Gospel Story Finder

Balancing the demands of work, Church, and family responsibilities has been a challenge for Elder Larry Young Wilson, but he has made sure family members know how important they are to him.
“The most formative experience I have had is being a husband and a father,” Elder Wilson says. “I rarely missed a child’s performance in an athletic, musical, or other event. I read them bedtime stories and said prayers with them before tucking them into bed at night. It is so important to be there.”

Photograph from Getty Images
My brother left home as a 14-year-old to attend an elite math and science academy boarding school. Although he came from a big family, he felt easily lost in the crowd. He saw all his older siblings go and live their lives, some in the Church and some not. Living away from home as a teenager, he found it easy to just not go to church. He didn’t interact with a quorum or have weekly youth nights to attend. And so my family and I watched him finding his own way for a few years.
He went to a university, and serving a mission just didn’t enter his mind. I’d still try to find ways to stay in contact with him, whether it was discussing the philosophical differences in Star Wars: Episode VII vs. the Prequels or geeking out on our mutual admiration for Brandon Sanderson novels. Of all the ways we tried connecting with each other, talking about the gospel together never led to a strong bond between us.
Then one morning he texted me.
7:42 AM txt msg: “Hey man, can we talk?”
When you get a text like that early on a Sunday morning, yeah, you forget everything else that’s going on and you talk.
He told me he’d just gotten a new apartment and a new roommate. He said, “Ben, I don’t know any other way to explain this, but I got something like an impression in my heart that I needed to be both careful and helpful with this new guy … like I could be a light to him somehow, like I could somehow support him in his life. And I don’t get it. I don’t get those kinds of feelings.”
I could read between the lines of what he was telling me. Heavenly Father was talking to him. I told him that sometimes when we use things like cell phones or laptops or radios, we may get weird little signals from places we weren’t meaning to tune in to. Sometimes folks with ordinary terrestrial radios have picked up snippets of broadcasts from the International Space Station even though they weren’t trying to. Sometimes people with baby monitors can hear phone conversations in neighboring apartments.
And sometimes God will send impressions to people who aren’t used to talking to Him. Such impressions won’t always be very strong and they won’t override the agency we have. But sometimes we just may get a little pulse of a signal or a quiet whisper from Him trying to talk to us.
Photo illustrations by Leslie Nilsson
His experience reminds me of the beautiful, sublime truth: there is a God in heaven who loves us. And He can find ways to talk to us through little tiny promptings of the Spirit. And then we have the choice as to how we’re going to respond.
So that’s what I told him. “Are you going to find ways to maybe tune in a little bit more, seeing if you can get closer to His signal, shut out the noise, and hear His voice a little bit stronger? Are you going to actually act on what you feel? Or are you going to just let it wash over you and fade away?”
He said “Well, I think I know what I need to do.”
We talked for a few more minutes, and I felt a prompting. And the irony wasn’t lost on me; there I was, trying to help him have the courage to follow the Spirit, while I was simultaneously welling up my own courage to do the same.
I said a silent prayer, took a breath and big gulp and said, “You know, I think God is trying to call you back.”
And what wonderful joy as I could hear him smile over the phone as his tension melted away.
He said, “I think He is too.”
This may be the first time he realized on his own what God could really be. He felt that throughout his whole life people had talked to him about the Church, the gospel, and what he should do.
And now he could say he knew for himself. It was only small, candle-sized knowledge, but he knew that if he would take steps to get closer to the source of that signal, then he would get a stronger signal and the light would grow brighter.
There is a God who lives and knows each one of us. He’s there. And if we tune in to His signals, get out of the spiritual dead spaces, eliminate the noises, and do what we can to truly listen, He’ll speak to us in the ways we need to hear.

