Gospel Story Finder

The brothers started attending the meetings of El Dorado Ward, Florencio Varela Argentina Stake. On 29 September 1999, with their parents’ permission, Matías and Elías were baptized.
They continued to learn just how spiritually rich they could become. Two weeks after his baptism, for example, Matías received the Aaronic Priesthood and was ordained a deacon. “I immediately felt that I had received power from heaven,” he says. He also felt the influence of the Holy Ghost, a gift he had received when he was confirmed a member of the Church.
“I had been tempted to start wearing an earring,” he says. “Then I received a booklet that told me how to dress for church and activities. After I read that, I repented. My mother asked me if I was going to put the earring in again. I told her I didn’t feel right about wearing it anymore. That was it. I felt strength in being able to overcome temptation. I felt the Spirit whispering to me and telling me to do what was right.”

A lovely young lady told the following story at a stake conference. She said, “I am a convert from upstate New York. My parents wanted their children to have eternal marriages. There were no Latter-day Saint members to marry in our little branch, so our family moved to Utah.
“Eventually I found myself a husband. He was the president of the local motorcycle club and wore a black leather jacket and motorcycle boots. We rode on motorcycles together—perhaps not what my mother had hoped, but by that time I had wandered from the Church.
“We moved into a house. Often our friends would gather there. I’m afraid our neighbors were quite uncomfortable with us. At least one neighbor took her children into her house when we were roaming about.
“But do you know what our neighbors did? They mowed our lawn because we didn’t have a mower. They brought flowers when one of us was sick, and quite often they brought food and fixed things up. Our little daughter was included in the activities of the other children in the neighborhood and was even given a party on her birthday. When we tried to thank our neighbors, they just said, ‘Well, we all like to help each other.’ They made us feel welcome there.
“About ten months later, we traded our black leather jackets and motorcycle boots for the white clothing and slippers of the temple. As we knelt across the altar from each other and looked around that room, there were our neighbors, those who had been mowing our lawn and making things better for us.”

Recently, three fellow priesthood holders and I were in the home of a mother who was the head of the household and caring for at least four children. After a brief visit, one of my colleagues asked this matriarch to share her favourite hymn. Without hesitation she responded with “Come, Ye Children of the Lord”. They had not attended church for years, and we asked if we could sing that hymn for the family. Her face lit up as we sang, and the room reverberated with the beautiful words of the hymn. There were smiles on every face as the Spirit of the Lord filled the room. It was easy for us to invite this wonderful family back to church and share with them how our Savior wants them to return.

Melusi and the two families we visited are once again actively participating in church. Elder Mervyn B. Arnold of the Seventy said, “As we go to the rescue, God gives us power, encouragement, and blessings.”1 I have learned that we will receive help and inspiration when we are on the Lord’s errand. We surely do not go alone when we go to rescue His children. He has indeed graven us upon the palms of His hands and will therefore never forget any of His children.

Shonesty came into the family in a very special way, About a year before she was born, Brother Johnson had a strong feeling while in the temple that there was to be a little girl in the family, He felt so sure that he went home and wrote about her in his journal. When he and Sister Johnson heard that Shonesty was available for adoption, they knew that she was the girl. She was sealed to them in December 1985 in the Atlanta Georgia Temple, a wonderful Christmas gift for the whole family.

When I was growing up in Florida, USA, temptations to break the commandments and Church standards were everywhere. My Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps (JROTC) class was no exception. Foul language was used a lot, and there were many parties outside of school with alcohol and drugs. I was invited to many of these parties, but I never went, so people eventually stopped inviting me. By not attending these parties, I started to lose popularity, but I thought, “So what?” That didn’t really matter to me.
At the end of my third year, our instructors were deciding who would be the senior cadet command for the next year. I was in the running for one of the three spots, but it was given to someone else because the instructors knew him better because he went to those parties.
At the end of my senior year our senior instructor approached me and told me that if he had known how the year would turn out, he would have made me senior cadet command instead. He said it was because of my hard work, obedience, and dedication. This gave me great confidence to keep doing what was right, and it helped me to face what lay ahead.

