Gospel Story Finder

Christopher’s heart was heavy as he walked slowly to his family’s car after Primary. Why does everyone but me hear the still, small voice? he wondered.
In fast and testimony meeting, Brother Johnson told an experience he had while driving across a lonely stretch of highway. The still, small voice told him to take a different route home, one that would add about 10 kilometers to his trip. Although he had been eager to get home from his business trip, he obeyed the prompting. On his detour, he came across a car accident. A young family had been traveling to visit relatives. When the father, who was driving, fell asleep, the car drifted too close to the side of the road and rolled down a steep hill. Brother Johnson was able to call for help and administer first aid.
Bishop Benson told how he was prompted by the Holy Ghost to check on Sister Henderson during the week. Sister Henderson was a widow who lived about two kilometers up a dirt road off the main highway into town. When the bishop went to see her, he found her furnace had broken down. She didn’t have a telephone and was no longer able to drive, so she had prayed to Heavenly Father for help. The still, small voice had told her all would be well.
Later, Christopher’s Primary teacher, Sister Woolett, gave a lesson about the Holy Ghost. She told about when the still, small voice warned her to check on her sleeping baby. When she did, everything seemed all right.
But as she turned to leave, the voice again told her to check on her little boy. This time she went over to the crib and looked closely at him. There, next to him, was a large, jagged piece of glass. A framed picture that had been hanging above the crib had fallen. Most of the glass and the frame were behind the crib, but the large, jagged piece had fallen next to her sleeping son.
Sister Woolett also related an incident from the lesson manual about one of the prophets being warned of danger by the still, small voice.
Why can everyone hear the still, small voice but me? Christopher wondered again. He knew that after his baptism almost two years ago, he was given the gift of the Holy Ghost when he was confirmed. So why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me?
“How was Primary?” Mom asked as Christopher and his two younger sisters climbed into the car. Jill and Michelle started telling about their lessons and the songs they learned in singing time. Christopher stared sadly at the floor.
“What was your lesson about, Christopher?” Dad asked.
A tear rolled down Christopher’s cheek. “The Holy Ghost,” he replied softly. Sensing that something was wrong, Jill and Michelle quit chattering.
“Maybe we could talk about this a little more when we get in the house,” Mom said as they turned into the driveway.
Later Mom and Dad invited Christopher to come to their room. “Christopher,” Mom said, “can you tell us what’s bothering you?”
Christopher looked down. He didn’t want his parents to know the Holy Ghost didn’t talk to him. They probably heard the still, small voice all the time.
“Listen,” Dad said, putting his arm around Christopher, “we can tell you’re upset, and we’d like to help.”
Christopher felt tears ready to spill from his eyes. “Mom, Dad,” he said in a shaky voice, “why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me? I’ve always tried to do what’s right. I know I make mistakes—like the time I spilled the red punch on the new carpet and said Jill did it so I wouldn’t get in trouble. But I did finally tell the truth. Do you have to be perfect like the bishop or Brother Johnson or Sister Woolett to have the Holy Ghost speak to you?”
Mom and Dad looked a little surprised. “Christopher,” Mom said, “the only perfect person to ever live on the earth is Jesus Christ. Everyone makes mistakes. Why don’t you think the Holy Ghost speaks to you?”
“I’ve never heard the still, small voice,” Christopher replied.
“Hearing a voice isn’t the only way the Holy Ghost can communicate with you,” Mom said. “Often it’s what you feel, not what you hear. Don’t you remember the good feeling you had after you prayed and asked Heavenly Father to forgive you for blaming your sister for the carpet stain? That feeling was from the Holy Ghost.”
“It was?”
“Or how about the time we were reading the scriptures,” Dad added, “and you suddenly understood what Jesus Christ was talking about in the parable of the wheat and the tares. That was the Holy Ghost teaching you.”
“I never thought about it that way before!” Christopher was starting to feel a lot better.
“And,” Mom said, “remember when you got lost last summer and you prayed for help? After you prayed, you felt calm and knew you should sit on the nearest bench and let us find you. That calm, reassuring feeling helping you know what to do was the Holy Ghost.”
Christopher smiled. Now he understood. The Holy Ghost had been talking to him—even if he didn’t hear the still, small voice with his ears! Now he said excitedly, “What about last week when I gave my talk in Primary? I’d studied it really hard, but when I got up, I had forgotten it. Then I said a silent prayer, and suddenly I could remember my talk. That was the Holy Ghost, too, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “Helping you remember is also a part of the gift of the Holy Ghost.”
“All those times the Holy Ghost really was talking to me!” The warm feeling in Christopher’s heart helped him know it was true.

