Gospel Story Finder

During my school’s values-education month, our teacher asked us to write an essay titled “Why am I here?” It had to be a 10-paragraph essay on the topic of our purpose in life. As I read the topic on the board, my heart was filled with comfort and happiness. As a member of the Church, I had known my purpose as a daughter of God for many years. But as I looked at my other classmates’ faces, my heart was filled with sadness. Why? Because they started to murmur regarding the difficulty of the topic. They didn’t have the same knowledge I did.
When I turned in my essay, I realized how blessed I am to be a member of the one true Church. From that day on, my desire to serve a mission and share my testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ was strengthened.
I know that Heavenly Father loves me and wants me to be with Him someday. I also know that it is my purpose to serve others.
Jaymee A., Philippines

“Mommy, Mommy, guess what! There’s a robin’s nest in the tree! I was looking for Mr. Squirrel, and I saw the nest, and there are blue eggs in it!”
“That’s exciting, Donnie,” Mommy said. “Let’s hope that Mr. Squirrel keeps away until the eggs hatch.”
“Mr. Squirrel wouldn’t hurt the eggs, would he?”
“Indeed he would,” Mommy said. “Squirrels eat birds’ eggs if they get a chance to.”
All morning Donnie sat in an upstairs window and watched the nest. He loved Mr. Squirrel, but he loved Mr. and Mrs. Robin too. He wanted to make sure that no harm came to their eggs.
At noontime Mommy came up and said, “It’s time for lunch.”
“May I eat here, Mommy? I have to watch for Mr. Squirrel so that he won’t eat the eggs. Please?”
“Don’t worry. Mrs. Robin is sitting on the eggs, and Mr. Robin is around somewhere, guarding his family.”
When Daddy came home, Donnie showed him the robins’ nest with the eggs in it. “Mrs. Robin just left to find some dinner,” Donnie explained. Then he shouted, “There’s Mr. Squirrel! I have to chase him away!”
“Wait, Donnie,” Daddy said. “That’s Mr. Robin’s job. He won’t let anything happen to his family if he can help it. Just watch now, and see what Mr. Robin will do.”
As Donnie watched, Mr. Squirrel streaked through the tree branches toward the nest. Suddenly Mr. Robin darted at Mr. Squirrel, pecking at his head. Mr. Robin circled Mr. Squirrel and pecked at him over and over, until Mr. Squirrel ran away.
When Mr. Squirrel finally stopped and sat on a branch of a nearby tree, he turned and chittered angrily at Mr. Robin. Mr. Robin flew to a branch between the nest and Mr. Squirrel and crossly clicked his beak back at Mr. Squirrel.
After a while Mr. Squirrel scurried up his own tree, and Mr. Robin flew away.
“Mr. Robin’s gone!” Donnie cried. “What if Mr. Squirrel comes back?”
“Mr. Robin hasn’t gone far,” Daddy said. “We may not see him, but he’s there somewhere, still watching over his family.”

On 27 February 1977 we began our journey to Santiago for the first area conference in our native country of Chile. My wife Teresa and I and our four children—Oriana, Doris, Mariela, and Mario, Jr.—were especially eager to go because President Spencer W. Kimball would be there. We had not been able to get bus tickets, so we would have to travel the 530 kilometers from our home town of Los Angeles by train.
Our family of six, plus about nine other members of the Los Angeles Second Branch, were traveling together. After making several transfers, our group arrived in Valdivia. From here, the last part of the journey would take ten hours.
At the Valdivia station, about 150 people were waiting to board the train to Santiago. When it arrived, it was announced over the loudspeakers that the engine was broken down. We were to wait another two hours for another engine to arrive. But already the train was so full that people were standing on the steps and hanging out the windows.
Another train from further south was due to arrive later that night. We gathered together to pray and plan. We agreed that each of us should try to get on the next train however we could, making sure that the youngest child, Mario, Jr., was on. Sometime after midnight, we heard a train whistle and people began to shout, “It’s coming! It’s coming!” By now two hundred people were waiting on the platform.
When the new train arrived, we were disappointed to see that it, too, was already full. As it slowed and stopped, we all scrambled to find a place to get on. Looking out for young Mario, I pushed him into one of the cars. But the train was already moving; it had stopped for only a few seconds! As it disappeared into the darkness, Mama asked, “Where is everyone?” All of us were there except ten-year-old Mario. “Where is my son?” Mama asked frantically. I tried to explain what had happened and told her we must trust in the Lord.
Heartsick, we looked at the broken engine from Valdivia. It was our only hope. We managed to climb aboard the back part of the coal bin—fifteen people carrying suitcases and packages, crammed into a space not more than four meters wide. An hour later another engine was hooked to our engine, and we began the ten-hour trip. There we were—men, women, and children—holding onto bars and railings, many standing on one foot with the other foot hanging off into space, some strapped on with belts. We were cold and wind-blown. Sparks from the engine’s smokestack rained down on us.
After two and a half hours of traveling, the relief engine was replaced by a diesel engine. Occasionally, our desperation turned to panic as we wondered what was happening to our little Mario, who was by this time three hours ahead of us.
It was one o’clock in the afternoon when our train finally reached our destination. The central station in Santiago was like a sea of people. Shortly after we began searching, we heard a small voice saying, “Mama, mama.” We hugged Mario and each other and wept with joy. The Lord had heard our prayers.
Young Mario told us how frightened he had been. The journey seemed so long that it made him feel like crying. Finally, he had found a space between two seats, where he had slept all night. When he arrived in Santiago, he didn’t know what to do. He told us that only his faith in the Lord and his desire to meet the prophet had sustained him.

