They wrote the letters in the dust while goats nibbled whatever they could find.
One evening when the full moon shone over the settlement, Haroon read to the group a story the chief had told some weeks earlier. The men sat enthralled, realizing in a way for the first time that these marks could tell a familiar story.
Chief Abdi was thoughtful as Haroon finished. “That is good, Haroon,” he said. “If we write our history, our children will not forget. I must learn this writing also.”
Chief Abdi became an earnest pupil, and with his constant encouragement, others came more regularly.
Later in Mogadishu, there was a big celebration when Haroon and thousands of other boys and girls returned to the capital after eight months among the nomads. Crowds lined the streets to welcome them and to celebrate the completion of one more phase in the fight against illiteracy.
The schools opened and these youths returned to being students again. But there was a difference. The experiences in the bush had changed them and increased their appreciation and understanding about some of the problems their country was facing. Many now had a growing respect for the skills of the nomads who could survive in the harsh desert. They also had a greater appreciation for the Somali nomadic culture of their ancestors.
Six months later Haroon was walking home from school one day through the noisy city streets when he suddenly caught the strong, unmistakable scent of a herd of camels. Memories rushed into his mind. Then he saw the herd come around the corner at the end of the block. They jostled each other as cars and taxis honked their horns. A bushman was bringing a herd to the slaughterhouse. Haroon went to talk to the nomad and found he knew Chief Abdi’s clan very well.
The man handed Haroon a letter showing signs of being carried many days in the folds of the man’s skirt. Haroon opened it and read greetings from many in the clan. It was written by the hand of Chief Abdi himself. He thanked Haroon for teaching him and his people.
Haroon was happy to know that Abdi was also following the president’s words: “If you know, teach; if you don’t know, learn.”

The annual crop of sugar beets isn’t the only thing that makes Sugar City, Idaho, a sweet place to be. A small group of boys in the senior class at Salem High School in Sugar City, who are all priests in the Sugar City Idaho Stake, decided that they would make Valentine’s Day special for all the girls at their school.
The boys got a red rose for every woman and girl in the school and arranged with the principal to present them at a special Valentine’s Day assembly during the last hour of school on February 14. Not a single girl knew about the assembly ahead of time, since all the boys talked about their plans in code, calling it “Project A.”
It’s an idea that the girls fell in love with.

Illustrated by Mike Eagle
As a boy, Heber J. Grant helped his mother sweep, wash dishes, and keep house. He had never played sports like other boys his age.
Heber: Mother, I want to join a baseball team.
At first Heber had to play with boys much younger than he was because he couldn’t pitch very well. His teammates made fun of him.
Boy: Throw the ball over here, sissy!
Instead of getting upset, Heber set a goal.
Heber: Someday I will play on a championship team!
Heber shined men’s boots to earn money until he had saved up enough to buy his own baseball.
Then he practiced pitching his baseball against Bishop Edwin Woolley’s barn every day. The bishop was concerned.
Bishop: Your son is the laziest boy in the whole ward. He wastes his time throwing a ball at my barn for hours.
Sister Grant: Bishop, my son is practicing to achieve a goal.
Heber’s hard work finally paid off. He joined a team that went on to win the championship in the states of California, Colorado, and Wyoming.

