Gospel Story Finder

It was on Monday, 10 August 2020—around 8 p.m.—I was in a hurry to leave the office and rush home before the 9 p.m. curfew, which was set by the government as a safety measure to reduce the spread of the coronavirus.
I changed into my riding gear: beginning at my feet, then my knee guards, my jacket, and then reflector straps. I grabbed my helmet and headed out of the office. My motorbike was all alone in the dimly lit parking lot. Everyone else had already gone home, I thought, “maybe they are having dinner with their families right now”. I put on my helmet and the gloves, sat astride my motorbike, and turn on the ignition—Oh, I loved the sound of that Suzuki engine. Off I went as I waved goodbye to the security guard.
Over the years I have been riding the same road to work—I have ridden it so long that I have memorized the entire route, the bumps, a corner, even where the potholes are. That night, time was not on my side so I figured I should rush to the supermarket next to my house before it closed so that I could grab something to eat. Down the hill I descended—I think I was doing 70 kph—when suddenly I saw a monkey in the middle of my lane. I wanted to swerve but there was an oncoming vehicle in the other lane, also in a hurry to get home before curfew. I stepped on the rear brakes and gently tried to slow the bike, but I lost control, went airborne, and landed on the tarmac—flat on my stomach. The bike made several rolls and slid off the road.
For a moment I couldn’t hear anything but a buzzing sound. I could not feel my body. I tried to raise my head, but it was too heavy. I thought to myself, “I am either dead or paralyzed.” A few moments later, I heard someone ask if I was okay, and another surprised voice declared, “It’s a lady rider!” I tried again to raise my head and managed to look up. But all I could see were pieces of my beautiful motorbike scattered over the tarmac.
These good Samaritans helped me up and took me on the side of the road. They asked me to sit, relax, and to confirm if I was feeling pain anywhere in my body. They picked up my motorbike and moved it off the road, and I could hear one of them saying, “From the look of the bike, the lady must be badly injured.”
I stood up and noticed I was not in pain. I could walk, I could talk, I could also move my hands without feeling any pain. I was perfectly fine.
It dawned on me that I miraculously had escaped any injuries—even worse, death. I sat back and asked myself “If I were to die today, am I prepared to meet my maker?” Well, the honest answer was, “No. I wasn’t.” That part scared me the most, not the idea of dying but the fact that I was not prepared.
As a Latter-day Saint, I remembered how many times I have been counseled by leaders of the Church to be ready at all times just like the five virgins described in Matthew 25:1–13. I realized I had put more focus on worldly things than on things eternal. “It was time to change all this “I reckoned. “So, what do I need to do, Lord?” I asked.
Elder Kim B. Clark of the Seventy once said, “‘Look unto Jesus Christ in every thought. Doubt not. Fear not’. This is a call to trust the Lord completely, to surrender our will and to yield our hearts to Him and through His redeeming power to become like Him”1.
I determined that what I need to do is to offer a sincere prayer to the Lord, to repent of my sins every day, to feast on His word, to keep His commandments, to partake of the sacrament, to keep His Sabbath holy, and to worship in His holy temple as often as I can.
Since that day of the crash, I strive to do these simple acts of faith—following Elder Clark’s advice: “Look unto Jesus Christ in every thought. Doubt not. Fear not.” I testify I have felt the love of my Heavenly Father drawing me closer and closer to Him and I have felt the sanctifying influence of the Holy Ghost as the days go by.

A month or two later, I was up in my bedroom, alone, not particularly troubled or unhappy, but thoughtful. In the top drawer of my desk lay a paperback copy of A Marvelous Work and a Wonder, a parting gift from my former Mormon girlfriend.
Thinking of her, and recalling Jimmy’s presentation and other conversations I’d had with LDS kids, I pulled the book out and began reading. Maybe it would help me understand why they could talk about knowing their church was true.
The opening pages contained Joseph Smith’s story of his first vision, and as I read it, it struck me that this man, or boy, or whoever he was, was telling the truth. While I experienced no blaring trumpets or burning bosoms or bright lights or heavenly messengers, his story was quite simple and plain and logical to me. I set the book down on my desk and felt a surge of quiet confidence, a feeling I now recognize as the Holy Ghost, confirm what I had just read.
Such sudden and sure knowledge startled me because I realized that if Joseph Smith’s story was true, the church he founded must also be true. As I pondered my newly discovered testimony, I knew that I’d have to do something about it, though I wasn’t sure what. I decided that tomorrow I’d give my former girlfriend a call and tell her I knew what she and her friends knew and ask her if she had any ideas what I should do next.
Well, she had plenty of ideas, and the busy weeks of missionary discussions, fasting, and prayer that followed only served to confirm what I had first realized after reading Joseph Smith’s story one spring afternoon in my bedroom: It’s true. I know it!

