Gospel Story Finder

Another example: One’s life can be swallowed up in the will of the Father at any time. One need not be middle aged. Sometimes the sacrifice is keener when one is young.

While presiding in the mission field I interviewed a missionary who was somewhat shy and very homesick. He had been in the mission field for less than two months. I asked how things were going, and he began to weep. He said, “I don’t like the people here, I don’t like the heat and the humidity, and most of all, I don’t like my companion or his cooking.”

I said, “What are you going to do?”

He looked up at me through tears and with surprise, and responded, “I am going to complete this mission. I have been called by a prophet of God, and I will serve, but I don’t want to.” The will of the son swallowed up in the will of the Father. I am certain that he did not think that he had made a life-changing decision during those days of difficulty. Time will pass and eternity will unfold before the blessings of that decision are fully received. Twenty-two months later, a powerful teacher of righteousness returned to his home and, I am sure, to a lifetime of service. He kept his covenants by sacrifice, and, as a result, the Lord blessed him with “much precious fruit.”

Life was rough for Viktor Russo. As a boy he was scrawny. Other boys beat him up. Out of resentment, he made a mistake. He joined a gang when he was 15. “I wanted the others to be afraid of me,” he says, looking back.

And that’s what started to happen. He became one of the “bandits,” as he calls them. But before he got in too deep, he discovered the Church. His aunt, a Latter-day Saint, invited Viktor and his mother to attend Sunday meetings.

“Right from the opening prayer there were tears in my eyes,” Viktor explains. “They didn’t just recite words. They spoke with their Father in Heaven. I felt a great love overpowering me, an understanding that I also have a Father in Heaven who loves me.” Viktor was so impressed that he continued to attend. And he began discussions with the missionaries.

“I had always wanted to know if there really is a God,” he says. “So I prayed, ‘Please tell me if what I am learning is true.’ The same powerful feeling I had during sacrament meeting surrounded me again.”

He was particularly impressed as he learned about the priesthood. “I felt this love among the men, something I had never felt in the gang. Then during one of the missionary discussions I remember thinking, ‘I can’t be in a gang and serve God, too.’ From then on, I tried not to meet with my old associates. I tried to be only with good people.”

And what happened was remarkable.

“I was amazed. Some of my former ‘friends’ teased and taunted me, but most of them just said, ‘All right then, go. We’ll leave you alone.’” Enemies didn’t retaliate. True friends took an interest in his new religion. Some of them even met with the missionaries, but Viktor is the only one so far to be baptized.

“I had a lot to repent of first,” he acknowledges. “But I knew it was the right thing to do.”

Today Viktor is 17. He’s been a Latter-day Saint for almost two years. He spends his time with other Aaronic Priesthood holders, helps with the sacrament, and goes home teaching. He looks forward to a full-time mission and foresees the day when there will be a temple in Ukraine. Day after day you’ll find him with the elders when they’re teaching. “I like to share my testimony of Jesus Christ,” he says. “I like to tell people they need to believe in Him.”

