Gospel Story Finder

Along with Brother Marsh, many have received blessings as they have sought to establish the Lord’s restored Church throughout the world. One example is Johann and Theresia Huber, who helped establish the Church in Austria in the early 1900s.
When the Huber family was baptized into the Church and left Catholicism, the dominant faith of Austria, many social and legal issues arose. When people learned that the Huber children weren’t attending confession, they threatened to remove the children from their home. Some even told Theresia to leave Johann.
After World War I, previous religious constraints dissolved, allowing people to practice their faith more freely. The Lord watched over the Huber family as they continued to share the gospel, and soon a small branch began to meet in the Hubers’ barn. Johann was called to serve as the first branch president in Austria. He served for 25 years.1

In a 1997 devotional address given at BYU, President Russell M. Nelson called Brigham Young “the modern Moses” [4] because of his efforts to gather the Saints to Salt Lake City. Many pioneer companies were successful in their journeys, but notable exceptions included the Martin and Willie handcart companies that became stranded in Wyoming during early snowstorms in 1856.

Three years ago, my wife and I participated in a trek at Martin’s Cove and Rocky Ridge, where the Martin and Willie handcart companies were rescued. These historic sites are sacred because of the pioneers who dedicated their lives to and, in some cases, gave their lives for the gospel of Jesus Christ. My heart was touched, and my life changed through this experience. As we silently walked through Martin’s Cove, I pondered the deep commitment of those Saints seeking shelter from the cold and trying to ward off starvation. And as we pulled handcarts up the aptly named Rocky Ridge and listened to stories of individuals who were helped along by angels, I wondered if I would have had the faith and dedication to walk the remaining miles to Rock Creek Hollow, where supplies and food waited. Recounting these experiences connected me with those Saints and has helped strengthen my commitment to my own covenants. It has also helped me recognize my dependence on Jesus Christ for my own spiritual rescue. I hope to be as faithful to my covenants as they were.

When my husband died in 2010, I bore my testimony that he was the one who trained me to be self-reliant. Looking back, I learned that he was preparing me, so I could do things on my own, because he would not always be around. He wanted me to be free. He helped prepare me to accept the gospel and to love the principles of self-reliance.
My mother and father were farmers. They sent me to different schools, and we moved around. When I was in 11th grade, I did not have anyone to support me. I was living in a tent.
One day, I was on my way to live at my auntie’s whose husband died. She was a pepper trader in the market and did not have much. That is when I met my husband for the first time. He would joke with me and soon he admired me. He was much older than me. He said, “I will help you and then you will achieve more.” He looked around and said, “Your garden is dead, and you do not have a job. I can help you.” And so, I went with him to live in another village.
He helped me to work with my hands. My husband was from Zimbabwe and was a professor. He said, “You will plant. You will plant okra and greens.” We raised ducks, chickens, and pigs.
We did it so we could be self-reliant and eat. “You can go to the garden when we need food. We do not need to buy,” he would say. He had his money from his job, but he taught me to plant, plant, plant everything that we would have bought at the market, so we could be as self-reliant as possible and not spend our money on things we could grow.
My family was critical of my new life with my husband. They thought he was working me too hard. “You are not treating her good,” they would say. “You are making her work too hard. Why aren’t you buying her clothes?” We resisted them until they got tired because I was happy.
When I was pregnant with my first daughter, I enrolled in night school. I worked hard and had another child and my husband sent me to college where I earned my associates degree in animal husbandry. This made a way for me to teach at the Booker T. Washington Institute. I taught there from 1986 to 1990. I was teaching students how to raise goats, chickens, and sheep. After the war years, I was chosen to teach agricultural skills to the ex-combatants to help reintegrate them into society. It was very hard and dangerous. But I was grateful for the job.
By then my parents realized I was doing the right thing for myself and for my family. I was working and earning my own money. They could see I was doing something better for the future.
My husband and I raised our children the hard way, but we taught them the value of education and work. During the war years in Liberia my husband protected us. He was wise, and through his fierce determination, we stayed in one place and miraculously we, and all of our children, survived.
Now our three children are all college graduates.
After my husband died, the missionaries came into my life. I resisted the gospel message at first. I had become very independent. But one day they said to me, “Sister Ncube, you know, we are not looking for members. What we are after is your soul. We are pursuing you for your soul.” That went deep in my heart. I sat down and said, “I agree. I will be baptized.” For the first time in my life, I learned what true freedom was. When I was baptized my soul was set free.
The gospel has taught me to be a strong Latter-day Saint woman. I am happy because the gospel and the Church give me the opportunity to live in a better way. I love teaching the women in my branch and community how to live the teachings of the gospel for the betterment of everybody.
I strive to live the Savior’s teachings when He said, “And I give unto you a commandment that you shall teach one another the doctrine of the kingdom.
“Teach ye diligently and my grace shall attend you, that you may be instructed more perfectly in theory, in principle, in doctrine, in the law of the gospel, in all things that pertain unto the kingdom of God, that are expedient for you to understand” (Doctrine and Covenants 88:77–78).
I was baptized on Liberia’s Independence Day, but for me it was the day I would declare, “Now, I know the truth. I know I am free. I am free indeed.”