During Primary sharing time, Sister Keddington held up a picture of Jesus with the ten lepers.
Shaun knew the story. It was one of his mother’s favorites, and she told it often in family home evening.
“Who can tell us this story?” Sister Keddington asked.
Shaun raised his hand. “Jesus healed ten men who had leprosy. But only one remembered to thank Jesus for curing him. The other nine walked away without saying anything.”
“How do you think that made Jesus feel?” Sister Keddington asked.
“Sad,” Shaun said.
Sister Keddington nodded. “I think Jesus felt very sad when the other nine men walked away without thanking Him.”
Shaun thought about last Sunday when his mother had asked him to write a thank-you note to his grandparents for the birthday gift they had sent him. Shaun had been too busy playing with his new game to take time to write them.
Then he thought about Jesus’s disappointment with the men who didn’t show their gratitude to Him. Was that how his grandparents felt because he hadn’t bothered to thank them for their gift?
His grandparents lived almost 2,000 miles away. Shaun didn’t get to see them very often, but he knew that they loved him, just as he loved them. His grandma wrote him every week, and his grandpa always had a new joke to tell Shaun when they phoned each Sunday night.
After Shaun’s family got home from church, he didn’t stop in the kitchen for a snack as he usually did. He hurried to his room and pulled out a notebook of lined paper.
Shaun spent a long time writing the note to his grandparents, making his letters in neat cursive. He thanked them for the gift and told them how much he loved them.
When he finished, he read the letter again. Satisfied with it, he ran downstairs and found his mother. “Mom, do you have an envelope and stamp I can use? I wrote the thank-you note to Grandma and Grandpa.”
His mother smiled. “I know they’ll be glad to get it.”
With her help, Shaun addressed the envelope and slipped the letter inside.
“There’s someone else who deserves our gratitude as well,” his mother said.
Shaun knew she meant Heavenly Father. Before Shaun went to sleep that night, he knelt by his bed and thanked Heavenly Father for the many blessings He gave Shaun and his family every day.

“The Savior once asked His disciples the following question: ‘What shall a man give in exchange for his soul?’ (Matthew 16:26).
“This is a question that my father taught me to carefully consider years ago. As I was growing up, my parents assigned me chores around the house and paid me an allowance for that work. I often used that money, a little over 50 cents a week, to go to the movies. Back then a movie ticket cost 25 cents for an 11-year-old. This left me with 25 cents to spend on candy bars, which cost 5 cents apiece. A movie with five candy bars! It couldn’t get much better than that.
“All was well until I turned 12. Standing in line one afternoon, I realized that the ticket price for a 12-year-old was 35 cents, and that meant two less candy bars. Not quite prepared to make that sacrifice, I reasoned to myself, ‘You look the same as you did a week ago.’ I then stepped up and asked for the 25-cent ticket. The cashier did not blink, and I bought my regular five candy bars instead of three.
“Elated by my accomplishment, I later rushed home to tell my dad about my big coup. As I poured out the details, he said nothing. When I finished, he simply looked at me and said, ‘Son, would you sell your soul for a nickel?’ His words pierced my 12-year-old heart. It is a lesson I have never forgotten.”
Elder Robert C. Gay of the Seventy