When I grew up, I married Vicki and we had five children. We always taught them the importance of prayer. When our son Mark was about five years old, I walked by his bedroom one night. With the moonlight shining through the window onto his face, I saw that his eyes were open. So I went into his room and asked him if he had said his prayer.
“No,” he said. When I asked him why not, he answered, “Because I’m too little, and my life is too boring!”
I’m glad Mark said that, because it gave me the chance to teach him that no matter how old we are, or how exciting or unexciting we think our lives may be, Heavenly Father listens to our prayers. I believe there is great power in the prayers of innocent children. I know that the Lord loves little children, so their prayers are important to Him. If you ask your Heavenly Father for blessings, He will bless you.

Lakeview Fifth Ward
At a Primary activity in the Lakeview Fifth Ward, Orem Utah Lakeview Stake, the children learned about the importance of family history and temple work. Then they all helped build a model of a temple. They painted 150 boxes white and used them for the temple foundation and walls. They made windows and an angel Moroni figure to put on top. The children even made flowers out of pipe cleaners to add to the beauty of their temple.

“Next Wednesday,” said the teacher, “bring to class an item that represents who you are.” It was the first assignment in my sophomore English class. Uh oh, I thought. What if I don’t know who I am?
I had just moved to Seattle, Washington. It was my first week in a new school. The teachers didn’t know me. Neither did my classmates. It was an excellent opportunity to redefine myself—both to myself and to others.
Whenever people learned I had recently moved from Utah, they often asked me if I were Mormon. Each time, I would answer in a different way: “I don’t know.” “I was baptized, but I don’t go to church.” “No, but I should be.”
For some reason, I felt a responsibility to God to be a Latter-day Saint. This didn’t make sense because I didn’t quite believe in God. Still, within my heart lay a desire to live a life that would matter. I wanted to make a positive impact and to know that my life was not lived in vain.
My oldest sister, Lark, was the only active member of the Church in our family. She and her husband, Tim, had invited me to attend church with them in their ward, which was nearby. It was something she wanted me to do, and I somehow knew it was something I was supposed to do. So I decided to go.
With my life fluctuating and with the decision of who I would become hovering before me, I tried to think of an item to take to class that would truly represent me.
Needless to say, I had not come up with an item by Monday. Nor had I come up with anything by the time my sister took me to Mutual Tuesday night in her ward. She made some suggestions on the way to the meetinghouse, but none of them satisfied me.
The plans for Mutual that night had been kept secret, so it was with curiosity that I looked into the cultural hall. At first glance I saw tables that appeared to be set for dinner. A second look revealed that there was no food on the tables. Instead of plates containing food, there were copies of the Book of Mormon. Instead of eating utensils, there were writing utensils. Instead of napkins, there were sheets of paper. As I took a seat, my attention was captured by this riddle that had been set before me.
Two missionaries were the central speakers. Each bore his testimony of how he came to learn that the Book of Mormon was, indeed, the word of God.
When they turned our attention to a video that told the story of Christ’s visit to the righteous Nephites and Lamanites after his resurrection, an incredible feeling came over me. The way Nephi described the situation then is also an apt description of how I felt: “And it was not a harsh voice, neither was it a loud voice; nevertheless, and notwithstanding it being a small voice it did pierce them … to the center, insomuch that there was no part of their frame that it did not cause to quake; yea, it did pierce them to the very soul, and did cause their hearts to burn” (3 Ne. 11:3). A testimony of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon entered my soul that night, leaving a mark that would affect me eternally.
As Lark and Tim drove me home, I mentally went through my homework checklist. First period, algebra, done. Second period … Sixth period, English—uh oh. What could I take that represented me?
In a still, small voice, the Spirit whispered, “The Book of Mormon.” I instantly recognized that it was not my physical ears that had heard this statement. This was the first time I had felt the Spirit with such distinctness and clarity.
“Cool!” I stated with outright enthusiasm.
“What?” Lark said as she looked over her shoulder.