A couple of years ago a young man—let’s call him John—came to my office, having shortly returned from his mission. He was a student at this university.
He said to me, with great concern, “Elder Clarke, I need help. I loved my mission. It changed me. However, I am losing some of those sacred and special feelings that I felt in the mission field. I live in an apartment of returned missionaries. We don’t pray together, and we don’t read the scriptures together.”
He was pleading, “Can you help me?”
He asked, “What can I do to feel like I felt in the mission field?”
I have seen this happen many times. It is not just a question for returned missionaries. His question was, “What can I do to be happy, feel the Holy Ghost, and be close to the Savior?”
This is a question we all should ask every day.
On that afternoon in my office we turned to James 1:27 and read:
Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.
We then read in Alma 34:28:
And now behold, my beloved brethren, I say unto you, do not suppose that this is all; for after ye have done all these things, if ye turn away the needy, and the naked, and visit not the sick and afflicted, and impart of your substance, if ye have, to those who stand in need—I say unto you, if ye do not any of these things, behold, your prayer is vain, and availeth you nothing, and ye are as hypocrites who do deny the faith.
Pure religion includes caring for the poor and the needy.
...
That day in my office I told John that if he would practice pure religion, he would be happy and feel like he had felt on his mission. We went on to discuss pure religion as defined in James 1:27, Alma 34:28, and John 21.
...
John went back to BYU and acted upon what we had discussed. He sent me the following email:

Hi, Elder Clarke.
How are you? I hope all is well. It has been a while since I have written you, and I wanted to see how everything has been going. I feel you should know that I still think about our meeting last January. I felt the Spirit very strong in teaching me life’s principles that we spoke of, and doing so has continued to bless my life. Each month I have learned different things from that conversation and our other conversations since. Visiting the widows and the elderly has been an incredible blessing. I have seen repayments of kindness many times over. I could go on, really, and fill this page with experiences. Thank you. It is truly a blessing to have a great friend.

I would like to share one experience, however, that you might enjoy. A few Sundays ago I went to an assisted-care facility for the elderly to read inspirational stories from the Ensign. The twelve or so of us began with a prayer, and I began to read to them. The Spirit over that hour entered gradually and powerfully, and the simple stories of faith turned into very powerful testimony builders. Many individuals felt a great amount of love and support from the Savior as the Spirit testified of simple truths and testimonies.

It touched my soul to be able to be an instrument for the Lord, because I definitely felt His love for those sweet people. As I was on my way out, a few commented that they wanted to adopt me! I had never known I was capable of feeling such love from and for strangers with whom I had little connection. But I felt the Savior’s love for them, for those kind souls. It appeared clear to me that I would meet these individuals—now riddled by dementia, Alzheimer’s, and physical ailments—on the other side. I would see their husbands and wives, who have been looking over them from the other side of the veil. I felt very much the presence of my grandfather—whom I had never met—as I sat with my grandmother, and his spirit strengthened me and supported me. I knew he was thankful for my simple visit.

Who knew that I could find such tender mercies? It seems so meaningless to come home after something like that and just turn on the TV or tune out in some other way. It has changed me to realize that these tender experiences are available at all moments of the day as we, as Saints, strive to focus and help others in some way.