I want to tell you about my little brother, Hans. When he was born, he didn’t seem to like being here on earth. He would wake up in the night, and when he saw that he was still here, he would start crying. He would only stop when Mom fed him. After he got older, he seemed to feel better about being here.
We slept in the same room, and at bedtime we always played games. He would never just go to sleep. After Mom kissed us goodnight and shut the door, Hans would jump up, hold onto the rail of his crib, and begin to bounce. He would wave and yell at me until we both were laughing hard. I really liked sharing a bedroom with him, even if he was a baby.
Some people think that babies are a bother, but Hans wasn’t. He was good. He would watch us, then try to do everything we did. He used to go around the house picking up little pieces of rubbish that no one else saw. Then he would run to the wastebasket and throw them in. He always tried to help everybody. He was smart about it too. One day he decided to help Mom. He climbed up onto the stove when he was alone in the kitchen. Later we found him sitting beside the burners stirring a pot full of cold water. When we came in, he clapped his hands and said, “Oh, see!”
Hans was very adventurous. He wasn’t afraid of anything. His best trick was to climb up our big bookcase. He could get nearly to the ceiling. Mom always lifted him down, but I thought that he was better than a mountain climber.
Once I did something terrible to him without meaning to. He was coming up the stairs, steadying himself with his hand on the wall. When he got to the door at the top, his hand poked through where the door hinge is. I didn’t see him, and I slammed the door on his finger. He screamed and screamed. Mom and Dad rushed him to the hospital because the end of his finger was badly cut and he needed stitches. I felt awful. But when he came back home, he gave me a hug, so I knew that he still loved me. He was really brave and hardly ever cried about his finger, and he wasn’t even two years old! I felt awfully proud of him.
When the weather was nice, we used to go for walks together down the street. He really liked to play in the vacant field, running on his little legs along the paths. He liked the flowers and bugs and birds too.
I guess that we had the most fun one day when Mom went visiting teaching. She left Daddy to take care of us. He was busy in his study, so we looked for something fun to do until Mom got home. Hans opened a cupboard and took out a big can of flour. He took off the lid and showed it to me. It looked like something fun to play with, so we took it into the living room, where he poured it all onto the carpet. Then we rubbed it in big circles. If felt soft and nice. Hans rubbed a white circle around one of his eyes. He looked so funny! Mom came home right after that, and she couldn’t get mad when she saw how funny he looked. She just got her camera and took a picture of us.
Now I’m really glad that she took the picture. It helps me to look at it. It helps me to tell you about Hans too. You see, he got really sick last month—Mom said it was meningitis. Even though the doctor and the bishop came to help, he died, and I don’t ever want to forget him.
We all cried when Hans died. Mom and Dad hugged each other and cried. They hugged me too. Our neighbors and friends came over, and they cried. I’m glad that our friends were there. Mom and Dad had to be gone sometimes, getting things ready to bury Hans. It helped to talk to my friends. It helped to just sit on the porch with them beside me.
Mom decided to make a little white suit for Hans to wear for his funeral. She got the pants made, but when she had trouble with the jacket, one of her friends took it and finished sewing it. She and Dad went to the mortuary to put the suit on Hans.
After Mom and Dad came back, we all dressed in our Sunday clothes. My grandmas and grandpas were there too. We went together to the mortuary to see Hans. The stake president, who is also the mortician, was there, and he put his arm around me. That helped me feel better.
I never saw anyone dead before. I knew that Hans would be different, that he wouldn’t be able to talk to me. I wondered how I would feel when I saw him.
Mom held my hand, and we went into a beautiful room with lots of flowers. There was quiet music playing. The room was just for our family so that we could be alone with Hans.
Hans was lying in a casket. It looked like a little white bed. His eyes were closed. He looked different, but he looked nice.
Hans’s funeral was in the morning. All my cousins and aunts and uncles came. Our friends and neighbors were there, too, and we sang “I Know My Father Lives.” Mom and Dad played a song for Hans on the piano and then talked a lot about Jesus.
Hans is buried near a little pine tree. I like that tree. Dad says that we can watch it grow. It will remind us that Hans is really alive, too, only with Jesus.
I know that Hans will always be my brother because Mom and Dad were married in the temple. I didn’t know how important that was until Hans died. Now I do.
Sometimes we go to the cemetery to put flowers on Hans’s grave. I told Mom that it’s kind of like the park where we had our family reunion. She hugged me tightly and told me that when Resurrection Day comes, the good people who have been buried will meet with everybody that they love, and it will be the biggest family reunion that you ever saw. I can hardly wait to hug Hans when he is resurrected. I miss him a lot, but I know that he is happy because he lives with Heavenly Father and Jesus.
When I die, I won’t be afraid, because I will see Jesus, and I will be with Hans again. I am going to try to be as good as Hans was so that we can live together some day.
When I take the sacrament, I think about how Jesus was resurrected so that we can be too. I love Jesus for doing that. Even though Hans is dead, because of Jesus I can feel happy.

As I stare into the bathroom mirror each morning at the beginning of a new day, I resolve to follow an example that was set for me long ago. In fact, glancing into any mirror takes me back years to one childish incident that has helped shape my entire life.
It was a Monday morning—but one that was a little more hectic than usual. I had slept in half an hour late. I couldn’t find the clothes I wanted to wear, and the hairdo I had tried to copy from Seventeen magazine for the month of November was (to say the least) not too attractive on me. My mother informed me in the midst of my frustrations that if I missed the bus I would be walking to school. But the real clincher was the announcement that I would not be allowed to leave until I made my bed and vacuumed my room.
As a 13-year-old, I had a difficult time coping with all of this responsibility. I flatly told my mother I was sorry, but I had more important things to do. Unfortunately, my mother does not accept refusals, and so I began a tirade of excuses, listing every unappreciated task I had ever carried out since age five. As the tears of anger and frustration slid down my cheeks, my temper mounted. Knowing I couldn’t win this argument, I ran to the bathroom, locked the door, and pouted.
Sitting on the edge of the counter, knowing I had missed the bus, and knowing I would be walking to school, my anger boiled over. I grabbed a bright red tube of lipstick that was lying in the open drawer and viciously scrawled the words “I hate you” across the mirror. Feeling I had avenged my hurt, I snuck out of the bathroom, grabbed my books, and trudged on to school through the autumn leaves.
All day long, the guilt and shame I felt at writing those words ate at me like acid. How could I have possibly told my mother that I hated her? I knew I loved her and hadn’t meant those words written in such haste. But what about my mother? Did she know that? Could she love me at all after what I had done?
Dragging my feet on the way home from the bus stop at the end of the street, I dreaded facing my mother. Quietly creeping through the back door, I snuck into the bathroom so I could wipe the lipstick off the glass. There I saw a neatly printed sentence right below mine. It too was done in bright red. As I stared at it, the words flooded my mind with new insight and understanding. “I love you” stared at me from the mirror, and in that one reflective moment I realized that no matter what I did my mother would always love me.
It is this knowledge that has helped me to feel accepted and important in life. And it is my mother’s love and charity that has taught me what love really is. For I truly believe mothers come closer to having a perfect love, as the Savior taught, than any other beings on earth.

Auckland, New Zealand, seminary students decided to develop their “talents” and lend a helping hand to others at the same time.

Following the principle in the parable of the talents (Matt. 25:14–30), each student was given $1 and one month in which to invest in any undertaking.

One motivation factor was a previous “Project Concern” activity that involved youths in picking tomatoes and netted a profit of $186. This money was sent to the Philippines to purchase library books for Church students.