The room was small. Mirrored darkly in the panes of a tall china closet, it seemed even smaller. The deep afternoon hinted of spice, cedar, and old wool. The creak of a rocking chair and the ticking of a clock seemed quieter than mere silence.
Serious young men in the uniforms of two wars, flanked by snapshots of lacy babies and an embroidered rose, looked down out of their gilded frames onto a couch overflowing with pillows. The room was full of time-worn furniture and the dainty odds and ends a woman can accumulate in a lifetime.
Two windows spread sunlight through white curtains covered with moving leaf-shadows, highlighting here a ceramic ballerina on her crocheted doily, there a white pin jar, elsewhere a flight of plaster angels flapping up one wall toward a high ceiling.
In the best light a white-haired lady sat working, her knitting on her lap. She hummed softly to herself and glanced from time to time at the hands of the clock. When the door chimes sounded, she soon had the door open. “Come in,” she said warmly to the three smiling girls who stood outside, “I’ve been expecting you.”
She was expecting them because weeks earlier Laurel president Donna Muir had suggested that something should be done for the elderly. The young people of the Culver City and La Cienega wards, who meet together for activity night, agreed, and so they sought and received inspiration. The result was an innovative service project that would allow some of the widows and widowers in the area to give just as much as they received. Small groups of young people would visit selected oldsters and chat with them about their lives. The interviews would be recorded and preserved as a contribution to oral history. They decided that each group would take a small present to those they visited to show their love and appreciation.
And in other houses, other cassettes turned, other pens scratched, and warm, old voices escorted other young people into the heart of other times and other lives. It was a guided tour of history—not embalmed textbook history, but history still alive and breathing. Horizons of time, space, and personality were broadened, and everyone, young and old, knew that they were co-citizens of forever.
Several weeks after the last stop buttons had been pushed and the last goodbyes said, the young people hosted their elderly friends at a dinner where each of them was presented with a typed transcript of what he had said. It had nothing to do with a service project anymore. It was a get-together between friends.
The young men and women involved in the visits speak glowingly of the experience. Brother George Mitchell, an immigrant from Bulgaria, was visited by Alfred Griffith, Bruce Wright, Sandra Tong, and Myra-Lynn Jensen, who took an apple pie as a gift. Sandra later commented, “He talked for two hours, and when we left, he had just made it up to 1945. He has lived an interesting life. I never realized what a struggle immigrants to our country experience.” Myra-Lynn added, “The thing I remember is that he said that the apartment he lives in at the low-rent housing project is like a palace compared to the tar-paper shack he lived in when he first came to this country.”
Donna Muir, Mary Synold, and Diane Muir visited Sister Ruth Yancy, an elderly widow in poor health who devotes all the time she can to visiting disabled veterans at a veterans hospital. The young ladies, who took along a plate of cookies, were amazed at the amount of information Sister Yancy had given them. Diane said, “Older people seem so quiet, but they really have a story to tell. I didn’t know Sister Yancy at all, but I appreciate her as a person now. I can see the good she has done throughout her life.”
Sister Hazel Gotts, a widow who is a recent convert, was visited by Gerilynn Price and Mark Packard, the priests quorum group leader. They took her a cake. Mark reports, “I enjoyed talking with a person who has been around so long and seen so much. I think it’s a good way for the youth and older people to get to know and understand each other better. I had a very nice feeling when I left, knowing I had made someone happy, and I know she was very happy to know that someone cares about her. She enjoyed telling us about herself. I think it would be nice if the youth could establish a close relationship with the elderly people in the ward.”
The bishops of both wards suggested many people who would enjoy a visit, and five were chosen for the initial project. Youth leaders contacted each of these people to see if they would be willing to be visited. One elderly lady burst into tears and said, “Visit? With me? I’ve been so lonely.” Another replied, “The young people are so beautiful! I’d just love for them to come.” All five were eager to participate.
So the visits were scheduled, the preparations made.
Inside the house of the white curtains, the three young ladies complimented their hostess on her hand-painted china, broke the ice with a little small talk, and again explained their mission. Soon the tape recorder was set up, one young lady had her pen poised above a notebook ready to take notes, and the good sister started talking about her girlhood and her life. On the rare occasions when she ran dry momentarily, the girls were ready with well-conceived questions to start the flow again.
As they listened and the cassette turned, a wonderful thing happened. Years blurred and ran together, and the Laurels were no longer in the little house of sunlight and painted china. They were in Heber City, Utah, around the turn of the century, seeing life through the eyes of a young Mormon girl. They knew the bitterness of the winters, the headiness of mountain springs, the crushes, hopes, and secrets of being young. They met and loved all the old forgotten people, old and forgotten no more, who had filled a girl’s childhood. They visited a sawmill on the Utah-Wyoming border where she had spent some summers and smelled the sweetness of clean-sawed pine. They lived with her her first time away from home.
“It’s an awful thing to be homesick,” she said, closing her eyes and remembering, but with a smile. And then, in the present again for a moment, she leaned forward and asked, with a twinkle in her eyes, “Have you girls ever been homesick?”
Suddenly there was no generation gap—no time barrier between Utah then and California now—as the girls realized more fully than ever that people don’t stop being people just because they grow old. They forgot all about tape recorders and oral history for a while and talked friend to friend about homesickness, and family, and love, and all the other things that never stop mattering, and for a moment they glimpsed a more eternal perspective of existence and saw time as the sham it is.
Randy Tong, Gayle Allen, and Susan Langford visited Sister LaVern Brown who had suffered several severe falls and couldn’t get out much, and they presented her with a potted plant. The youth unanimously reported that it had been a delightful experience. Sister Brown later commented, “Oh, those young people were just so nice, but so quiet. I had to do all the talking.”
Sister Louella Norberg was visited by Kathy Peterson, Joele Chafant, Deanna Peterson, and Kiku Okauchi. Kathy said of the visit, “Joele, Deanna, Kiku, and I met outside her apartment and were standing there wondering how we should approach her when she stuck her head out and called, ‘Yoo-hoo, girls! Here I am!’ and invited us in to see her. It was fascinating. She told us things that happened over the years, and I really enjoyed it. I know she liked it a lot too because she kissed us all before we left.”
A kiss on the cheek in California—it’s a little thing, but it’s the sort of little thing that’s teaching youth all over the Church that service is truly its own reward.