As I left that room that day, all of the elderly wished for my prompt return. They had bright smiles and warm hearts. They were thankful. In the hallway, your words echoed in my heart: “They will do more for you than you will ever be able to do for them.” What a blessing true service is!

I knew I could pray with this kind of specificity because of a lesson I learned when I was a junior in college. I had started planning my summer, and my eyes were set on an internship in the western United States. I wasn’t interested in going home to Indiana that summer, and I worked really hard to ignore the quiet, persistent promptings from the Spirit that spending time at home was what would be best for me. But eventually, I couldn’t shake the feeling.

Still… I was not graceful about embracing this prompting in the beginning.

I remember praying, almost annoyed, saying, “Okay, Heavenly Father. If You really want me to go home, here’s what I’m going to need.” Then I laid it all out, very specifically, but not very tactfully. It’s a good thing He loves me, and you, enough to listen, even when we’re having and expressing growing pains. I prayed, saying:

It felt like an impossible list. But, Heavenly Father took my very specific, somewhat demanding prayer and answered it in the way I had hoped—down to the smallest detail. For me, it was a miracle.

The very next morning, I felt prompted to do something I’d never done before: I looked at the university's career website. Students, don’t wait like I did until your junior year to visit Career Services. Make an appointment with them this week; they will be happy to help you. Thankfully, my scrolling didn’t last long. My heart nearly skipped a beat when I saw a new posting—just three places from the top: marketing and communication, paid, a housing stipend, airfare to and from the internship? And, it was in my hometown—just three miles from my parents’ home. There was no reason for this regional company to advertise on a BYU–Idaho job board.

That summer taught me and reinforced something I’ll never forget: Heavenly Father knows me personally. He listens when I pray. And He is more than willing to grant blessings He’s already prepared for me—if I’ll just ask and be humble enough to act.

Wednesday’s 26-kilometer walk to Chinaman’s Bay and back was tougher than the hike up Bishop and Clerk. Everyone brought their bathers (swimming trunks) and a towel, plus lunch. It took several hours slogging along the soft sandy road that followed the shoreline to reach the white beaches of Chinaman’s Bay. The boys showed amazing stamina as they not only kept up but often overtook their leaders.
As four young Scouts passed him, Brother Pash described the feelings of many of the adults when he said, “It’s disgusting, it is, to see little blokes catching us up that way.”
After some very icy swimming (the Tasman Sea carries too much of the Antarctic chill for the less hardy souls), everyone began the long walk back to camp in time to hike down to the ferry dock, meet the afternoon boat, and buy a fizzy (soda pop).

When rare king tides swept over isolated Parama Island in western Papua New Guinea on 22 October 2024, residents of the town’s only village had nowhere to turn for help. In only a few hours, the floods left many homes wrecked, subsistence farming plots destroyed, and community wells fouled by seawater.
About 400 people live on the beautiful but remote island in western Papua New Guinea. Nearly one-third of them are members of the Parama Branch of the Daru Papua New Guinea Stake.
When word of the disaster reached the stake center in Daru, Church leaders acted quickly to send immediate relief. Food, water, tarps, and water filters were shipped from Papua New Guinea’s capital city of Port Moresby to a waiting barge in Daru.
From Daru, the supplies, along with Church humanitarian missionaries skilled in disaster recovery, and local Church missionaries and leaders, traveled up the Gulf of Papua to the Fly River, and then inland to reach Parama Island.
On arrival, they found damaged homes and ruined community resources, but resilient and confident Saints already working to do their part to rebuild their damaged village.
When the barge and accompanying dinghies arrived during the late morning low tide on 29 October, the water was too shallow to allow them to bring their supplies into the village, so supplies were transferred to smaller dinghies, which moved closer to the shoreline.
But in the end, the dinghies could come no closer than a kilometer from shore, so the village came to them.
Throughout the afternoon, villagers combined with missionaries in walking back and forth through two kilometers of tidepools to collect the food, clean water, and water filters, and carry it all into shore.
In all, it took more than three hours to transfer the supplies from the dinghies into the village.
The relief supplies were stacked in the village square, as preparations were made for distribution to villagers.
Once all the supplies were brought into the village, families gratefully received their shares of the supplies that they had just carried across the water.
In Port Moresby, Johnny Leota, the country office manager, reflected on the blessings that often come from trials. “After the devastation of the king tides, the resilience and faith of the people of the Parama Island shine through as they joyfully receive temporary relief to aid them through this challenging time in their lives. Their gratitude and love of the Saviour has increased as they witness His love through emergency efforts from the Church. Continued relief efforts will include finding solutions with local leaders of the community to safeguard against future disasters.”
Restoring Parama Island to its pristine condition will not occur quickly. But the Parama Saints, with their friends and neighbors, know that they will not face their ordeal alone, and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints stands ready to provide support, both temporal and spiritual, as these Saints of God and their neighbors work together to rebuild their beautiful but temporarily damaged remote island home.