After discussing suitable investments for their “talents,” students were each given $1 to invest. A special newsletter was also sent out informing others about “Project Talents.” The students voted that all money earned should be sent to the Church to be used in Mexico or South America.

What can one person do with $1 and one month?

One student bought wool and knitted a poncho. This was sold and the money used to purchase enough wool for two more ponchos that were also sold. The net profit was $8.

Another bought several flashlights from a teacher who works as a sales representative and sold them to ward members at a profit since the country was going through a power shortage and power cuts were threatening. Candles were also sold, and, together with the flashlights, resulted in a $15 profit.

Cakes were sold, babysitting services established, car washes organized, lawn mowing operations set up, and a mini-restaurant made its debut. All proved successful. All together the students made a 137 percent profit from the $165 investment. One interesting factor was that the few losses that occurred were the result of cooperative efforts rather than individuals’ projects.

President David O. McKay and President Harold B. Lee used to relate an incident from the life of Bishop John Wells that is instructive to all of us. Bishop Wells was responsible for many Church reports and so had to devote a great deal of his time to details and statistics.
A son of Bishop and Sister Wells was killed in a railroad accident in Salt Lake canyon. He was run over by a freight train. Sister Wells could not be comforted at the loss. She felt no relief from her sorrow during the funeral and continued her mourning after her son’s burial. Bishop Wells was concerned for her health, as she was in a state of deep anguish.
One day, soon after the funeral, Sister Wells was lying on her bed in a state of mourning. The son appeared to her and said, “Mother, do not mourn, do not cry. I am all right.”
He then told her how the accident took place. Apparently there had been some question about how the accident had happened because the young man was an experienced railroad man. But he told his mother that it was clearly an accident.
Now note this: He also told her that as soon as he realized that he was beyond the mortal world, he had tried to reach his father but could not. His father was so busy with the details of his work that he could not respond to the promptings of the Spirit. Therefore, the son had come to his mother.
He then said, “Tell Father that all is well with me, and I want you not to mourn any more.” (See David O. McKay, Gospel Ideals, Salt Lake City: Improvement Era, 1953, pages 525–26.)
President McKay and President Lee used this experience to teach that we must always be responsive to the whisperings of the Spirit. These promptings most often come when we are not under the pressure of appointments and when we are not caught up in the worries of day-to-day life.

The year after I turned 12, several things changed in my life. I was ordained a deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood. I was old enough to join the Boy Scout troop in our ward. And I moved up from elementary school to junior high school.
Just beginning the seventh grade brought many new experiences. I rode a bus to school every day. I had seven teachers instead of one. I put my backpack, lunch sack, and jacket in a locker each morning—no more coat hooks or cubbyholes. And I had different books and papers for every class.
I was especially proud of the three-ring binder that had reams of blue-ruled notepaper and folders for each subject. By the time the first few weeks of school had gone by, each folder was thick with homework assignments, handouts, and other school papers.
Going to school with eighth-and ninth-grade students was one of the biggest changes of all. I often felt small and unnoticed as I hurried down the halls, dodging classmates and strangers who seemed much more confident than I ever felt.
In several of my classes, I sat with students who were two and even three years older than I was. My first-year Spanish class had students from all three grade levels: seventh, eighth, and ninth. One boy, a ninth-grader named Jared, was tall, liked to talk, and frequently said things that made the students and even our teacher, Mr. Bishop, laugh.
I wanted to do that, too, but there were so many new things all around me that I often felt shy and usually stayed quiet. I was not small, but many of my fellow seventh graders were bigger than I was, and all my friends from elementary had lunch at a different hour.
One thing that made it difficult for me to adjust and make new friends was that during this first year I endured my share of rough pranks that junior high school students often play. I remember one in particular.
I was walking by the school’s main office between classes, in an area where dozens of students were hurrying past in both directions. I had my usual armload of books, including my three-ring binder, nestled against my hip.
Suddenly another student stepped up behind me, reached out a hand, and gave the books a hard flip. They flew out of my grasp and slid across the floor ahead of me. When the binder landed, it snapped open and folders and papers went spinning everywhere.
It was hard not to cry as I got down on my hands and knees and tried to scoop everything up as quickly as I could. I felt certain everyone was watching me, which only made me feel worse. Then a ninth-grade girl knelt down beside me and asked if I was okay. She smiled, squeezed my arm, and started to help me gather my books and papers.
Following her example, a tall boy came over and asked me if I’d seen who had knocked my books out of my arms. It was Jared from first-year Spanish, and he too knelt down to help.
I never learned the ninth-grade girl’s name, but I’ve never forgotten her kindness. Her actions reminded me of the Book of Mormon story of King Benjamin, who taught his people to always treat each other with love. And like Ammon, the great Book of Mormon missionary, this unknown friend of mine set an example by her actions that others followed.