Larry whistled to the dogs as he opened the gate and gently pushed the chocolate-colored goat he had named Cocoa into the pen with the milling hounds. The sad-eyed dogs began inspecting the newcomer, from her long ears to her switching tail. Cocoa nuzzled and licked the hounds in return. Then she trotted around the pen, nibbling and smelling everything. Finally she jumped on top of the doghouse and settled down with a bored look on her long face.
Larry bought Cocoa as a companion for his hunting dogs, hoping they would chase coons as they had been trained to do instead of deer when they became used to this deer-like creature. The animal soon forgot she was a goat and followed the dogs everywhere. But Larry’s best dog Tina was soon to have pups, and he worried about how Cocoa would treat them. He put Tina in the barn as a precaution when the time neared for her pups to be born.
One morning in late winter, the dogs were fretting in the barnyard. Larry saw Ringo and Ace walking to and fro in their pen, whining. He pulled on his coat, jammed on his hat, and hurried across the yard to the barn, his breath making small clouds in the cold air.
The bed he had made for Tina was empty! Then Larry turned and saw a nervous and tense Cocoa. She lowered her brown head and threatened him as he tried to go farther into the barn. He was puzzled by the unusual behavior of the gentle goat until he heard the cries of Tina’s newborn pups. Then he understood that this was Cocoa’s way of protecting her friend.
Later that morning, Larry again went to the barn. This time Cocoa allowed him to get on top of a pile of hay where he could look down and see Tina with her new family.
In a few weeks the puppies were toddling about the farmyard. The littlest one, named Topper, became Cocoa’s favorite.
By midsummer all of the puppies but Topper were sold. No one wanted the runt of the litter except Cocoa, who took the gangling puppy everywhere she went.
Cocoa and little Topper were together as usual one summer evening when Larry came upon them. “Well, old girl,” he greeted her, “how is your little charge tonight?”
Cocoa replied with a gentle baaaa and nudged Topper to a faster pace.
Then late one fall afternoon, Topper and Cocoa were alone in the barnyard when a cougar came slinking into the yard. It moved so stealthily that its belly almost hugged the ground, but periodically it crouched motionless to stare at the unwary Cocoa. The creature’s small ears were held close to its large tan head and its long tail made graceful sweeping motions.
Cocoa slowly chewed her cud until she caught the scent of the animal. Fear widened her eyes as she turned and saw the mountain lion staring at her.
Cocoa’s heart pounded and her legs trembled with fear. She gave one pitiful bleat as the large cat moved forward slowly, seeing nothing but the fat, tender goat. The cougar crouched to leap after the shivering Cocoa, growling and swallowing with anticipation. Suddenly out of the barn hurtled a brown and white blur. Little Topper was enraged that the creature had frightened Cocoa and he lunged straight for the cat.
Distracted in its pursuit of Cocoa, the fearsome animal snarled furiously and shook the feisty little dog from its neck.
Cocoa was jarred out of her panic by Topper’s painful yelp and hurled herself at the surprised cat. She struck the tawny body with a great thud.
Stunned by the impact, the big cat wheeled, and Topper leaped on its back, seizing a mouthful of hair and hide. The cougar, hampered by the dog and unaware that Cocoa was preparing her second attack, received a vicious blow in its side. Growling, the intruder finally shook the snarling dog from its back again and made a wild dash for the meadow.
Little Topper and Cocoa gave chase, bellowing their anger with every leap. When they were assured that the cougar was gone, they returned to the farmyard and met Larry running toward them. He quickly examined the cut and bleeding Topper. “Don’t worry, old girl,” he told Cocoa. “I don’t think your little friend is badly hurt, mostly just some deep scratches.” He dropped a gentle hand to smooth the long ears of the worried goat.
After Larry had cared for both animals, he started for the house. He had not gone far when he heard Cocoa bleat softly to little Topper, and he smiled contentedly when an answering woof came from her defender.