“We beheld and bear record that these things are true.”
“Testimony of the Three Witnesses,” Book of Mormon
Oliver Cowdery, David Whitmer, and Martin Harris were friends of the Prophet Joseph Smith.
They saw an angel, who showed them the gold plates. They wrote down their testimony. You can read it after the introduction of the Book of Mormon.
They were some of the first people to be baptized as members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Peace McBride, an apprentice seamstress, and her mistress, Mrs. Root, have heard the Prophet Joseph Smith preach, studied the Book of Mormon, and been baptized into the Church. Now Peace has received Sister Root’s permission and the necessary money to visit her family in a distant county to share her joy in the gospel with them.
On the eve of a brand new decade, December 31, 1839, Peace was bundled in a warm cloak and sitting on top of a coach. Only something as important as the gospel could make Peace take such a journey. Sister Root had tried for days to find someone who was traveling toward the town of Chester Springs, but there were few travelers this time of year. Even so, not a seat was left inside the coach, and no one had been willing to give up his seat to the young girl. I won’t think of the cold, Peace decided. I’ll think of how warm I was after my baptism, of Sister Root’s warm parlor, of anything but the cold.
Cheerfully she hugged a paper-wrapped parcel to her chest. It was Sister Root’s copy of the Book of Mormon. She had given it to Peace as the excited girl had boarded the stage. “I shouldn’t let you be doing this,” Sister Root had fretted. “But since you’re going, here, take the book. It won’t do you much good to just talk about it—your folks need a chance to read it.”
Feeling cold creep around her toes as the coach got farther and farther from Philadelphia, Peace wriggled them and thought about the past few weeks. There had been such a change in her employer! Peace could remember when sour words and slaps were served up regularly to her. Sister Root’s whole manner had changed from the time that she first listened to the Prophet.
Glancing around, Peace noticed that the slush in the road had frozen. She stomped her feet and moved her arms to keep warm. Finally she saw the inn up ahead. It was a two-day trip home, and whenever she made it, she always stayed there.
After a warm meal, Peace felt better and hurried to her room. She knew that the coach would leave shortly after dawn, and she needed all the sleep that she could get. Wrapping herself in the quilts, she drifted peacefully to sleep.
Several hours later she awoke as cold again gripped her. The cozy little room that she had enjoyed in the summer was far from any heat source. Seeing frost forming around the window and on the panes, Peace knew that it was frightfully cold. Reaching for her cloak, she hastily put it on over her nightclothes. Back under the covers, she shivered until she was warm enough to fall asleep again.
The frost was so thick on the panes when Peace awoke a second time that light from the feeble sunrise hardly penetrated the room. She dressed under the covers, then hurried to the gathering room. The other travelers were already huddled around the fire, so she had to stand behind them, where she could barely feel its warmth.
A warm breakfast and cheerful words from the inn-keeper helped. Bracing herself, Peace again took her seat on top of the coach. This time she wore all the clothes that she had brought with her. Yet, before noon, her throat was scratchy. By evening, she was really sick. As the coach approached Chester Springs, she was so ill that she hardly knew what was happening around her.
A kind farmer going her way agreed to take Peace to her family’s farm. It was only two miles outside of town, but to Peace the trip took forever. Each time the wagon hit a rut, her head seemed to explode with pain.
Hearing her mother’s voice was almost like being in heaven. Peace tried to rise from where she lay in the back of the farmer’s wagon, but she sank back weakly.
“Peace!” her mother cried. “Whatever are you doing here?” She bustled around and fussed as the farmer and Mr. McBride carried the girl into the house.
It was bliss for Peace to lie in a soft, warm bed in the safety of her home. Her mother helped undress her and started to take the paper-wrapped parcel from her.
“No!” Peace mumbled. “I need to keep this with me. It’s why I came here, and it’s very important.”
“Important or not,” her mother said firmly, “it’s going on the dresser. It will be there when you get better.”
It was a week before Peace felt well enough to even sit up. She had developed a fever and a deep cough and was able to do little but lie there and try to get well.
“You’re awake!” her mother said cheerfully one morning as she came into Peace’s room. “After breakfast and a wash, you’ll feel much better, I’m sure.”