In awe, I explained, “I think the Book of Mormon is the item I want to take to my English class.”
A smile spread quickly across her face, and she said, “Oh, that sounds great, but it will be really hard.”
That realization dampened my enthusiasm considerably. Would I be giving up popularity and the chance of making friends in my high school life? Sensing my hesitation, Lark suggested that I pray about it before going to bed.
That night, I placed the Book of Mormon with my school books. Then, kneeling, I prayed, “Dear Heavenly Father, are you sure this is what you want me to do?” The answer I felt was an immediate yes, accompanied by the assurance of the Spirit. “Will you help me?” I asked. Another strong positive feeling calmed my nerves. Reassured, I went to sleep.
As my sixth-period English class approached, I grew more uncertain. The teacher gave instructions to the class. We were to state our name, what our item was, and why it represented us. The first two requirements I had down pat, but for some reason, I hadn’t thought about the third. I knew what my representative item was; I didn’t know why it was.
When the call for volunteers was made, one girl from the front row stood up and told about her item. Then the girl next to her stood up and took her turn. A pattern started developing in the order of volunteers. I would be the final person to share his item.
When my turn came, I slowly walked to the front of the room. I hadn’t written a speech or even made a mental outline of what I would say. I began with, “My name is Derek Tucker, and this is the item that represents me. It is the Book of Mormon.” From that time until I finished speaking, I felt the Spirit guiding my words. To this day I am not really sure what I said.
After I finished, I braced myself for a verbal assault. But to my amazement and gratitude, there was silence. What truly took me by surprise, however, were the facial expressions of the students. About one-third of the class had tears in their eyes. Others wore stoic expressions. And still others were nervously looking away. Though not everyone may have felt comfortable about the subject, there seemed to be an atmosphere of respect.
As I turned to walk back to my seat, I saw that the teacher’s face was streaming with tears. She whispered in an emotional voice, “That’s a strong testament.” I was stunned; time slowed as the statement penetrated my heart. I said, “Thank you,” and then walked back to my desk.
I had put my trust in the Lord, and he had helped me. I now knew who I was—a precious son of Heavenly Father. And I knew that as I served him, my life would have meaning and value.

I finished law school around the time of my daughter’s first birthday. My wife and I looked forward to celebrating my graduation, our daughter’s birthday, and the new opportunities that would come to us, but nothing went as planned.
I found myself unemployed shortly after completing my degree and had difficulty finding work. Soon, financial difficulties came. Just having a simple birthday celebration would be difficult.
After many conversations with my wife, we accepted our situation. It was not easy for me as a father not to have the ability to buy even a simple present for my daughter and to see my beloved wife feeling frustrated.
I didn’t understand what was happening. I prayed and asked Heavenly Father to help me understand what He expected of me. Suddenly, as if a voice spoke to my mind, I heard the following words: “You possess something more valuable than any material possession on this earth. You hold the priesthood. What better gift could you give your daughter than a priesthood blessing?”
Tears filled my eyes as I thought about what the priesthood means to me. My heart filled with gratitude when I considered that the priesthood is the power that can unite my family for all eternity.
I shared my feelings with my wife. I told her that offering a blessing to our daughter was all I could give. We both decided that this would bring happiness and peace to her, and that would be enough.
On the day of our daughter’s birthday, friends, relatives, and neighbors brought a cake and simple decorations. We were grateful to celebrate this special day with those we love. That night, I placed my hands on my daughter’s head and gave her a blessing. I blessed her with all that the Spirit of the Lord prompted me to say.
We are still going through a period of changes and challenges regarding unemployment and finances. But even in the midst of sadness and frustration, peace and comfort comes to us through our Savior, Jesus Christ. I have no doubt that being a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints with access to priesthood power is a blessing. It was all I could give on my daughter’s birthday, and it was more than enough.