One morning Elder L. Tom Perry’s talk “Let Him Do It with Simplicity” felt especially pertinent to my circumstances.2 Elder Perry applied the principles taught by Henry David Thoreau in Walden to simplifying our lives by fueling spirituality and obtaining relief from the stress of the world. Because of the demands of my schooling, family outings for us are precious and rare. One summer prior to Elder Perry’s address, however, we visited Walden Pond, spending a reflective moment inside a re-creation of Thoreau’s cabin. We made the most of that afternoon by wading in Walden Pond and building sand castles on the beach. After returning home, our family thanked Heavenly Father for His creations that we had enjoyed together.
Months later as I trudged down snow-covered sidewalks, I recalled that sweet summer day. As a result of that experience and Elder Perry’s message, I more clearly understood how spending time with my family is crucial to living a deliberate gospel-centered life.

Q. So the gospel helps you with your composing?
A. Musicians don’t just write notes; we write feelings. And there aren’t any deeper or more spiritual feelings than what is inspired by the gospel. Since I joined the Church after my senior year in high school, everything has become more meaningful to me.
Plus the gospel gives me balance in my life. As important as music is, it’s not the most important thing. Once upon a time, the glitz and glamour of the business got to me, and I started worshipping the wrong things. I began to be depressed all the time and didn’t do a good job in my music. But I went through a reawakening and was able to put things back into perspective.
Q. What caused your reawakening?
A. A number of things, but part of it was my family. I have two daughters, and both were born with spina bifida, which basically means they’re paralyzed from the knees down. When Kristin was born nine years ago, she helped me realize some very important things. She was happy. I became aware that although she’d probably never perform great physical feats, she had everything she needed to be happy in this life and to return to our Heavenly Father. So I asked myself, “What are you doing, Brother Bestor? Why are you going for the fame and fortune of the world? You don’t need all that.”

Nothing is more inspiring than to see youth praise God by honoring him on his holy day. Let me recount the story of one of them to you. Eric Liddell had been raised in China by missionary parents. When he returned to Scotland for his education, he discovered while playing rugby that he was fast on his feet. Those who watched him run called it sheer artistry. He was a wild runner, technically imperfect, but with exultant, liquid speed.
As Liddell continued to run, he began to receive honors. Friends pushed him to train for the Olympics, but his devoutly religious sister, Jennie, thought it would turn his attention from God. She knew he couldn’t be half-hearted about anything and she said, “Be honest with me. How much time will you have left for God?”
But Liddell’s father advised him differently. “Run in His name … and let the world stand back in wonder.”
And wonder it did. Liddell became known as the “Flying Scotsman,” making the 1924 British Olympic team with ease. On the way to Paris for the games, however, a reporter tossed him a question that startled Liddell. “What about Sunday? Do you think you can beat the Yanks?”
Liddell had not known that the heat for the 100-meter race he was scheduled to run in was on Sunday. The news made him a quiet passenger, and his sister’s words echoed in his mind: “Your mind’s not with us anymore, Eric.” It was heartbreakingly clear to him what he had to do. He could not run in the race, even if it meant undoing all the years of training, even if it meant disappointing his teammates.
They took the news badly, and Lord Birkenhead, who was leading the group, took it worse. “Won’t run?” he bellowed and turned red. He simply couldn’t understand.
Liddell responded, “I’m not sure that I understand. … I’ve run, driven myself, and run and run again for three whole years just to be on this ship. I gave up rugby, my work has suffered, I’ve even deeply hurt someone I hold very dear. Because, I told myself, if I won, I would win for God—it was his will. And now I find myself sitting here destroying it all, with a couple of words. But I have to. To run would be against God’s law.”
The pressure on Liddell didn’t end there. In Paris, he was called into a special meeting with Lord Birkenhead and the Prince of Wales himself. Had he no allegiance to king and country? “There are times,” said the Prince, “when we are asked to make sacrifices in the name of that loyalty. Without them, our allegiance is worthless. As I see it, for you this is such a time.”
Liddell was uncomfortable, but unmoved, and the tense situation was only resolved when a teammate entered the room and offered to give up his spot on a 400-meter race on Thursday so that Liddell could still run.
That Sunday at church, Liddell read from Isaiah 40:31. [Isa. 40:31] It was not an easy day for him, for he longed to be running for the gold, but he told the congregation what he told himself: “But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”
Later that week at the 400-meter race, he had his chance to take the Lord at his word. As the runners lined up at their marks, rumors circulated among the crowd that Liddell would never win this race. He was a sprinter, fast in the short haul, but could he take this quarter-mile distance? But as he stood at the line, Liddell received a boost that the crowd didn’t know. One of the top runners on the American team handed him a folded piece of paper that read, “In the Old Book, it says, ‘He that honors me, I will honor.’”
Liddell won that race that day. He got his gold. In doing so, those who watched believed he had passed the supreme test. He had found the courage to throw his head back, push his heart until it almost burst, and cross the finish line ahead of all contenders. But that was not really the supreme test. The supreme test he had passed on the boat on the way to France, in the meeting with the Prince of Wales, and again that Sunday while he watched the race he might have run. The supreme test in any life is whether one can stick to his highest ideals when glory or expedience pressures us away from them. (Excerpted from W. J. Weatherby, Chariots of Fire, Dell/Quicksilver, pp. 50–165.)