My mother lived to be 92 years old and recently passed away. She was in the hospital when the doctors decided that there was nothing more that could be done except to keep her as comfortable as possible until she passed on.
As preparations were being made to take her home, two brethren from a local ward came into the room and asked me if my mother would like the sacrament. At first I told them, “No, thank you.” Mom could hardly swallow. Then I said, “On second thought, let me ask her.” I leaned close to her ear and said, “There are two priesthood holders here. Would you like to try to take the sacrament?” In a faint but clear voice she answered, “Yes.”
After the blessing, I picked up a piece of bread from the tray, broke off a tiny crumb, and gently placed it in her mouth. She worked on it for a bit, and I quietly apologized to the men for it taking a while. They assured me it was OK. After the second prayer, I took a small plastic cup of water and held it to her lips. She took only a small sip, but I was surprised at how well she swallowed it.
I thanked the brethren, and they left for the next room. Mom died peacefully about an hour later.
In the days that followed, I realized what a sacred moment I had been allowed to share with my mother. The last thing she did in this life was partake of the sacrament. The last word she spoke was “Yes”—yes to receiving the sacrament, yes to offering her sacrifice of “a broken heart and a contrite spirit” (3 Nephi 9:20), yes to taking upon herself the name of Jesus Christ and promising to always remember Him, yes to receiving His Spirit. The last things that passed through her lips were the emblems of the sacrament.
How sweet her last supper must have tasted to her! Although too weak to move or speak, how alive in Christ she must have felt! How grateful she must have felt for His redeeming and enabling power, which carried her through those final moments of her mortal journey and extended to her the hope for eternal life.

In one ward I lived in, I had a neighbor who would often sit in the church foyer during the second hour. One Sunday, I was surprised to see him in class. During the class discussion, my neighbor offered his perspective. The things he shared strengthened my faith, helped me feel the Holy Ghost, and provided an answer I needed at that time. I do not know the reasons why my neighbor did not regularly come to class, but I wondered how my life would be different if he had not attended and participated that day.

Years after my family and I joined the Church, I received a call to serve in the Nigeria Port Harcourt Mission. On a sunny day shortly after I arrived in my first area, my companion and I set out for our usual proselyting and contacting.
As we passed through a populated street, we heard a faint voice calling to us from a low-fenced compound. We looked over the fence and saw a middle-aged man lying flat on his stomach by the gate.
He bade us come in, but there was no way we could enter the compound. The gate was locked and we thought that scaling over the fence would be unethical. I was prompted to check the padlock on the gate again. After a few minutes we managed to remove the padlock from the outside and open the gate. We could see that the man had been sick and unattended to. He explained that he had been ill and felt intense pain that prevented him from standing up.
After talking with him, we followed him as he crept back into his house. He asked that we pray for him, and we offered to give him a blessing. When we laid our hands upon his head, I felt a lump in my throat and couldn’t utter a word. Fear came over me, I began to shake and sweat, and tears flowed down my cheeks. I struggled to pray aloud, so I began to pray in my heart that Heavenly Father would loosen my tongue according to His will.
Suddenly, my tongue gained utterance. I knew I was speaking, but I wasn’t in control of the words. I just heard my own voice asking Heavenly Father to heal this suffering man. Before we said amen, the man had fallen asleep. We left him and went to our other appointments but planned to come back on our way to our apartment to check on him.
We returned and to my great astonishment, the man came running toward us, shouting, “It worked! It worked!” We were so overwhelmed with joy I couldn’t hold back my tears.
In sacrament meeting the following Sunday, the bishop suddenly paused at the pulpit and looked straight at the chapel door. We looked back and saw the man we had blessed. The bishop knew him and was surprised at his entering a church. From then on, the man attended sacrament meetings and other classes regularly. I was eventually transferred out of the area.
It is amazing to me how God provided a miracle that day, and I am humbled that Heavenly Father found me worthy. I know we were instruments in God’s hands. The blessing of healing belonged to that man, but the blessing of testimony and joy belonged to me.