Peace smiled at her mother. It was so good to be home. Looking over at the dresser, she noticed that the parcel was gone. “Where did my book go?”
“I have it, but not for long.”
Peace looked up in surprise at the angry tone of her mother’s voice.
“How did you come by such a book,” her mother asked.
“Sister Root gave it to me.”
“I should never have let you go off on your own.”
“But, Mother, you know I had to. It was an opportunity for the whole family for me to train with such a great dressmaker.”
“She promised to watch over you!”
Peace smiled at her mother and hoped to get her in a better mood. “She watched over me very well. Do you know anything about the Book of Mormon?”
“Reverend Thompson said that the book is of the devil. He told me to burn it!”
Peace sat up in bed. “You didn’t, did you?” she cried.
“Not yet.” Her mother’s face softened. “It seemed to mean so much to you. And you came so far to bring it to us. I’ll admit that I was a little curious about it, because you value it, so I read a little of it.”
“Did it sound like the devil wrote it?” Peace asked softly.
“Well, no,” her mother admitted and smiled back at Peace. “I read a beautiful story about the Savior visiting a strange people in a land that I never heard of.”
“Bountiful?”
“Yes, that’s it. I have to say that it was a beautiful tale!”
“Oh, Mother,” Peace said fervently, “it’s more than a tale. It’s true—every word of it! If you read about it and pray about it, you’ll know that too.”
“Reverend Thompson said that no God-loving person would get involved with this book. He’s a good man, and he’s been our minister since you were a baby.”
Peace didn’t know what to say. Reverend Thompson was a good man. He’d been more than kind to her over the years. “Have the Mormon elders been in this area?”
“Yes, they have,” her mother answered. “Why?”
“Did many people listen and join the Church?”
“Yes. In fact, the number of people in our church has dwindled. And Reverend Thompson is very unhappy about it.”
“There, Mother. That’s your answer. Reverend Thompson is afraid that he’ll lose his congregation.”
Now it was her mother’s turn to look thoughtful. “You may be right. …”
“Mother, will you and Father read the whole book—and pray sincerely about it? Then if you have any questions, we can ask the elders to come visit.”
“I’m still not sure.”
“Please? It means so much to me.”
Peace’s mother loved her oldest daughter very much. She had been parted from her for a long time, and she felt that it wouldn’t hurt to do as Peace asked.
“All right. I will read it, and I’ll ask your father if he will too. I can’t promise more than that.”
“I know,” Peace said understandingly. “Sister Root didn’t want to believe, either. She wouldn’t let me be baptized until she knew more about the Church.”
“Rightly so,” her mother agreed. “I guess that maybe she was caring for you well.”
With just a few days left till she had to go back, Peace spent all the time that she could with her two brothers and three little sisters. She talked to them about the big city and the things that she had seen. “Not long ago I went into a big church near Mistress Root’s shop. There was a man speaking there,” she told them. “His name is Joseph Smith. He’s a very great man, and he’s a prophet.”
“Like Moses?” Jimmy asked in wonder.
“Yes, like Moses. When he talked, I felt that he had great power. We all felt it, and it changed my life.” She told them all that had happened to her. She told them, too, about the Savior and His visit to the New World. They listened eagerly as she told them stories from the Book of Mormon.
Because it was winter, the McBrides spent most of their time indoors. Peace read the Book of Mormon to her father as he mended harnesses and to her mother while she knitted. They listened intently to what Peace read, and her brothers and sisters did too.
Peace attended sacrament meeting at the small branch. Afterward she invited the elders to visit her family. When they came, her father asked many questions. He didn’t say much but nodded his head as the elders answered him.
The time soon came when Peace had to leave. Her heart was heavy because her parents still had not committed themselves to joining the Church.
Her father took her in their wagon to the inn and placed her bag inside the boot of the coach. Peace had a seat inside this time. She also had a warm quilt that her mother made for her to wrap up in.
“Good-bye, Peace,” her father told her, giving her a big hug. “I know what you want from your mother and me. I’m proud of you for believing your religion enough to suffer hardship to try to bring it to us. We’re not ready yet. Don’t give up on us, though. Just give us time.”
Peace left with a warm feeling. She knew that no matter what happened, she had done what she could to teach her family. Now she would give time and the Holy Ghost a chance to finish the work.