With regard to making exceptions, President Boyd K. Packer once told the following story:

As mission president, I attended a mission Relief Society conference. Our mission Relief Society president, a relatively recent convert, announced something of a course correction. Some local societies had strayed, and she invited them to conform more closely to the direction set by the general presidency of the Relief Society.

One sister in the congregation stood and defiantly told her that they were not willing to follow her counsel, saying they were an exception. A bit flustered, she turned to me for help. I didn’t know what to do. I was not interested in facing a fierce woman. So I motioned for her to proceed. Then came the revelation!

This lovely Relief Society president, small and somewhat handicapped physically, said with gentle firmness: “Dear sister, we’d like not to take care of the exception first. We will take care of the rule first, and then we will see to the exceptions.” The course correction was accepted.

President Packer continued:

Her advice is good for Relief Society and priesthood and for families. When you state a rule and include the exception in the same sentence, the exception is accepted first.

A certain man, well up on the ladder of success, had great prospects for a very bright future. Then one day at a businessmen’s luncheon he decided that social drinking would make him more popular and successful. He soon began looking forward to the cocktail hours, and then found they didn’t come often enough. Finally he became an alcoholic, lost his job, his wife, and his friends. Because of the wrong choice at a moment of decision, he had lost everything he once so hopefully and diligently set out to accomplish.

Let me say something of the marvelous members of the Church themselves. In the reorganization of a rather far-flung stake recently, I felt the Lord’s prompting to call a man to the stake presidency who, I had been told, owned a bicycle but no automobile. Many leaders across the Church don’t have cars, but I was nevertheless worried about what that might mean for this man in this particular stake. In my terminally ill Spanish I pursued the interview, then said, “Hermano, ¿no tiene un auto?” With a smile and not a second’s hesitation he replied, “No tengo un auto; pero yo tengo pies, yo tengo fe.” (“I do not have a car, but I do have feet and I do have faith.”) He then said he could ride the bus, ride his bicycle, or walk, “como los misioneros,” he smiled—“like the missionaries.” And so he does.

Then I met our bishop, a large rancher who seemed too gentle for his intimidating stature. In my first interview with him he asked me to pray. I refused. I knew how to pray, but I couldn’t because I believed God wouldn’t listen to a sinner. The bishop seemed to understand, although I didn’t see how he could because I was sure he had never sinned in his life. But he didn’t condemn me. He seemed to consider me of equal value to all the “saints” in our ward. Feeling so accepted, I continued to attend.
The next couple of months were filled with something I had never felt before. I came to realize that it was the Spirit of the Lord trying to tell me that everything I was hearing and feeling was true. I don’t think I had a testimony at that time. I only knew that I loved my schoolmate and her funny ideas. I loved my Young Women adviser because she loved me. I loved my bishop because he didn’t condemn me. I loved the feeling I had when I was with these people, and I wanted to have that feeling always in my life.