When I was growing up, whenever we got any money, my mother would take the very best bills—the ones that were the least wrinkled or dirty—and give them to the minister of the church we went to. She did this her whole life. She said, “This belongs to God.” Those words have stayed with me ever since.
When I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints as an adult, it was not hard for me to pay tithing because my mother had taught me to obey that law.

While I was serving as mission president in Virginia, two of our missionaries met and taught a young man at the Virginia Polytechnic Institute in Blacksburg. As they progressed through the discussions, the young man gained a vision of the truth. He received a testimony. He desired to be baptized, but his parents would not permit him to do so. He was very discouraged. He came and sought my counsel. I told him to heed the feelings of his parents, to honor them, and that the time would come when they would allow him to join the Church.

Several months later I was seated on the stand at stake conference prior to the beginning of the Saturday evening session. Up the aisle came this young man—bright, shining, his face just beaming. As he approached me he said, “President, you’ll never guess what has happened.”

I knew in my heart what the result was, but I said, “Mike, tell me.”

His response was, “You’ll never believe it. Not only have my parents permitted me to be baptized tonight, but they are taking the lessons! They are grateful for a Church that teaches its youth to honor their parents. Thanks so much for encouraging me to honor them.”

I have certainly seen this in my own life.

When I was very young, my family was twice forced to flee our home and leave everything behind. On both occasions, it became apparent that people in our new locations considered us as “less” than them. Among the children my age, my accent marked me as an outsider, and it was a rich source of ridicule and laughter for them.

The trauma and stress of our relocations caused me to fall behind in my studies, and I lost one full school year. In East Germany, I had studied Russian as a second language. It was difficult, but I managed. Now, in West Germany, I was required to learn English.

This seemed impossible to me! I believed that my mouth was simply not made for the English language.

During my teenage years, I had a crush on a most amazing girl with beautiful large brown eyes. Unfortunately, she didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in me.

So there I was, a rather insignificant and struggling young man living in post-war Germany who didn’t seem to have much chance of success in life.

However, I had a couple of good things going for me. I knew that my family loved me. In school and in church, teachers encouraged me to always set my goals high. I still remember when a young American missionary taught this principle from the scriptures: “If God is for [you], who can be against [you]?”2

There was something about this that struck me with great power. “If that’s the case,” I thought, “then why should I fear?”

So, I believed. And I trusted God.

For a time, I was in an apprenticeship program. One of my teachers challenged me to aim higher and attend night school to study mechanical engineering. It took a great deal of extra work, but it led me to discover my great passion for aviation! It came as a shock when I learned that to become a pilot, I needed to know English. But I wanted to become a pilot, and somehow miraculously my mouth seemed to change, and English no longer was such an impossible language.

With new motivation, a fresh commitment to work hard, and trust in Heavenly Father, I took small steps that helped me to build the confidence that I could do it. Of course, that didn’t mean things always went smoothly.

When I was 19, I traveled to San Antonio, Texas, USA, to begin my air force pilot training. On the airplane, I sat next to a man who spoke with a Texan accent. I realized to my horror that the English I had worked so desperately to learn was not the same English he spoke!

At pilot training school, things were difficult too. It was an extremely competitive program, with everyone vying for the top spot at graduation. I knew right away that I was at a disadvantage because most of my classmates were native English speakers.

My flight instructors cautioned me about another potential disadvantage—I spent a lot of time at church. The local members welcomed me into their branch and into their homes, and we even built a chapel in Big Spring, Texas, together. My instructors worried that such activities were impairing my chance at a high ranking. I didn’t think so. So I trusted God and did the best I could.

Eventually, I did learn English, though I’m still working on it. I completed my pilot training—and finished first in my class. I became a fighter pilot and later an airline captain. And that beautiful, brown-eyed girl of my dreams became my wife.

I am reminded of an incident of a long time ago when a friend came to see me. He was to be married in the temple in two days. He had been going with his fiancée for many months. She was a wonderful girl—beautiful and able. He had proposed. She had accepted. And they had set the wedding date. All went wonderfully until a few days before when he began to think of how long eternity is. For some unexplainable reason, he began to doubt and to wonder. He came to me frantic with worry.