When I became a priest in the Windsor Ward, London Ontario Stake, our Young Men’s president, Brother Sandor, encouraged us to pass the sacrament and perform baptisms as a way to exercise our priesthood. In one Sunday lesson, he also taught us about giving blessings. He said, “You must be bold enough to say what the Spirit prompts you to say, but be humble enough not to make up your own words!”
Not long after that lesson, a young convert in our ward was sustained as a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, and Brother Sandor asked me to be the “voice” in the ordination. I was scared. I had never laid my hands on anybody’s head before, and I felt so inadequate. But then the Spirit reassured me that it would be fine for me to do it, and I was reminded of what my Young Men’s president had taught us.
The young man to be ordained sat down in the chair, and I stood directly behind him. When we were all ready Brother Sandor guided me through the ordinance prayer and I repeated every word he said. After we had finished the ordination and said, “… and we wish to pronounce a blessing on your head at this time …” Brother Sandor looked at me and indicated that I was on my own.
At that point, the priesthood entirely changed its meaning for me. It was no longer just a title, but the actual authority to act in God’s name, and I was giving that authority to someone else. I paused and waited for the Spirit to whisper to me what I was to say. It is difficult for me to describe the feelings I had that day during the blessing, but I can say that I now have a stronger testimony that the power of the priesthood is real.

Working with youth can be difficult. How is your relationship with the young people of the Church?
Our youth in Russia seem to lack initiative, self-esteem, and confidence in social situations. We must develop all of these things in our youth and be able to reach their hearts. Going on picnics together, I felt a mutual understanding grow, and we became friends. The same thing happened when I began to invite youth from all the six St. Petersburg branches. Now our youth gladly come out to activities.