“Hi, Valerie!” Lucy said. She ran across the gym to meet her friend. She and Valerie got to play while their moms met at church.
Lucy found some crayons. She chose a pink one. But she didn’t have any paper to draw on. So she drew a pink line on a chair instead. The line looked bright and pretty on the metal. Lucy looked at Valerie and giggled.
Valerie chose a purple crayon. She drew a squiggly shape on another chair. Lucy and Valerie covered both chairs with bright marks.
Soon Mom came over and saw the scribbles. “Lucy!” Mom said. “You know we only color on paper!”
Lucy looked down at the ground. She knew that crayons were only for paper. But once she started coloring, she just sort of … forgot.
She looked at the chair now. A few weeks ago, her family had helped clean the church. She liked taking care of Jesus’s house. She felt sorry for making a mess today.
“Come on, girls. Let’s clean it up,” Mom said. She got some paper towels. They were wet and soapy.
Valerie and Lucy scrubbed the crayon marks. Slowly they started to come off.
“This is hard,” Lucy groaned.
Mom patted her back. “Yes, but we can do it!”
Together they scrubbed the chairs. Finally the metal was clean and shiny.
Lucy looked at the clean chairs and smiled. She was sorry she had made a mess. But she was happy that she could make things better.

Near the end of one of those periods to which I have just referred in which most of the working day was spent in Salt Lake City receiving very sensitive incoming information and trying to communicate equally sensitive forms of response, I returned home at about eight o’clock, as I recall, to have a bite of food with my wife who had (as always) fed the children and then waited to eat with me. We talked briefly of my now inevitable trip to Jerusalem within just a few days at best, and then I opened my briefcase to yet another day’s paperwork demanding attention. I was somewhere in the midst of that at about 10:00 p.m. when a call came from Church headquarters asking if I could verify that David Galbraith, resident director of our Jerusalem Study Abroad Program, had in fact been shot and killed. That kind of inquiry would, of course, be stunning under any circumstances, but given the sequence of experiences and kinds of concerns we had been facing, I felt as if I had been hit fully in the face with a pickax. I muttered something about having absolutely no knowledge of any such thing and asked where or how it had been reported. I was told that two international journalists had made direct inquiry to the Church Office Building, one call originating from Paris and the other one in New York. My first thought was that those journalists were far enough away from Jerusalem and from each other to indicate that something was on the wire services, news not likely to be sent without some basis in fact. My heart simply sank to the depths of my soul. I said I would find out everything I could and would try to get information back to President Hinckley and the two other trustees who had been informed.

And so I began a terribly urgent series of phone calls, praying throughout that this early information was in error. What I did not realize, or at least had not been conscious enough to be concerned about, was that my youngest son, on a summer’s night, was still awake and playing nearby as I took that call and pursued its question.

From time to time it has not been an easy thing for our children to lead the presidential lifestyle I have thrust upon them. I suppose for all the blessings that go with that—and there have been a host of them, far outweighing any occasional disadvantages—some of these concerns have nevertheless taken a bit of a toll on this eleven-year-old. He has never, for example, forgotten the time early in my administration when my life was threatened on Homecoming Day, and the precautions that had to be taken to ride in a parade and move in a crowd and participate in a football game without concern. He is a bright child who watches the news and reads the papers and knows of the problems many children have faced, and often enough the children of conspicuous parents. It has, on some of those occasions, been hard for him to sleep alone, a burden for which I feel a terrible sense of responsibility. Now, without my being sensitive enough to have realized it would be so, the nightmare was starting for him again.

While I spent the next twenty or thirty minutes trying to locate David or anyone else in Jerusalem who could (we prayed) disavow this report, Duffy had been at my side and watched my face and sensed the concern in my voice. Slowly he had left the room, but it did not take his quick little mind long to think and finally to say that if David Galbraith had been shot and if I were to leave within hours to go there myself, they would surely be proud and planning to shoot the president of the place. In an explosion of tears and fright, he ran up the stairs to his room and fell sobbingly on his bed.