Noah finished the last math problem, put his pencil down, and gazed out his bedroom window. The wind was blowing so hard it rattled the glass and sent autumn leaves spinning. He shivered. Noah missed summer and wished it would come sooner.
He sighed and went to find Mom. “Mom, I’m done with my homework, but it’s too cold to play outside. Can I go downstairs and watch a movie?”
“Sure,” Mom said. “Take Daniel and Elisabeth too.”
“OK.” Noah found his younger brother and sister playing with some toys. “Want to watch a movie with me?”
“Yeah!” Daniel and Elisabeth jumped up and followed him downstairs. Noah found one of their favorite DVDs and put it in the player.
“I’m cold,” Elisabeth said.
Noah went to the electric space heater and turned it on. Mom and Dad said he was old enough to use the heater, but he should be careful not to let anything touch it.
Elisabeth’s teeth chattered. “I’m still cold!”
“It takes a while to warm up,” Noah said. “Let’s get some blankets.”
They searched through a pile of blankets. Noah picked a fuzzy green one, Daniel chose a small blue one, and Elisabeth found a warm brown one. They grabbed some pillows and settled down on the couch.
A few minutes into the movie, Noah suddenly felt that he should stop watching. Was that the Holy Ghost warning him? He knew the movie was a good one, so why would the Holy Ghost tell him to turn it off?
The feeling came again, and Noah glanced away from the TV. Just then he smelled something strange. He looked around the room. His heart started pounding when he saw a pillow against the space heater. It must have fallen when they were grabbing blankets!
Noah ran to the heater and yanked the pillow away. It was covered with brown burn marks where it had touched the hot metal. He turned off the heater and ran upstairs with the pillow.
“Mom! The pillow was on the heater!” he said, holding it out for Mom to see.
Mom was working on papers at the table, but when she saw the pillow, she dropped them and rushed over. “What happened?”
Noah sat down at the table and took a deep breath. “I had a feeling I should stop watching the movie,” he said. “So I looked away. That’s when I smelled something funny and saw the pillow on the heater.” Noah thought for a moment. “Do you think that feeling was the Holy Ghost warning me?”
Mom smiled and sat on a chair next to Noah. “Have you ever felt something like that before?” she asked.
“Not until today,” Noah said. “I think it was the Holy Ghost!”
Mom hugged Noah. “I think you’re right.”
Noah felt peaceful inside. He looked down at the burned pillow and was grateful he had paid attention to the Holy Ghost.

My home teacher Val Riggs was our bishop and later our stake president. He directed the local institute of religion. He was ready to retire and return to his home in Utah, USA, but he told me he wasn’t going to leave until I got married in the temple.
“Well, you’re going to be here forever,” I told him. “I don’t know if that’s ever going to happen.”
“Oh, yes, it’s going to happen,” he would reply.
He had faith in me and never gave up on me. He would even call me while I was working. I’m like, “President, I’m on the air!” And he would say, “My wife is making cookies. We’re coming over tonight!”
He stayed in Baton Rouge throughout my return to church and watched over my spiritual growth. When the recession hit in 2008, he was the first person I called.
“President Riggs,” I said, “I lost my job at the radio station!”
“Great!” he replied.
“Great?” I responded.
“You’re going to be OK,” he told me.
When I called my visiting teacher, she also said, “Great!”
Why were they excited that I had lost my job? Because whenever they would talk to me, they could hear my struggle. I had one foot in the Church and one foot in the world. Losing my job turned into a great blessing. It helped me get both feet in the Church.
I had been inactive. I had been in an abusive relationship. I had it really tough as a young person. I was praying for my life and trying to hold on.
People would say, “Oh, you get to meet celebrities, you get to travel, you get to do this, you get to do that.” But that wasn’t peace. That wasn’t success.
The Savior’s peace is like no other. Coming back to church is what gave me peace. Getting married in the temple is success. Having an eternal family is the life.
When the Lord has a plan, He has a plan, though it may not be your plan. After I lost my job, my eyes started to open and things changed for me. President Riggs stayed, and he watched over my growth. My testimony is really strong on ministering. It’s important not to give up on someone. Ministering is what brought me back.

The headlines in a recent newspaper article seemed to jump off the page: “Lost in Fog, 757 Plunges into Pacific.” With 70 people on board, Aeroperu Flight 603 from Lima, Peru, to Santiago, Chile, had fallen from the dark and foggy sky into the icy Pacific waters off the coast of Peru. What happened? Moments before the crash the pilot of the aircraft was asking the same question: “What’s happening? What altitude am I at? Why is my ground crash alarm on? Am I over land or sea? . . . I don’t have any instruments.” (See Salt Lake Tribune, 3 October 1996, A1, A9.) With a failed navigational system and thick fog preventing him from seeing any lights on the ground, I believe the pilot may have been experiencing vertigo. If an airplane turns at a constant two or three degrees, the motion is imperceptible. If a person inside cannot see lights from the instrument panel or from the sky or ground, before long he could be flying completely upside down and not even be aware of it. When a pilot realizes he is losing altitude, his automatic reaction is to pull the stick back. If he is not flying straight and level, however, his airplane can dive toward the earth rather than climb toward the safety of the sky.

If we are not careful, we can experience spiritual vertigo. If we stray off the course of obedience only two or three degrees—an almost imperceptible difference—we can become disoriented. Losing sight of our eternal destination and not even realizing how far off course we are, we will make poor choices. Our Savior does not want us to crash. His desire is for us to choose the route that will bring us back on the straight and narrow path to live with him eternally. “Come, follow me,” he has told us. He provides the light that will keep us on course and bring us back into his presence.

The pilot of Aeroperu Flight 603 asked for a guide plane—a light, if you will—to show him the way to the airport.