When Wilford Woodruff, as a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood, served a mission to Arkansas and Tennessee in 1834, his life was spared dramatically by divine power, and he was frequently blessed with the administration of angels. Testifying later of the magnitude of Aaronic Priesthood power, he said:
“A man should not be ashamed of any portion of the priesthood … It does not make any difference whether a man is a priest or an apostle, if he magnifies his calling. A priest holds the key of the ministering of angels. Never in my life, as apostle, as a seventy, or as an elder, have I ever had more of the protection of the Lord than while holding the office as a priest. The Lord revealed to me by visions, by revelations, and by the Holy spirit many things that lay before me.” (The Discourses of Wilford Woodruff, ed. G. Homer Durham, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1946, pp. 298, 300.)

Youth today have lots of temptations, like certain trends, some bad types of social media and music, inappropriate language, and alcohol and drugs. My classmates at school don’t have bad intentions, but sometimes they invite me to try these things.
I’ve had to learn to say no. As my classmates have gotten to know me better, they’ve realized I’m not like everyone else. I have earned their respect by showing them I can be a normal teenager without having bad language or behavior.

We are overcome by the “cares … of this life” when we are paralyzed by fear of the future, which hinders our going forward in faith, trusting in God and His promises. Twenty-five years ago my esteemed BYU teacher Hugh W. Nibley spoke of the dangers of surrendering to the cares of the world. He was asked in an interview whether world conditions and our duty to spread the gospel made it desirable to seek some way to “be accommodating of the world in what we do in the Church.”4

His reply: “That’s been the whole story of the Church, hasn’t it? You have to be willing to offend here, you have to be willing to take the risk. That’s where the faith comes in. … Our commitment is supposed to be a test, it’s supposed to be hard, it’s supposed to be impractical in the terms of this world.”5

My nightmare began when I was only seven and my mom remarried. We really liked my new stepfather. He was kind and fit in well with our family. I felt really safe around him. Everything was great until one day, when everyone else was busy, he sexually abused me.
I didn’t understand what he had done to me. I felt scared, confused, and so ashamed. But I was too afraid to tell anyone. I thought it would ruin my family’s newfound happiness and that no one would believe me anyway. So I decided to stay silent.
He had only hurt me that one time, but the memory of the abuse always weighed on my mind. I eventually became so paranoid that someone would see through my pain and uncover my secret that I tried to hide the truth by becoming good friends with my stepfather. He was especially kind to me, and I actually started liking him again.
But then things got worse. When Mom started working at nighttime, my stepfather began regularly abusing me. I felt so helpless. I wanted to speak up, but my stepfather was well liked, and I thought everyone would side with him. So at night when I was alone, I begged God to help me keep my secret.
One day the abuse finally stopped. I had no idea why. Though he was no longer hurting me, I always felt dirty and ashamed. I hated myself. Sometimes I even debated whether death would be easier than my reality. I still wanted to speak up, but I was afraid of what the truth would do.
Then one Sunday at church when I was 14, I listened to a lesson about making big decisions. My teacher encouraged us to fast and pray and promised that God would strengthen us to do the right thing. After church, I kept thinking about what she had said. I wondered if I asked, would God really help me speak up?
The next day I fasted for courage to tell Mom about the abuse. I couldn’t focus during school because all I could think about was how she would react. By the time I got home, I felt extremely sick. I again prayed for strength, but I didn’t feel prepared to tell her.
That evening, I approached Mom when she was cooking dinner. I didn’t know what to say, but when I looked into her eyes, I found the courage to just start speaking. Once I began, everything I had been hiding for years spilled out.
Mom and I just sat on the couch and cried together. Afterward, we contacted our branch president and called the police. My stepfather was held accountable for what he had done to me, and I was given the protection I needed—I would never have to see him again.
During that time, it was difficult retelling my experience to the authorities and having friends ask where my stepfather was, but with my family’s support, I was no longer alone. Together, we rallied around a new family theme: “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me” (Philippians 4:13). Our extended family also offered their love and support and, over time, we began healing together.
Mom and I both attended professional counseling, which was a big help! My counselor was exactly what I needed. She helped me understand all the emotions I was feeling and helped me cope with my bad memories. I never realized how much I was hurting until I started feeling whole again.
I didn’t think the pain would disappear just because I spoke up, but I also didn’t realize how much time (and patience) it would take to heal. For so long, I had felt worthless. I had to relearn to love myself.
I found the most peace as I turned to my Savior and my Heavenly Father. Recognizing that They knew exactly how I felt gave me strength and hope. I relied on Them during the darkest moments. Over time the memories began to fade, and I really felt peace through the Savior’s love.
One of the most rewarding parts of the healing process was recognizing that I did have a bright future. When I was being abused, I couldn’t even imagine having a normal life. I felt permanently broken. But through help and healing, I found things to look forward to. I began telling my story to other girls who were hurting, and I even decided to serve a mission. Sharing my testimony with others strengthened me.
I’m not defined by what my stepfather did to me. He forever changed my life, but I’m choosing to use my experience to help others. Some days are still hard, but through everything, the Lord has strengthened me, and I know He will continue to help me. I’ve transformed from a victim into a survivor.