May I share a brief but painful moment from my own inadequate efforts as a father?
Early in our married life my young family and I were laboring through graduate school at a university in New England. Pat was the Relief Society president in our ward, and I was serving in our stake presidency. I was going to school full-time and teaching half-time. We had two small children then, with little money and lots of pressures. In fact, our life was about like yours.
One evening I came home from long hours at school, feeling the proverbial weight of the world on my shoulders. Everything seemed to be especially demanding and discouraging and dark. I wondered if the dawn would ever come. Then, as I walked into our small student apartment, there was an unusual silence in the room.
“What’s the trouble?” I asked.
“Matthew has something he wants to tell you,” Pat said.
“Matt, what do you have to tell me?” He was quietly playing with his toys in the corner of the room, trying very hard not to hear me. “Matt,” I said a little louder, “do you have something to tell me?”
He stopped playing, but for a moment didn’t look up. Then these two enormous, tear-filled brown eyes turned toward me, and with the pain only a five-year-old can know, he said, “I didn’t mind Mommy tonight, and I spoke back to her.” With that he burst into tears, and his entire little body shook with grief. A childish indiscretion had been noted, a painful confession had been offered, the growth of a five-year-old was continuing, and loving reconciliation could have been wonderfully underway.
Everything might have been just terrific—except for me. If you can imagine such an idiotic thing, I lost my temper. It wasn’t that I lost it with Matt—it was with a hundred and one other things on my mind; but he didn’t know that, and I wasn’t disciplined enough to admit it. He got the whole load of bricks.
I told him how disappointed I was and how much more I thought I could have expected from him. I sounded like the parental pygmy I was. Then I did what I had never done before in his life—I told him that he was to go straight to bed and that I would not be in to say his prayers with him or to tell him a bedtime story. Muffling his sobs, he obediently went to his bedside, where he knelt—alone—to say his prayers. Then he stained his little pillow with tears his father should have been wiping away.
If you think the silence upon my arrival was heavy, you should have felt it now. Pat did not say a word. She didn’t have to. I felt terrible!
Later, as we knelt by our own bed, my feeble prayer for blessings upon my family fell back on my ears with a horrible, hollow ring. I wanted to get up off my knees right then and go to Matt and ask his forgiveness, but he was long since peacefully asleep.
My relief was not so soon coming; but finally I fell asleep and began to dream, which I seldom do. I dreamed Matt and I were packing two cars for a move. For some reason his mother and baby sister were not present. As we finished I turned to him and said, “Okay, Matt, you drive one car and I’ll drive the other.”
This five-year-old very obediently crawled up on the seat and tried to grasp the massive steering wheel. I walked over to the other car and started the motor. As I began to pull away, I looked to see how my son was doing. He was trying—oh, how he was trying. He tried to reach the pedals, but he couldn’t. He was also turning knobs and pushing buttons, trying to start the motor. He could scarcely be seen over the dashboard, but there staring out at me again were those same immense, tear-filled, beautiful brown eyes. As I pulled away, he cried out, “Daddy, don’t leave me. I don’t know how to do it. I am too little.” And I drove away.
A short time later, driving down that desert road in my dream, I suddenly realized in one stark, horrifying moment what I had done. I slammed my car to a stop, threw open the door, and started to run as fast as I could. I left car, keys, belongings, and all—and I ran. The pavement was so hot it burned my feet, and tears blinded my straining effort to see this child somewhere on the horizon. I kept running, praying, pleading to be forgiven and to find my boy safe and secure.
As I rounded a curve nearly ready to drop from physical and emotional exhaustion, I saw the unfamiliar car I had left Matt to drive. It was pulled carefully off to the side of the road, and he was laughing and playing nearby. An older man was with him, playing and responding to his games. Matt saw me and cried out something like, “Hi, Dad. We’re having fun.” Obviously he had already forgiven and forgotten my terrible transgression against him.
But I dreaded the older man’s gaze, which followed my every move. I tried to say “Thank you,” but his eyes were filled with sorrow and disappointment. I muttered an awkward apology and the stranger said simply, “You should not have left him alone to do this difficult thing. It would not have been asked of you.”
With that, the dream ended, and I shot upright in bed. My pillow was now stained, whether with perspiration or tears I do not know. I threw off the covers and ran to the little metal camp cot that was my son’s bed. There on my knees and through my tears I cradled him in my arms and spoke to him while he slept. I told him that every dad makes mistakes but that they don’t mean to. I told him it wasn’t his fault I had had a bad day. I told him that when boys are five or fifteen, dads sometimes forget and think they are fifty. I told him that I wanted him to be a small boy for a long, long time, because all too soon he would grow up and be a man and wouldn’t be playing on the floor with his toys when I came home. I told him that I loved him and his mother and his sister more than anything in the world and that whatever challenges we had in life we would face them together. I told him that never again would I withhold my affection or my forgiveness from him, and never, I prayed, would he withhold them from me. I told him I was honored to be his father and that I would try with all my heart to be worthy of such a great responsibility.

As a high school student, I determined that I would act on this advice and try to obtain my own testimony of the gospel. I wanted to know that it was true. So I carefully read the Book of Mormon, underlining as I went, making notes about memorable passages. When I finished I felt a great sense of anticipation about Moroni’s promise. I knelt down and prayed, trying to learn for myself whether this book was true or not. Although I prayed off and on for several weeks with what I thought was “real intent” and determination, I failed to recognize an answer. When my friends stood in fast meeting to express their testimonies, my parents were disappointed that I did not. I told them that I was trying, but that a testimony had just not come to me yet. I could not be dishonest. I worried and wondered what I was doing wrong. Perhaps my life was not good enough for the Lord to recognize my question—or maybe there was something wrong with the way I was praying—or perhaps I just didn’t know how to recognize an answer when it came.
The prayer and study went on for two more years, during which I read the Book of Mormon a second time, and then my bishop asked me to go on a mission. On one hand, I was elated, because I had always wanted to serve a mission; but on the other hand, I was very worried, because my testimony had not been granted. How would I convince others if I could not speak with conviction? My brother was going on a mission at the same time, and my parents, who were of very modest means, pledged themselves to our financial support.
When I went for my interview with the stake president, he surprised me by suggesting that I remain at home until my older brother returned—to lessen the financial burden on my parents. Greatly disappointed, I returned home to relay this sad advice to my father, normally a quiet, soft-spoken man. My father was distressed. He expressed strongly held feelings that I should go at the same time as my brother, and that the Lord would help us to meet the financial obligation. He put on his coat and announced that he was going to talk with the stake president. “You are going on a mission—and you are going now!” he said with conviction I had never seen in him before. Before he left, he wanted us all to kneel in family prayer. My father uttered a simple, short prayer, expressing thanks for blessings, and asking for help in his talk with the stake president and for help for his sons as they prepared to leave for the mission field.
As I listened with faith to that prayer and tried to look into the future, I was spiritually moved beyond anything I can describe. At that instant, I received a testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel. I was overcome with a feeling of happiness and excitement, as if to say that my father would be successful in his own little mission, which he was. But I also knew absolutely that I would be able to go on a mission (as I did to New Zealand) and testify with honesty and certainty to anyone who would listen to me. It was an enormously satisfying experience. My previous anxieties about being a missionary without the conviction of a testimony were gone. The Lord had answered my prayers—although in a way that I had not expected. As for my parents—they successfully supported their two sons as missionaries for two years and prospered financially as they had never done before.