Before dawn, officials [in Peru] lined up ambulances, firetrucks, gasoline-powered generators and reflectors on the dark beach so that possible survivors would have bright lights to swim toward. [Salt Lake Tribune, 3 October 1996, A9]

May we contrast that for a moment with Brother and Sister Joaquim Aires, a marvelous man and his wife who came to Portugal following the 1974 revolution of Portugal’s colonies in Angola and Mozambique. They had returned to Portugal unknown and with very few possessions. A great blessing occurred in their lives. They opened their door to two young missionaries, who taught them of the restoration of Christ’s church. They received the missionaries, accepted their message, and were baptized.
As is the opportunity for all worthy men in the Church, he received the priesthood—authority to act in the name of our Father in Heaven—and to become a leader in the Church. Brother Aires became President Aires, president of one of the mission districts.
One day I received a telephone call. President Aires was in the hospital in Coimbra, several hours’ travel away. He had suffered a very serious cerebral hemorrhage and was in very critical condition. Another priesthood holder and I made the trip as quickly as possible. As we walked quietly into the hospital room, we found him asleep. My first inclination was not to awaken him. And then I thought he would want to know that we had come. So I reached over and carefully touched his hand. He slowly opened his eyes and then looked at me for a moment, and then the tears came to both of our eyes. He then said in a very weak and soft voice, “I knew you would come. I knew you would come. Would you please give me a blessing.” In his dear, sweet faith, he was asking for a priesthood blessing, the same that is taught of and recorded in the Bible. We read in James 5:14–15: “Is any sick among you? let him call for the elders of the church; and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord:
“And the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up.”
As men of the priesthood, it was our privilege to pronounce a blessing on him with power and authority of our Father in Heaven.
As I would meet with the members of the Church from one end of Portugal to the other, the brothers and sisters would ask, “How is Brother Aires? Will you please tell him we love him and we’re praying for him?”
This good man and his wife, who had returned to Portugal almost unknown, now, because of their membership in the Church, had literally thousands who loved them and were concerned about them and remembered him in their prayers.
The prayers of faith were answered. He recovered completely, and he and Sister Aires went on to fulfill a full-time mission together.

On 25 July 1928, I was tracking on a street in Heilbronn, Germany. In those days, missionaries did not have to work side by side constantly, and often I would tract one side of the street while my companion tracted the other.
As I walked toward the next house, I saw a man sitting on a chair near the sidewalk. He was glaring hostilely in my direction. Many people in Germany at that time distrusted the missionaries, so I didn’t give it much thought.
As I spoke with a woman at the doorway to a nearby apartment, I heard someone coming up behind me. I turned and saw a policeman in uniform. I continued to talk, believing he had business with someone upstairs.
To my astonishment, he dropped a heavy hand on my shoulder and turned me around to face him.
“You will have to come with me,” he said quietly. “You’re under arrest.”
Astounded, I tried to keep my composure. I apologized to the woman and told her I would return later.
“Why am I being arrested?” I asked the policeman. He told me that I was accused of burglarizing an apartment and carrying off a valuable heirloom watch.
The officer explained that my accuser had found the watch missing the morning before. He contended that I had been the only person other than himself and his family to enter the building.
I remembered entering that building the day before. The first and second floors were occupied by a factory, but on the third floor was an apartment. As I had entered the building, a young man had approached me and asked where I was going and whom I wished to see. I had told him that I wanted to go upstairs and speak with the people who lived there. He had said nothing further, and I had ascended the stairs.
The door to the third-floor apartment had been left slightly open. No one had answered my knocks, so I had left and resumed tracting elsewhere.
I explained this to the officer. He was surprised to learn that he had arrested a missionary.
He then took me across the street to the man who had glared at me earlier. A teenager with the man looked ill at ease, but said “yes” when the officer asked if I was the burglar.
At the police station, I was ushered into the chief’s office. A police court, consisting of several plainclothes and uniformed policemen, was waiting for me. In a corner sat seven people who said they had witnessed my entering the building.
During the hour-long interrogation, I answered every question honestly and directly, with a prayer in my heart that the Lord would help me.
Then the seven witnesses testified against me. All stated that, except for the family, I had been the only person to go to the third-floor apartment the day before. It began to look as though I might spend several years in a German prison.
The police chief asked me if I had anything to say in my defense. I prayed fervently for assistance, then began speaking, hesitantly at first, in my broken German. I told those in the room why I was in Germany, and explained my mission. Suddenly I began to preach the gospel. A strange feeling came over me. I gradually lost control of my tongue, my arms, and my facial muscles.
The Holy Spirit had come to my rescue. I began to speak the language fluently, with confidence and power. When I concluded my testimony forty-five minutes later, I nearly slumped to the floor in exhaustion. There was complete silence in the room for at least a full minute.
Then the police chief said simply, “This man didn’t take the watch.”
He asked me many questions about myself and the Church. The hostility in the room and vanished. Then he turned to a detective and said, “Go with this young man to his room and search his belongings. If you don’t find the watch—and I’m sure you won’t—let him go. End this foolishness.”
As I walked back to my lodgings with the detective, I answered many questions he asked me. By the time we reached my room I had briefly explained the missionary program, the Book of Mormon, and our concept of the Lord.
The detective found two watches in my desk drawer. One was my old, broken watch, and the other was a cheap watch belonging to my companion. As the detective left, he assured me that I should contact him if I ever needed help during my stay in Heilbronn.
I breathed a prayerful sigh of thankfulness. The power of the Holy Ghost had been demonstrated in a miraculous fashion. I would never forget this day.