In April of 1847, Brigham Young led the first company of pioneers out of Winter Quarters. At that same time, sixteen hundred miles to the west the pathetic survivors of the Donner Party straggled down the slopes of the Sierra Nevada Mountains into the Sacramento Valley.
They had spent the ferocious winter trapped in the snowdrifts below the summit. That any survived the days and weeks and months of starvation and indescribable suffering is almost beyond belief.
Among them was fifteen-year-old John Breen. On the night of April 24 he walked into Johnson’s Ranch. Years later John wrote:
“It was long after dark when we got to Johnson’s Ranch, so the first time I saw it was early in the morning. The weather was fine, the ground was covered with green grass, the birds were singing from the tops of the trees, and the journey was over. I could scarcely believe that I was alive.
“The scene that I saw that morning seems to be photographed on my mind. Most of the incidents are gone from memory, but I can always see the camp near Johnson’s Ranch.”

Illustration by Allen Garns
During my interviews as a bishop one Sunday afternoon, I had the pleasure of sitting down with a good friend to talk about some challenges he was facing. After listening to his concerns for a few minutes, I felt that what he needed was consistency in reading the scriptures. I was also reminded that, as his bishop, I too should be more constant in my scripture study, which was something I had been struggling with. So I suggested that we become “accountability partners” in striving to study more consistently.
Every day after we finished reading our scriptures, we would text each other the word Done! Knowing that someone else was waiting to hear whether or not the other had completed his reading for the day was great motivation for the both of us. If one of us forgot, receiving a text was a reminder. If the other person did not text, he wasn’t called out on it. We let each other take this challenge on without making the other person feel guilty.
We started the challenge six months ago now, and I don’t recall a day that we have missed reading our scriptures. This brother stood up during fast and testimony meeting a couple of months ago and shared his testimony of the positive impact that daily scripture study was having on him and his family.
I am grateful for this brother and his friendship, as well as his daily texts. I have seen how technology, when used properly, can enhance our lives. I’m also thankful for the scriptures and how they testify of Christ. I know that the Savior’s atoning sacrifice makes it possible for each of us to return to live with Him someday.

So is his sense of humor. There is usually a smile on Si’s face, and he loves a good practical joke. When his mother went to the hospital recently for her daily visit, she was in for a shock. Two orderlies were sitting grim faced near Si’s room, and his door was closed. She opened the door and went in.
Si’s room was darkened, and he was covered with a white sheet. Anita’s heart faltered. She walked over and pulled back the sheet. Si was laughing! Then the orderlies came in, and they were laughing too.
Si had struck again! No one is safe from his jokes, and no one would want to be, because they are as full of fun and laughter as he is himself.

For Brigham, every day is an adventure. He loves his friends, he enjoys learning at school and at church, and he enjoys meeting new people. Everyone he meets becomes his friend. President Thomas S. Monson invited Brother Arballo and the Reneer family to visit him in Salt Lake City. After allowing Brigham to sit in President Hinckley’s chair, and after singing and playing the piano for the group, President Monson promised him that the First Presidency and the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles would pray for him. Now when he sees President Monson’s picture, Brigham exclaims, “There’s my friend!”