I suppose I was about seven years old when Mom told me that Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers. Maybe she had told me earlier, but I don’t remember that.
“So, if I really want something, and if I’m a really good boy, and I ask for it—Heavenly Father will give it to me?”
“That’s right, son. If your faith is very strong, and if it’s for your own good, he’ll give it to you.”
That hot summer night in 1944 I lay in bed thinking about what I wanted most from Heavenly Father. Another brother? Maybe. A new baseball? I’d probably get one for my birthday anyway. How about an end to the war and my dad coming home? Yes. But Mom was working hard on that one with her prayers.
And then it came to me—the one single, most critical, most desirable, most longed for, most important thing in all the world to my seven-year-old heart: I wanted to fly … like a bird.
And why not? Birds flew. Bats flew. Kites and paper airplanes and bugs and butterflies flew. Why not me?
How the other kids would envy me! How my teacher would gasp with astonishment and admiration! And wouldn’t my friends Joey Hirschberger and Jimmy Johnson be envious?
Taking care not to wake my little brother, Lynn, I slid out of bed and dropped to my knees. I folded my arms (like Mom did), and squeezed my eyes shut. Then I clenched my teeth (a sure sign of great faith, I felt), reflected the intensity of the moment in my screwed tight face, and uttered my first all-alone-by-myself, out-loud prayer:
“Heavenly Father, I want to fly. I really, really, really want to fly. Won’t you please bless me so that I can fly? I’ll be a really good boy if you’ll help me to fly. Honest. Amen.”
Then I got off my knees, pulled my chair to the center of the darkened room, and climbed up on the chair. Extending my arms out wide, I whispered it again: “Please, Heavenly Father, help me to fly. Mom said you could do it. I know you can do it.”
With this, I began to flap my arms furiously. Up and down, up and down, faster, faster.
You can probably guess what happened: My arms got tired.
I sat down and thought about it. Maybe I was missing something important. Maybe what I needed was to jump off the chair while I flapped my arms.
I climbed back up on the chair. This time I flapped my arms really hard and then jumped off the chair, upward, outward.
And downward. Thump! Soon Mother appeared at the door, wondering what had caused all the noise.
The next day I pondered the problem until I thought I had it worked out: Heavenly Father must be testing my faith. Maybe the secret was to pray for several nights in a row and to grit my teeth harder and to screw up my face tighter while I prayed.
I tried it. Each night for a week I prayed and prayed, my faith and enthusiasm growing. By Sunday night I was sure that I was ready.
Back up on the chair, arms extended, I once more whispered my plea to the Lord, absolutely sure that he would hear and answer my prayer and allow me to fly.
My arms began to flap up and down, faster, faster. I jumped upward and outward.
And downward. Thump! Again I was questioned about the loud thump from the upstairs bedroom.
What was missing? I had gritted my teeth and twisted my face into a grimace. Why hadn’t it worked? Why hadn’t I soared from the chair and flapped around the room? I lay in bed for a long time thinking, wondering.
The next day I was in the back yard of the house when I heard Mom calling me.
Blackberries. I had promised to pick the berries from the huge wild blackberry bush behind the garage. But it was hot, and I didn’t feel like fighting the vicious brambles and thorns in August to make sure we would have jam next January.
Just for a moment, I pretended I hadn’t heard her. That’s when the inspiration came: How could I expect the Lord to give me flight if I couldn’t give Mom a few minutes for an errand?
From that moment, I became a fanatic errand boy. I not only picked blackberries, I chopped firewood. I filled the wood box. I swept the porch. I set the table and went to the store. And then I picked more blackberries until my arms and hands were scratched and bleeding from the thorns.
I wore Mom out with demands for more and more errands. How could the Lord deny me now? I had prayed with all my might for two weeks, had exercised enormous faith, had filled my days with good works and liter buckets of blackberries. Surely, I would fly now!
That night I mentioned all of this to the Lord in my prayer, then climbed back onto the chair in my darkened bedroom. This time. … This time. … This time it will work!
It didn’t work. The upward, outward curve again continued into the downward curve, ending in the by-now-familiar thump.
I couldn’t understand it. For all my prayers and all my faith and all my good works, I remained as earthbound as Joey and Jimmy. What could be missing?
Without ever mentioning my desire to fly, I put the problem of unanswered prayers to my Sunday School teacher. What followed was a lesson on how to pray and how Heavenly Father answers prayers. And there was the answer. I marveled that I had missed it: I had failed to trust utterly and completely in the Lord.
Up until now, I had jumped off a low chair—a chair low enough that if the flapping didn’t work, I at least wouldn’t break my neck. The Lord must be waiting for me to show real faith by jumping off of something high enough that failure would hurt. That would prove my faith!