My first glimpse of Craig Record was from a distance. He was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt, leather breastplate and kilt, sandals and shin guards (also of leather), a blue cape, and a tall, white-plumed helmet. In any other crowd, he would have stood out just a little. But he was on stage at the Hill Cumorah Pageant, portraying Moroni. I watched quietly with thousands of others as he received the gold plates from Mormon (played by his own father) and carried them up and off the stage and into the darkness.
All day long, I had been looking for him among the crowd of cast members. “Sure, I know Craig. But I haven’t seen him today.” Everyone knew him. Nobody had seen him recently. Now he had disappeared again. And after the performance? Gone in the crowd of cast. Finally, late that night, I reached him by phone and we arranged to meet.
The next day, Saturday, last day of the performance, I met the Record family under a tree at the foot of the hill. Craig wasn’t there yet, so his dad and I talked for a while.
I started with one of the deep, probing questions for which I am famous: “So, what is Craig like?”
His answer reads like it was equally deep. But his tone of voice told me he actually meant it: “Craig’s just a real neat guy.”
We talk a lot about sons respecting fathers, but here is a son who has earned his father’s respect. As Craig’s dad talked, I learned something about how and why. For example, when the missionaries call, Craig drops what he’s doing and goes out with them. Then there’s the fact that by applying himself last year in school, Craig raised his grade point average one whole point.
But mainly, Craig’s dad respects him for what he is, for what he has become at a fairly young age. “He’s faithful; he’s honest; he’s true. He has good goals in life.” Then, like any dad, he has to add: “Of course, he’s an everyday guy, too. We still have to tell him to pick his shoes up. And his room looks like a hurricane hit it. He’s far from perfect,” Brother Record laughs. “But if I were like him, at that same age, I think I could be pretty well pleased with myself.”
We had been sitting on a bench at the foot of the Hill Cumorah. Pageant cast members were constantly streaming by on the asphalt path, coming back from lunch, going to a devotional, etc. When Craig arrived, the midday sun had grown too warm, and the background noise was too distracting. So we moved off the path to a shady patch of lawn beneath a tree.
Craig is tall—at least he’s taller than my six-foot-two height by a couple of inches. And he loves basketball. “It’s high on my list of priorities,” he admits with some understatement. His skills, honed by countless hours of practice, have earned him a spot in the starting lineup of his high school team. And he has gained some local notice as a valuable player. But he also reminds himself that he lives in a small town where there is less competition. “It keeps me humble,” he grins.
Another challenge to Craig’s humility might be the role he has played in the Hill Cumorah Pageant for the past several years. As Moroni, he is not on the stage very long. But when he is, there are just Craig and his father (playing Mormon) on that huge stage. And finally, there is just Craig/Moroni, carrying the gold plates upward from level to level and into the darkness beyond the spotlights. It’s an important moment.
“How do you like being in the pageant with your father?” I wanted to know.
“It’s super; it’s just great. I can’t often look him in the eye while we are on stage because I am supposed to be looking toward the audience. But when I do look him in the eye, the emotion is there and it’s hard to hold back. He’s saying that tomorrow will be the last battle of the Nephites and they’ll be destroyed. And when my father says that, I feel it. It’s like it’s real. And then I have to go and do my part as best I can.
“I wasn’t very confident with the part at first. I was very nervous. But after four rehearsals, and getting my lines and actions down, everything just worked out from there. Now it’s great. I can go up there and think about the audience and try my hardest to share my testimony—Moroni’s testimony—with them.”
As we talked, I couldn’t help but look around. This really was the Hill Cumorah looming behind me. Across the highway, just beyond the field and woods, were the Joseph Smith farmhouse and the Sacred Grove. To the right, just down the highway, was Palmyra, where the Book of Mormon was first printed. What would it be like to grow up in such a place? Craig had mentioned sharing his testimony. Had living here since he was seven made it easier to gain that testimony?
The following day, Sunday, Craig and I met at the Sacred Grove. There the thick canopy of trees keeps the grove in almost total shade, and we found some relief from the early afternoon sun as we walked and talked. The damp forest earth muffled our footsteps. The stillness was broken only by the whine of insects, bird calls, the occasional low voices of other visitors, and our own quiet conversation.
“Craig, do you remember the first time you came to this place as a young boy?”
“No. But I remember that when I was young, this was mainly a place to catch frogs and to look at the signs telling the ages of some of the trees. It started to make an impact on me when I was about 12. And then, when I hit 14, I realized that Joseph Smith had been my age when he had the First Vision.”
But living in the so-called cradle of the Restoration does not guarantee a testimony. “Before I reached out and made the effort, this was just another historical place,” Craig explains. “Before, I was going to go on a mission. But I was going to do it because everyone wanted me to go. I mean, I sort of wanted to go. But last year really decided it.”
Last year. It was during pageant time. Craig, as a cast member, had been assigned to one of the study groups. And in that same group was a young woman from Utah named Jana.
“We became great friends; there was kind of an automatic bond. I couldn’t believe she had such a strong testimony. To see how much she loved the Church, well, it just blew me away.” That level of spirituality became Craig’s goal, not only for himself but for the kind of woman he wanted eventually to marry.
One day, the study group went to the Sacred Grove. When they got there, they split up, and Craig went into the grove by himself.
“I was sitting there alone on one of the benches, thinking about what had happened here, and just started to cry. The Spirit witnessed to me that it was all true.”
The experiences of that summer were a turning point for Craig. For one thing, he saw the kind of young woman he would someday want to marry. And he realized that he would need to do better in school to prepare to someday support a family. He had always been able to do pretty well in school if he applied himself. Now he applied himself and raised his grades one full point.
His feelings toward his family were also affected. “It made me draw closer to my younger brothers and sisters. I had always considered them brats. Now I try to understand them a little more,” Craig says.
Does he have to work hard to maintain his testimony? Craig’s emphatic yes almost seemed out of place in our quiet surroundings. “You have to be active in the Church. It helps so much to be around other young people with the same standards. Reading the Book of Mormon is really important too. But you can’t just read it and then stop and say, ‘Okay, now I’ve read it.’ “ Craig is currently into his third reading. “And of course there’s prayer. You have to make a habit of it. Even on the nights when you are so tired you think you could just pass right out.”
One more question: “Craig, how do you feel about your priesthood now?”
“I believe in it a lot more. I believe in its power. The priesthood does work.”
We continued our walk, back out of the grove and down the path across the meadow toward the Joseph Smith home and the parking lot. The route to Craig’s house would take us within sight of the Hill Cumorah. His words came back to mind: “Before I reached out and made the effort, this was just another historical place.”
True. And before young Joseph Smith reached out and made the effort, he was just another young man. He was a young man of great promise, true, but he had to reach out. And it was the reaching out and the Spirit’s sweet answering witness that made the difference, not the place. That’s why it doesn’t matter if it’s a young man in Bangor, Maine, or a young woman in Bangkok, Thailand. The process is the same. And the effect.
And Craig Record in Upstate New York? In some ways, this article was about him because he is not unique. He is an average guy who loves basketball and motorcycles. Who is a pretty good student when he applies himself. Craig is just an example of what happens when you reach out for a testimony and then act on that witness. He’s an example of how a fairly average guy can also be pretty outstanding in the ways that matter most.
Survival Tips
Wherever you live, live righteously.
Study the Book of Mormon.
Make a habit of prayer.
Gain a testimony and share it.
Associate with those who bring out the best in you.