Miguel Arrellano looked out the window of the tar-paper shack. Thunderclouds had opened up, pouring forth torrents of rain. Such storms were not unusual in his small village set in the mountains of Colombia.
Normally Miguel did not mind the rain. It watered the crops that the family depended upon for a living. Today, though, he prayed for the rain to stop.
It was a special day—the day he and his parents would be baptized members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
He remembered when the two missionaries had found them. Elder Berger and Elder Santos, dressed in dark pants and white shirts, had appeared at their door. They wore small, black, name badges proclaiming that they represented the Church.
Elder Berger was tall, almost two meters. He came from Utah in the United States of America. In Colombia, men are rarely so tall. Papá was only a few centimeters taller than Miguel. Elder Santos was a native missionary and even shorter than Papá.
Miguel had practiced saying Elder Berger’s name. The syllables sounded strange upon his tongue. They laughed together as the American missionary tried to say Arrellano.
The elders told the family the story of Joseph Smith and the Restoration. When Elder Berger bore his testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel, tears streamed down his face. He and Elder Santos both testified that Joseph Smith had been a prophet and that Gordon B. Hinckley was now the prophet. Though Miguel was only eleven, he knew that he was hearing the truth.
Mamá had cried when the elders had spoken of families being together forever. “Always, we search for something,” she had said. “Now I know we have found it.” She’d placed her hand on her heart. “I feel it. Here.”
The rain continued to fall in sheets and showed no signs of letting up.
Miguel looked from Mamá to Papá. “We must go. We told Elder Berger and Elder Santos that we would be there.”
Papá pointed to the flooded road. “There will be no bus today.”
The family had no car and had to rely on the bus. They had to change buses twice to reach the church. Each week, they carefully counted out the coins necessary to buy the bus tokens for Sunday. This week, they had taken money from their small food budget to pay for the extra trip to the church.
Papá worked very hard, but there was never enough money. Mamá had saved a little and made them new clothes. She had sewn Miguel and Papá shirts and herself a blouse. Miguel thought that she looked pretty in the bright yellow color.
He remembered the picture of President Hinckley the two young elders had shown the family. The prophet would not give up. He would find a way to get to the church, Miguel decided, and so will we.
“Señor Tomás,” Miguel said, glancing out the window and seeing their neighbor. “He goes to the city every day. Maybe he will give us a ride.”
Miguel ran across the muddy yard to their neighbor’s humble home. Señor Tomás nodded agreeably as the boy explained the situation. Miguel and Papá climbed into the back of the truck; Mamá rode in the cab with their neighbor.
They held on tightly as the old truck bounced over the rough roads. When they arrived at the small meetinghouse, they were wet and very tired, but happy.
The elders greeted them. Their clothes were wet and wrinkled, too, but the smiles on their faces were the brightest Miguel had ever seen.
“We weren’t sure you could make it,” Elder Berger said. “We’ve had problems here, too.”
They shared stories. Elder Santos explained that the pipes that carried water to the chapel had burst so that the baptismal font could not be filled. After praying, the elders had filled buckets with rain water and carried them inside the church to fill the font.
Miguel and his parents explained how they had found a ride with their neighbor.
“It’s a miracle you made it,” Elder Santos said.
Papá looked at the baptismal font and said, “We have many miracles today.”
“And much to be thankful for,” Mamá added.
Miguel and Papá changed clothes in a small dressing room while Mamá changed clothes in another one. Miguel touched the crisp white shirt and pants the elders had given him. They felt strange against his skin.
The water was so shallow that the elders had to kneel to perform the baptisms.
Miguel waited while his parents were baptized. When the time came for his own baptism, he felt a warmth come over him, even though the water was cold.
After everyone had changed into dry clothes, Elder Berger and Elder Santos confirmed Miguel and his parents members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Miguel hugged his parents, then Elder Berger and Elder Santos. He would never forget this day or the baptism miracles.