In November 1950 Tumuaki Cowley wrote the history of the New Zealand Mission for his missionaries. He told of a convention that was called for representatives of certain tribes of the Maori race in March 1881. Many problems were discussed at the meeting, but the problem of greatest concern was the need to decide which church the Maoris should join so there would be a unity of religious belief among them.
Those attending the convention could find no answer to this great problem, so it was agreed that the matter should be decided by Paora Potangaroa, the wisest chief and the most learned man they knew. His immediate answer was just one word, “Taihoa” (wait). He wanted three days to think about the problem.
For three days Paora Potangaroa fasted and prayed for direction. Then he went before the people and said, “The church for the Maori people has not yet come among us. It will come soon. You will recognize it when it does, for its missionaries will travel in pairs. They will come from the rising sun. They will visit with us in our homes. They will learn our language and teach us in our own tongue.”
At this time the missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had not yet taught the Maori people, although a few missionaries had been teaching the gospel to Europeans living in New Zealand.
In that very year, 1881, W. M. Bromley of Springville, Utah, was sent to preside over the New Zealand Mission. Before leaving home, he was told that the time had come for the missionaries to take the gospel to the Maori people.
When Tumuaki Cowley returned to New Zealand as mission president, he adopted the words Kia Ngawari as a slogan for all the Saints there. He had the phrase printed on little signs that could be taken into every home. Each talk Tumuaki Cowley gave ended with these stirring words. There is no exact translation for them in English. Some say the meaning is “be sincere”; others, “be loving and kind.”
Today the Maoris sing a song that has this slogan for a title. It was written in honor of Tumuaki Cowley, and as they sing it they remember him with special love.
Kia Ngawari!

Recently I have been thinking about two significant callings I received as a priesthood holder in the Church.
The first of these callings came when I was a deacon. I attended with my family the branch of the Church in Frankfurt, Germany. We were blessed with many wonderful people in our little branch. One was our branch president, Brother Landschulz. I admired him a great deal, even though he always seemed to be rather serious, very official, and most of the time dressed in a dark suit. I remember as a young man joking with my friends how old-fashioned our branch president appeared.
It makes me laugh to think about this now because it is very possible that the youth of the Church today view me in a very similar way.
One Sunday, President Landschulz asked if he could speak with me. My first thought was, “What did I do wrong?” My mind raced over the many things I might have done that could have inspired this branch-president-to-deacon talk.
President Landschulz invited me into a small classroom—our chapel did not have an office for the branch president—and there he extended a call to me to serve as deacons quorum president.
“This is an important position,” he said, and then he took his time and described why. He explained what he and the Lord expected of me and how I could receive help.
I don’t remember much of what he said, but I do remember well how I felt. A sacred, divine Spirit filled my heart as he spoke. I could feel that this was the Savior’s Church. And I felt that the calling he had extended was inspired by the Holy Ghost. I remember walking out of that tiny classroom feeling quite a bit taller than before.
It has been nearly 60 years since that day, and I still treasure these feelings of trust and love.
As I was thinking back on this experience, I tried to remember just how many deacons there were in our branch at the time. To my best recollection, I believe there were two. However, this may be a huge exaggeration.
But it really didn’t matter whether there was one deacon or a dozen. I felt honored, and I wanted to serve to the best of my ability and not disappoint either my branch president or the Lord.
I realize now that the branch president could have merely gone through the motions when he called me to this position. He could have simply told me in the hallway or during our priesthood meeting that I was the new deacons quorum president.
Instead, he spent time with me and helped me understand not only the what of my assignment and new responsibility but, much more important, the why.
That is something I will never forget.