I said to him, “Come on, Jim. You have known Mary for three years. This has been no sudden courtship. She is a wonderful girl. You know it, and I know it. Put your doubts out of your mind. Trust in the Lord, and trust in her. Think in terms of what a wonderful thing it will be to share your life with her through all the years to come. You have been looking on the dark side. Look on the bright side. If you will keep sacred the bond of trust between you, you will make it, and you will make it in a wonderful way. You will love it and wonder why you ever doubted.”

I am happy to report that they recently celebrated their fifty-fourth wedding anniversary. They have reared an excellent family. Theirs has been a wonderful marriage. And now in their golden years, they love and cherish one another, even more than when they were young.

I remember many years ago, during a particularly trying period, I felt as though specific attacks were being made on my family, on my health, and on my integrity. I was fasting, praying, seeking counsel, and still feeling acute anxiety over how, when, and if the serious challenges would be resolved. The thing that brought the most relief during that difficult time was reviewing in my mind the words to the hymn “Be Still, My Soul.” I memorized all the verses and recited them at least once a day. The words that provided the most solace and comfort were:
Be still, my soul: The Lord is on thy side;
With patience bear thy cross of grief or pain.
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In ev’ry change he faithful will remain. …
Be still, my soul: Thy God doth undertake
To guide the future as he has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
I’ll never forget the blessing these words and the music were to me when they were sorely needed.

Rosina Howells died on April 27, 1970, aged 83. She was born in Abertillery, Monmouthshire in 1886. Her parents, James and Jane Douglas, were members of the Church. She was baptised at the age of eight and was active in the Church throughout her life. It is believed that Sister Howells was the oldest serving member of the Church in Britain when she passed away.
When she was a little girl, she had to travel to church with her mother from Abertillery to Talywain—a distance of 20 miles each way by road, or eight miles each way over the rough mountain track. When they arrived at Talywain they would hold a cottage meeting at the home of Brother Biggs, and the grandmother of the Forward family, who are also long-serving members. Every week, Sister Howells would have to walk from Brother Biggs’ home back over the mountain to Abertillery.
Sister Howells married Thomas Howells, a nonmember, and resided in Abertillery for a while, and then moved to Pontypool. She had ten children, and throughout each pregnancy she continued to walk miles each way to the Parteg Branch, quite often carrying one or two small children in her arms.
In 1945, her husband joined the Church, at age 69, and was the organist for the Pontypool Branch until he died in 1967.
When the Church meetinghouse was opened at Cwmbran, Sister Howells was wheeled in in a chair, and sent a note to President Pulman, the presiding officer, asking that she should have the opportunity of bearing her testimony.
This request was granted, but when called upon to do so she did not have the strength to stand.
President Pulman lifted her up and held her in his arms. In a clear voice she declared to all present her knowledge of the truthfulness of the gospel.
Her example will live on in the hearts of all those who had acquaintance with her.

I am one of those converts. I was converted at 17, when I was a high school student. The missionary who performed my baptism was an Elder Rupp from Idaho. He was recently released as a stake president in Idaho. I have not seen him since I was newly baptized, but I have exchanged e-mails with him and talked to him by telephone. I have never forgotten him. His kind, smiling face is etched into my memory. He was so happy when he learned that I was doing well.
When I was 17, I didn’t really have a good understanding of the messages that the missionaries had been teaching me. However, I had a special feeling about the missionaries, and I wanted to become like them. And I felt their deep and abiding love.
Let me tell you about the day I was baptized. It was July 15, and it was a very hot day. A woman was also baptized that day. The baptismal font had been handmade by the missionaries, and it wasn’t much to look at.
We were confirmed right after we were baptized. First, the sister was confirmed by Elder Lloyd. I sat down with the other members, closed my eyes, and quietly listened. Elder Lloyd confirmed her and then began to pronounce a blessing on her. However, Elder Lloyd stopped talking, so I opened my eyes and looked at him with an intent gaze.
Even today I can clearly remember that scene. Elder Lloyd’s eyes were overflowing with tears. And for the first time in my life, I experienced being enveloped in the Holy Spirit. And through the Holy Spirit I gained a sure knowledge that Elder Lloyd loved us and that God loved us.
Then it was my turn to be confirmed. Again it was Elder Lloyd. He placed his hands on top of my head and confirmed me a member of the Church, bestowed the gift of the Holy Ghost, and then began pronouncing a blessing. And again he stopped talking. However, I now understood what was happening. I truly knew through the Holy Ghost that the missionaries loved me and that God loved me.