Recently a group of highly respected Jewish leaders and rabbis visited Church facilities in the Salt Lake Valley, including Welfare Square, the Humanitarian Center, the Family History Library, and the Oquirrh Mountain Utah Temple open house. At the conclusion of their visit, one of the most eminent rabbis in America expressed his feelings about what he had seen and felt.
He cited concepts from Jewish thinkers rooted in the Talmud and pointed out that there are two very different reasons people engage in acts of kindness and generosity. Some people visit the sick, assist the poor, and serve their fellowmen because they believe it is the right thing to do and others will reciprocate and do the same for them when they are in need. He explained that while this is good, builds caring communities, and should be considered a noble reason, a higher motive is when we serve our fellowmen because that is what we believe God wants us to do.
He stated that as a result of his visit, he believed the Latter-day Saints undertake welfare and humanitarian efforts and the work of salvation in our temples in order to do what we believe God wants us to do.
The Jewish leaders I mentioned earlier were particularly impressed with the principle of fasting and then paying a generous fast offering. They thought it was remarkable that Church members across the world would fast monthly and then make a freewill offering for the benefit of those who are in need.
When the rabbis visited Welfare Square, they were touched to learn that even in difficult economic times, our members, concerned about the challenges experienced by many, continue to donate generously to help the poor and needy.

Ernest Sibanda met two Mormon missionaries on bicycles—Elder Black and Elder Kaelin—in December 1978. They left a Book of Mormon with him. Before their visit, Ernest had already spent many years studying religion. In fact, he had been a teacher for his church for nine years and a pastor for three years.
The night Ernest received his copy of the Book of Mormon he stayed up until 2:00 in the morning reading enthusiastically. He couldn’t wait to meet the missionaries the following day. Ernest told them that he had learned more from Joseph Smith about Jesus Christ than all the ministers he had ever met. Ernest was baptized shortly thereafter, followed by his wife and children a few weeks later.
Of his baptism day, he wrote, “I felt very free. I felt released from every evil. I found there was love in me for my family. I found there was love within me for the Church.”2
Ernest Sibanda proved to be a great strength to the Church. He served as Sunday School president, branch clerk, and second counselor in a branch presidency. He also fulfilled an assignment from the South Africa mission president to translate hymns from English to Shona.

I will begin with a true story. The characters are real. He was well-proportioned and, like King David, “ruddy, and withal of a beautiful countenance, and goodly to look to” (1 Sam. 16:12).

With him at his side was a lovely girl, slight of frame and beautiful of face and form. It was obvious that they loved one another, for as they sat together across the desk from me, he reached quietly for her hand and there were meaningful glances.