Pat went to attend to him while I stayed on the phone long enough to find out that all was indeed well and that somehow we had again been victims of a cruel and calculated hoax. I reported that to those who were concerned in Salt Lake City and then took counsel with my colleagues here about responding to the press. By this time it was nearly midnight, and somehow I could not bring my mind back to that stack of papers tumbling out of my briefcase. I, too, headed upstairs, without the tears but thinking it wasn’t a bad idea.

Duffy was long since asleep. Pat was, as always, waiting for me, and we prepared for bed in that rather sober silence couples know when sleep is the best solution and talk—even important talk—seems best postponed for a better time.

Before we knelt together in prayer as we’ve done for twenty-two years of marriage, I kept alive another tradition, exhausted as I felt, by opening the covers of the standards works to read a passage of scripture—any passage—which might suggest counsel and offer consolation through the dreams and deliverance of the night. I opened the scriptures at random and my eye was as instantly riveted to a single passage of scripture as I had ever experienced in my life. It was as if no other verse existed on the page and as if there were no other pages. I had only known section 25 of the Doctrine and Covenants as revelation to Joseph Smith’s wife Emma, principally regarding the writing of a hymnal for the Church, but with a concentration as crisp as a heat-seeking missile I saw these words alone before me on an otherwise white page:

A revelation I give unto you concerning my will; . . . if thou art faithful and walk in the paths of virtue before me, I will preserve thy life, and thou shalt receive an inheritance in Zion. [D&C 25:2]

I knew in a flash of irrefutable revelation that this had been given not for my reassurance but for my son, and although quite literally the thought of harm to myself had never seriously crossed my mind, it had troubled me deeply that it had so severely affected this child. I shot out of the room, prayer still yet to be uttered, my wife bedazzled, and went straight to the side of my boy’s bed. The faint purity of his youthful tears in my behalf were still on his cheeks and his pillow. Although I’m not sure he understood what I was doing (and for all intents and purposes remained sound asleep through the whole conversation), I woke him up with the zeal of a new convert and read him the passage of scripture I’ve just read you. I told him the revelation had come for him and that little boys’ prayers are often more readily heard than their dads’, perhaps because they are more loyally and trustingly uttered. Then I rocked him in my arms and talked aloud to no one in particular about the faith of a child and the promises of God and “an inheritance in Zion.” I might have read him of the inherent safety in these words: “Wherefore, as ye are agents, ye are on the Lord’s errand; and whatever ye do according to the will of the Lord is the Lord’s business” (D&C 64:29).

One day last year, my friend invited me to his house to have a tea party with him and his sisters. I thought they would have pretend tea at their party. Instead, they offered me real tea with honey. I remembered a story I had read about President David O. McKay. Once when he visited the queen of the Netherlands, the queen offered him tea. He politely refused it. I knew that if tea isn’t good for a prophet, it isn’t good for me.

My 97-year-old father recently passed away. Whenever someone asked him how he was doing, his consistent reply was “On a scale of 1–10, I’m about a 25!” Even when this dear man could no longer stand or even sit and had great difficulty speaking, his answer was still the same. He was always standing up inside.
When my dad was 90, we were in an airport and I asked him if I could get him a wheelchair. He said, “No, Gary—maybe when I get old.” And then he added, “Besides, if I get tired of walking, I can always run.” If we are not able to be “all in” the way we are presently walking, then maybe we need to run; maybe we need to recalculate our route. We might even need to make a U-turn. We might need to study more intently, pray more earnestly, or just let some things go so we can hang on to those things that really matter. We may need to let go of the world so we can hang on to eternity. My father understood this.

For example, for me Compassion 401 was taught by a loving former BYU professor named J. Douglas Gibb. Let me share a sample of the curriculum. I didn’t know Dr. Gibb when I arrived for the first day of a communications class he taught. I only knew that the classroom was overcrowded and that before we could get started he would need to dismiss many unregistered students who were now trying to add the class.

Looking us over, he simply asked, “How many of you are registered for this class?” About two-thirds of us raised our hands. “Read chapter one,” he told us. “See you on Wednesday.” And with that, we were excused.