But computers lack inspiration, and so the Lord has prepared many individual translators for the work. For example, in 1980, a Division supervisor had the assignment of getting Church materials translated into Bengali, a language of India and Bangladesh. Unable at the time to find Church members who knew the language, he turned for help to two non-member teachers. When their translation was completed, the supervisor then hoped to find a member to review the translation for doctrinal and grammatical accuracy.
As if in answer to his need, he read an article about Towhid-ul Alam, a recent convert from Bangladesh who was studying at Brigham Young University—Hawaii. Thanks to the help of Brother Alam, the Bengali Selections from the Book of Mormon was printed in New Delhi, India, in 1985.

Jed and Stuart were best friends and next-door neighbors. They did everything together. They built a secret castle and fought off armies of fierce make-believe creatures. They played hide-and-seek and knew all the best hiding spots. They climbed the biggest trees in the neighborhood with ease.
They even had the chicken pox at the same time. When school was in session, they walked together, sat together, played together, and ate lunch together every single day. They always tried to eat lunch very quickly and be the first ones out to play so that they could get the soccer ball.
However, there was a little problem that made it difficult to be the first ones done with lunch. Jed’s sandwich was always so big that he couldn’t finish it very fast. Stuart would finish his lunch in a flash, look over, and see Jed still munching away on his giant sandwich.
After waiting for him about a thousand times, Stuart finally figured out why it took Jed so long to eat. "It’s your bread!" he announced. "Your bread is weird. It’s not like regular bread."
Jed looked at his sandwich. "It looks regular to me. It’s the same bread I always eat."
The next day Stuart waited to eat his sandwich. "Look," he said to Jed, "hold your sandwich up next to mine so we can compare." Jed’s sandwich was much bigger than Stuart’s. "We may have the same things inside," Stuart insisted, "but the outside is definitely not the same. Your bread is strange looking. Where do you get it?"
"My mom makes it."
"What for? You can just go to the store and buy it, and it tastes great—all soft and squishy. Yours looks kind of stiff."
"My mom makes it for a lot of reasons," Jed answered. "For one thing, we have a lot of flour in our year’s supply, and she doesn’t want it to get old."
"What’s a year’s supply?"
"Come over after school, and I’ll show you."
After school, Stuart saw the storeroom Jed’s father had built. There were shelves full of cans and jars and boxes and barrels, Stuart couldn’t believe his eyes.
"It’s like your own grocery store!" he exclaimed. "Why do you have so much stuff? Can’t you just buy more when you run out?"
"We keep extra food in our house in case something happens and we can’t get to the store. The leaders of our church have taught us to be prepared in case anything bad happens," Jed explained. "It’s not just food we store. We have blankets, candles, toilet paper, soap, matches, a first-aid kit, and lots of other things."
"When are you ever going to need all this stuff?" asked Stuart.
"We eat the food and replace it as we go along. We hope we never have to use some of the other stuff, but our church leaders have told us that we need to be ready, just in case."
After that, Jed still brought his giant sandwiches, and Stuart still waited for him to hurry up and finish. Jed often offered some of his sandwich to Stuart, but Stuart didn’t think he’d like year’s-supply bread.
Late in March, there was a terrible storm. It snowed for days and days, and the roads into town were blocked. No trucks could bring in food, and soon the stores were running out of things. People were getting worried that they wouldn’t have enough to eat if the storm didn’t quit soon. Things were getting pretty scary.
One day Stuart told Jed that there wasn’t much left to eat at his house. That night, Jed’s mom invited Stuart and his family over for dinner. They had a nice big meal, and Stuart’s family wondered where all the food came from.
"It’s from their year’s supply," Stuart explained. He told his family all about Jed’s family’s "grocery store."
The following day, Jed took a big, warm loaf of homemade bread next door. Stuart’s family was very happy to have it. Until the roads were cleared and things were back to normal, the two families shared all they had and made it through the hard time.
One day not long afterward, Stuart and Jed were having lunch with some other boys. They were all trying to hurry so that they could get the soccer ball. One of the boys noticed Jed’s giant sandwich.
"What kind of weird sandwich is that?" he asked. Before Jed could answer, Stuart stood up tall and told the boy, "That’s made with year’s-supply bread, and it’s the best bread in the whole wide world!" Then he sat down and took a bite from his very own giant year’s-supply-bread sandwich.