On Tuesdays, we visit our Rest Home Grandma. She has no family of her own—no children and no husband. Mama says we are her family now. She’s so tiny she seems lost in her wheelchair when we push it outside. Then she grasps the arms of the chair, sits forward, and leans into the wind, “Faster! Go faster!” she chirps in a high-pitched voice. Her silky white hair flows out behind her as Mama jogs and pushes until we run out of breath. “Whee! Do it again!” Grandma chortles.

We jog and stroll and jog some more. “I wish I could ride all day,” she tells us. But before we get back to the rest home, she is fast asleep. We love our Rest Home Grandma.

“Most of you knew Brian before he left on his mission,” she was saying. “You remember that he wanted to be an individual. He would rather take off with his dog in the hills than go to church.”
“Sometimes he would disappear for days—take off in the hills with his dog,” she continued. “We would stay at home and simply pray that God would protect him, wherever he was.”
“Brian has always wanted to worship in his own way,” said his mother.
Her boy had changed. He had gone on a mission. It had been a miracle.
“I wasn’t going to be like everybody else and go on a mission,” he said. “I was different, and I knew I was all right without the Church. I thought I was happy not going to meetings, but hiking off into the mountains for days. Sometimes my parents didn’t know where I was. I know I gave them a lot of concern.”
“But the time came when my friends were going on missions, and I had to make a decision,” the missionary continued. “It was one of the most difficult times of my life. I had never even read the Book of Mormon.
“And one of my friends who was going on a mission told me: ‘Sure, you’re supposed to go on a mission, but nobody will force you to go. Just give it a chance. Read the Book of Mormon. If you don’t want to go after that, at least you gave it a chance.’
“Well, you all know how that turned out.”
“But I want to tell you how it happened,” the missionary said. “I said okay, I’d take a couple of weeks in the desert with my dog and read the Book of Mormon. My friend drove me and my dog out into the desert 100 kilometers from any road. He left us out there with nothing but a little food and our survival equipment. I told him to pick us up in the same spot in about two weeks.”
“I finished the book in two days, and I knew it was true. I knew I wanted to go on a mission. I knew I wanted to tell the world that God still cares and that he provided this book for our guidance. I was ready now. But there I was, 100 kilometers from civilization, and my friend wasn’t going to pick me up for twelve more days.
“Well, I sat down on a rock and thought about what I should do. There really wasn’t any purpose for me to stay out there anymore. So I decided I’d try to walk out. I knew the direction I should go. I knew how far I was from the road. And, although when I look back on it I realize what a crazy decision it was, I thought I could reach the road in a couple of days if I left most of my food supplies and camp gear to retrieve later with a truck. So in the morning, I started out.
“I left camp in my jacket with only a couple of apples in my pocket, my knife, and some matches. I set out at a fast pace, probably covering almost thirty kilometers by mid-afternoon. But then it began to rain.
“It was not a usual rain. It flooded. The water fell in thick black sheets around me so that I could not even see landmarks to know where I was going. My dog and I were drenched within moments, and as the afternoon dragged on, we began to shake with the cold. I huddled inside my coat, overwhelmed with a dreadful feeling. What was I going to do?
“I’d heard enough about hypothermia—where the body gets too cold—to know that I needed to get out of the rain. It was February, and with evening so close, the rain would soon turn to ice. I needed to get dry, but I was too far away from my camp gear to turn back. Luckily, at that moment, I found some shelter in the crevice of some rocks. I crawled inside, and there was just enough space for me. My dog, wet and shaking with cold, stood outside wagging her tail. I wanted to wait for the storm to pass and stayed there for what seemed like hours. It became evident that we could not stay there in that rain. I needed to move and keep my blood circulating, yet out in the cold desert the rain was still pouring down. What could I do?
“I think it was the first time in my life that I really talked with God. I conversed with him like I never had before. I told him my dog and I were in great danger if we couldn’t dry off before the water turned to ice, and if the storm should last several days, we could not find food or build a fire.
“I told Heavenly Father that I now knew the Book of Mormon was true, and that I would serve a mission to tell others to read it so they would have the same confirmation.
“For a moment I stopped pleading with him and listened. I believe I thought he would stop the rain, but the rain continued to pour down in sheets.
“Never had I prayed like I did in those moments. Suddenly, the thought came into my mind that the Lord would do his part if I would just get out there and go. Maybe he would give me the strength to withstand the cold, but I just had to get out and get moving.
“In the moment that I left those rocks, I had a feeling of peace. My dog and I walked for a hundred meters or so in the drenching rain. I walked away from the rocks and into flat, open ground. My shoes, my clothes, my matches—everything was soaking wet, and the rain was still falling down on me in gray sheets.
“But as I continued, praying in my heart for strength, praying for purpose, a sudden soft light opened up above me. I looked around. There was no rain!
“I paused and looked at the blue hills. The rain had stopped only in a large area where I walked. On the edge of the great circle around me the dark rain was still falling, like a gray veil. I couldn’t believe it. The light came down softly around me. I felt warmer, drier, and was able to walk out of the desert.”