And beyond that, I had always made my attempts in the privacy of a darkened bedroom. Next time I would prove real faith by jumping off of something really high—and with an audience and in open daylight.
All the next week I prepared. The faith, the prayers, the endless helpfulness to Mom continued. By Saturday afternoon I was ready.
I explained my project to Lynn and Joey Hirschberger and Jimmy Johnson. I explained about faith and good works. I explained about the kind of prayers where you grit your teeth and twist your face into a grimace. I explained about having to risk yourself to show that you trust the Lord absolutely.
And then I started up the ladder to the roof of the garage. Lynn and Jimmy and Joey remained on the ground watching and wondering.
Joey said he thought I was crazy. But what did Joey know about faith and works and prayers?
And now I was on the roof of the garage, looking down. It seemed farther from the roof to the ground than it had appeared the other way around.
Directly below me was the terrible blackberry bush. It looked higher and wider than it ever had from the ground. Great long brambles covered with vicious thorns reached up almost to where I stood.
I had to turn away the doubting thought: “What if it doesn’t work? What if I don’t fly? What if I land in the blackberry bush?” But I mustn’t doubt! The entire effort might fail if I doubted!
For doubt is the opposite of faith. Then, with simple logic, I decided that if I removed my only protection from the awful blackberry thorns it would prove my absolute, unshakable faith.
I took off my shirt. Joey said he thought that was the stupidest thing he’d ever seen, and he was going to tell my mom.
I told Joey to sit down and be quiet, but he left to tell Mom anyway. Now I had to hurry!
I closed my eyes and reminded the Lord about how he answers prayers of faith and how if someone wants something badly enough and is a good boy and helps his mom and goes to Sunday School, his prayers will be answered.
That done, I began to flap my arms, faster and faster. Then, eyes still closed tight, I jumped upward and outward from the roof of the garage—upward and outward over a huge wild blackberry bush—with no shirt on.
Before I opened my eyes, I knew I was lying on my back on the kitchen table. Doctor Nichols was just leaving, saying something about how you couldn’t possibly break a bone jumping into an overgrown “pillow”—even if it were covered with thorns. I could feel the cool cloth as Mother continued washing the blood from my dozens of scratches and cuts.
After Doctor Nichols left, Mom chased out my wide-eyed friends, and I opened my eyes. I saw that my mother’s arms and hands and face were covered with dozens of scratches—and realized what she had done to rescue me.
She smiled her special tender smile and held me close in her arms. “For injuries sustained in battle, I award you the purple heart,” she said quietly, “and maybe a bronze star for bravery.”
“Do you have a medal for silliness?” I asked. “I feel so stupid!”
“I suppose we all feel that way sometimes,” Mother replied. “We make mistakes, we learn from them, and then we go on with our lives.”
There was a long pause before I asked the question: “You said Heavenly Father answers prayers. …
Mom finished the sentence: “And now you’re not really sure if he does answer prayers.” Somehow Mom always knew what I was thinking.
“Of course he hears and answers prayers,” she said—and I could tell she really meant it. “Only sometimes we pray for things that aren’t good for us. Sometimes we forget to say, ‘Thy will be done.’ And sometimes his answer is a quiet, firm no. But no is an answer, too, isn’t it, son? He can’t always say yes, can he? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I suppose so. But, Mom, I wanted so much to fly! And I tried so hard!”
“Someday, son, when your dad comes home from the Navy, you’ll have the answer to your prayers. You and Dad can go to the airport and pay for a half-hour airplane flight. There are many ways Heavenly Father could give you a yes answer to your prayers for flight. But it won’t come through flapping your arms and jumping off garages into blackberry bushes.”
By now all the bleeding had stopped, a small bandage over each cut and scratch. As she turned to tending her own wounds, Mother smiled at me and pretended to be stern, “And speaking of jumping off of garages into blackberry bushes: Young man, if you ever do that again, I’ll take away your purple heart!”
A voice interrupted my daydreaming. “We are on our final approach to Hamburg International Airport. Please fasten your seat belts.”
Strange about that childish prayer for flight all those years ago. For a while it had seemed that Heavenly Father didn’t really answer prayers. My answer hadn’t come just then when I had wanted it so badly. It had come later—flying over our hometown in a small airplane with Dad. And then aboard a huge jet en route to the Germany Hamburg Mission. Strange how the answers always seem to come—though not always at the time or in the way we expect.
I fastened my seat belt and let a little prayer run through my mind: “I thank thee, Father, for hearing and answering the prayer of a seven-year-old boy. I thank thee for allowing me to fly.”