President David O. McKay tells of a singular event that happened to him. After falling asleep, he said he “beheld in vision something infinitely sublime.” He saw a beautiful city, a great concourse of people dressed in white, and the Savior.
“The city, I understood, was his. It was the City Eternal; and the people following him were to abide there in peace and eternal happiness.
“But who were they?
“As if the Savior read my thoughts, he answered by pointing to a semicircle that then appeared above them, and on which were written in gold the words:
“These Are They Who Have Overcome the World—Who Have Truly Been Born Again!
“When I awoke, it was breaking day.” (Cherished Experiences from the Writings of President David O. McKay, comp. Clare Middlemiss, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1976, pp. 59–60.)

During the attempted coup in December 1989, members and nonmembers on Mactan island were evacuated to a meetinghouse in Cebu, where Church members provided food and encouragement. “This experience strengthened us—the members and the leaders,” says Remus Villarete, regional representative in Cebu. “The members invited the nonmembers to testimony meeting the following Sunday to express their feelings, and some less-active members became active.”

Rachel ran through the living room and rushed up the stairs to her bedroom. She and her best friend, Becca, were going to the park to try out Becca’s new rollerblades.
As Rachel was pulling her own rollerblades out from under her bed, Mom came into the room. “I’m going over to Sister Heaton’s for a few hours, and I need you to stay with David.”
“But Becca and I are going to the park right now!”
“I’m sorry to ruin your plans, Rachel, but Sister Heaton still isn’t feeling well after her operation, and I promised to help take care of her today. David will be up from his nap in about a half hour, and then you two can play for a while until Dad gets home.”
“But I don’t want to play with David—I want to go to the park!”
“I know you do, but today you need to stay home and take care of your little brother. You can go to the park tomorrow. I’m sorry, but Sister Heaton needs me, and I need you to help me.”
As Rachel watched Mom going down the street, she was so angry that she almost cried. Why did she have to take care of David? It wasn’t fair that she had to give up a trip to the park just so her mom could take care of somebody.
She called Becca to tell her the bad news, and as she hung up the phone, the doorbell rang. It was Aunt Pearl, her mom’s younger sister.
“Hi, Aunt Pearl. Mom’s not here.”
“That’s OK—I can’t stay. I just came to return your mom’s sewing machine. Mine is fixed now, so I don’t need hers anymore. And I thought that maybe I’d spend a few minutes with my favorite niece!”
Rachel gave her a weak smile and tried to seem happy, but Aunt Pearl noticed Rachel wasn’t really feeling happy.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, I was going to go to the park with Becca, but Mom told me I had to stay and take care of David so she could help a woman in our ward.”
“That’s too bad. If it were any other day but today, I’d stay so you could be with your friend. But I have a doctor’s appointment, and I can’t reschedule it.”
“I guess I’ll be OK. It’s just that I really wanted to go to the park today.”
“You know, there might be something I could do.”
“What?”
“Sit down with me, and I’ll tell you a story.”
Rachel wasn’t sure a story would fix things—a story couldn’t baby-sit for her. But Aunt Pearl usually knew what she was talking about, so Rachel followed her to the couch.
“When your great-great-grandmother Emily Burk left Nauvoo to come west, she had an old hen she wanted to bring with her. It had been doing something rather unusual—sitting on a nest of duck eggs—and Emily just couldn’t leave her behind. So she set up a box in the wagon for the nest. Soon the ducklings hatched, and every night when the wagon train stopped, Emily filled a washtub with water and let the little ducks swim. Everyone in camp came to watch them.
“You see, Rachel, part of being a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is helping others. There’s even a scripture in the Book of Mormon that tells us how important it is to ‘bear one another’s burdens’ [Mosiah 18:8]. Heavenly Father wants us to take care of those who can’t take care of themselves.”
“You mean, just like Emily took care of the chicken and like the chicken took care of the ducks?”
“And just like the Lord took care of the pioneers and how He still takes care of all of us. He wants us to be happy, so He watches over us.”
“Why doesn’t He take care of Sister Heaton instead of having Mom do it?”
“That’s how He is taking care of Sister Heaton—through your mother. Most of the time Heavenly Father answers our prayers through someone else.”
“So Mom is Heavenly Father’s answer to Sister Heaton’s prayers?”
“Probably. Your mother is helping Sister Heaton rest and get her mind off her troubles, sort of like those ducklings helped the tired pioneers find a little bit of enjoyment at the end of their long days.”
“But why do I have to baby-sit?”
“So your mom can help Sister Heaton. The ducks wouldn’t have been able to bring some enjoyment to the pioneers if the chicken hadn’t cared for them. Your mom wouldn’t be able to help Sister Heaton if she did not know you would take good care of your brother while she’s gone.”
“So, in a way, I’m helping Sister Heaton too?”
“In a very big way.”
“Then I guess I don’t feel so bad about waiting until tomorrow to go skating.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
As Aunt Pearl left, Rachel heard David waking up. On her way upstairs to get him, she thought more about what Aunt Pearl had said. Rachel was still a bit disappointed to miss out on the trip to the park, but it helped to know that taking care of David helped Heavenly Father take care of Sister Heaton.