During a severe drought and power shortage in March 1990, members held a fast for rain. It rained the next day.

In many ways, Ricardo has already begun his missionary service. “He was an example to me because he always went to church,” says Ricardo’s grandmother, Mavila Ruiz Cárdenas. For several years she had listened to the missionaries who came to visit with the family. And all the while Ricardo was there: sitting in and listening to the discussions, faithfully attending church each Sunday, even teaching his grandmother the hymns.
When he was eight years old and attending church by himself, he had not felt prepared for baptism. But, says Ricardo, “when my grandmother said she was ready to be baptized, then I was sure I was ready also.” So when Ricardo was 10, he and his grandmother were baptized on the same day.
No longer does Ricardo walk to church alone. Now every Sunday he puts on his shirt and tie, takes his grandmother by the hand, and they walk together. Who knows? In time, Ricardo will probably be leading others to church with him.

Elder Bruce Porter of the Seventy recounts an experience: “As a missionary in Germany nearly 25 years ago, I arrived in the city of Wuppertal as a new zone leader shortly after the missionaries who preceded me had had phenomenal success in baptizing several families and individuals. Their baptisms represented a substantial addition to that branch, which had nearly 100 members. We decided as missionaries to concentrate a great deal of effort on integrating and fellowshipping these new members so that they would remain active members of the branch for the rest of their lives. We taught them all of the new member lessons, as well as additional lessons of our own making; we enrolled them in a yearlong Gospel Essentials class taught by the missionaries; we worked with the branch leadership to ensure that they received callings and were integrated into the branch through socials and fellowshipping by members; we arranged for them to meet one another and help teach other investigators so that they would form bonds among themselves that would help them as a group remain active in the future. In short, we spent more than six months after their baptism doing what we could to ensure that their testimonies were strong and that they were integrated into the Church.
“Today, 25 years later, almost all of those families and individuals are still active and faithful. Many of their children have served missions and have been married in the temple. We now have a second and even a third generation of activity in the Church. The one couple who did go inactive had a daughter who remained active and has since been married in the temple. Although this is only one case, my experience then persuaded me that time spent by missionaries working with members to integrate new members into the Church will pay off richly in the long term” (letter to Elder Richard G. Scott).