I went into the hallway but decided to turn back and watch. Dr. Gibb talked to every student in the room. Where there was a necessity, for graduation or other circumstances, he added someone, but mostly he just got to know the students, one by one. No one left the room without feeling his concern and receiving his help.

Almost embarrassed, he explained, “I’ve reached the point in my life where I just don’t want to offend anyone—not even my cat.”

Both then and now, Dr. Gibb is the type of man I want to be, and over the short dash of my undergraduate time at BYU I came to know him both as a friend and as a mentor. He changed my life and the lives of many others by the way he taught both inside and outside BYU’s classrooms.

I’m driving my husband to a chemo treatment. It’s midmorning in early September, and the road is so drenched in water and fog that the white line on the side of the road is almost invisible. Wind rocks the car, and my fingers hurt as they grip the wheel. In another life, just a few weeks ago, we’d never have left the house in a downpour like this. But we have a 10:00 a.m. appointment with a small bag of poison, and not going isn’t an option.

Ahead is a stretch of road that lies low in the valley. It collects the fog like a bowl, and the water pools on the freeway there. I’m terrified of hydroplaning, but just before we hit the dreaded spot, the fog lifts a little. My windshield wipers catch up with the water, and a calmness settles in my chest. The rain drenches us for the whole 25 miles, but we make it in one piece.

Later, when we are done and the sun is elbowing through gray clouds outside the treatment center, my husband, Jacob, tells me he wasn’t afraid as we drove.

That’s all fine. But he wasn’t the one behind the wheel.

Jacob doesn’t leave it there. “The Savior has control over the elements. He walked on the water and calmed the seas.”

My heart lifts at the thought: Jesus walking on water (see Matthew 14:22–33), Jesus rebuking the storm (see Matthew 8:23–27). “The Master of ocean and earth and skies.”2

Jacob’s voice is breathy and scratchy—a side effect of all the treatments. “I knew we were going to be OK. I could tell that you were nervous, though. I prayed, ‘I know Thou canst control this water. If it be Thy will, please lift the rain a little so she can see.’”

I remember the easing of the rain and the peace settling inside me.

I have had the opportunity to speak with a woman who heard the call of the Savior when she was 18. Her father, who was a high official in another church, became angry with her and forbade her from being baptized. He let her know that if she became a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, she would be ostracized from the family.

Even though the sacrifice was great, this young woman heeded the call of the Savior and entered the waters of baptism.

Her father could not accept her decision, however, and tried to force her into abandoning her new faith. He and his wife reviled her for her decision to become a member of the Church and demanded that she recant and forsake her new religion.

Even through the rage, the bitterness, and the indignity, her faith remained strong. She endured the verbal and emotional abuse, knowing she had heard the call of the Savior and she would follow Him, whatever the consequence.

Eventually this young woman managed to find a safe haven, a place of refuge with a kind member family far away from the threats and unkindness of her father.

She met a faithful young man, and the two of them were married in the temple, receiving the choice blessings that accompany a temple marriage.

Today she stands among the multitude of those who have sacrificed so much to follow the call of the Savior.

The big yellow cat began to purr softly as Carl set it gently on his lap and began to stroke its fur. Carl snuggled down into the warm hay and pulled the contented cat closer to him. The warm breath and the soft lowing of the cows soon sent Carl off to dreamland.
Carl could smell fresh bread baking, and soap, and flowers. … Sometimes his mother had smelled like flowers. He could still feel her soft hand brush across his face, and he turned his head just in time to see her look down at him and smile. Then he heard the soft rustling of her skirts as she turned to go back to her work in the kitchen …
The boy woke with a start as he realized that the soft rustling sound that he heard was really the large yellow cat slinking off through the hay in pursuit of a large gray mouse.
As his dream faded, the picture of his mother’s face began to fade too. That worried Carl. Since her death he had received so much comfort from that picture of her in his mind—and now it was beginning to fade!
Carl wiped a tear from his eye as he began to wonder if he would ever see his mother again. He wondered about that for many years. Finally, when Carl was a grown man, he met some wonderful missionaries who had the answer to his question: Jesus had restored His gospel to the earth. With it came the knowledge that families can be eternal. He had also given to men the authority to perform the necessary ordinance work that would make that possible.
Carl was so thrilled with the wonderful news that he wanted to tell the whole world about it. Carl became a missionary, and he filled three missions to his motherland of Sweden.