Brother Arnaldo Teles Grilo became one of my best friends when I was in my mid-20s. At the age of 62, Brother Grilo, then a retired engineer, was called as one of my counselors in the presidency of what was then the Oeiras Portugal District, where we served together for several years.
His wisdom and experience provided me, a young priesthood leader, much valuable counsel and insight. He was an optimist by nature; he always saw the bright side of every situation and had a good sense of humor. His attitude was a source of great inspiration to many around him and in particular to me because I knew about the arduous challenges he had faced.
After his graduation as an engineer, Brother Grilo joined the National Agronomic Agency as a researcher in Portugal and later traveled to one of the Portuguese colonies in Africa to lead a cotton research project. The project led him to a successful career as a senior executive in a large international bank in that country. During almost 30 years in Africa, he raised a beautiful family and enjoyed a good life until his family was abruptly forced to return to Portugal because of the tragedy of conflict and war.
Brother Grilo and his family left behind everything they had worked for—all their property and personal belongings—after witnessing firsthand the devastating effects of war on a country they loved.
Despite the confusion and turmoil generated by a war that gradually consumed all peace and stability during his last months in Africa, Brother Grilo rescued one of his friends by giving him an expensive car he had purchased in Germany. The car allowed his friend and his friend’s mother to escape the war.
The abundant material possessions that a life of hard work had provided Brother Grilo did not blur his priorities. He remained anchored in solid principles and love for his family.
Back in Portugal at age 52, he faced the reality of beginning everything from zero. With all of this adversity and tragedy, what made the difference in his life? Why was he so positive about the present and the future? Why was he so confident?
Brother Grilo was converted in the early days of the Church in Portugal and became a solid pillar and pioneer in that country. Several times he led his family to the temple in Switzerland, traveling 2,800 miles (4,500 km) round-trip in an expression of faith and devotion. Over his years of service, Brother Grilo and his wife brought joy to their children and many others.
Brother Grilo’s faith was centered in Jesus Christ and in the knowledge that in the end, Jesus Christ would reign. This gave him hope in the present and in the future.

Each family was given a wheelbarrow loaded with five large stones. They were told to continue up the path. Everyone was laughing and joking, and no one thought this last stretch would be hard at all. One strong boy could easily handle the loaded wheelbarrow, they thought—until they saw the last pull to the summit. It was so steep and slick that they would have a hard time just getting themselves up the hill. But their wheelbarrows and those loads of rocks would make it really hard work.
Each family figured out their own method for getting up the hill. ElRay Gene Hendricksen from the Hokksund Branch said, “We decided to share the burdens. Everyone took a stone out of the wheelbarrow. Two other guys took the empty wheelbarrow. We made it. We were the only family group who did it that way.”

Growing up on a ranch in southern Utah taught me a lot about working with animals and how dangerous they can be. We ran a herd of Hereford cows, including several bulls. I truly enjoyed working the cattle from the back of a horse and generally living a ranch life.
My family was active in the Church, and when we were living on the ranch, we always made the 30-mile trip on a gravel road to town for Sunday meetings. My parents taught me to pray, and throughout my life prayer has helped me through some difficult circumstances.
One day I learned to respond to the promptings of the Spirit quickly, and I believe it saved my life. At least it kept me from serious injury.
I was 14, and I was working not far away from the ranch house one summer day. I finished my work and was headed back through the corral that was enclosed by a very solid pole fence made of juniper posts and poles. Inside the corral was a herd of about 30 range cows, including our prime Hereford bull, Charlie, who weighed 2,000 pounds or more. My dad liked to have what he called “ton bulls,” and that certainly described Charlie.
I was walking along the pole fence, and Charlie was in my way, so I smacked him on his hip with my hand, and he scampered out of the way. I continued on past Charlie a few feet, with my back to him, when I heard what sounded like cows scuffling. I had heard that scuffling sound often and would have thought nothing of it, but something else went through my mind.
Quicker than I could even think about it, I knew I had to leap for my life. I lunged for the top pole of the fence, grabbed it, and yanked myself headfirst over onto the rocks and weeds on the other side. As I was about halfway across I had time to wonder if I had overreacted. I briefly even felt a bit embarrassed. Upon landing, I immediately looked back through the bottom poles to see what had happened, and there was Charlie’s massive head and horns, his nose about six inches from mine, staring at me through the fence with those empty, black eyes. It came to me forcefully that if I had questioned that instantaneous prompting for even the briefest moment, Charlie would have crushed me against the fence.
I learned two things from that experience. First was to never be on foot around a range herd. They don’t know you’re the boss unless you’re on a horse. Second, listen to the promptings of the Spirit without question—without hesitation. Satan is the one who tells you that you are overreacting. Living worthily (keeping the commandments, saying daily prayers, attending church, studying the scriptures) helped qualify me for spiritual gifts, especially a lightning-fast prompting to leap for my life.
I have not yet finished thanking my Heavenly Father for that blessing even though it’s been more than 50 years.

Now I will close with my testimony. I was not raised in the LDS Church, but like Nephi of old, I was raised by goodly parents. My mother and father honored God and taught my three brothers and me to do the same. My mother, now a widow, still sets the example for me by attending Catholic mass seven days a week. In my 42 years of life, my mom has always been a constant source of spiritual strength for me.