One such learning experience stands out. As an Area Seventy, I had been assigned to preside at a stake conference in New Zealand. Only a few months before, President Thomas S. Monson had delivered a powerful address to all the Seventies of the world. His address centered on rescuing those who had slipped away from the ordinances of the gospel.

As a result of President Monson’s address and the consequent challenge he gave us, I felt an urgency to visit and invite those not fully involved in the gospel to return to the covenants and ordinances of salvation. I invited stake presidents to take me with them during stake conference weekends to visit less-active members. Those visits were always wonderful.

One Saturday during a particular stake conference weekend, the stake president and I visited several families. The husband and wife of one of these families had been married for about 10 years and had been sealed in the temple but were now less active. They welcomed us warmly, and we had a spiritual visit. As the visit was ending, I felt prompted to ask the husband if he would like a blessing and then to ask him to give his wife a blessing.

This was an unusual prompting. I had been taught that as a guest in another’s home, I should take a subordinate role and that the head of the home should be the one who decides what is done. This brother, however, was grateful for the offer of a blessing, and he was visibly moved after the stake president and I had finished.

As he arose, however, he asked whether one of us would bless his wife. He told us that despite being married 10 years, he had never given her a blessing and was uncomfortable doing so.

“We will help you,” I said, encouraging him.

Illustrations by Brian Call

After we had explained how to give a blessing and helped him rehearse what to say at the beginning and at the end, he gave his wife a wonderful blessing. When he finished, we all had moist eyes, and he and his wife accepted our invitation to return to the gospel.

As a result of this tender experience, the stake president felt inspired during his address to stake members the next day to challenge priesthood holders to return home after stake conference and to give blessings to family members.

A label frequently seen and grudgingly borne is one which reads “Handicapped.”
Years ago, President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) shared with President Gordon B. Hinckley, Elder Bruce R. McConkie, and me an experience he had in the appointment of a patriarch for the Shreveport Louisiana Stake of the Church. President Kimball described how he interviewed, how he searched, and how he prayed, that he might learn the Lord’s will concerning the selection. For some reason, none of the suggested candidates was the man for this assignment at this particular time.
The day wore on. The evening meetings began. Suddenly President Kimball turned to the stake president and asked him to identify a particular man seated perhaps two-thirds of the way back from the front of the chapel. The stake president replied that the individual was James Womack, whereupon President Kimball said, “He is the man the Lord has selected to be your stake patriarch. Please have him meet with me in the high council room following the meeting.”
Stake president Charles Cagle was startled, for James Womack did not wear the label of a typical man. He had sustained terrible injuries while in combat during World War II. He lost both hands and one arm, as well as most of his eyesight and part of his hearing. Nobody had wanted to let him in law school when he returned, yet he finished third in his class at Louisiana State University. James Womack simply refused to wear the label “Handicapped.”
That evening as President Kimball met with Brother Womack and informed him that the Lord had designated him to be the patriarch, there was a protracted silence in the room. Then Brother Womack said, “Brother Kimball, it is my understanding that a patriarch is to place his hands on the head of the person he blesses. As you can see, I have no hands to place on the head of anyone.”
Brother Kimball, in his kind and patient manner, invited Brother Womack to make his way to the back of the chair on which Brother Kimball was seated. He then said, “Now, Brother Womack, lean forward and see if the stumps of your arms will reach the top of my head.” To Brother Womack’s joy, they touched Brother Kimball, and the exclamation came forth, “I can reach you! I can reach you!”
“Of course you can reach me,” responded Brother Kimball. “And if you can reach me, you can reach any whom you bless. I will be the shortest person you will ever have seated before you.”
President Kimball reported to us that when the name of James Womack was presented to the stake conference, “the hands of the members shot heavenward in an enthusiastic vote of approval.”
The word of the Lord to the prophet Samuel at the time David was designated to be a future king of Israel provided a fitting label for the occasion. It certainly was the thought of each faithful member: “Man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.”11