On June 1, 1843, Addison Pratt left Nauvoo, Illinois, to preach the gospel in the Hawaiian Islands, leaving his wife, Louisa Barnes Pratt, to care for their young family.

In Nauvoo, as persecutions intensified, forcing the Saints to leave, and later at Winter Quarters as they prepared to migrate to the Salt Lake Valley, Louisa faced the decision of whether to make the journey. It would have been easier to stay and to wait for Addison to return than to travel alone.

On both occasions, she sought guidance from the prophet, Brigham Young, who encouraged her to go. Despite the great difficulty and her personal reluctance, she successfully made the journey each time.

Initially, Louisa found little joy in traveling. However, she soon began to welcome the green prairie grass, colorful wildflowers, and patches of ground along the riverbanks. “The gloom on my mind wore gradually away,” she recorded, “and there was not a more mirthful woman in the whole company.”

Louisa’s story has deeply inspired me. I admire her willingness to set aside her personal preferences, her ability to trust God, and how exercising her faith helped her to see the situation differently.

She has reminded me that we have a loving Father in Heaven, who cares for us wherever we are, and that we can trust Him more than anyone or anything else.

When my friend Leslie graduated single from BYU, she started working on a PhD at Wake Forest University in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. There was no young single adult ward in Winston-Salem. Instead, there were two wards, each with a small group of five to ten young singles. And, of course, most were female. The possibility of finding a husband under such circumstances didn't seem especially promising. To make matters worse, Leslie's field of study required her to spend four to seven months out of the year on a (literally) desert and deserted island doing research with about three other scientists. During one of her research trips, a tour boat wrecked near the island. The tourists were evacuated, but a couple of young men were sent to watch the boat. And--you guessed it--one of them got to be friends with Leslie, accepted a Book of Mormon, went home, took the discussions, was baptized, and, to make a long story short, was sealed to Leslie about a year later. They now have a two-year-old and are expecting another baby shortly. I don't think anyone expects to meet their spouse on a desert island--neither did Leslie. She's glad she didn't wait around after her college graduation, hoping for her dream man to show up. She moved forward doing productive things with her life that eventually led her to fulfill parts of the Lord's plan for her. Being anxiously engaged eventually led her to being happily engaged.

Now, lawyers like disclaimers, so allow me to include one here: The important thing about Leslie's story is not that she found a husband. God's plan for Leslie could have just as easily included life as a righteous single woman. The important thing about Leslie's story is that she sought for and discovered God's will for her by working hard and seeking His guidance.

Linda Bradshaw of the Sutton Coldfield Ward, Lichfield England Stake, travelled to St. James’ Palace in London to meet His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh. She was one of a group of young women and young men from all over the country chosen to receive the Duke of Edinburgh Gold Award.
Requirements for the gold award include participation and excellence in five areas—physical activity, a skill, community service, residential outward-bound course, and an expedition. Linda became proficient in art and crafts, playing the flute, aerobics, swimming, and self-defence. She completed her community service serving as an assistant junior school teacher during her free school periods. Her experience as a teacher’s assistant helped her decide to make teaching her career.
Her outward-bound experiences included abseiling (like rappeling), canoeing, fencing, and orienteering. Her four-day expedition was hiking and camping across the Cader Idris Mountains in North Wales.
“As each stage became progressively harder,” said Linda, “I appreciated the way completing seminary booklets and setting goals to memorize scriptures helped me to overcome hurdles and learn how to complete my goals for these awards.”