Resting on the stone steps of the ancient ruins of Dzibilchaltún in Mexico, Sandra Hernández and Meily Tolosa quietly consider the scattered ruins of a city nearly 1,500 years old. The silence around them is almost as heavy as the humid tropical air. But the peaceful moment doesn’t last long.
The silence shatters as Samuel Hernández comes hooting and hollering out of the thick jungle, which grows right up to the edge of the small pyramid. His friends Jorge Tolosa and Wilbert Agosta follow right behind him.
“Oh, I thought I was going to die,” he laughs as he throws himself down onto the steps and tries to catch his breath. Picking their way through the jungle, Samuel and his friends had been making their way toward a partially overgrown structure when they startled a flock of hidden birds. The birds weren’t the only ones startled. “Oh, my heart,” Samuel says, laughing.
Samuel, Meily, and other youth from the Canek Ward, Mérida México Centro Stake, are spending the day exploring some of Mexico’s ancient ruins. Dzibilchaltún is just one of the thousands of crumbling settlements left throughout the Americas by ancient inhabitants.
The land from central Mexico to Honduras (also called Mesoamerica) has been home to many thriving civilizations. On this trip to Dzibilchaltún, the youth are grateful that ruins of some of their ancestors’ cities have been preserved so they can explore where their ancestors lived. “It’s interesting to learn what my ancestors did and what happened to them,” says Jorge, a deacon.
In the same way, these youth are thankful that the record of the family of Lehi has been preserved so they can learn from its teachings and experiences. “I’m grateful the Lord preserved the Book of Mormon for us to learn from,” Jorge says.

Nine times seven is 63. Six times eight is … 42? No, that’s not right!
Luca furiously erased his answer.
“Time!” Luca’s teacher called. “Everyone hand in your tests.”
“Oh no!” Luca thought. “But I’m not even done!”
Luca sighed as he handed in his test. He had to get a 90 percent on his timed tests to pass his multiplication tables and become a class Multiplication Master, but he just didn’t know how he was going to do it!
That night during family scripture study, Dad read from the Doctrine and Covenants: “Therefore, if you will ask of me you shall receive; if you will knock it shall be opened unto you” (D&C 6:5).
Luca’s head popped up. That was the answer! Prayer!
Luca started praying every day to do well on his timed multiplication test. This would work. It had to work. He would finally become a Multiplication Master!
On Tuesday, Luca came home from school and grabbed his basketball.
“Do you need help studying?” Mom asked.
“Nope! I’ve got it taken care of!” Luca said as he ran out the door. He believed so much in prayer that he didn’t even take out his flash cards to practice his math.
On Friday, Luca knew he was going to pass the test. But when he sat down to take it, the answers just didn’t come, and he did even worse than before!
Luca walked home from the bus stop with his head down. He had prayed so hard to be a Multiplication Master. Why didn’t Heavenly Father answer his prayer?
When he got home, he shot baskets until Dad came home from work. Dad honked the car horn as he pulled up.
“How was school?” Dad asked.
“Not very good,” Luca said, looking down. “I can’t pass my multiplication test.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Dad said. He held up his hands for a pass.
“I should have passed!” Luca said. “I prayed and everything. Dad, you said that Heavenly Father answers prayers. He definitely didn’t answer mine today!”
“Did you practice with your flash cards?” Dad asked.
“No.”
“Did you study at all?”
“No,” Luca said. “But I prayed all week!”
Dad dribbled the ball and looked at Luca. “Well, multiplication is kind of like basketball. How did you get so good at basketball?”
“I practiced,” Luca said.
“Yes, and so when we pray for Heavenly Father to help you before your games, we’re not praying for Him to magically make you a better basketball player. What do we pray for?”
“For me to remember what I practiced,” Luca said.
“That’s right. Prayer works best when we do our part and also ask Heavenly Father to help us,” Dad said.
“So my part is studying my flash cards?” Luca asked.
“Exactly,” Dad said, passing the ball back to Luca.
Luca heaved a big sigh and took a shot. The ball bounced off the rim. “OK. It’s going to take a lot of work. But I guess I can study hard and ask Heavenly Father to help me.”
“There you go!” Dad said. “So, are you ready for a little one-on-one?”
Luca grinned and stole the ball from Dad. “Sure! As long as you help me study at the same time.”
“You’re on,” Dad said. “Six times eight is?”
“Forty-eight!” Luca said, taking another shot. This time it swished through the hoop.
Between practice and prayer, he would become a Multiplication Master after all.