The melodious voice was hesitant and a bit choked with emotion as he introduced his girl friend, and there was pleading in their eyes. “We are in difficulty, Brother Kimball,” he said. “We have broken the law of chastity. We prayed and fasted and agonized and finally came to the conclusion that we must try to make adjustments.

“That junior prom date was a turning point. It started out a very special one. But as I see it now, it turned out to be a tragic one, the beginning of our troubles. When I saw her coming downstairs that night, I thought no girl was ever so beautiful and so sweet. We danced through the evening; and then when we sat in the car, long and silently afterward, my thoughts became unruly as we became more and more intimate.

“Neither of us dreamed what was happening to us,” he continued, “but all the elements were there to break down resistance. We did not notice time—the hours passed. The simple kisses we had often exchanged gradually developed into petting. We stopped at that. But there were other nights—the bars were down. We loved each other so much that we convinced ourselves that it was not so wrong merely to pet since we sort of belonged to one another anyway. Where we ended one night became the starting point for the next night, and we continued on and on, until finally it happened—almost as though we could not control ourselves—we had intercourse. We had even talked about it and agreed that whatever else we did we would not go that far. And then when it was late—so late—so everlastingly late—we woke up to the meaning of what we had done.”

“Can we be forgiven, Brother Kimball?” the young couple asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “the Lord and his church can and will forgive, but not easily. The way of the transgressor is hard. It always has been and it always will be. The Lord said: ‘I tell thee, thou shalt not depart thence, till thou hast paid the very last mite’” (Luke 12:59).

But I went on to tell them that in his goodness he provided for us a way to forgiveness. One may do as he pleases, but he cannot evade responsibility. He may break laws, but he cannot avoid penalties. One gets by with nothing. God is just. Paul said, “Be not deceived; God is not mocked; for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap” (Gal. 6:7).

A coach of the East St. Louis, Illinois, High School took a group of young men and turned them into champions. A St. Louis Post-Dispatch sports editor wrote:
“This is a story Hollywood wouldn’t believe: kids growing up in America’s biggest urban disaster, slugging it out, year after year. No money, no fancy facilities, just a coach who still believes pride and hard work can mean something.”
The coach told his players, “Life isn’t always fair, but we can still expect excellence from ourselves.”
He insisted on hard work from all of his players, the stars included. His team won more than many championships. (See Eugene H. Methrin, “The Stuff of Champions,” Reader’s Digest, Oct. 1991, p. 83.)

As the wagon drew near to Bountiful, … we came to the site of a log house with a dirt roof on one part of it and another part adjoining on the south that had been built up to the square with logs unchinked without a roof, and this, my mother turned to explain to me, was her home. But soon mother and children climbed out of the wagon and went into the house. …

No one was at home when the little group entered, much to the disappointment of the mother as to the children, for, of course, we were anxious to meet our other sister, “Annie,” who was remembered lovingly by us. Our mother seemed annoyed, for she had expected her other daughter at home, perhaps with supper ready. It was only a short time, however, until “Sister Annie” came in and what a charming thing she was—bright, blue-eyed, fine long hair combed back from her face. Everything about her seemed so perfectly clean and wholesome, and to my eyes she was beautiful too, and spritely. She seemed to be everywhere about the house at once, and the meal that our mother had expected was soon under way. …

… What was left of the day was the wonderful meal prepared by Annie. Not much variety of food, for our mother was desperately poor, but what there was, was fit for princes—just white light buttermilk biscuits with butter, clear water from the creek, and dark, sweet, sticky fluid called “Molasses.” It was heartily enjoyed, Mary and me furnishing the principle appetites. How long the talk of the reunion lasted is not remembered, but it must have been far into the night. With the awakening of the next day, my life in Utah had begun.