Illustrations by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
Matt: Do you know what I’m thankful for, Grandpa?
Grandpa: Rocky-road ice cream?
Matt: No. Well, yes. But do you know what I’m even more thankful for?
Grandpa: Pepperoni pizza with double cheese?
Matt: You’re smart, Grandpa! But I mean do you know what I’m even more thankful for than my very most favorite and scrumptious food?
Grandpa: What?
Matt: You.
Grandpa: Oh. Well. Wow! I’m honored, Matt. Because I’m grateful for you too. So grateful that I want to be your grandpa forever. Shall we both do all we can to make sure that happens?
Matt: That’s like asking if we should both have a double scoop of rocky road.
Grandpa: What a brilliant idea!

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

I hope that you young people recognize the strength and the power of your testimonies. Several years ago I was in the nation of Czechoslovakia. There, in an inspiring meeting held in Prague under dangerous circumstances and when freedom was curtailed, I met a young woman whose name is Olga. She was about 25 years of age at the time and had, in the previous two years, brought to membership in the Church 16 young men and young women her own age. As I met with them, I knew they were truly converted to the gospel. I felt they would be the foundation of the Church in Czechoslovakia. They learned the truth of the gospel and felt the strength of testimony—all from Olga. When I complimented Olga and thanked her for having a testimony she is willing to share, she said, “Oh, Brother Monson, I have 14 others with whom I am working!” Later I learned that almost all of those 14 became members of the Church. The light of Christ shone in Olga’s eyes as she encouraged others to “come unto him.”

Illustration by Bonnie Hofkin
During physical therapy for back pain, I noticed that the left side of my body felt weak and numb. When I explained these symptoms to my physical therapist, he became concerned and encouraged me to see a doctor.
An MRI revealed that my brain had grown below my skull and had trapped spinal fluid in my neck for years. This caused severe and persistent headaches and pain. The only option was surgery. But despite the operation, I still experienced constant pain.
Six months later, I returned to my doctor for further tests only to discover that the trapped spinal fluid had grown even larger. I was terrified to undergo another painful operation. My husband and I sought several medical opinions and then moved forward with a doctor who felt confident that removing part of my brain would help.
Recovering from my second brain surgery was the most painful experience of my life. I searched desperately for the Spirit to comfort me. I listened to talks and hymns, prayed continually, and received many priesthood blessings.
Through my painful recovery, I know that Heavenly Father heard my prayers and the prayers that others offered in my behalf. He sent people to me when I needed them. A nurse in my ward helped me learn how to manage my medications. My aunt and uncle, noticing signs of dehydration, took me to the hospital. And a Primary boy, wanting to help our family, left his toys on our doorstep for my son. Through this experience and many others, I could feel the Savior bearing me up and my testimony growing stronger each day. This was a remarkable and sacred experience stemming from a truly painful one.
Although my second surgery was a success, my discomfort has continued, and I’ve had to learn to adjust to a life with chronic pain and trust that Heavenly Father has a purpose in it. But I have hope in His promise that He will continue to strengthen me in my challenges, as He said: “I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up” (D&C 84:88).

Occasionally the group does have some free time during tours to use as it pleases. Oftentimes group members will sink into peaceful oblivion on the lawn of a chapel where they are to perform, but other times their free moments are spent in ways that attract at least as much attention as their performances.
Sandy Ord, a member of the group for the past two years, remembers a softball game where the boys challenged the girls on the lawn outside their motel. There’s nothing so unusual about that except for the fact the entire game was played without any equipment.
“We had the whole thing,” said Sandy, “umpire, cheerleaders, even a human scoreboard. And since there was no ball, you just pretended where to hit it. The girls were always hitting home runs, and, of course, we won.”