A young man stood in the dim morning light, snow dusting his shoulders. He held a formidable snowball in his hand and shrank against the wall like a TV detective.
“You’ve got five minutes,” he bawled, “and then I’m coming in after you!”
Before the deadline, girls started spilling into the cold, breathing white columns as they crunched to breakfast with the young men waiting outside for them.
The Laurels and priests from Pocatello, Idaho, had arrived in West Yellowstone, Montana, to find themselves in a Christmas-card city that lay under seven feet of snow. Snowmobiles outnumbered cars on the city streets, and even tall people had to look up to see the tops of drifts. The young people were in town to make a 50-mile, round-trip snowmobile journey to Old Faithful.
They gathered around a line of snow-covered snowmobiles and, like medieval warriors, started helping each other suit up in their thermal armor—goggles, helmets, fur caps, stocking caps, and ear muffs; fur coats, leather coats, and ski-tagged parkas; ski masks, scarves, and knitted mufflers; quilted jump suits, ski pants, levis, and bib overalls; mittens, ski gloves, dress gloves, and snowmobiling gauntlets; hiking boots, snowmobiling boots, moon boots, and waffle stompers; and a flurry of other odds and ends in a rainbow of colors. When they were finally ready to face the potentially sub-zero weather, they looked like the first wave of a Martian invasion. And in a brief moment of silence as they admired the science fiction effect, a female voice wailed, “My earring’s stuck in my muffler!”
It was not the kind of morning they had dreamed about. Instead of a burning blue sky and sparkling drifts there was the gray pall of a snowstorm; and the shiver down their backs wasn’t excitement, it was wet snow. But the group brought its own sunshine, and their happy laughter made it clear that weather could not spoil the trip. When they gathered in the snow for prayer and thanked the Lord for the beautiful day, it was obvious that they really meant it.
Their guide explained safety rules and gave a few instructions on the operation of the machines. Then with the twanging of taut pull-cords, the engines roared to life, and the adventure began.
They skimmed along the road that carries caravans of tourist cars in the summer, but now it was under many feet of packed snow. Flying through the thick of the storm, they all soon became white statues, and from a distance their headlights looked like a string of pale torches winding through the mountains of some other century.
The veil of snow gave the world an aspect not only of timelessness but of placelessness; all sharp edges were blurred, and the landscape had the unreal quality of a Monet painting. Forests of dark trees became horizontal sweeps of vertical shadows, and mountain peaks dim vacancies of an uncertain distance.
The road ran along the Firehole River where swans floated and complacent elk fed along the shore as if all alone in the world. Upstream the river narrowed into a deep gorge, and snowmobilers wound along the side of it, slicing through a universe of clean white powder and feeling like explorers on some other world.
They stopped by a waterfall that plummeted from precipice to precipice and sent white spray up into the white snow. It was more like a vision than a view, and the young men and women were one moment boisterous with the exuberance of it and the next moment silent with an overwhelming sense of awe.
Miles of snow and scenery later, there were buffalo. They materialized out of the great, shaggy-gray shadows, too beautiful to be true. Later there were more of them in a broad, open meadow, and beyond the immense white of the meadow, the dark line of another forest, like a landscape from Dr. Zhivago.
They left the river and turned their runners down narrow, powdery lanes between tall evergreens, past boiling mud pots and geysers steaming in the snow—on to Old Faithful.
There was time then for lunch and some much-needed rest in the visitors’ center at Old Faithful. “Why are we so tired if we’ve been sitting down?” asked one young man as he sprawled on a bench, his snow gear scattered around him on the floor.
The deep snow outside and a little free time were too great a temptation, and soon a mammoth snow battle was in progress. Peace wasn’t fully restored until it was time for Old Faithful to blow. It turned out to be a subdued spectacle, a next-to-invisible shaft of blue-gray steam against the blue-gray sky. But the contrast to a summer eruption only made the wonder of the situation more intense. It was strange to stand in winter where so many thousands of people had stood in the summer, strange because they now stood high above the ground on a platform of snow in the heart of a kingdom that until a few years ago was inaccessible in the wintertime. It was like being able to visit the far side of the moon.
Going home there was time for a stop at some mud pots, some more close-up wildlife study, and a lot more snow. Almost everybody ran out of gas, and some snowmobiles broke down, but there was a mechanic bringing up the rear with fuel and spare parts, so no one had to winter it out.
In a sort of farewell gesture the sun broke through for a while down the home stretch and displayed a silver river, with silver rushes, silver swans, and a snow-silver forest beyond.
By the time the machines were parked, everyone was cold, wet, tired, sore, and limp. Mascara had run down over cheek bones, noses were red, and hair was plastered to foreheads. These young Mormons were beautiful.
What had they learned from the experience? Only what they already knew—that they were friends, in spite of the fact that they came from two arch-rival Pocatello high schools, that God’s works are beautiful, that doing wholesome things with good people is fun—but it was good to learn it all again.

Other Activities. Wendy Bybee and her son James, of West Valley City, Utah, both blind from birth, have found that a helpful Church leader can make a great difference. “James used to have trouble in Scouting, but his current Blazer Scout leader is exceptional! She has spent extra time helping him learn to tie knots; she also prints up materials in larger print for him and always makes sure the announcements she sends home are in dark enough print for me to read. She has helped me find ways to help James earn merit badges so that it’s fair to him but doesn’t make the other boys think he’s getting off easy.”

One young woman diagnosed with a serious illness learned a great deal about diet and nutrition as she followed her doctor’s instructions during a year of difficult medical treatment. She carefully studied what she ate and joked with friends that she had never thought she would become so interested in the science of food. But as she struggled with her illness, she discovered that the habits of scripture study, regular temple attendance, and daily prayer sustained her as much as anything that nourished her body. She found the hymns of the Church particularly comforting.

Although scripture study and prayer had been a part of her life before her illness, she appreciated this daily spiritual nourishment in a new way. “I need my morning prayer as much as I need my green, leafy vegetables,” she said. By seeking spiritual nourishment every day, she was able to feel the Savior’s sustaining presence in her life.