“Vperiod!” Brother Brigham shouts. “Forward!” He raises his hand high and points straight ahead. The pioneers grab their handcart, grimace at the effort of pulling it, and continue past a row of apartment buildings.
Wait a minute! That’s not how the Saints got to Utah!
Not to worry. This is Vyborg, Russia. The man playing the role of President Brigham Young is actually Aleksandr B. Tomak, a district president. And the pioneers, who have only a single handcart among them, are Russians from the St. Petersburg area, gathered at a youth conference to celebrate their heritage.
That’s why, as the handcart they are now pulling has journeyed from Siberia on the east to Vyborg on Russia’s western border, the “Mormons” in each location have not only pulled it through forests and mountains but also through the streets and parks of the cities where they live. They are celebrating, not only the pioneers that were, but also the pioneers they are—young people eager to live the truth and to share it with anyone willing to listen.
As the youth walk and walk and walk, they sing. Someone strums a guitar, and everyone joins in folk songs. At other moments, silence reigns. And every once in a while, it just seems right to sing a hymn. “Come, Come, Ye Saints” is most popular, and those who sing it sometimes cry.
The Vyborg-St. Petersburg handcart company reaches the end of the trail at the shore of a lake in the forest. Here, workshops will be held and lunch served for those who have “safely completed the journey to Zion,” as President Tomak proclaims.
“Vot eto mesto!” he says, in his best Brother Brigham voice. “This is the place!”
It’s a phrase that was true 150 years ago in the valley of the Great Salt Lake. It is now a phrase that is equally true from Siberia to Vyborg, all across a vast country where modern pioneers are embracing the restored gospel today.

Once, when Norma was still on crutches, she dropped a drinking straw to the floor. Unable to pick it up, she asked Randy if he would. The next thing Norma knew, Randy had the vacuum going through the house.

During a school break when I was eight, my dad asked me if I wanted to do something to earn money for my mission. I thought it was a good idea, but I wasn’t sure what to do. After some thinking, we decided to make bread. That night, we made 20 loaves. We didn’t know if they would sell, but after we posted about it on social media, they all sold in one night!
I set a goal to keep making and selling bread. At first it was fun. But over time, to be honest, it didn’t feel as fun. It was hard! I had to wake up at six in the morning before school to make the dough. Then my mom helped bake it during the day. When I came home from school, I had to bag the loaves, deliver them, and clean the baking equipment.
I also had to talk to people I didn’t know very well. Sometimes I didn’t know what to say. That was one of the hardest parts. My parents explained that the point of this wasn’t just to earn money for my mission but also to learn to work hard and talk to people. I started to feel more comfortable. And after a while, I enjoyed doing that!
My bread business definitely taught me how to work! I know that what I learned from this goal will help me on my mission.

Brother Snederfler recalls another unforgettable moment: On 20 May 1991, the phone rang. The caller was President Thomas S. Monson, then Second Counselor in the First Presidency. “He said: ‘Jirí, you have been called as the president of the Freiberg temple. You will begin this office on 1 September of this year. What do you say?’ At first I was not able to say anything at all because of my astonishment. President Monson inquired, ‘Are you there, Jirí?’ I told President Monson, ‘I accept humbly this calling.’”

In the temple, the Snederflers opened prison doors to generations of deceased persons who had never had an opportunity to hear the gospel. And they also opened temple doors to patrons who—having had no religious freedom—had languished in spiritual darkness on earth. They welcomed members of the Church from such former Communist nations as Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, Croatia, Poland, Hungary, the Czech and Slovak Republics, and the DDR.

“It is so, so good to be in the temple,” Sister Snederfl er says simply. After four years of faithful service there, the Snederflers have returned home to Prague to continue family history research so that more of their own ancestors may enjoy temple blessings.

In a commencement address last year, Clayton Christensen, a Harvard professor and Church leader, shared the true account of a professional colleague from another country who had studied democracy. This friend was surprised at how critically important religion is to democracy. He pointed out that in societies where the citizens are taught from a young age to feel accountable to God for honesty and integrity, they will abide by rules and practices that, while unenforceable, promote democratic ideals. In societies where this is not true, there cannot be enough policemen to enforce honest behavior.22