While I was at West Point as an undergraduate, I came across the Book of Mormon. I read it as a skeptic, in an attempt to prove it wrong. Halfway through that sacred text, I came across Alma 32 and the experiment. Recall that Alma compares the Book of Mormon to a seed and explains that if a person performs the experiment of reading and praying over the Book of Mormon, he or she can find out through the witness of the Holy Spirit if it is true.

I took the experiment, my heart was softened, and the Spirit bore testimony to me that the Book of Mormon is the word of God. With this knowledge, it was confirmed to me that the Bible is also the word of God, for the Book of Mormon testifies of it. Joseph Smith was an actual prophet, for he translated the work. The Lord’s Church has been restored on earth in these latter days. And most important, the Book of Mormon clearly testifies that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the Living God.

It has been over 20 years since I felt the still, small voice testify to me that the Book of Mormon is the word of God. I have felt that testimony many times between then and now.

I really enjoy reading the New Era. Recently I have been having problems. I knew I would have to tell my bishop in order to truly repent. I just couldn’t muster up the strength to confess my sins to him. Then I got the October 1989 issue. It talked about the problem I had in the Question and Answer section. After reading it I realized that I was not alone. That very day I went to my bishop and talked to him. It was hard, but your article gave me the strength. Thanks to the authors and the kids who told of their experiences. I know that you were truly inspired.
Name withheld

I have been trying to think of the ways in which my life has been influenced by the youth organizations. I cannot remember when I began, but it seems to me like I can remember going to the old Robinson Hall in Thatcher, Arizona, almost as early as I could walk. It was only two blocks from our home, and we could walk to and from it, and we crossed the Union Canal time and again. This big Robinson Hall was a brick building of rectangular shape, and an all-purpose building for the community dances, for the Sunday School and Primary, for all Church services, for the funerals, for celebrations, and for everything that went on in our little rural town.
One night this great building caught fire, and I remember the lighted sky and the columns of smoke and the consternation and excitement for all of us, for a big fire like this attracted the entire town and all came hurrying with their buckets to help put out the fire. We had no fire department, but all men and their sons rushed across the town at the earliest call of “fire.”
He who gave the leadership sent all the men and boys to the canal bank and lined them back to back toward the burning building. Standing on the bank of the canal, the first man drew a bucket full of water and handed the full bucket to another man and he to another and back to the crackling flames in the building. The last man doused the bucket of water on the flames. Many buckets of water were thrown on the fire, but the fire was gaining and finally the walls stood out as blackened sentinels, and we returned to our homes saddened and defeated. It was many years before the fire department was organized in our little town.