Through the long hours of the night, I kept a lonely vigil by the nursery window. Inside the nursery, a tiny boy struggled for breath. The day before, we had rushed nearly 160 kilometers from our ranch to the hospital. The baby was born shortly after our arrival, six weeks premature. He looked like a fine, healthy boy, but the doctor told us that his lungs had been slow in developing and that he was fighting a desperate battle for air.
A few hours before, I had given Matthew his name and a father’s blessing. As I had blessed him, the Spirit had assured me that he would someday be a part of our family.
Little Matthew continued to cling to life until his mother was able to come to the nursery to see him. He died before we left the room. It seemed to me that he had only waited for her to have one look before he returned to his heavenly home.
The shock of our son’s death left my wife in such a daze that she could not cry. It was only after the small graveside service, when we had returned home to the ranch, that she was finally able to release her grief. She wept for a long time.
The emptiness of losing a baby after those long months of expecting him was very hard on her. She wasn’t really happy again until the next baby, a fine healthy boy, arrived.
As the years passed, we were blessed with many children. They grew up feeling that Matthew was as much a part of our family as they were. One of our children, the oldest, has felt an unusual closeness to him and has at times sensed his presence. Once, while traveling to work through a storm, she felt him with her, watching over her. One night she awoke and saw a young man standing by her bed. He seemed to sense that she could see him, and appeared to “melt” in the air like a burning film. This experience frightened her, and she prayed to know who the young man was. A few years later, she again felt Matthew’s influence—when her sister-in-law lost a baby and needed comfort and understanding.
Not long ago, one of our sons was married in the Idaho Falls Temple. We had assembled in the sealing room for the ceremony when the sealer asked me and the bride’s mother to bear our testimonies before he performed the marriage ceremony. As I spoke, I noticed that my oldest daughter was sobbing. Later, outside the temple, she told us that as I stood to speak, Matthew had entered the room accompanied by so much spiritual power that she could not control her feelings. As she was about to leave the room, lingering behind all the others, she had felt something warm touch her shoulder. A still, small voice had whispered, “That was your brother Matthew. He is the one who stood by your bed one night.”
The peace and joy this beautiful experience brought to us is inexpressible. What comfort there is in knowing that we are important to Matthew and that he cares about what we are doing, and to know that God loves us and has let us feel Matthew’s presence so that we can have that assurance.

Mother always kept a cow so that her sons would have what she called “some real responsibility.” This included milking the cow every morning and every night, pitching hay down into the stall for the cow to eat, and watering her morning and night at a nearby stream. Unless we did these chores, the cow would be hungry and thirsty.
There were times when I would be a little late getting home, and then I’d wish I didn’t have to take care of that cow.
One evening when I returned home, I found that she had broken down the fence and run away. I looked in all of the usual places, but I could not find her. I looked everywhere imaginable—but no cow.
It started to grow dark, and I was desperate. I knew that my mother would be worried if she knew the cow was lost. We sold milk to some of our neighbors, and I could picture them waiting for me to take them their fresh milk.
How well I recall that evening! I had been taught to pray, and I knew I could ask the Lord for help. There was a little clump of bushes near the canal, and so I took off my cap, got down on my knees, told the Lord my problem, and asked Him to help me find our cow.
After my prayer, I started walking down the canal bank. And only a few yards from where I had prayed, I found our cow. She was almost hidden in the tall willows by the canal because she was about the same color as the willows. I was grateful my prayer had been answered and that our Heavenly Father had guided my footsteps down the canal bank to where she was.
The many nights my mother knelt by my bed to teach me how to pray helped me learn to talk to our Father in heaven. Ever since the night I prayed for help by that clump of bushes, I have continued to pray for His guidance.
And I know the Lord answers our prayers.

The letters, diaries, and autobiographies of past Church leaders contain many descriptions of this baptism of the Spirit. One of these was written by Lorenzo Snow, later an apostle, and still later a president of the Church. Elder Snow wrote that immediately following his immersion in the waters of baptism at the age of twenty-two, he expected to receive the Holy Ghost, and to have the promise fulfilled that he would “know of the doctrine, whether it be of God.” (John 7:17.) But Elder Snow did not receive this assurance immediately. He began to worry whether he had done wrong—whether God was displeased with him. Several weeks later, while studying the scriptures, he felt depressed and disconsolate. He left the house and walked outside, tormented by uncertainty and enveloped by “an indescribable cloud of darkness.” He had been in the habit of going to a small grove every evening to have secret prayer. On this particular day he was so dejected that he “felt no inclination” to pray. “The heavens seemed like brass over my head,” he wrote. Nevertheless, he forced himself to pray, and soon he heard a sound “like the restling of silken robes” above his head:

“… immediately the Spirit of God descended upon me, completely enveloping my whole person, filling me from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, and O the joy and happiness I felt! No language can describe the instantaneous transition from a dense cloud of mental and spiritual darkness into a refulgence of light and knowledge … I then received a perfect knowledge that God lives, that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and of the restoration of the Holy Priesthood, and of the fulness of the gospel. It was a complete baptism—a tangible immersion in the heavenly principle or element, the Holy Ghost; and even more real and physical in its effects upon every part of my system than the immersion of water.”

God had conferred upon him, he concluded, “that which is of greater value than all the wealth and honors worlds can bestow.”1

From the beginning, Abram wondered about the stories behind some of his discoveries. He tried looking in the library for information—nothing. He asked other people—no luck. His mom then called a professional archaeologist. Ron Rood, the assistant state archaeologist, came to Abram’s house. He was so impressed with nine-year-old Abram’s questions and notes about the discoveries that he invited Abram to a state dig site where he put Abram in charge of sketching. Abram has continued to work with Rood on other projects. This past summer, while working on a dig, Abram found a 1,000-year-old arrowhead. Now Abram regularly helps in Utah’s state archaeology lab.

Martin Biney was born and raised in Accra, Ghana in a Christian home. He loved to play soccer and played it regularly growing up. When he was 23 years old (1986), he decided to leave home and move to Japan where he could study automobile mechanics. He found friends in Japan who played soccer, and when he wasn’t studying, he played soccer all the time. He met and became very good friends with Nae Sugawara (from Saitama-ken, Kasukabe-shi, Japan) while playing soccer. She and Martin would get together often. When he was 25 years old, he badly injured his leg while playing his favorite sport. This injury kept him from being able to play soccer well, so he considered other options to help him stay active. As a result, at age 27 he decided to take up boxing to replace his love for soccer.
Boxing was something new to the young athlete. He joined a local gymnasium and boxing facility where the coaches and staff saw great potential in his natural ability. In 1989, when he was 27 years old, he and Nae were married.
He worked as a delivery man for a transportation and shipping company. At the same time, he was raising his family and focusing on his boxing skills by working out three hours each day. In 1994, after years of dedicated hard work, Martin Biney won the middleweight boxing championship in the JBC. Everything seemed to be going well for him and his family.
Shortly after his victory as a middleweight champion, Martin was again injured in a life-changing automobile accident. Because of his injuries, he felt like he could not continue with his boxing career. He was discouraged and felt a loss in life. By this time, Martin and Nae were the parents of two young boys, Marvin, and Julius.
He continued to stay fit and to work, providing for his family. One day in 1995, the humbled Martin was assigned to deliver a copy machine to a local church. It was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. While making the delivery, he met missionaries who introduced him to the restored gospel and the Book of Mormon. They gave Martin a copy of the Book of Mormon and started teaching him.
Martin enjoyed reading the Book of Mormon and recognized the Spirit and direction it provided in his life. A few months later, after receiving a personal testimony, Martin Biney was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church. As a new member of the Church, Martin attended every week, but for many years, his wife and children stayed home. Brother Biney states, “After I was baptized and received the gift of the Holy Ghost, I felt blessed. I had more confidence and felt impressed to go back to boxing.”
The Lord blessed Martin and, in 1997, at the age of 34, Martin Biney again became the middleweight boxing champion in Japan.
Martin’s wife, Nae, later decided to learn more about the Church, and in 2008 she was baptized. She and Martin were sealed in the Sapporo Japan Temple in 2021. They love the gospel and enjoy doing things together.
From the example of Martin Biney and his wife, Nae, we gain spiritual eyes to see that people everywhere, even in countries that are not predominantly Christian, there are those who hear the Savior’s voice and follow Him.
Martin and Nae serve as faithful members of the Urawa Ward in the Tokyo Japan Stake. The Bineys love serving in the Primary organization and find great joy in teaching the gospel to the children in the ward. He continues his passion for the sport of boxing as a referee and as a judge and shares his testimony of the gospel by his example to those he associates with, both in and out of the boxing ring!
His story helps us to see that we all are children of a loving Heavenly Father and that He is working to gather us together before the Savior’s return.