Rubi Monzon, who recently returned from her mission, is the seminary teacher. “When I was 14, my mother died,” she says. “It was very hard on my family. Often I would be home alone, feeling lonely. One time, I was crying, and I heard a voice telling me that I wasn’t alone and that the Lord was with me and would help me. It was a soothing voice, and it made me feel good. Since then, I have felt at peace, knowing that the Lord loves me and will always be with me.”
Three years after her mother died, Rubi and her family were sealed in the Guatemala City Temple. “I feel grateful for the opportunity Heavenly Father has given us to become an eternal family. I know that through obedience I will always be with my mother, father, and brothers and sisters. Many times I think about my mother, and I know that in just a short while we can all be together again.”

When Amy R. decided to read the Bible all the way through, her first thought was, “Wow, this is going to take so long.”
It was 2006, and Amy had just finished President Gordon B. Hinckley’s (1910–2008) challenge to read the Book of Mormon. Because she felt so good when she accomplished her goal, she decided to read the Bible next.
“When I first opened the Bible, I thought maybe it was too much,” Amy says. “But I also knew that if I never started the Bible, I would never finish the Bible.”
Amy began reading a little bit every night, just as she had done with the Book of Mormon. She did that for the next two years.
Sometimes Amy’s schedule was busier than usual. Sometimes at night she was tired and just wanted to go to sleep. But even when these things happened, she kept going.
There were times when Amy didn’t understand what she was reading. She would pray to Heavenly Father and ask Him to help her understand. Amy says those prayers were always answered. She also says reading the scriptures helped her know how to use words such as Thee and Thy when she prays.
In December 2008, when she was 10 years old, Amy finished the Bible. As a special Christmas gift, she wrote a letter to her dad about her experience. When her dad read the letter, his eyes filled with tears. “I almost felt like crying too because I was so happy,” Amy says. “I knew I had done a good thing.”
Does Amy have a favorite verse from her reading? No, but she says she often thinks about the people in the scriptures.“Knowing stories from the scriptures has helped me with my problems,” Amy says. “When I start feeling bad for myself, I compare my problem to the problems of the people in the scriptures. That helps me to have a better attitude and be more thankful about my situation. The scriptures have changed my life and helped me be happier.”

We are reminded of a young boy whose home was threatened by a severe storm. All day there had been reports of it on the radio and when evening came, he and his mother heard frightening warnings. The boy grew more and more upset. Suddenly, with a loud crash, the power failed. The radio became silent and the house was plunged into darkness. Then the mother heard muffled sobs from her young son.

“Try not to be upset,” she told him. “We’ve prepared as well as we could. After all, we are together, and there’s nothing more we can do about it.”

“I know,” he answered. “I know there’s nothing we can do about it. But isn’t there something more we can do about us?”

So in the darkness the mother and the boy knelt together and prayed for courage and comfort and safety. The storm did not cease, but a sweet peace came to them and stayed in their hearts until help arrived.

For a number of years we have lived outside of the city. We have horses and other farm animals, including chickens. Some of the chickens are free to roam the barnyard. The children have to be alert to find where these chickens lay their eggs, for sometimes they are found in the haystack or in the woods or under the woodpile.
One spring a little speckled hen hid her nest under the manger in a small place where she could not be seen. None of us knew where she was, but we were sure that she must be sitting on a nest somewhere.
One day when I arrived home, the children came running to tell me that they had found the little hen and her nest. They had found the nest because the chicks had hatched and had begun to make little peeping noises.
They pulled me to the barn, and I carefully reached back under the hen and brought out a handful of little chicks. As the children gathered around, touching the soft little chicks, one of our daughters took a chick and held it carefully.
“That will certainly make a nice watchdog when it grows up, won’t it?” I asked. She looked at me like I didn’t know very much, telling her a chick would grow to be a dog.
I quickly corrected myself and said, “It won’t grow up to be a watchdog. It will be a nice riding horse, won’t it?”
She looked at me again with a puzzled expression, for even though she was only four years old, she knew that the little chicken would not grow up to be a dog or a horse or even a pheasant or turkey. Somehow she knew that the little chick would grow up to be either a hen or a rooster—much like its mother or father.