Janetta pulled the quilt close around her shoulders and shuddered. Even with its comfort and the warmth from the fire, she felt cold.
“Janna!” her little brother wailed from the lean-to. “I had a bad dream!”
“Come here,” she called softly, holding out her arms. He climbed onto her lap and snuggled down to sleep again. Soon the warmth from his small body flowed into hers and they were both warm.
James whimpered in his sleep, and she rocked him gently. His nightmares had begun this last year. It had been a year especially full of things that could disturb a three year old.
She looked away from their fire across the mighty Mississippi to Nauvoo, where she could see the distant flicker of fires that surrounded the temple where men were still working.
That was “her” temple. She felt a pride in it because she had helped build it. With her mother, she had cooked food and made clothes for the families of those who worked on the temple.
That was how she’d met her best friend, Sarah. One day when Janetta was delivering supper to some workers, she ran right into a girl her own age and knocked her down. When the girl got up, she put her hands on her hips and said, “Well, this is a fine way to meet a new friend.” She grinned at Janetta, then stuck out her hand. “I’m Sarah, and I’m new to the city.”
Janetta shook her hand. “I’m Janetta, and I’ve been here since the beginning.”
It was a great friendship. They giggled together as they spun wool, carded it, and knit through the long winter days. They were proud that men working on the Lord’s temple wore their socks.
Janetta looked again at the flickering lights and felt sadness creep in. Her father had left before the temple walls were up. Their family had never had the opportunity to go inside to be sealed together as a family.
The worst of the trouble had started the summer before, when the Prophet Joseph was killed. Everyone was numb from the tragedy. It was as if a cloud of darkness covered their beautiful city—only there weren’t any clouds.
With tears streaming down their cheeks, Sarah and Janetta had stood hand in hand as the bodies of the Prophet and his brother Hyrum passed by in a wagon coming from Carthage. Later, after the bodies had been prepared at the Mansion House, her parents stood in line to view them.
As the sorrow lessened, some of the Saints became confused. Rumors circulated in the city that the Church was doomed. Some predicted that the temple would never be finished. Several men claimed to be the next leader of the Church.
Janetta was troubled by the confusion. “Father,” she asked one day, “what will happen now? Who will lead the Church?”
Her father took her in his strong arms and hugged her. “This Church was true while Joseph lived, and it’s true now that he’s dead. It’s the Savior’s Church, and He’ll provide a leader for us. We’ll listen to the Brethren and follow what they say. There’s a meeting in the grove tomorrow, and Brother Brigham will tell us what’s right.”
The next day the Saints eagerly gathered at the grove. The first speaker was Sidney Rigdon. Janetta listened very carefully, for he claimed to be the proper leader of the Church. He talked on and on. The more he talked, the more she fidgeted and the worse she felt. She looked over at Sarah and caught her eye. When Sarah winked at Janetta, they both tried hard not to giggle,
Finally Sidney Rigdon sat down and Brigham Young closed the meeting. He announced another meeting under the direction of the Apostles at two o’clock.
Janetta and her parents hurried home and put James down for a nap. Leaving a neighbor to watch him, the three hurried back to the second meeting. Even though they were early, the only seats left were way in the back. Janetta was too short to see over people, but she could still hear the speakers.
Brigham Young stood up and began to speak. Hearing him, she felt a peace fill her. Then suddenly she jumped up and craned to see over the heads of the people in front of her. She thought she had heard the Prophet Joseph!
A blind man sitting beside her jumped up too. “That’s Joseph speaking to us. Surely he’s not dead!”
The extraordinary effect lasted only for seconds, but the people knew that Brigham Young had been chosen to lead the Church. They all listened very carefully to every word that he said.
When the meeting was over, Janetta hurried to find Sarah. “Did you hear him?” she asked excitedly. “He sounded just like the Prophet.”
“I not only heard him,” Sarah answered softly, “I saw him. It was like Brother Joseph was standing right there before us.”
The girls were silent for a moment as they reverently thought of what they’d just witnessed.
“I’ll never forget this,” Janetta whispered. “Brother Young is our prophet now. We can safely do everything he tells us to do.”
Soon after that memorable meeting, her father’s name was read as one of the missionaries called to go on a mission. Afterward the family wept together. They were proud that he was worthy to be called, but sad that he was leaving.
Then one crisp autumn morning Janetta kissed her father good-bye. They parted not knowing when or where they’d meet again. But they all knew that the Lord would protect them and reunite them, if not in this life then in the next.
“Janetta,” her mother said now, interrupting her thoughts, “I’m home. Let me take James and put him back to bed. You must be exhausted. Go to sleep.”
Janetta smiled at her mother. Here they were, camped on the bank of the river, with no roof over their heads, and yet her mother called it home. “Did Sister Brown have her baby?”
“Yes, a fine boy,” Mother answered happily. She warmed her hands by the fire. “I think he’ll be all right, even if he was born in the middle of the wide open spaces.” She turned to her daughter. “Go get some rest. We’ll be leaving early in the morning.”
“I can’t sleep,” Janetta answered sadly. “I keep thinking about our old home. I wonder who’s sleeping all warm and cozy in my bed.”
“I loved that house, too,” her mother answered softly. “Your father built it carefully to shelter us and make us happy. But we’ll be better off far away from the mobs, where we can be safe.”
Janetta continued to stare into the dying flames of the fire. Sleep and comfort seemed far-off.
Her mother rummaged around in their bags for their treasured copy of the Book of Mormon. She began softly to read aloud. At first Janetta only listened to her voice, not to the words. Then the words began to sink in. They told of Lehi and his family, who had left all their worldly goods in Jerusalem and fled into the wilderness.
Mother stopped reading. “It seems we’re in good company,” she said and smiled at her daughter. “We’re not the only ones of the Lord’s people who have had to leave their homes.”
Janetta smiled back, feeling the comfort she needed. Together they left the fire and went to their beds. She said her prayers and snuggled into the bed. She knew that the Saints were doing the will of God. She’d had that witness that they were being led by a prophet. It brought her peace.

As an example of the blessings that come through the learning process at BYU-Idaho, I would like to share two examples. The first is the blessings that have come to my own family through study at BYU-Idaho. The second is a family friend studying from a distance but witnessing similar blessings.

We are a pretty average family. Neither of my parents completed college as young adults. My dad didn't feel he belonged, and my mom was so homesick she couldn't make it any longer here at Ricks College. Yet they paved the way for their future posterity through years of tireless effort. From their examples of diligence, five of my brothers graduated from BYU-Idaho; one brother's educational journey isn't over yet. We were each first-generation college students. Besides the five brothers, my wife and four of my sisters-in-law also graduated from BYU-Idaho.

Here we have developed as disciples of Jesus Christ while preparing to meet a need in the world. As we diligently seek to live lives of discipleship, service has taken different forms, including employment in various fields of healthcare, management, education, and tourism. We also developed the capacity to serve in callings within our wards and stakes. Fundamental to our schooling at BYU-Idaho, we learned the greatest work we do is within the walls of our home. Education has enhanced our discipleship. We now strive to replicate the pattern taught to us at BYU-Idaho by preparing and teaching our children to be disciples of Jesus Christ

For those not able to gather on campus, I would also like to share an example of a family friend from Sialkot, Pakistan.

Nosheen Rahat is a great example of making her home a temple of learning. She has engaged in the sacred journey of being a pioneer in her family by seeking education one step at a time. Knowing that the knowledge and skills she gains will bless her and her family, she began Pathway Connect and is now pursuing a BYU-Idaho certificate through BYU-Pathway Worldwide. As a convert to the Church, her educational pursuits are an act of faith. She is a purpose-driven mother who desires to serve her family. BYU-Pathway Worldwide’s certificate-first approach has allowed her to begin working as a customer service and marketing specialist while providing the added support her family needs. Her pursuit of education is a blessing to herself and her family, even for many generations to come.