“Students, here is the math portion of the test,” Miss Higgins said as she handed out papers. “Remember, you need to fill in the circles on the answer sheet completely. Just do your best, and I’m sure you will do fine.”
Most of my fifth-grade class groaned. We had been taking tests all day, and we were tired. But I wasn’t too worried. I was good at math. I took out my pencil and checked the eraser.
“Now, keep your eyes on your own paper,” Miss Higgins said. “The test will end at 1:30. Ready, begin.”
I began working on the problems carefully and took my time to fill in each circle on the answer sheet. Most of the problems weren’t too hard. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Brent scribbling furiously. I laughed to myself. “Slow and steady wins the race,” I thought.
All of a sudden, Miss Higgins’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Time’s up! Pencils down, everybody.”
I looked at my paper in horror. I still had two columns of circles to fill in! “How could this have happened?” I thought. “I usually do so well!”
I looked down at my scratch paper. I had written the next answer, but I hadn’t filled in the circle yet. I glanced around, then carefully filled in the correct circle.
Trying not to think about what I was doing, I continued working on problems and filling in answers. No one was looking at me. I quickly filled in five or six more circles.
“Lauren!” said a loud voice from behind me.
I jumped and whirled around to see Miss Higgins. The class was silent. I wished I could fall into a hole. I felt my eyes filling up with tears. I quickly erased all the answers that I had filled in after the time was up and handed my answer sheet to Miss Higgins. She took it away, and I put my head on my desk and hid my face in my arms.
I had been cheating! An awful blackness filled me up inside. My whole class had seen me, and now my teacher probably wouldn’t trust me ever again. I knew I was supposed to be honest. Instead, I had disappointed my teacher, myself, and, worst of all, Heavenly Father. And I had pushed away my conscience without really thinking about it.
The rest of the day continued as usual—or, at least I think it did. I didn’t answer any questions or talk to my friends. That same heavy, dark feeling stayed with me. I knew I needed to repent.
After class, I gathered all my courage to apologize to Miss Higgins. I could see the disappointment on her face. “I’m sorry,” I said. I couldn’t say anything more. I ran back to my desk, grabbed my backpack, and started to hurry out the door.
“Lauren,” Miss Higgins called.
I stopped, fearing the worst. “Yes?”
“Promise me you will never cheat again.”
“Oh, I promise!” I said. I had already made that promise to myself a hundred times that day.
“Good,” she said. “Thank you.”
The dark feeling began to leave. After class I said a prayer, asking Heavenly Father’s forgiveness and thanking Him for a kind teacher. Peace filled my heart. It felt good to be clean again.

Recently I stopped at a grocery store to quickly pick up a few things for dinner. As I turned the corner, I came face-to-face with an older gentleman. I smiled, as I was relieved that we hadn’t collided. He smiled and said, “Thank you for your smile. I needed it.” I also needed his smile. Smile—it will make a difference for you and for others. What would life be like if we couldn’t give and receive smiles?

When Kevin Brown was 12 years old, a sister missionary challenged him to read the Book of Mormon. So, every morning he would pray, read, and pray again. With each prayer, he asked Heavenly Father if the Book of Mormon was true.
He recalls that one morning while praying, he “didn’t even have to ask the question. The Lord’s answer came in such a profound way.” He felt the Lord tell him: “I know you, and I love you. You are my son.”
Immediately, the Holy Ghost confirmed to him: “This is God’s truth. The Book of Mormon is true. Joseph Smith is a prophet.” This experience changed his life.

Time for scripture study requires a schedule that will be honored. Otherwise, blessings that matter most will be at the mercy of things that matter least. Time for family scripture study may be difficult to establish. Years ago when our children were at home, they attended different grades in several schools. Their daddy had to be at the hospital no later than 7:00 in the morning. In family council we determined that our best time for scripture study was 6:00 a.m. At that hour our little ones were very sleepy but supportive. Occasionally we had to awaken one when a turn came to read. I would be less than honest with you if I conveyed the impression that our family scripture time was a howling success. Occasionally it was more howling than successful. But we did not give up.
Now, a generation later, our children are all married with families of their own. Sister Nelson and I have watched them enjoy family scripture study in their own homes. Their efforts are much more successful than were ours. We shudder to think what might have happened if we had quit trying.