On a winter day not long after her baptism, Renee learned firsthand about the protection of the Holy Ghost. As she walked out the doors of her school, she heard a voice say, “Stop!” She looked around. She couldn’t see anyone, so she started forward again. Once again, the voice said, “Stop!” She obeyed.
As soon as she stopped, a pile of snow and big chunks of ice slid off the roof of the building and landed right in front of her! Her heart beat fast as she looked at the snow. If those ice chunks had hit her head, she could have been badly hurt.
Renee knew the Holy Ghost had warned her to stop. That night in her prayers, she thanked Heavenly Father for the gift of the Holy Ghost.

As I went into surgery a few years ago, I was still conscious when the doctors and nurses were standing around me waiting, I said to the specialist, “There are numerous people full of faith who are praying for you this morning.” He quietly replied, “I’ll need their prayers.” It is my firm conviction that the numerous prayers were heard, that his hand was steadied and guided, that his judgment increased, and that as a result of the blessings of the Lord, healing followed and my voice returned to a satisfactory extent. The skeptic might have other answers.

The day after Mother’s Day, Eric and his mom went to the local pharmacy to fill a prescription. Eric walked around the pharmacy while his mother purchased the medication. When they got back in the car, Eric asked if he could talk to his mom for a minute.
“Sure, Son,” Mom said, reaching for the ignition.
Eric grabbed her hand and said, “Don’t go. Can we talk right here?” Mom turned off the ignition and shifted in her seat to listen.
Eric then told her about a boy in his school class named Josh.* His mother had died of cancer during the previous Christmas holidays. He said that ever since then, Josh was often very sad at school. Sometimes his dad even had to come and take him home from school because he couldn’t stop crying.
Mother’s Day had been very hard for Josh. He had brought a stuffed bear to school that next day and had hugged it for comfort all the time. During recess, he had taken the bear out onto the playground. Some of the bigger kids took Josh’s bear away from him. While they teased him by throwing it back and forth, the bear had ripped apart. Eric felt bad because he knew that Josh’s family didn’t have a lot of money and that they might not be able to buy him another bear. While in the pharmacy, Eric had seen a bear just like Josh’s. He wanted permission to spend his allowance money to buy it for him.
Eric and his mom went back into the pharmacy and bought the bear. Eric took it to school in his backpack the next day. Mom told Eric not to give the bear to Josh until she’d made sure it was OK with their teacher. The teacher said that she would be glad to arrange for Eric to give the bear to Josh.
That evening, Mom asked Eric how it went. He said that their teacher had asked the two of them to stay in for a few minutes while the rest of the class went to recess. She’d asked Josh what had happened to his bear the day before. Josh’s first words were “Eric didn’t do it.”
She said that wasn’t the reason she’d had them stay in and then explained that Eric wanted to give him another bear. The bear went from backpack to backpack for safe keeping. Eric said that Josh almost cried when he gave it to him. Eric said that the best feeling of all was to see Josh smile, and, as he left for the day, Josh gave him a big high-five.