When my grandma passed away, I felt really sad about not being with her anymore. It was hard to not have her here.
I was attending a church at the time, but I felt that I was missing something. I wanted to know more about where my grandma would go after this life. One day I decided to pray and ask God for help.
I received an answer a couple of days later when I met two missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In our first meeting, they taught me that Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, have a plan of happiness for each of us and that death is not permanent. I decided to keep meeting with the missionaries, and a few weeks later I made the decision to be baptized. A month later my mom and my brother were baptized too.
Now I’m almost 17 years old, and I am so excited to serve a mission one day and work to bring people closer to Christ—just as the missionaries did for me.
Being apart from my grandma is hard. But knowing that families can be together forever because of Jesus Christ and the work done in temples brings me peace and joy!
Lucas R., São Paulo, Brazil

Many years ago when at the age of 12 I was ordained a deacon, my father, who was president of our stake, took me to my first stake priesthood meeting. … He walked up to the stand, and I sat on the back row, feeling a little alone and uncomfortable in that hall filled with strong men who had been ordained to the priesthood of God. The meeting was called to order, the opening song was announced, and—as was then the custom—we all stood to sing. There were perhaps as many as 400 there. Together these men lifted their strong voices, … all singing these words with a great spirit of conviction and testimony:
Praise to the man who communed with Jehovah!
Jesus anointed that Prophet and Seer.
Blessed to open the last dispensation,
Kings shall extol him, and nations revere.
(“Praise to the Man,” Hymns, no. 27.)
They were singing of the Prophet Joseph Smith, and as they did so there came into my heart a great surge of love for and belief in the mighty Prophet of this dispensation. In my childhood I had been taught much of him in meetings and classes in our ward as well as in our home; but my experience in that stake priesthood meeting was different. I knew then, by the power of the Holy Ghost, that Joseph Smith was indeed a prophet of God.1

Portimao is the site of the first LDS chapel constructed in Portugal. The city also has its pioneer members, like the family of Filomena Simao. Sister Simao was a teenager when her family heard the gospel. “I could feel the Spirit so strongly” when the missionaries were in their home, she says. She readily accepted the principle of modern revelation, because she knew a loving Heavenly Father would provide the truth to his children in all time periods.
There was some opposition from a few of her peers after she was baptized, but she retained many friendships by continuing to love others whether they accepted the gospel or not. Later, a full-time mission in England provided her with a well of spiritual experiences from which she still draws.

I recall an experience with a zone leader in England who came to me during the lunch break at zone conference. He said, “We are teaching a lady who is blind and nearly deaf. She wants to know if the Book of Mormon is true. What shall we do?” I did not have an answer at that moment, but I said, “I will let you know after our conference.” During the afternoon session I had the distinct impression come as to how to help her. After the meeting I said to the zone leader, “Have this sister hold her copy of the Book of Mormon and turn its pages very slowly. When she has done this, have her ask if it is true.” Though she could not read nor hear the words, she felt the spirit and power of the Book of Mormon, and it changed her life.

I was a missionary in Seoul, Korea, and had just been transferred to a new area. The bustling city of millions of people was still overwhelming, and my Korean was far from fluent, but I knew I was where the Lord wanted me to be.
One day my companion and I had the blessing of meeting a member who hadn’t attended church for years. Her father had recently passed away, and she was in great need of spiritual and emotional comfort. We visited her at home, but I was not able to understand much of the conversation.
One night at about 3:00 a.m. our telephone rang. When I answered the phone, I couldn’t understand what the woman was saying at first. She was upset, but I had no idea how to help or what to say.
I began to pray silently. As I prayed I recognized the woman’s voice and realized it was the less-active sister we had recently met. Though I couldn’t completely understand her, I felt she was lonely and needed to know she was loved. But how could I tell her? I couldn’t find the words in English, much less in Korean.
Suddenly I remembered that I had memorized the words to the hymn “I Am a Child of God” (Hymns, no. 301) in Korean. After the sister stopped speaking, I slowly asked if we could sing the hymn together. She said yes. As we sang I felt a wonderful feeling of peace and comfort. It was as if Heavenly Father were holding both of us, reminding us that He loved us and would always be there when we needed Him.
After we finished singing, the sister told me that she would be all right, and we said good night. I walked back into the bedroom, amazed at the Spirit that still lingered in my heart. I was so grateful to know that when a child of God calls for help on a dark night, Father in Heaven will always be there to answer.
Diantha Smith, Utah, USA

As a boy of about 10, I didn’t feel like my prayers were really being answered. Finally I had enough courage to ask my father about it, and he explained that prayer was like a parachute that a pilot puts on when he flies an airplane. He doesn’t go up expecting to need to jump out of his airplane and use his parachute, but he puts it on every time so that when it’s really needed, he has it.
That was enough to help me in my young mind to continue my prayers and charge my spiritual battery. Also, as I watched my father use his priesthood, I gained courage and faith that I could someday do similar things. As time went on, I had experiences that taught me this principle was true. It has been important to continually charge that battery.