“Hurry up, Mom!” five-year-old Jackson shouted. He grabbed the Book of Mormon story book and sat down on the bright blue chair.
Four-year-old Michelle climbed up beside him. “Story time!” she cried, eagerly clapping her hands.
Mother squeezed between them on the chair and opened the book. “Let’s see. … Yesterday, we were reading about the Anti-Nephi-Lehies, weren’t we?”
Jackson nodded.
“They were Lamanites. And they’d been converted to the gospel, remember?”
“And they were really wicked!” Michelle declared emphatically.
“Yes, they were really wicked. But when they were converted, they wanted to repent,” said Mother. “They promised the Lord that they would never fight again. In fact, they buried all their weapons of war in a big pit—see,” she said, pointing to the picture.
“Wow!” Jackson cried excitedly. “Look at all those weapons. Swords and bows and arrows and all kinds of things!”
“That looks fun!” exclaimed Michelle. “Let’s bury our weapons, too, Jackson!”
Jackson giggled. “Oh, Michelle, don’t be silly. We don’t have any weapons.”
“Hmmm,” Mother said thoughtfully. “You may not use swords and bows and arrows, but sometimes the things that come out of your mouths hurt too.”
Michelle looked puzzled. “What comes out of our mouths?” she asked.
“Words,” said Mother.
“You mean words like stupid and dumb, don’t you?” Jackson asked.
“Right,” said Mother. “Sometimes words hurt as much as a punch on the arm.”
“Then we must bury our bad words,” Michelle urged, “and never use them again!”
“I know what,” said Mother. “You tell me some words that hurt other people’s feelings, and I’ll write them down on slips of paper. Then you can dig a big hole and bury all those bad words, just like the Lamanites buried their weapons.”
“Great idea!” Jackson exclaimed. They found some paper and tore it into pieces. Then they thought of all the unkind words that they knew. Mother wrote them down.
“Come on, Michelle, let’s go dig that pit now,” Jackson called enthusiastically. They took their dad’s shovel out of the shed and hurried to an area behind the house where they could dig.
Jackson dug the shovel tip into the dark, rocky soil. He pushed as hard as he could, but the ground was so hard that he loosened only a small clump of dirt.
“Wow! You’re not very strong,” Michelle teased.
“Well, you’re pretty weak yourself,” he growled back. Then he stopped. “Hey, wait a minute. We’re supposed to be burying those kinds of words! Sorry.”
“Me, too,” Michelle told him sincerely. “How about trying this?” she suggested, handing him a garden trowel that they used in their sandpile.
Jackson took it and chipped at the dirt while Michelle dug with a stick.
Soon they were covered with dust and dirt, but the hole was dug. They put all the papers with the unkind words written on them into the hole. Then they pushed the dirt back.
“Are you finished yet?” Mother called from the kitchen window. “I’ve made some hot muffins for my two hungry Anti-Nephi-Lehies.”
“Yes,” answered Jackson. “Our weapons are finally buried!”
“And,” Michelle solemnly declared, “we won’t ever use them again!”

I was recently in Vladivostok, on the east coast of Russia. As I sat on the stand at the beginning of a youth and adult fireside, I noticed a young man in the second row immersed in a Duty to God guidebook for priests. I was thrilled and thought to myself: “Marvelous! Seventeen time zones away from Salt Lake City, and Duty to God is alive and well.” When I rose to speak, I asked him what his name was.
“Gere,” was the reply.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
I then moved to my real inquiry: “I noticed that you have been reading a book. What book have you been reading?”
Quickly came the reply: “I don’t know!”
“Well, where did you get it?”
“Out in the hall just before the meeting!” was his reply.
Immediately, as Gere spoke, Dimitri, a young man on the front row, jumped up, left the room, quickly returned with his own copy, and began to read. They were so ready for opportunities to grow.

“I’ve missed you”. These were words spoken to Church missionaries by a member of the cast of the Book of Mormon musical.
In October 2021 the Book of Mormon musical began its performances in The Millenium Centre in Cardiff. On the opening evening, I had the privilege of going to the Millennium Centre, along with Stake President Jason Spragg and Bishop Stefan Liassides of Cardiff Ward. We had all attended training in preparation for questions from the media or audience members.
We waited as the audience made their way out after seeing the show, where they were met by 40 missionaries in bright white shirts and missionary tags clearly in view. These young men and women stood firm in their beliefs and were a shining example to us who stood by. They were polite, friendly, and answered all questions. Some people stopped to listen and then while walking away would exclaim, “They are the real ones”. I remember seeing one young missionary run to his mission president in excitement proclaiming, “We need more, we need more!” He was referring to the pass-along cards, and leaflets with more information about the Church.
Due to COVID restrictions these missionaries had spent most of their mission working with social media to share the gospel and to contact people. Now they had the opportunity to meet face-to-face and to share their beliefs.
After the audience had all left, the cast members made their way out. They were excited to see the missionaries and asked to take photos with them. One member of the cast approached and told us he had seen the missionaries outside every venue at which he had performed; but, when COVID hit he had not seen them for a while, and he had missed them.
These young men and women were wonderful examples. Even though some people rushed past, or said they weren’t interested, the missionaries were not disheartened and carried on sharing what they knew to be true. How lucky we are to have real missionaries in each of our wards and stakes.